Echoes of Faith: In The Shadow of Giants| Flash Fiction

 Prefer to listen? 🎧 In The Shadow of Giants is now available as an audio on YouTube — click here to listen for FREE!

 

In The Shadow of Giants

In the quiet town of Elderglen, North Carolina, Miriam Hale lives in the shadow of her legendary father’s legacy. But through humble acts of service and steadfast faith, she discovers that true greatness isn’t always loud—it listens, it stays, it believes. A heartfelt story about legacy, quiet courage, and the light left behind. Let the story speak to your heart—scroll down to begin.

Everyone in Elderglen, North Carolina, knew Thomas Hale’s name.

War hero. Builder of schools and churches. Preacher of fire and thunder. He'd once calmed a riot with nothing but scripture and a steady gaze. Folks said angels flanked him when he walked into town meetings. Even a decade after his passing, people still paused before his statue in the square, bowing their heads in reverence—or guilt.

And Miriam Hale could not escape him.

“Your father would’ve spoken up,” someone muttered when she didn’t raise her hand in the town hall.

“Thomas would’ve led the prayer,” they said when she stayed seated.

“Thomas Hale’s daughter, isn’t she?”

As if a name were a promise.

 As if legacy came without weight.

Miriam carried that weight in her bones.

She worked in the small office at First Light Church of Christ three days a week—filing forms, preparing sermons for the new pastor, and ordering communion bread. She wasn’t a preacher. Not a teacher. Barely a singer. And when she prayed, it was soft and unsure, more like a whispered question than a declaration.

Still, it was faith.

She found it in quiet things: the gleam of morning sun through stained glass, the scrape of folding chairs being set up for Sunday service, the shy thanks from a widow receiving a meal she’d delivered. Miriam had learned long ago that not all ministries needed pulpits.

But the whispers continued.

“Your father would’ve done more.”

That phrase clung to her like a shadow.

It was Mrs. Delaney who broke her routine.

The older woman arrived at First Light one Thursday morning with her husband slumped in a wheelchair and a tremor in her voice.

“Pastor Reed is away. But I need someone,” she said. “James… he doesn’t remember me most days. But sometimes, when we pray, he comes back.”

Miriam hesitated. This was not in the handbook.

“I’m not like my father,” she started, automatically.

Mrs. Delaney smiled gently. “Good. I asked for you.”

So Miriam sat beside the old man, awkward and unsure. She read a psalm. Then another. She sang a halting hymn. The old man stirred, blinked, and for a moment reached out to squeeze her hand.

Mrs. Delaney’s eyes filled with tears.

“He hasn’t done that in months,” she whispered.

Miriam said nothing. But something in her chest shifted. Not confidence. Not pride. Something older. Gentler.

Hope.

Word spread. Not fast, not loud. Just enough.

A teenager with anxiety asked if she could sit in the sanctuary when no one was there. Miriam unlocked the door and lit a candle for her.

An overworked single mother asked if someone could babysit while she filled out job applications. Miriam rearranged her hours.

She helped a widower find the hymnal his wife had once sung from. She drove a neighbor to Raleigh for a specialist appointment. She left loaves of cornbread on porches when no one was looking.

One rainy Tuesday, she sat with a young veteran named Chance who came into the church soaked and silent.

“I thought your dad would be here,” he said.

“He passed ten years ago,” Miriam said gently.

“I know. I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

She made him tea and sat with him while he talked about flashbacks and nights without sleep. She didn’t quote Scripture. She didn’t give advice. She listened.

When he left, he said, “You’re quieter than him. But you’ve got the same eyes. Steady.”

None of it felt heroic. None of it looked like Thomas Hale.

But it felt right.

Then came the fundraiser.

A big, glossy event, planned to restore the community center. All the big names were attending. The mayor asked Miriam to speak. Said it would “mean something” coming from her. Legacy and all that.

Miriam practiced for hours.

But when she stepped onto the stage, lights blinding and microphone waiting, her hands went cold.

“I—I’m not the right person for this,” she said, voice trembling.

