Excerpt from the novel Snow-Blind, by Catherine Farnes (now available on Amazon Kindle)

I dug into my steak like a kid in a race to find a ten-dollar bill. Not so much because I was hungry, but because I was bored. My older sister Jacy and I had been sitting at a table in the otherwise empty café for nearly an hour with Back Trails’ newest client’s kids, Cullen and Amberlee Wheatley. Dad had suggested shortly after the Wheatleys pulled in that Jacy and I take them to Cooke City for dinner since we were all about the same age.

“It’s not often you two get to hang around with other teenagers in the middle of winter,” he’d said.

True enough. In the busy summer tourist season, teenagers came to Back Trails all the time with their parents or with their church youth group or a high school group to hike across the East Rosebud packing trail or to ride ATVs on the old mining roads behind town or to fish the high mountain lakes.

But it was February now, and while Dad’s outfitting business in the remote high mountains of south-central Montana attracted plenty of customers for winter camping and snowmobiling, they were mainly men traveling alone or with a couple of buddies. Occasionally we’d get a pair of newlyweds on the groom’s dream vacation, but Cooke Pass did not seem to be too high on very many “Family Friendly Winter Vacation Destinations” lists. Add to that the facts that most people who lived in Cooke Pass and  nearby Cooke City lived there only during summer and that Jacy and I were homeschooled, and it did work out to be a rare event for my sister and me to hang around with other kids our age.

Listening to Jacy and these particular kids talk nonstop for the past forty-five minutes about so much airy nothing, though, had just about convinced me that it was really no big loss.

Movies. Fashion. The weather in California.

Who really cared?

“Are you going to ask the blessing on the food, Dakota?” my sister asked me. Then she turned her attention back to Amberlee and Cullen. “My brother’s not real big on small talk.”

While Amberlee and Cullen stared at me, I thanked God for the food and asked Him to bless it. Then I glared at my sister. She didn’t have to apologize for me as if it were some kind of sin to not care about what colors are supposed to be “hot” next season.

“So what does your brother like to talk about?” Amberlee asked Jacy, looking at me the way a scientist might look at a piece of anomalous evidence.

“He’s a mountain man,” Cullen answered. “He likes to talk about hunting, fishing, bears, 4 x 4s, blizzards, and annoying know-it-all city people.”

I laughed. That did pretty much sum it up.

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This month's excerpt is from the novel Out of Hiding, by Catherine Farnes, now available on Kindle.

It wasn’t until I actually saw Mr. Cirone and his wife that it occurred to me to be nervous. I recognized them immediately because their picture was at the bottom of the letter they’d sent to let me know that my place on the summer mission team had been confirmed.

This was the real thing.

Seven months ago, our youth pastor had handed out copies of a letter he’d received from a mission board. Each year it sent a team of ten kids to the foreign field to offer assistance to a missionary. Our youth pastor thought we’d find the letter particularly interesting because this year the missionary the team would be visiting had been sent out by our church. Two of us, Chad Reese and I, had sent in applications. Both of us had been accepted.

And now, after months of fundraising, planning, praying, and anticipating, we were finally here.

I smiled and approached the Cirones.

Chad moved slightly ahead of me and held out his hand. “I’m Chad Reese,” he said to Mr. Cirone. “And this is Ashton Cook.”

Mr. Cirone greeted us warmly. “Good flight?”

I nodded. Our flights from Anchorage to El Paso had been completely uneventful. As far as I was concerned, uneventful and good were synonyms when it came to flying.

Mr. and Mrs. Cirone quickly introduced us to Mr. Marsh, our third adult chaperone, and to the six kids on the team who had already arrived. Four boys. Two girls. I looked at each one, repeating their names to myself silently three times . . . Todd. Matt. Alec. Shane. Hope. Callie.

“You’re the next to last to come in,” Mr. Marsh said, “so we’ll pick up your bags and hurry over to our last gate.”

“Why couldn’t you people get morning flights?” one of the girls muttered in my direction as she pushed past me.

