Soft Thorns

Chandler Hamby

The snow is soft and beautiful where the little boy plays. His tarnished blue sled lies close by, frosted with ice crystals and dirt. He looks up, his little cheeks ride-apple red and giggles as he ascends the slope again, remembering the thrill. The sheer, pure beauty of throwing oneself onto a board of metal and wood and feeling yourself sail gracefully to the bottom…to him, there is nothing better.

His sister waits inside, her eyes half envious, half wondering. Her brother frolics in the snow, but she may not. Her health does not permit it, for she was sick last winter with coughing disease and though she has recovered her mother remains tentative. It is not so bad all in all, she considers; she is warm and safe inside with all the things she loves as equally as her brother and his sled. Her books await in different rooms glowing with firelight or pale winter glow, beckoning with fingers outstretched, offering her a journey. She has read all of the books, gone through every tale, lived and died every adventure. The brother has read perhaps two; she considers reading aloud to him when he comes in dripping and wet and trying to make him understand.

In her room, there are three other little children, but not of the kind one normally expects. Their skin is wax, their eyes glass and their hair made from that of horses rather than being formed on any human head. They sit quietly in their chairs; Arabella, Christina and Marie, all named with great care and decision based off of their temperaments, dress and preferences in drinking tea. She gave them breakfast earlier which they were not in the mood for, as the clay biscuits remain untouched alongside glass fruit. She therefore left them for a while to talk quietly among themselves as to why they seemed to reject the girl’s perfectly able means of feeding.

The girl thinks of this as she stares out the window, her hands pressed against the cold glass and leaving indentations in the frost outside, warmed by her skin. She cracks the window open a little, testing the air with one little nose and one less-small hand. Catching a tiny flake on her hand, she stares at them as if to find what they mean just by watching the ice melt into her palm. It’s sad, she thinks, that something so beautiful must be so short. Her poetic soul likes the metaphor, however, better than the actual vision. She must think more on this, perhaps holding a perfunctory discussion with the dolls on it later in the afternoon.

She’s sticking an arm out now, as if to plunge it into the cold air as one would into clear water. There’s an embankment of snow just below the window going down like a little hill to meet its neighboring members and smooth out onto the yard. She manages to poke in one finger and giggles, then reaches farther to follow it up with a hand. The snow is cold, she remembers suddenly as the warmth of her skin morphs into frozen mist. But it’s beautiful, and perfect, dangerous, of course, as Máma had told them.

Pápa is in the mountains right now, with his fellow soldiers. Máma said that he was alright; that he had written to her and he was coming home in two months for a short break. 

Her little heart quickens thinking about it…he has been gone for months and Robért had been getting angry sometimes. The little girl thinks of this many times, wondering why Máma had been crying last night, curled up by the fire as if to shut the world and cold out alike. The girl wasn’t even supposed to be watching, (this made her guilty) but she heard noises in the night and crawled behind the couch, sitting with her back to it as she listened to her mother refresh herself with tears. And why had her brother been so angry the other day? He was not that much older than she; anything he knew she should be able to know too, but Máma had told him something that the girl did not seem part of. She tried not to feel hurt by it and told the dolls everything in a confidential talk that they had been kind enough not to disclose.

“Therese!” A sharp voice makes her start, losing her balance and tumbling towards the open window. Cold whiteness surrounds her vision as she plunged into the snow drift, its soft arms taking her quietly. She heard a cry and an arm reached out after her.

“Robért!” Her mother shouted. “Aider votre sœur !” (Help your sister!)

Therese looked around under the snow, some of it falling into her eyes and coating her lashes, melting against her face. It felt cold and prickly, and not nearly as pretty as when she had been simply looking at it.

Strong, young hands gripped her around the waist and she was pulled from the snow bank roughly, falling onto the slabs of the garden path that her brother had swept clean that morning. Her mother was running outside, her face a mixture of anger and relief.

“C'était une chose stupide, stupide à faire!” (That was a stupid, stupid thing to do!) Her mother picked her up and shook her whilst simultaneously brushing her off in the way only mothers can.

“Pourquoi n'avez-vous pas plus prudent? Vous savez que vous avez été malade… vous devriez avoir rappel!” (Why were you not more careful? You know you have been sick…you should have remembered!)

And then her mother is holding her tightly and there are tears running down her face and Therese is utterly confused. But Robért had let go and was standing a few feet away. And as the girl looks up at him as if to ask Why is she like this? What’s happened? He merely shakes his head, as if he would and could not answer her.

She rises slowly, standing straighter and looked at her mother. “Je suis désolé,” (I’m sorry) is all she says, but it has its effect. Her mother relapses into a quieter temperament, then sighes.

“S'allume; Nous allons vous réchauffer”. (Come on; let’s get you warmed up.)

