GRAND PRIZE WINNERS:

First Place: Mildred Probert

Second Place: Mary Lou Tiner

Third Place: Patricia A. Hastings

CLICK ON AUTHOR'S NAME ABOVE TO VIEW WINNING ENTRY!

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First Place: Mildred Probert

A warm summer breeze kissed the back of my neck as I leafed through an outdated magazine. I was sitting exactly where she had been less than a year ago. She had watched intently from her seat on the patio as I pulled weeds from our small flower bed below. Sipping a glass of homemade lemonade, she was distracted from my work for a moment by a familiar whistling behind me.

"Look," she said in almost a whisper.

When I turned, a flash of red took flight over the treetops, drifting down through the woods below.

"Wasn't it pretty?" she asked. "I guess if I believed in reincarnation, I'd probably want to be a bird.

"What kind? A cardinal?" I joked.

"I think so. Just like that one I just saw."

"But Mom, that was a male."

"I know, but it sang so pretty. That's something I could never do. People always said God gives us each a talent, but I feel like he never gave me much of any kind, especially a voice."

She was partly right. Her southern drawl was still obvious even though she had pulled up those Texas roots more than sixty years ago. And with her hearing loss, her singing never was on key. As a child, lullabies weren't always soothing, but she was still my mother and most times just having her there was enough.

The wind was picking up a bit, making me lose my place in my magazine. I closed my eyes and thought of her. Tears trickled down my cheeks as I prayed God would comfort me and help me understand why she wasn't here anymore.

After losing sight in her left eye shortly after Christmas 2007, Mom's right eye began to fail her. At first we thought it was something minor, but her ophthalmologist said otherwise. An MRI showed a brain tumor, a likely return of her breast cancer from nearly fifteen years ago. Being eighty-four, surgery wasn't an option. Radiation was the route she would take, but even that would only slow down the inevitable.

Although she had been a devout Christian since her childhood in the Southern Baptist church, Mom had begun to question life after death and the existence of heaven itself.

"So how does anyone really know?" she would say. "I haven't heard of anyone coming back to tell. So I suppose when you're dead, you're dead. Right?"

Mom had seen a lot of death recently. First Dad five years before and then her oldest child, my big brother, in 2006. Both had cancer. Cancer had also touched my life as well as that of my sister. We, though, have beaten it thus far.

A sudden gust wildly blew the pages, causing a few inserts to fly onto the red brick under my feet. As I bent over to pick them up, a familiar chirp and flutter of red caught my eye. Its feathers danced in the golden sunlight. Its eyes seemed fixed on me. Its voice was so beautiful, whistling as if it were performing a private concert. It was in that moment my heart felt a weight lifted and peace flooded my soul.

"Mom, you can sing now, and oh, how beautiful your voice. You're God's angel now."

Throughout the next several months following her death, I would occasionally see a lone cardinal making its way across the sky or perched on a nearby branch. Then on one cold January Saturday, as my brother, sister, and I were enjoying a belated Christmas visit, I spotted them. From my kitchen window, three cardinals—one female, two males. It was if Mom was telling us that we all would be together one day. There was a heaven and God was truly magnificent.

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Second Place: Mary Lou Tiner

Breaking The Ice

The ice lay like a thick, impenetrable casing over the narrow streets. Layer upon layer of frozen water mixed with soot and dirt had built up during the cold, frigid months of winter. It was hard to tell where the ice ended and the underlying street began. Walking down the sidewalk in this drab and dreary city, I saw no evidence that spring had arrived. No tiny blades of grass; no sprigs of green on the barren trees; no twitter of happy birds; just tall, foreboding apartment buildings keeping their woeful watch over this dismal city in southern Russia.

On this chilly, spring afternoon, a poignant sight caught my eye. By the side of the road stood an old woman dressed in multiple layers of rags, with an old scarf on her head and wrinkles lining her weary face. She held a long, bent pole in her woolen gloves and was trying to break up the ice. Up and down she’d bring the pole, with what little strength she possessed. The dull thud of the pole was matched by the despondency in her eyes. I stood watching for some time, saddened to see this old woman working at such a hard and tedious task. A failed government had left her without a retirement and this was the only employment she could find. Occasionally, you could see the thick ice begin to chip, but how could one woman ever hope to break through the layers of ice that covered the city?

The picture of this old woman burned deep into my heart. Several days later, I joined a group of Russian believers to celebrate Easter Sunday. Passing through the doors of an old gray church, I discovered there was nothing gray about the inside of the building. The contagious joy of this lively group of Christians brightened every corner of the sanctuary. My American preconception of stolid, cold Russians was shattered by their smiles. I had been invited to join their worship team, and as I stood side by side with the other musicians, a new picture filled my heart, causing my eyes to flood with tears. Worshipping beside me stood Russians who had once been branded my enemies.

