My Prayerful Request

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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

Butterfly Cakes and Parenting Skills

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‘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

Abigail’s Special Birthday Gift

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Abigail Hyatt was almost seven and her daddy let her choose where to have her birthday party. It had been a sad winter and a party was a good idea.

‘Can we have it at the park?’ Abigail asked.

‘Which park, Abigail?’

‘The big one, the one Mummy loved.  You know… the one where we threw the rose petals after her funeral.’

‘If that’s where you want it, then that’s where we will have it.’ He kissed the tip of her nose.

Abigail smiled. ‘I’ll help with the invitations but we have to invite Grandpa and Grandma Lawson. Do you think they’ll come, Daddy?’

‘You can ask them. They would like that.’

Her smile faded. “I wish they didn’t live so far away. Do you think Grandpa and Grandma miss Mummy too?”

‘I’m sure they do. I would miss you, my darling daughter, if you had died. Now, let’s not be sad. Mummy would want us to enjoy your party.’

‘I want to wear the party dress Mummy bought me last year.’

‘Abigail, honey, I don’t think it will fit. You have grown so tall. Why don’t we go to the mall tomorrow after school and see what we can find?’

‘Okay Daddy.’

Finally, the party day arrived. It was a sunny day and the park had lots of spring flowers growing in the gardens. Abigail could see her grandparents at the end of the short path that led to the playground. They were tying balloons on swings and trees. There were two picnic tables.  One had lots of party food on it and the other held a huge birthday cake with pink icing.

‘Grandma! Grandpa!’ Abigail called and ran to meet them.

‘Abigail! You look so grown up and your party dress is so pretty,’ Grandma said, smiling.

‘It’s Mummy’s favourite colour. Do you think she’d like it?’

‘I think it’s perfect,” Grandpa said.’

‘Abigail.’ Daddy spoke quietly. “Your friends have arrived.’

She looked up at her father to ask him to greet them for her, but he was wiping something out of his eye. Grandma hugged Abigail. Abigail knew Grandma was crying too so she hugged her as well. ‘Oh Grandma, I miss Mummy soooo much, but she would want us to enjoy the party.’

Grandpa hugged them both. ‘Yes, she would. Now go and meet your friends and enjoy the afternoon.’

Abigail greeted her friends and opened her presents. A clown skipped into the playground, making the children laugh. He twisted balloons to form the shape of little animals, stood on his hands and spun hoops on his feet. Abigail thought it was the best party ever.

Abigail was too excited to go to bed that night. After her bath, she dressed in her new summer night gown, and sat on Grandpa’s knee while he read her favourite story. She knew it almost by heart because her mummy had always read it before she went to sleep—sometimes twice.

Daddy entered the room carrying a glass of milk. “Grandma and Grandpa Lawson want to talk to you.’

Abigail felt suddenly afraid. Daddy had said something like that when Mummy got sick. She remembered that Mummy was crying and Daddy told her they would be okay. Abigail climbed off her grandpa’s knee and went to her daddy.

‘It’s all right.” Grandma smiled at her. “Everything is OK.’

‘You see,” Daddy said, lifting Abigail onto his knee. “We all miss Mummy very much and…’

‘What your daddy is trying to say, is that we miss your mummy, too.” Grandma added. “But we also miss you and your daddy.’

Grandpa sat on the floor in front of Daddy and Abigail reached down to hug his neck.

Grandpa took a deep breath. ‘Grandma and I want to move in with you and Daddy, at least until we get a house close by. Your daddy and I talked about it a lot and we think your mummy would like it. What do you think?’

‘This is the best birthday gift ever! Can they live with us, Daddy
 please?’

‘Abigail, this is your birthday gift. It’s up to you.’ Daddy was laughing now. He hadn’t laughed for a long time.

She jumped off her father’s knee and hugged her grandpa and her grandma. ‘Please come and stay— I’ll even let you call me Abby. Mummy always called me Abby.’

