🦋 – a short murder mystery for the Christian reader – Part 4 🦋

The window resembled no similarities to the peaceful beauty Brenda enjoyed in the church window just yesterday. What she recalled though was the early hours of the cold morning less than a week ago. Only it wasn’t her who sat beside Frank Davies in a stark interview room; it was Carlos.

Police Officer, and now friend, Peter Hoxley, placed a supportive hand on her shoulder. ‘Are you sure you’re okay with this?’ He stood beside the plastic chair where she sat staring through what looked like a two-way mirror. ‘They can’t see or hear you, and you are perfectly safe. They don’t even know you have been invited to witness the interview.’

Brenda took a deep breath and then eased it out slowly, a technique a counselor showed her at the prison. It helped somewhat throughout her short but terrifying incarceration. ‘I’ll be fine. I just don’t understand why I’m here.’

At that moment Inspector O’Malley stepped into the small room and leaned back against the door.

With eyes still fixed on the two men on the other side of the glass, Brenda began with reluctance. ‘What surprises me…and it probably shouldn’t, is the fact that Frank is here for Carlos. I mean, is it legal for him to represent both of us?’

‘It is,’ O’Malley replied. ‘At least at the moment.’ He walked over to the glass and watched the two men for a few minutes. The whispering was becoming heated and Carlos was fidgeting and shaking his fist at his lawyer.

‘I think we might begin, Mrs Stanton.’ He paused, ‘or would Brenda make things a little easier?’ At her nod, he continued. ‘I asked you to come because something doesn’t fit with Frank’s story, not Carlos’ so much. I need you to listen carefully, and when I come out Hoxley will see you to my office. I’ll join you once I’ve returned Carlos to his cell…and decide how to proceed with this lawyer character.’

Still slightly confused, she nodded in agreement anyway. She knew that Peter had described to O’Malley what had occurred with Frank the day before which may have been part of the explanation. She watched the men squirm in their chairs when the inspector entered the interview room. Peter turned a dial beside the window she hadn’t noticed before. They could now hear the voices clearly.

‘This interview begins at 9.30am. I’m speaking with Carlos Lorenzo who is with his lawyer, Frank Davies, in regard to incidents relating to the murder of one Charles Stanton.’

‘Carlos Lorenzo, and Frank Davies, are you both aware this interview is being recorded and give permission to do so?’

The two answered with clear responses and confirmed that they agreed to the recording of the interview.

Brenda shivered and pulled her jacket around her. She adjusted her posture and leaned forward.

Peter stood with his forearm against the frame of the window, watching and listening.

Carlos was speaking rapidly to Frank in his own native language. Expletives were obvious.

O’Malley raised his hand; palm facing Carlos to halt the outrage. The room fell silent.

‘Mr Lorenzo, please explain in your own words why you were in the home of Charles and Brenda Stanton in the early hours of last Friday morning.’

He cursed again. ‘I look for pay cheque. Mister Charles…he always pay me on Wen-day. I thought maybe I won’t get now he dead.’

‘Why didn’t you speak to Mr Davies in regard to your payment? He is Mr Stanton’s lawyer. Right?’

He glanced sideways at his lawyer. ‘I do not trust Mister Frank.’

Frank crossed his arms and huffed like a spoiled child.

The inspector looked at Carlos; his left eyebrow slightly raised. O’Malley continued a little quieter, a little more direct. ‘Why don’t you trust your own lawyer, Carlos?’

‘Cause he promise good pay when I start work. Mister Charles did not know this when we disgus’ money…two year ago. Mister Charles always keeps my cheque under ee-gull paper-rate on desk. If he not in office, I take. I do always.’

A deep audible intake of breath caused Peter to jerk his head to face Brenda. She looked at him. ‘I never knew that. I’ve never known Carlos to be in my home.’

The inspector continued. ‘Did you find the cheque?’

‘No. It not there.’

‘Tell me, Carlos, how did you get past the officers at the house the morning following the murder? They had been there since daylight. Before that, two other officers were on guard.’

Carlos fidgeted and Frank stood and paced.

‘Well?’ Inspector O’Malley persisted.

It was Frank who answered. ‘There’s a side door.’

‘Where?’ O’Malley’s question echoed Brenda’s, from the other side of the glass.

Peter moved closer to Brenda. ‘Are you OK?’ She sucked in her lips and nodded but had missed the first part of Frank’s reply.

‘It sounded like his closet.’ She paused. ‘Oh God,’ she whispered.

The inspector must have said something similar because Carlos continued with: ‘not clozit. Like clozit. It old window. He ren-no-vate. Missus Stuck Up did not like Carlos.’ He crossed his arms and sat back.

Heat filled Brenda’s cheeks. Her eyes stung.

Frank continued to pace.

‘Where were you on the night Charles Stanton died?’

Carlos glared at his lawyer and swore in English. ‘You tell.’