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This month's excerpt is from Chapter 9 of the novel The Silent, by Rebecca Kenney

Robert Mulligan Middleton’s life ambition was to be the greatest hacker in the world. No, not just the world—the entire history of the world, past, present, and future.

He was already well on his way to greatness. Living in Mourning had offered him countless opportunities to practice his skills without getting into too much trouble. But lately his sphere of influence was getting a little cramped. He was ready to expand.

His most recent project was cracking the network at Rynec, Inc. As one of Mourning’s largest corporations, it represented a significant challenge—he hoped.

Rob rolled his bike behind some bushes, adjusted his suit jacket, and walked across the Rynec parking lot. He had a clipboard under his arm, a twenty-five-CD case in his hand, and two thumb drives in his pocket. The clipboard was for show, as were most of the CDs in the case. The thumb drives and one or two of the discs were his real weapons—his tools, as he liked to call them.

He walked through the glass double doors and stopped at the front desk. The secretary looked up at him over her glasses. He smiled at her.

“Just dropping something off for—” he consulted his clipboard; “Mrs. Thelma Andrews?”

“She’s right back there.” The secretary pointed at another glass door.

Apparently she didn’t think he was worth escorting, and Rob was fine with that.

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Excerpt from the novel In Search of Honor, by Donnalynn Hess

The novel In Search of Honor by Donnalynn Hess illustrates several types of conflict: “man against society” as seen in the French Revolution, “man against man” as Jacques seeks justice against his father’s killer, and “man against himself” as Jacques struggles with his anger.

My mother and I survived those days immediately following my father’s death by keeping alive our hope that his murderer, who we learned was the older of the Comte de Guiche’s two sons, would be brought to justice. By summer’s end, “justice” had been meted out. The Comte’s wealth and influence insured that the court would be lenient; the young nobleman was sentenced only “to pay a fee to the widow and orphan of the dead man.”

I well remember the rage on my mother’s face when that young man, only a few years older than I, stepped forward and handed her his bulging bag of coins. I think he actually believed that she would take it, for he seemed genuinely astonished when she spit in his face before turning on her heel and exiting the courtroom.

By the time we reached the shop, her rage had given way to grief. She wept almost unceasingly from several days. Then she stopped her weeping. Burying her hopes with my father, she gave way to complete despair.

Unlike my mother, I did not despair after my father’s death. Nor did I vent my rage in public as she had done that day in the courtroom. Indeed, it would have been impossible for me to rid myself of such anger in a moment of passion. No, my rage went too deep, and deeply did I harbor it until it became so much a part of me that I ceased to see it for what it was. I believed my growing sullenness to be the outworking of genuine sorrow and my increasing peevishness the legitimate reflection of a creative nature.

If there was any advantage to this melancholy brought on by anger, it was that it drove me to my work. I felt at peace only when I was busy in my shop.

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Excerpt from the novel The Stolen Years, by Gloria Repp

They were turning onto a gravel driveway that climbed a steep hill and disappeared into a clump of trees. Now David could see the house—cream-colored, with tall pillars that gleamed pale in the twilight. It was a bigger house than he had expected; grander than he wanted it to be.

“Oh, it’s a pretty house!” Susan exclaimed in delight. “And look, it has a crown on top.”

Mr. Jonson chuckled. “That’s called a widow’s walk, Susan. It’s sort of a lookout platform on the roof. And you’re right: the railing around it does make it look like a crown.”

But David couldn’t help thinking that the square old house looked silent and withdrawn. Perhaps he had been foolish to hope that welcoming lights would be shining through its windows—that someone would be waiting eagerly to greet them. This house was dark, except for one dimly lit window.

Mr. Jonson braked to a stop in front of the pillared porch and swung out of the truck.

“I’ll just drop you kids off here,” he said, handing the suitcases down to David. “Go ahead and knock on the door. Looks like your grandfather’s up there painting again, but I’m sure Jeanne’s in the back somewhere. I’m coming over tomorrow, so I’ll see you then.” He jumped into the truck, gave them a wave, and was gone before David could thank him.