© 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: 🩋 Children’s Corner

Frank’s Pity Party

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Another short story I wrote back in 2008 to 2010 for The Cypress Times in Texas. I haven’t edited any of them but I thought I might share some of my old writing.

FRANK’S PITY PARTY

This news report was brought to you by
” click

“Nothing but bad news.”

“What are you mumbling about, Frank?”

“Nothing, Nancy.”

“Well, when you’ve finished mumbling about nothing you can take out the trash.”

“Okay, Nancy.”

Frank stood with a groan and reached for his cane. It was a routine he had found himself in since the accident. Wake, bathroom, dress, breakfast, sit, watch the news, then empty the trash. “Oh, joy,” he muttered to himself as he opened the back door. “It’s Wednesday
 Nancy’s ladies’ meeting.”

He grumbled and groaned the short walk to where the trash can was located by the side gate and dropped in the bag. A car door slammed shut. Frank glanced over the gate. “Well, well,” he grumbled. “Looks like we have new neighbours, noisy kids too I suspect, or annoying cats.”

He headed back indoors. His thigh ached from the cold. “Twenty-seven years old, Lord, and I feel eighty. Why did you let me survive? I’m finished. With this useless leg, my life is over. I
”

A high-pitched scream interrupted his pity party with God. Another scream. Frank turned and returned to the gate as fast as his leg would carry him.

On the opposite side of the road, a middle-aged woman was running onto the street. “Help! Help!” She looked left and right, back and forth calling for help.

Frank opened the gate and hobbled up the path. “What’s wrong?” he yelled.

The woman was trembling. “Please. Help my son.”

“What’s happened?” Frank asked when he reached the other side of the road.

“I think he’s dead.”

“Where is he?” Frank asked quietly, hoping he could calm the woman’s panic.

The woman practically dragged Frank up the path and through her front door. On the floor lay a man about his own age. He was very still and appeared to have stopped breathing. Frank knelt on his good knee beside the man. He felt for a pulse and placed his ear over the man’s mouth. “He’s still breathing. What’s your name?” he asked the woman gently.

“Michelle. Michelle Warwick.” She answered a little less stressed. “This is my son, Colin. He’s a diabetic.”

“OK, Michelle, this is what I want you to do. Go over to my house.” He pointed in the direction of where he came. “Ask Nancy, my wife, to call 911. Then, ask her to make you a cup of tea and stay with her until the paramedics arrives.”

The woman looked at Colin then back to Frank. She turned and rushed off without questions.

Frank felt for injury from head to toe that may have been caused by the collapsed. He then rolled Colin carefully onto his side and checked his airways before rechecking pulse and breathing. Suddenly Frank’s upper leg cramped. He landed on his backside with a thud. He gripped his thigh and sat rubbing it frantically until the cramp subsided.

Frank had just checked Colin’s vital signs again when the patient began to stir. He opened his eyes and looked around slowly before his eyes settled on Frank. There was a sound of a distant siren.

“It’s OK, Colin. The paramedics will be here soon. Stay still. Do you hurt anywhere?”

Colin said something incoherent and rubbed his hand over his eyes. He groaned and gave his head a shake.

The sirens grew louder then suddenly stopped out front. A few seconds later a paramedic entered the house. “Hello, Frank! Who do you have here?”

Frank didn’t get up to greet him. “Tony! Good to see you.” Frank looked across to Colin. “Colin, this is a buddy of mine; Tony. Tony, I guess this is my new neighbour, Colin.” 

Frank pushed himself out of the way and Tony got to work on Colin.

Another paramedic rushed in. “Frank, are you okay?”

“Hi, Sarah. So, they’ve teamed you up with crazy Tony.”

At that moment Colin’s mother returned with Nancy. “Colin, are you alright?”

“I think so,” he replied groggily.

Sarah checked Colin’s neck and limbs. “We’ll rescue you from Frank here and get you checked out at the hospital.”

“You know him?” Colin asked, obviously still confused.

Nancy stepped forward and helped Frank to his feet. “Frank my hero. He just can’t help himself.”

