Follow Me to Little Jesus: Part 3

June 18, 2026/0 Comments/in Catholic Fiction, Faith, Family Life, Short Story/by Mary McWilliams

Follow Me to Little Jesus: Part 3

Bart revealed the first message of the Little Jesus vision.

“‘Follow me,” he said the first week. Only Amie heard him.

“Catholics aren’t required to believe in private revelation,” Maeve said impatiently.

“Right you are, Miss,” Mel agreed. “But I would challenge you to tell that to anyone who’s been to Medjugorje. And not everyone on that day believed. Some saw and just went about their business. If you recall, folks didn’t much take to the visions of Fatima and Lourdes at first. Or to St. Faustina and the Lord’s message of Divine Mercy.”

Maeve blushed and looked down, examining her hands. Her cousin experienced healing at Medjugorje, one Maeve believed.

“You said the first week, Bart. Did he come back?” Ross was captivated by the story and images.

The sequence showed people kneeling around the little boy.

“Indeed, he did,” Mel said like an animated docent giving a tour. For two more Sundays. He came to the shore, each time walking out from the early morning fog, delivering his message to Amie, then disappearing back into the mist.

“What were the other messages?” Maeve asked, surprised by her sudden interest.

“His second message was ‘Fear not.’ Just like Jesus said so many times in Scripture,” Mel said.

They moved to another sketch. The people in the image were kneeling like the other, but the focal point was Amie and Little Jesus. Amie was also kneeling, with both arms outstretched toward him, looking as though she were pleading with him.

“She didn’t want him to go,” Bart said. “She begged him to stay. ‘We need you, Little Jesus, please stay!’ Before he left, he said, ‘I am with you always.’ Until her dying day, Aunt Amie cried when she told people that part.”

“Bart, what did the people think the vision was trying to tell them?” Ross asked.

“As I said, it wasn’t much of a Christian community. You might say it was downright heathen. The only catechesis Amie and her family had was from a missionary priest who got lost trying to find the city. He stayed for a week, preaching and teaching, and baptizing. He left Bibles, rosaries, crucifixes, and a Baltimore Catechism. Amie took it all to heart and believed.”

“What did she think about the vision?” Maeve said. She couldn’t even feign disinterest at this point. Still skeptical, she also wanted to know more.

“Amie thought it was a call to conversion. She essentially became the community’s spiritual leader – at only 13 years old — because she read all of it, over and over, and talked about it all the time. On the night of the first vision, she began leading rosaries at her home for the community. They were out the door, on the porch, and in the yard, praying. Some thought the catches would improve again. But Amie believed the vision wasn’t about them. She said it was about Jesus, and he was calling them.”

Ross continued to scrutinize the sketches. “The messages are eternal,” he said thoughtfully. “Amie must have known that to record everything so meticulously.”

Leo ran over to his parents and held out a plastic statuette of the boy.

“I think Little Jesus is about my age,” he told them. “He grew up to be a carpenter, but he must have loved to fish.”

“Most people had to back then, Leo,” Maeve told him flatly. “But Jesus Christ’s childhood is a mystery to us, other than for a few events recorded in Scripture.”

Bart showed them to their table and took their pie orders. When he returned with the slices, Leo peered at each one and lowered his face to sniff each flavor.

“Mine’s chocolate, but I like the fruit pies too!”

“Sure you do, Son,” Ross said, taking off a large corner of his cherry pie and putting it on Leo’s plate. Maeve did the same with her blueberry. Leo tried those first before his chocolate. He finished his pie quickly without leaving a crumb on the plate and asked to be excused to pick out a statue or picture for their priest, Fr. Ted.

The brothers laughed, delighted by the boy and the closeness of the family. They continued with the history of their little community.

“Around 1930, the catches started to dwindle, and no one knew why. Little by little, it died away,” Mel said. “When the Little Jesus appeared, they were already feeling it. By 1935, there wasn’t enough shellfish to keep a family in stew for a week. Generations had lived off the bay, but now they had to go to the city to work in factories. Times were dire here. Decades later, we learned a rare disease killed off marine life.”

“It killed life around here, too,” Mel continued. “Folks had to leave to survive. Our little spot wasn’t worth anything to anyone but us.”

They remained silent until Leo burst into the dining room.

“Hey, Dad! Dad! Jesus was a little boy just like me! He was eight years old once. I never think of him that way. I just think of him as a grown man on the cross. But he had friends, and went to church and to school, played baseball, and helped his mom set the table, and made his bed. If I lived during ancient times, we might’ve been friends. We could’ve gone fishing together and played on the same team. Boy, that’s a guy who’d never let you down!”

“I think you’re right, Son,” Ross said, pleased. “But how did you come to these theories?”

“I just kept looking at the picture on the wall, Dad, and thought about it, and it just came to me! I’m gonna see what else I can find out!” Leo ran off again to study the picture. Bart and Mel also left to greet more guests. The dining room was filling up, but Maeve noticed no one else was getting the same attention as the little family.

Once they were alone, Maeve leaned in toward her husband and spoke quietly.

“Well, this has been interesting,” she said.

“You say that like you think they’re crazy,” Ross said. “I’ll admit it’s a little far out, but fascinating. I’d love copies of these drawings. Amie had some natural talent.”

“It’s just that Leo seems so taken with this idea. And they’re giving us so much attention. We don’t know these people; we’ve never heard of this vision. We live 30 miles from here. I go to the diocese for meetings a few times each year, and I’ve never heard anyone speak of it.”

“How often do people talk about the 1930s, Maeve? Whether or not it’s what they say it is, they seem sincere. Each of us needs to address it with the discernment God gave us and take it to Him in prayer and Confession. And discuss it as a family with Fr. Ted.”

Ross reached over to Maeve’s plate and used his fork to cut a bite of her blueberry pie. He chewed the pie piece slowly, and Maeve pushed her plate toward him to finish the slice.