As the truck rattled off, Susan turned her gaze back to the house. “Look, there’s another porch up there and some more posts that go right up to the roof.”
David took his time answering. “Yes, that’s the balcony, and it’s all those pillars that make the house look so tall.”

What kind of man would live in a house like this? His fingers slid across the pocket of his shirt, where the letter crinkled faintly, encouraging him.
Susan giggled, and he could tell that she was nervous. “This porch is big enough for Mr. Jonson to park his truck on,” she said, echoing David’s thoughts as he looked around the broad space enclosed by white pillars. “Why don’t you knock on the door?”

David tried to delay the moment when he had to approach that massive wooden door. “I was going to let you ring the doorbell.”

Susan edged closer to the door. She had just reached it when it swung open.

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Excerpt from the novel Kiriath’s Quest, by Rick Barry

What was left of the afternoon sun slid steadily across the sky and disappeared from sight while Kiriath felt that he was traveling at scarcely better than a crawl. Trudging along the floor of the ravine was more difficult than he had expected. He hadn’t been on the bottom since he was a boy, and the paths he remembered had long since overgrown. Also, fallen boulders littered the ground. Near the brook, the boulders were fewer, but there his boots oozed deep into the black mire, slowing him even more.

Here and there he sometimes glimpsed a lizard darting into its hole. Everywhere chest-high thickets of briars and matted vines resisted his efforts to push through. Gaunt poplars also barred his way. But still he pressed on, the uncertain fate of his father burning in his mind. Once he thought that he heard the noise of hoofs pounding in the distance above. He shouted for help, but mocking caws from the crows that inhabited the ravine gave the only reply.

The fading light was deepening into dusk when Kiriath slashed his way through some bushes and encountered an obstacle he didn’t remember at all. At a point where the ravine narrowed, a section of the rock wall had broken loose and tumbled to the bottom. A heap of shattered rock stood as a barrier twice the height of the prince. At this barrier’s midpoint the brook poured down in a miniature waterfall, ending in a foamy pool.

Kiriath leaned on this new hindrance for a moment to catch his breath. “Happy are the birds who can fly,” he said to himself. “But, if climb I must, then climb I will.”

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Excerpt from the novel The Slide by Catherine Farnes

“Oh, Taren,” Mom said before I’d even gotten fully through the front door. She smiled up at me from the floor where she was kneeling to change my two-year-old cousin’s diaper. “I’m glad you’re back. I wanted to tell you before he gets here that I invited your father for dinner again. I hope that’s—”

“Actually, Mom,” I said, suddenly thankful that I’d run into Ezra Adams, “I thought I might go to youth group tonight. They’re planning their big backpacking trip and—”

“I know,” she said. “Okay.”

“I’m sure my father will understand I’ve got places I’d rather be.” I hurried by my mother and ran up the stairs and into my room before she could open her mouth. Sometimes I hated the way she never seemed to know what to say to me anymore, but at other times, times like this one, it did work to my advantage.
The last thing I wanted to do was sit through another Jesus-would-want-you-to-give-your-father-a-chance lecture.

My father hadn’t worried about what Jesus would have wanted him to do when he’d packed up and left Mom and me when I was just seven. Or when it was my birthday or Christmas or my next birthday or Christmas again or the birthday after that, and he didn’t even call or send a card.

Tears burned my eyes as I slid cold metal hanger after cold metal hanger across the cold metal closet bar looking for something, anything, appropriate to wear to youth group.

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Excerpt from the novel Brain Games by Sharon Hambrick

“After your county Superbrains tournament, Tim, we’ll have the whole team to dinner to celebrate our victory,” said Mr. Barnaby. He propped his socked feet up on the coffee table, shook the newspaper out in front of his face, and attempted to scan the news while talking.

“What if we don’t win?” Tim asked.