Sarah inserted an IV into Colin’s arm while Tony raced out for a stretcher. “Frank was Tony’s paramedic partner, and driver, until a drunk ran a red light and hit the driver’s door of the ambulance,” Sarah explained.” He lost his lower leg,” she added sympathetically.

“It’s not the only thing he lost,” Nancy added sadly.

Tony returned as Nancy spoke. “Are you still feeling sorry for yourself, Frank? You still have the gift. It’s in your blood, no matter how long you sit in that overstuffed chair of yours and feel sorry for yourself.”

Frank watched Tony and Sarah ease Colin onto the portable gurney. He then looked into the relieved eyes of Michelle who had listened intently to the conversation. He put his arm around Nancy. “Tony’s right. It is time I moved on. Maybe they can use my help down at the First-Aid Station. I can manage that, and we’ll see where it takes me.”

Nancy hugged him and smiled. “That’s my hero,” she said. “Now let’s take Michelle to the hospital and meet up with Colin there. I think it’s also time to get you away from that television and get to know our new neighbours.”

“I know,” Frank replied. “I guess I do have a lot to thank God for after-all.”

© 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

Special Delivery

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Another short story I wrote back in 2008 to 2010 for The Cypress Times in Texas. I haven’t edited any of them but I thought I might share some of my old writing.

Special Delivery

Meredith was seething. “How could Pastor Joe say I need to use my gifts? I go to church every Sunday. I sing in the choir. Isn’t that enough?” She clenched her knuckles so tight they turned white. Her jaw ached from the tension and her head pounded.

Slumping onto a veranda seat stuffed full of floral cushions, she began to weep silently. She worked five and half days a week so they could live more comfortably than she did as a child. Her vision blurred as she scanned the manicured lawn, perfectly pruned shrubs and roses in full bloom. The house looked like it belonged on the front of a house and garden magazine. A sob broke loose wishing her marriage was as perfect.  

She drew her legs up and rested her chin on her knees. God, I want to do more for others, but I don’t have any gifts. Mrs. Stevens cooks meals for new mothers and Jenny sews quilts for the needy. Alan teaches the youth. Even Daniel, who is intellectually handicapped, is always repairing things. The Jones’s have a real gift for marriage counseling and


*DING DONG*

Meredith wiped her eyes with her sleeve. She walked past fuchsia baskets that dripped with hot pinks and purple. She passed the trimmed potted plants that lined the stark white veranda palings, turned the corner and past the crystal clear front window. A delivery man stood at the front door holding a large brown package.

He turned toward her as she approached. “Special delivery for a Meredith Jones.”

“That’s me,” Meredith replied, taking a notebook from the short balding man and signed the delivery slip.

“Enjoy your afternoon, Ma’am.”  

Meredith returned to the veranda seat and began untying the string.  That’s odd, it’s Sunday. They don’t make deliveries on Sundays. She turned the package over and over. No sender’s name. She opened the box and peered inside. Empty! But it feels full. She noticed strips of paper lying on the bottom of the box with words written on them. She gathered a few in her hand and began to read.

I gave you the gift of hospitality, but your home is never opened to others.

I gave you the gift of teaching, but when there was a need for a temporary Sunday School teacher, you ignored the plea.

I gave you the gift of service, but you never had the time to water Mrs. Jessop’s’ garden when she was ill.

I gave you the gift of encouragement, but not a word did you give your own dear husband when he struggled with acceptance from his new boss.

“What is this?” Meredith pulled the remainder of the notes from the box and studied them. She froze. “How can this be? No one knew any of this except
 Oh God, you gave me these gifts but I’ve never used one of them for the body of Christ. I’ve been selfish. Forgive me.” She wept, pouring her heart out to her Father, and then sat in silence for almost an hour.

Meredith placed the box on the floor beside her and dropped the notes inside. She entered the house through the back door with a purpose in every step. She found her husband sitting in his home-office, the aroma of leather and cedar wood meeting her through the open door. “John, I was wondering if we could have the Bible Study group meet here.”

