Our September Writing Challenge winners....AND a big congratulations to authors selected for publication!
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We're thrilled to announce the Southern Christian Writers Conference authors who have been selected for publication in our upcoming book, A Merry Southern Christmas.
The book will be released in paperback and ebook on Cyber Monday as we enter into the Christmas season. We can't wait for everyone to read it!
The following writers and their stories will appear in the book:
Karen O. Allen
Ed Beam
Angela Chambers
Marilyn Collier
Shirley Crowder
Sandi Herron
Stephanie Jordan
Jan Junkin
Sandy Lemoine
Glenni Lorick
Vickie Moats
Suzanne D. Nichols
Matt Partain
Stephanie Rodda
Lana Wynn Scroggins
Heather J. Snyder
Gail Stevens
Mark Whitlock
In conjunction with the selection of these authors and stories, the SCWC held its September Writing Challenge. It fit the goal of the book: Write a true story about Christmas in the South.
From the stories selected for publication, we chose three to highlight as winners of the challenge. Those three authors are:
1st place: Mark Whitlock for "Christmas Candles"
2nd place: Vicki Moats for "CHRIST-mas in the Walmart Parking Lot"
3rd place: Stephanie Jordan for "A Southern White Christmas"
Enjoy their stories below!
(And get ready for an entire book of wonderful stories just like these three. ALL of the stories selected are top quality, and could easily have been picked as one of these first three to share with all of you.)
"Christmas Candles"
by W. Mark Whitlock
I looked up from a chicken biscuit, Coca-Cola, my Bible, and journal to meet the gaze of a determined man. He was bundled up for a blizzard. His boots, pants, jacket, and sock hat were all worse for wear—like they’d seen more mud than snow. In Decatur, Georgia, snowflakes rarely appear. When they do, they are often accompanied by the unwelcome guests of sleet and ice.
“I can try,” I said, intrigued but a little perturbed that he had interrupted my Advent devotional. The first Sunday of December is a time to reflect on the times that God told his people about Jesus’s coming centuries before his humble birth.
He said, “My family and I are running out of luck.” He raised a tired arm in the direction of a woman and two children bundled up just like him. “I moved us here from West Virginia this fall to try and find some construction work.” His weary, defeated voice reminded me of tired football linemen from losing teams mercilessly interviewed about minuscule missed plays.
“The job was good for a couple months,”he continued, “but I got laid off. Gradually, we’ve had to sell everything to keep ourselves fed.”
I stole a glance at the table and saw steaming Styrofoam cups, but no trays. Maybe they’ve finished breakfast, I thought.
“Uh, I understand,” I said, trying to be compassionate. I was 17, drove a sports
car, and argued with my parents about college. I didn’t—couldn’t—understand his plight. I reached for my wallet.
“Oh, no. I don’t want your money.” He was urgent. Defiant. “We’re working our way to North Carolina. I hear there are jobs there. We’ve sold everything but our camping gear. We’ve got food and some money.” He looked at the floor. “My wife and I are picking up odd jobs—leaf raking, gutter cleaning, that type of thing. Between walking and hitching, we want to be there by New Year’s.”
I must have looked confused. If he didn’t want my money, how could I help him?
I was about to ask the question when he looked up from the floor with the same determination he started our conversation with.
“We need some candles. We don’t want to use our money for them.”
The message wasn’t getting any clearer.
“You’d be surprised the type of heat that a single candle can generate while you’re camping. Just light one in your tent and it’s like having a kerosene heater.”
I understood the concept. I had been winter camping in Minnesota a few years beforehand. One simple taper candle warmed our snow hut for the night. Just don’t put your sleeping bag near the middle. The condensation from the ceiling will drip on you.
But, I still couldn’t figure him out. Why was he talking to me?
“You’re reading your Bible. You must go to church. A lot of churches have candles
this time of year.” The light bulbs finally popped on. “Yeah. I do go to church. Not too far from here.
And, yeah… we’ve got tons of candles.”
His fiery eyes flickered with hope. I could tell he was trying to suppress it.
I gave him directions to my church and told him to ask for one of the deacons.
“They replace the pew candles every Sunday morning with new ones. The used ones are stacked in the men’s bathroom above the coat rack. I’m sure they’ll give you some. Tell them I sent you.” I told him my name with extra emphasis on my last name. Surely, the fact that this weary traveler knew my family and me would grease the skids with the diaconate.
He stuck out his hand and pumped mine in a firm shake, then turned and strode to his family. He must have told them what I had said. He was out the door faster than Santa up a chimney.