“What do you mean ‘if we don’t win’? What sort of talk is that coming from the team leader of the Judson Christian High School Mighty Patriots Superbrains? Win? Of course, we’ll win! Don’t talk like that! And if we fail, we’ll fail daring greatly, our faces marred by dust and sweat and all that. We’ll exhaust ourselves in the trial, and thus need my famous barbecued steaks even more. Right? So it’s settled. We’ll win, and I’ll barbecue!”

Tim nodded. “That will be great, Dad. Thanks.”

“Janet, buy some steaks.” He looked back at the newspaper. “Look here, did the Cyclamen win? Does anyone know?”

The paper rustled and jumped as Mr. Barnaby attempted to find out how his favorite team had done in last night’s game. He grunted as if disgusted and laid the paper aside. “Well, never mind that. Let’s talk about the barbecue. Do Superbrains eat steak?”

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Excerpt from The Far Journey by Lucille Travis

Across from the two younger mice, Mr. Baxter twitched his whiskers with pleasure. “Ahem,” he said. “Now that you have reached mousehood, you will surely want to think about your fortunes, and I wish you the very best.” Mr. Baxter smiled and was silent for a moment. “But first, Horace, my boy, there is something I need to tell you.” With a solemn look on his white-whiskered face he placed a small package in Horace’s paw. “Please open it carefully, lad,” he urged.

Slowly Horace removed the paper wrapping from the unexpected gift. At last it lay in his paw, a thin white ivory carving. Puzzled, he examined it closely. It was jagged on one side and straight on the other. He turned it over. “Strange,” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t guess. What is it?”

Mr. Baxter took the carving in his own paw and held it up. “See here,” he said pointing, “how one side forms the outline of a tree while the other side is straight and rough? I believe it is a maple tree, but only one half of the tree.”

“So it seems,” Max remarked.

“I see it now,” Horace said. “But what happened to it?”

Mr. Baxter held the carving up. “This once belonged to your mother. On the day she brought you here to Fleur Gardens and left you in our care, she also left this. You were but a mouseling then, too young to know what was happening. When she left, she entrusted this to me. If she did not return for you, it was to be given to you on your mousehood birthday.

“Today,” Horace whispered.

Mr. Baxter placed the carving back in Horace’s paw. “Your brother has the other half.”

Horace stared at him. “My brother? You’re saying I have a brother? Where is he?”

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Excerpt from Gunner's Run by Rick Barry

“I won’t kid you,” the major continued. “This mission won’t be a milk run. Kiel will be well defended. It’s the site of a major German shipyard, and we’ve got to take their ships and submarines out of action.”

As he talked, I took in the general picture, but as a gunner I didn’t memorize all the little details. Mostly I was interested in which enemy fighter bases we might pass along the way. One city I always dreaded going near was Abbeville, France. We had nicknamed the German pilots based there the Abbeville kids, but those guys were crack pilots and knew how to shoot….

Oh well. Every mission gets us closer to the end of the war. As soon as we finish our quota, we’ll get rotated back to the States.

Still, I was glad I had finally finished my letter to Margo and handed it to Lt. Conover to be censored and mailed.

Later, when all of us had boarded our planes with our gear, the pilots and copilots ran through their preflight checklist. Around 7:30 a.m. American Pride pulled away from its concrete hardstand and lumbered out to join the other planes on the perimeter track to head for the take-off runway. The line of B-24s looked like a gaggle of gigantic aluminum geese waddling one after another. Finally, thirty seconds apart, bomber after bomber roared down the runway and soared skyward.

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Excerpt from River of Danger by Denise Williamson

Young-Wolf feared he would drown in the snow. Bear-Lad’s hands pressed his head back into the drifts. His knees dug deep into Young-Wolf’s ribs.

Young-Wolf spit ice into the face of his opponent. He wagged his head until his vision cleared. He would not give in to the strongest boy wrestler in Ganundasaga.

Above him, a cluster of younger boys watched the contest. Their wide eyes told Young-Wolf that he might have a chance. His arms became black snakes, squeezing life from their prey. His toes were moles, finding firm ground without sight. A moment later he flipped Bear-Lad. The boy landed like an overturned box turtle, clawing air that was thick with falling snow.