John looked up, on his face a surprised expression. “Are you sure?”

She took in a slow, deep breath. “Yes, I’ll finish work early on Wednesdays so we can eat together before everyone arrives.”

“That would be nice. I’ve missed eating together.”

“John, you mentioned this morning that you’ll be leading the group through Romans twelve this week—about the body of Christ and gifts
”

He stood and walked round his desk.  “Why the change?”

“Let’s just say I had a special delivery,” she smiled awkwardly. “I haven’t coped since you’ve taken up the position as Assistant Pastor and I know it hasn’t been easy working under a Senior Pastor like Joe. What can I do to help, John? How do I use my gifts to help you? How do I use my gifts to help the body of Christ?”

“My dear Meredith, I believe you have discovered how.  Whatever this special delivery was, I’d like to share in it.”

They walked hand-in-hand to the veranda while Meredith explained, but the box was gone. The notes were gone. Yet, somehow they both knew; they had just received a special delivery.   

© 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 Melody Set Free 

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“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

Losing Daddy’s Gift

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Tina opened the velvet box and stared at the sparkly face and shiny band.  “Oh, Daddy, my first real watch. Thank you.”  She jumped up and hugged his neck. “Help me put it on. Please Daddy.”

“I’m glad you liked it, and I’m sorry I’ve been called away on your tenth birthday.”

“It’s okay, Daddy, I understand.”

“Why don’t you go play with Cindy before she scratches a hole in the back door? I’ll say goodbye to Nanny and you can distract Cindy while I sneak out the front door.”

“Alright, be safe, Daddy.”

The birthday girl shot out the back door to find her best play mate. “Cindy, she shouted. Oh, there you are. Do you wanna play hide and seek?”

Cindy barked and began chasing her tail.

“Go stand around the corner. Go on.  I’ll count to twenty while I hide. You know the rules.”

Cindy barked twice and headed for the corner of the house.

“One, two, three, four
 No peeking, Cindy. Five, six
 ”

Tina peeked out from her hiding place among the sunflowers and watched Cindy sniff around the garden before racing towards Tina.

“Oh, Cindy, you are clever. Okay, back you go and I’ll count again.”

Cindy ran back in the direction of the house and around the corner.

“One, two, three
”

Tina crept toward the garden shed, counting as she went. She waited quietly behind the opened door and watched Cindy race toward the last hiding place. Tina giggled at Cindy’s usual antics. After more sniffing, Cindy found her and began licking her face.  Tina congratulated her again before starting the routine over.

It had been an hour of fun and a lot of laughing by the time Cindy found Tina laying flat on the grass behind a low shrub.

“I give up too, Cindy. Let’s go get some water.”

Tina scrambled to her feet and brushed off her clothes. She glanced at her wrist. “Oh no! My watch.”

Tina looked around frantically, searching the ground around the shrub.

Tina began to cry. “Cindy, you have to help me find my watch.”

Cindy stood with her head tilted to one side.

“Do you understand, Cindy?”  Tina pointed to her wrist before realizing Cindy probably hadn’t even noticed the new addition.

Wiping her face with the back of her hand, Tina looked around the yard. “I have an idea, girl. It’s your turn to hide. Go on. Go and hide. I’ll come looking for you.”

Cindy trotted off to a previous hiding place where Tina had been. Tina waited, then followed her searching the ground as she went. “Again, Cindy, go hide.”

A short time later, Tina sat on the ground and hugged her knees. Big tears rolled down her red puffy cheeks. Cindy began to whimper and licked Tina’s salty face.

“What am I going to do, Cindy? I need to find my watch.”

Cindy barked and raced toward the corner of the house. “I didn’t go there, Cindy. That’s where you were.” But Tina followed her golden retriever around the corner of the house anyway.

“What have you got there, Cindy?”

Tina knelt beside Cindy and looked down. There, behind a flower pot, was her watch. “Cindy, how did this get here?”

A wet nose nudged Tina toward the garden shed where she was found earlier.