I shrugged my shoulders and went back to my devotion and my Bible reading.
The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon Me,
Because the LORD has anointed Me
To preach good tidings to the poor;
He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted,
It was part of the prophecies of the coming king. Jesus’s mission statement, if you will.
My reading and thoughts were interrupted again by the man’s wife and children.
The kids didn’t say anything, and the wife was soft-spoken. “Thank you, sir. You’ve helped us so much.”
“You’re welcome,” I managed to say. “Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas!” I thought I even saw the kids’ mouths move.
She held a child’s hand with each of hers. They headed out the door and walked down a grassy hill behind the MARTA rail yard. I returned to my reading.
To comfort all who mourn,
To console those who mourn in Zion,
To give them beauty for ashes,
The oil of joy for mourning,
The garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;
That they may be called trees of righteousness,
The planting of the LORD, that He may be glorified.
I scribbled some in my journal. Dumb thoughts about why God spent so much time talking about the poor and oppressed. Written like a Western teenager who had never missed a meal. I gave up on my attempt at profundity and headed to church. As I drove, I saw the family’s campground so out of place among the landscape of historic homes, modern rail system, and storefronts along Ponce de Leon Avenue. They were
packing up to leave.
I parked and hustled across the street, racing against the cold breeze trying to infiltrate my jacket. I strained against the solid oak doors of our church that were always hard to open. A furnace blast of dry air assaulted my face as I entered. I saw Mr. Burke, a deacon and the head usher. He was known as a tightwad who wore the same suit every Sunday. Everyone considered this suit a supernatural gift. Sears’ suits don’t typically last for 12 years, and polyester doesn’t usually keep its shape. As a little kid, I could’ve sworn his hair was actually plastic and not two gallons of hairspray.
“Good morning, Mr. Burke! Did anyone come in looking for some candles?”
“Yessir, they did,”he said with evil glee, waving a stack of Christmas bulletins. “Swep’ in ‘ere and had the audacity to ask for our candles.”
“Did he mention that I sent him?”
“You? No, he didn’t. Why? Did you send him? Oh, doesn’t matter. We don’t help people like that.”
I was speechless. As I tried to form some words to tell their story, he changed the subject.
“So, you still drivin’ that T-Bird? Betcha waxed it this weekend, didn’t you? It’s a waste of time, I tell ya. You know, they only put paint on cars so the metal wouldn’t rust. Then, people started asking for the paint to be protected of all things. Now, you kids think you need to wax your cars. Waste of time, I tell ya. I haven’t even washed my car since I bought it in ‘79. It looks great…”
He had given me this lecture before. I usually tuned out when I heard the word “wax” I headed for the bathroom door without a word. Somewhere in the middle of his speech, he had turned his attention to straightening the bulletins. As I reached the door, I heard him complaining about how much electricity was required to run the lights on our church’s Chrismon tree.
I went into the bathroom and grabbed a handful of candles, marched out to my freshly waxed car, and headed back toward the makeshift campground. But I was too late. They were gone. I drove around on the main thoroughfares and side streets looking for the family. I had the candles, but I couldn’t give the gift.
My church had erred on the side of caution instead of compassion. There was “no room for them in the inn.” At Christmas no less. I thought to myself, Maybe we should sing, “A mighty fortress is our church/its doors and hearts are locked up tight.”
Then, I felt the Lord pointing the spotlight at me. I sat and read my Bible instead of getting out of my seat to help. I asked a man who was at the end of his rope to face shame and tell his story one more time. And Mr. Burke—of all people—answered his query.
Jesus came to do all of those things listed in Isaiah 61. And He did. But, He also expects me to do them as well.
Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’ The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’
Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’
They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’ He will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’
Then they will go away not to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life.”
Jesus had come to visit me at Christmas in the form of a father who needed candles. And I gave him directions.
I love what John 1:8 really means. The verse reads, “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” The phrase “dwelt among us” comes from words that literally mean “pitched his tent.” Jesus pitched his tent in the shadow of MARTA. And I sent him to a brusque bull of a man.
While I still love candles at Christmas, I can’t light one without bitter-sweet thoughts of the man in the orange parka.
This Christmas, don’t just put a little money in a Salvation Army bucket or pull an angel from a tree. Go yourself. Look into the eyes of someone who needs Christmas. Warm someone with your touch. Give a gift that brings a tear to your eye. Because when you do, you will look into the eyes of, touch, and give a gift to Jesus Himself.
but to pick out special gifts for children I had never met, I needed divine intervention. I kept thinking of their expectant little faces and hopeful eyes. I certainly didn’t want them to be disappointed!
