Welcome to Echoes of Faith, a publication of Lady Leo Publishing dedicated to sharing stories that inspire, encourage, and entertain. Through inspirational fiction, confessions, and other original stories, we explore faith, love, hope, and the challenges of everyday life. Our mission is simple: Hope. Grace. Redemption.
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| The Assignment Unfolds |
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| The Summons |
Obadiah is thrust back into the realm of angels—not by choice, but by divine command. Stripped of his wings yet tethered to purpose, he’s tasked with finding a missing soldier tied to the fate of the Chosen. But old wounds and reluctant obedience make this mission anything but simple. Scroll to the read the episode below »
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| The King and The Calling |
Just as Obadiah begins to believe a quiet life might be enough, Heaven interrupts with a vision from the past. On the steps of King David’s palace, old wounds are reopened — and divine orders come calling once more. Scroll down to read the episode »
Prefer to listen? 🎧 The Toymaker's Gift is now available as an audio on YouTube — click here to listen for FREE!
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| The Toymaker's Gift |
When twelve-year-old Melody’s thoughtless words land her in trouble, her parents send her to help a retired toymaker known for crafting joy out of broken things. In Whitaker’s Workshop, she discovers that the greatest gifts aren’t bought—they’re shared. A heartwarming Christmas tale about compassion, grace, and the beauty of giving. Let the story speak to your heart—scroll down to begin.
The Christmas tree twinkled in the corner of the living room, its lights catching the reflection of snow just beginning to fall outside. Garland wrapped the banister. A faint scent of cinnamon drifted from the kitchen.
But inside the Parker home, the air was tight with disappointment.
"Melody," her mother said, voice steady, "the school called again."
Melody sank lower on the sofa, her phone still in her hand. "It was just a joke, Mom. Everyone laughed."
Her father folded his arms. "Everyone? Including the girl you made fun of?"
Her stomach sank. She knew what this was about—the comment she made about Harper's shoes. Old sneakers held together with duct tape. She hadn’t meant to be cruel. It just came out. But that didn’t matter now.
Her mother leaned forward. "Do you remember when we told you we didn’t grow up with everything you have?"
"Yeah, yeah. You worked weekends to buy your own clothes," Melody muttered, eyes fixed on the glittering tree.
"And yet here we are again," her father added. "Another call. Another apology."
Melody shrugged. "I said I was sorry."
"Sorry isn’t the same as understanding," her mother said quietly.
Her father reached into his pocket and set something on the coffee table. Her credit card.
"We’re taking this back. Until further notice."
Melody's head snapped up. "What? But that’s how I was going to buy the Coach bag! Everyone’s getting one for Christmas."
Her mother’s eyes softened, but her tone remained firm. "And that’s exactly the problem. You think having what everyone else has makes you someone. It doesn’t."
Melody stood, her voice rising. "So what, I’m grounded for Christmas?"
"Not exactly," her father said. He slid a flyer across the table. Community Toy Workshop – Volunteers Needed – Whitaker’s Workshop.
"You’ll be volunteering there until Christmas Eve," her mother said. "Mr. Whitaker needs help fixing and wrapping toys for kids who don’t have anything. He’s expecting you tomorrow."
Melody stared at the flyer. A photo showed an older man surrounded by wooden toys and smiling children.
"A toy shop? Seriously?"
Her father raised an eyebrow. "You want something this Christmas? Start by helping someone else find their joy."
__The next morning, Melody trudged through the snow to a small brick building at the end of Main Street. A hand-painted sign read: Whitaker’s Workshop – Where Every Toy Has a Story.
Inside, it smelled like cedar and cocoa. Tools lined the walls. Wooden animals and puzzles dried on long tables.
"Ah," came a warm voice from the back. "You must be my new helper."
Mr. Whitaker appeared, gray hair tousled, red suspenders over a flannel shirt, glasses perched low on his nose. "Your folks called. Said you could use a little Christmas perspective."
Melody crossed her arms. "They said I’m here to help."
