A Whisper of Peace: A Mosaic Christmas Anthology IV

A Whisper of Peace

A Mosaic Christmas Anthology IV

Christmas at the Crossroads ©2022 Eleanor Bertin

The Magic of Christmas ©2022 Lorna Seilstad

A Single Spark of Light ©2022 Sara Davison

Reclaiming Tomorrow ©2022 Angela D. Meyer

Whispered Miracle ©2022 Stacy Monson

ISBN: 978-1-7361780-5-8

This anthology contains works of fiction. Any reference to historical or contemporary figures, places, or events, whether fictional or actual, is a fictional representation. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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Cover design by Roseanna White Designs

A Christmas anthology from The Mosaic Collection

Our mission is to change hearts with the gospel through fiction.

Welcome

to The Mosaic Collection

We are sisters, a beautiful mosaic united by the love of God through the blood of Christ.

Each month The Mosaic Collection releases one or more faith-based novels or anthologies exploring our theme, Family by His Design, and sharing stories that feature diverse, God-designed families. Stories range from mystery and women’s fiction to comedic and literary fiction. We hope you’ll join our Mosaic family as we explore together what truly defines a family.

If you’re like us, loneliness and suffering have touched your life in ways you never imagined; but Dear One, while you may feel alone in your suffering—whatever it is—you are never alone!

Learn more about The Mosaic Collection at

www.mosaiccollectionbooks.com

Join our Reader Community, too!

www.facebook.com/groups/TheMosaicCollection

Books

In The Mosaic Collection

MID-YEAR ANTHOLOGIES

Before Summer’s End: Stories to Touch the Soul

Song of Grace: Stories to Amaze the Soul

All Things New: Stories to Refresh the Soul

Dancing in the Rain: Stories to Shelter the Soul

Sounds Like a Plan: Stories of Change and the God Who Doesn’t

CHRISTMAS ANTHOLOGIES

Hope is Born

A Star Will Rise

The Heart of Christmas

A Whisper of Peace

A Thrill in the Air

A Weary World Rejoices

JOHNNIE ALEXANDER

The Mischief Thief (Rose & Thorne #1)

When Memory Whispers (Echoes of War #2)

BRENDA S. ANDERSON

A Beautiful Mess

Pieces of Granite (Coming Home Prequel)

Broken Together (written with Sarah S. Anderson)

Chain of Mercy (Coming Home #1)

ELEANOR BERTIN

Lifelines (The Ties that Bind #1)

Unbound (The Ties that Bind #2)

Tethered (The Ties that Bind #3)

Flame of Mercy (Burning Bright #1)

Flicker of Trust (Burning Bright #2)

SARA DAVISON

Lost Down Deep (The Rose Tattoo Trilogy #1)

Written in Ink (The Rose Tattoo Trilogy #2)

Every Star in the Sky (two sparrows for a penny #1)

Every Flower of the Field (two sparrows for a penny #2)

Every Bird That Falls (two sparrows for a penny #3)

The Color of Sky and Stone (In the Shadows #1)

JANICE L. DICK

The Road to Happenstance (Happenstance Chronicles #1)

Crazy About Maisie (Happenstance Chronicles #2)

Calm Before the Storm (The Storm Series #1)

Eye of the Storm (The Storm Series #2)

Out of the Storm (The Storm Series #3)

DEB ELKINK

The Red Journal

The Third Grace

CHAUTONA HAVIG

Spines & Leaves (Bookstrings introduction)

Hart of Noel (Bookstrings Noella)

Twice Sold Tales (Bookstrings #1)

Clock Tower Bound (Bookstrings #2)

MILLA HOLT

Into the Flood (Seasons of Faith #1)

Through the Blaze (Seasons of Faith #2)

Within the Storm (Seasons of Faith #3)

Amid the Ashes (Seasons of Faith #4)

After the Frost (Seasons of Faith  #5)

Home Town Melody (Rhapsody of Grace #1)

