Captivating Stories by Nickel J Ranch Tales
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Adventure, mysteries, survival
Nickel J Ranch Tales
Nickel J Ranch Tales: Captivating Fiction from a Retired Air Force Writer
Nickel J Ranch Tales is the literary creation of a new author who draws inspiration from the captivating landscapes of Wyoming. With 7 books already published and several more in the works, this retired U.S. Air Force member of 24 years crafts thrilling adventures and engaging mysteries without any explicit content, offering readers clean, family-friendly entertainment.
Zombies, Murder Mystery, Adventure, Christian
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Nickel J Ranch Tales Short Stories
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Now You Have Jesus, Too
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Now You Have Jesus, Too
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Now You Have Jesus, Too
Now You Have Jesus, Too
“Yes, Patsy is a great little girl,” her father told the checkout lady. “She helps out around the house, helps clean the car, and helps her little brother now that he’s learning to walk.”
The checkout lady replied, “My, you’re a special little girl, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ‘um,” answered Patsy, and eight-year-old with brown hair and eyes, and a smile that made everyone feel special. Her eyes had a way of holding another’s. Many, many people did double-takes when they saw her. She had an effect on people like no one else and no one could put their finger on what it was. When she looked at people, they could not help but smile – a smile of wonderment because something was different about this child. She beamed – no, radiated – love and compassion to all who met her. And everyone felt happy around her, except her father.
Philip, Patsy’s dad, had lost his wife, Patsy’s mother, when little David was born. His grief was great. Even now that little David is almost two years old, he was still grieving. Patsy would tell people, “Daddy isn’t feeling well, that’s why he’s so quiet. He’ll be okay soon.”
Philip, in his own way, is a good father, loving, gentle and understanding, but not much fun. He takes the kids to the park, sopping, movies, and to church like his wife would have wanted. Patsy had recently accepted Christ as her Lord and Savior and was baptized almost two months prior. Her dad was there for that, and he hugged her tightly afterwards and cried. She really loved Jesus, just like her worldly father, and read her Bible whenever she could to learn more about Him.
It was almost Christmas. Patsy was busy putting up decorations while Philip, watched her from his easy chair beside the fireplace. Little David was in his playpen watching the fire and holding his blanket. Philip thought of past Christmas’ when he, Patsy, and her mother, Loraine, would decorate the whole house, inside and out. They would make hot apple cider and put long slender cinnamon sticks in it to give it a kick. They’d make snow ice cream and then make snow angels out on the front lawn, spraying them with different food colorings to make them special, one-of-a-kind creations the whole neighborhood could enjoy. The year before her mother died, Patsy said coloring the angels made them easier for God and baby Jesus to see.
But, for the past two years no snow angels were made in the front year. No snow ice cream. No hot apple cider and popping popcorn in the fireplace. No Christmas carols and nothing in the empty stocking that hung on the mantle. Dad would just watch as Patsy, decorated the small, artificial tree. He would help with the lights and the garland as she just couldn’t reach very high just yet, and she would have to remind him to put the angel on top.
The tree finished, the stockings hung, even mom’s, Patsy turned to her dad and asked, “Daddy, can we go out and make snow angels for mommy?”
Her father, caught by surprise, replied, “No, dear, it’s too late and much too cold for little girls and boys to be out. Maybe some other time sweetheart, when it’s not so cold.”
She stood by the fireplace looking at her dad and asked, “Daddy, can we make some hot apple cider with cinomum sticks?” She had difficulty saying cinnamon.
“Baby doll, I’m tired. Maybe we can tomorrow, okay?” he answered.
Sadly, she turned and went over to the Parson’s table by their front door. Every year her mother would set up the Nativity scene on it and now Patsy felt it was her duty to do this. She set out the mat of white cotton cloth, smoothing the wrinkles with her little hands, and picking off the lint. She placed the manger just so, putting in the pretend straw and a small white blanket. She then put more pretend straw all around the manger to make it look like a straw-covered floor. She placed the small wood-carved statue of Mary on the right side of the manger, and the one of Joseph on the left. She set up the pretend palm tree (the one holding the light of Jesus) behind the manger, then set up the lambs. She always held the little lambs for a while. There are two stand and two lying down. She set them up in several different ways and finally settled on the two lying down closed to the manger and the two standing near Mary. With a slight nod of her head, Patsy was satisfied.
Next morning was Christmas Eve. Patsy woke to find a new covering of snow outside. Everything looked shimmering white and clean. She ran downstairs and looked out their front picture window, gazing at the pristine whiteness God had spread out like the white cotton cloth under the manger. Thinking of this, she thanked God for the special present outside. Her smile was just as crisp as the morning air. Her eyes twinkled with excitement. Today, she would get her dad to take her and little David out to make snow angels in the fresh snow. Early that evening, after they had had their Christmas Eve dinner, Patsy approached her dad. He was sitting in his easy chair watching the fire. The paper hung limply in his lap and his cup of coffee had grown cold sitting on the end table. She knew the look on her daddy’s face and knew she shouldn’t bother him, but…
“Daddy, come on. Let’s go out and make snow angels for mommy. the new snow is perfect for it. Please, can we, please?” she begged.