A ripple of disappointment moved through the crowd. She left the stage, her stomach in knots. People avoided her eyes the rest of the night.

At home, she sat alone in the kitchen, tracing the rim of her tea mug. Outside, cicadas buzzed through the warm air. She imagined her father sitting across from her, larger than life, a question in his eyes.

Why are you so small?

She almost believed he was disappointed.

Then she saw it—the letter. Folded into an old Bible, the one she rarely touched. It must have fallen from a drawer.

Miri,

 If you're reading this, then I’m gone. And someone, somewhere, is probably trying to make you into me. Don’t let them.

She blinked.

I was loud because I had to be. You? You always listened. You saw the people who slipped through the cracks. You stayed behind when I was out marching. That’s no less holy.

Don’t become me.

 Become you.

—Dad

She cried then. Softly. Fully. Like a release.

The next Sunday, Miriam didn’t speak from the pulpit. She never would.

But she placed a small journal in the back of First Light Church titled Needs & Names. Anyone could write what they needed: a ride to the doctor, help with rent, someone to pray with.

Miriam read every entry. Responded to as many as she could.

A quiet ministry.

 A living faith.

One spring afternoon, ten years after her passing, the town unveiled a second statue beside her father’s.

Not marble. Not bronze. Just wood. Simple. A woman sitting on a bench, holding a journal in her lap.

The plaque read:

Miriam Hale

 She listened. She stayed. She believed.

Children played nearby, darting between trees. A neighbor laid a single white rose on the bench. Caleb stood at the back of the crowd, cap in hand.

And though her voice was gone, her presence lingered—in every small kindness that followed.

Echoes of Faith| The Unseen Guide| Not All Leave Footprints| Flash Fiction

Prefer to listen? 🎧 The Unseen Guide is now available as an audio on YouTube — click here to listen for FREE!

 

The Unseen Guide

When Dr. Nate Reece breaks his ankle deep in the Appalachian wilderness, help seems impossible—until a mysterious stranger appears. By morning, the man is gone… and Nate is healed. Read his journey below and discover what can happen when science meets the unseen.

Dr. Nathaniel “Nate” Reece didn’t believe in anything he couldn’t measure. A field biologist and evolutionary theorist, Nate had spent the last decade tracking the migration patterns of birds through the Appalachian backcountry. Faith, in his view, was a crutch—an ancient explanation for a world that now bent to science.

On the third day of his solo expedition, Nate veered off the trail to investigate a strange cluster of bird calls. The sky was cloudless, the early summer heat dry and buzzing with insects. His GPS lost signal somewhere near a bend in the valley, but he didn’t worry. He’d studied these mountains for years. He knew how to navigate.

Except he didn’t.

By the time the sun dropped behind the ridgeline, Nate realized he hadn’t seen a trail marker in hours. The birds were gone. The forest, thick and alive, had swallowed every familiar landmark. Trees looked the same in every direction, and his compass needle spun slightly—magnetic interference, maybe, or a technical failure.

Still, he kept walking.

The next morning, his canteen was nearly empty, and his emergency satellite phone refused to power on. His notes, carefully annotated in a field journal, had been soaked in a stream crossing the day before. His body ached. His pride, sharper than any pain, kept him from panicking—until he slipped on loose gravel and landed with a sickening crunch.

Nate cried out and collapsed onto a bed of pine needles, biting down a scream. His ankle throbbed—misshapen and swelling fast. The pain made him dizzy. He reached out and touched it lightly.

Broken. He knew it.

He sat there, sweat beading on his forehead, listening to the silence press in.

That was when he first heard the voice.

“Long way from the trail, aren’t you?”

Startled, Nate looked up. A man stood a few yards away, tall, sun-worn, dressed in old canvas clothes. He had a walking stick and a weathered satchel slung over one shoulder. His face was deeply lined, his beard silver. But his eyes—his eyes were young.

Nate blinked. “Where did you come from?”

The man smiled. “Just over the ridge.”