ANGELA D. MEYER

This Side of Yesterday

Where Hope Starts (Applewood Hill #1)

Where Healing Starts (Applewood Hill #2)

Where Joy Starts (Applewood Hill #3)

STACY MONSON

When Mountains Sing (My Father’s House #1)

Open Circle

LORNA SEILSTAD

More Than Enough

Watercolors

CANDACE WEST

Through the Lettered Veil (Windy Hollow #1)

Among the Kindled Embers (Windy Hollow #2)

OTHER

Totally Booked: A Book Lover’s Companion

Praise for Authors

in The Mosaic Collection

Praise for Eleanor Bertin

Beautifully written! … It was heartwarming, sad, happy, encouraging. I especially loved the ending! A mother's heart longs to hear her children call for her. The best so far from this author!

— jcrew

Praise for Lorna Seilstad

When I first saw the cover of the book it immediately intrigued me. … So I knew I had to read it and I am so glad I did for I have found yet another author to add to my ever growing list.

— Sassy Bookish Mama

Praise for Sara Davison

What a suspenseful ride. I liked the international aspect of the story where the drama kept me on the edge of my seat. And I rooted for the couple to find out what happens, and hoped for the best. Excellent writing. Don’t miss this one.

— Pirkko

Praise for Angela D. Meyer

A great story that encompasses a wide range of emotions. Characters so real that I felt I was there in each scene. I was so glad I got a chance to read this story. Definitely one of the best Christian fiction books I’ve read this year!

— L Palmer

Praise for Stacy Monson

This story is full of subtle reminders to heed that still, small voice of the Holy Spirit.… Heartwarming.

—Customer

Christmas at the Crossroads

Eleanor Bertin

* * *

They say you become who you hang around with.

Myra and Sue are best friends. One is raised in a strict, religious home, the other permissively indulged. Which one will influence the other? When the teens are caught breaking the law near Christmas, the consequences force them to a crossroads with unexpected results.

"I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference."

~The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost, 1915

To my first best friend,

Sandra

How grateful I am that Jesus got hold of us both.

"Today, if you will hear His voice,

do not harden your hearts as in the rebellion.

Today, if you will hear His voice,

do not harden your hearts as in the rebellion.

Today if you will hear His voice, do not harden your hearts."

Hebrews 3:7, 15 & 4:7 NKJV

Christmas at the Crossroads story

Long before I ever became one of them, the first Hardy I met was Myra, sitting on the sideline bench in gym class the fall of Grade Five. I couldn’t know, then, though I had hopes, that she would become my best friend, that our paths would intertwine for years until, well, until they didn’t anymore.

That fall, I was new to this small farming community and had already spent a few agonizing days trying to look like I had places to go and things to do in a school where everyone had grown up together and knew what they were doing.

Of all the tragedies that could befall me in the first week, I had sprained my ankle when I bungled getting out of the car. Yup. Stepped on my own foot. I mean, who does that? If there was any possible way to flub something, I, Klutzie-Sue, would manage it. Pain had shot through my ankle, but I’d still glanced around in every direction to make sure none of the cool kids were around to witness it before I collapsed back onto the front seat and bawled.

Myra, on the other hand, sitting on the gym bench in her brown floral peasant dress and tight braids, seemed fit enough. No crutches, no compression bandage.

I thumped down beside her on the low bench, propping my crutches against the concrete block wall, then leaned closer to her to be heard above the bouncy square dance music. You got a doctor’s note, too?

She gave me a look I couldn’t quite read. No.

How come you’re sitting here, then? I’d always been on the chubby side and was usually one of the kids picked last when teams were chosen for sports. But I tipped my head out toward the gym floor where our classmates were do-si-doing to the Teton Mountain Stomp. It’s the only part of Phys. Ed that’s actually fun. Just my luck I have to miss out.

My mom wrote a note to excuse me. Myra looked away, apparently fascinated by a big kid named Kevin who was goofing off at the far end of the gym, swinging his partner with a bit too much gusto.

Really? Why?

