One Ringing Bell

A Prayer Journey, and a Free Book

2012-02-29T12:44:00.000-05:00

AsI sorted books the other day (We sort a lot of books here, seems we swim inbooks sometimes. My husband gave away thirteen boxes of books when he moved hisoffice and we still have a storage room full of book boxes.), I came upon acopy of With Christ in the School of Prayer by Andrew Murray. I’d been askingthe Lord what I might do during Lent to draw me closer to Him, and thisthirty-one day devotional guide seemed to be a part of His answer.

Aneighteenth century South African pastor, Murray was instrumental in revivalmovements of his day, and his writings have been influential in the lives of many over the past onehundred and fifty years.

Inhis preface, he writes, “If there is one thing I think the Church needs tolearn it is that God means prayer to have an answer, and that it hath notentered into the heart of man to conceive what God will do for his child whogives himself to believe that his prayer will be heard. God hears prayer; thatis a truth universally admitted, but of which very few understand the meaning,or experience the power.”

Thispreface written over a hundred years ago also bears a present day reality. Today,we still talk about how God hears prayer. But many of my prayers are faithlessand halfhearted. I want that to change.

Sobeginning tomorrow, through the heart of Lent from March 1 to 31, I’ll bereading Andrew Murray’s devotionals on prayer. And I’ll be praying.

Ifyou’d like to join me on this journey, the book is in public domain, so I hereare a couple of places where you can read it online for free or download to your reader. Clickhere or here.

I’dlove to hear what God is speaking to your heart.

"Draw near to God and He will draw near to you..." (James 4:8)

Erica Lane and her new album Transcend

2012-02-27T11:24:00.000-05:00

My lovely and talented friend, Erica Lane, releases a new album, Transcend, on March 13. She's also just shared a video of the title track shot at Magnolia Manor in Colfax, NC.

Erica's classically trained, yet contemporary voice, resonates with passion, artistry, and grace. Her moving lyrics always speak to my heart.

Her husband, Kyle Saylors, produced the video. Nominated for "Best Cinematographer" in the World Cinema Category at the 2009 Sundance Film Festival for his film Kimjongilia, Kyle's work continually amazes me with its beauty.

Enjoy and please take a moment to pass it along to your friends.

He taught me how to sing the latest God-song, a praise-song to our God. More and more people are seeing this; they enter the mystery, abandoing themselves to God (Psalm 40:3 The Message).

A Real Swamp Adventure

2012-02-24T17:18:00.003-05:00

Myfriend, Billie, writes charming stories about people who live in a fictionalplace called Bug Swamp.

Thisis not that kind of story. Thisis a real story, with real characters.

Thisaccount is so real, in fact, that I’m changing the names. Thecharacters are Terry Barnalo, Baron Barnalo, and Tim Beunier.

Iam married to Terry Barnalo, and Baron Barnalo is my son. Tim Beunier is afamily friend.

Here’show it all began:

“Iwant to show you the swamp,” my husband, Terry, said when we arrived for ashort stay at a low country hunting preserve a few days ago. He and Baron had been coming herefor many years and enjoyed its unique beauty. I’d been here in the distant past, butTerry wanted to give me a tour of what it looked like today.

So,we loaded into the trailblazer, our friend Tim, Terry, Baron, and me.

Asthe sun slid to the west, we drove down what seemed a maze of dirt roads throughcypress-kneed swamps, and around lily pad filled ponds all under the canopy ofmoss draped oaks, many of which had stood for generations.

Incredibleviews.

“Takethis road,” someone said. And we did. “And this one.” We turned again. We’dbeen gone about forty-five minutes, and I had no idea how deep we were in theswamp or how far away from our cabin.

Werounded a corner, and the road filled with green water. Not passable. In fact,I wasn’t even sure it was a road.

“Backup here,” we told Terry, who was driving, as we spotted a clearing behind us. Forsome reason he didn’t. He pulled forward.

That’swhen we heard the sickening thud. Thefront right tire had sunk into a hole. Shifting into reverse only produced spinning.

Whenwe exited the car to investigate the problem, we found ourselves firmly stuck,unable to move in any direction.

Thesun continued its descent. There was talk of removing the bumper or jacking thecar up, but we wound up trying several other maneuvers. All failed.

“We’regoing to have to walk,” someone said.

Igrabbed my purse from the car. I didn’t want to leave it behind because it wasthe best buy I’d ever gotten at TJMaxx. I was thankful I’d taken off the heelsI had on earlier in the day, but I was by no means dressed for the Lewis andClarke Expedition.

We didn’t have a gun, a whistle, a compass, or even a flashlight. I had a tiny little LED light on my key chain. Useless. We had about twenty flashlights at home. All without batteries.

“Dowe need this map,” I asked picking up a laminated chart of the land.

“No,we’re fine.”

Igrabbed it.

“Thisway,” Tim pointed, and we set out.

Letme share at this point that the property we were on measures twenty two thousandacres. I’ll write that out with the zeroes for you. 2-2-0-0-0. About one-thirdthe size of the county I live in. And we were at least thirty miles from any cell phone reception.

Iwondered if this was some cruel initiation ritual. I’d heard of things likethis.

AllI could hear was Jerry, oh excuse me, Terry saying at least a hundred times beforewhen he told the stories of the place, “You don’t want to be in the swamp afterdark.”

Wewere and it was. Canyou say alligator?

Now,I’m a planner. I like lists, calendars, and schedules. My idea of an outing inthe country is to go in the backyard and pull a chair up under the pear tree.And the only place I ever want to see alligator skin is in a pair of shoes.

Wewalked down a “road” to a point where it just disappeared, and looked aroundus.

Wethen set off across a firebreak hoping it would lead us to a “real” road.

Iheard a growl coming from the brush right beside me and jumped.

“Whatwas that?” I said, sure it was one of those big wild Russian boars whichpopulated the area. We’d just seen several a few miles back. Those boars havetusks the size of the Florida peninsula.

“Quail,”Tim said.

“Didn’tsound like quail. It sounded like a pig.”

“Nah,just quail.”

Ikept on the lookout just in case.

Someone, I thankfully don’t remember who, hadthe idea to take off through a briar patch that any self respecting jackrabbitwould have shunned.

Sundisappearing behind trees and we still hadn’t even found the road.

Ican’t remember whether it was before the briar patch or after that I had a minimeltdown. I’m embarrassed to say it was replete with tears.

Thatnumber again. 22,000.

Icould see the headlines in the local paper, “SEARCH STILL ON FOR FOUR LOST INSWAMP, Only clue found in disappearance is yellow purse.” I knew I might haveto cast my yellow purse aside on this trek. You see it’d be just like thepeople on the Oregon Trail who had to throw out the family silver in order tocross the Rockies. I didn’t want them to find me dehydrated, briar scratchedand alligator bit clutching a yellow bag, out of my head, and mumbling something about finalclearance at TJMaxx.

Onthis journey, my companions reassured me numerous times that we were in nodanger and that they knew exactly where we were. I knew where I was, too. TheUnited States of America. That didn’t help too much in the presentcircumstances, however.

Theonly person I really trusted on this expedition was my son Baron, because Iknew his memory was sharp and he might remember something. The rest of us couldbarely remember what we had for breakfast.

Thesun completely disappeared as we stepped from the briar patch onto a semblance ofa road. There was some discussion as to where we were, but we kept marching.

Ofcourse, I was trailing trying to keep everyone’s backs in my view. Onlystarlight now.

“Watchout for the mud,” Tim shouted back to me.

“Lookout for that stump,” Baron said.

“Don’t’stumble over the rock.” Terry stopped to help me dodge it.

Isimmered about having to trudge miles back to our lodging in the pitch black.That is if we ever made it. If Terry had only listened to us when we said backup.

Istarted picking up some of the giant pinecones I’d been kicking aside.

“Whatare you doing?” Terry asked.

“Iought to have something to show for this little adventure,” I said.

Iwas aggravated.

ThenI heard a whisper in my spirit.

“Lookup,” the whisper said.

Howcan I look up? I’ll fall in one of these ruts.

“Lookup,” the whisper came again.

Istopped a moment and stared into the night sky. Miles and miles away from citylights, stars I hadn’t seen in years became visible. Where had they been? Thiswas not the celestial dome of my neighborhood. This was something elseentirely.

Oh,Lord, did you drag me out here and let us get lost in the swamp, so I’d see the stars again?

Ididn’t get an answer to that one, but I may have heard a little laugh.

Everyfew steps I’d pause a moment and gaze heavenward.

“Howmuch farther?” I asked.

“Maybea mile or two.”

I was told that on at least two different occasions.

WhenI finally saw a lone light in the distance, I wanted to sing the Doxology.

We stumbled into camp and told the other men staying there about the vehicle being stuck. You wouldhave thought we’d thrown a hungry dog a bone.

Oneof them grabbed a chain, and six of them loaded into four-wheel drive vehiclesand set out through the inky swamp.

Itold Terry, “I was scared. You always said not to be in the swamp after dark.”

“Weweren’t in the swamp. We were on the hill.”

“Hill?”

Letme show you the picture again.

Doesthat look like a hill? I didn’t think so. As my mother used to say, that landwas “flatter than a flitter.”

Iwas mad, but I knew I wasn’t going to stay mad. Here’s why. I can only be madat Terry for a few minutes, because he has the best pitiful face of anybodyI’ve ever known. He used to be called Ted for teddy bear in high school. All hehas to do is turn those sad brown eyes to me, and I melt like Jell-O on aFourth of July picnic.

He’snot even a good apologizer. He’ll break something of mine, and make somecomment about someone shouldn’t have left it in such a precarious place. Istill can’t stay mad.

I’mreally pathetic in that way, and I probably need some sort of help for it. Ihave many friends who are psychotherapists. Are any of you reading this?

WhenI get home, I’m going to buy everyone in my family a compass, a whistle, put batteries in the flashlights, and string them all on my family's key chains.

I’m going to have my shoes bronzed, and thenI’m writing Lands End a letter and tell them about how I stomped through aswamp with their suede moccasins on. I figure they’ll put me in a catalog orsomething.

I'm also thankful for the cashmere socks I had on, though I may never get all the briars out of them.

Acouple of nights after we returned home, I awoke from a sound sleep callingout, “I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where I am.”

Terrykissed me, held me close in his arms, and whispered in my ear, “You’re home.”

Andthat my friends, is a perfect example of why I can never stay mad at the man.

In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps (Proverbs 16:9).

He determines the number of the stars and calls them each by name (Psalm 147:4).

A Memorial on Ash Wednesday

2012-02-22T18:24:00.001-05:00

Thelines ran long and the sorrow ran deep as the river of mourners came to paytribute to this beloved young man only sixteen summers old. Around images,which included a pizza faced toddler, a gridiron captain, the anglerextraordinaire, the hunter, the boy with his mama and his dad and his sister,they whispered sweet memories and embraced.

Theytold stories of this God lover who once said to a friend “If you believe inGod, you don’t have to worry about anything.” He was only eleven at the time.

Outof the mouths of babes.

“Ihave come that they may have life, and have it to the full “(John 10:10). Theevidence continually mounted that he lived these words of Jesus at fullthrottle.

Inan historic church, one of the oldest places of worship in the country, wegathered to the strains of “Onward Christian Soldiers.” We celebrated his lifeby singing, “Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead mehome.”

Thismorning, in the middle of thousands of acres of low country wilderness, his bodyrests in the place he loved more than any other on the earth, near the swamps,the cypress trees, the wild boar, and all the living things that made his lifeso rich.

Inever knew him, but my husband did. My son did. They’ve spent many hours withhim around the table of camaraderie, a “band of brothers.” His last words to myson as they left the hunting camp just after Christmas were, “I’ll see you nextseason.” I’ve grieved with my son and husband for this precious one and criedthe tears that mothers shed when their family hurts. Though I cannot possiblyknow the breadth and depth of the terrible pain, perhaps I share a sliver of itas my heart breaks with a mother and father who have lost their only son.

Afterevery mourner left the church yesterday, I stayed to capture the stained glasswindow picturing our Lord with outstretched arms, because the image brought comfort.

“Cometo me…” Jesus said. (Matthew 11:28).

Onthis Ash Wednesday, we come to Him. We come bowed. We come repentant. But wealso come expectant, because beyond Ash Wednesday is Easter. Beyond the sorrowis the joy. Beyond the pitch black night is the brilliance of sunrise. Beyondthe grave is heaven.

We don’t know just the first chapter.

Weknow how this story ends.

Today,as we cope with the crushing death of a boy only beginning his life, we walkaway with hope.

“Iknow that my Redeemer lives..., I myself will see him with my own eyes…” (Job19:25-26), the Priest said quoting Job yesterday.

Ouryoung one, now departed, sees Him.

Ihear again the words of Jesus, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdenedand I will give you rest.”

Iknow that God will do this. Because I’ve heard the stories about one who knew restin this life, a person wise beyond his years who once said, “If you believe inGod, you don’t have to worry about anything.”

InMemory of Stuart Frederick Sligh Jr.

1995-2012

Glass, gold, and when the world rocks

2012-02-20T00:52:00.000-05:00

Jerryand I had the privilege yesterday of attending a lovely family wedding in anewly built sanctuary. Upon entering the building, I was immediately struck bythe powerful images in a large stained glass window, a radiant red crossflanked by the Greek Alpha and Omega. Of course this image comes from Jesus’words in Revelation 22:12, “I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and theLast, the Beginning and the End.”