“Do you want to know what I’m taking from this?” Ross continued between bites. “Did you hear how Leo talked about Jesus? Like a friend. Like someone he wants to spend time with and someone he knows he can count on. Maeve, if nothing else, this day has shown Leo who Jesus is. My concern is that, as sports and hormones take over his life, he’ll start to forget that. Our job is to make sure he doesn’t.”

The family was late heading back from their outing. They drove home silently in the dark, exhausted from what started as a search for pie. Maeve noticed the whole car smelled like pie. Not just the beef pot pie in the box they were bringing home, or the extra slice of chocolate for Leo. It was like a harmonious blending of many pies. It was just … heavenly? How could the aroma be so overwhelming? Maeve inhaled the homey scent. Is this what Jesus smells like, she thought and laughed to herself.

She glanced at her husband, who was wide awake and alert, determined to get his family home safely. She looked back at her son, peacefully asleep. Two heads peeked out from his jacket pocket—the statuettes they had bought for Leo and Fr. Ted. She reflected on her husband’s quiet and steadfast faith that she saw today, and her son’s joyful and innocent faith. She thought about the dedication and perseverance that stemmed from Mel, Bart, and their sister, Amie’s faith.

Follow me. Fear not. I am with you always.

But did she? Lately, she felt like she had been following fear more than God. Afraid of Ross losing his job since his company was bought by big corporate. A lack of trust in his ability to start his own business. Did today have a special message for her? Maeve sighed and put her head back on the seat. The old car’s engine sounded quieter than usual tonight. Or maybe it was her anxiety that was calmer. For the first time, she didn’t feel the need to keep watch during a night drive. She relaxed back in the seat, content to see how this day would rest on her family in the morning.

Read Part 1

Read Part 2

Author’s note: The Biblical references noted are inspired by the following Scripture passages:

Follow Me: Matthew 4:19
Not all who saw believed: John 22: 26-28
Fear Not: Acts 18:9
I Am with You Always: Matthew 28:20

Banner Image generated in Adobe Firefly Gemini 3.1 (with nano Banana 2)

Edited by: PV Babadi

Follow Me to Little Jesus: Part 2

May 21, 2026/0 Comments/in Catholic Fiction, Fiction, Short Story/by Mary McWilliams

Twenty minutes later, Ross, Maeve, and Leo drove through a blinking red light at a four-way intersection and found a run-down roadside café with a dirt parking lot. A worn, hand-painted sign said, “Welcome to Little Jesus Pie Café and Gift Shop.” The family parked near the door and was happy for a chance to get out and stretch. Leo ran inside. Ross and Maeve hesitated, then entered to assure their son’s safety.

The couple paused inside and gazed in awe at the wall covered with framed sketches and paintings. Shelves brimmed with plastic statuettes, all of which appeared to be a rendition of a Jesus-like child in a tunic, his right arm outstretched in a beckoning motion. In the paintings, the boy was pictured standing on a foggy shoreline with people kneeling around him.

Leo was already speaking to a tall man, at least 6 feet 5, with thick, gray hair that made him look younger than his 70s. He bore an animated personality toward the boy. Briskly, he stepped out from behind a hostess podium and pointed to the wall, acknowledging Ross and Maeve with a “come along” gesture. Leo, meanwhile, busied himself studying one of the paintings at eye level.

“We call him Our Little Jesus of the Bayshore,” the man announced. AND our little church, built in 1933.”

“You have a church here called Our Little Jesus of the Bayshore?” Maeve deadpanned. “I’m a catechist for our church, and I’ve held positions over the years with our diocese, and I have never heard of a church by that name.”

“No, Miss, unfortunately, you wouldn’t,” the man admitted sadly. “I said that’s what we call it. The diocese calls it St. Bernadette.”

“Oh, I think I have heard of St. Bernadette’s. More like a little chapel,” Maeve admitted weakly.

“That’s the one. I guess it was named that because she had been newly canonized. My name’s Mel, by the way. I’m one of the owners here and nephew of Amie – Amie with an ‘ie’ — who first saw the vision of the Little Jesus.”

“The vision,” Maeve said flatly, already skeptical of Mel’s story.

“Yes, Miss,” he said respectfully and continued. “She was only about 13, but wise enough to record all the events back in 1932.”

“Is that so?” Ross said, a graphic artist, almost as fascinated by the pictures on the walls as his son. “Did she do all these pictures?”

“She did indeed,” Mel confirmed, “And at the time had no training —”

“Excuse me,” Maeve interrupted impatiently, waving her hand in the air as though she were erasing something. “Have you ever looked into mission status? Surely there is a larger church that would take you on as a mission church.”

“The nearest church is about 50 miles away, and that’s struggling a bit from what I hear, so that they wouldn’t want us,” Mel said.

Another man, who looked much like Mel but with white hair instead of gray, emerged from the dining room.

“That big donkey’s my twin brother, Bart,” Mel told them and then informed Bart that the family followed their sister Ami – with just an ‘i’ — here, thanks to that little fellow, Leo. Bart said that she had just gotten back from a shopping trip.

“She’ll be pleased to know the bumper sticker paid off. Were you telling them about Aunt Amie and the Little Jesus?” Bart said.

“I was just starting,” Mel said. “You can help me.” Maeve flashed Ross a glance, raising her eyebrows and exhaling deeply. They had come to the café for pie but were given a special tour and history lesson. Was she the only one who thought this was strange? Ross, a graphic artist, wanted to know more about the pictures and the story behind them. Leo had wandered off to the other end of the lobby, intrigued by the statues and the pictures of the boy Bart and Mel were calling “Little Jesus.”

The twins began telling Ross and Maeve the story of the vision of Our Little Jesus of the Bayshore. They followed a string of child-like, detailed sketches high on the wall behind the podium and cash register. They provided the backstory but let the pictures do the telling.

“Our Aunt Amie was only about 13 at the time in 1932,” Mel began. “Before the 1930s, this area was booming for clams, crabs, oysters, and mussels. But it was kind of a secret spot for the folks who lived here. They made good money back then by going into the city and selling fresh shellfish. They were very isolated, though.”

