Results from The AUGUST 2025 SAGE WRITING CHALLENGE: 

CHARITY   

I WILL WAIT FOR YOU

C.L. Nemeth

Sparky lay under the Oak Brush looking down the long hill toward the highway. The Border Collie had been there since early morning, as he had been doing now, for almost two years.

On the day Jimmy Dickerson reached twenty-one he and Sparky had driven the 45 miles to Pecos. Sparky had waited patiently in the pickup cab while Jimmy enlisted in the Marines.

Several weeks later Jimmy began the four mile walk to the highway, sparky, as usual, following along.  When they reached the top of Yucca Hill and started down the last mile to the highway, Jimmy stopped, pointed and said, Sparky, stay.  Sparky sat but after Jimmy had gone aways, began to follow.  Jimmy pointed, and gave the command again.  Sparky went back to where he had been and watched as Jimmy reached the road. Then watched, with ears erect, as the bus took in his master and drove away. Sparky stayed until the next evening when thirst, and hunger, drove him back to the ranch. Jimmys mother had fretted over him.  But the next day he was gone again. Now, almost two years in sun, wind, snow, rain, Sparky would lie under the Oak Brush, waiting. When a vehicle came down the road he would jump up, ears erect, only to lie back down as the vehicle passed on.

One evening, during a rare downpour of rain, Jimmy’s mother    heard a scratching at the door, Two A.M. She found Sparky standing there soaking wet shivering.  She quickly found some old flour sacks and rubbed him down, then put a blanket behind the cook stove, and Sparky, after eating ravenously, slept until mid-morning when he asked to go out.  He was gone again for two days.

Sparky became the news in the county.  He was in the weekly paper; the Pecos TV station came out and pictured him lying in his spot.  People driving by would look for him and honk. Jimmys Dad, hoping to discourage him, tied him in the yard. Sparky howled and tugged and fought until he was released before he could hurt himself. As soon as the leash was off, he took off for the highway. Jimmys mother wanted to take food and water to him but the father said she should leave him as he is. He always came home before he was to exhausted.

They had written to Jimmy about Sparky, they sent the newspaper clippings, and photos.  But Jimmy was far, far away, in Afghanistan.

The vigil began to show on the dog.  He lost a lot of weight, they would watch him coming back, at times.  His gait was slow and he stopped to rest.  But nothing could stop him from his watch for Jimmy.

It was a cold day in early February.  The sun shown, but with little warmth, the wind was cutting. Sparky, by now, had dug his lair so that, as he lay there, only his head was in view.  He was dozing, remembering how he and Jimmy used to play and romp.

His reverie was broken by the sound of an engine slowing.  Sparky, for the thousandth time, stood and looked down at the highway.  It was a Trailways Bus and it was stopping.  He gave his tail a short wag. A tall man, in green, stepped down, turned and pulled a duffel bag and heaved it onto his left shoulder. The bus began to leave.

Sparky wagged several times. This did not look like Jimmy.  This man was heavier. He began to walk up the hill toward the ranch road.

Who could this be?  Sparky took several steps toward the man, then stopped and returned to his lair.  Jimmy had told him to stay. He keened while he watched the man slowly coming.  Who could it be?  He didn’t walk like Jimmy; this man had a measured step.  Sparky couldn’t help it, he barked.

The man stopped, took the duffel from his shoulder and put it down.  He shielded his eyes and peered up the hill.

Sparky barked again, and his tail thumped.

“Sparky.  Is that you?

The dog leaped and began to run furiously down the hill, yelping and almost crying. When he was just a short distance from the man, he threw himself into the air and Jimmy caught him full on his chest.

Jimmy sat on the duffel.

“Sparky, Sparky. It’s me, it’s me.”
The dog whined, quivered until he reached Jimmys face then covered him with kisses, drool running down.  Jimmy was laughing all the while. He put the dog down, who ran around howling, then would leap into jimmy’s arms again.  They were there the better part of an hour.  By now Jimmy’s uniform was in shambles.  He didn’t care.  They started for home.

For a long time, Sparky insisted on being with Jimmy at all times.  He even waited patiently outside the shower.  They would sit for hours on the hill by Sparky’s lair, just sitting.  Jimmy would talk to the dog, who wagged and wagged.   Jimmy was home.

* * * * *

Holy Thursday

By Ed Johnson

“I love you,” the woman says.

It’s Holy Thursday and I’m on my ritual morning walk around the park. She’s standing outside the library, waiting for it to open, waiting to take shelter for the day.

She says she would never do me harm, that she wants no charity, that she wants only to say she loves me.

“Thank you,” I say.

 She says she’s come from Jesus, or is Jesus. It’s difficult to say which.

 I smile, nod and continue to walk.

“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you for saying hello.”