Pressing his lips together he locked his arms tighter. Frank’s jaw jerked sideways and stiffened. He shoved his hands into his pockets and returned to his seat. He glanced down at his knees and then looked into O’Malley’s eyes. ‘I think I need a lawyer.’

Brenda stood up; her mouth opened.

Carlos smiled and turned to O’Malley. ‘Carlos in Mister Charles’s house…with Mister Frank.’

Brenda’s knees went weak.

‘Whoa there.’ Peter grabbed her elbow and helped her back into the chair.

She continued to listen but she could no longer watch.

‘Shut up!’ Frank exclaimed and jumped to his feet.

‘NO! You shud-up’

‘That’s enough,’ O’Malley snapped back.

‘Mister Frank said Carlos must get a…’ he clicked his fingers and looked thoughtful.

‘A file, if you must know,’ Frank finished for Carlos. ‘A client’s file.’

‘Go on,’ O’Malley insisted calmly.

By now, Brenda had regained her posture but was taking long slow breaths to help ease an attack of nausea, which threatened to overwhelm her. She noticed that Peter had closed his eyes. His lips were moving in silent prayer. She touched his arm. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

Frank started to pace again; hands deep in his pockets. ‘It was the client that Charles was speaking to on the phone that night.’ He paused and then returned to his seat placing his hands in front of him on the table. He sighed. ‘Carlos is guilty, but for only one thing: he entered Charles’ home that night without permission. I’ll continue this interview only after I make my allowed telephone call and have a lawyer present.’ He leaned back and folded his arms.

A smug grin crossed Carlos’ unshaven face.

O’Malley officially brought the interview to a close and instructed them to wait.

Once O’Malley had closed the door behind him he looked at Brenda with eyes that glistened. He smiled apologetically and asked Hoxley to take her to his office and make coffee for three. It was going to be a long meeting.

‘A penny for your thoughts,’ Hoxley asked, handing Brenda a steaming mug of black coffee. ‘Sorry, no milk,’ he added apologetically.

‘Black is fine, thanks.’ She sniffed the tantalizing brew and sipped. She grimaced and pressed two fingers into her closed lips but not before a sob escaped. ‘Sorry,’ she sniffled.

He handed her a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Don’t be. That wasn’t something any of us expected…and you’re right, the coffee does taste worse than it smells.’

Brenda wiped the wetness from under her eyes. She glanced down at the smear of mascara on the white cloth. ‘What will Cheryl say?’

‘She’ll understand.’ He sat on the corner of the desk sipping his coffee.

O’Malley entered the room.

Still sitting, Peter pointed to a mug of coffee beside the computer. O’Malley thanked him and sat down. He took a couple of long slow mouthfuls before replacing the cup on a cardboard coaster. Peter stood and moved a few steps to a chair near the door.

The office was small but comfortably furnished. She had sat on a small sofa of sorts that was probably the most expensive piece of furniture in the room. It was a lot more comfortable than Brenda felt in the silence. She sipped more of the foul-tasting brew and warmed her hands on the cup.

‘Brenda,’ O’Malley finally said. ‘I can’t go against the magistrate’s court order but I think once you find another lawyer we can get some of these bail restrictions lifted. By that time we may even get you cleared of all charges.’ He looked up at his young constable thoughtfully and then back to Brenda. ‘Why don’t I have Hoxley drive you to the motel and get your things.’

‘Why? I can’t go home. Not yet.’

‘No. You can’t,’ Hoxley answered for his boss. ‘I think, what Inspector O’Malley is suggesting is that I take you home to stay with Cheryl and me until we organize a few things.’

‘It’s not quite the norm but considering the unusual situation,’ O’Malley pointed in the direction of the holding cells, ‘I think you’ll be safer with the Hoxleys. No one, except us three, and Cheryl, will know where you’ll be staying.’

Brenda almost spilled her coffee. ‘What are you saying? Am I in danger?’

‘I didn’t mean to alarm you but there’s no easier way to say it. Yes, I believe you are in danger. From whom, I’m not sure. I’m hoping the only two involved are sitting in our holding cells. But, there’s still a missing link and I want you safe until all this is over. You can stay with Constable Hoxley and his wife at least until I can get a safe house or witness protection organized.’

Brenda only realised she was shaking when hot black liquid spilled onto her hand and down into the sleeve of her jacket. She felt numb. Even when Peter had rushed out and returned with ice water, she hadn’t realized her hand was scalding red. What the inspector had said in those short moments, she couldn’t comprehend.

‘Why?’ Was all she could manage as Hoxley slopped icy cold water over her hand and dabbed at it lightly with his handkerchief that he had somehow retrieved from her clenched fingers.

O’Malley sat beside her. ‘Brenda,’ he took her hand and checked it as he talked. ‘I’m hoping it won’t come to that, but you need to know before you leave here. If we uncover anything that may show you to be in danger, you have to be protected.’ He released her hand.