Whata joyous time we had in the presence of the Lord as these precious young peoplespoke their vows and embarked on their glorious new beginning.

Aswe moved through a line at the reception that followed, my Uncle Lamartine, thebride’s grandfather, and I talked about the magnificent stained glass window.“Do you know,” he said, “that the window has ruby glass in it?”

Isensed the Lord would have me listen closely to what my uncle was saying.

Hewent on. “Ruby glass is actually crafted with real gold. When it’s made you cansee the gold shimmering on its surface.”

Myuncle, who is something of an antiquities expert, told me that in the latenineteenth century, vases and other items for household use were made of theglass.

Later, Iwent back to the sanctuary, made pictures, and we left to return home. But on the three and a halfhour trip, my thoughts kept returning to the glorious window.

Afterwe arrived, I went upstairs to unpack, and a few minutes later, I heard myhusband weeping as he came up the stairs. I rushed to his side.

He’djust received a call that the sixteen-year-old son of long time family friendshad died in an auto accident earlier in the day.

For a moment, our world seemed to rock.

Westaggered around the house together, making phone calls, trying to catch ourbreaths. The father of this child used to play with Jerry’s daughter Aldenbefore she died at eight.

I’mwriting now from the car as we travel to be with this family who lives severalhours away.

AndI’m still thinking about that ruby glass cross. The one with the gold in it.

“Hewas despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and familiar withsuffering…

Surelyhe took up our infirmities, and carried our sorrows…

Buthe was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; thepunishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed”(Isaiah 53:3-5)

Thered river of his blood runs gold and he calls us to immerse ourselves in it. Thetreasure of our peace and our healing lie in the pulsing crimson tide emanatingfrom the man of sorrows.

Yesterday,we stood in that flow as we witnessed one of life’s sweet beginnings, and laterwe anchored ourselves in it as the winds blew through our home bringing thenews of such a young one’s death.

I’mso thankful Jesus is present in all of our beginnings.

And all of our endings.

And all of our in betweens.

Because He is the beginning and the end.

I praise Him for the blood that runs gold.

“Oh,precious is the flow…” from Nothing but the Blood of Jesus

Fearful but Brave

2012-02-16T11:36:00.002-05:00

AnnVoskamp once said, “I am fearful, but I am brave.”

Ithink of her words almost daily.

I’ma research invested 25,000 words into the first draft of another story. Everyday that I sit down to write I fear it’s the end. I shudder that the wordsmight stop, and I’ll be found to be an imposter, someone just posing as awriter.

Iknow people who plot their course before they begin, and so these writers havea sort of roadmap before the first paragraph is ever composed. For some reason,I can’t do that. The story won’t come to me that way.

SometimesI write the screenplay first, and the screenplay provides a sort of templatefor the novel. But I still have to write the screenplay. Though I know it hasto conform to a three-act structure, I still only daily discover every scene. WhenI sit down to write the novel, I’m moving from a 20,000-word screenplay to a bookof 70,000 plus words. We’re talking subplots, folks.

Iheard novelist Terry Kay once say, “We don’t write to tell a story. We write todiscover a story.” His words bring me solace and terror. On the days when I’mmoving around the words, shifting them from one side of the page to the other,peeling back the layers, and have a “Eureka” moment, I find consolation thatonce again the story moves forward. But on those days when I feel I’m typingthe same sentence over and over again, stalled out in a quagmire of alphabetsoup, I question whether I’ve lost my ability to ferret out anything that evenremotely resembles a plot.

“Iam fearful, but I am brave,” she says.

So,I keep going, stepping out on the water, praying I’ll see and hear. The story certainlywon’t come before I sit down to write. It most often comes as I write.

Thismorning in My Utmost for His Highest, I read these words again, “The remarkable thing about spiritual initiative is that the life and power comes after we “get up and get going.” God does not give usovercoming life—He gives us life as we overcome.”

Last night, in Bible study, we were in Romans 14. The lastwords of that chapter are, “…everything that does not come from faith is sin.”

I believe God calls us to live every aspect of life infaith. Eugene Peterson interprets Hebrews 11:1 in The Message like this, “The fundamental fact of existence is that this trust in God, this faith, is the firm foundation under everything that makes life worth living. It’s our handle on what we can’t see.”

I never wanted to write fiction, because it scared me toomuch. But, God called me to this journey—this wonder filled, scary walk offaith. Though I have little confidence in myself, I push past my feelings and trustHim to do this impossible thing.

So I can say along with Voskamp, “I am fearful, but I ambrave.”

Lena Nelson Dooley interviews me at A Christian Writer's World

2012-02-12T08:10:00.000-05:00

Today, I'm being interviewed about Give My Love to the Chestnut Trees by award winning author, Lena Nelson Dooley. Please join us by clicking here and spend a few minutes brousing her wonderful blog, A Christian Writer's World.

And the "Spirit of Aunt Laney Award" goes to...

2012-02-10T17:21:00.000-05:00

Pam at Mockingbird in Valdosta received a call prior to the signing last week from a woman about thirty miles away who’d read Give My Love to the Chestnut Trees because of a review in the newspaper. She hoped to make it to the signing but had just broken her femur.

Sure enough, Betsy Kimbrough arrived the next day moving slowly. However, her spirit was anything but slow.

“Those people are like my family,” she announced as she came in the door referring to the characters in Give My Love to the Chestnut Trees.

They’re like my family too, so we immediately hit it off. She told me what she liked about the novel and recommended a book or two for me to read.

Frankly, I could have talked with her all day, and maybe someday I will. Her caregiver said she had recently been in the hospital with a serious illness but no one would have known.

If I had a “Spirit of Aunt Laney Award,” I would have given it to Betsy Kimbrough last Friday. Betsy exemplifies everything Aunt Laney is about with her encouraging words, her bright spirit, and her refusal to let the difficulties in life weigh her down.

Aunt Laney would have loved her as much as I do.

“Therefore encourage one another, and build each other up…” (I Thessalonians 5:11).

A Poem and Wonder in Valdosta

2012-02-06T19:36:00.001-05:00

The night before the Valdosta book signing, our friend Nancy, in whose home we were staying, said to my husband Jerry, “Did you have Betty Googe as a teacher in high school?”

Jerry had attended high school in Valdosta. “I can’t remember if I did or not,” he said, “but the name does sound familiar.”

“I’ve heard she might be coming to the signing,” Nancy said.

Sure enough, Betty Googe arrived the next day, and almost immediately made it clear she wanted to see Jerry Varnado. So I called and told him that a command performance was expected of him.

He arrived and sat down beside Mrs. Googe. As they bantered about when he graduated, when she taught and other details, Jerry turned to me and said, “She’s the one.”

“The one…” I said.

“The one I told you the story about. You know--the poem.”

Jerry has shared many times about an experience he had as a junior in high school. His English teacher became seriously ill, and a young practice teacher came and took her place. After only a few weeks, Jerry became smitten with this young teacher, so he wrote a poem to impress her. The young teacher thought it such an excellent poem, she gave it to the school newspaper to be published.

As you can imagine, South Georgia teen boys did not exactly hold poetry writing in high esteem in the mid twentieth century, so when the paper came out, Jerry’s peers joked him about it.

In retelling the story to me, Jerry could never remember the teacher’s name or anything about the poem, but as he sat face to face on the seat beside Mrs. Googe, he realized that she was the one he’d been so enamored with as a sixteen-year-old boy, that he’d taken up poetry.

I watched them, the teacher and the pupil reunited after all these decades. They were once more at Valdosta High where under her influence even the tough high school football player might turn to rhyme to catch her attention.

I realized that, though Jerry and Betty Googe had been brought together by an event for a book I’d written, the scene unfolding before me had nothing to do with me. The pen of a mighty Hand had scripted it long before any of us were born. Truly a gift of wonder to all that were privliged to witness it.

In Mark 7:37, we find these words about another wonder Jesus had wrought, “People were overwhelmed with amazement, ‘He has done everything well,’ they said.”

He has, indeed, done everything well.

Now, if we could just find a copy of that poem.

A Great Day in Valdosta

2012-02-04T21:23:00.001-05:00

We had a wonderful day yesterday at Mockingbird in Valdosta, Georgia for the Give My Love to the Chestnut Trees book signing. I have several sweet stories to share later in the week, but for now, I especially want to thank Pam Akins and her gracious staff for their Southern hospitality. It was such a joy meeting the people of Valdosta.

Also, my dear friend, Nancy Hobby, worked selflessly for weeks promoting the signing. She along with Jeannie Grow sent emails, handed out postcards, and spread the word around town, which resulted in a fabulous turnout. I owe them both a debt of gratitude. Also, many thanks to Elizabeth Butler for a terrific review in The Valdosta Times.

“For the Lord is good, and his love endures forever… “(Psalm 100:5)

Job's Friends and All Your Sin

2012-01-29T18:04:00.002-05:00

Reading along in my One Year Chronological Bible, I came upon these words spoken by Zophar to Job, “Know this: God has even forgotten some of your sin" (Job 11:6).

That is a perfect example why the phrase “acting like Job’s friends” refers to someone who offers misguided and often hurtful advice to a suffering person. As my mother used to say, his friends added insult to injury.

“Forgotten…some of your sin.” Imagine the lack of consolation Zophar brought to Job.

If God only forgot and forgave some of our sin, which ones would they be? The ones from ten years ago or today? Maybe only the little ones, but not the big ones. Or perhaps we could negotiate over a list of sins.

Over a thousand years after Job lived, David, rebuked by Nathan for his adultery with Bathsheba, pleads with God for mercy and forgiveness and then writes these words, “Praise the Lord, O my soul; all my inmost being praise his holy name. Praise the Lord, O my soul and forget not all his benefits—who forgives all your sins…” (Psalm 103:1-3).

All, not some or a few. David knew after his repentence that God had dealt with the totality of his sin.

John, the son of Zebedee wrote in the first century, “But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus, his Son, purifies us from all sin” (I John 1:7).

One of the biggest lies the enemy ever perpetrates is that God can deal with only SOME of our sin. But John writes that Jesus came to cleanse us of ALL sin.

For a time, before I surrendered my life to the Lord many years ago, the enemy tried to persuade me that my sin was too great, that God could not forgive me. These thoughts tormented me, but one night I told the Lord I didn’t know if he could forgive me or not (I knew so little of God at that time), but if he could, my life was his. And you know what?

He did.

Later in Psalm 103, David says, “…as far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us.”

And Paul in his letter to the Hebrews refers to words also found in Jeremiah 31, “For I will forgive their wickedness and will remember their sins no more” (Hebrews 8:12).

I'm so thankful that today I can say along with Job (19:25), “I know that my Redeemer lives…” He has forgiven and forgotten all my sin.

My Friend, Dolly, and a LOT of Boxes

2012-01-25T12:18:00.000-05:00

My friend Dolly, who encouraged me to work on increasing the number of Samaritan Purse Shoeboxes I donate every year, has dropped by for a guest post with some specifics on how she stretches her dollar to increase her number of boxes. Hopefully she’ll inspire you to do the same.

It's Christmas shoebox time again. Not at the Billy Graham center, but in my garage. I started collecting for Christmas 2012 last Black Friday with 25-cent boxes of crayons at Office Max. Then came the post-holiday sales--bells, kaleidoscopes, fancy pencils, ribbons at Dollar General--and a bonanza of 30-cent items at Michaels, Target, and Wal-Mart.

Every post-holiday has something new to add to my stash of supplies. Plastic Easter eggs are good containers for marbles. Small stuffed animals may have Valentine hearts but that makes them cuter.

Back to school sales are a treasure trove. I've bought summer flip-flops at eight pairs for a dollar in September. After Halloween, I found bags of whistle pops for 50-cents, and the stick part really was a tiny whistle after the candy was eaten.

All year long, many Ingles grocery stores have a dollar aisle, which carries jump ropes, 5-count bouncy balls, and 8-count colorful frogs.

In the toy area, I recently discovered a delightful item--finger lights (3-count for $1). Some CVS stores have a dollar section where I've gotten 3-count packs of washcloths. Walgreens features a plastic travel pouch with toothbrush, cover, and toothpaste ($1

Dollar General offers a 50-count bag of marbles ($1) which I divide into smaller amounts and put in 8-count plastic containers ($1) I found at Family Dollar (over on the cereal aisle?). Dollar Tree carries bags of party favors--eight twirly tops or six kaleidoscopes or eight kazoos. These discount stores also have good prices on grooming items for hair and teeth.

The thrift stores are dotted with random, interesting treasures.

Once I found a bag of 200 brand-new blue combs for $2 and a 100-count box of sparkly green pipe cleaners ($1). I'm always on the look-out for nearly new things to carry stuff in--satchels, backpacks, totes, waist packs.

Of course, all this takes time but it stretches my dollars so I can fill more boxes. The trickiest part is keeping everything organized by categories, but I'm getting better at it every time.

I think it's going to be another good year--in my garage--for Operation Christmas Child.

"He who is kind to the poor lends to the Lord, and he will reward him for what he has done"(Proverbs 19:17).

A Story and The Story

2012-01-21T15:42:00.003-05:00

I’ve been somewhat off the grid weaving a new story, so the blog posts have been sparse.