“No one wanted this area,” Bart started to explain. “People made up folktales over the years about half-man, half-animal demons running around at night, and babies being born with fangs and horns, so people stayed away, and this little stretch was largely unknown. Funny how some were so quick to believe that nonsense but thought the Little Jesus couldn’t be true. It wasn’t very Christian here, but some folks understood about Jesus Christ being our Savior. A few went the distance to a church, but most didn’t.”

“They could always find a bottle and some trouble, though,” Mel interjected.

Mel pointed out the first sketch of people along the shoreline digging for crabs. Some boats moored off in the distance. Another drawing showed a little girl with her mouth agape, pointing ahead.

“Now that’s our Aunt Amie,” Mel said.

Maeve looked away and sighed.

Another pencil drawing showed a boy walking along a foggy shoreline, reaching out with his right hand.

“That’s Our Little Jesus of the Bayshore,” Bart said proudly. “You’ll notice the same image in the paintings.”

The brothers told them that in September of 1932, he came back three Sundays in a row in the early morning fog. Each Sunday, he delivered a different message, but only Amie heard him. Then he disappeared into the fog.

Next month: The family learns the messages that Amie heard from the boy in the fog, and Leo makes a friend.

Featured AI image rendered through Adobe Firefly & Gemini 3.1 Nano Banana 2

Edited by Paula V. Babadi

Follow Me to Little Jesus: Part 1

April 16, 2026/0 Comments/in Adventure, Family Life, Fiction, Short Story/by Mary McWilliams

Follow Me to Little Jesus: Part 1

Leo checked the license plates of every car that passed them on the highway.

He’d seen Pennsylvania, Delaware, South Carolina, North Carolina, and Nebraska.

“Dad, there goes Alaska!” Leo cried out. “I’ve never seen an Alaska plate before!”

“That’s pretty cool, Son. They’re probably in the Coast Guard here.”

“I think that makes seven, right, Mom? Did you get them all down?”

“I did, Leo, and that makes eight,” his mother corrected.

Leo bit his lip and sat back in his seat, trying to recall the state he had forgotten.

“Oh, right! South Carolina. The Palmetto State. I can never remember that one.” Leo hit his head with his hand.

“Just remember the palm trees outside the church we attended when we visited Myrtle Beach last year,” his father reminded him. “And we talked about the palms on Palm Sunday.”

“Oh, right,” Leo said, looking out the window, watching for a new plate. Suddenly, he sat up.

“DAD!” he shouted. “Dad, you have to follow that car! That little gray car!”

“Leo, what are you talking about?” His mother turned slightly from the front seat to face him. “Your father can’t just chase after cars.”

“No … please …” Leo begged. “It had a bumper sticker I’ve never seen. It said, ‘Follow me to Little Jesus.’ We have to follow that car to see what the rest of the bumper sticker says. We have to find out where the Little Jesus is!”

Leo’s parents, Ross and Maeve, looked at each other and shrugged. Sunday was family day. After church and breakfast, they usually went on some kind of outing — to a fair, ballgame, or historical site. Today was their drive to nowhere, to see what they could see and go where they could go. They had stopped at a couple of car dealerships to look at used cars. They were a one-car family, and their hatchback, nearing 180,000 miles, was also beginning to limit their family outings. Today’s journey began to push it. Other than that, they had no plans. Why not find the Little Jesus?

“Maybe it’s a shrine,” Ross said. “I wouldn’t mind visiting it.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of it,” Maeve said, some resentment in her voice.

Leo thrust his arm between the two front car seats.

“There’s the car! It’s the only car on the road older than ours!” His mother said nothing but glanced side-eyed at him. His father pressed the accelerator a bit harder.

“Ross, I don’t think you should force the car to go that fast,” his wife cautioned. Within seconds, they were close enough to read the bumper sticker:

Follow me to Little Jesus

The most divine pie café and gift shop on earth

Rt 12 & 4th St., Heavens Gate

“What? It’s a pie café?” his mother said in disbelief. “Is that blasphemous?”

“I don’t know,” Ross laughed. “I didn’t think Heavens Gate was a real town. I just thought it was a section some people really liked. It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“Yeah, nobody wants to go there. But we are approaching the exit,” Maeve said, checking the directions on her phone. “Isn’t that a coincidence?” She was becoming impatient. But Leo leaned forward anxiously, waiting for his parents’ final decision.

“I could go for a slice of cherry pie,” his father said. “What harm is there in checking it out?”

“Okay,” his mother sighed, looking out the passenger side window. “What else have we got to do?”

“Oh, thank you!” Leo cried out.

Next Month: Maeve remains skeptical as she, Ross, and Leo meet the family of the visionary behind Little Jesus.

Edited by Paula V Babadi

AI Image created in Adobe Firefly

Image by Karolina Grabowska from Pixabay

The Prison Cook

January 27, 2026/0 Comments/in discipleship, Faith, Fellowship, Missionaries, Short Story, Uncategorized, Volunteering, Works of Mercy/by Cecile Bianco

The Prison Cook

Aidelade, the prison cook, was tough customer for this missionary in Oklahoma.

Today I am working in the prison kitchen with Adelaide. We are making macaroni and cheese. She has a job here as a cook. I am here doing missionary work for my church and so I am helping her make the pasta.

Adelaide has a sharp tongue. I try to put some water from the pot into the pan with the onion.

“Not so fast,” says Adelaide. “You haven’t boiled the pasta yet, so no use in putting it there now.”

“Ok!” I said. It is her mac and cheese for the prisoners. She is going to boil some water and put some pasta in it and fry the onion in oil. Then some pasta water and some milk. She will melt the cheese on a very low temp so it doesn’t curdle before mixing it with the pasta mixture.

Another time when I went, I thought of bringing some steak for the prisoners since they don’t get much quality food. “Not so fast,” she said. “They get soybean stuff, not steak.” There were several cans of “soybean stuff” laying around the kitchen.