Young-Wolf sat up on his heels. Whooping for victory, he tossed back his head and felt snowflakes burst on his tongue. The little boys hooted their approval. In the flurry, none of them saw Ganundasaga’s chief warrior walk up.

“Young-Wolf, I wish to talk,” the warrior said. He stood still as the snow fell on his bare chest and shoulders. Except for two feathers tied to his long black scalp lock, he wore nothing more than a fringed knee-length kilt, a beaded belt, moccasins, and snowshoes.

Young-Wolf straightened his deerskin shirt as he stood. “It is good to see you, Captain.” He chose the war leader’s favored title.

“You and your brother from the Bear Clan show strength,” the warrior observed. “Now if either or both of you prove to be daring as well, I might find room for you among the men who follow me.”

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Excerpt from Benjamin’s Sling, a poetic retelling of the Christmas story by Eileen Berry

Benjamin lies with his head
pillowed on his rolled-up cloak,
looking up at the stars,
one hand resting on Yedi.
Five months now,
since the night his father died,
his pet lamb has slept near him.
Twining his fingers into the soft wool,
he feels the gentle rise and fall of her side.

Yedi sleeps, but Benjamin cannot.

He turns on his side,
sees the lights of Bethlehem
at the foot of the quiet hillside.
He raises himself for a better view.
City lights make him think of homes,
of warm beds indoors,
of families together.
He stares at the lights
until his eyesight blurs.

Then he turns his face up
to the colder, lonelier lights—
A solemn white moon
and pale, distant stars.
A sudden shadow
falling across his face
makes Benjamin jump.

His hand burrows for the sling
hidden beneath his cloak.
Always now he clutches the sling
when startled in the night.

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Excerpt from the book A No-Fuss Christmas, by Susan Kirby

The front door opened. Sueker Tucker popped to her feet. But it was only Maggie, followed by a customer and a cold draft of air.

Sueker sat down on her pop crate. She emptied the dust from her shoes.

Maggie circled behind the counter and stopped short. “What are you doing?”

“Making an ant hill,” said Sueker, pushing the shoe dust into a little pile.

Maggie rang up the sale. The customer paid and went on his way.

“I wish Christmas would hurry up and get here. I wish we had a big smell-good tree and candy and presents, don’t you?” said Sueker to her foster sister.

“Sure I do. But you heard Mama. Don’t be expecting a big fuss,” said Maggie.

Sueker’s real mother had died before Sueker was old enough to remember her. Maggie’s parents had since taken her into their family. It was nice to have a dad and a mama like other kids. But Mama’s willingness to let Christmas pass without a fuss was worrisome. Did Dad feel the same way?

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This excerpt is from the novel Feather, by Susan Page Davis

Karsh’s heart sank. If the Blens learned that Feather has mastered the art of fletching, they would never let her go. Rand made straight, smooth arrow shafts of young tree shoots, but it was Feather who made them sing as they flew through the air. Her small hands allowed her to glue and bind the feathers to the shafts without marring them. All the elders agreed that Feather was more skillful at the craft than any of them.

“We will post an extra guard,” Jem said. “We must not lose any more of our people.”

“I’ll go now,” Hunter offered. “Shea, Neal, you come relieve me and Hardy when the sun meets the western ridge.”

“Please!” Karsh said. The men all stared at him, and he lowered his gaze.

“What would you have us do?” Hunter asked. “The Blens are still about.”

“It is too dangerous to venture outside this valley, boy.” Rand’s voice was much harsher than Hunter’s, and Karsh cringed at his tone and reproachful stare.

“After the evening meal we will talk again,” Alomar said, and the men all nodded. “We must keep sentries posted all night though, as long as the Blens are near.”

“And no cooking fires,” Rand added, looking toward Rose and Tansy.

Rose nodded. She had already let the fire die down under the stew pot as soon as Karsh told her Feather had been captured. She had known to allow no smoke to escape the valley and betray their presence.

