Spiritual Citizens: A Christian Fiction Anthology Read online

Spiritual Citizens: A Christian Fiction Anthology

  Edited by Kim Bond

  This anthology is dedicated to our Lord.

  Copyright © 2015 for each story is held, all rights reserved, by the individual author. Printed with permission by Kim Bond.

  This publication was designed to be distributed and shared online free of charge in its entirety. Other reproduction or distribution in part or whole is prohibited. Questions about the use of this publication should be directed to Kim Bond by email at [email protected].

  The works contained within this publication are not intended to teach Christian theology or doctrine. They are purely fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Spiritual Citizens is published with much gratitude to participating authors for sharing their God-given talent and donating their work for this publication.

  Table of Contents

  Battle Cry by John Mark Miller

  Can't Say I've Ever Done That by Nancy LaRonda Johnson

  Casual Walk in the Park by Gerald Shuler

  The Uneducated Pastor Soh by Chong Shipei

  God Unties My Shoe by Jan Ackerson

  The Boy Who Wouldn’t Talk by Esther and Richard Provencher

  The Accident by Tolulope Popool

  Grandmother's Scars by Charles W. Short

  Rhubarb Crisp by Joseph Courtemanche

  When We Live to Manage the Telltale by Michael Austin

  The Yellow House on a Hill by Judy Haught

  Snakes Alive by Lynn Wehmeyer

  Flash Mob by Voni Harris

  Stolen Apples by Kim Bond

  Julian and the Leper by Gustave Flaubert

  Note to Readers

  The Battle Cry by John Mark Miller*

  “Years ago, the dark armies of the north waged their first attack on the Dahlian Isle and entire armies answered the call to arms!” Christian shouted for all to hear, his words bringing nods of assent from the hundreds who had gathered in King’s Valley. He sat atop a muscled steed, his full armor glinting in the sun. “Through the years they have fought hard to protect this island from the Dark Ones. We applaud their courage, and are grateful for their lives of service. Now, a new generation finds itself under attack. We must take up the banner our fathers left for us! We must stand up as one people, and fight!”

  The people sat unmoved, silently polishing their armor. They appeared to be listening intently, but no one reached for their sword or whistled for their horse. This new generation of Dahlians were very concerned with the appearance of their armor… they gathered for days to polish the steel until it shone like the sun. Many compared their armor with their neighbors’, hoping that theirs would shine the brightest. In an age where appearance was everything, no one dared to actually wear the armor anymore.

  “Rise up, men of Dahlia!” Christian bellowed until his face turned crimson from the strain. “The enemy is coming. We attack at noon!”

  A few men shouted in agreement, but no one moved. Eventually, as the sun deepened to midday, the people grew hungry and began to stir.

  “That was a wonderful call to arms,” one man whispered to his neighbor. “I’m so glad the King has sent each province a trained warrior to prepare us for battle.”

  “Yes,” his fellow replied. “I feel so inspired. I think I can even imagine myself doing battle one day!”

  Christian, the King’s Warrior, strode by on his powerful steed. “Then why do you wait?” he cried. “Why not march into battle today? See – the dark shadow approaches… there is not much time!”

  This brought a round of applause, and the people of Dahlia chattered excitedly about this latest battle cry as they headed home to devour their lunch.

  Before long, Christian was the sole occupant of King’s Valley. Squinting against the late afternoon sun, he could make out the vast armies of the north across the bay, lighting their torches in preparation for battle.

  “God help me,” he prayed. And he rode into battle.

  Alone.

  *John Mark Miller invites you to his blog here https://theartisticchristian.wordpress.com.

  Can’t Say I’ve Ever Done That by Nancy LaRonda Johnson*

  “Well, to tell you the truth, I can’t say I’ve ever done that.” Tony looked incredulously at Stephan.

  Shaking his head in argument, Stephan said, “That doesn’t mean you can’t. Look, it’s simple. Go into the store and look for the slowest looking guy you see. You can’t miss him. Walk up to him and say, ‘I need you to put everything you got in there into here.’ There’s nothing to it.”

  Tony couldn’t believe this. To do a robbery without a weapon? He had no problems with doing commercial burglaries, or robberies for that matter. He'd done many jobs with Stephan years ago. “You must be crazy, Stephan,” was all Tony could think to say.

  “Try it. You’ll be amazed with what you come away with.”

  Tony shook his head in wonderment, but made his way to the store. 

  There was a dimwitted looking guy there. Tony would have known to go to him even if he wasn’t the only person working the store. He walked up to the counter, pointed to the cash register and said, “Put everything you’ve got in there into here.”

  The guy looked at Tony with a moronic smile. He then laughed and said, “Oh, you mean everything from here into there!” The guy chuckled again and leaned down to pick up a sack at his feet. He grabbed something from inside, reached over and dropped it into Tony’s sack. 

  Shocked, Tony balled up the opening of the sack and ran out the store. Two blocks away, he opened it and stared in awe. Inside, was a glorious entryway to heaven. Scratching his head, Tony whispered, “Why is it locked?”

