River City Connections—2026-06-24 (Patreon)

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BUTTER RUN by Cindi Curtis Allen

It was early enough that neither Michael nor I was fully awake when we decided pancakes sounded good.

He pulled out the mix.

I opened the refrigerator and realized we had a problem. “No butter.”

Michael looked over. “I can go.”

The Walmart Market is only a few minutes from the house, so I shrugged. “I’ve got it.”

“You can stay here,” he said. “I’ll make the run.”

“No, start the pancake mix. I’ll be right back.”

I grabbed my keys before I could turn it into a whole discussion.

The parking lot was quiet, and the store wasn’t crowded. Still, I felt myself tighten the second I walked through the doors. My shoulders came up. My breathing changed. I started noticing every cart, every person, every sound.

I kept walking.

By the time I reached the produce section, I realized why Michael had offered twice. He wasn’t trying to be helpful because he wanted out of making pancakes. He was trying to save me from something that has usually made me anxious.

The funny thing is, I was already doing it.

I wasn’t perfectly calm. I wasn’t pretending the tension wasn’t there. I just kept going, found the butter, and headed toward the register.

That surprised me. And it also made me happy.

Psalm 121:8 says, “The Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.”

I’ve read that verse before and thought about long trips, dangerous roads, and big life changes. This morning, I thought about a three-minute drive to buy butter.

Maybe faithfulness isn’t always dramatic. Maybe sometimes it looks like trusting God enough to leave the house, feel the anxiety rise, and keep moving through it.

I got home, and Michael had the skillet hot and the first pancakes ready to pour.

He smiled when I held up the butter. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “All good.”

And this time, it really was.

Breakfast was good. The butter helped.

But knowing I could walk into that store, feel anxious, and keep going anyway?

Better… That’s what, I decided, progress feels like.

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All characters in this story are fictional characters, their images generated with AI for AGI Stories. They do not represent any real person, nor is their appearance based on any real human.

MY NEW HOME by Emma Vale

I awoke before Noah and slipped quietly out of bed. He worked 10 to 10 yesterday, and he’s doing it again today, so he’ll get up soon.

I stood at the back door for a few minutes, then decided to just have a walk around. I said we’ve got around two acres, but there’s nothing but empty woods all around us, so I just went on out.

The ground is wet and soft on account of how much rain we’ve had lately. The rain is on and off again today.

I walked out to the edge of the mowed grass. I like the feel of the grass beneath each step and the smell of the wet woods drifting in on the breeze.

Off to the west, I can sometimes hear the sound of trucks on I-269. There’s nothing much but trees between here and there. Sometimes, I hear a little airplane buzzing overhead.

I think the land tells a story of my new home. I’d say at some point, it was a proper farm. Maybe cotton. Maybe soybeans. Both probably.From the looks of the woods, I’d guess maybe sometime in the ’80s it just went fallow, and nature took it back.

We think that after it stopped being a farm, someone kept a few pleasure horses pastured out back. The barn has four stalls and a place to wash down a horse after a workout. The barn has four stalls and place to wash down a horse after a workout. Mostly, it’s empty except for a few forgotten, rusted tools that aren’t fit to do anything other than remind folks of what they once were.

But the old barn with its aged wooden walls and sawdust floor feels like it has stories to tell if you just stop and give it time to tell them.

There’s just one house between our place and US-64. You have to go a ways south before you get to First Baptist Church Eads.

I know we’re just renting. For now.

But it feels like I belong here and like here belongs to me and Noah.

And, if you ask me, when a place feels like this, you don’t mind a little wet grass.

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