James Rush Manley – Writer

The Program Manager sighed, head in hands. Late Friday afternoon sunlight streamed across the open letter on his desk. Monday morning, the government agency said, the avgas price would triple—retroactive six months. Above it, the computer displayed his boss’s email. Effective immediately, the entire region was under a ten percent budget cut. He tried to reply, but rats gnawed the server cable again, dropping them offline. The technician could fix it —when he returned from vacation. read more ...

She gave up trying to stop. No stranger to strange men in strange houses, she stood behind him as he reclined at the crowded banquet table. Noiseless sobs, rising from unknown depths, shook her slender frame. Twin streams surged past long, vainly clenched eyelashes, falling, splashing, etching pale rivulets across his grime-encased feet. As she opened her eyes, the pent-up reservoirs poured out, making a muddy mess. Kneeling quickly, she loosed flowing hair to clean ankles, toes, soles, and heels. Then, leaning lower, she kissed the feet that brought such good news. read more ...

Why do they sing choruses/hymns? What’s wrong with hymns/choruses?

Why do they build cathedrals/shacks? What’s wrong with simplicity/honor?

Why do they stand/sit during worship? What’s wrong with sitting/standing?

Why do they ignore/demand time? What’s wrong with punctuality/relationship?

Why do they dress up/dress down for church? What’s wrong with comfort/class?

Why do they have long/short statements of faith? What’s wrong with grace/correctness?

Why do they sit like stones/jump like clowns? What’s wrong with participation/reverence? read more ...

 
David’s nose, numb after seven days pressed against stone, still smelled grit blown by pleading breath. “My God, my God. Don’t let my guilt fall on this child. Punish me, not the innocent,” he repeated continuously, cracked lips touching the mucus-wet floor. He willed his words through the solid tiles beneath scrapped forehead, bruised knees, and aching toes. All the promise, all the hopes gone, destroyed because he failed … He, defeater of giants, deliverer from Philistines, lay prostrate, felled by his own desire. A woman tricked Samson, but he, God’s anointed king of Israel, chose destruction himself. “Oh God, spare the boy, take me.” Imagined scenes flashed through his mind—running to roof’s edge and, before servants could react, hurling himself off. Or grabbing a guard’s sword, falling on it, and finally receiving what he had inflicted on the Lord’s enemies—as he was now. Even as he pleaded, a plan formed, ready for the right moment … read more ...

Hazael stared, open-mouthed at the man before him. The Jewish defier of kings, the worker of miracles, the mighty mouthpiece of God, shook, hands over face, weeping like a woman.

“Sir, why do you weep?”

“Because I know the harm you will do to the Israelites,” Elisha answered. “You will set fire to their fortified places, kill their young men with the sword, dash their little children to the ground, and rip open their pregnant women.”

“How could I ever do such a great thing?” Hazael asked, amazed. “I don’t have that kind of power.” read more ...