Sonshine in the Dark: A Series of Short Stories and Poems of My Life

By Alicia Kiba Wilson

By the great mercies of God, with the help of the Holy Spirit, this is the story of my life--a terrifying yet wonderful life. I just wanted to share it with people so that they would know life is unpredictable, but it is possible to make it through no matter what comes at you. Each day I learn to trust in Jesus more and more, knowing life has many ups and downs. And someday, the Son will shine forever.

"You Lord are my lamp; the Lord turns my darkness into light. With your help I can advance against a troop; with my God I can scale a wall. As for God, his way is perfect: The Lord's word is flawless; he shields all who take refuge in him" Samuel 22:29-31 (NIV).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781639031603

Book preview

Looking Back

Igrew up in a diversified, family-oriented neighborhood. I lived on Ethnic Hill with different cultures, food, families, and languages. My family also had its own uniqueness. My dad’s parents were from Hungary. My grandma could not speak a lick of English. My grandpa could speak broken English with a heavy accent. As I stated before, my dad was an English and Spanish teacher, so, as a child, I could speak a little Hungarian, Spanish, and English.

We lived in a time when you were taught love and respect for God, country, and family. Children would be outside playing games, and I would be sitting on the lawn or climbing a tree. My Mom said I used to like sitting in a tree, though eventually she had to make sure I wasn’t hanging upside down naked—uh, yes, I said naked. I guess I liked feeling free! Funny, because now I wear everything I can just to keep everything in its own zip code.

When I start remembering my family life as a child, I see how important the foundation of your true, core family needs to be. As for mine, it was based on God and an environment where we teach and nurture our children with a sense of I am your safety net and even if you stumble, you may fall, but only to the point of reassurance that you won’t crash and burn. I will guide you and love you, but you need to get up and try again. You own your falls just as much as you own your flights.

My mom was the mortar that held the foundation of the family together. She was a stay-at-home mom. She did what we women do; she cooked, cleaned, and took care of my dad. She started with a heavy dose of God wrapped in love, devotion, courage, and strength.

If you ask me what my first memory of my childhood would be, I instantaneously have a visual of the living room of the home I grew up in. It was Christmastime, a soft, colorful glow came from the tree lights; the shimmery silver garland wrapped in magical lights glowed on the tree. Sounds of Christmas music filled the air at a level of loudness where you could sing along without someone asking the question Who killed the moose? along with the smell of baking cookies and scented candles.

As my mind wanders out the door and down the driveway, I see a neighborhood blanketed in a foot of snow that’s glowing with beautiful prisms of colors (lights) as you look through the snow falling on your face. Kids running all around having snowball fights, sledding, building a snowman. Believe it or not, carolers would walk around in groups and spread Christmas cheer—sometimes on-key, sometimes not. Either way, we had fun, and yes, I too was a Christmas caroler.

Another memory I have would be myself packing a suitcase to go five miles down the road to spend the night at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. The highlights were very simple; I would be watching my grandma sew or eating ice cream with my grandpa while watching the TV show Hee Haw. Or should I say, Heee-haaaw!

This is a book of memories and there are so many that the order in which the following stories happened may not be exact, but rest assured they did happen!

Moira

Ihave often thought of life being like a fall leaf guided by the wind. Some paths we take in our lives are as a leaf being gently guided across a field of flowing grass as the wind blows oh so softly. Then other times, it’s as if it were like a leaf trapped in a tornado-like whirlwind, never knowing where it will take you. A really good pair of ruby slippers are a great survival kit item! Oh no! I do not own a pair. Note to self: buy a pair of ruby slippers.

This was a time when neighbors bonded and a lifelong friendship for myself was born. Then there are memories of whom I call my partner-in-crime—no, no, no—my partner in creativity and imagination. There, that’s better! This bond became more than friendship; we became blood sisters.

I never knew two little girls who could get into more stuff than an entire football team of grown men in Las Vegas. I thought long and hard about changing my friend’s name in the book to, you know, protect the guilty, but if I am going to divulge our antics, she’s coming with me. I will not go down alone! Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce you to my friend, my blood sister, Moira.

Moira and I grew up next door to each other from birth. I treasure this friendship and the lifelong memories that can still make me laugh to tears while something in my head always comes to the same conclusion: What were we thinking? She is a partner in many antics that provide many stories in this book and many memories that still make me laugh hysterically.

I Hate My Hair

From the very beginning, we girls are never happy with our hair. I had extremely curly hair and my partner in crime had hair as straight as you can get. The solution to this problem seemed so simple and, if you think about it, makes sense. We found two large towels, one white and the other yellow. After we fought, we finally figured out who was going to be blonde and who was going platinum. We put the towels on top of our heads, pulled them tight making pigtails, then tied them with ribbons and bows.

