Practice Makes Perfect
Stories
Contents
"Practice Makes Perfect" by Sandra Herrmann
"Dance to the Music" by C. David McKirachan
"Bread" by Keith Hewitt
* * * * * * * * *
Note: This installment was originally published in 2010.
Practice Makes Perfect
Sandra Herrmann
Deuteronomy 26:1-11
Fran arranged her face in as neutral a manner as possible. She really disliked her boss. He was loud, aggressive, and sometimes crude in his words. But if he sensed any resistance from his workers, he was even more of all those things. So it paid to keep her face under control.
"Fran," he nearly shouted, "where are those papers I asked you to have on my desk by noon? It's nearly two o'clock, and I don't see them anywhere on my desk."
"Right here, sir," she said sweetly, reaching for the stack of neatly bound booklets on the corner of her desk. "I thought you were going to stop by for them." Knew he would, was more like it. That's what he had said when they discussed the project. He didn't want anyone else seeing them before the meeting and leaving them with her was the way to insure that.
"Didn't I say I wanted to see them before they were bound?" he demanded.
"Yes, sir, you did. And they aren't bound, they merely slip into these folders." As he raised his eyebrows, she went on, "The plastic grip holds them in place so they don't fall out. But if we need to make corrections, we can slip out the pages and slip them back in." She smiled her most placating smile as she held out one of the manuscripts, pleased to see that her hand was steady, there was no flutter of pages.
Inside herself, she asked God for a sweet and patient attitude. "And," she added to her silent prayer, "help me to love this man as much as You do." It was hard to love a man who was difficult with everyone around him. She had seen more than one employee come out of his office ashen-faced and even in tears. And since she could hear his phone calls, she knew he talked to his wife and children the same way.
Dixon stood there, paging through the folder she had handed him. Although he cleared his throat a few times, and sighed at one of the pages, he evidently found no fault with her work this time.
"Well done, Fran."
She hadn't realized she was holding her breath until she found herself inhaling deeply. Dixon, of course, didn't notice. He was busy scooping up the rest of the stack to take to the conference room.
Fran's best friend in the office came trotting over to her desk. "What, he didn't find anything wrong with them? He's almost smiling."
"You won't believe this, Rita," she answered, "But he told me I'd done a good job!" Fran's smile was radiant. "I think my prayers are working."
Rita made a face. "You're still praying for that jerk? I'd be praying for him to break a leg. At least we'd have a few days of peace and quiet around here."
Fran changed the subject, and they lapsed into a few minutes of gossip before Rita went to take her break. Fran rested her head in her hands for a minute. "Oh, Lord," she prayed, "it is difficult to pray for Dixon. He can be such a jerk. But I want some peace in my own heart here. Please keep me in the same frame of mind that Jesus had."
She quickly looked up at the sound of footsteps coming close to her desk. It was Dixon. She swallowed her fear that he had found some error in her work and smiled at him. He stopped at the corner of her desk.
"You okay?" he asked.
Surprised, Fran said, "Sure. I'm fine." He had never before asked her this.
"Really? I saw your head in your hands, and thought you might have a headache."
"Oh, no, I seldom get headaches."
"Well you're lucky," Dixon said with a wry smile. "My wife gets migraines at least once a week. She has to lie down in a dark room, sometimes for hours until they pass. When our kids were little, it was a serious problem. They couldn't understand, you know, what was wrong with Mommy."
Fran made sympathetic noises, but she couldn't help but think that his loud voice probably contributed to his wife's pain. But she caught herself. She had determined not to indulge in negative thoughts about the man. She needed to concentrate on his positive virtues, like the fact that he sounded genuinely concerned for her. But Dixon was going on.
"Well, anyway, I just wanted to tell you that the meeting went very well. The vice president said it was well-prepared and thinks we're ready to get started on this project. He had many words of praise for our work and even had a little gift for each of us." He handed her an envelope.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Open it." He had an expansive smile on his face. Well, thought Fran, that's unusual. She couldn't remember the last time she had seen him smile.
When she opened the envelope, two tickets fell out. "What's this?" she asked.
"Read them. Read them," Dixon urged.