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The Lantern Boy

By Dita Dow

The storm had ended, leaving the streets damp. At the edge of the square stood a thin boy, holding a lantern. Its flame flickered in the wind, casting a small circle of warmth into the night.

A merchant passed by, burdened with a sack of apples. He stopped and frowned. “Boy, why waste your time standing in the cold? That lantern earns you nothing.”

The boy lifted his chin. “It helps travelers find their way.”

The merchant shook his head and moved on, muttering about foolishness. Yet the boy stayed, lantern steady in his grasp.

Not long after, a woman approached, her basket empty, her face tired. “Is this the road to the river?” she asked.

“Yes,” said the boy. He pointed down the lane. “Go carefully. Left foot first—then the right. The stones are slick near the bend.”

“Then you’ve spared me a fall.” She touched his arm in thanks and walked on, steadied by his warning.

Hours passed. Some travelers hurried past without a word. Others cursed him for standing in their way. Still, he did not move. His lantern was for them, whether they noticed or not.

Near midnight, a cloaked traveler stopped. He studied the boy, then the flame. “Strange,” he said. “To give your light to others when you have so little yourself. Why do it?”

The boy looked up, his face calm in the glow. “Because if one person walks safer because of it, then it is worth everything.”

The traveler’s gaze softened. He pulled a coin from his pouch and pressed it into the boy’s hand. “Keep it. At least buy yourself a warm meal.”

The boy shook his head. “The lantern is enough. If you need it, take it with you.”

The traveler frowned. “And leave you in darkness?”

The boy just smiled.

The traveler watched him a moment longer…then saw what he had missed before.
The boy’s pale eyes had never followed the flame.

Quietly, he closed the child’s fingers around the coin and moved on—his path lit by a light carried by one who could not see it.

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Charity Begins in One’s Home

Lynne Zotalis

When you’re in a cult you lose sight of the very basis of truth. Life takes on the essence of an alternate universe with its own set of beliefs and dogma. There is one way in that myopic mentality, the authority’s way, ‘that way or the highway.’ That’s what brainwashing is about. Leaving off reason and allowing dictates to guide and define how one exists. There is a myriad of reasons I stuck with it for twenty years but I’ve recovered and let it go. What does that all have to do with charity? I will reference a scripture which I believe speaks to the heart of the matter.

        I Corinthians 13:13  “now abide these three, faith, hope, and charity and the greatest of these is charity.”

I retain Biblical knowledge of that simple belief, so succinct and all encompassing.

I don’t ever, and I mean ever reference my years in a fundamental, right wing cult, however when there is something so particular to the topic, I will acknowledge it and pull some nugget from all of the indoctrination. To see the good, to put a positive spin on experience is how we continue to put one foot in front of the other and get back up, once more.  No longer in the ‘god squad’ evolving as I have these past decades, shedding the cloak of religion, I have learned to value a portion of whatever I’ve gone through in order to come out with some benefit. Compassion, empathy and patience usually come with a price. Hard lessons are the most valuable, in my estimation. Not that we would ever invite them or wish them on our loved ones, no, I know I’d do anything to avoid hardship but life is unfair, unpredictable and so often difficult.

When my beloved husband died in my arms on the beach in Mexico I thought my life would end along with his. Sudden, traumatic death is so shocking, so powerful that it’s impossible to fathom moving on. Twenty-four years later I still miss him every day, still see the images burned into my psyche, still wonder why. The years have brought me to a peaceful place of acceptance along with an abiding faith in my strength and wisdom. I know what I know, what I know, what I know. That is not a misprint. There is a commaraderie, a fellowship, as it were, of suffering and loss that those that have experienced it understand. You get it. The depth of grief, the tearing of the soul connects to every single individual feeling that loss. There were people that I could actually sense were afraid of me, scared to be near me, ostensibly due to the intensity of my situation. If you don’t know that part of life, it is confusing at best, debilitating at worst. Their intentions were kind enough but I heard the stupidest comments during those first months from ignorant dolts that felt they had to say something, anything. “So what happened?” “How did he die?” NO. Don’t ask questions. Please, have a clue.

Charity, that is, love, will calm, will settle, will take up the place of emptiness in one’s ravished heart so that healing might begin. While ‘time’ is the ultimate healer, gentleness and compassion to oneself  is the beginning of recovery. Which leads to the most important tenet: charity begins in the home. My home, my abode, my well-being. When our ‘home’ has been assaulted, even devastated and traumatized by events outside of our control the focus needs to turn inward. Quietly listening to our own voice, seeking peace and a slower pace, is the formula that led me to a safe and grounded center. That was not an easy place to attain, even taking all of two years after my loss to begin to pull myself out of the morass. In that interim I sought out every available resource to gain a modicum of wholeness. It was a grueling process including therapy, medication, grief group, and reading, reading, reading anything and everything I thought might help.

