If you can fill your heart with compassion for friend, foe and stranger alike; if you can out of your soul hatred strike and instead resolve kindness to fashion… If you can embrace with every fibre of your being empathy for each suffering living thing; if your soul can of love and tolerance sing and vow to only the good in all be seeing… If you can sincerely forgive and forget every slight and slur hurled like words of stone darts; if you succeed in mending broken hearts and offer solace to those running in fright… Then have you conquered your nature cynical, Raised your mere humanity to heaven's pinnacle.

Poverty and neglect will break you on most days. But when these two become a part of your daily life, what happens thereafter is what the girl who never gave up in life, experiences on a seemingly odd day. At the break of dawn I set my feet on a dusty, rugged path. Sinking into oblivion I was, fighting the dancing hazy lines that were in front of my eyes. No matter how intractable they were. Trudging forward I entered an alley. Where buildings, more like skeletons, stood in their ruins. While I cold-shouldered the pebbles and glass pieces strewn here and there. Starving and bone-tired, I felt somewhat dizzy. On one of those very pebbles, I tripped and fell down flat on my visage. With blood-spattered knees and shards of glass struck in my palms, I was waiting with agony for the moment when the world around me would go entirely dark. It is then when I saw him come running towards me. Blurred vision, a frail body failed to realize whether he was an angel or a mystic or a savior sent by the Universe. I woke up to find myself in a paradise-like place. Where exotic birds chirped and the scent of flowers wafted through the windows. “What ails you dear?”, asked that savior as I got out of my trance. A terrified I, taken aback asked him, “Why did you bring me here?” What I thought as unabashed, was actually compassion. He took my hand and opened my fist to show the bruises left by glass. He then poured from a jar mystical water on my palm. As the water touched my skin the wounds vanished. Was he a magician? Reassured, I asked for water and in return drank nectar. I asked him, “Who are you?” He smiled wide with tranquility. In the blink of an eye we were walking down the road. It was sunny and peaceful unlike before. He walked beside me occasionally adjusting his pace. I kept admiring this tall stranger as he had not revealed his identity yet. At the end of the road, from where the bustling city started, he halted and turned me around holding my shoulders. He said, “Every time you fall down, you'll find me running towards you.” But now we'll part ways, till I meet you again.” Dejected I asked, “What if I never fall down again? Shall we never meet then? Stranger to me you'll remain always, since I don't know your name.” He saw the sorrow in my eyes and said, “We are destined to be together in all phases of life. What is in a name?” As I turned around to walk away, I thought to myself, “Is he for real or just a mere embodiment of my hallucinations?” He kept waving at me till the point when I could see him no longer. The city was doing its usual business. A few yards away, sang a ballad-monger. Contemplating I was the meeting with this stranger. How time changed my perception, I hope to fall down again.

Though he was tall, quite fair in complexion, His cerulean gaze was lowered in humility, For he was filled with the shame of poverty; Viewed he himself as nowhere near perfection. Life was a stagnant river of constant rejection. Dismay gnawed at his sad soul in brutal enmity. Wealth he lacked, but rich he was in sagacity. In the company of peers, he feared humiliation. Yet, in the radiance of dawn he arose with hope, Laughed about the sole of his shoe gaping so wide. ‘Much to be grateful for' was his personal creed. His heart filled with faith that again he would cope, Face travails, shoulder challenges and never hide From anything, as God provided for his every need. Image: Fernando Photography (www.unsplash.com)