They also get some greens.

“Adelaide, do you have family?” I asked.

“No,” she snapped. “That’s why I am here.”

“Do you ever go to church or read the Bible?” I ventured.

“NO. This is a prison. Do you want to help me make some Nutraloaf?” This is a loaf of various foods that is so disgusting it’s used as punishment.

“Adelaide, what would make you happy?”

She paused for a while and spoke slowly.

“When I was young, I wanted to be a chef at a nice restaurant. But that didn’t happen. I needed a job so I got the job here.”

“Why don’t you make a nice dinner here?”

“Who’s going to pay?” she answered.

“We can find a donor at my church. Do you think they would like coq au vin?”

We got the funds for the dinner and we got the shopping done.

Now it was time to cook!

“I’ll need your help,” she said. “This will be a lot of work.”

This is the recipe we used for the dinner (adapted from allrecipes.com).

Chef John’s Coq au Vin

6 bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs

kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

8 ounces bacon, sliced crosswise into 1/2-inch pieces

10 large button mushrooms, quartered

½ large yellow onion, diced

2 shallots, sliced

2 teaspoons all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons butter

1½ cups red wine

6 sprigs fresh thyme

1 cup chicken broth

Directions

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Season chicken with salt and black pepper.

Sauté bacon in an oven-proof skillet over medium-high heat, until evenly browned. Remove bacon.

Increase the heat to high and cook chicken thighs 2 to 4 minutes per side. Transfer chicken to a plate.

Sauté mushrooms, onion, and shallots with a pinch of salt in the hot skillet until golden and caramelized, 7 to 12 minutes.

Stir in flour and butter.

Pour red wine into the skillet and bring to a boil. Stir in bacon and thyme and simmer until wine is about 1/3 reduced, 3 to 5 minutes. Pour in chicken broth and return chicken thighs to the skillet; bring to a simmer.

Transfer the skillet to the preheated oven and cook for 60 minutes or until temperature is 165 degrees F. Transfer chicken to a platter.

Thicken sauce in skillet then spoon over chicken.

We decided to serve it over noodles.

We brought it out and the prisoners formed a line as they normally did. When we uncovered the pot the prisoners gasped. The aroma was amazing. We served the food and the prisoners enjoyed it thoroughly.

Mitzewich, John. “Chef John’s Coq au Vin.” All Recipes, last modified February 3, 2025, https://www.allrecipes.com/recipe/239230/chef-johns-coq-au-vin/

What happened to the Virgin Mary?

November 24, 2025/0 Comments/in Blessed Mother, Catholic Fiction, Fellowship, Juvenile fiction, Short Story, Uncategorized/by Cecile Bianco

Once there was a church that had the happiest people. They all worshipped together in harmony, young and old. They had many statues and one was a wooden statue of the Virgin and Child. One day the Deacon noticed that it was gone. Everyone was tasked with looking for her, but she was nowhere to be found and they organized a team of youngsters to find out what happened. They were Connor, Paul, Meagan, Alicia, and Linda. The committee of children went out to look for her.

They scoured the neighborhood and found the guilty party: a band of hoodlums. Connor asked them to give it back.

“No way,” said the chief hoodlum. “Only if you give us a ransom.” Connor thought fast.

“If we tell you a good story, can we get her back for free?”

“Ok” said the boy.

Each child set out to find a piece of the story that would bring the Madonna and Child back to the church.

Connor went looking around the neighborhood. He came across some people that were celebrating a gender reveal. One arch of pink balloons in the sky. It was beautiful. The parents were so happy as they looked around at their friends.

Paul tried to leave home to help find the statue, but before he could, his mother said, “Aunt Cheri is having her baby shower today and I can’t go. I have too much to do. Could you go instead? Here is your gift.”

“Ok, sure,” said Paul. He walked to his aunt’s house.

“So happy to see you, Paul!” Cheri said. The guests enjoyed hors d’oeuvres, played games like Guess the Name of the Baby, and opened gifts of clothes, baby food and toys.

Meagan went to St Luke’s hospital because she thought someone might have taken the statue for their patients. She passed by the baby ward and looked at the babies. They were so cute. She thought to herself “What if one of these was the baby Jesus?” It was hard to think of. Maybe Jesus would have had a golden aura around him, or maybe he would just look like an ordinary baby. She decided to tell the team that all the babies had a magical aura around them.

Alicia went back to the church to scour for the statue. When she was there, a crowd of people processed in. They filed in and the last ones were some proud parents with a baby in their arms dressed in white. They gave the baby to the priest who held it over the basin and said, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” while pouring water over the child’s head. She was fascinated with the process: a white glow seemed to emanate from the child’s clothes.

Finally, there was Linda, the youngest. She got a ride from her sister to the police station because she thought someone might have turned it in there. She sat down in the waiting room and shortly there was a huge uproar as some people excitedly came in. There was a young child with them and then a burst of joy from some other people as she was brought in. “Thank God, you found her,” they cried. There was much hugging and rejoicing. Then her sister told her it was time to go.

Each team member told the hoodlums their part of the story. When they were done, the hoodlum said “So that’s it?”

Connor said, “It’s the Joyful Mysteries: the Annunciation, the Visitation, the Nativity, the Presentation and the Finding in the Temple.”

The other group conferred and decided it was a good story after all. So that is how they all found the Virgin Mary.

Featured AI Image generated in Midjourney.com by Mary McWilliams

Ferris Wheel Image by Harut Movsisyan from Pixabay

A Playground and a Carnival

April 22, 2025/0 Comments/in Fellowship, fiction, Short Story/by Cecile Bianco

A Playground and a Carnival

Violence affects everyone. Love is the way to help our brothers and sisters affected.

I was raised in California to two middle class parents. I had a good childhood except for the playground. I would get up in the morning with a sick stomach. My father and mother would greet me cheerfully and bring me the breakfast they had made.