Her hand stayed poised in mid-air momentarily and looked down at the now stinging hand and wrist. Blowing on it she accepted the cold glass from Peter and rested it on the back of her hand, the area that smarted the most.

‘Take her via the hospital and get that checked out Hoxley. Call Cheryl before you leave here to make sure she’s alone. No visitors. Understand? At least until we know more. I’ll send an officer around until you finish up here for the day.’

‘Yes, Sir.’ Peter grinned at Brenda. ‘Looks like you’ll be explaining about the mascara yourself.’

Brenda could only force a small smile and thank them. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to both officers.

‘Don’t be. There’s nothing to be sorry for,’ O’Malley said. There was a measure of gentleness in his voice. ‘Now, I want you to try and relax while I go into the front office and get some of these calls taken care of, and while Hoxley gets organized.’

He pointed to the seat Brenda was sitting on. ‘Put your feet up while you wait.’ Stepping back around the desk, he grabbed his coffee and left.

Hoxley followed but turned at the door. ‘It will be all right. Try and hand it over to the Lord.’ He smiled and closed the door behind him leaving Brenda to herself.

The cushions were soft and inviting but she was too distraught to relax. Resting her elbows on her knees and head in her hands, she wept. The realization had struck hard. Charles was dead. Murdered! ‘By whom? Carlos? Frank? Who? Am I in danger too?’ Brenda bolted upright. She remembered something Frank had said yesterday.

‘Who was he trying to protect me from?’ She said this aloud as Hoxley stepped back into the office. She glanced at him and repeated her question.

‘We don’t know. If we knew that we might start getting to the bottom of this.’ He wrapped a burns bandage loosely around her hand then retrieved a pillow from a locker beside the window. ‘Now, please. Try and rest.’

She smiled. ‘Is that an order, Constable Hoxley?’

‘A direct order.’ He grinned and left the room.

Finally, Brenda allowed herself to close her eyes.

© Chrissy Siggee

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Archived in: Christian Reads

🦋 a short murder mystery for the Christian reader – Part 3 🦋

Sunbeams danced through small clear sections of the stained glass window that stood tall at the front of the church. A young and pretty Cheryl Hoxley smiled warmly and introduced Brenda to a few of the women as they found their way to an empty pew.

Brenda returned her greetings quietly; it wasn’t because she felt awkward. In fact, it almost felt like visiting a long lost relative. Memories of her grandmother holding her tiny hand raced into her thoughts. She had been barely eight-years-old swinging her legs back and forth under a long bench at the rear of Kingsley Chapel with her cousins. There had been a simple wooden cross that hung behind a brass eagle lectern. This was back before her parents had divorced and she moved to the city with her mother.

Peter Hoxley handed Brenda an opened hymn book. Her eyes closed to the familiar tune from the pipe organ that began with vibrancy. Bread of Heaven, Bread of Heaven, feed me till I want no more. The words seemed to bounce off the ceiling and back down to her. I am weak but thou art mighty... Brenda allowed the words to shroud her like a hug.

Young Cheryl’s sweet voice was almost drowned out by a booming off-key male baritone. Brenda looked passed Cheryl. It was coming from the young police officer. His head was held high and his eyes closed.

‘Strong Deliv’rer, Strong Deliv’rer. Be Thou still my strength and shield…’ He sang with no care of who was watching or listening.

Following Cheryl’s lead, Brenda closed the hymn book and shut her eyes. The minister prayed a prayer of praise and thanksgiving before the congregation repeated his amen.

The service proceeded from Bible readings to prayers and then a solo by one of the choir members. Brenda couldn’t recall the hymn but the words were beautiful. The message the preacher gave was based on familiar Scripture. Ecclesiastes chapter three: “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven…”

When the service was over, Brenda followed the Hoxley’s to the door where they briefly introduced her to Pastor Steve Knox, a pleasant middle-aged gentleman with greying thick hair and a toothy grin. He shook her hand and thanked her for coming, hoping she had enjoyed his sermon. She said she did and smiled as they left.

They descended the steps of the church to the car parking area. Before they got to the car, Hoxley’s cell phone rang. He answered it and then turned to Cheryl and Brenda with an apologetic smile, walked over to a nearby tree and continued his call.

Cheryl opened the car door to allow Brenda into the back seat.

‘Sorry about that,’ Cheryl said, as she settled into the front passenger seat. ‘It comes with the job, but he loves what he does…and he does it well,’ she added, just as Peter opened the door and got in.

He reached over and touched his wife’s hand. ‘And, I have a very understanding wife,’ he finished with a boyish grin.

Turning back to Brenda, Hoxley turned sombre. ‘That was Inspector O’Malley. He needs to see you first thing tomorrow at the station.’ He paused. ‘Sorry’. Then he looked at his wife and smiled again. ‘But now, how about lunch for you two special ladies?’