Warrick propped up the soft pillows behind his granny's head as she lay like a gaunt specter of her previous spirited self in her deathbed. And deathbed it was indeed. At nineteen, Warrick knew death when it looked him in the face. He had become all too familiar with it when his mother had wasted away from cancer of the stomach two years ago. “My boy,” Kathy wheezed, fondly squeezing Warrick's hand with the last of her strength. “I'm so sorry you're burdened with me,” she added, tears flooding her faded eyes. Guilt overwhelmed her frail body, making her curl even further into herself. She was grateful that the agony that wracked every part of her broken body seemed suspended for now. “You're not a burden, Granny!” Warrick said , looking into the old woman's watery eyes. He was afraid to sit on the bed for fear of causing her any discomfort or hurt. “You were there for me when Mom passed away, and you've always looked after me even before that, so this is nothing. I can never repay you, so don't think or say you're burdensome to me. You're my blessing.” His words nearly undid the old woman's hold on her emotions. “I'm going to prepare supper now, all right? I managed to borrow a can of peas from Brian's mom. We've still got carrots and potatoes, so I'll make us a stew. I think there's enough rice left for one pot,” Warrick said, hating the fact that they were truly living on the edge of poverty. “Since this terminal illness struck down my granny,” Warrick said to Brian later that night, “I've had to become caregiver, cook, house cleaner and nurse. You know my dad abandoned us when I was only eight, and my mom slaved all her life as a domestic worker to provide for us,” Warrick added. Brian was his school mate; they were more like brothers than friends. “With your granny becoming ill, looking after her fell on you. You can't even look for a job 'cause your granny needs constant care,” Brian commiserated. “Is there any hope for her recovery?” “None. At our last hospital visit, her doctor told me to ‘make her as comfortable as possible' here at home. How can anyone who's dying so slowly ever be comfortable?” Warrick asked, covering his face with his hands, his shoulders hunched forward. “It's bad, bro. I don't know if I could've handled this, to be honest,” Brian said. He reached out to give Warrick's shoulder a long squeeze before going home. Kathy had heard the conversation between the two boys. By some quirk of the night or fay life, their hushed words had reached her clearly as she lay statue-still, imprisoned by her bed. She felt some remnant of fury trying to bubble up from her breast, anger that she had become this weak when before she had been energetic, industrious and a whirlwind of movement. Being this incapacitated often made her feel wrathful, but she swiftly smothered the emotion. It would only bring on the vicious barbs of pain. Her medication sat on her bedside table, within easy reach. Warrick is truly thoughtful, she thought, then she started to cry softly. He doesn't deserve to have his life placed on hold because of me, the bitter thought flitted through her mind, superseding the twisting, torturous pangs running amok throughout her body. As the last rays of the setting sun peeped through a chink in her bedroom curtains, Kathy slowly, painfully, sat up in bed. She reached for the morphine pills. With immense determination, she poured all the pills into her cupped hand. Closing her eyes, she prayed one final time. Forgive me, God. I know I'm damning my soul forever, but I would rather do that than have Warrick sacrifice another day of his young life. With a trembling hand, Kathy gripped the glass of water. She looked lovingly at her bedroom, at the knickknacks on her dresser, the antique wooden wardrobe her husband had made himself ages ago, her rocking chair next to the small, round reading table on which a novel waited for her to finish reading it for probably the twentieth time. She smiled wanly as she recalled the joy she had experienced upon first reading the book; that happiness had only increased with all the other subsequent readings. 'Gone with the Wind', by Margaret Mitchell. I have no regrets, except one. I'll be leaving Warrick sole alone in this cruel world. May he forgive me. Closing her eyes again, tears seeping from under her closed eyelids, Kathy brought the pills to her mouth. A warm, soft touch arrested her cupped hand. Kathy's eyes flew open in surprise, only to see Warrick standing in front of her. His cheeks were moist with his trailing tears. The forlorn look on his face broke her heart anew. “Granny, this isn't the way. God will ease our suffering. We only need to hold on to our faith and believe in His mercy,” Warrick whispered before carefully enfolding the tiny, fragile frame of the old woman in his strong, youthful arms. “My sweet, sweet angel,” Kathy breathed softly.

At break of another blessed day, No matter how you might feel, Bird song and bright light, I pray, You shall awake, your heart shall heal. My heart beats in gratitude fervently, For my soul is reminded it has you: You offer succour and love patiently, Remind me of many blessings anew. Even in abysmal depths of despair And indescribable moments of fear, Your voice knows how me to repair, How to soothe me, call me “dear”. Dawn brings the lightness of being, For soon, I know, I shall you be seeing.