And now all of these decades later I am empowered  with empathy, with charity and love to offer strength and courage to those I am drawn to. At this stage of my life, a senior citizen, there is no shortage of those suffering a devastating loss. I know what to say, or to stay quiet, to be in the moment, whatever one may need. It is a gift I treasure, that has come at great price and yet I feel fortunate to understand and to have come through the valley of the shadow. Bearing that in mind, true charity is giving of one’s self from a place of honesty and love.

* * * * *

Bountiful Grace

R. Janet Walraven

She saw them coming through the classroom door
Of the one-room schoolhouse with wooden floor.
Discerning poverty on the first day of teaching–
Each child with sad eyes wearing a flimsy coat,
Carrying paper bags full of popcorn for lunch.
Shoes were quite worn with no sneaker laces,
Small kids with snotty or dirty faces.
Looked up at the new teacher
With nervous or shy questions
They all looked tired, rather scrawny.
Quickly eating their meager meals
They ran out to play in the nearby fields.
Teacher watched to keep them safe
While wondering, nurturing bodies
Of souls that hide inside their flesh.
Second day teacher brought milk for lunch
Generous half-pints for each of the bunch.
Free for all no matter how many
Each child could choose as much as wanted
Thanks to the dairy for delivering daily.
Children left that day, hugged teacher at the door
Thanking her for all she had done and more.
Little did they know she was buying pencils, paper,
Finding friends willing to gift them coats,
New shoes, socks, mittens, hats, and boots.
Teacher sat making plans for next day
Thinking what else she’d do a better way.
Wanting help for kids, when she heard a knock,
Seeing an elderly man sharing a smile
Removed shabby hat, tapped the window again.
“Hello, Ma’am, I live in the woods behind the school
And saw what’s broken so brought my tools.
The swings need fixing and the slide needs anchored–
I watch the sweet children having fun at recess,
Most walk through the woods to home they go.”
Teacher smiled at the seeming homeless man,
“Thank you, sir, fix whatever you can.
I and the students will be grateful for that
I’m planning a bake sale at the grocery nearby,
They haven’t had much to play, no balls or bats.”
He tipped his hat, turned to get busy with tools
Watched him secure slide and swings, he’s no fool.
Just a helpful being who wants fun for kids;
Clouds quickly let loose with sprinkles as
Teacher looked to see a rainbow of promise.
Ah, a spark of delight as she knew the most need
With someone who has come with help indeed.
She picked up the phone to call the school board
“I found a custodian, if he’ll take the job,
He lives nearby; can we give him a chance?”
Days came and went with immense joy for all,
Church ladies brought lunch throughout the fall.
Even brought nicer clothing, coats, and more;
Teacher let go of the charitable chores and
Thanked the custodian and village for sure.
Once you get started helping the poor,
You’re on a roll that keeps giving much more.

---

 

Selfish Reasons

S. C. Poli

It wasn’t my idea to ride the mechanical bull. And once I gripped that worn leather strap, there was no doubt that karma would finally claim revenge against me and the rest of these so-called charity fundraising patrons.

My older brother watched on, smiling to hide his legitimate concern. Most of the patrons know him as Philadelphia – just like they know me as New Mexico. The distance between us was the sole reason we had flown into Nashville in the first place. Even with Thanksgiving and Christmas, our only opportunity to simply hang out as brothers came with each annual fundraising event.

How two-faced is that? It’s why karma demands that this mechanical bull kick my ass. Forget that I stopped at the ATM to withdraw extra cash for the raffle, or that my brother and I ordered overpriced t-shirts with the difference going directly to the charity. I’m only here for selfish reasons.

I don’t want to be here with the rest of these patrons anyways. It’s bad enough that I need to deal with people at work all the time. Hell, I’ve been all peopled-out since before I landed in this town. And before you say it, the only reason I greeted the grandfatherly San Francisco, the even-keeled Arizona and his twin sons, or Houston – he plays bass guitar in his own band – is because it was the polite thing to do. Plus, I can’t ignore Colorado when he calls out, “Hey, New Mexico!” At that point, it’s my duty to talk shop, if only to hear how his dad’s doing. And to tease him about his watery green chile.

You see what I’m saying? I’m only here to talk with everyone I met at the last fundraiser. That’s also why it doesn’t make sense that our numbers grow every year. I talked with Detroit before I got on the bull – she and her husband are first-timers. I had to explain that long-time patrons would want to talk with them and that it was mostly for their own joy. I also warned them that with so many patrons, we’d probably go through more than one roll of tickets for the raffle later. It would be best for them to buy at least a couple of strips to increase their chances. And they better save some cash for the auction later; there’ll be a handful of patrons calling in from out of state to bid on items.

“You ready, New Mexico?”