She shoved a braid over her shoulder, and I noticed her fingers were shaking. Then she turned to me and mumbled, We’re Christians and we don’t believe in dancing.

My mouth dropped open. Huh?

But she turned away again, and I wasn’t going to press for an explanation and risk messing up the first real conversation I’d had yet.

She pointed at the fiasco across the room where the clueless Kevin and three others had landed in a tangled heap on the floor. Evidently, I wasn’t the only clumsy kid in class.

We both laughed, watching as they struggled to unpile themselves. And there we were: Fast friends, kindred spirits, bosom buddies bound together, as only two eleven-year-old girls could be, by our mutual misfortune and a superior disdain for our classmates’ idiocy.

From then on, we were a unit. Myra-and-Sue, or Sue-and-Myra was how kids – and even teachers – referred to us. Never one without the other. Other than her always wearing skirts or dresses, we had a lot in common. We found out our birthdays were exactly one month apart. Practically twins. And although she didn’t seem to know anything about my favourite TV shows, The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family, we both loved reading. Some of her favourite books were a lot more complex than mine.

It was also great finding someone else who hated the inevitable recess dodgeball games. Like me, she couldn’t wait to escape to a quiet corner of the playground to play with trolls. She didn’t own any of the tiny, snub-nosed, bright-haired dolls herself, but I brought my collection in its treehouse-shaped case to school to share. I even got my mom to buy Myra a troll of her own so we could continue our ongoing troll saga. I liked how imaginative she was and the big words she used.

One day before leaving school, I noticed her stuffing her troll into the back of her desk.

Aren’t you going to take it home with you?

Myra shook her head and went on pushing all the clothes and accessories she had made deep inside her desk.

I’d been so impressed with the little clothes she’d sewn for all the dolls – way better than my own paper and glue attempts. She knew things about seam allowance and snap fasteners that I had never heard of. But no surprise there, her mom sewed all her clothes.

You’re not going to leave your troll here overnight, are you? What if someone steals it?

I seriously doubt the janitor would purloin a two-inch doll with pink hair.

Yes. She really used the word purloin.

Besides, she added, the corners of her lips tightening, my mom would only confiscate it if I took it home.

How come?

She despises the looks of them.

I puzzled over this for a minute. So far, what I knew about her mom didn’t sound too nice. I was about to get her to explain when the final buzzer rang. Instead, I asked, Wanna come over to my place for the weekend?

I doubt I’d be allowed. She took off outside to where the school buses lined up, leaving me to walk home alone.

When my mom came home after work that day, I waited until she’d had a chance to get home as she put it, before broaching the subject. She needed to shed her shoes and pantyhose, change out of her dress, and pull on a loose housecoat before settling into her recliner, and lighting a cigarette.

Mom? I nestled in the corner of the couch and stretched my legs along the length of it.

Yes, Susie dear, she said with her eyes still closed.

I asked Myra to stay the weekend.

That sounds like fun.

She didn’t think she’d be allowed.

Oh? Mom finally looked my way. How come?

She didn’t say. All I know is, she said they’re Christians and don’t believe in dancing. And her mom doesn’t like trolls.

Mom’s eyes rounded, then she laughed. The poor dear. All the more reason we should have her over. Ask her again. You know your friends are always welcome here. Now why don’t you turn on the TV and in a minute, I’ll see what I can rustle up for snackies.

I got up to begin our evening ritual. I turned on Mom’s favourite show, grabbed a couple of Cokes, and settled back on the couch, trying to guess what would be on the plate she would bring us. Might be tuna salad with grapes, or maybe crackers and Cheez Whiz.

Here you go, Lovey. She laid two small plates and a platter of peanut butter sandwiches, pickles, and potato chips on the coffee table, along with a couple of Kit Kat chocolate bars.

Now then, she said, easing into her chair, we’re all set for a cozy evening just the two of us. Isn’t this the bee’s knees? She always said that. And I always agreed that it was.