“Thanks. I'll definitely include a tip,” the passenger promised as he stepped out of the car and set off for the shopping mall. Khalid merely smiled, knowing that more than half of his clients usually forgot to keep their promise as soon as they had stepped out of his hired car. He didn't hold it against any of them; he knew what a fast-paced world we lived in. His phone pinged. It was another Uber passenger, this one a mere three minutes away from his current location. He quickly accepted the booking; at this time of the year, competition was brutal. Fortunately, he hadn't been doing too badly this month, but he was still behind with his rent. “Listen, raghead,” his landlord had told him that morning, using the derogatory label he often flung at Khalid, a refugee from Sudan. “If tonight you don't pay the full rent you owe me, expect to find your crap on the street tomorrow morning. I give you till ten tonight, you hear?” Khalid had remained silent, knowing that it would be useless to appeal to the man's sympathy, as he had none for “filthy job-stealing foreigners”. Khalid had resolved to get as many fares as he could today to make the payment. The client was a waif-like lady waiting outside Woolworths; she had a number of shopping bags surrounding her. Khalid hurriedly exited the car to load the bags into the back. “Thank you,” the woman beamed, clearly relieved for the help. “Every year I tell myself I won't leave things to the last minute,” she continued as she got into the passenger seat, “but inevitably, I end up doing exactly that.” “It's normal, isn't it?” Khalid said, instantly liking the woman's friendly nature. Laughing merrily, the woman said, “I doubt it's normal, but I suppose it's usual at this time of the year.” “True,” Khalid agreed. “It never ceases to surprise me how frantic people become at a time when they should have peace in their hearts.” “Absolutely true! We are so caught up in consumerism that we lose total sight of the real significance of this season. You don't celebrate this event, do you?” “No, I'm a Muslim, but we love and respect Jesus. He's a prophet in my religion, too.” “That's wonderful to know that you also love Him.” The woman kept up a light conversation with Khalid until they reached her destination. Before leaving, she added a tip on the phone app. “Thank you very much, ma'am,” Khalid said in genuine gratitude. The woman waved away his thanks. Khalid helped carry her bags to the front door, bid her a good night and got back into his car. He had hardly gone a few meters from her home when he noticed the small brown envelope on the passenger seat. “Oh, no. She's dropped something,” Khalid said before turning his car around to go back to the woman's house. She opened the door after his first knock, as if she had been expecting somebody. When she saw Khalid, she exclaimed, “You've found it then?” Khalid extended the envelope to her. “Yes, I knew it must be yours. I didn't open it,” he hastened to add. “But it's not mine,” the woman said, confusing Khalid. “It's yours.” “No, ma'am. It's definitely not mine,” Khalid stammered. “It is, young man. It's an annual tradition of mine, to gift somebody worthy on this holy night with such a gift. And I have a feeling there's none worthier right now than you. Please, keep it.” Khalid was flummoxed. “But why me? I'm nobody special.” “Oh, but you are. We are all special in our own way, and tonight I'm blessing you with this gift. I'm not taking it back; if you don't want to accept it, pass it on to somebody else.” “But I'm not a Christian, ma'am.” “So what? What kind of Christian would I be if I extended charity only to those of my own faith?” “God bless you,” Khalid managed to say over the lump in his throat. “God has blessed me, and that's exactly why I share this blessing each year at this time with some deserving stranger. Good night,” she said and closed the door of her brightly lit home from which peaceful sounds of a hymn flowed. Khalid walked back to the car like one dazed, expecting the other shoe to drop at any moment. He couldn't fathom why he had been chosen for such an unexpected gift, but then he said, “Dear God, thank You for Your favors.” He still had no sure idea what the envelope contained, but he could feel it might be money. Khalid arrived at his flat at nine thirty. He nearly returned to the woman's house once he finally opened the envelope and saw how much cash it contained. It was enough to cover two months' rent. With tear-filled eyes, Khalid looked at the star-studded night sky, wonder bubbling up in his chest like the sweetest spring from which he had ever drunk. “You are a miracle in and of Yourself, and only You can orchestrate the best, most miraculous plans for Your worshippers.” With a far less burdened heart and soul, he went to see the landlord. Bliss spread across his joyous heart in continuous waves of wondrous rapture.