Brenda didn’t ask why the inspector wanted to see her, but she did ask: ‘Officer Hoxley, would you mind if we drive pass my house? I just need to see it. I think…’

‘Please,’ he interrupted. ‘Call me Peter when I’m not on duty, and of course we can do that. In fact, I think it may help you. That’s if Cheryl doesn’t mind us taking a little detour.’

‘No. That’s fine,’ Cheryl replied with a warm smile.

It was a quiet ride to Brenda’s house. Peter slowed as he turned into her street. He pulled up in front of the gate and turned the engine off.

‘That’s strange,’ Brenda said softly. She looked over the leaf covered lawn and the rose garden by the gate. The dead dried up blooms created an unkempt appearance. ‘I wonder where Carlos is.’

‘Who’s Carlos?’ Peter asked.

Brenda looked at him through a haze of interrupted thought. ‘The gardener. Carlos works every Sunday, rain or shine. No matter what’s going on, he always shows.’

She looked at Peter then added, ‘his reliability is the only thing I liked about him. Charles hired him a couple of years ago. I didn’t like him. He…’ Brenda froze and stared at a spot on the windscreen. She felt suddenly cold and nauseous.

‘Are you all right?’ Cheryl and Peter asked in unison.

‘Brenda?’ Peter turned in his seat to face her. ‘What is it? What about Carlos?’

Brenda suddenly snapped out of her trance. ‘We need to go. I need to get my jacket from the motel before we go to lunch. It’s getting cool.’ She glanced at Peter, then to Cheryl. ‘If you don’t mind.’

Brenda could feel Peter studying her before he turned and started the car.

Once they had turned out of the street Brenda apologized. ‘I remember the thing I couldn’t stand most about Carlos. He smelled. No. He stunk…of garlic. I’ve always hated the smell of garlic. I refused to have anything to do with hiring him. I left the interviews up to Charles. It was the same pungent odour I smelt the other day on the stairs…and that night.’ Brenda grimaced.

Peter braked gently, pulling to a stop in front of the motel. He looked over his shoulder. ‘Are you telling me you could smell Carlos in the house?’

Her eyes met Peter’s. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m certain of it.’

A loud rap on the car window beside Brenda startled them all. It was Frank Davies, Brenda’s lawyer.

Brenda opened the window. ‘What is it, Frank?’

‘What is the meaning of this?’ He directed this question at Peter then turned back to Brenda. ‘Where have you been? Come on. I think you better get inside.’

Peter opened his door and came round to speak to Frank. ‘Excuse me, but Brenda’s bail doesn’t include your twenty-four hour a day surveillance. You were only required to escort her to collect personal belongings from the house after her release and take her to the motel.’

Frank stepped back. ‘Oh…um…sorry. I’m only trying to protect my client.’

‘Protect her from what?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Frank apologized again and walked hastily to his Cadillac. He got in and drove off.

‘He’s an odd fellow,’ Peter said, as he assisted Brenda from the car. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘No. I’m fine, thank you. I think the media have given up following me. I won’t be long.’

She dashed into the motel and headed for her room to retrieve her jacket before returning to the waiting Hoxley’s. She wasn’t gone more than five minutes.

Peter took Cheryl and Brenda to a small restaurant. The waitress led them to a quiet table in the back, as Peter had requested. Brenda slipped into the booth first and then decided to use the opportunity to thank the couple for their hospitality and friendship.

‘I enjoyed your church service. Thank you,’ she said, and meant it. Small talk followed until their orders were taken.

‘Brenda?’ Peter’s voice was low and seriousness. ‘You were telling me about Carlos. What else can you tell me about him?’

‘I’m sorry. As I said, I left all the employment details to Charles. I know that Carlos was recommended by Frank Davies…’

‘Your lawyer?’

‘Frank was Charles’ lawyer. He hired him to do the legal stuff in regard to his contracts. Frank seemed to just appear at the police station and took over my case.’

Brenda hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she saw a server walk by, carrying hot plates brimming with food, but she still needed Peter to answer a few questions of her own before she could think about eating.

‘Peter, why do I need to go to the police station tomorrow? Does Frank know? Will I need him there?’

Their meals arrived at that moment and the next few minutes were spent enjoying the aroma and the presentation of their meals.

Peter placed his napkin on his lap and sighed. ‘I can’t say much more right now but I can tell you that we have Carlos in custody. Apparently he was the person Sergeant McDougal chased the other day.’ He reached for Cheryl’s hand, then Brenda’s. ‘My only suggestion in regard to Frank Davies is we should help you find another lawyer.’

Peter bowed his head and gave thanks.