Therese nods and allows her mother to lead her away, her brother watching her go quietly.

A much older boy’s eyes have replaced his own.

Far away, on the slopes of the Alps and straggling with the few remaining ounces of his strength, the source of Robért’s silence lay. The wind sliced heartlessly through clothing and skin alike, his silent pleading for relief unheeded.

The letter had come to his wife two days ago, stated with simply cruelty and rough English:

“Madame Roquefort,

It is with deep regret that we inform you that your husband was lost some three days ago in the snow drifts of the eastern Alps. Caught in a blizzard, he was able to rescue four of his men but did not arrive back at the camp with them. We have sent out several search parties and continue to hope for his safe return.

Sincerely,

Johannes Rothschild,
Captain of the 5th Parisian Fusiliers
January 9th, ----



The soldier knew nothing of this letter, or the fact that he had been announced lost, but he could guess. His mind felt numb as he trudged through the hopeless drifts of snow, knowing that it was a hopeless endeavor, but it seemed a shame to give up now. His wife and children were waiting for him…it made him sad that they would not see him again. He was a practical man, a fighter as well as a lover, and he knew what his situation was even as his body gradually shut itself down.

Icy cold fingers reached into his arms to claw him back, erase the little progress he had made. The snow drifts were sharp yet soft, like soft thorns that pulled on his clothes and skin and soul.

Just let me go. His cry was desperate, helpless, trapped in his mind and unable to get to his unwilling mouth. Man against Ice, how often they strove to be one! But sometimes the elements liked to show that they still had the upper hand, at the expense of one of their admirers. His thought was rebellious as well as begging, demanding that the ice let him go.

Round and round the mulberry bush,
The monkey chased the weasel.

His heart was rapid in his chest, the beats chasing after each other much like the song that sang itself insistently in his head. Childhood flashed into youth morphing into adulthood, all to the tune of Le Bruit Va la Belette (Pop goes the Weasel).

His steps were faltering now, his body seizing up. He wasn’t going to last much longer like this and he was panicking. Was no one searching for him?

Every breath he drew in now was pain. Pain, agony, hurt, wounded, dying, fading; the words flashed through his mind briefly. He hoped his wife was alright, and Robért, and even little Therese, with her mind the size of a palace. He wondered what she had thought about today, her thoughts tumbling one over the next, and the wonderings calmed him.

Soft mounds of snow were drawing him in, enticing him not with death now but rest, that siren-call of warm, frozen sleep. Ironic, he thought, that one should start to feel so warm as one’s body turned to ice.

Icy cold fingers reached into his arms to claw him back, erase the little progress he had made. The snow drifts were sharp yet soft, like soft thorns that pulled on his clothes and skin and soul.

He struggled up the snow bank, its powdery surface oddly clingy. It held onto his boots, soaking through, and his pants, sending icy needles through his skin. Snow blew every which way, seemingly determined against all odds to make its way into his eyes and mouth and ears. He was drowning; but not in the way he might have wished. Cold water takes you swiftly, fills your lungs and brain and mouth and you die before you even realize you’ve done it.

He was drowning in frigid air.

He had hiked almost to the top of the mountain slope, where he knew that over the ridge would be a small town he had been to once before with his regiment. There, he might find food and rest…if he was going the right way. His tired mind was trying to register whether or not it was North or South, for he had been uncertain before he even set out. But trusting his instinct, he headed towards the South and prayed to the virgin that he was right.

He had lost feeling in his feet.

The top of the slope was very close now, and he was on his hands and knees by the time he reached it. His tired eyes looked out across the snow-ridden slops and dunes, willing them to find the town.

Icy cold fingers reached into his arms to claw him back, erase the little progress he had made. The snow drifts were sharp yet soft, like soft thorns that pulled on his clothes and skin and soul.

And the town was nowhere to be seen.

The man’s body gave up before his will. His legs collapsed and he went rolling just a little way down the slope, landing on his belly with the fingers of his left hand pointed toward the thing he had prayed to for his salvation.

Mother Mary, take my soul. Remember the services I have accorded you. Take care of my wife and children. Don’t let me be forgotten quickly. Take me quickly.

Six days later, two men hiking along those same alps stumbled upon a higher snow drift than the rest. One of the soldiers stuck his hand in the drift to help push himself out, then jerked back with a cry.

“Ce qui ne va pas, Jean?” (What’s wrong, Jean?) One asked in a mixture of concern and amusement. “Vous regarde comme si vous avez vu un fantôme!” (You look as though you’d seen a ghost!”

The man’s face was ashen white as he dug away the snow with his hands, his companion going silent as he realized the truth of his own words.

His fingers were still pointing towards the town he so desperately wanted to reach, frozen stiff and white.