  *You are invited to visit Nancy LaRonda Johnson at https://www.nancylarondajohnson.com and

  https://amazon.com/Nancy-LaRonda-Johnson/e/B00A4VZ1I6.

  Casual Walk in the Park by Gerald Shuler*

  The other day I was invited to take a casual walk through the park with Jesus. He met me at the park entrance with a smile on His face, seeming as though He were looking forward to the walk even more than myself. Actually, I was somewhat apprehensive about the “casual” part of the casual walk. Jesus is my Lord, though, so there was no way I was going to miss the opportunity to get to know my Savior better.

  We walked through the garden path that led to a large, white gazebo. As we walked, we passed a man nervously hiding behind a large bush. Jesus stopped and faced the man so I stopped as well.

  “Who are you hiding from?” Jesus asked.

  “I’m hiding from people who would hurt me.” The man stood up and I could see fear in his eyes as he looked at me, as though I had hurt him more than any other person.

  Jesus took the man’s hand. “I was hurt by those who loved me and those who didn’t. Have you been hurt more than Me?” 

  “Lord, that is not for me to decide.” The man knelt down behind the bush and continued hiding.

  We walked a little further and passed another man, holding a box closely to his bosom. He was hiding behind a tree stump. Jesus stopped and faced the man so I stopped as well. 

  “What are you hiding?” Jesus asked.

  The man rose to his feet and faced my Savior. “I am hiding my talent.” He seemed compelled to answer.

  “Are you ashamed of the talents I have given you?” Jesus’ voice was gentle, yet firm.

  “Lord, that is not for me to decide.” The man knelt back down, trying to vanish from sight behind the stump.

  Only a short distance later we passed yet another man, hiding behind a massive rock.

  “How l
ong have you been hiding?” Jesus asked.

  “My entire life.” The man came out from behind the rock.

  “Isn’t it time to stop hiding?”

  “Lord, that is not for me to decide.” The man reluctantly ducked back behind the rock.

  We were nearing the end of our walk and I felt offended and confused. We hadn’t had a chance to talk at all because of the three men hiding along the path. Jesus understood.

  “What offends you?” Jesus asked.

  “Those men wasted our time together.” I pouted.

  “Why do you say it was wasted?”

  “Lord, they weren’t even willing to stop hiding.” 

  “And you think they should?” Jesus waited patiently for my answer. I gave none so He asked me another question. “What made you confused?”

  “Each man claimed that he was not the one that could answer your question. Lord, I don’t understand.”

  “Let me explain.” Jesus put His loving arm around me. “The man hiding from people has hurt himself more deeply than anyone else has hurt him.”

  I could see the truth in what Jesus was saying.

  “And the man hiding his talents is really hiding from his responsibilities. He has been called by Me but he refuses to answer the call.”

  Once again, I could see the truth about that man.

  “The man that has hidden all his life is the saddest of all the men.”

  Perfectly clear to me. Jesus could still see the confusion in my eyes. With more tenderness than I have ever witnessed, Jesus turned me to face the path we had just walked. All three men had come out of hiding and stood in the middle of the path. My heart nearly stopped when I got a good look at the three men. 

  They were me.

  “Lord, I don’t understand. How could those miserable men be me?”

  “I have been seeking you for many years but you have refused to realize you were hiding.” Jesus smiled warmly. “I thought this walk might help.”

  I crumbled to my knees. Suddenly, things were all too clear. Only I could answer my Lord and Savior about my wasted life. Humbly, I took a small note pad and ink pen from my pocket and began to write:

  Hide & Seek

  Lord, You questioned

  My soul

  But my soul would not answer.

  You searched for my spirit

  Though I was unaware

  My spirit was in hiding.

  I am ashamed, Lord.

  But not of you.

  I am ashamed

  And repentant.

  Only I can answer

  For foolishly hiding.

  Lord, You found me...

  I’ll not hide again.

  *Gerald Shuler welcomes you to read more of his writing here https://faithwriters.com/member-profile.php?id=31222.

  The Uneducated Pastor Soh by Chong Shipei*

  Ah Soh knew in his heart that his birthday was important. He would be 50 years old. HIs friend came into his tiny one room flat. Ah Soh was not the kind of person to host a party. He did not have the money!

  For him, whatever little money he earned as a coffee shop assistant was just enough to make ends meet. On some of the occasions, he could not even make his ends meet. On such occasions, he needed to seek financial and material help from his church. Fortunately for him, his church members were still quite ready to help Ah Soh tide through his difficult moments.

  Ah Soh wanted to be a pastor. He wanted to preach for Jesus so much, so much. But he was not born during biblical times. In those days, anyone could be a pastor. Peter and most of Jesus’ disciples were uneducated people!

  In Singapore, a person needed to attend a Bible college to be able to preach, officially. Ah Soh could not be a pastor. He was not smart in his studies. He failed his PSLE. Going to a Bible college was an impossible dream for him.

  Still, Ah Soh wanted to tell his friends about Jesus. All his uneducated friends. All of them who spoke Hokkien like him. All of them who could not speak proper English. So he saved up his money, little by little. He cut down on his food. He wore the same clothes, year after year, without buying new ones. He walked to his church instead of taking buses. He tried his best to cut down on his transport cost.