He looked down at his daughter and tried to smile, instead, tears formed, and his forehead wrinkled with the stress of his grief. “I’m sorry, darling. I really miss your mommy right now. I wish she were here with us. Everything would be perfect.”
“Daddy, we’ll never be perfect. They teach in Sunday school only Jesus is perfect. Don’t you know that?” she asked, putting her hand on his.
His grief momentarily forgotten in the wonderment of her statement, he looked at Patsy and said, “Yes, Patsy, I know that. It’s just if mommy was here, this Christmas would be better.”
“I know, daddy. I wish mommy was here, too. But can’t we show her we still lover her like Jesus by making snow angels for her in the front yard? I wany to paint mine yellow so it’ll be very bright for her. Yours can be green,” she promised.
is head cocked to one side as he could not understand where her happiness came from while his was gone in grief. He said, “I’d love to make snow angels with you baby, but I just don’t feel like it right now. I’m really sad that your mom isn’t here with us. Don’t you understand that?”
“I guess so. But isn’t mommy with Jesus? Doesn’t Jesus have her just like we have Jesus with us all the time? we can be happy she’s with Him, right daddy?”
“She may be with Jesus, baby doll, but I don’t feel like Jesus is with me right now. Maybe I’ll make us some cider later. go play with your brother,” he said, ending the conversation.
Patsy nodded her head, her curls of hair bouncing just so. She turned with her shoulders drooping and went over to her little brother. She sat down and tried to hold his hand, but he wouldn’t let here. He was playing with his teddy bear and some plastic blocks. She watched for a bit, just sitting there thinking.
Suddenly, her head popped up. She looked towards the Parson’s table, jumped up and ran over to it and stood there looking at the Nativity. She stood staring for several long moments, the finally, gently picked up the baby Jesus, held Him in her hand and looked at Him. She smiled, closed her hand over the baby, turned, and went over to her daddy.
Philip knew Patsy was there. He looked away from the fire at her and exasperation said, “What is it now, dear?”
She held out her balled fist towards him.
He looked at her hand for a moment, cracked a small smile and opened his hand out to her.
She gently placed the baby Jesus in his hand and said, “Here, daddy. Now you have Jesus, too.”
The next morning dawned crystal clear. Patsy woke up and ran downstairs to see what Santa had left under the tree. All of it was wonderful. Knowing she had to wait for her father before she tore into the gifts, she turned and went to the picture window to look outside.
Overnight, the yellow, green, and very small blue snow angels had frozen with brilliant crystal sheens and shown more brightly than ever before. She knew her mommy was smiling, and knew Jesus loved them all.
(Copyright (C) 2007 by James W. Murphy, all rights reserved.)
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The Strangers' Gift
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The Stranger’s Gift
By James W. Murphy
At the sound of a woman’s gasp, the congregation and minister facing the Christmas decorated church stage turned to see the twin church doors ending their swing inward, having been opened by an apparition that made them, too, gasp. The decorations seemed to tremble as the cold winter air entered the church on this Sunday Christmas service. It was a man…they hoped. Mountain man, obviously. His face heavy with white beard and mustache covered with frost. His hair was long and unkempt. His clothing was made from what looked to be animal skins and worn leather-looking boots tied with twine made from what looked like twisted strands of grass. A long flowing coat of what appeared to be buffalo hide laced with white hung from his broad shoulders like thick smoke. His hat, made from some sort of white fur, fit his head solidly and hung to the left side as if to ward off a high wind. His mittens were made of leather, one on his left hand, the other dangling from a string from the right sleeve of his coat; and cradled in his left hand was a rifle. The hunters of the church community knew full well the rifle in the man’s hands was a Hawken black powder rifle, .50 caliber or better from the looks of the heavy octagon barrel. From his mouth and nose steam came as he exhaled – hot air meeting cold. Yet, the most striking feature of this apparition was his eyes. Blue as to be almost turquoise. Bright and piercing, they quickly scanned the congregation and finally settled on the minister, holding his gaze with intensity. No sound could be heard for several long seconds, maybe a full minute. Then the man very quietly walked down the aisle to stand before the congregation and minister. His eyes never left the ministers. He just stood and stared deeply into the minister’s eyes…and the minister stared back, neither blinking. At last the apparition spoke. “Is this a house of God,” he asked of the minister? “Yes, sir, it is, what may we do for you,” the minister asked? “Do you collect money from people? Money to give poor folks? The many of this Earth in need,” the man asked? Hesitantly, almost as if he would be in jeopardy by his response, the minister replied, “Uh…uh yes, we…we do collect funds for the needy here. Is that what you want – money?” The man’s head and shoulders seemed to rise even higher than they were and he appeared insulted. The man leaned to his right and looked to the raised dais behind the Minster, and looked at the cross standing stark and alone on the stage. The man said as he straightened, “He was a great Man, yes?” The minister turned, looked at the cross, not knowing for sure if someone else was there. Suddenly knowing, the minister replied, “Yes sir, Jesus was a very great Man indeed.” The man turned and looked at the congregation, not speaking. The ushers had formed a line behind the man, standing and waiting for a sign from the minister. When the man turned, they knew to spread aside and let this man