"Dinner and a Movie," Fran read. "At that new theater! I've heard about the place, but it's so expensive, my husband and I haven't felt like we could afford it! Oh, wonderful!" She read the note enclosed, a lovely note from Dixon's boss about the completion of the proposal they had both slaved over for two months. 'For all your hard work, and dedication,' it said, 'a word of thanks and a small gift. Enjoy.'
Fran's eyes were dancing. "I need to thank Mr. Miller," she said, reaching for her phone. But Dixon placed his huge hand over hers, stopping her from dialing the phone.
"Don't do that," he said. "It's not appropriate."
Fran's brow wrinkled. "A thank you isn't appropriate?"
Dixon shook his head. "Trust me on this. You don't want to do that. Just enjoy the fruits of your labor." And he walked into his office.
Fran and her husband enjoyed the tickets the very next Saturday night. She was crowing about the dinner, which was excellent, and the movie they had both enjoyed after dinner, sipping on an after-dinner drink. Movie theaters had certainly changed, she laughed. The most food she'd ever had at a movie before was a box of Milk Duds.
As she and her husband came out to the lobby, she saw the vice president in charge of their project, chatting with the other managers. This was her opportunity. She walked across the lobby and stood on the edge of the group until she caught his eye.
"Hello, Fran. What a surprise to see you here! I expected to see Dixon."
And suddenly, Fran realized why Dixon hadn't wanted her to thank the vice president.
Covering her embarrassment, she said, "Yes, my husband got two tickets from a friend. I was so surprised to see you fellows here! Where's Dixon?"
"Oh," he said, "Dixon's wife gets headaches at the movies. Migraines, I think he said."
"I'm sorry to hear that. See you Monday at work, gentlemen." As she walked away, she realized that her little white lie had been at least part of the truth. Her boss, who could be loud and a bit crude, and while not exactly a friend, had given her a beautiful gift. She smiled as she took her husband's arm, and on the way to the car, she told him where the thank-you gift had actually come from.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Dance to the Music
C. David McKirachan
Philippians 4:4-9
Weddings are part of my job. I get to lead in worship. I get to share the intensity of the bride and groom. I get to see the hope and possibility of a new family moving from could be to is. There are few things that are more fun and more nuts.
I like to go to receptions. I like to dance with my wife and hold her hand during dinner. I like to shmooze with people who are excited about the wedding and see them doing their best to "boogie down." Every once in a while, some very serious soul approaches me and asks, "Have you given your life to Christ?" At such times I have an urge to make comments that would shock or rattle the cages of these intent individuals. I exercise self-control and say something profound like, "Yes, oh, that's one of our songs. Excuse me, while I dance with my wife." Or if it's a real pushy evangelist, "Yes, excuse me, I was just going to the men's room." Once, I was followed into the bathroom and preached at while I utilized the facilities. I won't tell you what I considered doing in that case.
My beef with these folks is not their desire to share their faith, but their aggressive assumption that they need to push me into a break through that they're pretty sure I haven't experienced. I don't consider myself done, by any measure. I've got a lot of distance to travel. But I wish they'd open their focus and almost desperate intensity to the gifts that are showering onto us at any given moment.
"Rejoice! Again I say, Rejoice!" It's worth saying twice because we rarely do it once. We're too busy with our silly agendas to notice that we're getting gifted with all kinds of cool moments, blessings that resonate and harmonize all over the place. "If there is ANY…" There's not only any, there's lots. Why do we have such a hard time thinking on these things?
The band's playing, "Celebrate, celebrate, dance to the music." I'd say it's time to stop pushing ourselves and others around and get up and shake that bootie.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. McKirachan is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
* * *
What fills you up? Society tells us that all manner of things will satisfy us, from junk food to the newest gadget or the coolest car. The author of John tells us that Jesus had a different answer. Which is correct? Keith Hewitt offers one viewpoint in his story, "Bread."
Bread
Keith Hewitt
John 6:25-35
She was sitting at the kitchen table when her son returned with a jarring door slam and a triumphant, "I'm back!"