“Pauvre diable ; Il ne saura jamais à quel point il était,” (Poor devil; he’ll never know how close he was) one soldier said regretfully.

“Son cerveau doit avoir été blessé par le froid” (His mind must have been addled by the cold) the other answered.

“Allons-nous le prendre?” (Shall we take him?)

“Il ferait la même chose pour nous,” (He would do the same for us) the other noted quietly.

With equal silence, half of respect and half of strange fear, they picked up their captain’s frozen body and carried him down the hill to the waiting platoon below.

Other works by Chandler Hamby:

Chandler Hamby Wins!
Headache
Funeral by the Sea
Screaming Fire (poem for the Fourth of July)
The Sunset Crowns the Day
The Great Saying
Sin's Solvent: A High Demand

Chandler Hamby Wins!

The short story submissions have been judged and the winner of the October extension story contest is Chandler Hamby. Here is her wonderful story based on the new Sherlock Holmes series.

When Night Turns to Dreams

By Chandler Hamby

It’s pouring rain outside on a night so black it seems that Night came to pay a visit. I’m sitting in this pub alone, waiting for him. I wonder why I even come here. I watch the couples dance. I imagine yet another dinner date that’s left me on the pretense of getting some air or going to the lou.

It is good to escape from the lab. The work is tedious some days and I haven’t seen the man of my dreams for weeks.

I’m sitting alone and it’s cold here by the door. My drink tastes like dirt mixed with the rain water pounding on the roof.

The flickering candles cast a dim light and shadows.  The crackle of the fire is barely heard above the music. I shiver in my cream-colored silk dress that barely reaches my knees and I wonder if he will come.

John says that Sherlock never goes out on dates. When he leaves his Baker Street house at night, it is to investigate murders. 

Again I wonder why I chose this evening to come to the pub. It’s wet, it’s a miserable, and my bare arms have goose-flesh, and I’m tired.

The locals are fine, ordinary people. No one stands out. I search the room for an original face. It seems pointless and a bit sad.

I get up to leave.  The mug on the table is half empty and the ale glows amber in the candle light.

A voice behind me stops me. I turn to face a stranger with kind eyes.

“You going to finish that?”

His voice is soft as velvet to my ears.

I stare into his piercing blue-green eyes that seem to take in all of me, leaving me giddy. He’s looking amused and he reaches from my glass.

“You’re welcome to finish it,” I say, finding my voice.

He smiles and time slows, the rain falls more slowly, and my brain seems to fail.

He watches the dancing couples, but then he looks at me differently. He seems to drink me and he asks my name.

“Molly Hooper,” I respond weakly. I can’t take my eyes off his face.

He asks, “Would you like to try some of mine?”

A gentleman would offer that, but there is a difference here. He is not an ordinary gentleman. Slowly, I sit and watch the firelight that shines in front of us flicker across his face. I forget the drink as I study the ruddy glow on his face, the way the shadows move on the straightness of his nose. Inside I’m begging him to speak to me again.

 “Chatty one, aren’t you?” He takes a sip from his glass.  He looks at me, his eyes are smiling and I feel my mouth curving up.

I say something in response but hardly know what I’m saying. He puts his glass down and leans forward with his arms on the table. I see a tarnished copper key. I lean forward also, drinking in his words as time slows. I realize that I'm drinking something warm and spicy as I listen to his voice. It is like the pairing of wine and chocolate to wine or music and dance. There was nothing in this place that interested me until he appeared. I didn’t expect this. I don't deserve this gift of an evening with a man like this.

It seems that time is passing in a slow new rhythm. I could say many things, but chose to match my words to his, as perfectly as partners dancing. And now he reads my mind.

“Would you like to dance?”

He stands, pushing back his chair and offers me his hand. I take it and he walks me slowly up a flight of steps. He opens the door with that cooper key. It opens softly and slowly. He is not in a rush.

It’s still raining, but less noisily. He leads to an inner room and gestures to the bed; for the faintest moment my heart skips a beat. I realize it is my stage, my special dance floor. I laugh and pull off my shoes. I stretch my toes luxuriously and then I walk on the very tips so as not to shatter the dream.

He is waiting for me. He stands on the bed and holds out his hand to help me up, and then his arm goes around my waist and his palm rests on the small of my back. My hand slips into his so gently and he holds it tenderly, as if it were a robin’s egg. He is humming something soft and sweet. It is The Lark Ascending by Ralph Vaughan Williams. Then he changes to an old Beatles’ song.  His feet are moving. He leans his forehead down against mine, half watching our feet move together in a rhythm that I do not yet know but I already understand.

