Archives For Story

Lessons from the book Fierce Convictions by Karen Swallow Prior

 

As kids, we believed that we could change the world. We wanted to fly to the moon, write novels, and save people from burning houses, but then we grew up and discovered just how much time living takes. No one told us about the hours involved in keeping the boss happy, the bills paid, and the pile of dirty shirts washed. 

 

Even if we could free up some hours every week to change the world, its problems are overwhelming — sex trafficking, ISIS, the twenty-five million North Koreans cut off from the gospel. We can start to doubt whether our lives will actually make a difference and, when that happens, we need to meet Hannah More.

 

Photo 1456425731181 2152d80d946c  

Since Hannah died in 1833, our best venue for meeting her is Karen Swallow Prior’s book, Fierce Convictions: The Extraordinary Life of Hannah More — Poet, Reformer, Abolitionist, which introduces us to the unlikely woman who helped end the slave trade in Great Britain. Not only that, Hannah fought for female education, lobbied against animal cruelty, and taught a nation to read. 

 

How did Hannah, a single woman without wealth, family status, or access to Parliament leave her mark on the British Isles? She believed in a God who cared about the world and worked through his children to change it. 

 

Hannah’s life reveals five facts about God that we need to grasp if we want to make a difference in our world Continue Reading…

This piece of flash fiction first ran in Warden Magazine, February 2016.


*     *     *     *     * 

  

Drops of rain gather on the sill, like peasants on a feast day, then tumble down the wall. The rivulets remind me of things long ago—the tall Scots pines at the river where Mamm used to scrub our clothes, the maidens’ ribbons at Beltane festival.

 

I watch the trickle find the ground and then trace its way along the wall towards the shadow in the corner. Slowly, a faint aroma, but rich and earthy, mingles with the familiar dank of stone and clay. Perhaps tomorrow, before Eucharist, the clouds will tire of our burgh and allow the sun to illume the greenness of that clump of moss.

 

17155258766 ab2162acf5 kPhoto courtesy of kimberly/tippytoes via flickr.com.

 

A shock of light outlines the window with its overhanging sign. When they asked me what to etch on it, I said “His Alone.”

 

Two years now I have spent behind these walls—these soldiers of my soul. They bind my body to this square of dirt, away from the plague of gluttony, the temptation of the minstrel’s song, and the lesser loves of ploughmen and bairns. I refuse to be this world’s chattle, harnessed to it like a ploughing ox. No, I will soar, like the goshawks in the sky beyond my window Continue Reading…

“Sir?” 

 

A woman’s voice ricochets inside his head. 

 

“Sir?”

 

He follows the line of chairs to the pamphlets, mounted on the wall, and the window beyond. A woman sits behind it, with the glass pane slid open, and points toward a young man who is taking off his headphones.

 

3281787278 e56a7785a3 bPhoto courtesy of Carol Von Canon via flickr.com

 

Tires peel behind him and he works his neck around as far as it will go. A green car speeds across the parking lot and into the morning sun.

 

Sunlight.

 

He reaches to scratch his calf Continue Reading…

“How much?” the pastor jolted upright in his leather chair.

“Forty-thousand dollars,” she said.

“But…” he readjusted his glasses, “…why would…that many wouldn’t even fit in the church.”

“You might be surprised how much it costs to ship the best orchids, gazanias, and cherry blossoms from Brazil, South Africa, and Japan. Specialty flowers, you know, are my business.”

“But…” the pastor’s hand, having left his glasses, hung in mid air, “why not donate that money somewhere else…the building fund…some missionaries…the homeless shelter?” 

“I want to give God something beautiful.” 

“But, they’ll just die.”

“I know.” 

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He closed it again. “It just seems…” He faltered.

“…like a waste?” she said. 

He cleared his throat and looked away. 

*    *    *    *    * 

Photo 1447279506476 3faec8071eeePhoto courtesy of Jorge Zapata via unsplash.com 

As American Christians, we’re likely to sympathize with the pastor—unless, we find the same story in Matthew 26. There we find ointment instead of flowers, disciples instead of a pastor, and a woman wanting to do something beautiful for Jesus. 


Familiarity, they say, breeds contempt, but when it comes to Bible, familiarity makes us numb to the shock of the story. A year’s wages for five minutes of worship. Hundreds of poor people that could have been fed for months. Religious onlookers who thought they knew better. How would Jesus respond Continue Reading…

I flitted through Hope Coffee dipping in and out of each photograph. I had promised myself to leave by 8:30 p.m. and it was already 8:45. In less than 12 hours, the men from church would be knocking on my door, ready to load up the U-Haul, and I still had packing to do. 