“Ok it’s time for school,” they would say optimistically. They knew I dreaded school but they did not know why. During their childhoods, playgrounds were made safe with playground monitors who didn’t tolerate nonsense.

There were three rules to the playground:

-Dress and act like everyone else.

-Don’t be too smart or too dumb.

-Don’t ever draw attention to yourself.

Those who did not follow the rules were going to see bullying and harassment.

One time there was a new boy who came. He didn’t obey the rules. He had on foreign clothes and had an accent. He drew plenty of attention.

I remember one day in particular in June as classes were getting out, he was being harassed. The children pulled out some of his hair and tore his clothes. Then they dragged him to the sandbox and buried him. They thought they could dig him up but he was dead. I still remember it as if it were yesterday. I didn’t say anything to help him.

Today I am going into my office at the toy company I work at. We don’t seem to get anywhere with our products. Today is another product idea presentation. It is Lydia again and the bosses hate her. There are many reasons. She dresses sloppy and her shirt is buttoned eschew. Sometimes she wears two different shoes. She is a genius and gets her work done early in the day. The rest of the time, she stares into the ceiling.

Her idea is to have balls that bounce up and down on the ceiling. They will be multicolored balls: red, orange, yellow, and green. She can see them in her mind’s eye bouncing around.

The bosses say that will never work.

Her next idea was a system of arms and legs that danced with you. You could tune it to many different styles of dancing including waltz, disco, salsa, two step.

She tries it on and it dances her around to the tune of “You Should be Dancing” by the Bee Gees. It looks silly but she is laughing while she is dancing and moving all over the floor of the office. People are looking her way. Some of them look intrigued. Then the three people who like her the least are jealous. They start laughing at her and messing up her steps. I feel nervous and nauseated. The flashback comes of the boy I didn’t save. I am getting angry at the bullies. The world is swirling around me.

I glance at Bryan the ex-Marine. He too is struggling. He is thinking of the battles with the enemy and he’s clenching his fist.

I look at my friend Ming and she shakes her head at me. Violence is not the answer.

I remember the words of the great man, Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.: “Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.”

Then Sonia speaks up. “I like it!” she exclaims. I want to try it! She gets it and makes it play “La Vida es un Carnaval” by Celia Cruz.

“Anyone that thinks that life is unfair

They really need to know it’s not like that

Life is a beautiful thing, we have to live it

Anyone that thinks they are alone and that it’s wrong

They really need to know it’s not like that

In this life there’s no one alone, there’s always Someone

You see, life is a carnival, and singing though it is lovely

You see, life is a carnival, and those sorrows disappear singing

You see, life is a carnival, and singing though it is lovely

You see, life is a carnival, and those sorrows disappear singing”

— La Vida es un Carnaval*

*Daniel, V. (1998). La vida es un carnaval [Recorded by Celia Cruz]. On Mi vida es cantar [CD]. N.Y., N.Y., United States: RMM Records.

Translation of “La vida es un carnaval” found on https://www.letras.com/celia-cruz/9256/english.html#google_vignette

Ferris Wheel Image by Image by Harut Movsisyan https://pixabay.com

People dancing Photo by RDNE Stock project: https://www.pexels.com/photo/group-of-people-smiling-and-dancing-6173868/

Hannah and Hopalot

April 11, 2025/0 Comments/in Animals, Childrens' Books, Short Story/by Tom Medlar

Hannah and Hopalot

Hannah was sitting on the living room floor talking to her doll, Samantha, when Henry came home. Henry was her big brother, and he seemed all excited about something he had in a box.

“What do you got there, Henry?” Hannah asked.

“Oh, it’s great!” Henry said. “I can’t wait to show you.”

“Well, what is it?” Hannah asked.

When he got to the kitchen, Henry said, “I got a frog!”

Mom, Dad, and Hannah all at the same time said, “A frog?!”

Henry opened the box and there was a tiny, green tree frog with big red eyes and long red toes. Hannah looked at the frog and her eyebrows crawled up her face, her nose pinched together, her tongue stuck out, and she shook her head. When she could talk again, she said, “That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in the world!”

Mom and Dad looked at each other, and Dad asked, “Well, what would you feed him?”

For the next week, Henry spent all his free time playing with the frog in his room. On Friday after school, Henry came walking out of his room. Hannah looked up from the living room floor where she was sitting and playing, and she saw that the frog was stuck on the side of Henry’s face! Her eyebrows jumped up like they were going to run away, her nose pinched together, her tongue stuck out, and she shook her head. She could hardly even scream enough to say, “That’s so disgusting!”

But Hannah could hear that her parents and Henry were talking about Henry’s plan to spend the night and the next day at his friend’s house.

Henry called, “Yeah, but Hannah can take care of the frog when I’m gone,” as he walked back towards his room.

Hannah marched straight into the kitchen, where Mom was sitting at the table writing checks or bills or something like that, and Dad was making oatmeal cookies. Mom listened while Hannah begged and pleaded with her to get rid of the frog, to not make her take care of it.

Mom said, ““Hannah, do you remember at church last Sunday, we heard that ‘God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good?’”

Hannah nodded.

“It may not always be easy, honey,” Mom continued, “But we should always look for the good in all the things made by God. Taking care of the frog will be a good experience for you. It’s only for one day, and we’ll help you.”

Dad put a cup of raisins in the measuring cup, and then Hannah poured them into the big bowl. Suddenly, Hannah was very glad to be kneeling on the stool because there was the frog, hopping, hopping and hopping all across the kitchen floor! Hannah got down off the stool and walked around the counter to watch where the frog went.

Before you know it, the frog hopped right over to where Mom was sitting, and it popped onto the side of her leg.

Well, you know what happened to Hannah’s eyebrows then.

Mom reached her hand down like a cup beneath the frog and he popped into her hand. She lifted the frog up to the front of her face. Hannah suddenly realized she was standing right next to Mom, leaning against her shoulder and looking right at the tiny frog.