When I sit down to write a new fictional story, I step out onto the water of not knowing what will happen on this 70,000-word journey. Fear sits at the edge of the desk and says, “No way can you finish this. You’re going to sink.” By faith, I ignore fear and type the next words. Somehow the next words, and the next.

Fear says, “You’ll never figure out the plot.” By faith, I ignore fear, and somehow the plot seems to figure out itself.

It’s a life of faith. Of listening. Of prayer. Of believing that, “I CAN do everything through Him who gives me strength” (Philippians 4:13).

I chart the work, how many words, day after day. I labor hard, but ultimately the story unfolds incrementally in His time.

So when the heart races and the thought nags, “There’s no way I can do this,” I know he will help me, because I’ve surrendered it all to Him.

If you’re looking for another way to immerse yourself in THE story, I’ve just found a helpful tool, The One Year Chronological Bible. The subtitle reads, “The entire text of the New International Version in 365 daily readings arranged in the order the events actually occurred.”

I love it, though I’m a little behind, because I didn’t discover it until mid-January. From the introduction: “…when you read Psalms 5 and 59 alongside 1 Samuel 18:1-20:42, you will see how David’s faith in the Lord sustained him as King Saul was threatening David’s life.” And, “When you read about King Hezekiah receiving the envoys from Babylon, you will also be able to read Isaiah’s prophecy concerning this event.”

I’m intrigued by the concept, and look forward to the new ways in which God will use it to teach me about His word and increase my faith.

At the Table of Brotherhood

2012-01-16T12:19:00.001-05:00

In our home schooling days, one year for Martin Luther King Jr. Day, we began committing to memory the King “I Have a Dream” speech. Here is a portion of what my children memorized:

“I say to you today, my friends, so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today.”

My great-great Grandfather owned a plantation in the Piedmont of South Carolina, so I am a descendent of a former slave owner. As I’ve gathered with our African American friends in worship through the years, in my head I’d often hear my children’s voices, “…sons of former slaves…sons of former slave owners…sit down together at the table of brotherhood.”

Though we have not realized all that Dr. King envisioned, much has changed because of his enduring work. For that, I give thanks.

And for what is still left undone, I pray the Apostle Paul’s words from Galatians 3:28, “There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”

When you don't know what to do next...

2012-01-12T12:57:00.000-05:00

Sometimes the path seems a little fuzzy.

And we long for definite direction—a message in a dove’s beak or--a sign.

A few days ago in Streams in the Desert, I read an excerpt from F.B. Meyer, “Beloved, whenever you are doubtful as to your course, submit your judgment absolutely to the Spirit of God, and ask him to shut against you every door but the right one… In the meanwhile, continue along the path, which you have been already treading. Abide in the calling in which you are called, unless you are clearly told to do something else.”

Oswald Chambers says, “Do the next thing.”

So, we continue even if the road narrows to a barely discernable trail in a dense wood. We take the next step in the light we have.

It’s good to know that even if our way feels like a dead end road to nowhere, the shadow of a cross falls upon it.

Early in last century, Jessie Pounds wrote this hymn:

I must needs go home by the way of the cross,
There’s no other way but this;
I shall ne’er get sight of the Gates of Light,
If the way of the cross I miss.

Refrain:
The way of the cross leads home,
The way of the cross leads home;
It is sweet to know, as I onward go,
The way of the cross leads home.

Jesus goes before us, and his way leads home.

Consoling words for confusing times.

“Commit your way to the Lord; trust in him… “(Psalm 37:5).

Ann Voskamp and the Today Show

2012-01-10T17:27:00.000-05:00

It touched my heart so much today when I saw that Ann Voskamp's book One Thousand Gifts received an unsolicited endorsement from Kathy Lee Gifford on the Today Show.

I thought of words which appear many times in scripture, "God exalts the lowly..." Truly it is God who's putting humble, sweet Ann in a place of honor.

My post is brief today because I'd love for you to slip over and watch the video and read the post from Ann here.

I know you'll be blessed.

Epiphany and everything changes

2012-01-06T12:52:00.000-05:00

“On coming to the house, they saw the child with his mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him… And having been warned in a dream not to go back to Herod; they returned to their country by another route.” Matthew 2:11-12

In the sixth century, Gregory the Great said, “The wise men teach us also a great lesson in that they went back another way into their country…. Our country is heaven, and when we have once known Jesus, we can never reach it by returning to the way, wherein we walked before knowing Him… Let us, then, depart into our own country by another way.”

An encounter with Jesus changes everything. It did for travel weary Kings. It does for us.

It changes where our journey will end. It changes the road we’ll take to reach it. It changes who we are.

When royal knees hit Judean dirt to worship a King greater than they could even imagine, wise ones experienced a defining moment. Things would be different from that day forward. These astronomers would never look up into the glittering night sky again without remembering the star that led them to the birthplace of a Savior.

As they poured out their priceless treasures of gold, frankincense, and myrrh to Him, perhaps God spoke into their hearts and they knew that these gifts were only symbols of a greater sacrifice. Maybe, even then as they gazed at the infant, they sensed that before them was a King who would give everything—his very life, but who would also ask of all who followed him full surrender.

No, they would never be the same again.

And so it is for us just as it was for the Kings. When we meet Jesus, we can’t go back to the old road, our selfish ways. We’ll have to take a new path of submission to the King of Kings and Lord of Lords.

One of the meanings that Webster assigns to the word epiphany is “a sudden intuitive realization or perception of reality.”

On that star dazzled night so many years ago, those Kings experienced a reality check of cosmic proportions.

Thankfully, time has not eroded our opportunity to also come and kneel, to surrender to Jesus the King, to offer him the sacrifice of our lives--to experience an epiphany of our own.

May your new year be blessed with just such an epiphany.

Wise Men still seek him here.
Benjamin Britten's Ceremony of Carols here.
Listen to Emmy Lou Harris sing "Star of Bethlehem" here.

A New Year and God's Beauty

2012-01-02T20:28:00.002-05:00

I’ve been giving thought to a verse from Psalm 90:17, “And let the beauty of the LORD our God be upon us: and establish thou the work of our hands upon us; yea, the work of our hands establish thou it.”

I’ve often prayed for the Lord to establish the work of my hands, and as we enter a new year, it’s an especially appropriate petition.

But I also pray, “Let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us…”

As I scanned the hundreds and hundreds of photographs on my cell phone from this year, I realize that God has continually surrounded me with beauty. That beauty helps anchor me in the present. When I stop to snap a picture, I’m honoring God for his artistry which he’s brought into my life. This has been an almost unprecedented year of heartache and struggle in our family, but it’s also been a year of joy. Much of the joy has come from pausing to clap for the wonder of all that God has created.

Today I share a few photos from this year’s journey…just from my cell phone. Probably a thousand more taken with my other camera. I’m by no means trained as a photographer, but we don’t have to be to twirl in thanksgiving for the gifts with which he surrounds us.

May God's beauty be upon you, friends, in this new year, and may he truly establish the work of your hands. Blessings, Bev

Old Christmas and Putting Baby Jesus Back in the Box

2011-12-30T17:05:00.000-05:00

Up and down my street, wreathes, and bows are disappearing from doors and mailboxes, and former brightly lit trees are stripped of their twinkles and headed for the recycling center.

Not me.

Being of strong English-Scotch-Irish descent, I’m hanging on to Christmas. My ancestors used to celebrate Christmas on January 6, the date we observe as Epiphany when the wise men found the baby Jesus in the manger.

When Christmas day arrives, I’m just beginning to celebrate. I can’t bear to put all the baby Jesus figures back in the box until at least January 6.

Just the other day, I overheard someone in a store say, “I’m so glad it’s over.”

It’s not over.

It’s just beginning.

This morning I read these words from The Message in Romans 8: “With the arrival of Jesus, the Messiah… Those who enter into Christ’s being-here-for-us no longer have to live under a continuous, low-lying black cloud. A new power is in operation. The Spirit of life in Christ, like a strong wind, has magnificently cleared the air, freeing you from a fated lifetime of brutal tyranny at the hands of sin and death… In his Son, Jesus, he personally took on the human condition, entered the disordered mess of struggling humanity in order to set it right once and for all.”

That little manger baby is here to put it all straight. What all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could never put back together, an infant comes to restore.

In my life. And your life.

Thank you, Jesus.

After Scrooge’s life altering encounters with the three ghosts of Christmas past, present and future, Charles Dickens writes, “It was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well..”

May it be said of us that we keep Christmas well, that we allow Jesus to enter the garbage heap of our lives with his beauty and power and restoration.

And so, old Christmas or new, no matter which day we put the clay baby Jesus back in the box, let's allow the eternal One to reign in our hearts.

God's Guest List

2011-12-27T22:44:00.002-05:00

I just finished reading New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber’s book, God’s Guest List: Welcoming Those Who Influence Our Lives. Macomber spoke at the 2009 American Christian Fiction Writers Conference, but I wasn’t able to attend that year. I later heard about one of the intriguing addresses she gave which I believe aligns with the theme in God’s Guest List.

She writes how years ago she made a list of thirty people she wanted to meet which at that point seemed highly unlikely. But over time, God sent them her way. But after a disillusioning experience with one of the people on her list who turned out not to be the person she thought he was, God spoke to her about making a list with thirty blanks to allow God to send the people he wanted her to meet. She writes, “God would send people into my life? An open list. A guest list. It was as if He had issued invitations to my life and asked me to watch for the people He would be sending.

What a concept!”

From that point on she saw people with different eyes. She calls this list “God’s Guest List,” of course and what started as thirty blank lines, she now realizes could be an infinite number.

She quotes Matthew 23:34, “Therefore I am sending you prophets and wise men and teachers…” and pens. “ It’s up to us to recognize them. When we start searching, we’ll begin to look deeply into every person we meet to see if we can find God’s fingerprints on that person.”

As I reflect on the last couple of weeks, I can point to at least three people I’m sure God sent into my life.

James Shepherd receiving Honorary Doctorate

As I attended my nephew’s graduation from the University of Georgia, I had the honor of hearing the keynote address given by James Shepherd of the Shepherd Spinal Center.

Shepherd shared how his own spinal injury from a surfing accident in the seventies inspired him and his family to begin the Shepherd Spinal Center in Atlanta, which is now one of the top ten spinal care hospitals in the nation, and often treats patients regardless of their ability to pay.

He said speaking from his wheelchair, “It’s not what happens to you, it’s what you do with what happens to you.”

Later that week, I was eating at a Chick-Fil-A with my family, and noticed someone shooting a film nearby. During a break, the man being filmed turned to us and begin to share a little of his story. Michael Davenport lost both his arms as an adolescent when he accidently lassoed an electrical wire with a length of copper wire with which he was playing.

He now works as an artist.

A couple of days before Christmas, I heard a knock at the door, and heard my husband welcoming Dr. Bob Bowen into our home. He attends a community Bible study my husband leads at the YMCA.

Dr. Bowen, now retired, was a former Physical Education instructor at the University of Georgia. As we talked, I also learned that from 1945 until a week before the end of the World War II, he piloted B-17s on missions deep into enemy territory. He helped the Allies by destabilizing Nazi synthetic oil production, and industrial centers.

As he sat on my sofa, I realized that here was a man who made a difference in history when he was only twenty-two years old.

What a privilege to spend time with him.

At the end of each of Macomber's chapters in God’s Guest List, she adds a section called “Gifts from our Guests” on what she learned from the guest she’d just written about.

What did I learn from my three guests? From James Shepherd, I was reminded that God can turn adversity into a mighty power for lasting good. In Michael Davenport, I saw the reality of God’s words in Isaiah, “Beauty for ashes.” Everyday Michael Davenport puts beauty into the world despite his disability and scars from burns, which cover much of his body. And in Dr. Bowen, I saw again how the bravery and courage of just one person plays a significant part in the unfolding of a much larger plan.

When I was a very small child, I remember standing in my front yard, watching the planes glide overhead, and wondering whether I’d ever fly myself. Years later I’d be cruising in a plane similar to the ones I saw as a child when a former American President would emerge from first class and shake my hand as he graciously greeted each person on the aircraft.

That little small town girl could've never imagined the amazing people on God’s guest list for her. And that’s why Macomber talks about the anticipation of it all.

“Each guest that God brings into our lives leaves us with a unique gift.”

Who might be the guests on God's list for you?

2011-12-24T16:00:00.001-05:00

May your Christmas be a Blessed One!!

Bells Across the Snow for those who are sad

2011-12-23T18:09:00.000-05:00

For many, the Christmas season is a hard time for various reasons. For some, the loss of loved ones is more keenly felt this time of year. For others the bright wrapping and lilting carols stand in contrast to an ongoing struggle with sadness, or serious illness.

That’s why I’ve always appreciated that on Christmas Eve the devotional, Streams in the Desert, carries the poem , “Bells Across the Snow” by one of my favorite hymn writers, Frances Ridley Harvegal (Take My Life and Let it Be). It speaks to the tension between sorrow and joy, which almost everyone at some time in their life, experiences at Christmas.

O Christmas, merry Christmas!
Is it really come again,
With its memories and greetings,
With its joy and with its pain?
There's a minor in the carol,
And a shadow in the light,
And a spray of cypress twining
With the holly wreath to-night.
And the hush is never broken
By laughter light and low,
As we listen in the starlight
To the "bells across the snow."