The very next day, before I had a chance to invite Myra to my place again, she beat me to it. My mom said I could ask you over to our place this weekend. Wanna come?

Sure, I said, apprehensive but curious.

Don’t you have to ask permission from your parents first?

Never having known my dad who took off when my mom was pregnant with me, I automatically translated plural references to parents into the singular. My mom won’t mind.

Myra grinned. Splendid! You can ride home on the bus with me.

Friday after four couldn’t come soon enough. We whispered and giggled through recesses and lunch hours, scheming about the fun we would have, which turned out to be a handy diversion from the feud with two other girls we were involved in at the time.

Finally, we were hopping off the bus, mooing at some cows across the fence, and crunching our way down the leafy lane. Behind us, Myra’s two older sisters and brother got off the bus, too. I hadn’t yet met Dorcas and Esther, but Myra had told me about them. They both attended the high school. Dorcas, the eldest, was retarded, as it was then spoken of, on account of the cord wrapped around her neck at birth. I was familiar with Myra’s seventh grade brother, Glen, known for his narrow-leg pants and crew-cut blond hair, so different from the shaggy hair of other boys his age. He sped ahead of us now, his metal lunch kit rattling against his knobby knees.

Myra’s house was a starched and scrubbed white two-story with green trim. When she opened the door, I hung back a bit, suddenly aware of a feeling of inadequacy. What if her mom despised the looks of me? I glanced down at my striped, denim bell-bottoms and flower power top. Compared to Myra’s plaid skirt and white blouse, I felt less than presentable. Thinking suddenly of our on-the-sly troll-playing, I worried that her mother might think I was a bad influence on Myra.

She tugged at my arm to bring me into the farmhouse kitchen. What struck me first was the sense of peace. Without clutter or the noise of broadcast voices, it was the kind of house that let you see the details. Something smelled like apples and cinnamon. A clock ticked, steady and reliable. Sudsy bubbles under the kitchen tap twinkled with rainbow colours in the fall sunlight that streamed through the window.

Myra’s mom, tall and thin, turned from the sink and used her apron to dry her hands. Her brown hair, with gleaming wings of silver at her temples, was smoothed into a neat bun at the back of her head. She assigned each of the older kids some chores, even Dorcas, then turned her full attention on me.

How do you do, Susan? She took my hand in both of hers for a moment.

No adult had ever shaken hands with me before and I shrank a bit from her earnest gaze, feeling like she could see right inside me. At the same time, her placid smile put me at ease.

Welcome here. She set a basket on the end of the kitchen counter, nodding at Myra. When you’ve changed from your school clothes, would you girls please go out and pick the rest of those apples? After that, I thought you two might like to bake some oatmeal raisin cookies for tonight’s dessert.

Yes, Mom, Myra said, heading to the stairs. She beckoned me to follow her. I don’t think her mother heard her deep, impatient sigh as we trudged up the steps, but I did.

In her room, everything was in peaceful order too, the double bed smooth with a pale green chenille spread, the few items on the small dresser aligned perfectly. It was a lot different from the loud chaos of my tiny room at home, where troll magazine photos covered the purple walls and paper snippings carpeted the floor. Myra changed rapidly, pulling on outdated green pants before taking her skirt off. I guess she was a little self-conscious about dressing in front of me, which I thought strange. Mom and I changed in front of each other all the time.

On the way out to the apple trees, I asked her what they would do with the fruit.

Applesauce, apple jelly, apple juice, and canned apple pie filling for apple crisp and pies. She briskly gathered the ones on the ground and then turned to the tree.

I made an impressive start to the enterprise by pulling an apple off the tree along with half the leafy branch it was on.

Here, like this, Myra said, showing me how to grasp the branch close to an apple with one hand and yank the fruit with the other.

I followed her lead, embarrassed at my inexperience, and tried to keep up with her speed. At least she didn’t criticize. I had never done anything like this before and once I caught on to the technique, I found a deep satisfaction as the basket got fuller. This is cool!

Myra raised her eyebrows at me. Glad you’re enjoying yourself.