She leaned to her right so she could peek out toward the living room where he was busily shedding his Evil Jester costume. A navy blue pillow case sat on the floor next to him, bulging with treats. "Did you have fun?"
"Yeah! We went farther tonight than last year -- all the way down to the tracks and back. Katy's dad jumped out of the bushes down on Harding in a Grim Reaper costume and chased us for two blocks." He dropped his mask, held up the bag and shook it; the rustle of candy wrappers was loud. "I'll be eating candy 'til Christmas!"
"Oh… good," she said unenthusiastically and straightened in her chair to get back to dealing with the business at hand. "Don't forget to check everything before you eat it," she called out absently, mind already focusing on the bills and checkbook in front of her. Was it her imagination or was the stack of bills actually higher this month? She shook her head; it was time to bite the bullet and dig in. She reached for the first unopened bill, slit the envelope, and pulled out the contents.
Suddenly: "Be right back! I forgot something!" And with that, he was gone, out the door before she could ask what he'd forgotten, or where he was going.
"Boys," she murmured, and glanced at the clock -- not quite 7:00 yet, even though it was already dark. Still early enough. She turned her attention back to the bill, wrote down the balance and minimum payment, slipped it back into the envelope and set it aside. There was time to do this to a dozen or so bills before the front door slammed again. "Where were you?" she called, before he could even announce his return.
"I forgot Mrs. Bailey's," he explained, walking toward the kitchen. His footsteps were soft, cushioned by the soles of his costume.
"Mrs. Bailey?"
"The church lady." He was in the doorway to the kitchen, now, with a small, clear plastic bag. In it, a round loaf of bread about the size of two hands side by side was still warm enough to cause condensation on the inside of the bag. "You know, she makes the communion bread, and the kids get whatever's left over in Sunday school."
"Right -- Mrs. Bailey."
"If she knows you, you get bread for a treat -- and I almost forgot!" He peeled apart the seal at the top of the bag, reached in, and pulled the bread out. The scent of fresh-baked bread filled the kitchen almost immediately. It was a magical smell -- at once it reminded her of church and communion -- but also of home, and childhood, and her mother's fresh bread.
She took a deep breath, held the memories close, and then exhaled reluctantly. "I understand why you wanted to go back out."
"Who wouldn't? This is the best stuff in the world." He tore off a piece, offered it to his mother. "Want some?" She hesitated but a moment, then took it and bit off a smaller piece, let it sit on her tongue for a bit before she finally chewed slowly, letting the taste roll over her as the bread almost melted in her mouth. When that sensation started to fade, she took another bite, let it flow through her senses -- smell, taste, texture…
If she could have heard it, it would have sounded like a choir of angels.
Her son took his own piece and then set the loaf aside. "You know," he said, "Halloween is my favorite holiday, and I really like trick or treating -- but all of that stuff --" he tilted his head back toward the living room, where the sack of candy sat on the floor, "--I can't live on that. Sure, it tastes good when you first eat it, and it's sweet and all, but it doesn't fill you up, and after awhile it just doesn't taste good."
He tore off another piece of bread, ate it slowly, speaking around it. "But this stuff, I could live on. I know we get the same bread at church every month, and it's the same bread she hands out for Halloween -- but every time I eat it, it's like there's a different combination of flavors and how it feels. Sometimes it's crustier, sometimes it's saltier, or sweeter -- but it's still the same. Do you know what I mean?"
"I think so," his mother said. "No matter how often you eat it, it's a little like the first time -- but still familiar."
"Right. And it's always good." He offered another piece to her. "I know candy is good, but it's not good for me, and it's not real food. But this will always fill me up."
His mother took the piece and nodded. "That it will," she agreed. Then, gently, "Now why don't you get out of that costume? Your father will be home soon, and then we'll have dinner."
He smiled. "I may not be hungry by then."
After he left -- with the bread -- she sighed once more and turned back to the bills and budget… but suddenly it didn't seem quite as important. With the taste and smell of bread still lingering, and a warm fullness in her belly, it was hard to worry. Yes, the worries of life would be back soon enough.
But then there was always the bread...
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children.
*****************************************
StoryShare, November 25, 2010, issue.