O Christmas, merry Christmas!
'Tis not so very long
Since other voices blended
With the carol and the song!
If we could but hear them singing
As they are singing now,
If we could but see the radiance
Of the crown on each dear brow;
There would be no sigh to smother,
No hidden tear to flow,
As we listen in the starlight
To the "bells across the snow."

O Christmas, merry Christmas!
This never more can be;
We cannot bring again the days
Of our unshadowed glee.
But Christmas, happy Christmas,
Sweet herald of good-will,
With holy songs of glory
Brings holy gladness still.
For peace and hope may brighten,
And patient love may glow,
As we listen in the starlight
To the "bells across the snow."

The Christmas after my mother died, I wondered whether I’d be able to celebrate that year. But as Christmas drew near, God gave me a song which carried me through the season. I posted it last December. You may read it again here, and I hope that for any who are struggling, God will use it to encourage your heart.

One Ringing Bell News Update: A Ringing Bell Night Before Christmas

2011-12-21T19:41:00.004-05:00

It you missed the first gazillion posts in this continuing series and would like to read more, click on the “Ringing Bell Update” label below this post.

With our apologies to Clement C. Moore and a whole lot of other people who might be offended, the staff at headquarters presents :

A Ringing Bell Night Before Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through Ringing Bell
Not a creature was stirring, not even Isabelle.

The nine stockings were hung on the stairs with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

(animals chose their own stockings)

Animals were thought nestled snug in their beds,
While visions of tasty treats danced in their heads.
And Lucy in her kerchief, and Charlie in his cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap.

Charlie decided not to wear the cap

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
We thought the Front Porch Grey was making toms scatter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

Moonlight caused something in the driveway to glow
I squinted, tried to make out the objects down below.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
A sleigh, eight tiny mice, and two figures so dear.

A cat in a tuxedo, and another clad in silver
I knew in a moment it must be Carl and Wilbur.
More rapid than eagles the rodents they came,
Wilbur whistled, and shouted, and called them by name.

"Now Fancy Feast, Ocean White Fish, Tuna and Meow Mix!

On Turkey Leg, on Cat Chow, Hot Dog and Fish Sticks.
To the top of the down spout! To the top of the pear tree!
For all cheese balls! Cheese balls! Cheese balls, you’ll see!"

As squirrels that before the wild Lucy fly,
When they meet with her bark, scurry to the sky.
So up to the house-top the rodents they flew,
With a sleigh full of treats, Carl and Wilbur, too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
Scratching and clawing, then Lucy said, “Woof!”
Outside, loud meows, and crashing to the ground
And then through the dog door Carl and Wilbur came with a bound.

Wilbur in a Santa hat, Carl with antlers like a reindeer,
I thought to myself, “What are you doing here?”
A bundle of treats Wilbur had on his back,
Just a Santa imposter, opening his pack.

Whiskers were tangled. Each nose red as a berry.
Though their fur was all windblown, they seemed quite merry.
Carl’s front teeth showed bits of leaf and pine straw
Then Wilbur lifted one mitted tuxedo paw.

“We're helping out Santa!” Wilbur exclaimed with glee.
“Needed a hand with the animal’s treats, you see.”
“They couldn’t go hungry,” Carl rubbed his belly.
“We even brought some yummy tuna fish jelly.”

Our Ringing Bell kittens now Santa’s jolly elves.
We at headquarters felt mighty proud of ourselves.
With a twist of tails and a purr in their throats
I watched in amazement those two in windblown coats.

They spoke not a word, but went straight to their work,
They filled all stockings but two, then turned with a jerk,
“Giving ours to help storm sewer cats,” they said.
“Of course,” I agreed, wiped a tear, nodded my head.

Through dog door they sprang, to rodents gave a whistle
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard them exclaim, ‘ere they drove out of sight,
“From Ringing Bell, Merry Christmas, blessed good night!”

Wilbur resting beside his sleigh after a long night's work

No animals were harmed in the making of these pictures. Can’t say the same for staff members.

"A merry heart doeth good like a medicine..." (Proverbs 17:22).

The Road to a Loving Heart

2011-12-16T18:25:00.000-05:00

To use a cultural reference that’s sure to date me, the other night I thought of a line from Joni Mitchell’s song “Big Yellow Taxi” in which the lyrics talk about how so often we never understand what we have until we lose it(I’m paraphrasing so to avoid copyright infringement).

Sitting at my desk absorbed in a writing project, I heard a sound I’d never heard before emanating from another part of the house. Now having raised two children, there are two things related to noise that ought to stop any mother in her tracks. The first is silence. The second is an auditory trailblazer.

I left my desk and went into the den. There was a reason I’d never heard anything like it before. I can’t tell you the last time I heard a seventy-pound dog stripping a cloth binding from an early twentieth century book.

Yes, Lucy had selected a volume from my antique reader collection for her chewing enjoyment.

I would have cried, but I’ve found it doesn’t do much good.

I sat down with the book to figure out if anything about it was salvageable. Trying to understand exactly what I’d lost now that it was gone, I flipped through the pages, scanned the stories, and the vintage lithographs.

I almost decided to recycle it, when my eyes fell on the words “The Road to the Loving Heart,” a story by Catherine Bryce about Robert Louis Stevenson. In it, she writes about how Stevenson moved to Samoa in the South Pacific for his health. He lived at the top of a hill for the clean air, but had an arduous journey to get there over a rough path. The often-needy Samoans were repeatedly the beneficiaries of his love and attention even though the journey to reach them took a toll on his health. After some time, the Samoans wanted to return Stevenson’s kindness and built a road to his house. Overjoyed by their present, Stevenson intended erect a road sign with words of gratitude to the Samoans.

But before he could, the Samoans put up their own sign in their language. Translated, it read:

“The Road of the Loving Heart. Remembering the great care of his Highness Tusitala, and his loving care when we were in prison and sore distressed, we have prepared him an enduring present—this road which we have dug to last forever. It shall never be muddy, it shall endure, this road that we have dug.”

Bryce concludes by saying, “…that a kind deed is never lost; it will be found years afterward in some loving heart.”

Sometimes we grow weary, especially this time of year. Christmas brings additional demands. We feel stretched. We wonder if what we do makes a difference. Might it encourage us to know that our acts of kindness will not be erased, but carried always in other’s hearts?

“…blessed is he who is kind to the needy “(Proverbs 14:21).

Carpenter's Shop Book Signing and Bigger Vision

2011-12-12T17:23:00.003-05:00

Catching our breath here after a busy weekend signing books and singing with the Athens Symphony Chorus.

The Carpenter’s Shop book signing for Give My Love to the Chestnut Trees was great fun, and we had the opportunity to see a lot of folks we hadn’t seen in a while including my son’s former scoutmaster, Dan Bowdoin, and Rev. Grady and Doris Wigley, our pastor and his wife when Jerry and I met. Two other very special people made a trip to buy a book after a long day in ministry. I was humbled that they braved the cold to come to my signing when I knew they could be at home getting some much-needed rest.

Richard and Barbara Anderson have been tirelessly serving the homeless through the nonprofit Bigger Vision in our town for many years. After years of floating around the area in temporary shelters, they now have a permanent facility with 35 beds for the homeless in this community. It was such a joy to hear them share about their journey. And they’ve accomplished all this in their retirement years and while Dick has battled serious health issues.

“I don’t want to spend my time going to bridge games, “ Barbara said. “I want to make a difference.”

So, in their late seventies, they're still actively involved in the daily operation of the shelter.

Making a difference, indeed.

Barbara and Richard Anderson are two of my heroes. I don’t want to play bridge, either. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, it’s just not my goal. I can only pray that I’ll ever be able to accomplish a fraction of what the Anderson’s have.

If you have financial gifts, coats, blankets, gloves, etc. that you’d like to donate, please contact the Anderson’s at Bigger Vision.

For more great pictures from the book signing you may go to the Carpenter’s Shop Facebook page here.

Many thanks to Brian and his amazing staff for a wonderful event and an opportunity to visit with so many friends, old and new. Love the ornament the Carpenter's Shop made for me.

"...I was homeless and you gave me a room..." (Matthew 25:35, The Message)

Book Signing and Feature Article

2011-12-09T10:16:00.001-05:00

Love to see any of you who live in the Athens, Georgia area for a book signing today at the Carpenter's Shop on Chase Street. The signing is from 5:00 to 6:30, although I plan to be there a few minutes early.

Also, the Athens Banner Herald ran a nice article about the signing and Give My Love to the Chestnut Trees today at http://onlineathens.com/features .

Look forward to seeing you at the Carpenter's Shop.

One Ringing Bell News Update: Wilbur...again

2011-12-06T22:37:00.001-05:00

After our last update, we thought surely we’d be moving on to the adventures of one of the other animals here at headquarters, but we underestimated Wilbur’s power to generate newsworthy material.

This episode begins as the staff began readying for Christmas.

“There,” one staff member said as she stood back to take in the lovely tree glowing with glistening balls and an assortment of angels collected over a number of years. “Isn’t it lovely?”

All agreed. When finished with the decorating, the staff took a much needed break and went out for a restaurant meal.

If they’d only known what was happening back at HQ, they wouldn't have lingered so long over their food.

“Watch this,” Wilbur said to Carl as he launched into the air, grabbed a shiny green ball and crashed to the floor. Green glass shards flew everywhere. “Don't you think I'm a good jumper? And look at that pretty silver one up there, I can get that one too.” Once more he went airborne, lassoed a Christmas ornament and slammed to the floor.

“You’re not the only good jumper. I can do that, too,” Carl said and sprang up for an embellished gold ball.

As the ball broke apart on the hardwood floor, Carl looked at Wilbur, “See.”

“Oh, yeah, well I can go higher than you.” Once more, Wilbur ascended.

And so it went.

When the staff returned they found the floor littered with the remains of six glass Christmas balls.

Wilbur and Carl are now banished from the Christmas Tree.

“He’s a terror,” Misty complained to the staff.

“An absolute menace,” Isabelle agreed.

“But doesn’t he have an innocent looking face?” Aunt Lucy said lovingly.

All animals and staff turned to regard Wilbur.

Wilbur playing golf , (more in a later update)

“Okay, so he looks guilty as can be. But he’s still my nephew,” Lucy said defensively.

Lucy wasn’t so forgiving however when she got into trouble with the staff for repeatedly turning over the inside water bowl.

“I’m telling you I didn’t do it,” she said.

“Who else is big enough to turn over the water bowl?” a staff member asked.

Turns out, Wilbur is.

“I was just trying to get that cat out of the bottom of the bowl,” Wilbur said.

*sigh*

The Ringing Bell staff has cleaned up a veritable Niagara in the days since Wilbur noticed a feline in his water bowl.

Evidently, the word “reflection” does not translate well into cat.

Everyone at Ringing Bell is standing by with mops and rags.

It looks like it’s going to be a very wet winter.

Praise the Lord from the earth, you great sea creatures and all ocean depths, lightning and hail, snow and clouds, stormy winds that do his bidding...wild animals and all cattle, small creatures and flying birds, kings of the earth and all nations...Let them praise the name of the Lord, for his name alone is exalted; his splendor is above the earth and the heavens.(Psalm 148:7-13)

Mercy and the Sea

2011-12-04T21:30:00.002-05:00

It was great to meet folks in Fernandina Beach, Florida during a book signing at Books Plus. Glad to be on beautiful Amelia Island again.

Just before our departure from the island, I walked to the shore to give the sea one last goodbye. It’d be months before we returned, and I wanted to firmly log in my experience now, so that deep in January on some icy cold morning, I could remember the sound of lapping waves and the feel of warm wind against my face.

The expanse of blue spread from horizon to horizon, and words memorized long ago surfaced in my thoughts:

There’s a wideness in God’s mercy, like the wideness of the sea…

It was the first line of a hymn I hadn’t sung in years.

Webster says that mercy is “the disposition to be forgiving and kind.” I turned right and then left and saw great arms sweep from North to South spreading compassion and kindness.

When I returned home, I had an "aha" moment when I read the last lines of the hymn. I’ve quoted them often through the years but had forgotten their origin:

If our love were but more simple, we should take him at his word;
And our lives would be all sunshine in the sweetness of our Lord.

I know that in the months ahead, it won’t be so much the sound of the sea I’ll remember, but the breadth of those arms of mercy. Oh, to wholly believe God's promises, and live in his luminous light even on the bleakest of winter days.

"The Lord is full of compassion and mercy" (James 5:11).

Rose McCauley and a Christmas Anthology

2011-11-29T11:17:00.003-05:00

If you're looking for a Christmas read, you might consider the Southern charm of a recently released anthology, Christmas Belles of Georgia, which includes a story by fellow member of the American Christian Fiction Writers, Rose McCauley.

Rose shares that she has been writing for over ten years and has been published in several non-fiction anthologies and devotionals. She is happy for this to be her first fiction anthology because Christmas books are her favorites. A retired schoolteacher who has been happily married to her college sweetheart for 43 years, she is also mother to three grown children and their spouses and grandmother to three lovely, lively kids with one more on the way! You can reach her through her website www.rosemccauley.com or blogsite at www.rosemccauley.blogspot.com and also on Facebook as Rose McCauley.