"Good," he said, handing her a roll of wrapping paper. "We’ve got a lot of helping to do."
At first, she worked in silence. Folding. Taping. Watching.
Kids came and went. Some dropped off broken toys; others picked up gifts from the donation list.
A girl brought in a doll missing an arm. A boy handed over a toy truck with a busted wheel. Mr. Whitaker treated each one like treasure.
"Why bother?" Melody asked after a few days. "These toys are old. You could just buy new ones."
Mr. Whitaker smiled without looking up. "Love doesn’t check price tags, Miss Melody. Sometimes fixing what’s broken reminds people they’re not forgotten."
His words lingered.
__By the end of the week, Melody started showing up early. She learned how to sand blocks, tie ribbons, match toys to names. Each tag came with a note: "For Ava — loves puzzles." "For Jordan — dreams of being a firefighter." "For Mia — needs a warm blanket."
These weren’t wish lists filled with brands. Just kids hoping for something simple, something their own.
On Christmas Eve morning, Mr. Whitaker handed her a list. "Three deliveries left," he said, loading his van. "Want to ride along?"
Snow dusted the sidewalks as they drove through quiet neighborhoods, stopping at small apartments and shelters. Melody met families who greeted them with hugs and tearful thanks.
At one stop, a girl her age beamed as she opened her gift: a secondhand purse with frayed straps.
"It’s perfect!" the girl whispered, hugging it to her chest.
Melody smiled politely, but something tugged inside.
As Mr. Whitaker stepped in to speak with the girl’s mother, Melody lingered near the door. She heard soft voices from the kitchen.
"Maybe next year I can get her a new one," the mother said. "It’s just... between the rent and groceries..."
"It’s okay, Mom," the girl replied quickly, heading into the kitchen. "I understand."
"You sure? You deserve something nice for the Christmas dance."
"Nobody looks at the bag anyway."
Melody blinked fast. Nobody looks at the bag anyway.
She thought of Harper’s shoes. Of her own obsession with labels. Of how often she’d equated worth with what she wore.
When Mr. Whitaker returned, he noticed her silence. "Everything alright, Miss Melody?"
She nodded quickly. "Yeah," she whispered. "Everything’s fine."
But she kept glancing back at the house as they drove away, the flickering porch light glowing faintly in the snow.
__The next morning, Melody woke to her parents calling her downstairs.
"Merry Christmas," her mom said, handing her a neatly wrapped box.
Inside was the Coach bag. Sleek. Stylish. Exactly what she’d wanted.
She ran her fingers over the stitching. But her heart didn’t leap the way she expected. Her thoughts drifted to the girl’s wide-eyed smile over a frayed purse.
"You earned it," her father said. "We’re proud of how hard you worked."
She smiled faintly. "Thanks, Dad."
That afternoon, she returned to Whitaker’s Workshop to help clean up. Mr. Whitaker was sorting leftover toys.
"Good holiday?" he asked.
She nodded and held up the bag. "I got what I wanted."
"And how does it feel?"
She hesitated. "Different than I thought."
He nodded, eyes twinkling. "Funny thing about gifts. Sometimes they don’t feel right until you give them away."
__Later that afternoon, Melody walked through the snow to the apartment she had visited the day before. She spotted the same girl from Christmas Eve coming out the door.
“Hey,” Melody said gently. “I… heard you have a Christmas dance. And I know how it feels to want to show up looking your best.”
The girl looked up, surprised.
Melody held out the Coach bag. “I wanted you to have this.”
The girl stared, wide-eyed. “Wait… seriously? This is real. Are you sure?”
Melody nodded. “Yeah. I think it was meant for you anyway. You deserve to feel amazing walking into that dance. Merry Christmas.”
The girl lifted the bag slightly, almost like she was holding something sacred, before whispering, “Same to you. Thank you. Really. Thank you.”
Melody smiled—a real smile, full of peace.
As she stepped back into the snow, Mr. Whitaker’s words echoed in her heart: Sometimes, God doesn’t give us what we want right away—because He’s busy giving us what we need.