“I didn’t hear you approach.”

“Most don’t.” He gestured to Nate’s ankle. “That looks rough. Mind if I take a look?”

Nate hesitated. He didn’t like strangers, especially ones who appeared without explanation. But he was in no position to argue. The man knelt beside him and gently examined the injury.

“This is bad,” he said quietly. “You can’t walk on it.”

“So it’s broken?”

The man answered right away. “Yes, it is.”

Nate frowned. “Are you a doctor?”

“Nothing like that.”

“You from around here?”

“Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I know the way back.”

That sentence dropped into Nate’s chest like a stone. “You… you can guide me out?”

“You can’t go anywhere on that ankle.”

“Then can you go and get help?”

“We don’t have to do that,” the man said. “I can help.”

“How? If you’re not a doctor?”

“I’ll build a fire,” he said, already gathering wood. “And a splint for that leg. Then we’ll see.”

He worked quietly, tying branches into place and wrapping Nate’s ankle with strips of cloth from his own pack. The fire crackled to life under the man’s steady hands. Nate leaned back, exhausted.

The man hummed an old tune—something Nate didn’t recognize but found strangely comforting.

As the flames danced higher, Nate watched them flicker. For a moment, he thought he saw… something. A shape. A glow. A presence. A figure sitting within the flames, still and watchful, robed in light.

He blinked.

Gone.

He turned toward the man, but he was already lying down, eyes closed. Maybe sleeping. Maybe not.

“Rest,” the man murmured, without opening his eyes. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Nate meant to ask how he knew that—but sleep pulled him under before the words could form.

The next morning, he woke to birdsong and an empty campsite.

He couldn’t remember falling asleep.

The guide was gone.

No footprints. No satchel. No sign that anyone had ever been there.

Nate sat up slowly—and froze.

His ankle.

The swelling was gone. The bruising, faint. He moved his foot. No sharp pain. No resistance.

He stood.

No pain.

His breath caught. He crouched, stood again. Balanced on it. Walked a few steps.

No. This wasn’t possible.

Not medically. Not logically. Not… humanly.

“Hello?” he called out, louder now. “Where did you go?”

No answer.

Then, faintly, from somewhere deep in the trees, he heard a voice—not a shout, not a whisper, but something inside his chest.

“Keep going. You’re almost there.”

Nate stumbled forward, heart pounding, feet steady. For the first time in days, he wasn’t afraid.

Minutes later, he stepped onto a ranger trail—sunlight breaking through the trees, and the distant rumble of an engine.

On the ride to the ranger station, Nate shared his story. The rangers listened quietly, exchanging glances.

One of them finally said, “You said your ankle was broken yesterday?”

“It was,” Nate replied.

The ranger raised an eyebrow. “Then how are you walking on it?”

Nate didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Later, as they approached the station, another ranger added gently, “People see things out there sometimes. Hear voices. When they’re alone too long.”

But Nate knew what he saw.
What he felt.
And it hadn’t come from inside his head.

Back at the station, the rangers gave him a hot meal, clean clothes, and a ride into town. He thanked them, filed a shaky report, and boarded a flight home to New York the next day.

But nothing felt the same.

When he stepped into his apartment—walls lined with books, specimens, and framed degrees—Nate felt like a stranger in his own life.

He looked at the evidence of everything he’d built. Everything he had trusted. Everything that now felt… insufficient.

He limped—out of habit, not necessity—over to the far end of his bookshelf. His fingers hovered for a moment, then pulled down a Bible he hadn’t touched in years.

He flipped it open at random.

“Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing so some have entertained angels unawares.”
—Hebrews 13:2

He read it again.
And again.

That verse burned itself into his memory.

He closed the Bible slowly, his hands trembling.

He wasn’t sure what came next.
But for the first time in his life, he wanted to find out.

That Sunday, for the first time in over twenty years, Nate stepped through the doors of a small neighborhood church.

He didn’t know what he was looking for.
But he knew where to start.