Throughout the years of the Cold War I had been taught that this nation was ready to annihilate America at even the slightest provocation. I remember crawling under my desk in elementary school during an air raid drill, with the picture of Russian missiles flying through my mind’s eye. As a little girl I had been indoctrinated to fear the hammer and sickle, symbols of the Russian threat to dominate the world.

Now here I was standing with these “enemies,” worshipping our Risen Lord together. As we sang “How Great Thou Art” in English and Russian, I found myself filled with a new love and awareness. On this Easter morning, Jesus had broken through the ice of prejudice, hatred, fear, and distrust. With the power of His love and resurrection He had shattered the frozen layers that once separated us. Ephesians 2:13, 14 (NKJV) states, “But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ. For He Himself is our peace, who has made both one, and has broken down the middle wall of separation.”

And then I recalled the old woman. The world is often like that old woman, standing in rags, futilely attempting to break through the layers of ice. But no government, no well-meaning law, no economic reform, no earthly king or president can break the ice that separates nations and peoples. Only through accepting Jesus and the power of His Resurrection can people be brought together and the ice broken once and for all.

On that chilly Sunday morning in Russia, a deeper understanding of Easter warmed my heart. As I joined in the chorus of “How Great Thou Art,” a new song of praise welled up within me. Through Jesus enemies can become one, cold wars can be defeated, and the ice can be broken.

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Third Place: Patricia A. Hastings

How Does God Guide Us?

"What a pretty blouse," my friend Amy said as she touched the silky sleeve of my red blouse.

"Thanks. It's my God-blouse," I replied.
I love to tell the story of my God-blouse, a top I bought twenty-five years ago during a difficult time. My husband had been unemployed for a year, and we had four children under the age of ten. I swallowed my pride and applied for food stamps and welfare.

God, I'm so embarrassed. I want to disappear. I can't believe this is happening to us. I'm at the end of my rope, and You have to do something quick. Haven't we been through enough?

Even though we struggled a lot during that time and didn't know where the money was coming from to pay the monthly bills, God always provided. We never went without food or shelter. And we never missed a mortgage payment.

On the day that I bought my God-blouse, I had some time to kill as I waited to pick up the children from school. I'll just mull around the corner boutique. Even if I don't have money, I can still window shop, I told myself.
I took my time browsing around the store, looking at all the pretty summer clothes on display.
I wish I had money to buy something, God.
I spotted the clearance sale sign in the back of the store and quickly walked over to the clothing rack. I had no intention of buying anything, but the blouse jumped out at me. The delicate soft pink roses on the collar of the blouse looked pretty and would look great with my black pants.

Wow, it's only ten dollars, I thought to myself. I wanted to forget that my husband was out of work and I couldn't afford it. You don't need a blouse, Pat; you have plenty of clothes in your closet, my conscience argued.

As I reluctantly placed it back on the rack, I heard that small still voice of God say: “BUY IT AND I WILL PROVIDE.” I pulled out my wallet to see how much money I had in it. I had a ten-dollar bill tucked away in the billfold. I had exactly the right money to buy that blouse. God, did I hear you right? “BUY IT AND I WILL PROVIDE.” Is my imagination running wild?

I wanted to believe it was God, but could I trust myself? In the past, miracles happened when I listened to God. I prayed quietly to myself and listened. My gut was saying to trust God and buy the blouse.

I picked up the children from school and drove directly home (not saying a word to anyone about my purchase.) I grabbed the mail from the mailbox as I walked in the house, hoping there weren't any bills.

Nothing important, the usual junk mail, I thought to myself. What's this? A letter with no return address on it? Who could this be from?

I quickly opened it, eager to see what was inside. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the crisp new ten-dollar bill tucked inside the note card. As I read the simple but profound message written in the card, I started to tremble from head to foot.

“Oh my God,” I shouted as the tears streamed down my cheeks. “Who sent this to me?”
I frantically searched for a name, but there was no name anywhere. Sprawled across the handwritten note was simply,

To Pat,

From the Son of a Carpenter

Filled with awe and gratitude, I couldn't stop laughing and crying at the same time. God provides, but I didn't expect it so dramatically and so quickly. I still don't know who sent the card and money—and probably never will. The person who sent it listened to the small still voice of God and obeyed.

Twenty-five years later, I still wear my God-blouse and get compliments. It's always an opportunity to tell the story of God's magnificent love.