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The North Meets the South - part 2

Weekend Surprise

Christopher reclined on the living room couch after a full day working at a manufacturing plant. He wondered how much longer he would have his job. Refusing to work on the Sabbath, he continued to call in on the weeks when employees were expected to work Saturdays, fully aware that one day he would call in one time too many and be laid off.
Picking up his cell phone, he sent a text to his girlfriend. "What's up? :)"
"Sitting around," came the reply a few minutes later.
He could hear his mom, Tracy, pull into the garage and then enter the house. She closed the glass front door's shutter with a quiet comment "about the sun" and then disappeared as Chris remained in the living room. I wish Abigail was here.

Worn cowboy boots hit the gravel with a tiny thud as a car door closed softly.
“Good doggies,” a voice whispered in the direction of a regal Doberman and half-wild adopted stray standing at attention.
Tall bending straw thickly coated t…

The North Meets the South (part 1)

Although I'm sure many of read this story on another website, I've thought to include it written among my journey recorded here.  It has been a long road of lessons learned - both of wisdom and trust. But I thank God for every milestone passed, every step of faith made, and every blessing He has granted me both through sorrow and joy.

He is the Author of dreams come true.


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It began before they met.

An adventurous southern boy with a thatch of of sun-lightened hair urged his granddaddy Desmond for another story of World War II, while a thousand miles north, a little figure in a pink dress sang with the birds, weaving among waving poplars and tall pines. Curious and tender of heart, Abigail spent hours observing beetles, catching pollywogs, and stalking frogs, frantically scrubbing her face when her grandmother applied make-up for the first time, and finding great satisfaction in dressing up each Sabbath, playing piano for primary class. As the years passed, no one could deny …

Healer of The Heart

Image
The two story farmhouse with faded paint breathes of memories and history from the old New England days, situated at the top of a winding driveway where cell phone service is nonexistent. Beyond stands a barn no longer standing and a weary lawn beginning to flair with green.
“There are a lot of people here,” my friend approached our car window in surprise at the number of cars parked on the gravel driveway. “She might not be doing very well.”
Cautiously we entered the house, slipping off shoes at the entry and walking single file down a near-silent hallway into the living room where a small child sat with his mother, shuffling matchbox cars across the dark wood floor.
The woman looks up after placing a finger to her lips and glancing down at the tousled mop of hair. “She’s in her bedroom.”
We have permission to enter. It is strange to be so near to a personal space of a stranger, etched with memories from decades, warm with the heartbeat of a still small figure dressed in a nightgown,…