2011 - 2012

“Seeking to encourage and recognizeexcellence in creative writing.”

Award Winning

Poetry, Short Stories&

Nonfi ction

“Seeking to encourage and recognize excellence

in creative writing.”

http://wayne.uakron.edu/writers/student-writing-awards.dot

Award Winning

Poetry, Short Stories & Nonfiction

2011 - 2012

Selection CommitteeJohn P. Kristofco, Ph.D.,

Emeritus Professor of EnglishDr. Susanna K. Horn

Coordinator of Developmental Programs

Poetry Mirror Tears (1st Place) ................................................. 1 VeroniCa ToTh, Medina

Disconnect (2nd Place) .................................................. 2 Darlene MulleTT, Doylestown

Sink (3rd Place) ............................................................... 3 DeniCe roVira hazleTT, Millersburg

Blackberries (Honorable Mention) .................................. 4 T.M. gÖTTl, Brunswick

Short Story Epidemic (1st Place) ....................................................... 5 DeniCe roVira hazleTT, Millersburg

The Visitor (2nd Place) ................................................... 9 Kira uhler, Wooster

Hidden Treasure (3rd Place) ....................................... 13 CaTherine a. aDaMS, Beach City

Coping With Hospital Attire (Honorable Mention) ....... 15 eDwarD SChroCK, Millersburg

Nonfiction Going It Alone (1st Place) ............................................ 17 regan Meier, Wooster Soldier’s Children (2nd Place) ..................................... 21 KaTlyne MeaDe, Smithville Dummy Nest (3rd Place) .............................................. 24 MelinDa S. neuhauSer, Burbank

2011 - 2012 Regional Writing Awards

First Place - Poetry

1

Mirror TearsI throw the light of my spirit underhand,

to the moon,

but it shatters on its way;

rains premature jagged shards

on the grass

I taste mirror tears on the ground

the endeavors of a life

lie in pieces below me

I scoop up a handful and watch –

the heavens twinkle in my hand,

amplified by my failures

by Veronica Toth • Medina

Second Place - Poetry

Disconnect

The lone flint arrowhead tilled up in our garden felt cool like the morningit was found; suddenly, I was weaving a pine needle basket and wanting to fill it with hickory nuts from a gray squirrel’s cache, elderberry blossoms to dry for winter tea, blackberries to sweeten meals, and night fears filtered by dream-catchers to be emptied into the river’s swift water.My mind-woven basket was filled withsun-drenched days, owled nights,autumn’s forage and stolen memories.

by Darlene Mullett • Doylestown2

Third Place - Poetry

by Denice Rovira Hazlett • Millersburg

Sinki left the water runningoh my godi left the water running whenyou asked me to walk to the cornerto bum cigarettesand laugh at call girls

it filled the bathroom sinkwhat is thisthat i had stopped with an old washcloth the front door clicked you took my hand and our feet hit the pavement

it seeped through the ceilingplease don’t cryas we swung our arms past the deli past the lady with one eye and seven dirty kids

it ran over the table it’s okay soaked our best laid plans the stack of unpaid bills and the laptop we bought on credit last week

it rolled down the stairs i forgive you where we greeted it confused and panicked when we returned to find the flood i’d made

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4

honorable Mention - Poetry

by Tom Göttl • Brunswick

Blackberries

Sisters, unafraid of shifting brick streetsor the silhouette treeshanging on the living room wall,running the late August blackberry trails,picking out lamb’s ear, the flame-flash of gold finches, andthe red vines of poison ivy,we poke at a falling moonbefore resting its weighton the roof of the house.A sideways-winking nightlight,it scatters the stones and the watercollected in autumn’s foreshadowing.

Later, through the cast iron and the tea,over the eggplant and cinnamon,amid the science of the simultaneous,we talk about boysacross the honeycomb and the Swiss chocolate.

And she asks me, “Is this what lifeis all about? Good food and good friends?”

And I answer, “Yes. Yes, I think it is.”

5Epidemic continued on page 6

First Place - Short Story

I didn’t know about the epidemic when I shook Roger Wheeler’s hand. I’m not sure anyone did at that point. We were all going about our regular days, our normal lives, doing the things we tend to do—touching doorknobs and tapping keyboards and sneezing into hands, knowing germs exist, knowing how powerful they are, but feeling so much bigger that we grew careless.

And there wasn’t anything about Roger Wheeler that sent up red flags. There wasn’t anything different about his appearance or general demeanor that would have influenced me one way or the other, not enough to make a conscious decision about touching the man’s hands, that’s for sure. Even when you know there’s an issue, a person clears his throat a little too often, or has a bit of a sniffle, it certainly doesn’t prevent you from extending a hand in greeting, you know? If anything, Roger Wheeler looked better than usual. And, like I said, I didn’t know about the epidemic at that point, anyway.

Even after I knew something was going on, I hadn’t pinpointed it back to Roger. No, that didn’t happen until much later, after it was all over, and those of us who were left started talking about how it happened, when it happened, did I think about Roger, the firmness of his grip, the strength behind that pump. I’m sure it didn’t start with him, but it had to come from somewhere. But where do they ever start, these things?

For me, it was gradual. The day after that meeting, I’d opened my eyes before

Epidemicmy alarm sounded, and, while it wasn’t a huge deal, there was a difference. I can’t describe it any better than that. Just a difference. You wake up each day with your body feeling a certain way, right? And this day, mine didn’t feel that way, but nothing I could put a finger on. I rolled over and kissed Jenn on the cheek, climbed out of bed, and went to work, but it really wasn’t noticeable. Not then. Not until later.

Roger Wheeler was at work that day, too, being his usual egotistical self. I generally try to avoid him, except for when I have to shake his big, dumb hand at meetings, and even then, I say as little as I can. It’s not that he’s necessarily a bad person. I don’t know. Maybe he is. But when he congratulates you on being top salesman of the month, you’re sure he’s really telling you to watch your back. And, while I hate to say it, that annoying smoker’s cough got on my nerves. I guess I like my peace while I’m working, and to hear him in the next cubicle, hacking and coughing, like he was going to choke up a lung, well, it bugged me. All I can say is that I’m glad to get out of there at the end of the day and head home to Jenn, even when she’s not feeling well and all we can do is stay in and watch a movie or sit across from each other doing Sudoku.

By the time I got home, I could really feel it. Especially in my left knee, which has bothered me since I stepped off that dock at Lake Erie and twisted it the wrong way. Usually, when the weather’s rainy or cold, it gnaws at me like nobody’s business.