In the anthology, Christmas Belles of Georgia: Four letters are mailed from Monticello, a small antebellum town in Georgia. Sisters once, now heirs to a historic plantation, each young woman must come to terms with the circumstances of her birth…Will the sisters receive a traditional Christmas gift…of love?

Sounds enticing, doesn't it? So, buy a copy at your favorite local bookseller or online source, make a cup of hot cocoa, and sit down by the fire to enjoy. I'm looking forward to it.

Interview about Give My Love to the Chestnut Trees

2011-11-28T16:03:00.000-05:00

If you're looking for me today, I'm being interviewed over at Sharon Lavy's blog. Sharon was kind enough to review Give My Love to the Chestnut Trees on Friday and is posting a Q/A with me today. Once more, thank you for the gift of your time. Blessings, Bev

What Christmas Really Smells Like

2011-11-26T19:26:00.002-05:00

Please drop by sweet Sharon Lavy's blog. She's been gracious enough to post about Give My Love to the Chestnut Trees.

We're finishing up the turkey here, and beginning to get ready for Christmas.

The scents of Balsam and Fir trees, candy canes, and cinnamon are almost universally perceived as the fragrances of Christmas.

But another aroma sends me to Christmases past just as quickly as these: the scent of the Sears automotive department.

More specifically, tires.

For several years when I was a child, my family lived near the big rambling Sears and Roebuck store on Ponce de Leon Avenue in Atlanta.

At Christmas, we always made at least one pilgrimage to the brick-faced multi -layered establishment, in which they would transform what I remember to be one entire floor into a seasonal toy department.

The thing is, no matter how big or small the store, Sears and Roebuck always smelled like the tires in automotive. So, as I carefully perused the dolls, games, and stuffed animals, which I hoped would wind up under the tree on Christmas morn, my olfactory nerves decided Christmas smelled like rubber.

Now, at least once during the Christmas season, I have to make a trip to Sears. I usually don’t buy much. I just want to smell the tires.

And remember.

Strange, I know.

But my trip to Sears started me thinking about what the first Christmas smelled like. I had to laugh. I guess to get it; we’d have to go sit in a cattle stall. I can’t imagine anyone making manure scented potpourri.

We’ve really sanitized the birth of Jesus, haven’t we?

Very different from the scene conjured by the idyllic nativity figures I have displayed in my house; I believe in the natural, it was a gritty, smelly event.

But in the spirit, there was a transcendent sweetness about it. A sweetness the Savior has shared with us who have received his salvation.

Eugene Peterson puts it this way in 2 Corinthians 2:15, “Everywhere we go, people breathe in the exquisite fragrance. Because of Christ, we give off a sweet scent rising to God, which is recognized by those on the way of salvation—an aroma redolent with life.”

Don’t you love that? “…an aroma redolent with life.”

What the first Christmas really smelled like was life.

Eternal Life.

That’s why the Son of God endured the grime and the stench.

For us.

I made my trip to Sears early this morning and just stood for a moment transported to my childhood by new tire smell. But one day, all those who know Him are going to be transported to their eternal home because of the fragrant life the incarnate God born in a cattle stall died to give us.

Stormy Seas and Rescued Sailors

2011-11-21T21:47:00.000-05:00

I awoke in the early morning to the explosion of waves against the shore, and I knew the storm the meteorologists predicted had moved in. Later at first light when I stepped outside, the wind blew me several steps back. The ocean that had only lapped at my feet the day before, now tossed angrily at high tide.

“…all your waves and breakers have swept over me,” the psalmist wrote.

Sometimes, it feels as if we’re dealing with problems, as Eugene Peterson said in his translation of this verse, which threaten to “…crash and crush…” us.

I stepped inside away from the wind, and stood for a long time studying the pitching sea. I remembered Psalm 44 that I’d been reading for several days. It ends, “Rise up and help us; redeem us because of your unfailing love.” Not because of our good deeds, or our righteousness, or our family linage, or our place in life. And certainly not because we deserve it. These are not enough, but because of YOUR goodness and love, oh God, rescue fearful, sometimes misguided sailors from stormy seas.

How and when God chooses to rescue is often puzzling to me, but we can accept His way because we know His love.

Today, in a rolling flood of troubles I saw God rise up for someone, stretch out his mighty hand, and roll back the tide.

Surprisingly.

Powerfully.

Completely.

Because of His unfailing love.

I have witnessed in my life many wonderful acts of God, and today, the splendor of His presence was unmistakable.

I bear witness to the fact that God is at work and he intervenes in the affairs of his children.

If your sea is troubled, if you feel adrift, call out to Him. Pray Psalm 44. And trust His love.

Wild Horses

2011-11-17T16:56:00.000-05:00

Jerry and I have been out roaming coastal Georgia and Florida the past few days to promote my book, Give My Love to the Chestnut Trees. I’d never visited the charming little town of St. Mary’s, (only read about it in books and magazines), but, oh, how lovely it is.

We visited Once Upon a Bookseller Bookstore, then set out to discover a little about the town.

Steeped in history, it’s also notable for being the gateway to Cumberland Island, one of the nation’s best-preserved wilderness areas.

We visited the Cumberland Visitor’s Center, and though we missed the ferry for the day, we stood at the dock from which the boats depart and gazed out over the sparkling water.

Just a ferry ride away, wild horses flew like the wind along pristine beaches.

Just then, I had an “I wanna be a park ranger moment.”

Have I mentioned this desire of mine? I suppose it first surfaced during our home schooling years. All the National Park visits and historical tours during our educational travel reinforced it. I love history, and nature, and the outfit’s not too bad either.

I don’t suppose I’ll ever be a park ranger, and I’m sure the jobs not all I think it might be. But, I can write about them. There’s a park ranger in a future book out there somewhere.

And those wild horses…

I’m reminded once more of verses from Job 39 which Randall Wallace used to start his film Secretariat. God is speaking:

Do you give the horse his strength or clothe his neck with a flowing mane?

Do you make him leap like a locust, striking terror with his proud snorting?

He paws fiercely, rejoicing in his strength,

And charges into the fray.

I may never be a park ranger, but one day soon, I sure hope to see those wild horses.

Last Week for Operation Christmas Child

2011-11-14T17:28:00.000-05:00

This is the last week for Operation Christmas Child Shoe Box Collections, so I'm slipping in here with a repost. If you've not packed a box, there's still time. Check online at Samaritan's Purse for a collection center near you, pack a box or two,and take it before the weekend. Many thanks, Bev

It’s the time of the year to start thinking about packing your Operation Christmas Child box for Samaritan’s Purse. Last year, Samaritan’s Purse distributed shoeboxes to eight million children around the world. Our family has prepared boxes since our kids were little. Every year, each of them would pack one for a child their age and gender. Now, that the last two are both in college, my grandchildren jumped in to help me.

I spoke with Brittany this morning at Samaritan’s Purse and asked about the three most important items they’d like to see in a shoebox. She said hygiene materials are number one. Toothbrush, toothpaste, washcloth, soap and a comb or brush are essential elements in every box. Following these would be school supplies: notebooks, pencils, erasers, etc. Third on her list was a toy: a stuffed animal, a yo-yo, etc.

I’ve been working on my boxes for a year. I got the idea from my friend Dolly, who inspired me to shop for bargains, so that I could increase my number of boxes.

Here’s how:

After holidays (Christmas, Valentine’s Day, etc.) retailers mark down their seasonal merchandise to clear it. I look for items at 75% off—socks, coloring books, toys. Many go for as little as a quarter. When school supplies are reduced, I pick up crayons, markers, notebooks, and pencils. Just this week, I bought balls for each box, which were reduced from summer stock.

One thing I don’t scrimp on, and that’s toothpaste and a toothbrush that won’t make gums bleed. Children in the third world may not have brushed regularly, so it’s important to buy a good soft toothbrush. Also, if it’s in your budget, a light up toy or flashlight is great. Always include extra batteries. If a child lives without electricity, these things are a wonder. Also, give thought to the toy you include. Easily broken plastic is not a good idea. Look for things with more longevity—a slinky, a toy car. Remember what Brittany said about stuffed animals. I remember hearing a story which emerged from a war-torn country about a fourteen-year-old boy drafted into the army. He took his Operation Christmas Child stuffed animal with him to war.

If you start now, you can increase your number of boxes, too. You may download “How to Pack a Shoebox” and labels for the boxes HERE. Pay special attention to the items that shouldn’t be included. A toll-free number for drop off locations is provided or you can mail your shoeboxes to Operation Christmas Child headquarters in North Carolina.

Here’s what especially motivated me. I heard a testimony this year from a missionary in Eastern Europe who spoke about how important the shoebox ministry was in bringing children to his church. He had opportunity to share the Good News with so many who’d never heard it before because of Operation Christmas Child.

That’s all I needed to hear. This year, instead of two boxes, I’m working on twelve.

I still have some items to collect, but I’m closing in on it, and have had some great help.

"Great gifts mean great responsibilities; greater gifts, greater responsibilities! "(Luke 12:48 The Message)

Sing On

2011-11-10T12:19:00.000-05:00

A few days ago, having just finished an errand, I exited a store preoccupied with a persistent trouble. But loud warbles arrested me.

I looked up and saw this creature...

...singing his little heart out.

A portion of my daily Bible reading today is from 2 Thessalonians 2:16, “May our lord Jesus Christ himself and God our Father, who loved us and by his grace gave us eternal encouragement and good hope, encourage your hearts and strengthen you in every good deed and word.”

This morning in Streams in the Desert, “Remember it is the very time for faith to work when sight ceases. The greater the difficulties, the easier for faith; as long as there remain certain natural prospects, faith does not get on even as easily as where natural prospects fail. “ George Mueller

God reminded of my singing friend. He stopped me in my tracks and reminded me to sing on in hope even in the midst of vexing difficulties which appear to have no answer.

Again from Streams in the Desert, “…and rejoice, since the most glorious promises of God are generally fulfilled in such a wondrous manner that He steps forth to save us at a time when there is the least appearance of it.”

So, join me in singing the song of hope. Who knows who we might touch with our music?

Stay

2011-11-07T18:33:00.000-05:00

A lot of waiting here today.

What would the news be?

Wondering if this cancer in my dad was already a wildfire.

Knowing too much and knowing too little.

Waiting.

One hour, then two.

Shifting in chairs, checking watches.

How much longer?

Finally, his name called.

Walk down the hall, squeeze in the room, my sister, my dad, his wife, my husband, and me.

Standing now. Not enough chairs. Not enough air.

More waiting. Looking out the window. Swapping stories.

Clinging to hope.

Then the click of the latch.

We inhale as the white coat of revelation enters.

And…

It’s not good, but it’s not bad either. Seems contained. One more test to make sure, then lots of medicine. Maybe radiation.

We exhale.

“Might live to be 95,” doctor says.

Sister and I exchange glances.

Tears.

95.

Yes, Dad, save for your old age.

Stay to see the great-grands.

We’ll pray.

Take the medicine.

Stay.

“I’ve been carrying you on my back from the day you were born,

And I’ll keep on carrying you when you’re old.

I’ll be there, bearing you when you’re old and gray.

I’ve done it and will keep on doing it,

Carrying you on my back,

Saving you” (Isaiah 46:4 The Message).

Cotton Fields and the Harvest

2011-11-03T21:07:00.001-04:00

Early one morning while driving in a rural area, my husband and I came upon this scene.

Though Jesus probably didn't have cotton in mind, these words from John 4:35 came to me, “…Lift up your eyes, and look on the fields; for they are white already to harvest.”

A few days later, I had the privilege of hearing a pastor from Bulgaria give a moving account of God’s work both behind the iron curtain and since the fall of communism. Out of the twelve pastors in our denomination imprisoned during the time of oppression, sadly, all but one died in prison. But they paved the way for the work to come.

He told of the churches destroyed during the last century, but how since that bleak time, many have been restored and once more are vital places of worship.

The young man we heard lives sacrificially on a monthly salary the equivalent of $300 U.S. dollars. His responsibilities are many and far-reaching, not only pastor to his own church but also supervising a pastor in a neighboring village.

His commitment and determination to see others come to Christ in this former Eastern bloc country moved me. Biblical study resources are scare, and sometimes many pastors share only a few books. Though the number of true believers are still a small percentage of the total population, the church in Bulgaria has begun to mushroom and many new churches have been planted.

A few days after I took the photo above, the cotton was harvested. As I passed the field where reapers had done their work, I longed to see the same thing happen in the spiritual realm. Both here and around the world.

I pray it would be so.

What to do with a Can of Spray Paint

2011-10-31T17:34:00.001-04:00

Just as a screenplay deadline bore down this past week, a wild decorating urge hit me. Mostly because I had a family party coming up yesterday, and in addition, my daughter had stripped her room bare when she moved to the university this fall. The bare walls and shelves cried out for enhancement. But with two kids in college, the budget sure squeaks around here. So, what would I do?

Though I"ve never read it, I’ve always liked the title of David C. Barnette’s book, The Official Guide to Christmas in the South: or If You Can’t Fry It, Spray Paint it Gold.

It’s not Christmas, and we don’t fry much around here, but I can’t tell you all I’ve done with two cans of silver and gold foil spray paint this week. I told my husband not to sit in one place too long or I might gilt his ears.