In the middle of a verdant meadow lies a lake, Tranquil, serene; as crystal clear as a mirror. A breeze upon the pristine waters tiny ripples make, Sending praises aloft as the wavelets quietly quiver. A majestic oak proudly spreads its branches wide, Stands tall, strong, a welcome home for squirrels swift. Grateful they are for the leaves in which to hide. Prayers of love playful zephyrs joyously to heaven lift. Fluffy, small sparrows on the ground busily dart, Searching with keen gazes for strewn seeds. Each holds infallible faith in a tiny beating heart: Devoted to the Creator are all their humble deeds. Many-hued flowers sway and dance in utter delight, Their scent given freely, their colours a rainbow boon. I raise my hands in supplication, tears blind my sight. God's majesty and incomparable mercy cause me to swoon.

The fatigue hit Bessie on a bright day, one made for happiness, not for fraught thoughts of suicide. The reticent seventeen-year-old felt abject misery, knew the emotion was unreasonable, yet she was incapable of resisting the depression. “Why was I ever born? Was it so that I could suffer day after day, with no hope of some kind of reprieve in sight?” she typed on her Facebook post. She stared at the screen for some seconds, contemplating whether posting her comment would be wise, or ill-advised. “The trolls out there in cyberspace are far worse than those of myth,” she cautioned herself, finger hovering shakily over the ‘Post' button. Abruptly, as if ripping off an unwanted Band-Aid, she stabbed down on the keyboard. Seconds later, the post appeared on her timeline. It didn't take long for her Facebook friends to respond. Bessie was overwhelmed by the incoming comments that followed each other in rapid succession. The first one read: You were born to be loved, not to suffer. Reprieve might be out of sight, but believe me, it IS there! It was from her Science study buddy, Ghiyona. The next comment caused a catch in Bessie's throat: If you were never born, I would not have known such kindness. You were made to be loved, Bessie. This one was from her gay friend, Willie. Bessie started to cry softly, the pain in her heart feeling like a knife being shoved mercilessly deep into her soul. “I love you, Willie,” Bessie responded to his comment; she felt at a loss as to how to reply to Ghiyona's, so she simply attached a heart emoji to the girl's comment. More comments followed, each one listing reasons why Bessie should hold on to hope, fight against submitting to life's harshness, believe fervently in herself. As Bessie was about to log off Facebook, one more comment slid in under the post. It caused the distraught adolescent to pause. Your life was given to you as a gift. True, it is your right to accept or reject the gift, but why would anyone refuse to embrace what is more precious than treasure, more profound than the knowledge of the ancients? Why would you, Bessie, forget how inimitable you are, that there is literally no other quite like you? The comment continued for a few more lines, but Bessie's vision blurred because of the tears streaming down her face. She was confused, for the comment was from the one person Bessie was convinced hated her the most. The very person who had brought this despondent mood upon her, who had been relentlessly criticising her each day for the past two weeks. Bessie blew her nose and read the last part of the comment: You are stronger than you know, but that core of steel will carry you across all obstacles. Have faith, Bessie. Some hitherto hidden door of insight swung open widely in Bessie's mind. Her worst critic, her Maths lecturer, was also her greatest supporter…

How would life be without you? I struggle to imagine What would i do Without you guiding my footsteps Life is filled with ups and downs, but you have gotten me through them Roads with broken lanes, but you have helped me climb all the hurdles My past was pitiful I didn't have a direction nor did i have a plan but you came along and led me through the darkness Doubts resurface at times because i haven't seen you, but i know you're here with me Your wonders and glory are beyond what man can comprehend and see So marvelous, so true I cried unto you, and you answered my cry You turned my frown upside down and gave me a million reasons to be thankful I open my eyes I'm in awe of your love and compassion towards us I can't thank you enough, but i'll keep on thanking you I may not be able to express my thoughts very loud and clear, but i express it in the way i know to show my appreciation Father , i love you Always and forever. This is actually a poem i wrote for quite some time, but i was waiting for the right moment to post it. It talks about our Faith in Our Lord Jesus christ and generally of the journey of Christian faith. At times we as christians doubt, and that's human, but Jesus hasn't given us any reason to doubt us, as He shows it from His actions. He loves us with all our imperfections and flaws. I have gone through my fair share of never feeling good enough and like i was too damaged to even acknowledge God, but God doesn't see us as broken. He sees us as His children. As a christian, doubts comes but the only way we can overcome them is to pray. Jesus died for us, and there's no doubt about that. No matter how imperfect we think we are, He assures us that we are perfect and we are His children and that he'll always be there, in both good and bad times. This reflects genuine love and i'm happy that i can call Him my father. Follow christ and you'll genuinely experience the true meaning of happiness and the future Jesus has planned just for you, his child and remember, Jesus loves you.