🕊️ An Echoes of Faith Story
She came to help mend toys—but it was her heart God repaired.
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| Closed Doors, Open Windows |
When life closes one door, faith opens another. Closed Doors, Open Windows follows Khalil Streeter, a young lawyer whose career shatters overnight. But as pride gives way to purpose, an unexpected reminder—a dove on his Brooklyn windowsill—shows him that God’s plans are never delayed, only redirected. Let the story speak to your heart—scroll down to begin.
The day they let him go, they called him into a glass room like they were about to congratulate him.
That’s what hit him first.
The conference room looked out over downtown Brooklyn—the kind of view that made you feel expensive. Funny how even windows can feel like walls when you're being let go. Khalil had sat in that same chair a year earlier, grinning at his fiancée Meesha over FaceTime, whispering, “Baby, we’re really here. God did it.”
Now the blinds were half-closed, and HR already had a folder waiting. Never a good sign.
“Have a seat, Khalil,” said Mr. Danvers.
He stayed standing. Pride.
“You know we’ve been going through changes since the merger,” Danvers began.
“Restructuring,” the HR woman added gently.
Khalil nodded. He already knew. They always start with flattery before they take what feeds you.
“You’re talented,” Danvers said. “This isn’t about performance, but—”
“Last in, first out,” Khalil finished.
Danvers winced. “That’s not how I’d—”
“It’s exactly how you would.”
The HR rep slid the folder across the table. “Your severance—”
“I’m not worried about benefits,” Khalil said evenly. “I’m worried about rent.”
They offered sympathy. He took none of it. He shook their hands—because his father raised him to look a man in the eye—and walked out on steady legs.
He held it together through the elevator and the lobby—until the cold air hit his face outside.
Just like that, it was over.
First job out of college. Corporate track. Contracts, compliance, proof he hadn’t wasted all those years. Gone in one closed-door meeting.
He swallowed hard. “Nah,” he muttered. “It’s not ending like this.”
___He didn’t know how to tell Meesha.
He told himself it was to protect her. Truth was, he didn’t want her looking at him different.
He climbed the narrow stairs to his apartment, kicked off his shoes, and dropped his bag. The place wasn’t big—one bedroom—but it was his. Proof he was building something in Brooklyn.
He loosened his tie. “God,” he said into the quiet. “What am I supposed to do now?”
He stared at the window. “I can’t go home.”
His mama always said, If anything ever goes left, you just come home.
“Lord, please I don’t want to go home,” he whispered. Then, more bitterly, “How could you let this happen?”
That’s when he saw it—a white dove perched on the brick ledge outside his window.
“What are you doing here?” he murmured. The bird didn’t move. He laughed once. “God, if this is You, I need You.” The dove stayed—peace, parked.
___The next morning it was still there.
And the one after that.
A week later, he started greeting it like a roommate before opening his laptop to send résumés.
Each rejection came faster than the last. Several weeks later, his checking account looked smaller and his rent was due soon.
Then his parents called.
“Hey, baby,” his mama sang. “You sound tired.”
“I’m good,” he lied.
His father’s voice boomed through the speaker. “You eating?”
“Yeah, Daddy.”
His mother asked in a gentle voice. “How’s work?”
“It’s… shifting,” he said. “Company merged.”
“I see,” she murmured—the prayer already in her tone.
“You can always come home till it settles,” his dad threw in.
He glanced at the dove on the ledge. “I’m alright. It’s temporary. I’ll find something soon.”
“We believe that,” his mama said. “You ain’t by yourself.”
Then her voice softened. “Sometimes, a closed door means there’s a window about to open.”
“Alright, Mama. I hear you.”
After they hung up, he stared at the dove again. It shifted, calm as ever.
___He almost skipped the next interview.
It wasn’t much—just another online posting that promised dynamic opportunities. He wasn’t sure what it meant. He went anyway. Sitting home watching the dove all day felt worse.