My biggest inspiration was page 97 in my new Country Living Magazine. Sitting beside a Dennis and Leen wingback chair covered in Schumacher fabric was a gleaming silver occasional table perfect for Bethany’s room. The price: a mere $750.00.

Gulp. But, hmm, I already had a table similar to the one in the picture. And I had a can of silver foil spray paint. A few minutes later….Voila! Almost exactly like the one in the picture.

One thing led to another, and before long, I’d silvered picture frames, another table, and made a covered board for pictures. Her room perked up, and all I’d spent was a few dollars for fabric and $4.00 for a can of paint (Of course I used a craft store coupon).

Since my house is a frequent gathering spot for family dinners, I longed to do something different and seasonally appropriate for my table. The large acorns Jerry brought back from a coastal South Carolina swamp excursion caught my eye. After putting long hours in making final dialogue changes and tightening scenes in the screenplay, I set out to spray paint the acorns and hot glue them on to gold cord.

I cut lengths of plaid ribbon I’d plucked some time ago from the clearance bin at a fabric store, tied the ribbon on my napkins and then wrapped the acorn cords around the ribbon.

I made the screenplay deadline, set an attractive table, and my daughter loved her room improvements so much I had to hold her back from plundering for her dorm room, again.

So, I guess Barnette is right. We do spray paint a lot in the south.

As I looked around the table last night at the family gathered to celebrate a birthday, I gave thanks I could make things pretty for these dear ones, these sitting to eat in my home. Precious, precious memories.

And I gave thanks for the creative inspiration that comes from the author of all creativity: the one who thought us up, who gave us color, and beauty, and the intricacies of nature. “So God created man in his own image…”(Genesis 1:27). We are creative because God is creative. And whether we’re writing screenplays, or cooking dinner, or making our house a home, we do it because we are created in the image of God.

So, that was my weekend.

I still have half a can of paint left, though. I hate for it to waste. Maybe I’ll buy Barnette's book and see what he suggests. After all, Christmas isn’t far off.

A Great Conference Coming Up

2011-10-28T14:40:00.000-04:00

For my readers who are also interested in writing pursuits, The East Metro Atlanta Christian Writers are having another of their wonderful writing conferences On November 11 and 12. This year, the speakers are historical Christian fiction author, Jennifer Hudson Taylor, prolific freelance writer, Edie Melson and I’ll be teaching four screenwriting classes.

For those of you in the Atlanta Metro area, the classes are easily accessible at Georgia Piedmont Technical College in Covington, GA. For those coming from a greater distance, the location is just off Interstate 20.

The deadline for registration is November 1, so please visit the East Metro Atlanta Christian Writers website for more information and sign up today. There’ll be lots of networking opportunities, great classes, and also an opportunity for fifteen minute appointments with faculty.

Hope to see you there!

“Write down the revelation and make it plain on tablets so that a herald may run with it” (Habakkuk 2:2).

An Unusual Bird and the C Word

2011-10-24T16:21:00.003-04:00

I looked up from my computer one day last week and at the feeder just outside my window, a bird I’d never seen before munched on black oiled sunflower seeds.

“Who are you,” I said aloud, and pulled my well-worn copy of Peterson’s A Field Guide to the Birds East of the Rockies from the bookshelf.

White bars on black wings and red chest feathers distinguished the bird from any I’d ever seen before.

After some time of searching for the bird’s identity, I had to leave to make a short trip to a doctor’s office to learn the results of my dad’s recent prostate biopsy.

When I met with the nurse, she didn’t even have to tell me. I could read it in her face.

My dad, often the healthiest person in the family, now had cancer. And who would have guessed that both my husband and my father would have cancer in the same year.

I left the doctor’s office so sad, barely holding back the tears, and returned home to my computer. But unable to work, I could only sit staring at the new bird that seemed determined to empty the feeder of its contents. I picked up the bird book again and halfheartedly flipped the pages. Something caught my eye as a possibility, but seeking further confirmation, I did a Google search and yes, I'd found it.

The bird was a male Rose-breasted Grosbeak. Born just this year, he was shades away from his later brilliant plumage and currently resembled the female of the species, except his red chest was beginning to bloom.

I learned that having probably been born in parts north of here, he was headed to the West Indies, Central, or South America for the winter.

“Blessed are those whose strength is in you, who have set their hearts on pilgrimage” (Psalm 84:5).

So that’s why he seemed to be gorging at the feeder. He was on a long journey. It amazes me how God equips these small creatures to fly great distances, and sometimes over great spans of water to reach their destination.

I thought of my dad, and the long journey he faced. The next verse in Psalm 84 reads, “As they pass through the Valley of Baca, they make it a place of springs…” Baca means weeping. “They go from strength to strength, till each appears before God in Zion.”

My prayer is that as we travel through this hard place that we could find our sustenance in drinking the living water that only Jesus gives, that we will go from strength to strength.

The Rose-breasted Grosbeak stayed with me for three days before he headed south. I believe God sent him to my feeder the day I found out my dad had cancer, so that I’d not just remember the bad news, but I’d also remember this touch of grace from a God who knows what brings joy and comfort to our souls.

To learn more about the Rose-breasted Grosbeak and listen to his call, which Peterson says is like a Robin who's taken voice lessons, click here.

Breast Cancer Awareness and Dancing

2011-10-21T20:36:00.000-04:00

In the fall of 2003, the Athens Banner Herald newspaper asked for submissions for a section they were running for Breast Cancer Awareness Month called “Stories of Inspiration.” Specifically, they wanted people to write about the best thing that came out of their breast cancer. I had written the piece below in 2001 and shared it with a few friends. Several of them encouraged me to submit it. I was humbled when it was chosen to be featured in the section among so many moving stories. The picture below from the wedding of Jeff and Mary Crane Krutoy is used by permission of Wingate Downs Photography.

Just days before my scheduled mastectomy in June of 2000, our family decided to go ahead with an already planned short vacation to an island off the coast of South Carolina. Frankly, I didn’t even know if I could enjoy it with the surgery facing me the morning after we returned.

One evening while we were there, our young children, my husband Jerry and I were walking along a boardwalk on an inland waterway. There was a nearby band playing familiar music. Jerry and I found ourselves beginning to dance along the boardwalk under the stars while our children played at our feet. It seemed we were dancing right in the face of cancer.

This has become one of the sweetest memories of our lives together.

Our anniversary fell just a week after my mastectomy. How could we make the best of this situation? In answer to that question my husband went out to a local steak restaurant and picked up take-out dinners. As our children were entertained at a local pizza restaurant courtesy of a dear friend, we ate our take-out dinners on the good china in the dining room by candlelight.

After dinner we took out a CD we had purchased of the band we heard on our pre-surgery vacation. Somehow, I secured the two drainage tubes I had, and we danced unhindered by bandages. As we danced, we remembered the stars and the water from the week before, and God’s faithfulness to us in these days. It’s strange how God enables us to re-frame the difficulties of our lives.

When I think of mastectomy, I think of being held in my precious husband’s arms, and I think of dancing.

To this day, those sweet memories of dancing more than outweigh the memories of the difficulties I faced. God taught me during that time He truly does give us “…beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.” Isaiah 61:3

Edited re-post

One Ringing Bell News Update: Up a Tree

2011-10-18T14:36:00.004-04:00

This is the latest installment in a continuing series. For more Updates, click on the One Ringing Bell News Update or humor tab in the labels below this post.

Is it our imagination, or do our readers agree, that here at Ringing Bell Headquarters, we spend an inordinate amount of time dealing with Wilbur Varnado’s escapades?

It just so happened that one day this week, the entire Ringing Bell staff had the day off, except for one lone senior staff member. Well, of course, Wilbur picked that day to allow Aunt Lucy to chase him up one of the tall poplars at the rear of Headquarters.

“Help,” he yowled. “Somebody get me down.”

Mama Kitty, ever on alert, heard her son and scampered up the tree to his aid.

“Look, Wilbur, all you have to do is follow me.” She circled the trunk, stepping lightly, and shimmied down the tree with amazing speed.

When she reached the bottom, she looked up. “See, nothing to it.”

“I’m scared,” Wilbur cried. “I can’t do it.”

“Can’t never could,” Mama Kitty said. She stretched out on the ground and pulled on a fur tuft between her toes. After spitting it out she said, “Listen Wilbur, you have to face your fear. You’ll never get out of that tree standing up there howling.”

It’s at this point Wilbur resorted to doing what most do when caught in a tough situation. He bargained.

“If someone will get me down, I promise not to steal any more of the fish’s food. I won’t stalk Isabelle on the stairs. I won’t bite Charles Varnado’s fuzzy poodle tail…” he paused, “I won’t bite Charles Varnado’s fuzzy poodle tail very often…”

“Okay, Wilbur, I’ll help,” the lone staff member said. She proceeded to drag a painter’s ladder over to Wilbur’s tree. But even after climbing up, clinging to the tree, standing on the step clearly marked, “Do not stand on this step,” and extending her hand as far as she could, she could only reach Wilbur’s toe tips.

Wilbur howled even louder. "I'm never going to get out of this tree."

“Now, hold on,” she said. After thinking a moment, she climbed back down, grabbed a chaise lounge cushion, ascended once more, and tied it in the tree thinking it might cushion a jump to a lower limb.

Wilbur ignored it. “I’m scared,” he cried again.

She then wrestled a long curtain rod pole out of a storage building, again scaled the ladder and used it to bridge a span from the limb Wilbur was on to a lower limb in a neighboring tree. Wilbur did somehow muster the courage to cross the span to the lower limb. But alas, still found himself gripped by fear.

There was so much stuff hanging up in the tree, Ringing Bell neighbors later commented they thought the Swiss Family Robinson had moved in next door.

How would Wilbur ever get out of the Poplar tree?

The staff member prayed, “Lord, we need your wisdom here at Headquarters. How can I help Wilbur get down?”

Then, a thought crossed her mind. Stand on a ladder and pull the lower end of the limb down so Wilbur can see your face.

She did, and Wilbur who had previously been too scared to walk out more than a few inches on a limb, crept all the way to the end and the staff member grabbed him.

We’re all resting here at headquarters after such an ordeal…

…but meditating on the lesson we learned through Wilbur’s adventure.

“Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith…” (Hebrews 12:2)

“Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus” (Matthew 14:29)

Signing off for all at Ringing Bell Headquarters. Check with us often for more from the critters you've come to know and love.

New Christian Writers Group

2011-10-14T13:41:00.000-04:00

For some time now, I’ve felt God calling me to start a Christian Writer’s Group in this area. When I taught at the Harriette Austin Conference this past summer, a strong contingency expressed interest in meeting with other writers working in the inspirational market.

On a rainy fall evening, a few of us gathered last night for our first meeting. As I wrote them this morning in an email, I’m amazed at how strangers can come together in a room, and because they have Jesus in common, they can leave that room feeling like family. We even had one participant who traveled 200 miles to be with us.

I remembered this verse from Zechariah 4:10, “Who dares despise the day of small things…”

Yes, though small in number, I believe we were mighty in spirit, because of the presence of a loving God who chose to join us. And who knows what God may do through the work produced through these dear folks committed to pursuing Him? Our purpose is to support, encourage, provide writing instruction and links to writing opportunities for those who participate.

I once told Yvonne Lehman, who founded the Blue Ridge Mountain Conference that she would only know in heaven the millions she’s touched through her commitment to encouraging other writers.

If you live in our area in the Southeast, and sense a call to write for the Lord, would you consider joining us as we meet again the last week in this month? You may contact me through my website to find out more.

Many blessings,

Influencers for Give My Love to the Chestnut Trees

2011-10-11T18:18:00.004-04:00

Just getting out a few requests today and wondering whether some of you might serve as influencers for Give My Love to the Chestnut Trees. If you’re not sure what that means, here are a few suggestions:

-Write a review at Barnes and Noble or Amazon
-Post a comment about the book on Facebook or Twitter and provide a link.
-Make your local book store aware of the book, and ask them to stock it.
-Donate it to a church or public library.

One of my favorite authors, Deborah Raney, suggests leaving the book in a waiting room for someone to find, donating to a prison ministry, organizing a blog tour, or hosting an interview and giveaway on your blog or website.

Another outstanding author, Mary Demuth, writes that one of her friends lends her books to her women’s circle and after reading, each one writes a note in the book which helps to create community. She also suggests registering the book at www.bookcrossing.com, and then leave it somewhere and track its journey.

No one knows exactly what works to promote a book, but be creative. One thing we do know is that word of mouth is the most significant factor, so please, tell your friends about Give My Love to the Chestnut Trees. If you’re willing to read the book and do three or more of the above suggestions, please contact me through my website, and I’ll send you a free copy of the book. There’s a limited number of free copies available, so let me know soon.

Thanks for being a One Ringing Bell Reader. You bless me.

In his heart a man plans his course but the Lord determines his steps (Proverbs 16:9).

Tea Olives and Heaven

2011-10-08T16:07:00.000-04:00

As I walk in my neighborhood, I notice the distinctive fragrance of tea olives. I remember that smell from fall ten years ago. In the evenings, I used to drop my daughter off for gymnastics practice at a gym located in a park near our home, then I’d walk through the tea-olive-filled park to the nursing home to see my mother. I visited her several times a day. She was so sick, dying of cancer. Each evening, I’d move from the intoxicating smell of the tea olives to the nursing home smell, which was not necessarily bad, but different.