Mom said, “Hannah, do you know he’s warm? He feels warm when he sits in your hand.”

Hannah just looked and looked and looked, and her fingers grabbed the sleeve of Mom’s shirt as she stared at this tiny green frog. Hannah noticed that his little body would get bigger and smaller, bigger and smaller, bigger and smaller.

While she still stared at him, Hannah asked, “Mom, is he breathing?”

“Yes, honey,” Mom said. “Of course he’s breathing.”

Hannah noticed that the frog’s eyes were moving and that he was looking at her, and then he was looking at Mom, and then he was looking at her again.
Now the little frog lifted his little feet with his long toes and started walking up Mom’s hand and onto her arm, where her sleeve was rolled up.

Hannah realized the frog was coming closer to get a better look at her. She leaned her head against Mom’s shoulder and looked closely at the frog and the frog turned its head to the side and looked closely at Hannah.

Mom said to Hannah, “He feels good. Do you want to hold him?”

Hannah looked in Mom’s eyes and then said, “Okay.”

Hannah put out her two hands together and Mom carefully placed the frog on Hannah’s hands. Hannah could tell that the frog was warm, and she could feel its little heart beating in the palm of her hand. All at once, the frog made a little hop from her hands onto her forearm.

But Hannah wasn’t scared, and she giggled.

Smiling, Hannah looked at Mom, and she looked over at Dad, and then, with the frog still on her arm, she walked into the living room.

When Henry came home, Hannah was so proud to walk up to him holding the frog.

She said, “He’s my friend. I took good care of him.”

The next day, after getting home from Mass, Hannah and the frog were playing in the living room and Mom and Dad and Henry were in the kitchen, talking about what to name this frog. Each of them would suggest a name but the others didn’t seem to think it was just right.

Suddenly, with the frog sitting on her head, Hannah came running into the kitchen shouting, “I know! Let’s call him Hopalot!”

The Last Christmas Tree

December 21, 2021/2 Comments/in fiction, Holidays, Short Story/by Larry Peterson

A short story inspired by true events

It was 6:00 A.M., and she was exhausted. She stood there unblinking, looking into the mirror at the person staring back at her. Running her hands through her tousled, just-got-out-of-bed hair, she sighed deeply. She leaned forward, stared some more, and said to herself, “Oh my God, Sharon, you look just awful.”

She had to leave by 6:30, so she hurriedly washed her face, brushed her teeth, and tried to create some order with her hair. She had worked 22 days straight since Thanksgiving, and today would be the last day before the holiday. It was Christmas Eve, and there was still much to do, including getting a Christmas tree.

As Sharon, a meter reader and installer for the local utility company, pulled on her work shoes, a soft voice came from behind. It was her youngest, 6-year-old Joey. She turned, and he said, “Mommy, Santa can’t come here tonight.”

She was somewhat stunned by the unexpected comment. “Joey, why would you think that? Of course he can come here.”

“But we have no Christmas tree. Can’t you stay home from work and get us a tree?”

They had kept asking, and she had kept promising, and it was always “later” or “tomorrow,” and now, just like that, time was up. She turned and held out her arms to her boy. “Come over here, “ she said.

He ran over, and she hugged him. She looked into his nervous eyes and said, “Don’t worry Joey, I only have to work a little while today, and then I will get the tree. I will have it when I get home from work. Then we will all decorate it, and Santa will have a tree to put the toys under. Don’t worry.”

Oozing innocence, he simply looked at her and believed it would be so. “Okay, Mommy.”

She stood up and said, “C’mon, sweetie. Let’s get you back in bed. I will tell April you are awake.”

“No need, mom. I’m up. C’mon with me, Joey. We can watch some TV.”

It was her 12-year-old son, Alvin. She turned and smiled at him. “Thanks, hon. They promised us we would be home early. Say a prayer it actually happens.”

“Mom, what about a tree?”

“Alvin, I know, I know. I promised Joey, and I promise you, we will have a tree. Don’t worry. These last 20 days just seem to have run together, and — don’t worry, we will have a tree.”

It was about 6:50 when she pulled into the loading dock area to pick up her assignments and needed materials. The parking lot was already empty of the work trucks as all the crews had left for their assigned destinations. Sitting in her vehicle, she took out her rosary and held it tightly. Prayer had brought this single mom and devout Catholic through some, lonely, harsh, and scary days after her husband had walked away from her and the children. She blessed herself and began to pray.

She was quietly asking the Blessed Virgin to allow Christmas Eve to go smoothly and for her to be able to get a tree when a tap on her window startled her. She turned to see her field supervisor, Herb Guerin, standing there. She rolled down the window, “Hi Herb, what do you have for me today?”

“Here you go, Sharon.” As he handed her the work orders he said, “I’m sorry, but I have to dump two more on you. They just came in but they are right next to each other, so it should go quick.”

“Please, Herb, I still have to get a Christmas tree. Can’t you get someone else? My 6-year-old is thinking that Santa won’t come to our house. I have to get a tree.”

“Look, I understand. But this is about five minutes away from where you are going. A transformer blew up, and 1400 homes are without power. That could be more than 4000 people. It is Christmas Eve, and they need their power. The line crew is on-site but there are two new meters we need installed. You should be able to squeeze that in, don’t you think? Those people are counting on us to get their power on.”

“Okay, Herb, okay. What are the addresses?” He handed her the add-ons, and they wished each other Merry Christmas. She drove away, fingering her rosary beads. That proved more soothing for her than a cup of morning coffee.

Sharon had finished her regular assignments by noon and it should have been the end of her workday. But, as is the way of things, the transformer was not delivered until 2:00 P.M., and she could not install the new meters until after the transformer was replaced. It was 4:00 P.M. when she finally started for home.

Heading home, she kept looking for Christmas trees for sale. Even the seasonal tree lots that sold trees every year were empty. She had been confident that she would find a tree quickly. Now her confidence was being shattered. There were no trees anywhere. She thought a moment and then prayed, “St. Anthony, please help me find a tree for my kids.”