Like I told you, we all deserve to be punished by this metal contraption. I would’ve chickened out, but I already gave Chicago my five-dollar entry fee. Four of those will go to the charity, but that’s not important. What’s important are the bragging rights. I might be all hat and no cattle, but I live out west now – that’s got to count for something. And at a minimum, I’ve got to last longer than my brother does.

See? I’m here for selfish reasons, just like everyone else. They’ll laugh when I get tossed from the mechanical bull after five seconds, and I’ll return the favor when Tampa, North Carolina, and Milwaukee fall just as quickly. San Antonio will win with a decent time and claim the plastic, “custom-made” trophy (courtesy of Atlanta’s wife). But I’ll be the real winner, having outlasted my brother by a full second.

And it won’t matter that we’ll break this year’s fundraising record, just like we did last year. Because we’re all here for selfish reasons, and no good can come from that.

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Barking Up the Right Trees

By Maralie Waterman

I met a black and white Chihuahua outside the thrift store. Lean and ragged, he gnawed on a stuffed hedgehog that looked like it was drowned in a flood, run over and then drowned again. He vibrated in that Chihuahua way that makes you wonder if they’ve just escaped the Grim Reaper or that’s just the default operating system.

Scooping him up, I read the scratched-to-hell tag, and decided his name was Bud. I rethought the name when she squatted on the sidewalk to pee on my boot.

“Rosebud?” I suggested.

She stared up me with round, soulful eyes that seemed to say, “I’ve baptized you and you’re mine now.”

From then on, Rosebud was my tiny charge. In retrospect, this was the sort of impulsive decision-making that found me in my drinking years in the first place.

Ten months, four days, and six hours sober… not that I was counting. I worked and came home, then repeated the process. I considered finding a hobby to fill the time I used to spend drinking and apologizing for my drinking. Turns out, an eight-pound dog with lazy eyes and a Napoleon complex filled the gap quite nicely.

Rosebud was obsessed with toys, but she didn’t destroy them like a normal dog. She curated them. Each morning, she’d move her rubber bone from the couch to the rug, swap it for a squeaky chicken, then reposition a stuffed giraffe as if she were staging a small and disturbing museum exhibit. Once, at the park, she dug a plush penguin out from the trash and insisted on keeping it. It smelled like death and wet jock supporters, but I carried it home anyway.

Enabling is not limited to alcoholics.

A few weeks before Christmas, the thrift shop put up a sign:

Winter Toy Drive

Help Us Help 500 Local Kids

 Rosebud spotted a stuffed squirrel near the gift pile and locked onto it like it owed her money. I considered how to explain the concept of “donation.” At home, I surveyed her toy stash, an empire, really. She could spare some. Not like she was running an underground toy ring.

The next day, I filled a laundry bag with old toys, washed them, and even stitched up the penguin’s wing.

“Let go and let God,” I said. “Ready to share?”

She tilted her head. In Chi-speak, this means, That’s not really my thing, Dude. At the thrift store, Rosebud hesitated, then dropped the rope bone into the bin like she was tithing to some squeaky god of displaced ankle-biters. Customers clapped, which made me want to say, “She didn’t cure cancer, folks. Calm down.”

It became our thing. Every day after work, we’d bring a toy, sometimes one salvaged and refurbished from her collection. Sometimes one I picked up for a buck at a garage sale. Watching her strut to the bin was unreasonably satisfying. It was like watching a tiny mob boss donate to reform her public image.

One afternoon, the store manager stopped me. She was one of those women with a haircut so sharp it could slice paper. “You’re the guy with the little dog,” she said, tucking a strand of fierce hair behind one multi-pierced ear. “You’ve donated more toys than anyone else.”

I shrugged. “She’s the philanthropist. I’m just her Uber driver.”

She laughed. “Well, we hit our goal early. Five hundred toys. Kids are going to have a better Christmas because of you.”

Because of me? That was hilarious, considering I’d spent my last decade being the drunk uncle who ruined Christmas. Now apparently, I was Santa’s unpaid intern.

On Christmas Eve, I sat on the couch with Rosebud curled in my lap, chewing the squeaky rabbit I’d bought her. Outside, soft flakes hit the window, snowing the way it only does when you have nowhere to be, and a blanket over your knees.

I imagined kids tearing into wrapping paper in the morning, hugging Rosebud’s old penguin or giraffe. I hoped they wouldn’t ask why their toy smelled faintly of Downy and dog breath.

There was a time when I counted all that I’d lost. My wife. My job. The respect of people I love. For the first time in years, I wasn’t counting what I’d lost. I wasn’t counting the hours since my last drink. I was counting how many days I could keep these ridiculous, tiny acts of kindness going.

Rosebud squeaked the rabbit twice, then fell asleep.

“You’re a real piece of work,” I told her.

And she is, but she’s also the reason I now know the difference between losing something and giving it away.

-The End –