Back and forth we go, the bed spread is wrinkled but compliant, our feet sink into it gently as we sway and move together. He hums in a deep, rich voice and I close my eyes, even joining in sometimes when I know the tune, and this seems to make him happy. At one point when my eyes are closed he dips downwards and his lips touch mine gently…it startles me for a split second but then I let it go. I asked for an evening, for a new beginning. My eyes close as he dips his lips down to touch mine. I am startled, but I kiss him back. The night seems much brighter. It has turned into a bright dream.

END

Headache

Pain wracks my brain.
Did I mention it hurts?
Of all the miseries...

This one will put me in a hearse.
For sure, it’s a headache,
A jab in the brain;

Lightning then rain.
Will no one give me rest?
Four little people running around,
Stomping and shrieking and shaking the ground.

I’m writing as my cranium throbs,
I guess we all have our things and our jobs,
My writing is soothing - to others it is pain?

Really, I could do without this in my brain.


--Chandler Hamby

Funeral by the Sea

About this poem, Chandler writes, “I recently had the opportunity to go to the beach with my family, and I was inspired to write this poem. I had gone to the funeral of my best friend's great grandmother, and it poignantly reminded me that we are truly composed of dust, and to dust we shall return. I also was greatly cheered that death is a passage into a better world, and honestly, I cannot wait to get there.”

Funeral by the Sea

I stand here now beside the sea,
That presence so awe-filled for me,
But I watched death upon this day,
Reminded once more not all is gay.
Though now I am young and bright,
Someday I’ll be gray, old and white.

Though I now linger here,
A ship awaits on golden pier,
To carry me into the west,
And there I picture life at best.
My mind, like the breaking waves,
Searches for a ship that saves

Me from a watery death.

While yet I can draw a breath,
Remind me, Lord, that I am lent,
And though to this earth I am bent,
A day is coming when I will die,
And my essence from this soul shall fly.
In the earth put my corpse will come to be,
But would not it be better to die at sea,
Sailing in my ship so grey,
Awaiting the break of a new day?

I hear the wind sing in my ears,
It softly blows away my fears,
So when my ship comes back for me,
No fears I’ll have to die at sea.
And this is why the sea means sight,
I’ll see it and that oldest Light.
Give me strength to be true,
And brave and ever faithful to You.

When I die, I hope they’ll mourn,
But on that day shall come my morn,
The light I bear will glimmer and glow,
Until the sea winds away shall blow
My ship of grey, and then I will see,
The shores of white that wait for me.
A new day in a golden land,
As I step onto that shore’s white sand.

A sweeter song shall play in my heart,
As I come to rest my Maker’s art
complete shall I be at last,
When my ship the quay has passed.
And I will fall at my Captain’s feet,
No more ashamed of Him to meet
Because when I am old and gray,
I’ll be ever closer to the break of day.

--Chandler Hamby


Other poems by Chandler Hamby include Screaming Fire (poem for the Fourth of July); The Sunset Crowns the Day; The Great Saying; Sin's Solvent: A High Demand

The Sunset Crowns the Day

When all the world is turned to gold,

More glorious than all that of kings of old,

When the sun dons its colors royal,

And demands that the earth be loyal,

So that all may turn to dark.

she sleeps with clouds as mattress soft,

in the heavenly, dark, deep loft.

The sunset rules anew each day,

Crowning all else in a marvelous way.

I sing the song of the sunset!

The Lord gave man the jewels of earth,

To beautify the soil that gives it worth.

But the lady in the heavens needs no stones,

She has no body, breath or bones.

Her thoughts are not like earth’s.

Only the wind, that brushes the cheek;

Tears of rain touching mountain peak.

Yet her raiment surpasses ours,

It becomes different through change of hours.

She crowns the day and begins the night.

In the morning she is pale,

With gentle breaths of wind that sail.

In the noon she turns to white,

Hot and harmful to our sight.

The Lord has given her a crown.

But in the evening, she turns into a queen,

With purple raiment, like none we have seen.

With gold as her crown,

While she slowly sinks down,

Gracefully as if in dance.

She sinks into her pillow of cloud,

That is neither rough nor loud.

She folds herself in velvet sleep,

And leaves the moon its watch to keep.

So the sun ends the day.

And as we watch the moon take flight,

To give us still a little sight,

We sink upon our bended knees,

And thanks the Lord for all of these;

His glorious creations.


--Chandler Hamby

Ed Pacht Reading Poetry

Poet Ed Pacht performing his original poetry at the Exeter Town Hall, New Hampshire

Ed has an inviting manner and expresses himself in a transparent way.  He reads his own work and also Chandler Hamby's "Screaming Fire" which was published here.

Sin's Solvent

A High Demand

I looked and saw a Light so true,

  That covered blushes to my face,

And made me cower in the shadow with shame,

  Yea, shame for my sinful race.

It was no maiden blush-indeed!