6

Jenn says that it’s probably arthritis, that it was likely coming on anyway. She says it sucks to get old, doesn’t it? And I pat her on the butt and tell her she’s as fine as the day I met her, she’s the wife of my youth. I ask her where she put the Ibuprofin, and she takes it out of her purse, or off of her nightstand and tosses it to me, tells me to make sure she gets them back, that they’re her lifeblood. Normally I take two, and that’ll take the edge off. But that day, I only took one.

Jenn was making a meal for Laura Durkee’s family because it was her turn. Esther Larson had taken them a pot roast the day before, and even though Laura had said they’d be fine with leftovers, Jenn insisted on putting together a lasagna, in spite of a splitting headache. She doesn’t cook for us much anymore, now that it’s only her and me at home. She usually doesn’t have the energy. But when it’s her turn to make a meal for someone at church who’s had a funeral or a baby or has come home from the hospital, she goes all out, and then she makes enough for us, too. Laura Durkee’s little girl loves lasagna, and Jenn says it’s the least she can do for the poor little thing. All three of our children had been healthy, thank God, but if we’d had one suffering like Laura’s little girl, we’d have appreciated someone making meals for us, too. You never know.

“I think Roger Wheeler’s taking something for that nasty cough,” I told Jenn.

“It’s about time,” she said.“I know. Even his color’s looking

better.”

“Maybe he quit smoking,” Jenn said. “Maybe he realized it was killing him. Could you get the garlic out of the pantry for me?”

“He’s definitely still smoking.” I plucked a head of garlic from the wicker basket and tossed it to her. “He was outside puffing away when I came back from lunch.”

“Hmm,” Jenn split the garlic into cloves. “Well, I’m glad for you, and I hope, whatever he’s doing, he keeps it up, for your sake.”

The next day, Phil from accounting asked me if I wanted to grab lunch down at Coffee Break. Allen from sales joined us, said he hadn’t brought anything because Carol had been in an unusually good mood the night before. They’d gone out dancing, he said, and they’d been out so late she hadn’t had time to pack him a lunch. As a matter of fact, he said, they’d had so much fun, she was still sleeping when he’d left. We all clocked out and walked to the Coffee Break together.

“Dancing?” I said. “Where do you find a place to go dancing anymore?”

“I know!” Allen said. “We haven’t done that in years. But Carol met me at the door after work, said, ‘Let’s go dancing.’ I mean, she barely talks to me lately, and her hips have been so bad, she doesn’t want to climb the steps to bed.”

I thought of what Jenn had said. Getting old sucks. It wouldn’t be long before one of us could no longer climb the steps to bed. At the rate I was going, it would most likely be me.

“I remembered the yellow sign in front of Clyde’s Bar and Grill down on High

Epidemic continued on page 7

Epidemic continued from page 5

7

Street,” Allen said, “so we went there. That place was packed. Young girls in tight jeans, guys wearing cowboy boots. I knew Carol didn’t like that kind of dancing.”

“So where did you go?” Phil asked, squirting a heap of ketchup next to his onion rings.

“We stayed right there,” Allen said, his bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows rising toward his receding hairline. “She said she wanted to dance, and she didn’t care what kind of dancing it was. I had a heck of a time keeping up with her, what with my asthma and all. I kept thinking, ‘Man, my old bones are gonna pay for this at work tomorrow.’ But you know what? I feel great.”

Phil slurped an onion out of its breading. “You guys want one of these things? No way I can eat ‘em all.” He dangled a greasy O over my plate.

I shook my head. “I love ‘em, but my gall bladder doesn’t. I’d be up all night with only the toilet for company.”

“Aw, come on,” he said, wiggling the ring. “Try one. They’re the best in town”

I hadn’t been able to eat a single delicious fried thing since college. I knew I was going to be sorry.

But, that night, I slept like a log. Not so much as a gurgle.

By Monday, everyone knew about the epidemic. If they didn’t have it, they knew someone who did. Roger Wheeler’s hacking cough had completely disappeared. Allen’s wife’s nightly demands for dancing turned into long hikes and bike rides. Allen caught it, too. Within a week, his asthma was gone, and

he was talking about early retirement. They wanted to hike the Appalachian Trail. The pain in my knee, in fact, in all of my joints, pain I hadn’t even noticed before, had disappeared. I had more energy than when I was a young man in a young body. When it was apparent that something bizarre was going on, Allen went to his doctor. Dr. Raymond guessed it was a virus, said if you could catch one that made you sick, he guessed it was possible to catch something that made you feel great. And like some viruses that leave you with joint pain, or learning disabilities, cold sores, or even cancer, this one could possibly leave an infected person feeling better for years and years.

A bunch of infected folks went to the hospital to smother Laura Durkee’s little girl with kisses and hugs. Each of us took turns drinking from her water glass. Carol was worried that somebody might have some other virus, a bad one, one that would make her worse. But the doctors said there wasn’t a worse, that this was as bad as it could get. For three days in a row, the waning little thing had a string of visitors, holding her hand, kissing her lips, sucking on her straw. Even big, dumb Roger Wheeler came in and took a slurp. On the fourth day, Laura said she was perking up. On the fifth day, her color was better. On the sixth day, she fell into a coma, and that was the last time she opened her eyes. At the little girl’s funeral, Jenn gave Laura Durkee a big, sobbing hug, each clinging to the other and asking why, why? Jenn had to go sit in the car with her head in her hands. She’d taken

Epidemic continued on page 8

Epidemic continued from page 6

four Ibuprofen, she’d said, but the pain wouldn’t go away.

In the meantime, I kept feeling better. For a solid week, I could barely sleep, I had so much energy. Roger Wheeler felt so great, he quit smoking and started riding his bike to work. He lost 23 pounds and, I swear, some of his hair started growing back, but maybe it looked that way because his head wasn’t so fat anymore. He called in to say he was taking a sick day. The boss said he couldn’t do that, and Roger argued that he had a virus, and that should count. The boss said no way, to get to work or lose his job. When he didn’t show, we figured he was thumbing his nose at The Man. When I came back from lunch, the office was unusually quiet. Phil told me that a bottled water delivery truck had swung left of center to avoid a cat. Neither Roger nor his old yellow Schwinn stood a chance.

