Read our November Writing Challenge Winners & Happy Thanksgiving!
We are blessed and thankful by our writing friends and all of the things that each of you bring to our group.
We pray that you have a wonderful Thanksgiving--and that you remember how very blessed and loved you are by God.
On that note...we're excited to celebrate the winners of our November Writing Challenge.
The challenge--to write a fictional short story centered around a Thanksgiving gathering--brought in a great group of submissions. We had a difficult time narrowing down our selections, but are pleased to announce the following winners:
1st place: Tina Simmons2nd place: Connie Kallback3rd place: Tina Ann Middleton
Thank you to everyone who submitted a story to this challenge. Remember: it is a great accomplishment to write and submit to our challenges. It means that you're actively writing and putting yourself out there--which is a very big thing!
Enjoy our three top stories below.
"Just Do What She Did"
by Tina Simmons
A whirl of color brought me out of my daze. A dust devil—red, gold, and green—up into the dry air, and then gone in a flutter. From the porch bed, I focused my eyes to actually see for the first time in weeks; could it really be fall? How have I not noticed?
Fall in Alabama is always persnickety. We swelter, and then we shiver, but any pleasant in-between weather seems to elude us. Maybe it’s because we are usually so caught up in football that we just don’t have time to notice comfort—discomfort is much more noticeable, and it’s easier to talk about. We go from hotter ‘n blue blazes to freezin’ our tails off in a blink. September and October usually mean pumpkins and tank tops around our place—but not this year. This year was waiting rooms, fluorescent lights and sweatshirts, huddled together over prayer and tears.
A quick check of my phone confirms it is November, and a new weight—the weight of the holidays—settles promptly into my shoulders. How will I do it without her? She was the glue. She was the heart of our family and what tied it all together around turkey and dressing, sweet potato casserole and so many desserts—the familiar chorus of, “I’m jus’ gonna take a little of each” echoing around the room.
Maybe we should just sit this one out—just skip Thanksgiving and Christmas this year. But no…that thought does not get far before I hear deep in my soul, “No, that will not do. Come to me and let me help you.” And so I pray. I cannot pray with words right now; instead it is just please…please, Lord, help me. When I open my eyes, the world looks a bit more in focus, and I decide to face it head on. After all, that is what Giggy would do—it is what she did in every trial, in every loss; this strong woman who stepped in to raise us would bow her head, dig in her feet, and push on, and so that is what I declare over this month. I will follow her example—I will carry on.
Quickly, while I still have the gumption, I text the family: “thanksgiving usual time but at my place im takin care of the food.”And then, “dont even think about skippin it she would want us all together.” I have two weeks. Two weeks to figure it all out and find a way back to joy.
I actually slept that night for the first time in I don’t know when, but it was a funny kind of sleep—heavy but somehow conscious. I found myself seeking rest through God instead of the kind of “escape from life sleep” I’d craved for so many months. All through the night, the thought just do what she did swirled in my mind between spans of tranquil slumber. I awoke with newness of mission and the sense that God had spoken. I was supposed to just do what she did. So, I threw on some clothes, grabbed my keys and headed over to her house to get the book.
I had not prepared myself for Giggy’s kitchen. As the screen door snapped behind me, I fell to my knees. I could see her in every corner. Grease poppin’ on the stove, dishtowel slung over her shoulder, and her greeting of, “Come on—jus’ get in here, girl!”
Maybe we should just sit this one out—just skip Thanksgiving and Christmas this year. But no…that thought does not get far before I hear deep in my soul, “No, that will not do. Come to me and let me help you.” And so I pray. I cannot pray with words right now; instead it is just please…please, Lord, help me. When I open my eyes, the world looks a bit more in focus, and I decide to face it head on. After all, that is what Giggy would do—it is what she did in every trial, in every loss; this strong woman who stepped in to raise us would bow her head, dig in her feet, and push on, and so that is what I declare over this month. I will follow her example—I will carry on.
Quickly, while I still have the gumption, I text the family: “thanksgiving usual time but at my place im takin care of the food.”And then, “dont even think about skippin it she would want us all together.” I have two weeks. Two weeks to figure it all out and find a way back to joy.
I actually slept that night for the first time in I don’t know when, but it was a funny kind of sleep—heavy but somehow conscious. I found myself seeking rest through God instead of the kind of “escape from life sleep” I’d craved for so many months. All through the night, the thought just do what she did swirled in my mind between spans of tranquil slumber. I awoke with newness of mission and the sense that God had spoken. I was supposed to just do what she did. So, I threw on some clothes, grabbed my keys and headed over to her house to get the book.