  Finally, he had just enough money to host a birthday party. And that was what he did.

  “Ah Soh, happy birthday!” His friends greeted him one by one. When all of his friends were in his house and they were done with eating, Ah Soh got them to sit in a circle. He spoke about Jesus passionately to his friends. He spoke on and on, ignoring the occasional mockeries that came from his unbelieving friends.

  His friends left his home, seemingly unchanged and umoved. But in Jesus’ eyes, unknowingly to Ah Soh or the church in Singapore, Jesus saw a pastor. This pastor was uneducated. This pastor could only speak in Hokkien. This pastor did not win a single soul. The pastor preached only one sermon during his entire life for Jesus.

  *Chong Shipei invites you to read more writing from a Singapore Christian perspective here: https://singaporechristianfiction.blogspot.com/.

  God Unties My Shoe by Jan Ackerson

  I leave for my jog on a clear April morning with the usual thought: Please don’t let her be outside. It isn’t exactly a prayer, because it’s entirely selfish—so call it an appeal to luck. I just don’t want to have to stop and talk to Sharon.

  Sharon lives three houses down, in a dingy white house with blue shutters. There’s something wrong with her—I don’t know what it is, exactly, but whatever it is makes me want to avoid her whenever possible. I heard this in church once: you may be the only Jesus some people will ever meet. Sharon is the person that it is hardest for me to be Jesus for.

  She’s largely unwashed—her black hair hangs greasily to her shoulders, framing a pasty and blotched face. Some unfortunate hormonal imbalance has peppered her chin with a smattering of dark whiskers. Every time I’ve seen her, she’s worn the same stretch pants, probably once a garish shade of orange but now both faded and stained, a color without a name. They strain over her lumpy stomach and thighs, topped by a graying tee-shirt that may once have been white. 

  I know what you’re thinking—I hate that I’m so superficial. I think I could handle the grime and the smell, I really do, but Sharon’s impossible to talk to. I can’t understand her; she mutters, and a speech impediment thickens her consonants, and she simply…won’t…stop…babbling. Once cornered by Sharon, I can’t resume my jog for ten minutes or more, until I finally pull away with a forced smile--“Gotta go, Sharon! See you later!”

  How does she even know my name? I’ve never been able to figure it out, but it wasn’t long after we moved to this neighborhood that she flagged me for the first time. I’ve spent every morning since then planning my jog times for the least likelihood of a Sharon encounter—and hating myself for being such a lousy Christian.

  So here I am—barely thirty strides from home—when I notice an untied shoelace. I stop to remedy the situation, and in the early morning stillness I realize two things: I am in front of Sharon’s house, and someone is crying inside. Oh, no. Oh, no. I have to go in there, don’t I, Lord? I look around for backup—a wandering social worker, perhaps. None appears. Here I go, Lord. You with me?

  I tap lightly on the door; Sharon calls out, an unrecognizable syllable that clearly means help. The door swings open, and there she is, on the floor in her stretch pants and tee-shirt, her leg splayed at an alarming angle. My cell phone is in my pocket—I call 911 and then sit on the floor next to Sharon, who is now whimpering pitifully. I’m no medical professional, but her injury looks survivable. I take her hand and say shhhhhh, now and peek around her small living room while we wait for the ambulance. 

  It’s neater than I’d imagined it, yet sparsely furnished. Plain white walls, unadorned—and then my eyes fall on a Christmas card, taped above the shabby sofa. I sent that card...

  …Tom and I had only just moved in, the first weekend of December, and the president of the Neighborho
od Association had stopped by with gingerbread cookies, the Homeowners’ Guidelines, and a list of names and addresses. In our eagerness to demonstrate our Christian Hospitality, we’d sent Christmas cards to everyone on the list: Tom’s own design, with the message ...and the Word became flesh, and dwelt among us, signed Love, Tom and Jill Zimmerman...

  …And now the card accuses me—but Sharon follows my gaze and smiles a watery smile. “I save dat card, Jill,” she says. “It so pretty. No one never send me no card before. But what dat means, Word became flesh?” She shifts on the floor, grips my hand tighter, and winces.

  My breath catches somewhere between my heart and my throat. I can hear a siren coming nearer, nearer, nearer. “Let’s get you to the hospital,” I say. “I’ll come in a few minutes, okay?”

  The paramedics help Sharon onto a gurney, and I’m left standing on her faded rag rug. I gently pull the Christmas card from her wall and tuck it into my pocket. The card pokes my leg at every step as I walk home, planning a way to be Jesus for Sharon.

  The Boy Who Wouldn't Talk by Esther and Richard Provencher*

  Brendan is six years old, and he doesn’t talk. His mother says it’s because of a fire in their apartment last month. Someone was burned. And Brendan was there. 

  “Hurry,” his mother said. “You don’t want to be late for Vacation Bible School.” Brendan nodded. But he didn’t smile. How could he smile? He was going to be away from his mother for five whole mornings.