Jenn’s doctor prescribed these 800 mg horse pills to take three times a day. Sometimes, that would knock out the pain. Other days, she’d stay in bed all day with the lights off, the shades pulled down, a warm compress stretched across her eyes. I did all I could to give her the virus. I’d kiss her until she couldn’t take it anymore, until she’d beg me to stop. I’d climb in bed next to her, the two of us silent in the dark, her back against my belly, my chin on the top of her head. I could almost feel it throbbing.

by Denice Rovira Hazlett • Millersburg

Epidemic continued from page 7

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The Visitor continued on page 10

Second Place - Short Story

My wife and I had recently bought a bed and breakfast on the coast of Maine called Camden Cottage after retiring – although buying something so we have to work harder isn’t much of a retirement, is it? Nonetheless, we enjoy it and it’s always something we’ve wanted to do. Camden Cottage has been open for three short summer moths and so far our business has been decent. People come from around the world, but most of our customers are from within the states. We have had honeymooners here checking out the Maine coast for the first time along with multi-generation families passing on their memory of an old familiar home. All come to do a little sightseeing which includes a lighthouse, Stone Harbor Light, not far from our home. Stone Harbor Light has been converted into a museum which our friend, Patrick, looks after. I must admit it doesn’t make for a bad sight from my bedroom window. On any given day, most of our guests accompany Patrick on one of his infamous tours there. Once they arrive back to the bed and breakfast they often share stories, the spooky kind people like to tell at night. By the end of the evening they’re all too nervous to go to bed. Not me. I don’t listen to their tales. I don’t believe in ghosts. My wife and I had just said farewell to our last customers, and had the privilege

The Visitorof relaxing the next few days since no one was booked for that time. We had just fallen asleep when a light started flashing through our window. “Mary, would you mind closing the curtain?” I asked my wife. I heard her get up but she didn’t close the curtain. “Ben, get up. Take a look at this.” Mary said. I crawled out of bed myself and looked out the window. Sure enough that old lighthouse lamp was lit and turning. “I didn’t think it worked anymore.” She uttered. “It doesn’t.” I replied. “And no one is supposed to be in there at this hour.” “Do you suppose someone broke in?” “I don’t know what else it could be. Even Patrick wouldn’t play a trick like that.” “I think you should call the police, Ben.” Mary closed the curtain and I went over to the night stand and called the police. After hanging up the phone, I told Mary they were on their way and that we should go back to sleep since it’s in their hands now. She looked nervous but nodded and climbed back into bed. Not long after, the lighthouse lamp was off.

v v v

The next day Mary and I headed into

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town to pick up some things at the grocery store. On our way in we ran into another good friend, Officer Leonard Wyatt. “Good morning, Officer Wyatt,” I called. “Good morning, Ben. Mary. No one staying at the B & B today?” He asked. “Not today or tomorrow,” I answered. “Well what lovely weather to have the off. You two deserve it, as busy as you keep.” “Not as busy as you. Speaking of, did you hear anything about the lighthouse last night?” Officer Wyatt had been in a cheery mood until the mention of the call. His expression was suddenly one of concern. “I was there with two other officers last night, Ben, and we didn’t find a thing. No sign of a break in and we had to wake up pat to let us in the lighthouse.” “Was Pat sleeping there?” asked Mary. “Oh no. He had to drive over. I wondered if he had been working on the light, but it definitely was not him.” “How was it lit then? And how did you turn it off?” she questioned again. “That’s the thing, Mary. We don’t know. By the time we reached the top, it was off.” “You mean none of you turned the light off?” I asked now becoming confused. “No. There was no trace of how that happened either. The bulb was cold to the touch and no sign of a fire. On top of that,

the door to the top was still locked. Pat had to open it to let us near the lamp.” “Oh, my.” Mary whispered. “I feel the same way. It’s all a mystery to us. Let me know if you two notice anything else, or if it happens again, will you?” “Of course, Officer Wyatt,” I replied. “Good day.” He tipped his hat then walked down the street back to the station. “Ben, how could that be? We saw it lit plain as day,” Mary whispered. “I know. There has to be an explanation. Things don’t just happen like that by themselves.” “I agree, but it does make me nervous.” “No need to be nervous, Mary. I’m sure they’ll find an explanation and we’ll all have a laugh about it in the end.” I tried to reassure her. Later than night, summer had decided to depart us with one of her mightier storms. It angered the ocean, and though we were a safe distance from it, you could hear the waves thrashing against the rocky shore. I read the paper next to the fireplace while Mary was in the bath. The wind pounded the rain against the house and along with the next clap of thunder there came a knock at the door. “Who could be out in this weather?” I mumbled as I got up to answer the door. I opened it, and there in the pouring rain stood a young lady in

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The Visitor continued on page 12

a colonial night gown. Her dark drenched hair clung to her face which was pale with fright. She was in hysterics saying, “My husband! His ship! He didn’t make it!” “Good heavens! Please, come in out of the storm!” I coaxed her inside and grabbed a blanket from the couch to throw over her shoulders. “Here, sit by the fire, Miss. I’ll go make you some tea.” She nodded then sat in my chair, and her shivering began to subside. After putting the kettle on the stove I snuck upstairs to inform Mary of our unexpected guest. “Mary?” I asked while knocking on the bathroom door. “Come in.” She called. She was in her robe, ready to head to the bedroom when she looked up at me startled. “Gracious, Ben! What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Mary, there’s a woman downstairs.”“A woman? Out in this dreadful

weather?”“I know. That’s what I thought. She

knocked on the door while you were in the bath. She’s very upset and said something about how her husband’s ship didn’t make it.”

“Oh, dear. I should make some tea.”“I’ve already put the kettle on.”“I’ll go down and talk to the poor

thing then. You should call the police.”“I’m calling them much too frequently

lately.” Mary got dressed and we went downstairs. Just as I was about to dial, the tea kettle whistled and at the same moment Mary called for me. I hung up and rushed

to the living room.“Ben, where did you leave her?”

Mary questioned. I began to panic.“She was right there, sitting in my

chair with that wool blanket wrapped around her.” But she wasn’t there anymore. All that lay in my chair was the blanket, still curved from being wrapped around her body. Mary looked up at me frightened.

“Oh Ben, she can’t be out in this.”I nodded. “I’ll go look for her. She

couldn’t have gone far.” Mary went into the kitchen and turned off the burner under the kettle. I threw on my slicker boots and grabbed a flashlight then ventured outside. I walked around the house but couldn’t go any further for the wind was too strong, and the rain made it difficult to see. Once back inside, the look of hope on Mary’s face vanished. “No sight of her. Maybe a friend knew where she was and picked her up.”