To Biopage contest THE PURPLE BIKE By Penny Robichaux-Koontz As told to H L Ford I had just taken over a condemned property in Texas, a homeless shelter in a rural area, pitch-black at night except for the light from a lonely, passing train. I had 42 youngsters and 30 adults staying with me in our shelter and no money. The only ornaments for the tree were those I had collected for my own children over the years until this year, 1991. As we were putting the tree up, the children were grumbling. “Miss Penny, how is Santa ever gonna find us out here in the dark?” I encouraged them to sing carols loudly when we heard a knock at the door. There stood the jolly old elf himself, Santa, in full red velvet and white fur trim. The children's eyes widened. I could have heard a snowflake drop. Santa leaned over to whisper, “I'm on my way to a Christmas party and heard you may need a Santa tonight.” “Thanks,” I answered in grateful amazement. He took a seat and talked with the children. Then, laying a finger aside of his nose, up the chimney he did not go but left through the door leaving big smiles behind him. I was delighted; however, as they shared the excitement of Santa's visit, to my dismay, I learned each child had asked Santa for a bike. Suddenly, the magic was gone and the reality of needing 42 bicycles settled on me. “How Lord, will I ever get that many bikes when just getting enough food is stretching my faith?” Articles appeared in the local paper, and people began to visit our shelter. They brought sweatshirts, warm clothing, blankets, and supplies. The word about our needs spread throughout the community. And yes! The bikes also started coming. We stored them in the secret workshop, where we assembled the new bikes at night while the children slept. Christmas morning came and the paper and ribbon flew amid laughter, singing, and a few tears of joy. And oh, the bikes…bikes everywhere! Emotionally spent and tired from playing Santa's helper all night, I headed outdoors to go to my room when I heard a child running behind me, calling “Miss Penny, Miss Penny!" Cedric, a precious little five-year-old boy caught up, his cheeks streaked with tears. I got down on my knees. “Why are you crying, honey?” “Miss Penny, I didn't git me no bike!” Dismayed, I thought, how could we have been off by one bike?! Thinking quickly, I said, “Cedric, did you ask Jesus for a bike?” “No, Miss Penny. I asked Santa Claus.” “Well, that explains it,” I said. “Santa is only a one- Day-a-year wonder. But Jesus, He is our Gift from heaven and He is also our gift-giver, not just one time a year, but today and every day. He loves you and hears you when you pray. You know He is the reason we celebrate this day, so let's talk to Him." With that, Cedric made quite a noisy plea to Jesus for a purple bike someday soon. “Amen!” Struggling to get up off my knees, I saw a pickup truck coming up the dirt drive toward us. The driver pulled to a halt, throwing Texas dust all around. “Are you Miss Penny?” he asked, stepping out of the cab. “That's me,” I said, “Can I help you?” “I'm sorry to be so late. My wife and I planned to be here yesterday,” he said while lifting a bike out of the truck bed. He placed a purple two-wheeler on the drive right in front of Cedric, whose eyes widened with amazement. “Hope you can use a bike like this. Sorry, I was late,” he grinned. I never got the name of that man. A great woman of faith that I am, I stood there speechless as I watched God make Himself absolutely real to a very excited little boy. That moment is as fresh in my heart and mind today as it was that 1991 Christmas. I had only been out of the wheelchair a short time then and had wanted to say "thank you, Lord" for healing my body from the paralysis of childhood polio. From that moment I was on my way to faith adventures with thousands more children over the years who came and went from Jacob's House a home for children in need of rescue. Like little Cedric, I was also on my way to many more miracles as I watched these children grow. Penny Roubichaus-Koontz has now retired from ministering at Jacob's House, but she never tires of sharing her faith, her joy, and her stories of God's children.