I had not prepared myself for Giggy’s kitchen. As the screen door snapped behind me, I fell to my knees. I could see her in every corner. Grease poppin’ on the stove, dishtowel slung over her shoulder, and her greeting of, “Come on—jus’ get in here, girl!”
Oh, God…help me! How many times have I held her hand at that table, smelling the delicious food that was all laid out, and wishing she could just pray faster—I’m going to starve before she’s done. But nothing rushed her time with the Lord. We would eat when she was finished. My instinct is to grab the book and run. I need to get out of here; this place just hurts too much. I can smell her. When I close my eyes, I can feel her hugs—hugs that threatened to hurt a little because they held so much love. I pray another, help me and go to the cupboard where Giggy’s book lives. Just do what she did.
The bulging, red gingham Better Homes and Gardens cookbook was held together by silver duct tape down the spine and a large rubber band around the middle. There were as many random sheets of paper protruding around the edges as there were original recipes in the book. It was an icon of my childhood, always there but taking center stage during the holidays. How in the world will I even find the recipes much less cook them?
The bulging, red gingham Better Homes and Gardens cookbook was held together by silver duct tape down the spine and a large rubber band around the middle. There were as many random sheets of paper protruding around the edges as there were original recipes in the book. It was an icon of my childhood, always there but taking center stage during the holidays. How in the world will I even find the recipes much less cook them?
I opened the book to a random page and laughed when I saw, “Yuck!” written at the top. I flipped through a few more to find comments like, “Alright”— “Not worth it”— “Lucy’s favorite” and “Joe hates this.”
The index revealed several family favorites. I decided to snap pictures of the recipes and leave the book here where it belongs. I got quick pics of green bean casserole, pumpkin and pecan pie, as well as Giggy’s specialty—orange pineapple cake, but the most important recipes were nowhere to be found. The dressing and the turkey; if she wrote them down at all, they must be on one of the scraps of paper sticking out willy-nilly around the edges. This will take awhile. I would have to take Giggy’s book home.
The book seemed different in the light of my little kitchen. Its charm now broken—reverence dashed like a thrift store photo. Oh, how I want to do this later. Today has already been enough. But I hear once again, just do what she did, and so I open the book to the first added page. It is a piece of yellow paper from a legal pad, folded in half and stuck just behind the front cover.
The index revealed several family favorites. I decided to snap pictures of the recipes and leave the book here where it belongs. I got quick pics of green bean casserole, pumpkin and pecan pie, as well as Giggy’s specialty—orange pineapple cake, but the most important recipes were nowhere to be found. The dressing and the turkey; if she wrote them down at all, they must be on one of the scraps of paper sticking out willy-nilly around the edges. This will take awhile. I would have to take Giggy’s book home.
The book seemed different in the light of my little kitchen. Its charm now broken—reverence dashed like a thrift store photo. Oh, how I want to do this later. Today has already been enough. But I hear once again, just do what she did, and so I open the book to the first added page. It is a piece of yellow paper from a legal pad, folded in half and stuck just behind the front cover.
Tears spring to my eyes as I open it and read, “Dear Lord, How can I do this thing that you want me to do? I don’t know anything about kids…wouldn’t they be better off with a nice couple instead? Don’t they need a daddy? —But in all things, your will be done. I trust you. Romans 8:28.”
That night I received the gift of peace and the restoration of joy. I came to know the heart, the fear and the faith of the one who never failed me—the one who was tough as nails and tender to the core. Every scrap of paper told the story of my family—a testimony of faith and promises fulfilled. Every trial, every worry, every need was poured out to God. Because He was faithful, we learned to love. And then once again, a small, still voice reminds—just do what she did.
That night I received the gift of peace and the restoration of joy. I came to know the heart, the fear and the faith of the one who never failed me—the one who was tough as nails and tender to the core. Every scrap of paper told the story of my family—a testimony of faith and promises fulfilled. Every trial, every worry, every need was poured out to God. Because He was faithful, we learned to love. And then once again, a small, still voice reminds—just do what she did.
"A Goose for Thanksgiving"
by Connie Kallback
In all the bustle, only Michael heard a strange rustling noise in the living room and alerted Dad.
Crouching on the hearth, Dad determined the noise came from high in the chimney. He unlatched the glass screen, pulled the mesh curtains aside, and on hands and knees, peered up the chimney of the wood-burning fireplace. “It’s darker than you’d believe. Can’t see a thing.”