The enforced wait made Karsh chafe almost unbearably. It was wrong! They needed to go after Feather now, not wait for the Blens to move away from the village. That might be too late for Feather. He wanted to go after her himself, even if the men would not go, but he knew that would be foolish. Most likely he would be captured himself or killed if he invaded the Blen’s camp.

An excerpt from Medallion by Dawn Watkins

“Umbo! Return!”

The great white owl made a sweeping arc high in the air and came round toward his master.

Trave stood squinting in the morning sun, his right arm straight out from his shoulder and his feet spread solidly beneath him. The boy followed the bird’s sweep with pleasure, a pleasure that put color in his handsome face. Trave had the fine, straight nose and high, ruddy cheeks of the Gadallans. He might have been any common boy training his pet on a windy hill. But his rings, wide bands of gold set with gems, showed that he was not.

“Return,” Trave called again, and he slapped the thick leather cuff strapped to his arm.

The owl slowed his glide with two lazy flaps of his wings. Then the bird put out his talons as if he would catch a mouse or a rabbit, flung his wings up, and dropped toward the boy’s arm.

Umbo landed gracefully, barely clutching the leather cuff, but his weight made Trave stagger back and crook his arm in. Umbo fluttered briefly, gaining his hold.

“Well done, Umbo.” The boy stroked the rich feathers, smiling. Reaching into the pouch slung over his neck, Trave tore a piece of meat off for the owl. “Good boy.”

A steady wind buffeted the hill and passed on into the valley, down to the capital city of Ganet. The gold dome of the palace gleamed among the white marble buildings like a small sun.

Trave let Umbo fly to his perch, and then he gazed down into the valley.

“This is my kingdom, Umbo. Ganet is my city.” He swung back toward the bird. “I will be king here!”

His voice carried loudly across the wind and echoed here, here in the woods behind. Umbo gazed at his master, blinked once, slowly, and pecked at a wing feather.

“I will,” said the boy, unbuckling his cuff.

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Excerpt from Chapter 2 of Professor Van Dusen: The Thinking Machine by Jacques Futrelle

Dr. Ransome was thoughtful for a moment.

“Well, say prison walls,” he replied. “No man can think himself out of a cell. If he could, there would be no prisoners.”

…

“Let’s imagine a case,” he said, after a moment. “ Take a cell where prisoners under sentence of death are confined—men who are desperate and, maddened by fear, would take any chance to escape. Suppose you were locked in such a cell. Could you escape?”

“Certainly,” declared the Thinking Machine. …

“Not unless you entered it with tools prepared to get out,” said Dr. Ransome.

The Thinking Machine was visibly annoyed, and his blue eyes snapped.

“Lock me in any cell in any prison anywhere at any time, wearing only what is necessary, and I’ll escape in a week,” he declared.

Dr. Ransome sat up straight in the chair, interested.

“You mean you could actually think yourself out?” asked Dr. Ransome.

“I would get out,” was the response.

“Are you serious?”

“Certainly I am serious.”

Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding were silent for a long time.

“Would you be willing to try it?” asked Mr. Fielding finally.

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Excerpt from Where I Belong, by Rebecca Kenney

“Tell me more of Egypt,” said Miu. “It’s fading from my memory, and I don’t want to lose it.”

Hagar smiled. “Egypt is a strong nation, rich and flourishing, ruled by the Pharaoh. We Egyptians are lovers of beauty. We line our eyes with black kohl and paint our cheeks with red ochre to make ourselves even more beautiful. I used to dye my hair with henna, too.” She sighed. “I remember the light linen tunics I wore as a girl, and the bracelets. I remember sitting in the shade of a palm tree at midday, with my cats curled up on either side of me.

“We lived quite close to the Nile, and after the floods had gone, my brothers and I would walk out into the shallow water to play. One time we made a huge house from the mud, with six rooms and a courtyard. Of course we would splash each other and come home dripping and muddy.”

Miu giggled. “It’s hard to imagine you as a little girl, Banafrit,” she said.

Hagar laughed. “I’m not very old yet.”

“How did you become a slave?” asked Miu.