PART 2 "Are you serious sir?" Maybell asked in fright? Mary would start to smell by then. "Do as I say Maybell. The Rapha orders and you've got to obey." Maybell gulped down and looked around for a nearby sit to help her tired leges. After sometime, the pastor left to his office or so. Thoughts began flooding into her head. "What's gonna happen to my kids by tomorrow? Mark would be dead by then." "What am I gonna eat?" She rememebered she kept some stew in the fridge at home. Her bag was at.....wait. Her home. Why was she instructed by who knows, not to go home? Why was the note written in blood? She began to doubt if they'd ever wake up if she keeps them here any longer without medical attention. "I need to go to a hospital." She thought withing herself. That'd be better right? After much thinking, Maybell left with her kids without informing her pastor. She got to the hospital in the evening. The rain was still falling though. The doctors refu.sed to admit the kids on the basis that she's got to deposit some amount of money first before treatment commences. The money on her wouldn't be enough so the only choice was for her to go home. But she was warned. How did the note get to her in the first place? Was it really referred to her or was it a coincidence? Why were the words written in blood? She didn't understand. She decided to disobey her instincts warning her not to go home as curiosity got the better of her. She used the excuse that she was only entertaining fears. But the excuse was for who? She kept her kids in the custody of a Janitor in the hospital and headed home to get some money. Everywhere seemed dark. That's unusual. She couldn't even see the way to her door. What's happening? Suddenly, she started hearing drum beats and strange voices and words. Sounds like incantations or something. She was very much afraid. The noises became louder and more scary! She turned back to leave the place but couldn't see anything. Her pastor had even told her not to go home. She was in a fetish trouble. What the hell is happening? Maybell screamed in fright as the voices came nearer and then.....blackout. THE END.😁😂 What's more important is the lesson and not the length of the story. Just like Lot's wife in the bible, where curiousity got the better of her and she had to turn back to look. Her eyes ended her life. She was wondering "What's happening? What a beautiful city being destroyed. I wish I can see what makes that sound! People are screaming...what's causing it? What's happening?! Let me just take one look. Just one look!" and then......gbam. A heap of salt she is. Maybell was curios too and that caused her the state she was in. And her kids are now in a helpless state. Sad. Curiosity has negative consequences and positive ones too. Just be mindful of what you wanna hear or see. The aftermath of a thing actually matters. Thanks for reading.