“I hope you’re right,” she responded then went upstairs to bed. Before heading to bed myself, I called the police to let them know this lady might be out wandering on the storm. They said they would keep an eye out for her. I later discovered they found no sight of her either.

v v v

It had been three days since the incident of the lighthouse and our late

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visitor. Our bed and breakfast was full of last minute vacationers before schools started up again, and the weather had been beautiful. One evening I overheard the guests discussing the lighthouse tour they had gone on earlier that day. I normally don’t bother listening, but something in their story caught my attention. It was the mention of a lady ghost looking for her husband. I told myself that it’s only a coincidence since there is no such thing as ghosts. That story, however, stayed on my mind and kept me up most of that night.

The next morning I asked Mary if she would mind caring for the bed and breakfast by herself for a little while; I wanted to check out the lighthouse tour that our guests found so intriguing. After lunch, I drove over and was just in time for a two o’clock tour. The tour guide informed the group about what life was like to work and live in a lighthouse. Then he started to recite a story – one of a woman who stayed here with the keeper and his family while her husband was out at sea. During that time, the keepers used whale oil to light the lanterns, but it didn’t produce a strong enough light to be noticed by the sailors. The night her husband was due home, a terrible storm arose. The captain should have been warned about the rocks at shore, but the dim light failed

by Kira Uhler • Wooster

The Visitor continued from page 11

to signal them. Sadly their ship wrecked, leaving no survivors. The woman became so upset and full of guilt she jumped into the ocean to be with her husband. “But it seems it wasn’t her time yet,” reported the tour guide. “For whenever the storms get bad enough to churn the ocean, her spirit appears on land, looking for her husband. And if you look on that wall behind you, you’ll see a picture of her from when she lived here.” I turned around to look at the portrait. All of a sudden, I felt my stomach drop, and the color fade from my face. It was her – the lady who came to my door. Another tourist beside me looked at me and asked, “Sir, are you ok? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” I swallowed, for all I could say in return was, “I have.”

12

Owning a used book store, I have seen many unusual titles and books in every condition over the years. The most interesting book I’ve ever seen, however, came to me about six weeks ago. In the 1950’s and 60’s, there were several series for young readers, ages 10 to 14: The Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew Mysteries and Trixie Belden Adventures, to name three. It was a Trixie Belden volume that I found intriguing.

I’d just received a carton of the old adventures, and I was cataloging and shelving them when I saw a glob of dried glue near the spine on one of the books. I flipped open the cover and found that all the pages were glued together except the first few leaves. Turning those first pages, I discovered a rectangular hole had been carefully cut out of the center of the glued pages. In the hollow lay a New Testament. A time-worn, gold symbol on the front cover identified the Bible as one distributed by the Gideons. I was given one the week I turned thirteen...probably just a coincidence, but in my childish reasoning, I considered it a birthday present from God.

Why would a child need to hide a Bible in a work of fiction, I wondered. What possible home conditions could precipitate such a secretive decision? I needed to find the original owner and ask her. My natural curiosity had often led me into impossible searches in the past and it could again, with this mystery.

I turned back to the flyleaf and saw a tiny signature and phone number written in the upper, left corner. My heart raced with delight. I had a clue. I might just be able

Hidden Treasureto find Connie Hartline and learn the story behind this unusual box she made to hide the New Testament. It was a long shot, but maybe...just maybe, I’d find her.

“Come with me, Trixie. We’re going to look for Connie in cyberspace.” I went to my corner desk and sat before my computer. “Search–white pages.” I typed Connie’s old number into the telephone directory site. “Here goes.” To my surprise, the name of Donald Hartline popped onto the screen. Same number, still active and assigned to a family in my state. “That was too easy.” But when I dialed the number penciled in the book, it rang and was answered.

“I’m looking for Connie Hartline. Do you know her?”

“Yes.” A pause. “Why do you ask?” She sounded suspicious.

“My name is Denise Sutton, and I own a used book store. I recently got a box of old Trixie Belden Adventures. One of them has her name and this phone number in it. That particular book had the pages glued together and then a rectangle was cut from the middle to become a box. In the box was a New Testament. I was curious as to the reason a person needed to hide her Bible, that’s all.” I tried to sound casual.

“I’m Connie. I suppose there’s no need to keep the secret now. When I was twelve, the Gideons came to my school and gave Bibles to each sixth grader. They wouldn’t be allowed to do that today.”

“That’s a pity. Kids shouldn’t miss the opportunity to investigate Christianity.”

“I agree. And I did. I read that little Bible from cover to cover, several times,

Third Place - Short Story

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over summer vacation. I decided Jesus was the real God and I needed to know Him. I asked Jesus to forgive me and take control of the rest of my life.”

“That’s wonderful! I also accepted Jesus as my Savior when I was a child.” I was thrilled. I’d found a sister in Christ.

“My parents didn’t think so. They were atheists, enjoying the hippie lifestyle of free love and marijuana parties.”

“I’m sorry.”“Me, too. They threatened to burn my

Bible, so I hid it. Told them I gave it away. I read it under the covers in bed each night, using a flashlight to see.”

“Did they ever catch you reading it?”“Once, almost. But I picked up Trixie

and faked reading her story. It was too close.”

“I can’t imagine having to keep my faith a secret. Everyone in my family was a Christian before I was.”

“Well, my mother came to believe in Jesus as her Savior after my dad passed away. I live with her now, as her care-giver.”

“And your dad–did he know the Lord?”She hesitated before replying. “I’m not

sure. A couple days before he died, I told him the Gospel message. He was heavily medicated for pain and couldn’t speak, but when I urged him to accept Jesus’ payment for his sins, Dad looked me in the eye like he was trying to tell me something, and I saw a tear escape from one eye. I want to believe he was convinced that Jesus could forgive him and wanted Dad in Heaven with Him.”

“Sounds very possible. I pray he did.” “I have an inner peace about it...hard to

describe, but I’m not afraid for Dad. I feel he is not suffering, but happy.”

“Too bad your parents didn’t come to faith sooner–when you were young. Life would have been easier for you.”

“I don’t have any regrets. It made my faith stronger. I didn’t make a horrible mistake, like a lot of my friends, and marry the wrong man right out of high school, either. God saved me from the heartache of divorce. And maybe from being a single mother. Yeah, I’m okay with my past.”

“That’s great. Well, thank you for solving a mystery for me. I appreciate your time, Connie.”

“What are you going to do with my Bible and the Trixie Belden box?”

“Uh, I don’t know. I plan on selling the rest of the set in my bookstore.” The next thought came to me from some higher place. “Would you like to have that volume back? I can mail it to you.”

