Inspirational short stories

After a delay while I had stents put into my coronary arteries and looked after a four-year-old step grandson for 10 days — a full time occupation with no time for anything else — I’m very proud to announce that my new book is in print — electronically and as a paperback.

You’ll find it on Amazon or

There is something in music that causes a surge in the heart of the listener, causing emotions that fluctuate as the music varies. A good story, well written can do that, too.

In this book, I’ve written award winning stories that will put a song in your heart, like music. Whether you find your spirit soaring like an eagle with inspiring true stories such as that of Father Damien in “Plundering a Hell on Earth”, challenged with fictitious tales containing eternal truths, such as “I Did it My Way”, weeping at the tragedy of a senseless war in “Scorched Earth, Seared Soul” or tenderly touched by the love of two women in “To Mary, and Mary”, each story will strike a chord that brings you to Jesus, or challenges your walk with Him in some way.

Listen to the music that stirs within you as you read, and you will hear God speak to you.

For the next two weeks the book is on promotion for 99c. If you buy it from Smashwords, you’ll need to quote a coupon, which is NM27P.

This is an extract from someone who previewed it:

“Loved the book! It was a real treasure trove of vignettes, little polished gems that keep me digging for more. I wept on several occasions at the beauty of your language and the emotions you evoked.”

Here’s a sample:

The Mocking

            At the cathedral exit, Jacques paused and looked at his friend. “Wait here. I’m going back to shock the priest out of his cassock!” Turning back to the aisle, he made his way towards the confessional.
            Jacques and Mario were touring the world and having a blast. Cathedral tours were not usually included with the beaches, night clubs and extreme sports, but this one was supposed to be famous. Jacques found it ornate, cold and otherworldly. He needed to inject some fun.
            Drawing back the curtain of the confessional, he sat down. “Father, I have sinned,” he said in a contrite voice.
            “Nothing is beyond God’s forgiveness, my son. Please confess your sins.”
            Jacques, his imagination at full sway, recited in lurid detail, stories of every abominable sin he could think of. He had murdered, he said, fornicated, cheated, lied, blasphemed and betrayed. Finally he stopped, waiting for a response.
            After a silence the priest spoke up in deep, clear tones. Was there a slight mocking? Had he seen the prank? 
            “My son, you have much to repent of. This is the penance: At the life-size crucifix overlooking the chapel to your right, look into the face of the statue of Jesus hanging on the cross and repeat ten times, “Jesus, you are hanging there for all I’ve done and I don’t care.” Then, with the hint of a smile in his voice, he said, “Do not let the game end here. Carry it through to the end.” 
            So he DID know. Oh well, Jacques would accept the dare.
            He found the crucifix easily. He never understood this Jesus thing. Why did people make so much fuss about a man on a cross improbably taking our sins? Was the story true? It seemed unlikely. Uncertainly, he started. “Jesus, you are hanging there for all I’ve done and I don’t care. Jesus, you are hanging there for all I’ve done and I don’t care.” Gaining confidence, he made it part of the fun. Beating his breast in mock despair, in a cracked voice he called, “Jesus, you’re hanging there for all I’ve done,” then he straightened himself, looked defiantly at the statue’s face and spat out the words, “and I don’t care.” He tried looking him in the eye, daring him to flinch, “Jesus, you’re hanging there for all I’ve done and I don’t care.” There, that was four times. Six to go.
            On the seventh time, as he looked into that face, he noticed, for the first time, how the thorns of the crown pierced the skin of his forehead, causing blood to trickle down into his eye. Inexplicably, he felt an urge to wipe it away. “This is silly. It’s only a statue!”
            The next time, his eyes wandered to the hands fiercely impaled with large, rough nails. Again he noticed the blood trickling, this time, from the palms to halfway along his arms before forming drops that hung, about to fall. “Jesus, you’re … you’re hanging there … for all I’ve done, and ….. and I don’t care.” He forced the words out. “I am just talking to a statue.” Why, then was he feeling so emotional about it? He looked back at the face. Those eyes; they seemed to know what he was saying and yet remained with that same compassionate look. Of course they would. They were the eyes of a statue. And yet…. what if it depicted a real person?
            Two to go. He started, “Jesus, you’re hanging there for all I’ve done and…. and… ” He felt his knees shaking, then giving way. On his knees he started sobbing, “and I DO care, Jesus. I’m not that callous. Or maybe I am. I am sorry. I am so sorry that you had to do this for us. Why do you love us so much? How could I not care, Jesus, when YOU care so much? Forgive me, please. I don’t ever want to willingly do anything that makes me more responsible for your suffering.”
            As he knelt before the cross, a tangible peace flooded his soul. Through his tear-filled eyes he half-imagined Jesus coming off that cross, laying a forgiving hand on his shoulder. And he felt clean; for the first time he could remember, he felt washed from the inside out. He looked up and saw the man-God behind the statue. He also saw, in every repeat of his own mocking another reason for those brutal nails. And, born again, he wept.
(This is based on a true story)