  My heart quickened it was true,

But it was because the righteous Man I loved,

  His footsteps mockingly saying, “they come not for you.”

I cowered in the doorway,

  Yet snatched His face, and locked it in my heart.

For though how could He love a worm as I?

  My heart so pierced with worldly dart.

But as I lay, in misery,

  My Love did not pass me by,
But drew me up, and smiling said,

  “Maiden, why do you sigh?”

But I sprang from His touch, so gentle and pure,

  Yet burning as if from flame.

For that very reason; His righteousness,

  Kept me from even speaking His Name!

So I whispered, not daring to up look,

  And see His shining face,

But said, in sadness, oh how deep?

  “Oh, sir, I cannot accept Your grace.

For how high a demand, oh yes, how true!

  To offer up my heart so ill,

So scarred, so deep, so black with sin,

  Yet longing to find You still.”

I then dared, to see His face,

  The face I love so well.

And found only pity without contempt,

  And into His lightening eyes I fell.

He spoke of love, so deep and true,

  A solvent for my dark sin,

Healing oil to purge, and hyssop pure;

  His mansion I would dwell therein.

So I whispered to my Love,

  so deeply aware of my sin,

“Sir, to accept You, must not I be pure?

  And if not, could I ever come in?

Mistake me not, Sir, (my Love so dear),

  I would come into Your mansion above,

If a mire of despair and a book of sins,

  Did not overshadow my love.”

But again, I dared to see His face,

  And look upon Those eyes,

That told me that I am welcomed there,

  And to dry my tears and ease my sighs.

He set a crown on my head,

  And His throne He took me to,

But with joy, not pain, I threw down my crown,

 And cried out, “My Lord, it is You!”

--Chandler Hamby

Waking Wrests Sleepy Fancies

World of fancies


i am buried in folds of sleep,

i sigh; the bed is so warm and deep!

i could sleep till past the noon,

but that would be lazy, and soon,

i would waste away from soft repose,

yes, give me work, poetry or prose.

i make up this rhyme while half asleep,

yet find it long enough in words to steep,

like tea in its pot till fine.

so i would rather spend my time.

Dreams! how mysterious yet great,

they take me to lands i love or hate.

memories, snippets of time long past,

or even those i hope yet to last.

in one i ran through darkened woods,

in another i saw a friend smile at me,

but when closer i saw, no, it was not he.

sleep will take me to lands unknown,

places in waking i could never go.

i wonder why they come in mind,

but then cannot go to these lands i find.

but it is pleasant to lie in warm, sweet rest,

until day comes, and waking wrests

your sleepy fancies from you.

this i know will always come true.

that if i have dreams sweet or of pain,

i will always awake again,

so never fear to dream.


--Chandler Hamby

Winner of the Story Ending

The winner is Chandler Hamby.  Here is how she ended T.T. Lacey's story.


“Those were innocent people.” I said angrily. “People who never hurt you; what reason did you have to do that?”

He stared at the wall, lost in thought. Finally he answered, “I had a reason, but it’s something you probably will say I’m totally crazy for saying. I did it, because I needed release.”

Release? Release from what? I thought.

“I don’t understand what you are trying to say,” I said in some frustration, “so please tell me what exactly you needed release from, then maybe I’ll stop feeling completely lost.”

He smiled a little at that, then stood up, and began pacing back and forth across the small space of the cell. His legs brushed my knees as he walked away, and then turned around.

“It’s a long story; something that will take time even for me to totally understand. Can I share a little secret with you, Mr. O’Reilly?”

I nodded rather warily. After all, this man was supposed to be insane, and from the looks of things, I’d say he was. But I needed to hear everything, so he began.

“It all started a few years ago. I was twenty-four, and I felt completely lost. I lived in a big city in Montana, had a job as a custom home builder, and was doing ok in this big world. But all the time I had this knowing feeling inside that there was something missing. Something I hadn’t thought of before, but that I could, if I could just know how.”

He paused for breath, and I nodded for him to continue.

“I began to wonder what the thing missing was. At first I thought maybe I was just depressed. But I soon realized that this was not a mental or physical state, it was simply there. And it was persisting. So I looked into all sorts of things to try to get my mind off of it. I tried everything; TV shows, books, movies, anything that could solve my problems. That didn’t work. So then I consulted a mental expert, similar to you, Mr. O’Reilly, and he told me I just needed a change of scenery. So I went to California to try to relax and think. One day I saw a woman on the beach who attracted my attention because of her beauty or style. I simply felt attracted. She was reading aloud to a group of people gathered around her out of a small, black leather book. I listened, and soon heard her saying, “For we know that all things work together for the good of those that love God.” I realized that she was reading out of the Bible, a book I had never really read or looked into. She saw me and smiled. I smiled back, and sat down to listen. Amazingly, I sat there for over an hour, entranced. When she finished she said that she would be there again next week.