© Chrissy Siggee

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Archived in: Christian Reads

🦋 – a short murder mystery for the Christian reader – Part 1 🦋

The steel doors closed behind Brenda Stanton with a clang. It was only a few nights ago that she and her husband, Charles, had celebrated their tenth wedding anniversary. A few hours later he was dead, killed by his own revolver at close range. That’s what the coroner had said.

A prison guard stepped ahead of Brenda. ‘Move along. Don’t dawdle.’

Brenda moved one foot in front of the other, oblivious to the handcuffs that dug into her wrists.

The guard unlocked another heavy door. ‘Your lawyer’s here to see you. You have half an hour. Don’t waste it.’

The door opened with a creak and Brenda entered. A table and two chairs were the only furniture in the small room. The door slammed. She shuddered with the echo.

Frank Davies spoke solemnly as he stood to greet her. ‘Brenda, please sit. You look pale.’ He sat opposite. ‘I’m sorry about this. I’m working on an appeal for bail.’

‘Why am I here, Frank?’ Her eyes stung but no tears came. ‘I … I want to go home. I want to go back to the way it was before,’ she gulped.

‘You know that can’t happen. He’s gone. If you didn’t do it, please, let me find out who did. You have to talk to me.’

Frank sat with his right leg crossed over his left; his face expressionless. He just watched her. Waiting.

She shivered. Nothing seemed real to Brenda except the coldness of the interview cell.

‘My life was complete Frank, before I found Charles lying motionless on the carpet soaked in blood.’ She covered her mouth with both hands and dry retched.

Frank’s face contorted and handed his client a large handkerchief. ‘Take a deep breath.’

He sat back and waited again.

‘Keep going, Brenda,’ he said calmly and took a pen from his coat pocket. ‘You haven’t told anyone anything. Not even the police. Tell me what happened before you found Charles? What happened after you found him? I need to know everything. It’s important I have all the facts.’

Brenda wiped her mouth and tried to gulp away the lump in her throat. The handcuffs bumped her chin while trying to blow her nose. She stared momentarily at the metal bracelets on her wrists and the chain that hung between them.

Taking a slow deep breath she finally continued. ‘I don’t think I want to really know myself. I just want…’ Again, she breathed deeply. ‘Charles got a late-night telephone call. It was unusually late, but it does happen with international clients.’ She paused and looked up at Frank. ‘From what I could understand from Charles’ side of the conversation, a contract fell through.’

‘All right, back up a bit. Do you remember the time of the call?’

‘Yes, we had just arrived home. I remember because we both looked at the clock when the telephone rang. It was almost ten minutes after one.’

‘Who answered the phone?’

‘I did.’

‘Did you recognize the caller?’

‘No. But it was a man. He was impolite and demanded to speak to Charles.’

Frank wrote in his notebook before looking up. ‘Did you stay in the room while he talked on the telephone?’

Brenda looked at a spot on the wall behind her lawyer and concentrated before speaking again.

‘I had answered it at the bottom of the stairs – in the entry hall. Charles nodded and pointed to the study. I waited until Charles picked up before I hung up. Charles turned to face me, smiled, and signaled me to go upstairs, and … blew me a kiss.’

Brenda sniffled quietly before continuing. ‘When I got to the top of the stairs, Charles’s voice raised something awful. I waited a moment but he seemed to have calmed.’

‘And you didn’t hear anything more?’

‘Nothing. I shut the bedroom door and put some music on.’

Frank tapped the notebook with his pen. ‘How long was it before you realized he hadn’t joined you upstairs?’

‘Well, I had a shower and … oh wait, I think it must have been almost two. I had just set the alarm clock for seven. Charles had a meeting at nine.’ She paused and studied her wedding ring. ‘I didn’t wait any longer. I just went downstairs.’

‘After the incident, the police said you were covered in blood and your fingerprints were on the gun. How can you explain that, Brenda?’

Brenda bowed her head and pushed her fists into her stomach. ‘I saw Charles. I saw blood and the gun near his hand. I just froze… I couldn’t speak.’ Her voice faded. ‘I just wanted him to be alive.’

‘And after you realized he was dead,’ Frank pushed on. ‘You called the police?’

‘No. Not immediately. I guess I should have. I didn’t want Charles to leave me. I tossed the gun aside and held him. He was gone. His eyes were open … staring.’

Suddenly the floodgates opened and Brenda sobbed uncontrollably into her hands.

Frank closed his notebook with a snap. ‘I believe you. I’ll get your bail organized.’ He packed up his notes and placed them into his briefcase.

Sniffles replaced sobs. Brenda tried to wipe her eyes and nose on Frank’s soggy handkerchief without success. Looking up at her husband’s solicitor she apologised for not remembering much more. ‘What happens now? Will the authorities believe me?’

Frank nodded. ‘They will. We’ll find answers and get you cleared.’

‘I just want to go home, Frank. I just want to climb into bed, pull the covers over my head, and hope I wake up from this horrible dream.’