“You mean, you found it when you were looking for me here, before my next hiding place? Oh, Cindy. You’re so clever.”

Tina hugged Cindy and tickled her belly just as Nanny called her to lunch.

“Come on, Cindy. You deserve a special treat” and together they raced through the garden and up the back steps.

© 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 :🩋 Children’s Corner

Wounded Hearts

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Filed under 🩋 Short Fiction

Carrie, you have wounded my heart. Why do you keep saying hurtful things?” 

Carrie rolled her eyes. “Oh please, you’re so melodramatic, Sandy. Get over it.”

“You’re always insulting me in front of my friends. Why?”

“Why, why? Always, why? Sis, you just don’t get it. Read my lips. You
will
nev
ver
SING. Stop embarrassing yourself and I wouldn’t have to come to your rescue.”

“Rescue?”

Growing up in a family of five girls, Sandy always felt stuck in the middle. It wasn’t easy. She was the plain sister. Her hair was plain. Her face was plain. Her nose was plain. Sandy looked in the mirror. “My whole me is plain. But
I can sing,” she protested at the image. “I know I’m not perfect but from the moment I wake each morning, I wanted to sing.”

Sandy’s sisters constantly teased her about her singing. Carrie was the worst. She was a year older than Sandy and seemed to find joy in wounding her sister with her words. Carrie couldn’t sing. Actually, she hated singing. She would scream at any of her siblings for playing a record or if they hummed as they worked or played.

Just after Carrie’s seventeenth birthday, there was a huge argument between the five girls over the record-player disappearing. Carrie finally admitted she’d thrown it out. She stormed from the family home and moved up state with her boyfriend. Sandy never saw Carrie again. Marsha was the only one who kept in contact with Carrie
besides their mother. The teasing continued from the others but not as often or as cruel. 

After high school, Sandy worked as a secretary for a pastor in a big church. One day, he heard her singing along to their church’s latest CD. She was busy typing the monthly newsletter and didn’t see him enter the church office. Usually the place was empty on Fridays so Sandy could sing to her heart’s content
where no-one would make fun of her. Pastor Lloyd was just standing there, leaning on the door-frame. It gave Sandy the fright of her life. Her face burned with embarrassment.

Sandy and the Pastor had a long talk that day about her voice and experience
or rather, lack of. Within a few weeks, Sandy was singing back-up on Sundays and shortly after, the music director allowed Sandy to sing her first solo.

That was nine years ago. Sandy finally got over the hurt she grew up with
or so she thought.

Sandy and her husband, Geoff, had not long arrived home from church, when Geoff went to the study to put his Bible away. Sandy was preparing lunch when the telephone rang. with her hands in water, Sandy let Geoff take the call and kept working. 

“Honey, it’s your sister
Carrie.” 

Gingerly Sandy accepted the phone. Carrie’s taunts echoed in her head
they still hurt.

Sandy squeezed her eyes shut and tried to focus. “Hello.”

Sobs and hic-cups muffled the words. “Sandy
hic Marsha gave me your
hic number. What’s your address? I need to see you.”

Sandy’s eyes sprang open. “Carrie, where are you? What’s wrong?”

“Stan’s left me
for another woman
hic
again. But
hic that’s not why I called
hic. Please, Sandy.”

Sandy gave Carrie their address and hung up. Geoff knew of Sandy’s years of her sisters’ relentless insults. There was nothing Geoff and Sandy didn’t share. She admitted mixed emotions about seeing Carrie and Geoff prayed for wisdom and peace. Sandy was so afraid she would be wounded again.

Carries arrived shortly before two o’clock the following afternoon. She talked non-stop and seemed genuinely happy to see Sandy and Geoff. Her frail figure worried Sandy though. 

“Carrie, are you okay? You said yesterday that Stan had left you,” she paused. “You’re also looking
unwell.”

Carrie burst into tears. Geoff left the women alone. Sandy wasn’t sure if it was Carrie’s bawling which made him feel awkward; as it did her, or if he thought it was best for the sisters to sort it out themselves. They were still talking when Geoff returned a few hours later.