For several days I wondered if I would go listen again. I felt touched; for those few hours I felt that queer longing vanish, and I felt satisfied. So I went again the next week, and the next, and for several months. I finally realized that I had fallen in love with this lady, so after reading as usual, I asked her out to lunch, and she accepted. While during lunch I told her everything. I don’t know why, I just felt like I could trust this person. She told me something I hadn’t thought about before:
“Sir,” she began, “could I be really honest with you?”

I told her, “Of course.”

She said, “Sir, you are lost, and I believe Christ is calling you.”

I’d listened to her reading long enough to know that Jesus was supposed to be the Son of God, and I almost believed it; That’s how stirred I felt.

“I don’t know anything about Jesus except what you’ve been reading, and I need a few questions answered. The first is this: how do I know Jesus is any more real than all the other gods and religions everyone’s saying are so real? I just don’t get it.”

She sat for a few moments thinking, and then answered, “Sir, I can tell you are truly curious. As to your question, I think I can answer it.”

She pulled out the Bible she had been reading from, and flipped through it. When she found it, she began to read:

“’Now faith is the substance of things hope for, the evidence of things not seen.”’ Hebrews 11:1.” Sir, this answers your question in part, but to make it clear here is another verse; “’for I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.”’ John 14:6. this verse is basically saying that you cannot believe unless you have faith. It will take awhile, but I believe you are chosen.”

We discussed a little more each week, every time she read, afterwards we went out to lunch and talked. I gradually began to understand, and then finally I believed! This longing vanished, and I was for the first time truly happy. I went to church, professed faith and became a member. I was satisfied in Jesus! I proposed to the lady, whose name was Miss Janice Aberdeen, and we were married.”

I looked at his face. It had lit up with a beautiful light. I started to wonder if this man was insane or just still searching for answers. He continued.

“For a while I was happy finding answers in my wife, just getting my still many questions answered. This took several years, and for the time I was satisfied. But I began to hunger for more, and so we went to New York, where we heard a well known minister was preaching. We stayed for a week, and then, the night before we went to the service where the pastor would be preaching, the unthinkable happened: my wife went out to get some things we needed, and while walking by an alleyway, she was attacked, robbed and then murdered. I was staggered. My wife, after being married for four years, had been abruptly snatched away from me. I was angry and heartbroken. I left, without even seeing the minister. For several months I wandered around, over and over again asking the same question: why did this happen? She didn’t deserve that! She had done nothing against God, so why did He do this? I grew more bitter and angry every time I asked that question.

Then I began taking my wrath out on people. I was harsh, critical, and unkind towards everyone around me. I even began physically hurting people. One night, I put on my clothes, slipped a gun into my pocket, and went outside. I saw a house, and the blinds were open. I looked inside, and saw a family, a father and mother sitting together, and a little child playing, and they looked so happy, so contented I was angered, and, hardly knowing what I did, I aimed the gun at the father, and pulled the trigger. I heard screams, and saw the father fall to the ground with blood on his shirt. I had killed him pretty much instantly. The mother looked up and saw me, and screamed. I was terrified; I knew that I mustn’t be found out, so I aimed it at her, and she too fell. The child was screaming and weeping, clinging to her parent’s bodies. I shot them too and then heard a siren’s wail. Someone had called the police. Before I even really knew what happened I was grabbed and thrown down. When I fought, someone hit me and I blacked out. Then they brought me here. I’ve been here for about a week already; plenty of time to reflect.”

For about a minute we both sat in silence. Finally, I broke the silence.

“Is that all?”

“Not quite. Before I am judged and, as I know I will be, condemned, please know this. I now am, as I mentioned, in a totally different state of mind now. What I did was wrong, and could I go back, I would never have done that. You may think me crazy, and maybe I am, but I have repented. I have started finding answers.”

At this he pulled out a small black book.

“This was Janice’s.” He said, stroking it gently. “The police found it, the only thing still on her. Maybe the thieves just did not think it was worth taking it; I don’t know. I have asked Jesus to forgive me, and now I am at peace.”

As if at his words, a look of the most perfect peace and happiness spread over his face. His eyes were closed. At last he opened them and said, “Thank you, Mr. O’Reilly, that’s all.”

I left the cell more thoughtful than I had entered. I didn’t know why, but I knew I needed to start looking for this Jesus who freed Mr. Smith.

 
END

The Great Saying

You, Great Giver, gave me this treasure.
I’m blessed, but afraid that I will not be
The mother and wife I want to be,
Your servant.
Give me strength to be all
That You know I wish to be,
What You will help me to be.