An hour later, he stepped back into the street, hollow. He was overqualified for the security job.
“Yo! Khalil? That you?” a voice called.
He turned. The man crossing toward him grinned wide.
“Ciroc?”
“It is you!” Ciroc Hamilton pulled him into a back-slap hug. “Frat, you out here in Brooklyn ow?”
They laughed, the sound shaking off several weeks of heaviness.
“You look tired,” Ciroc said.
“I’m straight.”
“That the answer we going with or is it the truth?”
Khalil hesitated. Just be honest.
He sighed. “They let me go. Merger. I’ve been on Indeed like it’s church. Everybody wants five years’ experience for an entry job.” He shook his head. “I just got turned down for a security job.”
Ciroc nodded. “Yeah. I heard it’s tough out here.”
Khalil added quickly, “I’m lining stuff up—”
Ciroc said, “You don’t have to sell me a version.”
Khalil’s shoulders dropped for the first time in a long time.
“Look, I’m at a nonprofit over on Fulton,” Ciroc said. “Community Legal Resource Center. We help folks about to lose housing—people who need someone who can read contracts and explain it plain.”
“That’s what I did for corporate,” Khalil said slowly.
“Exactly.”
Khalil chuckled. “You’re hiring?”
“Need somebody like yesterday. The pay’s not like corporate, but it matters. You’d be good at it.”
Khalil hesitated.
“Stop thinking about pride and think about purpose,” Ciroc said. “It’s a new window for you.”
His mama’s words rang in his head. A closed door... a new window.
He nodded. “Alright. I’ll come through.”
Ciroc reached in his jacket pocket and handed him a card. “Give me a call, Frat.”
___
When he got home, Meesha was waiting on his couch. He could tell by the look on her face, she knew the truth.
His stomach dropped. “Who told you?”
“Your mom,” she said softly. “She was worried.”
He laughed weakly. “Nothing to be worried about.”
She crossed her arms across her chest. “The question is, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was gonna tell you,” he said. “I just needed something else lined up first. Didn’t want you thinking—”
“Thinking what?” she asked.
She touched his hand, her tone gentle now. “That you failed?”
He looked down.
“You went out every day like you were going to work,” she said.
“I was looking for a job—”
She stepped closer, lifting his chin until he met her eyes. “How’s the search really going?”
His throat tightened.
He blinked fast. “I might have something,” he said. “I just ran into Ciroc—Howard brother. He works at a nonprofit. Civil rights, housing. He wants me to give him a call. I believe it’s a solid lead.”
Her smile widened.
“It doesn’t pay like corporate,” he warned.
“Nonprofit. I’m picturing you walking in your purpose,” she said. “If this is the window, we’ll walk through it together.”
He exhaled, relief breaking through.
“You can’t keep things like this from me. We’re a team. I fell in love with you,” she said, “not your paycheck.”
He pulled her into his arms. “What would I do without you?”
“I’m not going to let you find out.”
Then she pointed toward the window. “Also, baby… why didn’t you tell me about the bird?”
“The what?”
“That dove been sitting there like it pays rent.”
He turned. The dove was there—only now, there were two.
Something in him broke open. He smiled. “You see this?”
“I do,” she whispered.
He stared. All week that bird had stayed—through fear, pride, and silent prayers too small to say out loud. Now there were two. Calm. Settled.
“You know what my mama said?”
"She told me too,” Meesha smiled. “Sometimes a closed door means there’s a window about to open. She said it twice."
Khalil nodded slowly. “She was right.”
They stood shoulder to shoulder, watching as one dove lifted, wings catching the Brooklyn light. The other followed.
Khalil exhaled a long, steady breath. “Alright,” he whispered. “I see You.”
Meesha slipped her hand into his.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I’m thinking I’m going to call Ciroc,” he said. “I’m not scared. I’m just gonna walk in there and be who I am."
She smiled. “That sounds like faith to me.”
He nodded, the knot inside finally gone.
The door had closed—but the window was wide open.
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| The Spy Behind Jericho's Wall |
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