Mom and I

My mother didn’t want to be there. She wanted to be home. Home hadn’t been an option for her in quite a while with so many difficult health issues. I felt helpless in the face of a cruel disease that was slowly stealing her life. I’d just sit by her bedside praying, her moments of lucidness becoming fewer and fewer.

On a Saturday night in early October, as I was preparing to go to bed, I dropped to my knees and asked God to heal her or send his angels to take her to be with him. Her pain seemed excruciating, her quality of life so diminished. I put her in His hands, and crawled into an empty bed, because my preacher husband was out of state for a few days ministering at a family camp.

I went in to see Mom early Sunday morning and found her unusually alert. I asked if she wanted some applesauce. She’d eaten so little lately. Unable to speak because of a stroke, I was surprised when she nodded her head. I fed her the sauce and sat down. Then she did something so bizarre. She began to look up at the ceiling all around the room. I couldn’t understand what she was seeing. I got up to check if there was a spider or bug crawling along the top of the wall.

I kept saying, “Mom, what is it? What are you looking at?” She just continued the wide eyed staring at what I couldn’t understand. A friend came in; we visited a little longer, then my friend and I prepared to leave for church.

“I’ll see you a little later,” I told Mom. Mom briefly acknowledged me with her eyes, and then resumed her intense study of the room’s periphery. What in this world was she looking at? I thought as I walked to my car.

The minister filling in for my husband at church that morning concluded his sermon by saying, “There are some things you can’t fix, but when God fixes them, they stay fixed.”

As his words lingered in my brain, I left with my children after church to have lunch, and as we finished, my cell phone rang. It was the hospice representative calling to say my mother had just died.

There were things about my mother most people didn’t know--difficult private battles which she’d fought with great courage. Now all those terrible battles were over. I knew then the last time I’d been in her room, she hadn’t been looking at anything in this world. She’d been staring at angels--a room full of them that’d been sent to accompany her into the presence of the Living God.

Paul wrote in II Timothy 4:18 of his confidence that the Lord “…will bring me safely to his heavenly kingdom.” My experience with my mother on the day she died cemented my confidence in God’s promise of heaven as nothing else ever has.

Yes, it has been ten years ago this week since my mom made that trip to heaven. I’ll go walking again tonight and catch the scent of the tea olives, but I’m just wondering if maybe in some way they are the smell of heaven itself. And the pastor was right, I couldn’t fix my mother’s situation, but God has fixed it for all eternity.

edited re-post

I Stand By the Door

2011-10-05T22:33:00.001-04:00

Just after I gave my life to the Lord, I came upon this verse in Psalm 84:10: “I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of the wicked.” A short time later, I discovered a poem, which gave new insight into the verse. I was thinking about this poem a couple of days ago when I learned that it was one of the readings for this week in the liturgical year. Samuel Shoemaker, co founder of Alcoholics Anonymous, wrote “I Stand by the Door.” It’s one of my favorites.

I Stand by the Door

I stand by the door.
I neither go too far in, nor stay too far out,
The door is the most important door in the world-
It is the door through which people walk when they find God.
There’s no use my going way inside, and staying there,
When so many are still outside and they, as much as I,
Crave to know where the door is.
And all that so many ever find
Is only the wall where a door ought to be.
They creep along the wall like blind people,
With outstretched, groping hands.
Feeling for a door, knowing there must be a door,
Yet they never find it …
So I stand by the door.

The most tremendous thing in the world
Is for people to find that door–the door to God.
The most important thing any person can do
Is to take hold of one of those blind, groping hands,
And put it on the latch–the latch that only clicks
And opens to the person’s own touch.
People die outside that door, as starving beggars die
On cold nights in cruel cities in the dead of winter—
Die for want of what is within their grasp.
They live, on the other side of it–live because they have not found it.
Nothing else matters compared to helping them find it,
And open it, and walk in, and find Him …
So I stand by the door.

Go in, great saints, go all the way in–
Go way down into the cavernous cellars,
And way up into the spacious attics–
It is a vast roomy house, this house where God is.
Go into the deepest of hidden casements,
Of withdrawal, of silence, of sainthood.
Some must inhabit those inner rooms.
And know the depths and heights of God,
And call outside to the rest of us how wonderful it is.
Sometimes I take a deeper look in,
Sometimes venture in a little farther;
But my place seems closer to the opening …
So I stand by the door.

There is another reason why I stand there.
Some people get part way in and become afraid
Lest God and the zeal of His house devour them
For God is so very great, and asks all of us.
And these people feel a cosmic claustrophobia,
And want to get out. “Let me out!” they cry,
And the people way inside only terrify, them more.
Somebody must be by the door to tell them that they are spoiled
For the old life, they have seen too much:
Once taste God, and nothing but God will do any more.
Somebody must be watching for the frightened
Who seek to sneak out just where they came in,
To tell them how much better it is inside.
The people too far in do not see how near these are
To leaving–preoccupied with the wonder of it all.
Somebody must watch for those who have entered the door,
But would like to run away. So for them, too,
I stand by the door.

I admire the people who go way in.
But I wish they would not forget how it was
Before they got in. Then they would be able to help
The people who have not, yet even found the door,
Or the people who want to run away again from God,
You can go in too deeply, and stay in too long,
And forget the people outside the door.
As for me, I shall take my old accustomed place,
Near enough to God to hear Him, and know He is there,
But not so far from people as not to hear them,
And remember they are there, too.
Where? Outside the door–
Thousands of them, millions of them.
But–more important for me–
One of them, two of them, ten of them,
Whose hands I am intended to put on the latch.
So I shall stand by the door and wait
For those who seek it.
“I had rather be a door-keeper …”
So I stand by the door.

"Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me" (Revelation 3:20).

Give My Love to the Chestnut Trees finally available

2011-10-03T20:14:00.002-04:00

I received a sample copy of my book, Give My Love to the Chestnut Trees, in the mail this past Friday. I sent a picture of it to several family members, but told them it wouldn’t be available for several more weeks.

Out of curiosity, I checked on line this afternoon and found that as of today, it is indeed available. It’s offered at various retailers, but the best price seems to be here for both the ebook and paperback.

It’s been a long journey, and even though the book sits on my desk, it still doesn’t seem real. Many thanks to so many of you who’ve prayed for me during this process. Please continue to pray that the book will bring hope and encouragement to all who read it.

May the favor of the Lord our God rest upon us; establish the work of our hands for us—yes, establish the work of our hands (Psalm 90:17).

For His Glory Alone,

Seasons of Loss and John Wesley

2011-09-30T10:24:00.003-04:00

It’s a message God has been speaking into my heart for weeks now, most recently through a dream.

“Focus on what you have, not on what you’ve lost.”

It’s easy to lock in on collapsed dreams, financial attrition, health crises, or the never met expectation. It takes so little effort to tally all the difficult experiences and forget what God is continuing to do that blesses.

I suppose that’s why Ann Voskamp’s message to count our blessings resonates with me in such a big way. Purposing to count our blessings forces us to focus on God's beauty. How he is still present, no matter our losses.

His presence is our biggest blessing.

Evangelist and founder of the Methodist Church, John Wesley lived this truth even to the end. Here a few words describing his last moments on earth:

He begged the friends who had gathered round him to "pray and praise," responding with a fervent "Amen" to their petitions. He grasped their hands and said, "Farewell, farewell." As others entered the room he tried to speak, but finding they could not understand him, he summoned all his remaining strength and cried out, "The best of all is, God is with us." Then lifting up his dying arms in token of victory, and raising his feeble voice with a holy triumph not to be expressed, he again repeated the heart-reviving words, "The best of all is, God is with us."

He died a short time later.

Yes, the powerful truth is, no matter what our losses now or in the future, God is present. Jesus said, “And surely I am with you always, to very end of the age” (Matthew 28:20).

“The best of all is, God is with us."

Enduring words for any season of loss.

Jewel Baby

2011-09-26T18:54:00.003-04:00

She sat slightly obscured from view, waiting to surprise each person who entered the room. No one expected to see her at the women’s gathering last Tuesday since she’d been battling serious health issues for some time. But there she was, adorned with her sweet smile, laughing at her ability to catch so many off guard with her presence.

The eldest member of our congregation, the last here of the generation called Great, Jewel DeLay was given some time ago the nickname, “Jewel Baby” by a beloved friend. And, boy, did it stick.

We learned last year that Jewel Baby joined the church the year her pastor, my husband Jerry, was born. Over the decades, she earned the distinction of being so many congregants’ stand-in Mom. She loved well and long.

Her culinary delights tickled the palates of generations of family and friends, which led to her ability to obtain multiple advance orders for any forthcoming church bake sale. What I never understood is how she was able to sell cakes she never baked. I’m sure, given other circumstances, she would have made a great Fortune 500 CEO, or at the very least a Vice President of Sales. I don’t think anyone could resist her sweet sales techniques. That’s why her orders for church cookbooks were unparalled. Jewel Baby’s efforts in part led to the almost unheard of accomplishment in this economy of her beloved church building a much-needed addition with no debt. I’ve often wondered how much of the concrete, wood, and metal might have had Jewel Baby’s name stamped on it.

Unlike others, I’ve only had the privilege of knowing her for a short time. I wish it had been longer. But in that small span, I’ve learned much from her.

First, I noticed her ability to put a positive spin on any negative comment. In other words, she never embraced a spirit of offense. Wow, if we could just bottle and sell that in our churches, how much stronger the bonds in the body of Christ could grow. It’s the spirit of offense, always looking for a reason to have one’s feelings hurt, that brings much disharmony to the church. Jewel Baby simply overlooked the offense.

Next, her lifelong faithfulness to the church she loved serves as a legacy to those who follow. Faithfulness matters. And it doesn’t just make a difference now; it makes a difference in the future. In a few months, when we open the doors to the addition and begin a new era, we’ll be reaping the harvest of unbaked cake sales and cases of cookbooks sold by a widow who gave her all for Jesus.

Jewel Baby lived out the words, “…the joy of the Lord is your strength” (Nehemiah 8:10). When I think about her, I think of a woman bright with God’s joy—a gladness which seemed contagious for all who knew her. Just as she delighted in surprising everyone last Tuesday, the twinkle never left her eyes.

Today, we gathered by her bedside and Jerry read again from Psalm 121. Just moments after he read, “…the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore,” she stepped into forevermore. Forevermore with Him, in joy and peace and wonder.

We’ll lay her to rest under spreading oaks on an autumn day. We’ll hold each other close, remember Jewel Baby stories, and maybe read Psalm 121 one more time.

Yes sir, she was our baby, all right.

But much more importantly, she is God’s.

“You will be a crown of splendor in the Lord’s hand, a royal diadem in the hand of your God” (Isaiah 62:3).

"Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints"(Psalm 116:15).

One Ringing Bell News Update: Mischief

2011-09-24T21:17:00.001-04:00

Just because the staff at Headquarters hasn’t issued an update in two months doesn’t mean the antics haven’t kept on rolling.

Case in point: A few days ago, a senior staff member who goes by the moniker, The Big Guy, purchased a new set of leg weights to use in an exercise regimen. To bring the weight down to the desired level, he removed a couple of the sand packets and left them on a headquarters window seat.

Next morning, another staff member found this scene:

“Who shredded The Big Guy’s weight packets and spread sand everywhere?” she asked Wilbur and Carl.

“I didn’t do it,” Carl said. “I’ve been here all morning supervising birds.”

“Let me see your paws,” the crewmember asked Wilbur. Just as she suspected, she found traces of black sand between Wilbur’s toes. “And what’s that dark streak in your fur?”

Wilbur hung his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I haven’t been on the planet that long. I didn’t know what those black blobs were, and by the time I opened them, it was too late.” He cleared his throat. “That sand was not tasty.”

The staff member sighed. The Big Guy was not going to like this.

In other news, Aunt Lucy recently challenged Wilbur to a game of tug-of war with pipe cleaners.

Not surprisingly, Lucy won.

But Wilbur took in stride. He never holds a grudge.

It may be a different story about holding grudges for the staff here at HQ, though, especially because of their tough challenge trying to keep Wilbur corralled. Somehow, he’s learned to open the back door with his nose and escape headquarters, which has kept everyone on high alert and more than a little annoyed. His breakouts average about two a day. A senior staff member was recently spotted just before midnight one evening running through neighbor’s yards sporting pajamas and hair curlers. “Wilbur, Wilbur, you come back here,” she was heard to cry. Thankfully, we have no picture of this episode.

“I told you he was going to be trouble,” the grey tabby Misty declared.

“What she said,” Isabelle the ragdoll chimed in.

Aunt Lucy just smiled and said, “That’s my boy.”

More from the gang at One Ringing Bell later. Right now, it’s all staff on board for another five alarm Wilbur escape.

“A twinkle in the eye means joy in the heart, and good news makes you feel fit as a fiddle” (Proverbs 15:30) The Message.

Precious Fruit

2011-09-21T21:50:00.003-04:00

Maybe it’s the homeschool mom still left in me which causes the longing for my home to reflect the changing season, a wave to the falling leaves to come. Maybe I just like moving things around. In any event, one of the changes is removing the seashells from my mother’s old bread bowl and filling it with fake fruit. But not just any fake fruit. The vintage wax banana, ceramic pear and apple also belonged to my mother, but the rest are gifts from my daughter, Bethany, across the span of several Christmases.