“Could you? That would be great!”“Sure.” And I did that same day.A week later, I received a thank you

note from Connie. Included was a photo of her holding the book open to show the New Testament in it. She and I have kept in touch through e-mails for the past month. I have two sisters in the Lord that I just met, and plan on visiting Connie and her mother next week. It’s only an hour’s drive.

I think I’ll take my family’s photo album to show them how I grew up. And maybe a cake to celebrate.

by Catherine A. Adams • Beach City

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honorable Mention - Short Story

Having enjoyed a retreat in the hospital recently, and gained some very useful information during that period, I feel charitable and wish to pass on some information to anyone who anticipates such an event in his own life.

It would be difficult to choose which area I should amplify to the reader. However, there is one particular piece of information that cries out to be heard above all others.

It is the matter of personal attire, specifically hospital attire.

I should mention that while I was indeed in need of hospital care, I was also able to be up and about. In fact, I was encouraged to take my exercise strolling up and down the corridors.

This I did. The kind nurse helped me to my feet and having donned a gown provided by said nurse, I set sail. The omnipresent IV tree rolled along beside me.

With my free hand the tree and I progressed unsteadily along. I passed a nurses station, continued on down the hall. At the end I turned around and made to return to my room.

As I approached the nurses’ station I found three nurses behind the desk, all of whom appeared to be in acute pain. They were hiding their faces and gasping. They were laughing. After a moment, it dawned on me as to what was the cause of the discomfort. So I admit that in my carelessness I was the source of their laughter. My gown was wide open at the afterdeck. I wondered why I had not felt the draft before.

Coping With Hospital AttireThis gave me the resolve to learn

the proper way to fasten these simple garments. I would not entertain anyone in this fashion again.

I laid out a fresh gown on my bed and was puzzled to note that the thing had no sleeves, no waist, nor a collar. There were only a few random appendages extending from the main body of the fabric. I studied the thing for a while finding no apparent pattern to it. Such a state. I could no longer dress myself. Well, this was a dilemma.

After a while I devised a plan by which I could remember how to secure myself.

Having stared at it a while I noticed that it seemed to take on the shape of the Atlantic Ocean, as seen from high above, with the entire Western Hemisphere as its borders. Remember that there is a vast zigzag pattern to the ocean, that shape being lent by the bulge of Africa and the corresponding notch out of South America. Now some order came to mind as I studied it and I decided that I had indeed found the key to the mastery of this rag.

There are a variety of strings, flaps and fasteners affixed to it, seemingly all at odd intervals and points. So I gave these various characteristics names, geographic names. These would be easy to remember and would guide the weary traveler to success

The first step is to seize the string lying over Portugal in the right hand and the string over the Gaspe Peninsula with

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the left. These are tied around the neck.Next we form sleeves of a sort with

some more geographical points. The two rows of fasteners can be found from Atlanta, Georgia and Ocala, Florida on the left and on the right we find the fasteners straddling the Equator across Africa.

These two laughable provisions must be fastened around the arms. If you have trouble with the little fasteners in this step the fabric can be held in place against the doorjamb. Also, be careful that you allow the IV tube to extend from your hand unimpeded.

The last but most important step is to secure the bottom of the garment lest you cause mirth among the staff again. This employs another set of strings, these originating at the Falkland Islands on the west and just south of Madagascar on the east. They should be grasped and brought around behind yourself and tied there. But it is imperative not to over tighten these. Too tight and when you next sit down the garment will bind up like a stove pipe and rip. Also, should you suddenly find yourself needing to undress quickly you may find yourself engaged in a losing struggle ending in a calamity of another sort.

Too loose and you have little protection against exposure to the elements and the nurses’ station. You might as well not have it about you.

Try as I might, this is as simple as I could make it. So take courage and a deep breath (unless something inside

hurts when you do). You’ll get the hang of it after a few tries. Just keep in mind that there is one more solution if all else fails. Simply prepare yourself in advance with several pairs of civilized pajamas. Get well soon.

by Edward Schrock • Millersburg

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First Place - Nonfiction

Going It AloneOptions were not something I knew

I had upon finding myself to be pregnant. You’re probably thinking to yourself: You mean you didn’t know? Sure, yeah, I knew that I could give birth to the baby--or not. Keep the baby--or not. These possibilities didn’t concern me, however. Another one did: I didn’t know that I could have the baby in a hospital--or not.

The previous year I had spent time in a village deep in the Amazon rainforest. Getting there involved 3 days on an old steam boat and then a few hours by canoe from any type of “civilization”. We docked and after climbing a steep, eroding hill in the middle of the jungle, we arrived. Our guides knew the language and customs, thus they broke the ice and introduced us to the 50 or so inhabitants; Amazonian natives rarely seen by the wider world. The men’s bodies were hard and sculpted from the strength involved in their daily lives. Little girls told giggly secrets and the little boys played soccer on a makeshift field. Wise-looking and ancient grandmothers and grandfathers peered at us suspiciously while swinging in shaded hammocks. And then, as if in a separate category, there were the mothers with babies. As a unit they stood out to me in a way that felt unfamiliar, the infants with their wide easy eyes, strapped to the backs of their mothers who radiated a sort of maternal delight I’d never seen before. A closeness fused the two–both bodily and psychic–and it felt good. It felt alive and charged with energy. Quickly I tried to recall the mothers and babies that were most common in my memory, and they

all seemed to have a different air about them, a certain distance that comes along with the way most of life is lived in the States: hospitals, bottle feeding, playpens, car seats, daycare. Even the unassuming grocery store, the television, the school. All avenues nonexistent in this jungle life.

Although this encounter was a revelation to me about relationships, it came and went like a soft wind—it was transmitted in a sort of passing. Yet when I found out I was pregnant, it was the jungle that my mind raced immediately to. How, I wondered for the first time, had those women given birth out there, so far away from modern medical facilities? Certainly there were no doctors, no hospitals, nothing of the sort for miles--for days. They must give birth alone with the help of the other women in the tribe. They must be very brave-or were they scared? Birth would sometimes be successful, sometimes not, but those variables were part of their lives. And while the risks were undeniable, I became intrigued by the creativity that was possible in the realm of childbirth. Doctors didn’t have to be a given, nor did hospitals, and my mind rolled this new paradigm round and round in amazement.