Copyright 2010 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
"Practice Makes Perfect" by Sandra Herrmann
"Dance to the Music" by C. David McKirachan
"Bread" by Keith Hewitt
* * * * * * * * *
Note: This installment was originally published in 2010.
Practice Makes Perfect
Sandra Herrmann
Deuteronomy 26:1-11
Fran arranged her face in as neutral a manner as possible. She really disliked her boss. He was loud, aggressive, and sometimes crude in his words. But if he sensed any resistance from his workers, he was even more of all those things. So it paid to keep her face under control.
"Fran," he nearly shouted, "where are those papers I asked you to have on my desk by noon? It's nearly two o'clock, and I don't see them anywhere on my desk."
"Right here, sir," she said sweetly, reaching for the stack of neatly bound booklets on the corner of her desk. "I thought you were going to stop by for them." Knew he would, was more like it. That's what he had said when they discussed the project. He didn't want anyone else seeing them before the meeting and leaving them with her was the way to insure that.
"Didn't I say I wanted to see them before they were bound?" he demanded.
"Yes, sir, you did. And they aren't bound, they merely slip into these folders." As he raised his eyebrows, she went on, "The plastic grip holds them in place so they don't fall out. But if we need to make corrections, we can slip out the pages and slip them back in." She smiled her most placating smile as she held out one of the manuscripts, pleased to see that her hand was steady, there was no flutter of pages.
Inside herself, she asked God for a sweet and patient attitude. "And," she added to her silent prayer, "help me to love this man as much as You do." It was hard to love a man who was difficult with everyone around him. She had seen more than one employee come out of his office ashen-faced and even in tears. And since she could hear his phone calls, she knew he talked to his wife and children the same way.
Dixon stood there, paging through the folder she had handed him. Although he cleared his throat a few times, and sighed at one of the pages, he evidently found no fault with her work this time.
"Well done, Fran."
She hadn't realized she was holding her breath until she found herself inhaling deeply. Dixon, of course, didn't notice. He was busy scooping up the rest of the stack to take to the conference room.
Fran's best friend in the office came trotting over to her desk. "What, he didn't find anything wrong with them? He's almost smiling."
"You won't believe this, Rita," she answered, "But he told me I'd done a good job!" Fran's smile was radiant. "I think my prayers are working."
Rita made a face. "You're still praying for that jerk? I'd be praying for him to break a leg. At least we'd have a few days of peace and quiet around here."
Fran changed the subject, and they lapsed into a few minutes of gossip before Rita went to take her break. Fran rested her head in her hands for a minute. "Oh, Lord," she prayed, "it is difficult to pray for Dixon. He can be such a jerk. But I want some peace in my own heart here. Please keep me in the same frame of mind that Jesus had."
She quickly looked up at the sound of footsteps coming close to her desk. It was Dixon. She swallowed her fear that he had found some error in her work and smiled at him. He stopped at the corner of her desk.
"You okay?" he asked.
Surprised, Fran said, "Sure. I'm fine." He had never before asked her this.
"Really? I saw your head in your hands, and thought you might have a headache."
"Oh, no, I seldom get headaches."
"Well you're lucky," Dixon said with a wry smile. "My wife gets migraines at least once a week. She has to lie down in a dark room, sometimes for hours until they pass. When our kids were little, it was a serious problem. They couldn't understand, you know, what was wrong with Mommy."
Fran made sympathetic noises, but she couldn't help but think that his loud voice probably contributed to his wife's pain. But she caught herself. She had determined not to indulge in negative thoughts about the man. She needed to concentrate on his positive virtues, like the fact that he sounded genuinely concerned for her. But Dixon was going on.
"Well, anyway, I just wanted to tell you that the meeting went very well. The vice president said it was well-prepared and thinks we're ready to get started on this project. He had many words of praise for our work and even had a little gift for each of us." He handed her an envelope.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Open it." He had an expansive smile on his face. Well, thought Fran, that's unusual. She couldn't remember the last time she had seen him smile.
When she opened the envelope, two tickets fell out. "What's this?" she asked.
"Read them. Read them," Dixon urged.