“Geoff,” Sandy said quietly. “Please sit for a moment.”

Carrie filled him in on some general pieces of conversation before Sandy continued. “Geoff, Carrie’s kidneys are failing,” she said her voice quiet. “Without a donor, she could die. Marsha, Eleanor and Sophie, aren’t compatible and she’s asked me to be tested. We do have the same blood-type. What should we do?”

Geoff took his wife’s hand. “What do you think you should do, Sandy? It’s your call.”

Sandy searched his eyes, trying to see his thoughts, and then turned to see Carrie’s tear-stained face. Sandy took a deep breath and looked into her sister’s pleading eyes. She felt her anguish. “I think it’s time for wounded hearts to heal.”

© 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.

Chilled

Posted
Filed under 🩋 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

A Day in the Life of a Busy Mum

Posted
Filed under 🩋 Poetry Mix

A little cry drifts down the hall
announcing Jane’s awake—
Breakfast dishes partly done,
Just a small sacrifice to make.

‘Share’, she says, stepping over twins and blocks.

The washing machine begins to shake
And little Amy’s has a fall—
Two more loads will do today,
A bigger machine, I really need.

‘There now’ she soothes, stroking Amy’s locks.

Tim and Robbie are almost five.
Will their fighting ever end?
At least next year they’ll go to school,
to miss them she could not pretend.

‘Coming,’ she sighs, picking up a pair of socks.

The telephone rings in her room
She grabs it as she passes by—
Judy’s baby isn’t sleeping,
She’s so tied she wants to cry.

‘It’s ok’ she smiles, ‘I can mind your little Enoch.’

Amy wants to change her clothes
and play out in the rain.
‘Not right now my little one,
It’s time to feed our baby Jane.’

‘Mummy’s here’, she s smiles, giving Jane a gentle rock.

Jane is finally fed and bathed,
and it’s only half past eight!
Little Amy’s far too quiet

last week she escaped through the gate!

I need to remind Tom to fix that lock.

Now there’s someone at the door,
Tim and Robbie run down the hall—
Oh dear, Robbie’s lost another shoe,
He lost the last pair at the mall.

‘Come on,’ she calls, ‘let’s answer that knock.’

Enoch really has a lot of zest,
being quite the noisy guest—
He’s into this and into that,
She hopes poor Judy gets some rest.

‘Lunch time’, she announces, glancing at the clock.

Macaroni is a lunchtime favorite,
Followed by cup of juice

Looks like more dishes will have to wait,
Where does her morning go?

‘Wash you face,’ she laughs. ‘You gave me quite a shock.’

Enoch forgot to bring his bedtime toy,
It took a while to calm him down—
The twins woke up tired and cranky,
Oh dear, Amy’s made her wall all 
 brown.

Peek-a-boo!’ She surprises little Amy wearing Mummy’s frock.

Chaos reigns in an afternoon frenzy,
Toys and books spread everywhere—
Judy looks a whole lot better,
She even found the time to brush her hair.

‘Daddy will be home soon boys, so put away your blocks.’

A little cry drifts down the hall,
Announcing Jane’s awake

Perhaps Tom will order pizza for tea.
Sigh
she never did get time to bake his birthday cake.

© Chrissy Siggee

Archived in: Poetry Mix

Haunting Wails and the Seashell

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Filed under 🩋 Children's Corner

Multi-coloured seashells lined the shelf in Sophie’s spare room. They had always fascinated her nine-year-old granddaughter, Emma. Each shell had its own special story. Today, Emma had asked to hear about the big shiny spotted one, which twisted and curled to a little holey point.

Emma carefully lifted the shell from the shelf and sat on the bed as Sophie entered from the kitchen, wiping her wet hands on her apron. She smiled down at her granddaughter holding the shell gently in her lap. ‘I suppose you want to know about this very special seashell.’

‘Where did you find it, Nanna? It’s so pretty.’