Hagar’s face darkened. “You aren’t ready to hear that story yet, sheriti,” she said. “It’s a long, sad one, full of wrong choices.”

“You’ll tell me someday?” Miu asked.

“Maybe.” Hagar plucked a tiny lavender flower from the deep grass beside the well. She tucked it into Miu’s black hair.

“It will fall out,” said Miu. “My hair is too straight.”

Hagar smiled. “Hair obeys me,” she said, twisting the flower in securely. “There. It should stay for a while.

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Excerpt from False Coin, True Coin, by Lois Hoadley Dick

Father’s job as a jailor and toll collector is a good one, Cissy thought, a good job for 1660. Why did he have to get us all involved in counterfeiting?

She pushed her dark red hair up under the dirty rag around her head, wishing the fire wouldn’t make her face so puffy. Maybe Pa would like her better if she were more handsome. Or if she hadn’t been born a girl. Pa had told her often enough that he needed another son for the family business.

Yes, for counterfeiting, she thought. For risking our lives to pass false coin to honest folk. I’ll hang at Tyburn someday or have my head stuck on a pole as an example to all good Christians.

Her father tossed down the coin he had been shaving. “Supper!” he roared again. “Are you dreaming over the fire, lazybones?” The coin spun and wobbled to a stop.

Cissy sighed and wiped her hands on her skirt. At least she had a home. Thousands of poor folk in the City lived off boiled roots and slept in plank shacks.

“Hot loaves, four for tuppence at the baker’s today.” She worked up a smile as she stood.

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Excerpt from Careful Enough, by Dillon Forbes

Sweeping noises startled me awake. 5:47 in the morning and someone was already cleaning the courtyard below. Couldn’t they wait?

But never mind that. It was Sunday. I was going to my first house church service in Communist China. Would we get raided? How should I act? Who would be there?

A day and a half earlier my family had landed in Huajiang*, a Chinese city of nine million people. It was my decision really. In March of my junior year in high school my math teacher dad and receptionist mom had felt God leading them to be missionaries to China. Secret missionaries. … They wanted to help our friends Chuck and Susan Harvey start a house church.

Mom and Dad said they could move to China after I finished my senior year of homeschool and left for Bible college. But sooner would be better. They left it up to me. If I was willing, we could go as a family in five months.

No pressure, Daniel. You don’t mind leaving your friends and youth group and everything you’ve ever known to be a secret missionary in a dangerous place, do you? Or we could wait a year. We could put off God’s will for our lives and make the Harveys wait when they desperately need help.

They didn’t say it like that. They just told me the decision was up to me. So after five months of packing and waiting for visas, I was in China.

*fictional city

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from Understood Betsy by Dorothy Canfield Fisher (poetry excerpt from “The Stag at Eve” by Sir Walter Scott)

She read on and on, steadied by the strongly-marked rhythm, drawn forward swiftly from one clanging, sonorous rhyme to another. Uncle Henry nodded his head in time to the rise and fall of her voice and now and then stopped his work to look at her with bright, eager eyes. He knew some of the places by heart evidently, for once in a while his voice would join Betsy’s for a couplet or two. They chanted together thus:

“A moment listened to the cry
That thickened as the chase drew nigh,
Then, as the headmost foes appeared,
With one brave bound, the copse he cleared.”

At the last line Uncle Henry flung his arm out wide, and Betsy felt as though the deer had made his great leap there, before her eyes.

“I’ve seen ‘em jump just like that,” broke in Uncle Henry. “A two-three-hundred-pound stag go up over a four-foot fence just like a piece of thistledown in the wind.”

“Uncle Henry,” asked Betsy, “what is a copse?”

“I don’t know,” said Uncle Henry indifferently. “Something in the woods, must be. Underbrush most likely. You can always tell words you don’t know by the sense of the whole thing….”