I began to research Amazonian birth, but not much literature existed. I did however come across the article “An Ideal of Unassisted Birth,” published in Childbirth and Authoritative Knowledge by anthropologist Megan Biesele in 1997. In it, she describes the ideal birth for San women of Botswana and Namibia:

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“They would give birth outside in the bush alone. Lions and other predators make this practice hazardous, since women also aspire to deliver without a fire if the birth occurs at night. (473).” She went on:

Without telling anyone, she walks a few hundred yards from the village, prepares a cushion of leaves, and gives birth to her child. Accompanied or not, most births occur close enough to the village so that others can hear the baby’s first cries. This signals the women’s female relatives and friends that the child has been born and that the mother may welcome assistance in delivering the afterbirth, cutting the cord and wiping the baby clean. Perhaps carrying the baby for her, other women will accompany her back to the village. Only the most experienced and determined women insist on being alone during these last stages…” (p.480).

In this type of birth, Biesele suggests, a spiritual challenge is presented--one of daring death which is held in high esteem among the San. And if you are successful, you receive praise, gifts of beads and cooked food (a special treat) (p.479).

Reading this, I wondered. Could I have my child on my own? Certainly I had nothing to prove as the San women feel they do. Not having an epidural is considered daring enough in American culture, and of course the risks of unassisted birth weighed heavily on my mind. Yet after careful research, I learned that there were many risks, too, involved in going to the hospital where 30% of women end up with a cesarean--the majority of which are not

necessary. Not to mention the numerous other interventions that 90% of women undergo during a medicalized birth. But besides the statistics, I wondered what it would feel like to undergo something so huge as unassisted childbirth--so challenging--and be successful.

Following another quiet day at home, I went to sleep one evening at ten towards the end of my pregnancy. I had been seeing a lay midwife for regular prenatal exams, and all had been well, I was in excellent health. My mind, too, was clear as a bell when that first labor cramp ripped through me at one in the morning. As the surge of energy hit me, I felt the weight of the pending responsibility fully first, before any other sensation. I would be undertaking this endeavor alone with my husband Glenn, and for the first time since contemplating unassisted birth, I knew I could do it. I went to the bathroom down the hall and crouched on the floor. When a contraction would come I would shake my head back and forth and let it rip through me. They weren’t close together but they weren’t far apart…what they were, I knew intuitively, was perfectly happening to me. I sat for an hour alone in a trance…there were no thoughts running through my head. Nothing positive, nothing negative. Just waves of energy that my mind and heart knew would do what they were supposed to.

At one point my Glenn woke up, and was surprised to see me acting so strange. He asked what was wrong but I couldn’t speak and the encounter became charade-like. He thought I just didn’t want to talk--

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and I didn’t--and went back to bed. So I sat there longer, laboring away, happy to be in my own secret world savoring the wonders of the last few hours of my baby in utero.

A while later he woke up again and eventually realized what was happening. He asked me if I wanted to go into the living room; that he would make me a nice bed on the couch and we could “hang out”. Well, that sounded a little alright at the time, and I was really cramped, so I agreed.

I ran into the living room in between contractions and threw myself face down on our squishy armchair. I was shivering and so Glenn wrapped me up in a blanket very tightly, for reasons that I will never fully understand and he will never be able to explain. The next thing I knew, he had left the room and there I was, wrapped up like a mummy while a huge wave of a contraction hit. I couldn’t move a muscle, and I threw myself on the floor in agony looking like a mad worm. I felt like an angry snake dangling from its tail with no way out of grasp. It was insane. When my husband came back in the room I screamed at him in a tone that can be described as primordial at best--I would have literally ripped his head off if I would have had the energy. But instead he unwrapped me quickly and I desperately ran back to the bathroom.

The bathtub had always been my best friend in times of needed comfort and relaxation as well as bathing, since I did not have a shower growing up. I loved taking a tub bath and still do, so when I hit the warm waters during labor it was a major respite from dealing with those powerful sensations on land. I sat in the

same water, which eventually got quite cold from four in the morning onward, and with each contraction I rocked back and forth creating waves that turned the bathroom floor into a small pond. Glenn was watching me from the other room while my eyes rolled back in my head from the intensity of it all and my ability to speak or reason totally dissolved. I was in a trance, the trance of birth…it felt timeless, and totally beyond my control yet totally mine at the same time.

I labored for about another hour in the cold tub as I had requested, when my husband came in. I hadn’t wanted him near me since the blanket incident but something changed when he began running hot water and letting out the old. It was amazing, the warm water feeling, and it was then that I looked into his eyes. I was scared at first that I could lose my inner compass and concentration, but after a few minutes he grabbed my hands and together we set off on a journey of intensified contractions and the final stage of labor.

By six I was ready to push. Intuitively, I stood up in the tub with my hands against the tiled wall while my thinking mind wondered if it really was indeed time to birth the baby. But as all women who have been in this position know…if it’s time, it’s time. I began blowing my lips like a horse during each contraction as they doubled, tripled, quadrupled on top of each other. I got lost in them, and began to push and push. I screamed at one point, and I remember it sounded so foreign and strange as it was the first sound I had

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made in hours. My water broke with a gentle woosh and out it came--a head. It felt the way it would if you were trying to run with a balloon between your thighs. My husband told me to squat down, but I could only manage to shake my head no, no, no. Inside I felt that I had accomplished something huge, realizing that the birth had been at least half way successful. As the head further immerged I squatted as much as I could. It felt strange to have a body come from inside of me, out into the world, very strange. It was like being a child again, like experiencing an aspect of life that you never had experienced before: Fresh, new, creative and amazing.

No words were spoken for a few minutes and I felt a bit of worry and uncertainty around, as my mind came back onto the playing field. Would the birth be a total success, meaning at this point, that we would all survive? Glenn suctioned the baby’s nose and mouth with his mouth and I heard a glorious cry. We both breathed a sigh of relief and looked deep into each other’s eyes. He announced the baby that I surely believed to be a girl, to be a boy, and I looked down again to see my huge son in one piece and breathing. A moment of joy and exhilaration came and went. We had done it.

by Regan Meier • Wooster

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Second Place - Nonfiction

Soldiers, by nature, are held at the caliber to be loyal, dedicated and faithful. The motto of the United States Marines—the branch my step-dad enlisted into for fifteen years—is Semper Fidelis for a reason. They are fine-tuned to be so, much like machines; they are the product of the factory of boot camp. They are irrevocably physically fit, fatally patriotic, and their work demands the practice of loyalty, dedication and faith; and much like the soldiers themselves, their children are much the same. Though they are not always as physically fit or mechanical in their ethics, they are like them: they are loyal to whoever earns, not deserves, it; dedicated in everything they chose and must do, and to have faith that they can do what they are meant to ultimately do, and almost always root for the underdog so no one is left alone. They are soldier’s children, and the pride they have in their soldier-parent makes them follow their example as closely as they can. (The civilian parent is still a parent and influences their child; but when faced with a Marine or a Mom, it’s fairly obvious which the child is going to absorb more.) They are proud of their soldier and the life being their child gives them; it gives them an in-color view to sides of the government, military and nation that some are never aware of.