Sharon did not plan to go home until she had found a tree. But she had not eaten; she felt sick to her stomach and needed to stop by the house, which was only five minutes away. She thought she could just run inside, use the bathroom and simply “chill” for a few minutes. She looked at the clock; it read 5:35. A shiver ran down her spine.

She stepped from her van as Joey came running out of the house, “Hi Mommy, did you get our tree? Did you? Where is the tree? Where is the tree? You got the tree, right?”

Sharon took a deep breath and knew she should have found a tree before coming home. Looking upwards, she quickly and quietly prayed, “Dear God, I need Your help. Please.”

Just like that, April, who was 14, Alvin, 11, and Austin, eight, were standing in front of her. Joey was in front of them. All she could see were four sets of insecure and nervous eyes looking at her. A sudden blanket of fear seemed to come out of nowhere and grab hold of her. Oh my God, I do not know if I can do this. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I need your help. Tears came to her eyes.

April quickly went to her mom and gave her a hug. She said, “Mom, it’s okay. Don’t worry.”

Then Alvin was standing next to her, and Austin and then Joey was hugging her leg and she felt the love of her children and blurted out, “Okay, listen to me. I did not get the tree yet. I just needed to get a drink and use the bathroom. Then I will get it. Alvin, can you come with me to help?”

“Why should Alvin get to go?” Austin asked. “Why can’t we all go?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said April, “All of us should go. It will be all of us finding our family Christmas tree.”

Sharon looked at the four of them and was suddenly buoyed with a sense of Christmas. Everything was feeling right. She had been slowly buying and hiding things since July. Toys and other gifts were in the back of her work truck, and more were stashed in the shed in the backyard. (The kids never let on that they knew). “Okay,” she said. “Let’s get in the car and go find a tree.”

They piled into their 14-year-old 1988 Chevy Corsica, and Sharon headed toward Washington Ave. Her children had no idea how tired and worn out their mom was. Well, why would they; their Mom was not like other people; she was Mom. Being up since 6:00 A.M., and not eating all day except for some stale chocolate-chip cookies and two containers of coffee, was not something that could stop their mom. That possibility was never considered. They did not grasp that it was she who was hungry, tired, and feeling a bit weak. She said, “I hope we can find a tree quickly. You kids must be starving.” Things were never about her.

They were all focused on a tree, not food. Alvin said, “We can eat later, Mom. Let’s check Walmart first; they have tons of trees.”

Sharon sighed and made a quick left onto Highway 19 N. They pulled into Walmart’s parking lot five minutes later. The store was just closing. They drove over to the nursery and found out there were no trees left. Al tried to run into the store to look for an artificial tree, but the doors were already locked.

Sharon said, “There is a Christmas tree lot over on Belcher Rd. They might have something.”

That lot was empty, and the search continued, from supermarket to supermarket, to home-improvement centers and discount outlets, to nurseries, and even looking outside convenience stores. Sharon was now driving and not thinking. They had searched for a tree for more than two hours, finding more than a dozen places that sold trees but now had none. It was now almost eight o’clock.

She was feeling a sense of despair. It was dark, and most stores had already closed. April suddenly blurted out, “Hey Mom, there is the Burger Barn. Can we get something to eat? I’m starving.”

They all chimed in, “Yeah, mom — c’mon Mom — we’re starving, Mom!” Sharon knew that sitting in the car with the four kids eating cheeseburgers, fries, and holding drinks would be a disaster. “Okay, stop yelling; I can hear you. But there is no way we eat in the car. Lets park and go inside. We need a break anyway.”

As they walked toward the entrance, Austin said, “Mom, we just better face it. We aren’t going to find a tree. It’s too late. They’re all gone.”

“Stop it, Austin, have some faith. As soon as we sit down, we will all say a Hail Mary together and ask our Mother Mary to help us find one. And you watch, she WILL help us find one.”

They walked inside, found an empty table, and sat down. Sharon’s faith had helped her through incredibly difficult times, and she was about to call on it again. She reached out her hands, and they all followed her lead, holding each other’s hands. Bowing their heads, they prayed a Hail Mary together. When they finished, Sharon and Alvin headed to the counter to get their food.

The impromptu Burger Barn “dinner” went reasonably well. The order came out quickly. Nothing was dropped or spilled, and, to top it off, everyone was quiet as they devoured their food. After spending a calm and pleasant fifteen minutes, it was time to find their tree.

As they stood up to leave, an old man, disheveled and dirty, approached them. Nervously, the man said, “Excuse me, ma’am. I think I can help you.”

Sharon had watched as he approached and haltingly said, ‘Huh … help me? What do you mean? We are fine. We do not need any help. Please, we have to go.” She turned to her nervous children and said, “Okay kids, it’s time to leave. Let’s go.”

“Ma’am, please, don’t be afraid. I watched you and your children praying and it was a beautiful thing. And — I heard your boy say you needed a tree. I can help you.”

“How can you help us? I suppose you know where a tree is?” Sharon asked.

“Yes, I do,” said the man. “But you have to trust me and follow me. I will take you to it.”

“Follow you? We don’t even know you. Why should we follow a complete stranger to an unknown place? I have my children with me. Look, sir, I’m sure you are a very nice man, but I’m not following you anywhere.”

The man quietly said, “I’m sorry to have bothered you and your family. You all have a merry Christmas.”

They were all watching him as he walked toward the exit. As he disappeared, one of the workers came by and smilingly said, “I hope that man didn’t frighten you. He is harmless. He’s just a kind old man who stops in here every so often for some coffee.”

Sharon, hearing this, quickly huddled her kids around and said quietly, “Look, we just prayed to the Blessed Virgin for help, and this old man comes out of nowhere and offers us a tree. It seems a bit crazy, but it is Christmas Eve. They know him here, so he must be harmless. We have to trust that Jesus and His Mom are helping us. As foolish as it sounds, I say we follow him. What do you kids think?”