"Dinner and a Movie," Fran read. "At that new theater! I've heard about the place, but it's so expensive, my husband and I haven't felt like we could afford it! Oh, wonderful!" She read the note enclosed, a lovely note from Dixon's boss about the completion of the proposal they had both slaved over for two months. 'For all your hard work, and dedication,' it said, 'a word of thanks and a small gift. Enjoy.'
Fran's eyes were dancing. "I need to thank Mr. Miller," she said, reaching for her phone. But Dixon placed his huge hand over hers, stopping her from dialing the phone.
"Don't do that," he said. "It's not appropriate."
Fran's brow wrinkled. "A thank you isn't appropriate?"
Dixon shook his head. "Trust me on this. You don't want to do that. Just enjoy the fruits of your labor." And he walked into his office.
Fran and her husband enjoyed the tickets the very next Saturday night. She was crowing about the dinner, which was excellent, and the movie they had both enjoyed after dinner, sipping on an after-dinner drink. Movie theaters had certainly changed, she laughed. The most food she'd ever had at a movie before was a box of Milk Duds.
As she and her husband came out to the lobby, she saw the vice president in charge of their project, chatting with the other managers. This was her opportunity. She walked across the lobby and stood on the edge of the group until she caught his eye.
"Hello, Fran. What a surprise to see you here! I expected to see Dixon."
And suddenly, Fran realized why Dixon hadn't wanted her to thank the vice president.
Covering her embarrassment, she said, "Yes, my husband got two tickets from a friend. I was so surprised to see you fellows here! Where's Dixon?"
"Oh," he said, "Dixon's wife gets headaches at the movies. Migraines, I think he said."
"I'm sorry to hear that. See you Monday at work, gentlemen." As she walked away, she realized that her little white lie had been at least part of the truth. Her boss, who could be loud and a bit crude, and while not exactly a friend, had given her a beautiful gift. She smiled as she took her husband's arm, and on the way to the car, she told him where the thank-you gift had actually come from.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Dance to the Music
C. David McKirachan
Philippians 4:4-9
Weddings are part of my job. I get to lead in worship. I get to share the intensity of the bride and groom. I get to see the hope and possibility of a new family moving from could be to is. There are few things that are more fun and more nuts.
I like to go to receptions. I like to dance with my wife and hold her hand during dinner. I like to shmooze with people who are excited about the wedding and see them doing their best to "boogie down." Every once in a while, some very serious soul approaches me and asks, "Have you given your life to Christ?" At such times I have an urge to make comments that would shock or rattle the cages of these intent individuals. I exercise self-control and say something profound like, "Yes, oh, that's one of our songs. Excuse me, while I dance with my wife." Or if it's a real pushy evangelist, "Yes, excuse me, I was just going to the men's room." Once, I was followed into the bathroom and preached at while I utilized the facilities. I won't tell you what I considered doing in that case.
My beef with these folks is not their desire to share their faith, but their aggressive assumption that they need to push me into a break through that they're pretty sure I haven't experienced. I don't consider myself done, by any measure. I've got a lot of distance to travel. But I wish they'd open their focus and almost desperate intensity to the gifts that are showering onto us at any given moment.
"Rejoice! Again I say, Rejoice!" It's worth saying twice because we rarely do it once. We're too busy with our silly agendas to notice that we're getting gifted with all kinds of cool moments, blessings that resonate and harmonize all over the place. "If there is ANY…" There's not only any, there's lots. Why do we have such a hard time thinking on these things?
The band's playing, "Celebrate, celebrate, dance to the music." I'd say it's time to stop pushing ourselves and others around and get up and shake that bootie.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. McKirachan is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
* * *
What fills you up? Society tells us that all manner of things will satisfy us, from junk food to the newest gadget or the coolest car. The author of John tells us that Jesus had a different answer. Which is correct? Keith Hewitt offers one viewpoint in his story, "Bread."
Bread
Keith Hewitt
John 6:25-35
She was sitting at the kitchen table when her son returned with a jarring door slam and a triumphant, "I'm back!"