We are euphemistically known as military brats.

But the thing about soldiers, though, is that they are also human, and therefore capable of being disloyal, unfaithful, selfish and stupid. Holding the title

Soldier’s Children“soldier,” means one is attributed with so many qualities of positive connotations; but beneath the shroud of that title, soldiers are still human, and with that comes all the qualities that are attributed to humanity. As humans, too, it is easy for non-soldiers—civilians and military brats alike—to forget that.

I did.

Tuesday, August 30th. 1:20 in the afternoon.

I knew the second I saw my sister (instead of at the elementary school) standing next to my mother that something was wrong. She wasn’t sick; she sat their playing her DS. So why had I been summoned to the office by the secretary—unless the war that’d raged in my home had reach an unplanned ceasefire.

“Kat,” Mother had whispered, pulling me into the office doorway. I made eye-contact with the wear-eyed freshman sitting in the office, waiting for the principal. I wished I could trade places with him. I would put my name to his crime willingly, to avoid hearing—

“Jason moved out this morning.”I had taken all of a minute to absorb

the reality of my step-dad no longer living with us, and then I had told my mother to take me home. My mind had already begun making lists: assess our funds, plan out meals off the food we have, take inventory of anything we could do without for a yard sale, clean the house, quit cross country, transfer out of marching band, get a job…as each task came to me I

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mentally wrote them down, and mentally organized them into order of importance and necessity. As a human, I processed his leaving. As a robot I started planning, because that’s how I was raised to be; when there’s a problem, you fix it any way you can. You set aside your emotions and fix the problem with everything you have. You can be human when it is fixed.

Much like my step-dad, though, I couldn’t neglect my own humanity. As much as the soldier mindset was engraved into my being…I could organize, plan, and strategize as robotically as possible…but I was simultaneously still human, and putting that aside was difficult, to say the least. My step-dad had been a soldier, and for so long in my life I viewed him as a bona fide hero for his dedication, patriotism, faithfulness and strength. He was the posterman for the Marine Corps in my mind—

until he left.I realized when he left that I had

done what most military brats often do: I over-glorified my soldier beyond human capabilities. I took him at face value as a Marine, and forgot about the human he simultaneously still was underneath the surface.

So even though I was able to make lists and help my mother start to put our life back in order, I was still human. Even though I’d been raised to put my emotions aside until the problem was fixed, I couldn’t. My step-dad was the Marine, after all, and he couldn’t set aside his humanity; I was just a brat.

What was the point, anyway? I asked myself several times as the days managed

to blur into weeks without him. What is the point in fighting? What was the point? Why not just give up? I was questioning why I was fighting so hard to fix things, when the person who taught me to fight had left and done the opposite of what he’d taught me…

I’m seventeen. It’s the summer—two months—before he left. I’ve spontaneously decided to go out for the cross country team for my senior year.

“It’s going to suck for a while,” he had explained to me about running. “It won’t be easy. But what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. No pain without any gain, baby. Push it, and you’ll be rewarded in the end.”

“Is that cliché garb what you tell your Marines to encourage them? It’s a wonder they do anything; it has to be hard to run with all that cheese oozing out of your ears constantly,” I had mused jokingly to my step-dad, doing toe-touches as he spoke to warm up.

“You warm up like a cheerleader,” he chided me, but then he had grown serious again: “Yes, I tell my Marines this. Not because it’s cheesy—because it’s true. Dedication has the sweetest rewards in the end. Whether it’s dedication to running, cross country, student council, Girl Scouts, a boyfriend, your family…anything and everything you do. Stay dedicated, and you’ll be rewarded in the end. Better than those who put no dedication in.”

My step-dad raised my sisters and I like that, in the military lifestyle, and

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by Katlyne Meade • Smithville

so we learned that in order to better our situation, we have to fight; and we were taught to fight like soldiers do and fix what we do not think is right, and to stand up against injustices for others and in our own lives.

We were taught how to be strong. We were raised to be strong.

But there comes an inevitable point where you have to remind yourself that even your soldier-teachers are human, and humans make mistakes. It’s up to you to decide what is best for you when a mistake is made.

I over-glorified my step-dad because he was a Marine; that was my mistake, but it’s one that most do make. I forgot that underneath the title of, “Marine,” he was still a human, capable of messing up and disloyally abandoning his post. It was him, acting as a human, not a Marine, who gave up. I am human, as well, but I am also a military brat, and I was raised to be more, just like my step-dad was trained to be more. He messed up, though, like humans do. After all he’d been trained to be as a soldier, he decided to be human and give-up.

Even though it seemed pointless to fight when a Marine himself had given up, I had to keep fighting. Giving up should never be an option for a Marine, and it shouldn’t be for a military brat, either. They were trained to be more than a quitter–

and as a brat I was raised to be more.

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Tonight, I stood in the December rain, listening with shut eyes, as it repelled off the hood of my barn coat, and slid down my cheeks in a pre winter caress. Sighing, I honed in, for just a moment, on the sounds of my world. Horses contentedly munching their hay, rain on the steel roof above their heads, and the sound of the creek, many yards away, carrying away the swollen effect of two days of heavy downpour. Trees, now bare of leaves, brought out the symphonic melody of the wind, and everywhere, in all the places in between, was the sound of peace. The music of God.

I attribute my love of nature as being a gift from my mother. Even as a child, I watched her as we walked with a quiet bond through the wooded acres of her childhood home. Seemingly, without being aware, she would reach out as we passed massive trees, her hands touching the fissured bark lovingly. She would rescue animals, birds especially, from fates that should have been their end. Then stand in grace, with her hands spread as she released them back into the sky, her face turned upward, watching in pride as they flew away, recharged and healed. She often joked, and still does now, that her love of birds stemmed from our family’s Cherokee Heritage, or specifically, the Bird Clan from which our gene pool came. Once upon a time, I would laugh with her. But now, as each year goes by, I see more truth than humor. How else could this have been passed on to me? If not, by the grace of family.

