Brush Creek
At the edge of our property is a forest with a fair-sized waterfall, full of sounds and life. The woods have shrunk over the years as the creek is practically unchanged. Sarah can’t be far ahead because I hear her laughing and playing with our Irish terrier.
While heading deeper into the woods towards the water, I heard her yell. “Benjamin, is that you? Please answer if it’s you.” I sense some fear in her voice.
Years ago, Indians had killed a family near here. They are all gone now, but many folks are still apprehensive.
Then Russ barked with excitement as I loudly replied. “Yes, it’s me.” She was waiting for us to go wading to catch some crawfish for supper.
Later, at the dinner table, Mother said she had heard a bellow of war cries from the woods as a child, but no one was there. Those eerie screams have haunted her ever since. Sometimes, she sees a movement or a shadow out of the corner of her eye, and the terror of that day returns.
While heading deeper into the woods towards the water, I heard her yell. “Benjamin, is that you? Please answer if it’s you.” I sense some fear in her voice.
Years ago, Indians had killed a family near here. They are all gone now, but many folks are still apprehensive.
Then Russ barked with excitement as I loudly replied. “Yes, it’s me.” She was waiting for us to go wading to catch some crawfish for supper.
Later, at the dinner table, Mother said she had heard a bellow of war cries from the woods as a child, but no one was there. Those eerie screams have haunted her ever since. Sometimes, she sees a movement or a shadow out of the corner of her eye, and the terror of that day returns.
Returning Home
“Oh, Ma, I’m so glad Father will be back home today,” Sarah said to Mother. “Benjamin and I have missed him so.”
With a slight glimmer of joy in her eyes, Mother reached over and hugged Sarah and me and said, “I miss him, too.” Then Russ started barking, sitting on his tail with his front paws lifted as if he had something to contribute to the conversation.
Father went alone to Jamestown to bury his brother because someone had to stay behind to harvest the corn and wheat. Our uncle Paul had caught tuberculosis.
About a year ago, before Grandpa passed away, he told us, “Death has a way of separating us all; it is the closing chapter of one’s life, an inevitable crusade against the living. It’s in the Lord alone that we can all reunite.”
“Our hearts are often heavy, as time here can be short.” Mother said, “Why don’t you two children take Russ and play in the creek till lunchtime? I’ll yell if your father returns early.”
On Mother’s advice, we headed to the waterfall, hoping to wash away our sorrows with splashes of laughter and fun.
Later, I heard a chuckle before seeing Father sneak behind Sarah. I noticed his long-hidden smile before he launched into one huge water fight as we’d never experienced before. It was at that point that I knew we’d all be okay.
With a slight glimmer of joy in her eyes, Mother reached over and hugged Sarah and me and said, “I miss him, too.” Then Russ started barking, sitting on his tail with his front paws lifted as if he had something to contribute to the conversation.
Father went alone to Jamestown to bury his brother because someone had to stay behind to harvest the corn and wheat. Our uncle Paul had caught tuberculosis.
About a year ago, before Grandpa passed away, he told us, “Death has a way of separating us all; it is the closing chapter of one’s life, an inevitable crusade against the living. It’s in the Lord alone that we can all reunite.”
“Our hearts are often heavy, as time here can be short.” Mother said, “Why don’t you two children take Russ and play in the creek till lunchtime? I’ll yell if your father returns early.”
On Mother’s advice, we headed to the waterfall, hoping to wash away our sorrows with splashes of laughter and fun.
Later, I heard a chuckle before seeing Father sneak behind Sarah. I noticed his long-hidden smile before he launched into one huge water fight as we’d never experienced before. It was at that point that I knew we’d all be okay.
The Lasting Chirp
“Benjamin, where did it go?”
“Sarah, be still. You’ll scare him off.”
“But where is he?”
“Shh, hush now. He’s seated right on top of….” Then the frog chirped aloud from the mound of her hat. I laughed as she jumped up, and the frog hopped with her. “You’re not afraid of a Spring Peeper, are you?”
“No,” she exclaimed as she tried to compose herself. Then she slipped on the mud, falling backward into the creek. I almost thought Sarah had twisted her ankle till she took one shoe off after the other and threw them at me.
“I hate you, Benjamin Marshall.” She screamed as she teared up and laughed at the same time. “This was my new dress, too.” I picked up her shoes and helped Sarah to her feet as we headed home.
“It was funny, though, from my perspective.”
“Everything is funny from your point of view.” Then she gave me a big, wet, muddy hug as we smiled, then rushed back for supper.
“Sarah, be still. You’ll scare him off.”
“But where is he?”
“Shh, hush now. He’s seated right on top of….” Then the frog chirped aloud from the mound of her hat. I laughed as she jumped up, and the frog hopped with her. “You’re not afraid of a Spring Peeper, are you?”
“No,” she exclaimed as she tried to compose herself. Then she slipped on the mud, falling backward into the creek. I almost thought Sarah had twisted her ankle till she took one shoe off after the other and threw them at me.
“I hate you, Benjamin Marshall.” She screamed as she teared up and laughed at the same time. “This was my new dress, too.” I picked up her shoes and helped Sarah to her feet as we headed home.
“It was funny, though, from my perspective.”
“Everything is funny from your point of view.” Then she gave me a big, wet, muddy hug as we smiled, then rushed back for supper.
Sunday's Sermon
The congregation gathered around the pastor last Sunday morning to hear him preach. Even though it was a scorching summer day, my family sat and listened so intently that not even our cool creek, shaded forests, or beautiful meadow could tempt us from our pew. The message was about Jonah’s adventure in the belly of a whale. As hot as it was in church, it was an equally chilling tale of an icy ocean of troubles and sin.