 

Attending the art show, which featured my classmate’s work, let me check two boxes off my to-do list. It fulfilled the “cultural engagement” assignment due Monday for my Theology of Art & Worship class, and it let me wave goodbye to the world before the tsunami of cardboard and packing tape pushed me under.  

 

Reflections on light and darkness. Each piece nodded to the name of the exhibit—light flickering off a child’s face, sun slicing through the distant clouds, a cobblestone street basking in the morning light. All of them saluted to the theme, except one.

 

Mist blank 14 copyright

In The Mist by Paul Singleton, used with permission.

 

It stopped me as I buzzed around the corner and pulled me onto the cement jetty, past twenty-five seagulls, maybe thirty. It was hard to tell that far into the fog. Still. Peaceful. Stark. I felt those foggy mornings back up north on the dock, when the mist refused to say goodbye to the lake Continue Reading…

For some reason, when people talk about God, they often start with sin. But, that’s not where anyone’s story begins—not that weekend you got wasted, or when your coworker had an affair, or even when Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit. 

 8435321969 c4bed2c9f1 k

Photo courtesy of Kay Ter Harr via flickr.com

 

Our story began in a garden with two humans and a God who set them loose in a brand new world. God commissioned Adam and Eve to represent him in the world—not as curators of as museum, but as mini-rulers and sub-creators. God wanted humans to develop and unfold his world in a way that would further infuse it with his creativity and care. The garden of Eden was just the starting point. From there, humanity would extend God’s order and beauty into the world Continue Reading…

I hold the flame near the burner. Click, click, click. The smell of fuel stings my nose. My stomach growls. Just then, my cousin Andrea returns with a bucket of water.

 

“Still not working?” she asks. 

 

“No.”    

 

“We could drive to Trelingua,” she says, “and see if they have camping stoves there.”

 

“Or, just eat the gumbo cold.” 

 

IMG 0091 2

 

My legs ache from hiking. I want to sprawl on a boulder and watch the sun sink behind the rusted Chisos Mountains, not drive forty-five minute to Terlingua to see if they sell stoves.  

 

A man with white whiskers moseys over from the adjacent campsite. 

 

“Trouble with the stove? Continue Reading…

Certain moments make me feel the glow of adulthood—sitting at a mahogany desk while a mortgage broker rattles off numbers, tracing my finger across the black letters on a business card, “Shannon Gianotti, FNP-C”, and driving myself to DFW Airport last Saturday. 

 

The night before my flight home, I still didn’t have plans for getting to the airport. I’ld procrastinated on that part of the trip, because…well…nobody really wants to drive to the airport at 6:30 a.m. on Saturday. And, it’s been spring in Dallas, which—as my friend Dan likes to say—“is the two weeks of the year when Texas actually feels like Heaven.”

 Rsz chiaralilly

Travellers” by chiaralilly (licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0, modified by Shannon Gianotti)

 

So, between cranking out a twenty-page research paper for BE102 and writing a pitch for my latest article—I watered my cilantro plants, reacquainted myself with the pool, and neglected fishing around for a ride. By Friday night I was cornered into doing something I’ve never done before, something that (in my mind) only business people do—finding long-term parking near the airport.

 

Considering my travelog, airport parking shouldn’t be a big deal. I’ve eaten rice by hand in a bedouin tent near the Syrian border, hiked solo in the mountains of Korea, and spent a layover in Hong Kong sleeping under the seats in the terminal. 

Continue Reading…

I received news this week that my friend Eugene Oh died. He was in his thirties, a husband and father of a toddler, and died suddenly from a hemorrhage in his brain. 

 

I first met Eugene while visiting my brother in Korea. While hiking and scrambling up what we called the “Razorback Mountains,” I learned that Eugene could make anyone laugh.

 

1 Eugene03102015114208 001 2

 

Several years later he visited us in Rochester during the dead of winter. We trekked over to Black Creek Park where he and Jason made a snow jump for our GT-cruiser (a contraband Canadian sled that isn’t sold in the US). We took turns laying down under the jump, first one and then two of us Continue Reading…

Beauty at the Curb

smgianotti  —  March 5, 2015

Jewel scraped her boot through the leaves congregating in the gutter. Her glossy, black heel revealed a cigarette butt and the corner of a Snickers wrapper matted to the cement by summer dirt and fall rain. From the look of it, the trash had claimed this corner long before she had.

 15040 City

Photo courtesy of Jenifer Cabrera via Creationswap.com

 

At the sound of tires, Jewel’s spine straightened and her hips cocked, but the black sedan sped up. She threw a provocative smile anyways, only to have the tinted windows fling it back.

Continue Reading…