After checking each other out, we felt the entire neighborhood should benefit from all this beautiful hair. We proudly marched ourselves up and down the street and then decided the rest of the block shouldn’t be left out! Parading on, we eventually got bored and went home. We threw our hair on the floor—ribbons, bows, and all.

Mrs. Brownstone Meets the Welcome Wagon

My grandma and my dad gave me a love for nature at a very young age. One of my few memories of my grandma was her amazing gardens. She taught me to touch and talk to your plants, like any of God’s creatures. Love is a great fertilizer that helps flourish anything it touches.

A new neighbor was moving in across the street, so my partner in crime and I proceeded to take our self-appointed welcome wagon committee across the street. We said hi and in a very short time span, we noticed Mrs. Brownstone was so upset. There were no flowers around her yard, and she confessed she kills everything she touches. We said goodbye, ran back across the street, and sat under a tree.

Emergency Welcome Wagon meeting is called to order. Mrs. Brownstone needs flowers! we proclaimed. We jumped up, thinking a walk might help.

The creative juices weren’t flowing as we were coming upon the last turn. While heading home full of discouragement, we looked up and there was a garden line of the tallest, most beautiful gladiolas standing at attention along the side of the house. We concluded this was the house of Mrs. Geraldine Fumply.

You know, I began, she has a lot of flowers.

Yeah, said Moira.

She probably would never even miss one.

We looked at each other, walked up into the yard, looked left, looked right, and we both pulled…nothing!

Pull harder! Again!

Then it happened. My partner in crime and I fell straight back on the ground, dirt flying, and four gladiolas attached to the largest root bulbs I’d ever seen.

Quick, grab ’em!

We jumped up and started running down the street, flowers smacking us in the face the whole way. Finally, we reached my yard and collapsed on the grass. Catching our breath, we sat up and looked at our accomplishments, or what some may call our first felony. We got up, dusted ourselves off, picked up our bundle, and proudly headed across the street to do our good deed for the day. Heading home and filled with more pride in having made Mrs. Brownstone happy was a good end to the day.

So who should we help tomorrow?

Later that evening, we decided to hop on our bikes and went down the road. We rode past Mrs. Geraldine Frumpley’s yard and there sat a large hole where her gladiolas used to be. Mrs. Geraldine Frumpley, who looked like the evil queen from Snow White, was standing outside with her hands on her hips.

Look at that hole! Who would do this? she yelled.

We pedaled a little faster, feeling slightly guilty yet laughing all the way home.

Pear Today, Gone Tomorrow

Mrs. Geraldine Frumpley’s gladiolas were not the only source of sheer enticement for Moira and I. In her backyard sat this pear tree that had an abundance of fruit—the most delicious, juicy pears you ever tasted were just a tippy-toed stretch away. One day, while we were sitting underneath this juicy pear tree, curiosity swelled…

Hey, how many pears do you think are in this tree?

I don’t know.

I don’t know either.

Seconds later, my dad called for us to come home and eat and we did, but later returned with a wagon. We proceeded to climb this very fruitful pear tree and picked it completely clean. Our wagon was overflowing and leaving a trail all the way home.

After reaching the house, my dad saw what we had done and made us take it right back and give a full confession to Mrs. Geraldine Frumpley, who thought it would be funny to tell us she wanted every last pear back in its proper place. She sent us to the backyard and after what seemed like an eternity, not one pear was willing to stay put as we carefully tried to replace this fruit among the branches and leaves. I’m here to say it cannot be done; we got in so much trouble!

Rice à la Mold

Every child likes to play house. Every little girl gets some sort of kitchen set for Christmas along with a baby doll that pees all over you. I was no exception, and I set up my house in the basement. We made a bedroom for the baby, a living room with pillows, and a kitchen complete with sink, stove, and dishes. We even had a little table with two chairs.

Everything was real except for one thing: fake food. As two little girls set on things being real, fake food was not going to be good enough. Now my mom had a food pantry on the other side of the basement stocked with all kinds of nonperishables. We discovered there was a big box of rice conveniently sitting right next to a small roaster pan; it seemed perfect. We looked at each other and said, Rice it is! We filled the roaster with rice, then slowly and very chef-like, added hot water and stirred. We then took it to our kitchen and started to feed our baby when a voice called from the stairwell…

Girls, are you being good?

Well, c’mon, of course we are!

That being said, we hid the rice in the oven and ran upstairs. A week later, due to a horrific smell, my mom found our concoction with a lovely layer of fuzz over the entire top. Yum.

Work Smart, Not Hard

It was a warm day and my partner in crime and I set out looking for something to do.

I know! Hey, Dad, can we dig a hole?

I’m sure he thought, How much