To add to the sanctity of my shopping experience, a friend had forwarded a text about how we are to celebrate each moment of Christmas from the shopping to the lights. So, I was praying, reading a text, and dodging other carts in the middle of the toy aisle during the Christmas season at Walmart. The more I looked at the Barbies, the Disney Princesses, and the Monster High dolls, the more confused I became.
The sky had darkened while I had been inside, and as I headed toward my car; I saw a rather elderly man (probably about my age) stumbling through the mist in the parking lot. He was short and pudgy with shabby clothing, a dark toboggan, and an ungroomed,grey beard. His appearance was somewhat like a homeless Santa in cast-off clothing. I thought maybe he was, indeed, homeless; but he was carrying some purchases in his hands. I secured my own packages in my car and then hesitantly approached him and asked if he needed help.
“Yes,” he replied, “I can’t find my car.”
Still a little wary, I asked him the make and color of his car and told him I would go to the right while he continued searching to the left. He had said his car was a navy Subaru, but it was hard to distinguish any color in the dim light of dusk with the light drizzle now falling. As I rounded rows of cars, I started berating myself.
“What have I gotten myself into? Why couldn’t I just have driven off? Why do I get involved in these situations? Why? Why?”
Besides all that, I don’t know cars. I had to get close enough to read the labels. Row after row I squinted at the bumpers of cars. Nothing.
I started back toward the lost man when I saw a middle-aged man in a plaid shirt and denim overalls helping his wife and mother into a van.
In desperation, I called out to this man, “Hey, do you know cars?”
In answer to his puzzled expression, I explained the situation and asked if he would just ride around on his way out of the parking lot to see if he could find the car. He turned and spoke to the people in the van, and then he started walking through the rows of cars himself.
Finally, after a seeming eternity of Hondas and mystery bumpers, I found a mud splattered navy Subaru that was junky on the inside and sported a Rescue Dog sticker on the fender. Excitedly, I ran back to the lost man and described the vehicle.
“That sounds like mine,” he said.
He didn’t remember about the sticker, but he admitted his car was a mess inside. As we approached the car, he seemed to recognize it, and a big smile broke through his beard.
“That looks like mine,” he paused a minute as he studied it. Then, shaking his head, he added, “But mine has a silver arrow in the front and silver crosses on the back.” (A bit of useful information gleaned a little late.)
He went back to the left and I joined the helpful man. I noticed he was wearing a cross, so I asked him where he attended church, and we shared church pleasantries, as Southerners do, while we scanned the next rows of cars.
Suddenly, his wife and mother yelled from their van for us to come. They had been driving around looking while we were on foot, and they thought they had found the car.
We all converged on the vehicle they indicated, and sure enough, there sat a navy Subaru with at least a two-foot-wide arrow of gleaming silver duct tape straight down the middle of the hood and easily distinguishable duct tape crosses on the bumper. How could we have missed it?
What came next was a lot of handshaking and gratitude. The lost man was very thankful for our help, I was appreciative of the other man’s help, and we were all bound together for those few minutes in the joy of something that was lost and then found. There was something sacred in that moment akin to the lost and found parables in the Bible. I don’t know who started blessing whom first, but we did share blessings with each other. We lingered just a little longer than we needed to as if we didn’t want to break that brief
connection of goodwill. Then, as we each started on our separate ways, the helpful man shook our hands again and wished us all a Merry CHRIST-mas.
You know, sometimes the Christmas season gets a lot of bad press, but I’m here to tell you that the same God, who sent His son as an innocent babe into this brutal world, can tear through the tinsel and shine through the lights. He can use sinners for His purpose and saints for His glory. He can use the everyday and the ordinary to pierce our very souls. And that same God, who led Moses from the land of Egypt and the Wisemen from the East, led three unlikely people on a modern-day quest and let them share a little of His grace as they experienced CHRIST-mas in front of the Garden Center in the Walmart parking lot.
"A Southern White Christmas"
The sounds of family chatting away and catching up from the year gone by were always some of my favorite memories. December 25, 2010, was different because it had white, fluffy snow falling from the sky. It had already littered the ground through the morning hours. The long driveway was dusted with snow, which made it sketchy, and we were skeptical if we could make it all the way to the top. We parked at the bottom of the hill instead. We have never had a white Christmas in the memory of anyone living in our family. Snow may have teased us on one side or the other of Christmas Day, but usually we only enjoyed the concept of a white Christmas on the television.