She drew her feet up onto the chair and put her cuffed hands over her knees. It was only then Brenda realised she was still in her bedclothes and bathrobe.

Frank stood and picked up his briefcase. ‘I’m sorry things won’t be as they were before but I hope you can move on.’

He walked quickly around the table and stood behind Brenda, hesitated momentarily, then placed his hand on her shoulder.

‘Everything will be OK,’ his voice almost a whisper.

With the interview over, Frank Davies called the guard.

© Chrissy Siggee

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

🦋 A note from the author: I hope you enjoyed Part One, a short introduction to Memory of Dread.  -Chrissy

Archived in: Christian Reads

Beaten and humiliated,
they led my Lord away
to the mount of death—
He was nailed and hung
on a wooden cross—
Naked and shamed
like a common thief.

They mocked
They cursed
They laughed

Bleeding head hung low,
nails ripped hands and feet
A body slashed and torn—
Blood flowed down
onto the rugged ground—
Pain and dread
painted on His face.

Shame
Sorrow
Shunned

Blamed and disgraced,
all purity discredited
Guilt and sin He bore—
My beautiful Jesus,
You did this for me—
You bled and died
So I could live.

They seized His clothes
They pierced His side
They crucified my Lord!

© Chrissy Siggee

Persecutors: 

Hatefulness reigns 
Nastiness and lies 
Destroying reputations 
Oblivious to their own fate 

 Seeking revenge 
 Persecute and curse 
 Fictionalizing rumours 
 Humiliating their own lives 

  
 Response: 
 Forgiveness reigns
 Tested and tried
 Imminent challenge ahead
 Continuing firmly with truth. 

 Finding courage
 Inner strength we find
 Trusting in our Father’s plan
 Hope for tomorrow – safe in Him 

© Chrissy Siggee

Archived in: 🦋 Christian Reads

I wrote this back in 2006 and found it while sorting through old USBs. I could change it to My New Year Prayer for all all my followers and those I follow. However, I have decided to leave it with minor editing and hope you consider reading:

My Writer’s Prayer

Guide me, Lord, in the steps according to your will
Lead me to the place I need to be
Show me the road that can only lead to you
Guide me along this path that you have placed before me.

May I truly know your purpose for me.

Teach me, Jesus, that it is not about how fast I grow
Like the trees that grow beside a stream, make me sturdy and strong
Teach me patience to learn as I progress
Show me how to accept critiques and challenges as they come.

May my words flow as blessings in the lives of all who read.

Help me, God, to see the ability in other writers
May I encourage them in their gifts and strengths
Open my heart so I may not only read their words
but hear and feel them through to my very soul.

May I not criticise or frown upon other writers’ works.

Give all writers members world-over a heart for you
Direct them so they may continue to do your will
Give me boldness to see them also as gifts from you
Allow each style to be consecrated, Lord to you.

May I, above all, accept this gift to me.

Amen.


Chrissy Siggee – 2006

Archived in: 🦋 Christian Reads

My aspiration to grow closer to my God is overwhelming.
Petitions to replenish my dwindling strength fill my heart.
I acknowledge my Lord’s perfection and my own sinful weakness.
Gifts and talents mean nought if He is not the centre of my life.
I am yet to discover the art of losing myself in His presence.

A consciousness of God’s love and presence invigorates my soul.
His majesty and glory penetrate my constantly craving heart.
My spirit rises to new heights of joyfulness and victory.
Even in the face of unanswered prayer, I am full of gratitude.
His divine enablement is sufficient.

I genuinely desire the realisation of my requests, earnestly
I find myself praising the Lord for His splendour and magnificence.
By prayer and supplication, I will make my requests known to God.
He is infinite in holiness and power; I am sinful and weak.
I will pray with assurance knowing the Father does all things well.

Chrissy Siggee © First published 2006

Archived now in 🦋 Christian Reads | Riverside Peace

‘NO, and that’s my final word.’

Sarah was irritable. Her twin daughters, Lucy and Annie, had been arguing with her for almost fifteen minutes. They had been invited to their best friend’s Amy teen-theme birthday party the following Saturday. The problem was she would be eight; the same age as the twins.

The girls stomped off to their bedroom just as the telephone rang. Sarah took a deep breath and released it slowly.

‘Hello.’ Rubbing her forehead, she leaned against the wall to ease the weariness that threatened to overtake her.

‘Well, you sound happy.’ It was Connie, Amy’s mother.

‘Hello Connie. I’m sorry, sometimes I find parenting a little stressful.’

‘You? Of all people Sarah. You’re a great parent. You always seem to have it all under control.’

‘Well not today. What can I do for you?’

‘I was just checking if the girls are coming on Saturday.’

‘Actually, it was the party we were discussing. I just don’t feel the theme is appropriate for eight-year-olds. Peter and I made the decision a long time ago that they are not to attend a party which goes against our values.’