PART 1 It was on a sunny Sunday. Maybell and her two toddlers went to church for service. Church was going on well when suddenly dark clouds began to gather up in the sky. Thunder storms was probably coming. Lightenings could already be seen. Everyone wondered why the clouds darkened suddenly because it was sunny just a few minutes ago. The pastor wrapped up service in minutes and then dismissed the congregation so that all would be home before the heavy rain starts. The pastor knew that such storm wasn't ordinary and isn't something that's gonna end in hours. A fierce wind began to blow outside and noises of the wind were heard. People began to panic when suddenly, the wind blew of part of the church's roof. Maybell went to the children's church in haste to pick up her kids. They needed to get home fast. She picked up her little daughter learning how to walk and her son and they started running home. Her son, Mark was holding her back as he couldn't meet up her pace. She managed to get to the road side. She wanted to stop a taxi but no car was forth coming. She was getting frustrated as the wind was getting fiercer by the minute. She turned back to see if any of her church members could carry her home in their car. They had all gone. She wondered when they bypassed her without her knowledge. Since her house is situated at about two streets away from the church, she decided to trek home. She thought that if perhaps the storm met her on the way she would stop by to shelter herself in one of the shops or sheds. The trio began to run home. As expected, the rain started. There was no shed nearby. She was running and then Mark, her son, fell down. She picked him up but he started behaving faint. "Mark! Wake up! Don't be like this please. We have to get home. It's mummy!" Maybell said in frustration trying to reviver her son. He was shivering seriously. Suddenly, her daughter began making a freaking noise and spit came running out of her mouth and then she gave up the ghost. Weird right? "Maryyyyyy!!!" Maybell screamed in agony as tears fell down her face rapidly. One kid dead, the other sick. She knelt down, caressing her kids compassionately. Suddenly, the wind blew and a paper flying, blown by the wind caught her attention. The paper wasn't wet when everything around her was soaked with water. A mystery right? On the paper was scribbled some words "DON'T GO HOME" that sentence was written in blood. She wondered where to go now. The church or the hospital? Her instinct told her to go back to the church. But what about her kids? "WHERE IS YOUR FAITH" She heard a voice ask in a whisper. She carried her two kids and managed to go back to the church. Half of the church's roof had already been blown away. The rain had reduced but wasn't ready to stop yet. Maybell saw an old woman sprawled on the floor, dead. That was probably as a result of the storm. She got into the church building and was heading for the altar. The ground was wet as a result of the blown roof. Water was dripping in. The pastor was kneeling down by the altar praying with his head bowed. "Drop the kids on the altar." He ordered. Maybell obeyed quietly. "What can I do sir? I was ordered to come here. I want my kids back alive and hearty." Maybell said with tears in her voice. Pity could be seen, written boldy on the pastor's face. "Leave them here till tomorrow morning."

I saw something in the distance Beneath the pale moonlight. It was a fleeting, translucent figure - Something of sheer white. I strained my eyes to see it, but It vanished in thin air. I wondered about my sanity: Did I see it? Was it there? The moon struggled with its brightness Through the thickening of the woods. I recalled every silent movement, As best my memory could. But alas! As I had given up The dream I thought I'd seen, There stood a beautiful Lady Where the image had once been. As she smiled I felt a comfort, Instead of threatening harm; I felt no apprehension Only peaceful calm. Although she never spoke a word, She pointed out the way To take me from the forest Into the light of day. And as I walked, I realized, She'd been there all the while – This Lady with the simmering gown And the saddened but beautiful smile. She's the Lady of the Forest; She's there to help us see The light that's in the distance Beyond the tall dark trees.

A stranger I did meet, Our world joined at my feet. Gifts he brought to bear, Although I did not care. He did not ask for pay Not on that dreary day Pass it on he said, Help someone instead. His kindness touched my heart, I placed the food in my cart. A blanket went in as well, Although I knew I'd sell. You can work for me, I understand you see. I was once l like you, Not knowing what to do. A hand reached out to help, I could only yelp. He pointed to the church, I rose, my feet did lurch. My soul fluttered in my chest, This man spoke not in jest. He left me there on the street, To think how chance did meet. A perfect gesture divine, Hope fluttered free, fine. Now I sing his praise, Each time a life I raise. A moment etched in time, Despite stench and grime. This stranger I did meet, He brought salvation to my feet. He gave my life back to me, I love him so you see. In awe I can relate, An ode which changed my fate.