Thank you for this promise,
This gift and sign of Your love.
In the years ahead I will praise You,
I will exalt the Lord and rejoice
For I suffered in labor, but you whispered
“You’re safe. The victory is mine.”

Generations of women have fought this fight and won.
Though we sit at the hearth, not the battlefield,
Though we spin instead of fight,
The greatest honor ever given to woman
Is when she holds her squalling child
And sighs, “I have fought a battle of life with death and won!”

As you hold him, the fruit of love and patience,
As your hopes and fears for him come together
Like a rushing wind
The roar is hushed by a great saying: “I love you!”

--Chandler Hamby

Poem for the Fourth of July

Screaming Fire

Streams of color light the night,

Exploding across the dark dome

of heaven,

Red, yellow, blue and white

Against the black veil they flash.

Their colors light up the night.

Sulfur, charcoal, nitrate; elements
of earth
Stream fire up, up
As if to reach the heavens
Then dissolve into darkness,
Leaving one last color: black.


--Chandler Hamby (Grade 9)


Related: Ed Pacht's Reflection on Screaming Fire

The Death of Death

The Death of Death

Hanging on the tree,
Breathing his last breaths,
He cried out to His Father,
“Must I suffer this cruel death?

Yet let Thy will, not mine, be done,
And while I still do breath,
Oh please remember Thine only son,
And give Me strength Thee to please.”

Great drops of blood stood on His brow,
Great nails pierced hands and feet.
A jeering mob looked on below,
and He went on, His father soon to meet.

Yet love and mercy filled His heart,
“Father, forgive them I plea,”
He chose to save them, in His love,
“Father, I give My spirit to Thee.”

Now heart diminishes its beat,
But death has died, not He,
Death has been defeated now,
He died for sinners we.

Loving Father, accept my praise,
For You have saved us all.
Death has taken its last toll,
The cross its bitter gall.

--Chandler Hamby

The First Day of Spring

When Spring Dons Her Flowers


Soon winter will be over,
And flowers will bloom in bright array.
Sweet lilacs, roses anointed with dew, and lilies in their finery
Each dressed in the colors of God’s design.

I will sit in the fields and praise the LORD,
And by the brooks I will not be silent.

Thank you LORD for this season,
Which surpasses Winter’s snow,
And Autumn’s bounty of leaves.
Spring’s flowers and fragrances
Add to Summer’s joys.

 
-- Chandler Hamby

On the Mount of the Lord it Shall be Provided

The LORD Will Provide

Chandler Hamby (Grade 6)

It all started when the Harrison family, which included Mom, Dad, Edward and Christy, decided to take a trip to their vacation home on a mountain that the family had decided to call “Mount Blessing.” Here they would explore, relax and pray. The family planned to camp for a couple days, during which they intended to explore more of the mountain, going from the bottom up.

After a week of preparation, they arrived and unpacked, eager to explore before dinner. Christy suggested this as the wild freedom of the mountain thrilled her. She loved to explore the enormous gorge near the middle of the mountain, which she had discovered while looking for wildlife.

Theirs was a large stone house, with a river across the trail road and animals on the mountain slopes. It was a very secluded place so they enjoyed peace and quiet all the time.

One afternoon, Christy and her brother set out to explore the mountain from the bottom up. Edward brought his leather pouch with a survival kit, including a rope and climbing gear. Although they were well equipped, he felt an odd sensation as he drove down the mountain, and left their car on the edge of the road.

“Let’s start climbing!” Christy exclaimed, eager to start the ascent.

“Hold on, little hiker, this will take a minute,” Dad replied. After a wait they finally put on their backpacks with half the food in Edward’s and the other in Dad’s while they did the same with the gear.

After several hours of hiking, the family encountered a river with a cascading waterfall. They decided to try to wade it, as the current, though strong, was not very deep. They managed to make it to the middle, when a sudden drop-off swept Christy off her feet and carried her downstream. Her terrified shriek brought the others to see her almost at the edge of the waterfall, and rapidly approaching its edge. “Christy!” yelled Edward, who had made it to the bank and ran after her.

Upon reaching the spot where she was holding on for dear life to a small branch stuck in the water, he dove in. But the force of his weight instantly snapped the branch, and in an instant they were swept right over the roaring water. For a split second they looked back at Mom and Dad, who were running as hard as they could, and mom crying and screaming. Then, with a roar they both were drug under and over the cliff. The yells coming from Edward and Christy were something their parents never forgot, and as they plunged down the waterfall Edward held Christy’s hand and prayed, “Dear LORD save us! please, if you do we will forever dedicate this mountain to you!”