Echoes of Faith: The Promise They Kept| Flash Fiction

 Prefer to listen? 🎧 The Promise They Kept is now available as an audio on YouTube — click here to listen for FREE!

 

The Promise They Kept

A devoted husband stands by his wife as memory fades, holding tight to their vow of love. This tender story reminds us that true devotion endures—even when memories don't. Let the story speak to your heart—scroll down to begin.

The sun peeked over the edge of the horizon, casting a soft glow across the modest brick home nestled at the end of a quiet street. Inside, James Whitfield moved slowly through the morning ritual he had repeated for years—grinding the coffee beans just right, warming two mugs, and setting them gently on the small table by the window.

Only one would be used today. Just like yesterday. And the day before that.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he said softly, placing a kiss on his wife’s forehead. Eleanor stared ahead, her gray eyes clouded by time, her fingers resting in her lap like leaves after the fall. She didn’t answer. Not in words, anyway.

James pulled up a chair beside her, stirring cream into her coffee. “It’s Tuesday,” he said, as though they were planning a trip or a grocery run. “You always used to water the plants on Tuesdays. I already did it for you. The lavender’s still blooming.”

Eleanor blinked slowly, her gaze drifting toward the light. Her once-sharp wit, her radiant laughter, even the way she used to hum hymns while folding laundry—had all become whispers in her mind, easily scattered by the wind.

But James remembered. And so he reminded her.

They’d met during a church potluck in 1972. She wore a yellow dress and served the best macaroni and cheese James had ever tasted. She said she liked his smile; he said he liked her spirit. She laughed, and he knew right then.

They courted slowly and married quickly, tying the knot beneath the old oak tree behind her grandmother’s house. Their vows were simple—homemade, handwritten, sealed with a kiss nd the blessing of an old Baptist preacher who quoted 1 Corinthians 13 with tears in his eyes.

The early years were full of patchwork blessings—jobs that didn’t always last, a leaky roof they fixed together, a hand-me-down car that only started if Eleanor prayed over it first. Still, their joy was abundant. Their firstborn, Marcus, came two years in. Then Carla. Then Devon.

Their home echoed with laughter, piano lessons, scraped knees, burnt cookies, and late-night prayers whispered over sick children. They didn’t have much, but they had each other—and enough faith to stretch across every trial.

“I’ll never leave you,” Eleanor had whispered during one of the hardest nights of their lives. They had just buried their third child, Devon, after an unexpected heart defect took him at six months old. James had folded into himself with grief, but she took his hand.

“Not in joy. Not in sorrow. Not in sickness.”

That day, they lit a candle at church and made a promise to carry each other through whatever life brought.

Fifty-one years later, Eleanor didn’t remember the candle or the church pews. She didn’t know her middle name, or the names of her grandchildren. Sometimes, she didn’t even know James.

But James knew her. And he remembered enough for them both.

Their children were grown now. Marcus, a teacher in Nashville, came home once a month to help around the house. Carla, the youngest, called every morning before work. The grandkids visited when they could—busy with college, careers, and lives of their own.

“You don’t have to do it all, Dad,” Carla had said gently, watching her mother stare blankly out the window. “You’ve already done so much. Let us step in.”

James only smiled. “I promised her,” he said. “And a promise made before God is one you keep.”

That afternoon, as the wind rustled the curtains, James pulled out a worn photo album. It had Eleanor’s handwriting on the cover: The Whitfield Years.

He opened it and began reading aloud, pointing at pictures even though she couldn’t follow.

“Here we are in Savannah. You hated the wallpaper in that bed-and-breakfast.”

He chuckled.

“Our 25th anniversary. That red dress I loved.”

He paused at the next page.

“Devon’s tiny hand… That was the day of his baptism.. You cried the whole time.”

James wiped his eyes. “You always cried at holy things.”

He glanced over at her.

She blinked again, slowly.

Then… she turned her head—just slightly—toward the photo album.

James froze.

“That’s right,” he whispered. “You’re still in there, Ellie. I know you are.”

That evening, he sat beside her bed, their fingers laced together. Her hand felt so small now.