When my husband and I built our home, on the outside edge of what acreage was left of my family’s farm, the land was

Dummy Nestbare, but for a tree line to the south of our home. That first spring, I planted dozens of trees. I was not picky. Douglas firs, scotch pines, and blue spruces soon dotted our acreage. From my mother’s woods, I dug up wild cherry, pin oak, ash and maple. The few trees I bought from local nurseries, dotted intermittently with the wild and the dark dots of small pines. My bewildered husband stood and watched, I am sure, wondering how he would ever mow around my new menagerie. When friends would ask me, “Why so many” My answer was instant.

“There are no birds. If I plant trees, the birds will come.” If they thought me crazy, they were gracious enough not to tell me. Quite the opposite, in fact, as the children in their lives would bring me cardboard potted arbor day giveaways, which they were unable to plant in their apartment complex’s backyards of asphalt. I would show them, with our hands in the soil, how to plant the saplings lovingly, promising one day, that they would see a tree larger than themselves. As this promise came true, fairly quickly, I began to feel the connection to nature even more. An act of love is a thing that children can recognize instinctively. Even when it consists of patting soil with bare hands, around the tiny roots of a promise.

There are an inordinate amount of lessons to be learned from animals. And in both pets and nature, the lessons are very different, yet very much the same, so long as an open eye and heart are allowed to be. One such lesson, came from a pair of geese that a friend put on our lake. They were Bean geese, heavy, gray,

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domesticated geese with a barking call that is reminiscent of trumpets. Within a month of the geese coming to stay, the gander wandered the long distance between water and road, and was killed by a car, leaving the female goose alone. Widowed and lonely, it did not take her long before she too left the water, but journeyed the distance to my home. The first day she paid a visit, my husband called me with concern, because my largest, and most ornery horse was rubbing his mouth all over her back. But he never harmed her. Instead, she walked the field every day to join him. When he laid down in the sun, on a cold fall day, she would nestle down in the crook of his massive belly, no doubt warm and snug, and when he ate his hay or grain in the pasture he, to this day, moves his big body over to share his dinner with her. Friendship does not always know a boundary of species, and such is the case of theirs. Over the past winter, a particularly rough one, she would journey to my barn from the frozen lake, trailing a long line of wild ducks in her wake. They would wait as she stood calling them, as I stood bundled in winter gear in the barnyard, and poured corn out into the snow. The water foul would devour the grain, then make a get away back to the shallow creek that often left at least one spot thawed, much to their benefit. By this time, as she became more sociable, sometimes standing to look through our large front doors, my children dubbed her the name, “Goosey Lucy”. Much to their delight, she responds to this. When called, amid the crazy flapping of large wings, she makes her heavy approach to land for dinner, or a kind word. She has brought wild geese and their goslings for meals, the domesticated ducks of my

neighbors, and sometimes just herself. Her triumph however, was at the end of this past summer. I can only suppose that the young ducks she adopted had lost their parents. But in doing so, they gained a goose. Twice a day, she would shepherd them to my barn; wings outspread around them in a protective gesture. These were her adopted children, her wards. She would watch as they ate their corn, her pretty head cocked sideways as she watched me working. An understanding between us, in the bonds of motherhood.

There have been many sightings and special glances over the years, from a straying bald eagle, to the soaring of a broad winged whooping crane, who for all I can figure, made a wrong turn somewhere in his trained navigational path. And in all these instances, I have taken something from each, that led me to hold a warmer heart. Nature is incredible, in her way of weaving and twining lives together, to form the web of survival that we, as humans, have to a large degree, forgotten. A Marsh Wren, last year, taught me much in the way of community, of giving, even though the nesting pair that I was blessed to share my yard with undoubtedly did not do so out of the kindness of their hearts. More so, some ingrained rule of law, of nature, that has been so programmed over the generations of this bird, simply took control and the pair only did what their little computer chip minds commanded them to do.

A Marsh Wren is not that unusual in this part of Ohio, but I had never seen them in live action until I was tracking my errant dog through my backyard, and was suddenly the victim of such a fierce attack

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of tittering and scolding, that I turned my eyes up to see what was making such a fuss. Inside a large blue spruce, woven into its needles, branches, and the silver blue trunk that just whispered its presence, sat a basketball sized globe, created of sticks, dry moss, and soft grasses. I stared, dumfounded, as a small brown head poked its head through a perfect orb shaped hole in the globe’s front, sent another avian curse my way, then receded into the womb of this fantastic nest. I left this courting couple alone, albeit watching them from a distance, and was not disappointed. They flew back and forth, moving through the air in short swooping bursts that is reminiscent of cresting water. Their song was pure, trite, and pulled at me like some divining rod that God created, just to entice me, were I so special. But the most fantastic secret these little water birds divulged, was not just in their fantastic engineering feat. The male of this species, unbelievingly, built not one, but four nests, exactly like the one his mate had scolded me from. In their blissful courtship, this determined species has created a male that presents his young bride with a choice of up to four, so called “Dummy Nests”. Of which, only one is chosen by the female. If this was not a fantastic show of endurance and perseverance, I have yet to see a better one. Once she settled into the home of her choosing, and began the serious business of laying and incubating her eggs, something fantastic happened. One by one, the Dummy Nests began to fill with Chickadees, Sparrows, and a more common House Wren. It became a

part of my morning to sit on my deck and watch the happenings in two trees that sat side by side in my yard. As the sparrows took over a globed nest, bits of horse hair and milkweed fluff filled its interior with a downy cushion. The Chickadees and wrens also added their own interior work, and soon, there were four species of birds, living side by side in two trees, and getting along as beautifully as if it were meant to be. Which leads to an even more exhilarating thought. Perhaps it was.

Perhaps God shows us his face every day, in the beauty of a sunrise, or the churning of the sea. These are things we look for and most people notice. But I think, more often than not, that God’s hand is shown to us with fingers uncurled, presenting small things, like a lonely goose that becomes a surrogate mother. Or perhaps, in the finely tuned machine that nature gears up for every day, in ways that people tend to overlook. Myself, I find God in my own backyard, in small moments that I hold in my heart like worry stones in a pocket. Warm and comforting, and ready to be pulled out when I need a redemption of my faith. One just has to be ready to find such a moment in a small brown bird whose song is thrilling enough to make a heart weep. A small brown bird, who in building a castle for his mate, houses three separate families of birds, side by side, to live in harmony, within the blues, greens and taupes of nature. And I hope, that one sees the irony in the end. That all of those feathered families, brought together by chance, are housed in what some human, dubbed, a “Dummy Nest.”

by Melinda S. Neuhauser • Burbank

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The university of akron is an equal education and employment institution

1901 Smucker Road • Orrville, OH 44667www.wayne.uakron.edu