She leaned to her right so she could peek out toward the living room where he was busily shedding his Evil Jester costume. A navy blue pillow case sat on the floor next to him, bulging with treats. "Did you have fun?"
"Yeah! We went farther tonight than last year -- all the way down to the tracks and back. Katy's dad jumped out of the bushes down on Harding in a Grim Reaper costume and chased us for two blocks." He dropped his mask, held up the bag and shook it; the rustle of candy wrappers was loud. "I'll be eating candy 'til Christmas!"
"Oh… good," she said unenthusiastically and straightened in her chair to get back to dealing with the business at hand. "Don't forget to check everything before you eat it," she called out absently, mind already focusing on the bills and checkbook in front of her. Was it her imagination or was the stack of bills actually higher this month? She shook her head; it was time to bite the bullet and dig in. She reached for the first unopened bill, slit the envelope, and pulled out the contents.
Suddenly: "Be right back! I forgot something!" And with that, he was gone, out the door before she could ask what he'd forgotten, or where he was going.
"Boys," she murmured, and glanced at the clock -- not quite 7:00 yet, even though it was already dark. Still early enough. She turned her attention back to the bill, wrote down the balance and minimum payment, slipped it back into the envelope and set it aside. There was time to do this to a dozen or so bills before the front door slammed again. "Where were you?" she called, before he could even announce his return.
"I forgot Mrs. Bailey's," he explained, walking toward the kitchen. His footsteps were soft, cushioned by the soles of his costume.
"Mrs. Bailey?"
"The church lady." He was in the doorway to the kitchen, now, with a small, clear plastic bag. In it, a round loaf of bread about the size of two hands side by side was still warm enough to cause condensation on the inside of the bag. "You know, she makes the communion bread, and the kids get whatever's left over in Sunday school."
"Right -- Mrs. Bailey."
"If she knows you, you get bread for a treat -- and I almost forgot!" He peeled apart the seal at the top of the bag, reached in, and pulled the bread out. The scent of fresh-baked bread filled the kitchen almost immediately. It was a magical smell -- at once it reminded her of church and communion -- but also of home, and childhood, and her mother's fresh bread.
She took a deep breath, held the memories close, and then exhaled reluctantly. "I understand why you wanted to go back out."
"Who wouldn't? This is the best stuff in the world." He tore off a piece, offered it to his mother. "Want some?" She hesitated but a moment, then took it and bit off a smaller piece, let it sit on her tongue for a bit before she finally chewed slowly, letting the taste roll over her as the bread almost melted in her mouth. When that sensation started to fade, she took another bite, let it flow through her senses -- smell, taste, texture…
If she could have heard it, it would have sounded like a choir of angels.
Her son took his own piece and then set the loaf aside. "You know," he said, "Halloween is my favorite holiday, and I really like trick or treating -- but all of that stuff --" he tilted his head back toward the living room, where the sack of candy sat on the floor, "--I can't live on that. Sure, it tastes good when you first eat it, and it's sweet and all, but it doesn't fill you up, and after awhile it just doesn't taste good."
He tore off another piece of bread, ate it slowly, speaking around it. "But this stuff, I could live on. I know we get the same bread at church every month, and it's the same bread she hands out for Halloween -- but every time I eat it, it's like there's a different combination of flavors and how it feels. Sometimes it's crustier, sometimes it's saltier, or sweeter -- but it's still the same. Do you know what I mean?"
"I think so," his mother said. "No matter how often you eat it, it's a little like the first time -- but still familiar."
"Right. And it's always good." He offered another piece to her. "I know candy is good, but it's not good for me, and it's not real food. But this will always fill me up."
His mother took the piece and nodded. "That it will," she agreed. Then, gently, "Now why don't you get out of that costume? Your father will be home soon, and then we'll have dinner."
He smiled. "I may not be hungry by then."
After he left -- with the bread -- she sighed once more and turned back to the bills and budget… but suddenly it didn't seem quite as important. With the taste and smell of bread still lingering, and a warm fullness in her belly, it was hard to worry. Yes, the worries of life would be back soon enough.
But then there was always the bread...
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children.
*****************************************
StoryShare, November 25, 2010, issue.
Copyright 2010 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