‘It is pretty—as pretty as the beach I found it on. But this shell has a sad story to tell. The memory will live forever in here.’ Sophie placed her hand over her heart before continuing.

‘Poppa and I were visiting a place far from here on the west coast for a holiday back in 1992. It was our holiday of a lifetime—just after your mother finished college. It was a summer. We were staying at a resort village and Poppa and I spent the evenings walking along the cooling sand. On the third evening there was a full moon and we were about to head back up the beach to our bungalow when we heard a pitiful moaning. It seemed like it was coming from the ocean. The sound lingered like a haunting wail that echoed. I have to admit, I was afraid. I’m not one to believe in ghosts, but that night I would have believed anything.’

‘Oh, Nanna, that must have been soooo scary. What did you and Poppa do? What was it?’

Sophie traced the contour of the twisted shell to the point, holding her finger in mid-air for a moment before continuing. ‘Well at first we just stood there trying to work out what it was. Some of the resort staff came running down onto the beach yelling, ‘Save them! Save them!’ It was then that we realized there were black mounds rolling in the surf. They looked like huge boulders. Some were closer to us on the wet sand; water lapping around them from the incoming tide. Some of the people started running into the waves. Poppa grabbed my hand. The boulders were actually whales. Some had already beached themselves—others splashed about a little offshore where waves crashed around them.’

Tears ran down her cheeks as she recalled the events. ‘People were trying to persuade them back by yelling at them. Others just stood, staring, as one by one they beached themselves. It was an awful sight.’

‘Did they go back into the water?’ Emma asked, her eyes reflecting her anguish.

‘Unfortunately, most of them didn’t. I guess its part of nature. We never did find out why those whales beached themselves. We tried to help by keeping the whales wet. We even tried to encourage them back into the water.’ Sophie shook her head. ‘Four days later the beach was covered in dead and dying whales—fifteen in all. I remember I sat in the shallow water beside a mother and her calf and wept for them. Poppa and I took turns taking short naps and taking time out for meals provided by the resort’s kitchen. We continued our vigil for four days—the remainder of our holiday. We’ve always considered it a small sacrifice. We managed to get three whales back out into deeper water—only three, but we were relieved we were able to help in a small way.’

‘Oh, Nanna, this is the saddest story of all. But, where did you find the shell?’

Sophie picked up the shell and blew into the small hole at the point. It made a howling sound, like the wind. She handed it back to Emma so she could have a blow, and continued her story.

‘About mid-morning on the last day, men with hoists came and loaded the dead whales onto the back of trucks to take them away—for burial. I suppose we were too exhausted to ask where. When they lifted the calf beside me, I noticed something lodged in the wet sand. Poppa used his hands to dig it out and held it up to look at it more closely. One of the helpers from the night before took it from Poppa’s hands and washed it in the seawater. He lifted it to his lips and blew it, long and loud. It sounded almost like the mournful cry we had heard the evening before. The man handed it to me and walked away, back up the beach to the resort where he worked. I’ll never forget those whales—or the beach.’

Emma blew into the shell. The haunting wail lingered like the memories on the shelf. Sophie sat beside her in silence for a few minutes.  Emma traced her finger around the shell before placing it into Sophie’s hand. She too, traced her finger to the point then placed it back in its place on the shelf.

© 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: 🩋 Children’s Corner

Sea Hawke

Posted
Filed under 🩋 Teen Reading

Another short story I wrote back in 2008 to 2010 for The Cypress Times in Texas. I haven’t

“Father, let me take the Sea Hawke. I can bring home more fish.”

“Son, it’s one thing to go out past the bay on your own in the Mermaid, but you need more experience with the Sea Hawke. The Sea Hawke is much too big for you to handle on your own.”

“But, Father…”

The older man lifted his hand palm outward and said no more. He stepped out of the deep sea fishing boat that had been in his family for generations. He glanced at his 15-year-old son, Simon. He was tall for his age and sturdily built like his older brother, but had a defiant nature that sometimes got him into trouble. He watched his son for a moment before wearily heading home.