Sarah cringed as she realized what she had said. Connie was a good friend who attended the same church.

Connie sighed on the other end of the phone. ‘Can I be frank with you?’

‘Sure, we’re friends.’

‘It was Amy’s suggestion. In fact, she demanded it. Honestly, I have been trying to keep the peace around here. We received a letter from her teacher last week concerning Amy’s rebellious behaviour.’

Sarah made herself busy at the stove.

Connie continued. ‘Yesterday, we went shopping to buy her an outfit for the party. I have never been so embarrassed. Her performance was appalling. She insisted on purchasing the skimpiest pair of shorts I have ever seen and the top barely covered her. There wasn’t enough material to cover her navel.’ Connie’s voice reached an intense pitch.

Sarah stirred the contents of the saucepan. ‘Lord, why is it so hard to do what is right as a parent?’

‘Sarah, why does parenting have to be so hard?’

‘I don’t think any parent finds it easy Connie. We aren’t born with the skills either. We all have to learn them—’

Connie resumed talking before Sarah could finish. ‘I was just telling my mother yesterday that I remember some of my own childhood birthday celebrations. We used to dress up in our Sunday best and eat those yummy cakes. You know those little ones? The ones you make so well. You scoop out the little piece from the top, and then add just the right size dollop of cream, before cutting that extra piece in half and sitting it in just the right spot on top, then sprinkling icing sugar over them to give it that perfect sweetness.’

‘Butterfly cakes?’ Sarah smiled at Connie’s description. ‘It almost sounds like parenting skills. You need just the right balance to get it right.’ She laughed at her own illustration.

‘Oh Sarah, I just had a marvelous idea. Why don’t I call all the parents and tell them I’ve changed the theme? It will be a good, old-fashion party for an eight-year-old girl. They can all dress in their Sunday best and you could make butterfly cakes. I think it’s about time I initiated some parenting skills. The first thing I’ll introduce is Christian values.’

Sarah laughed. ‘All right. I’ll talk to Peter tonight. He should be happy with the change, and yes, I think it’s a wonderful idea. Bye.’

‘Goodbye Sarah.’

Sarah was still smiling long after she hung up the phone. She turned to see the twins standing at the door, their arms folded stiffly.
‘What’s so wonderful?’ Annie asked sourly.

‘Well, first of all, go and get the flower-girl dresses you wore to Uncle Tony’s wedding and put them on the sewing table. Then, we need to start on some parenting skills.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Lucy was totally confused.
‘I’m going to bake some butterfly cakes, and you two can help. It’s never too early to learn.’

© Chrissy Siggee

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Archived in: Christian Reads

“Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are…”

Darkness had become Emma’s life since the accident. The impact had left her permanently blind. The loss of her only child was the greatest burden to bear. Nothing would console her aching heart. No one could help relieve her pain. Not even James, who had sat by her bed through all the weeks of recovery, could comfort her.

True, it was not her fault. Emma had pulled to a stop at the intersection when the lights had changed from amber to red. She could still hear three year old Kate singing her favourite nursery rhyme from her child safety seat in the back of the family car. The truck had come through the red light opposite and swerved to miss a motorcycle. The truck had lost control and veered directly into Emma’s car, slamming it into the car behind. The collision had also crushed her car into a van parked beside her, near the kerb. 

There wasn’t much she could remember of the accident itself, except for the melody of her child’s song resounding in her ears. Emma hadn’t even been aware her sweet young daughter had been laid to rest until she awoke from her coma three weeks later. It had been the same distressing morning she had discovered she would never again, gaze into the eyes of her beloved husband. Her heart ached so much she thought she would die. 

It must have worried James to see her this way. Even after weeks of counselling and rehabilitation, she never smiled. One Sunday after the sermon, her mother led her to the kitchen area at the back of the church, where coffee was being served. James told Emma he needed to speak to their pastor and it was some time before he returned to take her home. 

The following morning James stayed home a little later then usual. 

‘I’m waiting for a delivery,’ he explained to Emma over breakfast.

Emma heard the door bell first and edged her way to the front door, using her cane along the walls to guide her. James came to her side, and with an arm around her waist, he directed her to the front door. 

‘It’s here. Where do you want us to put it?’

Emma didn’t recognize the cheerful voice. She assumed it was a just a delivery man. James led her to a chair in the lounge room so she would not be in harm’s way. James kissed her briefly, preventing her from asking any questions. ‘Wait here a moment, honey.’ 

‘This way!’ James called.

Emma could hear furniture being dragged across the carpeted floor. Muffled sounds came closer as James gave directions into the room. It was obviously no small package.

Excitement crept into Emma’s emotions. ‘What is it James? Please tell me.’

A few moments later, James thanked the delivery men and closed the front door.

‘James?’

Without answering, James led Emma across the room to a long, flat stool and gently pulled her down to sit beside him. He reached for her hands and placed them gently on the keyboard. Her hands drew back.