Curiosity brought Mom and the other kids, but Henry was first to find Dad a flashlight.
He craned his neck to gaze up again. “Looks like a big bag, a white one, way up at the top. How would anything get in there?” He hesitated before he added, “Thought I saw a pair of eyes, too.”
“That’s weird.” Jane stepped closer to the hearth.
“Could it be some kind of animal?” Mom wondered if it was simply a prank, but who and why?
“It’s clogging the whole chimney, whatever it is.” Standing again, Dad shook his head. “I may have to call someone to check on it tomorrow.” Leaving the mesh curtains parted, he shut the glass doors with a secure click. “We need to keep an eye out.”
“I guess we can’t roast marshmallows today.” With that observation, Jane left with her brothers to finish her chores.
The brick chimney with its fireplace was the salient feature of the four-room farm house built in 1947 before the structural history of the house began to evolve. A major renovation raised the roof to accommodate a second floor and added to the main floor an expansive dining room that included half the fireplace. A thick slope of blue slate became décor inside the new room.
Before long, Aunt Patty, Uncle Jerry, and their two little girls arrived bearing pecan and apple pies. A couple of neighbors with side dishes followed. Finally, Uncle Bill, who wasn’t really an uncle but the kids called him that, carried fresh-from-the oven pumpkin pies smelling of cinnamon and cloves.
After some catch-up chatter, everyone seated themselves around the table.
Dad gave the blessing, but before he finished, sounds of rustling and scraping interrupted him, followed by a soft thump. He hurried, but by the time he said, “Amen,” an insistent tapping accompanied the other sounds.
The entire table emptied as everyone ran to the living room.
To their surprise, a large white snow goose loomed tall on the enclosed hearth. It paced from side to side, tapping its beak on the glass. Responding to the crowd, it poked its head close to the glass, stretched its neck, and stared out like an announcer on the evening news.
The kids laughed.
Dad told everyone to stand out of the way. He told Michael to unfasten the glass doors and open them slowly.
Stealthily poised as the doors swung wide, Dad grabbed the goose with both hands, fingers splayed around it like a basketball to keep the wings from flapping. Racing like a player going in for a layup, he dashed to the back entrance, passing the decorative slate.
He almost made it, but in the confusion of people swarming into the dining area, the bird broke free. Half flying and scrabbling around the room, it tried to perch on the decorative plate rail molding that wouldn’t hold a chickadee. For its next attempt, it chose the ceiling fan above the table. Claws scraped the blades. They began to turn, flinging loose feathers through the air.
Dad yelled for someone to open the back door. Mom and Aunt Patty ran to the kitchen and held brooms over their heads to form a barrier at the other side of the door to guard the food. The others cheered the bird toward the planned exit where it took off, barely clearing the frame in its flight to freedom.
The visitor landed on the utility shed at the end of the back yard. There it perched for a full fifteen minutes, gazing back at the house trying to figure out what just happened. It likely made a resolution never to go poking around on the roofs of old houses, especially those with chimneys.
So, what saved Thanksgiving dinner? Dad’s directive to leave the turkey to cool on the stove for easier cutting, and Mom’s habit of serving all the sides in covered dishes. The dinnerware, feathers and all, went directly into the dishwasher. An ordinary set took its place on an extra tablecloth from a drawer in the buffet.
Everyone settled into their chosen chairs to enjoy dinner, more thankful than earlier, and hungrier too.
Dad looked around the table. “I think it’s appropriate to have a second blessing because the first one got cut short.”
Everyone nodded and bowed their heads.
Dad gave the grace with a safety request for their unexpected guest on the hearth. He added a thank you for the laughter it provided and a story for future Thanksgivings.
As time passed, the story gained a new ending:
An old bird with thinning feathers gathered his grandchicks around him. He adjusted his glasses and asked, “Did I ever tell you about the time I fell into the hole in that roof in South Carolina?”
“Tell us again, Papa.”
Mama goose rolled her eyes and rested her wing on her forehead with a sigh.
"The Thanksgiving Corner"
by Tina Ann Middleton
“I know what you can do for me, sweetie.” Laura smiled at her. “Why don’t you go to your room and draw me the nicest picture you can of what you are thankful for today?”
Jillian squealed. “Yes, Mommy! I’ll draw a beautiful picture for you. Can we put it on the table?”
Her mother smiled and nodded. “Well, of course. That’s what I need it for.”
As Jillian skipped down the hall, she stopped at her brother Jerry’s room to see what he was doing. She found him at his desk, head propped in one hand while the other hand wrote in a notebook. His face wore a deep scowl as he stared at the library book lying open in front of him.