“You used to say love was like a garden,” he murmured. “You had to tend it. Water it. Pull weeds. Be patient.”

He gave a soft laugh. “You always were the patient one. I just followed your lead.”

He looked around the room. The quilt she made for their 40th anniversary was still draped over the back of the couch. The photo of their family reunion last summer—the last time Eleanor had smiled freely—still sat on the shelf.

“I miss hearing your voice,” he said. “But I’ll keep showing up. Even when you don’t remember me. Because I remember you.”

Then, in a moment so quiet it felt like heaven paused to listen, Eleanor moved her lips.

James leaned in.

“I... remember... the vow,” she whispered, barely audible.

Tears welled in his eyes. “I do too,” he choked out. “And I’ll keep saying it with my life until the Lord calls us both home.”

The next morning, the coffee mugs sat side by side again. And James told her about the sunrise, the blooming lavender, and the love that still lived in every corner of their house.

Later that day, as the warm, golden light filtered through the curtains, Eleanor's breaths became more shallow. James grasped her hand and softly hummed their beloved hymn, "Great Is Thy Faithfulness," just as he had done for many years.

She didn’t speak again,  her eyes—just for a moment—met his.

And in that quiet, sacred moment… she passed away peacefully.

James sat by Eleanor's side, his hand still intertwined with hers, feeling the weight of her absence settling in the room like a heavy fog. The hymn lingered in the air, a bittersweet melody that had once filled their home with warmth and now echoed through the emptiness.

As the afternoon sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows across the room, James found himself lost in memories of their life together. The laughter, the tears, the countless shared moments that now felt both achingly close and impossibly far away.

He pressed a gentle kiss to Eleanor's forehead, whispering words of love and gratitude for all they had shared. And as he sat there, surrounded by the quiet stillness of their home, he knew that her spirit would always be with him, guiding him through the lonely days ahead.

With a heavy heart but a deep sense of peace, James closed his eyes and let himself be enveloped by the memories of a love that transcended time and space.

They had kept the promise.

Not perfectly.

But faithfully.

And now, only one mug would sit on the table.

But the love?

The love would remain.

Forever.

Echoes of Faith: The Baker's Valentine| Flash Fiction

🎧 Prefer to listen? The Baker's Valentine is now available as an audio story on YouTube — Click here to listen for FREE!

 

The Baker's Valentine

In a cozy small-town bakery, love and faith mix sweetly as a young baker decorates heart-shaped cookies with Scripture. Outside, snow falls as a quiet admirer watches—witnessing the beginning of a faith-filled romance. Read the full story below »

Phoebe Carter wiped the flour from her hands and stepped back to admire the freshly baked trays of heart-shaped Valentine’s cookies lining the counter. Love was in the air at Heavenly Delights, her small-town bakery, as couples bustled in and out, eager to buy sweet treats for their loved ones. Each year, she prepared for the rush, crafting delicate sugar cookies adorned with royal icing, pink and red sprinkles, and romantic messages.

But this year, something different caught her attention.

A man stood awkwardly near the display case, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Phoebe recognized him—Benjamin Jacobs, a quiet, unassuming man who worked at the local hardware store. They had known each other since childhood, growing up in the same church. Their families had once been close, but life had taken them in different directions. Benjamin had always been the reserved type, while Phoebe had thrown herself into building her dream bakery after returning home from culinary school.

"Hi, Ben! What can I get for you?" Phoebe asked, offering her warmest smile.

He cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. "I, um… I was wondering if you take special requests?"

Phoebe nodded. "Of course! What do you have in mind?"

Benjamin hesitated before pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and handing it to her. Phoebe unfolded it and found a list of Bible verses, each one centered on love and kindness.

1. 1 John 4:19 - We love because He first loved us.

2. Romans 12:10 - Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves.

3. 1 Corinthians 13:4-7 - Love is patient, love is kind…

Phoebe looked up in surprise. "You want these written on the cookies?"