After the service, Father asked, “Children, what did you think of the sermon today? It wasn’t like you two not to whisper or swap notes during the service.” He spoke as if he were proud of us.
“The story makes me think of the book of Numbers, where the earth opened her mouth and swallowed those Jews who had sinned before Moses and God,” stated Sarah.
“It reminded me of when that robber down in Louisiana got eaten by that alligator,” I replied.
“Yes,” Mother said, looking at us both, “the wages of sin is death.” So, Sarah and I went home and confessed our sins to the Lord before we ate. Neither of us wanted to become the meal of something much bigger than us. So, from that day forward, we were more cautious not to sin. But at least Jonah lived to tell his narrative in the end.
After the service, Father asked, “Children, what did you think of the sermon today? It wasn’t like you two not to whisper or swap notes during the service.” He spoke as if he were proud of us.
“The story makes me think of the book of Numbers, where the earth opened her mouth and swallowed those Jews who had sinned before Moses and God,” stated Sarah.
“It reminded me of when that robber down in Louisiana got eaten by that alligator,” I replied.
“Yes,” Mother said, looking at us both, “the wages of sin is death.” So, Sarah and I went home and confessed our sins to the Lord before we ate. Neither of us wanted to become the meal of something much bigger than us. So, from that day forward, we were more cautious not to sin. But at least Jonah lived to tell his narrative in the end.
Meadows Pond
We saw a duck in distress today, and Sarah almost drowned trying to help it. Without thinking about her life, she followed Mother into the pond to aid her.
“Ma look,” I yelled. “It’s Sarah!” I could faintly hear Russ barking from his closed shed.
Mother glanced over her shoulder and turned to reach out as the water swallowed Sarah. Then her head and arms bobbed up and down, almost out of sight as she fought back. At that moment, panic engulfed me, and time seemed to stand still. No one even remembered the helpless duck. Sarah practically dragged Mother down with her. All I could do was yell. Then out of nowhere, here came Father. He had been up the hill feeding the animals. Mother swam beside Father as he jumped in to pull Sarah out. Father’s anger was partially hidden behind his fear.
“What were you two doing?” He said, upset.
Then I remembered the duck and pointed him out to Father. He swam out to investigate what had started this commotion. Where he gently grabbed the duck and took him into our barn. It looked as if he had caught and torn his wing on something.
Sarah named him George, after our little brother, whom Mother lost as a stillbirth years before. We all looked at one another.
“I guess we got a new pet,” said Mother as Father nodded.
Sarah and I always enjoy playing in the creek’s shallower water because neither of us is what you would call a swimmer. So, when looking for outdoor fun, we never consider our fishpond a play area. It was just a beautiful place where Father stocked catfish from the river our creek flows into. We could never go near the two larger bodies of water when we were younger. As a result, we never really learned to swim.
However, earlier, Mother and Sarah wanted to soak their feet in the sunlit pond, where the water was warmer. Mother fixed us all a picnic, and off we went. Stealing Mother from some of her daily chores was a big event. After Father rescued Sarah and assisted the duck, my sister clung to us and cried. She was terrified not of death but of the age and process at which it might have happened. Her biggest fear was departing from her family and friends. Fortunately, Father heard my screams in our moment of need. He and Mother agree it is about time we both learn how to swim.
Then we four, still shaken, went back and sat by the pond to finish what we had started. We all ate and talked while putting our feet in the water. It glistened, and the ripples seemed to flicker in the warmth of the sun’s rays. Before leaving, my family and I prayed, thanking God for turning our terror into an evening of gratitude and joy.
“Ma look,” I yelled. “It’s Sarah!” I could faintly hear Russ barking from his closed shed.
Mother glanced over her shoulder and turned to reach out as the water swallowed Sarah. Then her head and arms bobbed up and down, almost out of sight as she fought back. At that moment, panic engulfed me, and time seemed to stand still. No one even remembered the helpless duck. Sarah practically dragged Mother down with her. All I could do was yell. Then out of nowhere, here came Father. He had been up the hill feeding the animals. Mother swam beside Father as he jumped in to pull Sarah out. Father’s anger was partially hidden behind his fear.
“What were you two doing?” He said, upset.
Then I remembered the duck and pointed him out to Father. He swam out to investigate what had started this commotion. Where he gently grabbed the duck and took him into our barn. It looked as if he had caught and torn his wing on something.
Sarah named him George, after our little brother, whom Mother lost as a stillbirth years before. We all looked at one another.
“I guess we got a new pet,” said Mother as Father nodded.
Sarah and I always enjoy playing in the creek’s shallower water because neither of us is what you would call a swimmer. So, when looking for outdoor fun, we never consider our fishpond a play area. It was just a beautiful place where Father stocked catfish from the river our creek flows into. We could never go near the two larger bodies of water when we were younger. As a result, we never really learned to swim.
However, earlier, Mother and Sarah wanted to soak their feet in the sunlit pond, where the water was warmer. Mother fixed us all a picnic, and off we went. Stealing Mother from some of her daily chores was a big event. After Father rescued Sarah and assisted the duck, my sister clung to us and cried. She was terrified not of death but of the age and process at which it might have happened. Her biggest fear was departing from her family and friends. Fortunately, Father heard my screams in our moment of need. He and Mother agree it is about time we both learn how to swim.
Then we four, still shaken, went back and sat by the pond to finish what we had started. We all ate and talked while putting our feet in the water. It glistened, and the ripples seemed to flicker in the warmth of the sun’s rays. Before leaving, my family and I prayed, thanking God for turning our terror into an evening of gratitude and joy.