I can’t believe we’ll get to make cookies. Do you get to bake a lot?

She stopped picking to stare at me. Get to? I have to. Don’t you?

No. My mom just buys cookies and applesauce and all that.

Must be nice.

We each took a handle of the basket and though I fumbled it once, spilling a few onto the grass, we managed to bring it safely into the house. By then, Myra’s mom was ladling thick, golden applesauce into hot jars. I watched, fascinated, as she wiped the rims, put on lids, and screwed down the rings. To me, the growing line-up of shiny jars seemed a thing of beauty, made from nothing but her own two hands.

She finished scraping out the large pot, then looked at us. Wash your hands, girls, and then you know where the ingredients are, Myra. Use the softened butter that’s on the counter.

I followed Myra around the kitchen as she pulled out mixing bowl and measuring spoons, flour, sugar, and oatmeal. She asked me to get out the cinnamon and when I opened the cupboard she pointed to, the uniform row of gleaming spice bottles reminded me of a grocery store shelf. I thought of the nearly empty cupboards at home. My mother preferred to keep things handy on the counters, but we didn’t own anywhere close to this variety and number of supplies.

I’ll measure and you mix, okay? Myra cut off a large cube of the butter and dumped it into the ceramic bowl, then followed it with cups of brown and white sugar. Cream that while I get the dry ingredients ready.

I stared uncertainly at the contents of the bowl. Cream it?

Her hands went still, and her eyes widened. Just mush the sugar into the butter with the back of the spoon until there’s no crystals left.

How was I supposed to know? More than that, how did Myra know so much? I did as she said and was pleased to watch the mixture became one soft mass. She handed me the eggs which I cracked into the mix – I did know how to crack open an egg – and I mixed them in. Then she poured in the dry ingredients. When she measured out the raisins, her mother said, Don’t muzzle the ox while it treads out the grain.

I searched Myra’s face for a clue to the meaning of this. She rolled her eyes and poured out a couple of small piles of the raisins for each of us to snack on.

While we waited for the cookies to bake, we smacked our hands against each other’s in a rhythmic game of Concentration, but quietly, since Myra’s mom was at the table helping Dorcas with some homework.

Mrs. Hardy rose to check the cookies when we pulled out the last pan. These look very nice, girls. I think Dad will enjoy them.

I glowed under her nod of approval, but the mention of Dad took me by surprise. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but of course, Myra must have a dad. Where else would the money come from since her mom didn’t have a job?

When we finally sat down to eat, I was surprised at how pretty the table looked. The tablecloth, edged with a sunflower design, held a centerpiece of a single branch of golden leaves. And there were matching sunflower cloth napkins. I hoped I wouldn’t spill gravy all over everything. It all seemed so harmonious, the family sitting together, then joining hands while Myra’s dad said a prayer. I liked the way a mom, dad and four kids filled in the spaces around the table, all balanced-like. Well, they would have if I hadn’t been there. But they cheerfully made room for me, and I liked that, too.

The beef stew, corn on the cob, and home-baked buns with real butter were delicious. I had two of the buns and managed not to stain the tablecloth. After passing around the cookies, Myra’s mom handed her husband a book. He looked down on it for a moment, then shook his head sort of sadly, I thought.

That’s alright dear. I’ll read tonight, she said, patting his hand. She leafed through the thin pages and began to read. Her words spoke serenity to me. She read about Jesus who healed sick people but had no place to lay his head. It was sad, to me, to think of this man who did so much good having no home of his own.

I was following along with the story until I got distracted watching Glen folding his napkin. Before long, a fabric monkey appeared, its wide mouth flapping in perfect rhythm with their mom’s reading. I had trouble keeping from laughing and, beside me, Myra’s shoulders shook.

Mrs. Hardy finished reading and closed the book. Congratulations on your stellar performance, Glen, she said. It has earned you the honour of doing the supper dishes.

Glen’s shoulders slumped and Myra and I stifled further giggles.

We all left him to his chore