Benjamin nodded. "Yes. If it’s not too much trouble. But I’d like them plain—no hearts, no romantic messages. Just the verses."

Curious, Phoebe asked, "Are these for someone special?"

Benjamin shifted uncomfortably. "Not exactly. I’d like to give them to the widows in town. Valentine’s Day can be hard for those who’ve lost loved ones. I just… I want them to feel remembered."

A warmth spread through Phoebe’s chest. In all the years she had run Heavenly Delights, she had never considered using Valentine’s Day as a way to bless those who might feel alone.

"That’s a beautiful idea, Benjamin. I’d be honored to make them for you."

Relief softened Benjamin’s face. "Thank you. It means a lot."

That evening, as Phoebe carefully piped the Bible verses onto each cookie, she thought about the many widows in town—the elderly Mrs. Lawson, who had lost her husband years ago but still came to the bakery every morning for coffee; sweet Miss Evelyn, who always spoke of the love of her life with a wistful smile.

She also thought about Benjamin. He had always been kind, even as a boy, but he had changed over the years. She recalled the way he had pulled away from church after his father’s passing, the way he had thrown himself into work and kept to himself. Yet here he was, thinking of others in a way that was both thoughtful and deeply selfless.

Love wasn’t just about romance. It was about kindness, service, and remembering others.

The next morning, Phoebe carefully packaged each cookie, making sure the icing had set before placing them in a simple white box tied with a ribbon and a small card that read: You are loved more than you know.

Benjamin arrived early to pick up the cookies. "These are ready for you," she said. "I hope they bring some joy to the widows in town."

"Thank you, Phoebe. These look perfect," he said, his voice full of gratitude. "I appreciate your help with this."

"Wait," Phoebe said, grabbing her coat. "I want to help. If that’s okay?"

Benjamin blinked in surprise. "You don’t have to—"

"I want to," Phoebe insisted. "Besides, I know where most of these ladies live."

And so, together, they walked through town, delivering the cookies. Each knock on a door brought smiles, tears, and heartfelt gratitude. Mrs. Lawson hugged Phoebe tightly. Miss Evelyn clutched the cookie with trembling hands and whispered, "This is the sweetest gift I’ve received in years."

At the last stop, as they stood in the crisp winter air, Benjamin turned to Phoebe. "Thank you for helping. I didn’t expect—"

"To find a partner in your kindness?" Phoebe teased. "Neither did I. But I’m glad I did."

As they walked back to Heavenly Delights, the snow began to fall gently around them, creating a winter wonderland. The streets were quiet, the only sound being their soft footsteps and quiet laughter.

Once they returned to the bakery, Benjamin hesitated for a moment before reaching into his coat pocket. "I, uh… I actually have something for you too," he said, handing her a small box wrapped in red ribbon.

Phoebe’s brow furrowed as she untied the ribbon and opened the box. Inside lay a delicate gold heart-shaped locket engraved with a scripture—Song of Solomon 3:4, I have found the one whom my soul loves.

She looked up at Benjamin, her heart suddenly pounding. "Ben… this is beautiful."

He smiled sheepishly. "I’ve been meaning to give it to you for a while now. I guess I was waiting for the right moment."

Phoebe swallowed hard, emotion thick in her throat. "And now?"

"Now feels right," Benjamin said softly. "Phoebe, I know we’ve always been friends, but over time… I’ve come to realize that I care for you more than that. You have the kindest heart, and being with you—seeing how you love others—has shown me what love really means. Would you… have dinner with me?"

A slow smile spread across Phoebe’s face, warmth blooming in her chest. "I’d love to."

As they strolled through the softly falling snow toward the cozy little Italian restaurant downtown, conversation flowed easily, filled with laughter, shared memories, and dreams for the future. With each step, Phoebe felt something shift inside her—a gentle nudge, as if God had been orchestrating this moment all along.

Love had found her in the most unexpected place. Not in grand gestures or elaborate plans, but in quiet acts of kindness, scripture, and a heart-shaped locket that held more meaning than she ever imagined.