“What’s wrong, Jerry?”
At the sound of her voice, Jerry jumped in his chair, nearly knocking the book and paper to the floor. He clutched the items in his hands, then lay them with care on the desk. He then turned a stern expression to his sister. “Aren’t you supposed to knock before you come into my room?”
“Oops! Sorry, Jerry, I forgot.”
Jerry lay his pen down and pulled her onto his lap. “That’s okay, squirt. I needed the break anyway.”
“Why?”
“Our teacher gave us a book report to finish over the Thanksgiving holiday. I still get so mad when I think about it.”
“Wow! You’re reading that whole book? I wish I could read a big book like that. And what’s a book report?”
Jerry chuckled at her questions. “You’ll find out one day. Now, scoot! I have to get this done before the family gets here.”
After leaving her brother hard at work, Jillian hurried to her little room and pulled out her art supplies. She drew a picture and colored it with her favorite colors. When she finished, she stared at it for a moment. Then, she got an idea. It was a wonderful idea. She pulled another sheet of paper toward her and bent to draw again. When she finished that one, she drew another, and then another. Once satisfied she had enough pictures, she gathered her work and scurried to the dining room.
Jillian peeked in the kitchen and was happy to see her mother still hard at work on the food. She poked her head around the door to the living room and watched her father laying wood for a fire in the hearth, hearing him grumble about the finicky flue in the fireplace. She hurried back to the dining room and looked around for the best place to carry out her plan.
Jillian loved the dining room. She thought it looked as big as a house. When she saw the corner near the kitchen, she knew that was the right place. Jillian pulled a roll of tape out of the desk and set to work. When she finished, she went to check on her mother.
“Mommy, would you like me to set the table now?”
Her mother turned and smiled, a smudge of flour on her cheek. “That would be very nice, sweetie pie. Thank you for helping.”
Jillian gathered the napkins and silverware to carry to the big table where all the family would sit to eat. After laying each napkin, fork, and spoon where they belonged, she turned to admire her special surprise.
“Jillian, what is this?”
Her parents had come into the room while she worked. Jerry thumped down the stairs into the dining room as well. They stood and stared in amazement at the pictures and flowers that Jillian had arranged.
“It’s my Thanksgiving corner.”
“Your what?” Her father picked her up and planted a kiss on her cheek. She gave him a big hug, then squirmed to get down. “Let me show you.”
“Mommy told me that Thanksgiving is when we thank God for all the good things He gave us. But sometimes we forget because we get tired and grumpy. So, I made us a corner to help us remember. See, here is a picture of Mommy, Daddy, Jerry, and me. I’m thankful for my family.”
“This is a picture of a book. I’m thankful for books and reading. And here is a picture of our living room and our big fireplace that keeps us nice and warm.”
Jillian waved her hand over the flowers in pretty shades of red, brown, and gold. “I’m also thankful for flowers, but I didn’t draw those. I just grabbed some to decorate with.”
Jerry pointed to one more picture. It looked like a brown “t” that was slightly shorter on one side. “What’s this?”
Jillian picked it up and hugged the paper to her heart before showing it to her family. “That’s a picture of the cross ‘cause I’m most thankful for Jesus.”
Mommy wiped her eyes with her apron and stooped to hug Jillian. “It’s beautiful, honey. Thank you for reminding us what Thanksgiving is about.” She looked up at Daddy and Jerry. “I think we all forgot for a little while. But this is a perfect reminder.”
Daddy sniffled a little, then smiled down at Jillian. “You know what? Let’s leave this Thanksgiving corner up for a while. I think we need the reminder every time we come in here.”
Jillian smiled. “That’s a great idea, Daddy!”
~~~~~~~
All of us at the SCWC pray that your own Thanksgiving gatherings--whether joyful or tinged with sadness; traditional or different than you expected--will remind you of the blessings God has gifted you with. May you remember to be grateful in all things, and to extend that gratitude to others.
And may your writing be fruitful during the busy holiday season. Take time, when you can, to connect with the season through your writing. It will make the upcoming days even more special.
If you'd like to participate in our next monthly challenge, you can do so! We'd love to hear from you.
The December SCWC Writing Challenge is this:
Select a favorite Christmas hymn or song, then write a short devotion based on its title. Keep the devotion to 700 words or less, and include a prayer and Bible verse. Submit it to scwritersconference@gmail.com by Dec. 22.
Happy Thanksgiving, and thank you for your support of the SCWC.
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