But oh! This glorious Christmas was an extra gift from God. Jesus, sent as a baby, to walk among us and ultimately pay our debt for our sin on the cross was the reason we celebrate Christmas every year, which is certainly a gift enough, but add some beautiful white covered scenery to the season and it becomes dreamy. I was moved on my inside with a deeper gratitude to God for His little wink in my direction. He knows how much I love snow. Being a Southern girl, snow is always sentimental and a rarity.
My family of five, my husband, three little ones in tow, and I walked up the long hill, in the grass, afraid the driveway would be icy and a bit dangerous. We greeted other family members who were outside enjoying the white wonderland. Children, cousins, making snow angels and attempting to create snow balls, though there wasn’t enough snow gathered for them. The nostalgia to enjoy a competitive snow ball fight was strong, but the lack of snow made it implausible. I couldn’t help myself but to spin in a circle, arms out, looking up, and trying to catch the snowflakes in my mouth. It felt like a moment captured in time, a memory to last a lifetime. It was magical to the depths of my soul. My Grandmother’s house, the symbol of Christmas and celebration, airy, white snow falling to cover everything in its glory, and celebrating Jesus’s birth all coming together to create a majestic moment.
We entered into the home, warm with love, family, and food. Hugs were always plentiful at Christmas, and my cousin and I always had to offer a “Happy Birthday” for the birthday date we share just a few days before this gathering. Though Grandad was no longer with us to kick off the meal time, my uncle did a good job of gathering us and saying the blessing prayer for our meal. We were always so grateful to still have this time together, recognizing that it was coming to a close as my Grandmother was aging.
Everyone settled into their places in line to walk through the buffet style, pot luck lunch. There were definitely more scoops of food hoped for than our plates could actually hold, but there is no shame in seconds in our family. We sat down at the large tables and broke bread and shared life with each other. It was always a bonding experience and as the plates were cleaned up, we would laugh and joke with each other. It must be like this in heaven.
Once the food was put away, we moved into the vast, sprawling living room with the large scenic windows. Of course this Christmas Day, most of us were looking out over the large yard talking about how exciting this year is because of the white, blanketed snow fall. The gigantic, traditional Christmas tree with its lit-up angel, holding her two, tiny, warmly lit candles in each hand, set to the backdrop of the white, snowy outside just made every second a bit more magical.
The time had come to open the presents, which seemed to be the favorite part for each of the young children. They were less concerned about eating, but had taken time to shake the gifts and attempt to guess what might be in each box. Each gift was handed to its intended recipient as they waited patiently for the instructions to begin the unwrapping madness. We tore through wrapping paper like it was hiding the most precious treasures. The floor was littered by glittery, ornate paper that covered these treasure boxes. Dolls, video games, and all sorts of noise makers made the hearts of each person feel loved and thought of. Grandmother Walker, such a kind soul, enjoyed sitting in her tall backed, pea green and cream vertical striped armchair throne watching the joy spread across each face as they enjoyed the fruit of her labor. Opening presents signaled the closing of our celebratory time together, though we clung on as long as we could, we knew a goodbye was soon to come.
We gathered by the scenic windows again enjoying the view of a rare, white winter wonderland on Christmas Day. Like each of the soft, uniquely made, custom pieces of icy snow, we are each fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of our Heavenly Father. If He is willing to take so much time to customize each snowflake, as fleeting as they are, how much more is He willing to knit us together in our mother’s womb with such care? A snowflake has no eternal value, but God knows every hair on our head, because our value is so important that Jesus died for our sin debt, went and fought Death and Hades to get the keys, and then came back as a victor to be our advocate in heaven. Jesus is worthy to be celebrated on Christmas and our family never overlooks the opportunity to acknowledge the grace and the beauty of the greatest love story of all time.
It was our last Christmas at Grandmother Walker's home. A priceless memory. This rare, snowy, Southern Christmas Day was a gift that keeps on giving as it lives vibrantly in my heart and mind.
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A Merry Southern Christmas will be available on Cyber Monday, Dec. 2, 2024, and we can't wait for you to read it!
The book is one of the anthologies published annually by the Southern Christian Writers Conference. Our members are welcome to submit to our collections--and we love giving this publishing opportunity to the talented writers in our group.
Check out our other anthologies:
Day by Day: 40 Devotionals for Writers & Creative Types
Unexpected: Flash Fiction Stories with a Twist
In the Garden: Reflections on the Joy of Nature
It's a (Coffee) Date: A Collection of Short Stories
Congratulations again--and an early Merry Christmas to everyone!
Thank you so much!! I am so excited and honored to have my piece published in this wonderful Christmas book. I can't wait to read all the stories--congratulations to everyone!
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