Ken is a member of the local Baptist Church. He grew up an ardent member, following laid down creeds to the latter. His decision not to give himself up for blood donation during his grade six stemmed from this belief. After four years in this part of town, Ken's family leaves on transfer to a different region. Here, he meets new friends and encounters new realities, one of which is the weather. It didn't feel as warm as the area they'd move out of and this leaves him downcast. It is a Sunday morning, and the household gets up as early as 5:30 as is a norm for the family. Once Mercy realizes Ken's absence all morning, she calls out. ‘Mom, I can't see Ken. He hasn't been up all morning'. His mom, who hasn't notice her son's absence, takes the initiative and rushes down to his room. As Ken leaves the door ajar, she gains entrance without resistance. ‘Ken darling, it's morning, and God's waiting for us in church'. She calls out and waits for a response. Ken didn't respond. She thinks he had a busy night and thus slept late, so she calls out again, and moves closer to his bed. He didn't move a limb. ‘Ken! Ken!!' She bends over to his bed, shakes him with haste, and waits. Now Ken, who remains unresponsive all the while, drops a limb and thereafter, stretches his body as though he had a terrible dream where chains held his body to submission. His mom touches his neck and withdraws her hand. ‘Young man, you're burning up. Your temperature is high'. She reaches for his forehead and her reaction is like the first time; almost like his forehead was hotter than his neck. ‘Haven't you been taking your drugs?' She queries. ‘Oh, mom... I hate drugs and you know it. I tell you one thing, I'll heal without drugs.' Ken says, albeit unconsciously blowing his cover. ‘So what happened to all the drugs I got you?'. Ken keeps mute. His mom waits, and when he didn't say a word, her temperament goes sour. ‘I've told you taking drugs does not make you weak. It's one medium God uses to perfect His healing in our lives. Drugs don't carry out all the healing process but our faith in God to heal us through drugs does.' She says, sensing what she always thought Ken knew. She moves over to the side of the bed connecting the fan to the wall and turns it off. The window overlooking his bed too is open, so she reaches for it. Then, her hand knocks something down and she turns to see what she touched. “Ken! Do you mean to tell me you've not been taking your drugs? Why are tablets littered here?” She draws the curtain up and to her amazement, she sees dozens of pills spread across the floor by the bedside. ‘Mom, I'm sorry but I hate drugs.' Ken, now wearing a conspicuous look, says with little trouble. His mother helps him up and made him sit on a chair. She approaches the bed, carries the foam up so she could see what lay beneath the bed. Tablets and capsules of many colors laid wasted here and with this realization, she angrily drops the foam, storms out of the room, and calls out to her husband on her way. ‘You can't imagine how many tablets of drugs we've ever bought I just discovered under Ken's bed. This boy wants to die and leave me without a son.' She laments and as he is about to respond, Ken walks in with remorseful tears covering his face. He goes straight down on his knees and prays that his parents pardon his ignorance. ‘Ken, I can't understand why you did what you did but in all seriousness, not swallowing your prescribed pills is wrong. Let us in on why you chose the floor instead of your belly as the resting place for over thirty-eight tablets of drugs?' His dad queries, not minding the threat the event poses to their being in church on time. ‘Some people sought to open my eyes to how Jesus Christ healed people without drugs. They alluded such healings to faith. I thought they made a point, so I reasoned I might as well not need drugs to heal. Each time I fell ill, and you and mom got me drugs, I'd say to myself, Ken, you sure don't need these things. Your faith is enough.' Ken says, while his parents listen with a rapt audience. ‘Son, believe me when I tell you it's not wrong for a Christian to want to exercise their faith. It's the greatest feeling of being a Christian, but then, the Scripture tells us that faith without work is useless. If you'd faithfully taken these drugs and also understand that it is God that uses any medium to heal His children, then you'd have felt better a long time ago.' His dad dishes out corrections from which Ken's face grows woeful. He becomes conscious of his failure since his presumptive faith didn't help him get better. ‘I promise to do the right things and at the right time too, dad. I've messed up, but I quit being ignorant from today henceforth. Mom, Dad, please forgive me.' As he sits on the floor still, his dad lays his hands on him and prays for him. ‘Mercy, get some food for your brother and while coming, also get me the drugs bag from my room.' His mom instructs Mercy.