pass through if he wanted. For a brief moment, he stared into the elder looking of the ushers, as if to say, “No false moves”. Then turned and looked at the minister again. Took two steps forward, quietly, and stood still. The minister was beginning to sweat, as were several of the ushers. They did not know what this man wanted. They were afraid. Again the man leaned to his right. The usher closest to him flinched and moved further away. “This was not a good thing they did to Him,” he stated looking at the minister. “I beg your pardon,” the minister said. “Nailing Him to cross. Not good thing,” the man replied. “No, but…but, He died on that cross for us – for all mankind,” the minister replied. “Yes, forgiveness good.” “Yes, yes it is.” The man looked for a long moment at the minister. Then asked, “You have something you give these good people to put money in?” “Yes, we do,” the minister, replied, not knowing what the man wanted. Was he going to use the church’s plate to rob the church and the people? Would someone be brave enough to go and call the sheriff for help? Would this man begin to hurt someone, including himself, the minister thought? “Get it.” The minister nodded to the eldest of the Deacons, the one the man had stared at, beaconing to him to go and get the plate. “Excuse me, sir,” the Deacon said as he moved to step onto the dais, the man watching his every move. The Deacon got the plate from its place and tried to hand it to the man, but the man would not take it. Instead, he nodded towards the minister. The Deacon handed the plate to the minister then turned and went and stood in front of his seat. Oh God, no, the minister thought, he’s going to make me collect all the money and valuables for him. “Sir,” the minister said, “I cannot do what you want me to do.” The man’s head cocked just slightly and he just stood there and with a look of consternation, stared at the minister. For several long moments it seemed the entire congregation collectively held their breaths, not knowing what would happen next. The man finally took a deep breath, turned, looking again at the faces of the people sitting, then back to the minister. “You said you take money from these people to give to the poor, yes,” the man asked again? “Yes…yes, of course we do,” the minister replied nervously, really beginning to be frightened now. The eldest usher spoke up, “What do you want mister?” The man just looked at him, as if to say keep quiet, and then looked back to the minister, the usher backing off. He then, very slowly, swung his rifle barrel around, and gently prodded the minister to move to his right, out of the way. Once the minister had moved aside, out of the direct view of the cross, the man again cradled the rifle in his gloved left hand, and just stood there looking at the cross and seemed to be praying. After a moment, the minister saw the man’s eyes begin to mist over, and saw the man’s shoulders, once proud and strong, seem to droop just a bit. The man’s face took on a mask of wonder, and at the same time sadness. For just a brief instant the minister understood the man was awestruck by the Cross of Christ. He saw pity, sorrow, deep regret, and then a renewal – revelation in the man’s eyes. And a tear slowly etched a path down his haggard face. Then the man beckoned with his right hand for the minister to again take center in front of him. When the minister was back where he was to begin with, the man turned and faced the congregation and said, “Always have pity for poor.” And with that, turned to the minister, looked into his eyes and said, “Hold out dish,” nodding to the church plate the minister held. The minister held out the plate with one hand. “Both hands,” the man said. The minister did. “Hold tight,” the man said. The minister did. Then the man held the Hawken rifle out to the elder usher and said, “Do not drop.” All the usher could do was nodding his head in understanding as he took the weapon in both hands holding it across his chest. The man again stared long and hard at the minister’s eyes, looking, searching for what the minister didn’t know. After some time, the man’s eyes softened and he said, “I believe you will do good for poor.” And with a sweep of his arms indicated the congregation and said, “I believe these people do good for poor, too.” And with that, he reached for a leather-looking braided rope hanging around his neck, pulled it over his head. Attached to the ends of the rope were two leather bags, and these he placed onto the plate the minister held. The minister almost fell forward from the weight of those bags, the man catching the weight from his side, helping to steady the minister. The man looked back to the usher and the usher handed him his rifle. The man gave one nod of his head as if to say thanks, and then cradled the Hawken in his gloved hand. The man again leaned to his right, looking at the cross, and gave a single nod of his head, straightened up, bowed his head for just a brief moment, then looked again at the minister. “You must do good for poor. I may be back,” he said staring with those eyes that gave warning. “Yes, we will,” he replied. And with that the man turned and silently walked down the aisle, gathered both doors and closed them on his way out. There was a collective sigh of relief from the two hundred or so people in the congregation, not to mention the minister and the ushers. “What do you suppose is in the bags,” the lead usher asked? The minister placed the bags on the stage and opened one of them, spilling its’ contents onto the plate and stage. Small gold coins…hundreds of them. The people stood and gasped. Such wealth! Each of those bags must have weighed twenty pounds. The minister looked at the lead usher and they both hurried down the aisle and threw open the doors…the man was gone. But what did meet them was the sunrise, which gleamed brightly on freshly fallen snow…the sign of newness and of a bright future…a sign from God.Copyright © 1998 by James W. Murphy, all rights reserved.
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