“Why not, Mom?” April said. “Jesus will protect us.”

They all agreed, and Sharon said, “Okay, let’s see if we can find him.”

They hurried outside, and the old man was just standing there. As Sharon approached him, he smiled and said, “I thought I would wait to see if you changed your mind. I’m glad you did.”

Across the road from Burger Barn was a golf course. The man told Sharon, “There is a gravel service road at the end of the golf course parking lot. Drive down that road for about a half-mile, and you will find your tree. All I ask is that you say a prayer for all of those folks who have no home to go to on this cold, Christmas Eve.”

The surrounding golf course was unlit and pitch black. The headlights from the car cast an eerie glow as they slowly drove forward. Sharon had them all praying together as they ventured into the unknown. The mother of four was driving using faith for fuel. She was afraid. So were her children. The only sound that could be heard was the gravel crunching beneath the tires.

And then, as they turned around the bend in the road, there it was. A Christmas tree, not just any Christmas tree but the most beautiful tree they had ever seen. It was fully decorated, and all lit up. It was as if a light was shining down upon it. The entire area was lit up. As they got out of the car, an older woman stepped out from behind the bushes. Sharon and her kids just stared at her, not knowing where she came from, who she was, or how all this was happening. The woman asked, “Do you like the tree?”

Sharon said, “Who are you? What is going on? Are we all dreaming?”

“No, Sharon, you are not dreaming. Do you like the tree? What do you kids think? Do you like it?”

Austin said, “It is the most beautiful tree I’ve ever, seen, ever.”

“Does everyone agree with Austin?”

They all agreed, and the woman said, “Well then, Sharon, you just take your family home. When you arrive, the tree will be waiting for you. And, Joey, don’t worry, Santa will be coming to your house tonight.”

Sharon asked, “What do you mean, just go home? What about the tree?”

“Don’t worry about the tree. It is yours. Trust me. All I ask is that you say a prayer for all of those folks who have no home to go to on this cold, Christmas Eve.”

“I don’t understand. How will the tree … ?”

The lady smiled and said, “Have faith, sweetie. It got you here, didn’t it?”

Sharon and her kids got into the car and began their ride home. As they passed the Burger Barn, they looked for the old man, but he was nowhere to be seen. Alvin said, “How did she know all of our names?” No one said anything.

While driving, Sharon had them all praying for homeless people, and, for the most part, all of them were trying to understand what had happened.

When they pulled up to their house, all they could see was the Christmas tree that had been at the golf course only a short time before. It was standing in their living room in front of the window. They got out of the car and just stood there, in shock, not understanding, but seeing what they thought impossible. When they went inside, the house smelled like fresh carnations mixed with a hint of pine. Underneath the tree was a creche with figures carved from ivory. It was beautiful.

It was almost midnight when all the kids were finally in bed. Sharon got the gifts from her truck and the shed out back and placed them around the tree. Then she sat down, took out her rosary, and began crying and praying simultaneously.

Christmas morning came, and Sharon made sure everyone was up, dressed, and ready to go to 8 A.M. Mass. After Mass, she told the kids that they were going back to the golf course to find the man and woman who helped them. She wanted to thank them and invite them for Christmas dinner. The kids readily agreed.

The course was crowded with golfers, many out to show off their new clothes and golfing equipment. The gravel road was blocked off, so they got out of their car and began to walk. When they reached the bend in the road, they stopped. Nothing was there except a golfer looking for his shanked golf shot.

Sharon said to the man, “Excuse me, sir, did you see an elderly man and woman anywhere around here?”

“Sorry, lady, the only thing I’m hoping to see is my missing golf ball.”

As they slowly walked back to the car a white dove flew down from a tree and landed facing them. The bird seemed to be looking up at them. They all stopped and marveled at this snow-white bird.

The bird stayed looking at them for about ten seconds, then slowly fluttered its wings, flew up and landed on Sharon’s shoulder. She remained still. Turning her head ever so slowly, she looked at the dove. The bird looked back at her, and their eyes connected. The bird leaned in and rubbed its face against Sharon’s cheek. Then it flew away.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Cath-Lit Live: Treasures, Visible and Invisible

March 15, 2021/0 Comments/in Catholic Fiction, Catholic Writing and Publishing, Fiction, Short Story/by Amy Cattapan

“Cath-Lit Live!” features brief interviews with Catholic authors who are releasing new books. Hosted by Catholic author and speaker Amy J. Cattapan, “Cath-Lit Live!” gives viewers a glimpse into the latest Catholic books while getting to know a bit about the author as well.

Treasures: Visible and Invisible

by Theresa Linden, Susan Peek, Antony B. Kolenc, Amanda Lauer, Carolyn Astfalk, Leslea Wahl, T.M. Gaouette, Corinna Turner

Treasures: Visible and Invisible is a collection of short stories by eight CatholicTeenBooks.com authors. A teen boy sets out to save a friend from pagan druids, but maybe he’s the one who needs saving. Between an unearthed treasure and a visit from Heaven, a young monk is in for the surprise of his life! A young girl seeks a mysterious treasure that holds the key to granting a nun’s dying wish. Honora is desperate—then a peculiar clover and a mysterious young man change everything. William’s weekend job is a little gift from heaven, but now his family needs a real miracle. When threatened by mobsters, Grace receives help from a surprising source. Alone and afraid, a young girl finds friendship in a stranger. But could this boy be trouble? Kyle was determined to save the precious relic–but now his whole family is in danger.

About the author: Carolyn Astfalk resides with her husband and four children in Hershey, Pennsylvania, where it smells like either chocolate or manure, depending on wind direction. She is the author of five contemporary Catholic romances. Carolyn is a member of the Catholic Writers Guild, Catholic Teen Books, Pennwriters, and is a CatholicMom.com contributor.

You can catch “Cath-Lit Live” three times a month live on A.J. Cattapan’s author Facebook page. Recorded versions of the show will also be available to watch later on her YouTube channel and Instagram.