Simon threw a pebble into the water of their little cove and stormed up to the end of the wharf where his small run-about was tied up. He turned his head to see his father step out of view.

“It’s not fair,” he spat into the cooling breeze.

Simon clambered into his small dinghy and pulled the cord on the small motor. The motor revved and he released the rope. Skimming across the water his eye wondered momentarily to the Mermaid anchored beyond the cove before concentrating on the Sea Hawke a little farther out where the water was deeper. 

He eased off the throttle as he neared the Sea Hawke and pulled in alongside. “I know what I’m doing,” he muttered under his breath, gritting his teeth and hauling himself over the side of his father’s precious boat. He’d been out in the Sea Hawke since he was seven. His brother, Thomas, who was only three years older, had taken him out to sea many times.

The engine struggled to start. He stood at the helm and clenched his teeth. “Come on.” He tried again and the motor roared to life. He let the engine idle while he pulled up anchor and methodically coiled the chain onto the deck. With care, he guided the Sea Hawke forward before he turned the boat and headed out to sea.


It was almost an hour of gentle rising and falling over deep-sea waters before he slowed the boat to a stop. “This looks perfect,” he spoke into the salty wind. He watched sea birds fly in circles just above the surface of lightly foaming waves.

“Okay, now the nets.” He struggled and perspiration trickled down his face. Finally the net went over the side and disappeared almost instantly.

He returned to the helm and allowed the boat to move forward. The thick ropes that held the nets to the deck now trailed behind the boat and began to sag under the weight of his catch.

“I knew I could do it,” he congratulated himself.

The boat jolted and twisted in an unexpected swirl of waves. “Huh! What the…”

Simon struggled to steer the Sea Hawke. It began to tip to the starboard side. The wind had also unmistakably risen and Simon began to panic. He cut off the engine and ran to the stern.

“Oh no! Father will be angry.”

The Sea Hawke heaved and Simon grabbed at the ropes for balance. He suddenly found himself leaning far over the edge of the boat. He stared into the clouded eyes of a dead young whale which had snagged in the net. Its weight was pulling the boat over.

When the boat steadied and rested almost completely on its side, he gingerly reached for a fishing knife that hung from a hook on the stern.

“I … can’t … reach … ” He stretched as far as he could but the rise and fall of the boat wrenched it out of reach. He struggled to breathe, coughing violently as the fall of the waves threatened to choke him. The salt stung his eyes and blurred his vision. He vomited onto the deck. Dizziness engulfed him.


“SIMON! SIMON!”

Simon shook his head to clear it. He must be hearing things.

“SIMON, ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?”

Simon looked up and around until his eyes fell on his father’s face. He was a little way off the bow in The Mermaid. Through the sea spray he saw Thomas lob a rope over the top of the bow but the dizziness returned and he grabbed the net as the boat rose and fell heavily.

Suddenly, Thomas had a strong arm around him. Thomas’s free hand hacked away at the ropes of the net with his knife. It seemed like an eternity to Simon, but finally the net gave way under the weight and fell into the churning waves. The boat rebounded almost throwing them overboard together. But Thomas held tight.

Simon sat on the deck of The Mermaid, wrapped in an old blanket. He shivered and coughed. The tow ropes slackened and tightened as the boats pushed through the heavy swell. His father hadn’t spoken since Thomas helped him aboard The Mermaid. He turned to his father standing at the helm and met his father’s glare, eyes slightly closed, jaw stiffly jerked sideways. Simon fought against the tears that suddenly threatened. He had hurt his father and lost his trust. Quickly wiping the blanket across his eyes to avoid his father’s penetrating stare; he took a deep breath.

“Are you okay, my son?”

Simon nodded in his father’s direction before looking up. His father’s face had relaxed a little and some of the softness had returned to the deep sea-green eyes. “Yes, Father.” He looked back out over the stern and watched Thomas expertly work at the helm of his father’s crippled Sea Hawke.

© 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: 🩋 Teen Reading