At that very moment, spying a smaller cliff with a log hanging off it, he desperately threw himself out of the water onto it and gripping her hand, managed to pull Christy out as well. For a terrified moment they shuffled and crawled towards the bank, then fell onto it gasping for breath. Christy and Edward never cried, but only looked at each other and thanked the LORD for their miraculous escape. Then Edward looked up the waterfall from whence they had come, and saw that they had fallen over two hundred feet in less than five seconds. Christy recovered, and looking at Edward asked plaintively, “How do we get back up?”

“I don’t know,” Edward replied. “I guess we could try the climbing gear. If we can climb up the waterfall we can find the path and get back to the car. Let’s pray! The LORD will provide.” Edward was peaceful and confident, although he thought that the car probably would be gone.

“Well, we must try, this mountain is rocky, and we may be able to get back, if there is any hope we must try,” replied Christy with a trembling voice.

“All right, come on," Edward said, as he took off the climbing gear and put on the climbing hooks. He tied the rope around Christy's waist and looped it around his own, hooked the spikes in to the rock, and started the long, toilsome journey. It was a long, hard climb, but to while away some time, they tried to sing all the hymns they knew that mentioned mountains, one verse of each. After three hours their efforts were rewarded by being able to see through the mist of the fall, the top. They had gone about 150 feet, and just as they were beginning to have hope about getting back, they saw a huge, snarling mountain lion. It was climbing stealthily up to where they were.

“Christy,” Edward said very quietly, “Pull the pistol out of my survival kit.”

Christy did so.

“Now aim at its head and fire,” whispered Edward still very quietly.

Christy slowly raised the pistol, aimed, breathed a prayer and fired. Her hand was shaking badly and the first bullet missed. She again fired, this time hitting the lion's head. The roar it gave was so loud it almost made them fall, but as it with its last breath sprang, it fell and rolled off the cliff. Edward's face was gray.

“Thank the LORD, Christy! I did not know why I wanted to bring this kit, but the LORD must have prompted me to, because he knew what would happen. He has truly used this mountain to strengthen our faith in him!

As they climbed they were silent. Finally, after what seemed a decade, they pulled themselves over the edge, and saw the water fall. After some searching, and thanks to Edward’s compass, they found the path from hence they had come. They found the path almost as quickly and for some hours descended it. The car was not there, and for a moment the two children stared at the space it had occupied with blank expressions. Then, with simple, child-like faith began to pray.
“Dear LORD,” began Edward, “you have saved us from death, the waterfall, and the lion. You have used this mountain to strengthen our faith, and it has. Please, oh LORD, help us to find our parents! In the name of your Son. Amen.

“Amen!” solemnly repeated Christy.

Suddenly, they heard rustling and saw their parents. They called out to them: “Mom! Dad!” and ran into their arms.
After much praising God, they told the story to their parents. They listened in silent wonder as the children recounted how the LORD had saved them.

“Children, I've heard this and indeed the LORD helped you. Because of this, we will christen this mountain, ‘Providence,’ instead of Blessing, to forever remember what God has done.”

“Amen!” the family agreed.

So they hiked back, and arrived at the cabin as the light was waning.

After a week, they returned home and when people asked what mountain they visited, they smilingly replied, “Mount Providence.” And now you know why.

--End--

A Christmas Poem

The First Christmas

Bells are ringing,
and everyone is gay,
happy ones are caroling,
for Christ is born today!

Born in a stable,
with courtiers of sheep,
he could not be more exalted,
this king under stars asleep.

The angels sing a heavenly tune,
to celebrate his birth,
and dancing with stars so bright,
they laugh with unbounded mirth.

The humble shepherds bring their sheep,
the Christ child to behold,
the Wise men come with gifts for the king,
with frankincense and gold.

Mild Mary attends her infant son,
and Joseph watches with care,
as dearest Jesus sleeps in peace,
peace is embodied here.

Chandler Hamby (Grade 6)

Chandler Hamby, Promising Young Poet

I'd like to introduce a promising young writer, Chandler Hamby, who is eleven years old. This poem expresses sentiments well beyond her years, I think. 


my birth

I saw you from up in the sky,
just a twinkle in your eye,
while God looked down and smiling said,
"Would you like to have that empty bed?"

I told him yes, and thanked him much,
to be granted parents like such,
I said good-bye to my heavenly friends,
and told them God is good to all ends.

So I danced along the path of stars
and said good-bye to brother Mars,
I told the sun I'd see him soon,
along with Jupiter and Neptune.

At last I lighted on a cloud,
which took me down to you.
In your womb I finally grew,
a seed which God had given to you.

At last the joyful tidings spread,
that I was born upon the bed.
That now is not the bed of want because I came to you,
as well as some brothers few.

So now I'm older and I'm grown,
but still the seed that you have sown,
your work is almost done,
there remains no tasks but one:

That task is to keep praying ,
even while your hairs are greying,
and I for one will praise the LORD,
who sent me once to you.

--Chandler Hamby (Grade 6)