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from The Seventh One by Elizabeth Yates

Tag was too easily frightened to be let loose, so Tom kept her with him and always on a leash. She felt safe in his room, but at sight or sound of another person she would retreat under the bed and peer out balefully. She ate best from his hand, and when that same hand brushed her, she soon ceased cringing. The mangy scabs healed, and when her hair began to grow in, a rough yellowish coat appeared. Her eyes brightened, and she started to carry her tail up; she even wagged it in sudden brief moments of joy. But she would not go to Ben or anyone else voluntarily, and a hand raised in any kind of gesture sent her scuttling under the nearest piece of furniture. She did not bark, nor had Tom ever heard her whine or whimper. Somewhere along her way she had learned that it was as useless to challenge life as it was to complain about it.

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from A Sparrow Alone by Alicia Petersen

“Oh!” Mala cried out as she jabbed her needle in frustration at the fabric and instead drove its point into a finger. She stared at the tiny drop of blood oozing from her flesh. How it pictured the hurt of her heart! But she must keep the blood from marring Lady Terentia’s garment…

“So… my sister has reverted to sucking on her finger like a child.”

Mala whirled toward the door. “Abdon! How could I miss sounds of your return?”

“You were absorbed in nursing your finger, Sparrow. A merchantman’s camel could have come stomping in without your notice.” Abdon plopped cross-legged onto the floor close to the brazier’s warmth. “Ah, but what of the luxurious garment for Our Lady Nose-in-the-Air?”

“Abdon, please. I enjoy handling these lovely fabrics and threads.”

Abdon turned his face toward the dying charcoal; its glow emphasized the new hardness of his mouth. “Enjoy! Why must you only handle these things, Mala? You’re more fit to keep them in your hands than is your arrogant Roman patroness!”

Letting the shimmering garment slip from her lap, Mala reached across to place her hand on Abdon’s cheek. “Why do you speak with such anger, Abdon?”

“Show me reason for anything else. This place made bare by selling what we had that we might have what we need? Victuals scant for survival? You and I with bodies roughly clothed, hands roughly worked? Looks of disdain from the Romans, pity from our people? Aye, there’s abundant cause for anger, Sister. Since you’ll not acknowledge it, I’ve plenty for both of us.”

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from Moose, by Deb Brammer

Mrs. Johnson dressed us up in plastic aprons and ran steaming hot water in the huge camp sinks. Moose washed and rinsed. I dried and figured out where to put things.

Moose scrubbed on an enormous cake pan. “Guess I didn’t make any friends with my sugar bowl prank, huh?”

“Nope.”

“You’d think we were on a wanted poster the way people look at us. I thought you said Christians have a sense of humor.”

“Well, like the cook said, people don’t like you messing with their food.”

Moose worked the metal scrubber into the corners of the pan getting the last bits out. He rinsed it and set it in the drainer. “Anyway, I did the crime and you’re getting punished too. That’s not really fair.”

I shrugged. “What are friends for?” I hunted out the storage place for the big mixing bowl. “Some day we’ll laugh about this. I know you didn’t mean to ruin the coffeecake. The prank just got away from you. Pranks have a way of doing that. That’s why I didn’t want to pull any. You’ve got to make sure when you plan a prank that you don’t hurt anyone and you don’t destroy anything.”

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from Arby Jenkins, by Sharon Hambrick

When Coach blew his whistle, signaling the end of lunch time recess, I bolted for our line. I wiped the sweat off my face, grabbed my lunch box, and pushed through a few kids to my assigned place. Our line was supposed to be perfectly quiet, and usually it is. But not today.

Instead of standing there like soldiers, everyone was talking. The whole class, mature and sophisticated sixth graders, just weeks from being junior highers, was giggling and jumping around and pretending not to be anxious. I know because I was giggling and jumping around and pretending not to be anxious.

Then Mrs. Peterson appeared. She is tall and beautiful. She wears bright clothes and big earrings. She is everyone’s favorite teacher because she is always doing interesting things. Like the time she killed the goldfish.

She wanted to show us about smoking, so she rigged up a cigarette so the smoke traveled down a little tube and into a bowl of innocent goldfish. In just a few minutes, the fish died. It was creepy and we all said, “Gross,” and some of the girls cried.

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