‘A piano?’ Emma was puzzled.

‘Play for me?’ he asked softly.

‘But how can I see what I’m playing?’

James helped her adjust the stool so she could comfortably reach the keys. Gently lifting one of her hands, he helped her strike the keys. They both laughed and together they played a melody using two fingers. The words came easily.

“Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are…” 

Emma began to cry and hugged her husband closely. She knew he had been conscious of her the pain. It would be the foundation of her healing, a healing of the heart.

Emma continues to play her piano. She is a songwriter and sings at their family church. A new melody echoes in her heart. A melody of God’s grace and love.

© Chrissy Siggee

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

[Author of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star: Unknown… Public domain]

Archived in: 🦋 Christian Reads

The tall young man shivered as he stood on the porch of his winter cabin that overlooked Lake Spokane, his coat unbuttoned and its hood pushed back. Tears trickled down his face. He wondered briefly if they would freeze before reaching his chin. But he didn’t care.

‘Stephen’, Keith spoke from the opened door. ‘You can’t stay out here much longer. You’re icing up.’

Stephen stood staring out over the white frosted landscape that gave little hint of where water and land met. Silent sobs racked his body.

‘Getting frost bite won’t bring her back’, Keith persisted.

‘No’, Stephen gulped. ‘But it’s where I want to be. I feel close to her here.’

‘Bethany wouldn’t be standing out here in this weather.’

‘Bethany should have BEEN here,’ Stephen replied coldly.

Standing now beside his grief stricken brother, Keith looked over the familiar scenery before them. Past winters with his father and Stephen played before him like icy shadows skipping over the whiteness. They loved winter, the snow, and their hunting vacations. After their father had died eight years earlier, Keith and Stephen continued their annual trips together for another three years…until they both married. The brothers vacations ceased, but Stephen and Bethany still came every winter. Keith’s wife, Angela, preferred to spend winter in warmer climate so Keith had given his inherited share of the cabin to Stephen and his adventurous wife as a wedding gift.

‘Of all the things we did together: skiing, mountain climbing, shooting trips, scuba diving…’ Stephen swallowed. ‘Who would have predicted a tree would fall on her car while she waited at a stop sign.’

‘Stephen, you’re freezing.’

‘It’s my heart that’s chilled.’

Keith reached for his brother’s arm, guided him out of the bitter wind toward his father’s old rocking chair and made him sit. ‘Snap out of it, Stephen. It’s a relief to see you mourn…heaven knows I thought you would never let yourself grieve, but this is ridiculous. You’re chilled to the bone. I want to take you home alive; not in a coffin after you die from pneumonia.’

‘I’m already dead inside.’

Keith sighed. ‘Well, from the look of those frozen eyebrows and blue lips, it won’t be long before the outside of you will catch up with your inside.’

Stephen continued to stare beyond the porch. ‘I can’t live without her.’ His voice faltered. ‘Why did she have to die?’ With his face contorted, a single sob broke loose.

‘I can’t answer that’.

Silence fell between them, disturbed only by the howl of the wind and Stephen’s sniffles.

Stephen didn’t budge. Melted snow dripped from his hair and mingled with his tears.

‘Do you recall the winter Dad had an encounter with a bear?’ Keith said suddenly.

Stephen turned his head slowly to look at Keith.

Keith laughed. ‘Remember? It was his turn to chop and he whined all the way out to the wood pile.’

‘He was chopping wood for almost fifteen minutes before he realized that a bear had been watching him from just ten feet away’, Stephen added, trying to focus on the memory.

Keith smiled. ‘Yeah, and we watched from the window and laughed when that big old bear chased him all the way back to the cabin’.

‘And none of us could understand why Dad wasn’t attacked’, Stephen finished.

‘We didn’t foresee Dad’s heart attack three years later either. He was fitter than me and you put together.’ Keith brushed ice from his younger brother’s coat. ‘We may never know why these things happen, but God does have everything in His hands.’

‘Are you preaching to me, Big Brother?’

‘Nope, just reminding you of what you already know.’ He paused. ‘Stephen, don’t let your heart stay chilled for long. The whole of you needs to find warmth in those who love you.’ Keith had finally gained Stephen’s attention. ‘Angela and I have been worried about you. Bethany’s parents are hurting too, and from what I understand, you haven’t spoken to them since the funeral. By the look of things, you haven’t done much talking with God either. We can’t bring Bethany back, and no one can help you while your heart is so cold.’

Stephen took a deep breath. ‘I’ll try. But how?’

‘You’re thawing. That’s a start.’

Melted snow began to seep through the front of Stephen’s flannel shirt. He shivered. ‘It is rather chilly out here. Isn’t it?’

Keith grinned. ‘You could also try and enjoy this winter…for Bethany.’

© Chrissy Siggee

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Archived in: Christian Reads