When she was younger, she’d always attend a local art festival with me at Christmas. One Christmas when she was about ten, I noticed a booth with hand painted gourds made to look like various kinds of fruit. We stopped and admired the lovely pieces, and then moved on our way. A while later, my daughter asked if she could do a little shopping…without me. Thinking it safe enough, I gave her a few minutes on her own.

At Christmas, when I opened the brightly colored box from Bethany and found the apple painted gourd, I found it just perfect and immediately put it on display, touched by her thoughtfulness.

It wasn’t until years later, that I learned how thoughtful she really was. My daughter went back to purchase the gourd with money she’d saved. She painstakingly counted it out for Beth Radtke, the artist, but found she didn’t have quite enough. Moved by a child spending her last penny for her mother’s gift, Beth forgave the money she lacked, and gave the apple to her. Not only did Beth win a place in my daughter’s heart, but Bethany won a place in Beth’s heart, as well. Each year, Bethany would return to buy another piece of fruit for me until she was no longer able to do so because of activities which conflicted with the show.

Now, when I attend the festival alone, I always stop and talk to Beth, and we both just about cry over the little girl and her last pennies spent for her mama. Last Christmas, Beth sent a piece of fruit to Bethany which I believe she took with her to the freshmen dorm a few weeks back.

When I put the fruit out in the bowl each fall, I pick up one special gourd apple and remember the sacrifice.

Sacrifice and fruit--a pairing which has implications in our spiritual lives, as well.

As we walk with God, we realize that sacrifice always precedes fruitfulness. The more surrendered, the more committed we become, the more fruit evidences itself in our lives. The more beauty we exude to others.

Like my daughter, I pray I could sacrifice all I have for the excellent fruit.

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law” (Galatians 5:22-23)

A Sign

2011-09-19T17:08:00.000-04:00

This morning, my scheduled Bible reading took me to Psalm 86. I did a little study and turned to the Wycliffe Bible Commentary: “With the humility of a slave or a handmaid’s son, he (David) asks for God’s merciful protection and requests some sign of divine favor toward him.” The verse the commentator refers to is highlighted in my Bible: “Give me a sign of your goodness, that my enemies may see it and be put to shame, for you, O lord, have helped me and comforted me”(Psalm 86:17).

Eugene Peterson moves these words closer to our vernacular by translating this way, “Make a show of how much you love me so the bullies who hate me will stand there slack-jawed, as you, God, gently and powerfully put me back on my feet.”

I’ve often been moved to pray this verse for those dealing with a serious illness or problem. I’ve seen God use it in prison so many times for women who not only felt locked away from humans, but locked away from God. God’s “sign” isn’t often accompanied by thunder and flashing lights, but usually appears in a gentle way.

His touch, though, is unmistakable.

For me, it can be something as small as new birds at the feeder, but they can be enough to bouy my spirit. It could be hearing from someone I haven’t seen in a long while, and yet the cries of each of our hearts echo in the others and we encourage each other in the Lord.

In doing further study, I came to these words on Psalm 86 written by Donald Williams in The Communicator’s Commentary:

“Life is not to be lived in hope of God’s occasional intervention. Life is to be lived in the presence of the living God, where every day holds the promise of His surprise.”

Don’t you love that—“…the promise of His surprise”?

So the challenge here is that we may be cloaked in humility like David, and live in the company of God always watching for his marvels.

No matter how alone you feel or how desperate your circumstances may seem, I pray a sign of his goodness may be yours today.

When You Can't Get it All Right

2011-09-15T11:39:00.001-04:00

Tea Olives fill our home with grace and fragrance--the plant a gift from a friend years ago.

These first few weeks of September have presented a special challenge. Like everyone else in this country, I feel the pain of the 911 anniversary. Additionally, my mother was dying at this time ten years ago. In 2001, I was also just getting over Post Traumatic Stress, which had been at its worse in a previous fall. Add to that, a husband just recovering from cancer and knee replacement this year, a first time empty nest because of two college age children moving out a few weeks back and the tedious work of final edits on a book.

When I felt my legs and hands shaking a few days ago, for a moment I wondered what was going on. Then, as I thought about it, I really shouldn’t be surprised. Twelve years ago, when the PTS started and I felt myself shaking, I’d say, “I have to stop this.” But I learned to extend grace to me, and as I recovered I could say, “It’s no surprise I’m shaking a little. I’ve been through a lot.”

Well, I’m cutting myself some slack now, too. As the dust settles from this very hard year in anybody’s book, it’s no wonder I’m a little shaky. But I’ll get better in time. It doesn’t mean my faith is faltering. It means I’m human.

It’s a funny thing about grace. So many of us stand ready to extend it to others, but hold back from ourselves. What I learned in recovering from PTS, is that the stringent demands I put on myself exacerbated the PTS. When I learned to release those self-demands for perfection to the Lord, I started to improve.

This isn’t the post I intended to write today. I originally wanted to share one about the book headed to production. I’ll do that later. But today, if you’re one of those folks beating yourself up, because you can’t get it all right. Take a deep breath, and release those self-demands to God. Imagine what you’d say to someone else going through what you’re experiencing, and say those same loving, gracious things to yourself. Be kind to yourself.

If you listen closely, you’ll hear Jesus’ grace filled words, too.

“Strengthen the feeble hands, steady the knees that give way; say to those with fearful hearts, ‘Be strong, do not fear; your God will come…he will come to save you’” (Isaiah 35:4).

Packing Operation Christmas Child Boxes

2011-09-13T13:07:00.001-04:00

It’s the time of the year to start thinking about packing your Operation Christmas Child box for Samaritan’s Purse. Last year, Samaritan’s Purse distributed shoeboxes to eight million children around the world. Our family has prepared boxes since our kids were little. Every year, each of them would pack one for a child their age and gender. Now, that the last two are both in college, my grandchildren jumped in to help me.

September 11 Remembered

2011-09-10T21:52:00.000-04:00

It was a trip of a lifetime, a dream of a summer.

We returned from our travels in late August to resume care of my mother at the rehab center and to relieve so many who had visited her during our absence. Still not progressing in any way, we asked that she once more be taken to a local hospital for evaluation.

After still more tests, she was diagnosed with inoperable ovarian cancer on September 3, 200l. She’d been hospitalized more times than I can remember during her eight-month stay in the center and visited doctors on a regular basis before her fall. Still, no one caught this until it was too late. Had I known her condition I would have not left her those weeks of the summer, but I didn’t know and I think somehow God, for reasons I don’t fully understand for me and my mother, shielded us from this knowledge.

The sadness was so great. She suffered a stroke as well just a couple of days after her diagnosis so her condition rapidly deteriorated.

On September 11, I was feeding her breakfast when I noticed the clock...8:45. I had to go home so my husband could go to work, and I could start homeschool. In the few minutes it took me to drive home, our world changed forever. In our schoolroom, I took the apple with the eleven stamped on it and placed it on our calendar. A few minutes later, the phone rang. The caller identification indicated it was another homeschooling mom. Homeschool Moms don’t call each other during instruction time, so I knew it was important. I answered.

She told me the news of two jets hitting the twin towers of the World Trade Center. It was so unbelievable, I said nothing, and when my children were working alone, I excused myself to go upstairs and turn on the radio. I heard the news on the radio but wanting to think it might be an Orson Wells “War of the Worlds” type scenario I then went to the television in the den. There I saw shocking pictures and wondered how it could be true. As I watched, the Pentagon disaster also unfolded.

For many weeks in the summer, we had devoted ourselves to seeing America. What we learned in our travel studies is that what we have today has come at a great cost. As I learned the news of that September morning, I realized the very freedom so many had given their lives for was under attack. I began to have flashbacks of Mt. Rushmore, Gettysburg, Old North Church, The Freedom Trail, Concord, the lights of the Capitol building. Some of the places we’d visited were closed for a time. Freedom was under attack and all that represented freedom was being protected.

A travel memory from another time came to mind. On a November night in l983, some business associates and I found ourselves at the top of the World Trade Center at a restaurant called, “Windows on the World.” It seemed as we ate our overpriced chicken that we could see forever and as we ate, it began to snow. A magic moment. That memory stood in stark contrast to the images of the grizzly events on September 11.

In the days to come, it would be hard to separate the grief I had over my mother from the pain I felt for those who lost loved ones in New York or Washington. I spoke with a Hospice chaplain who was losing a parent and who of course worked with many others experiencing loss. He said everyone was having the same problem. All the sadness just got mixed up in the same pot.

In the summer of 2001, I think our family gained some understanding of what it means to be an American citizen and how many have laid down their lives so that we night have ours. For the heroes, who include the man who helped begin our freedom trail one dark night in April 1775 to 21st century firefighters in a cataclysmic disaster, to those serving in the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq in these intervening years, we give thanks. Special prayers for the families who have lost loved ones in these conflicts. For it is these courageous ones that have made our “Dream Summer” and the telling of it possible. For the heroes that are yet to be, we pray a firm resolve and that scripture from Ecclesiastes 9 that God would grant them a “wisdom which is better than weapons of war.”

And from the mountains of Montana,

To the prairies of South Dakota,

To the lovely shoreline of Massachusetts,

To our own sweet home in the South,

We pray indeed that God would bless America.

Dream Summer: Our Last Stop at Where it Began--Williamsburg

2011-09-09T15:33:00.001-04:00

We navigated around Washington D.C. on I-95 late Sunday evening, and as we crossed the Potomac, the lights of the capitol building sparkled in the distance. It made me wistful for the week we spent in Washington only two years prior. I wanted to drive around Washington awhile, but my crowd was exhausted, and we still had a good bit of ground to cover before we reached Williamsburg, our final destination for this summer in 2001. I turned around in my seat and looked back until the lights of our statehouse faded from view. I shiver when I remember those moments in late August and the unfolding plan to drive a jet through our nation’s capitol a few days later on September 11—a plan, thankfully foiled by brave men and women willing to sacrifice their lives.

It’s odd that Williamsburg was our last stop, considering that in so many ways this is where we began. In 1607, Williamsburg became the first permanent English settlement established in America, and in 1699 was designated the capital of Virginia.

Today, it’s perennially l775 in Colonial Williamsburg, and the talk is about revolution for Virginia is still a British colony. Always in character, the employees speak from their vantage point over 200 years ago. It seemed to me an extra degree of accomplishment on their part considering the temperatures were in the 90's and they were dressed in several layers of l8th century garb. On every street corner, in every house, or public building, there’s always something to learn.

The Governor's Palace

Williamsburg’s most famous citizen was, of course, Thomas Jefferson. He arrived in l760 to attend the College of William and Mary and was later elected to the House of Burgesses in l769. It was in the House of Burgesses, he had the opportunity to hear Patrick Henry deliver his impassioned speech against the stamp act, a crushing tax on printed-paper. Here on May l5, 1776, Virginia’s legislators signed a resolution for American independence. Later on June 7, a motion based on this resolution would be introduced on the floor of the Continental Congress. This would lead to the drafting by Thomas Jefferson of a document called the Declaration of Independence.

One can hardly thumb through the pages of history and put a finger in a spot where, though there may be great good, there’s also evil. It’s just as true in Williamsburg. Here, as in the rest of Virginia, there was a social structure based on race. The same criteria, which established Williamsburg as the capitol of Virginia, were also important in making it a place of disbursement for many of the 600,000 slaves, which were brought to British North America from Africa from the sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries. While the streets of Williamsburg resounded with the word “freedom” in l775, this freedom was elusive for those who had been tragically torn from home and families against their will and forced into subjection.

As we toured the homes of Williamsburg, our nine-year-old Bethany started to melt. Whether the heat, a nagging ear infection, or the history, the next morning it was clear she wasn’t going anywhere, so Jerry (bless his heart) stayed with Bethany, while Aaron and I finished the tour.

Mysteriously, Bethany improved enough on her day at the hotel that she convinced her Dad to take her to the swimming pool. Hmm. History has had this same effect on her before. I remember after four days in Washington D.C., her comment had been, “I’m about tired of this Washington place.” That’s when we decided to go to the National Zoo instead of the White House the last day. I suppose if there were an American History barometer in my children, about this time in the summer there’s would have read one hundred percent saturation.

I suppose saturated is a good way to describe our feelings. We had the privilege of traveling all these miles and seeing these wonderful places and learning so much this summer. We were overflowing and needed some processing time.

But it was not to be anytime soon.

Here for a moving performance of the Declaration of Independence or an excerpt from the mini-series, John Adams, on the approval of the Declaration.

"Blessed is the nation whose God is the Lord... "(Psalm 33:12).

Dream Summer: Walking the Freedom Trail

2011-09-07T22:20:00.000-04:00

After our week of meetings at Asbury Grove, a camp north of Boston, we drove in to the Boston Common, parked, and found the starting point for the Freedom Trail. An easy to follow red brick line, it took us past many places of historical interest, including the Old State House, the location of the Boston Massacre where British troops opened fire on a rowdy group of freedom minded Bostonians. Five of them died thus fueling the fires for revolution. The Decleration of Independence was first read to the people of Boston from the east balcony of the Old State House.

Faneuil Hall, built as the first central marketplace in Boston, also provided a large meeting room, which would be used as Boston’s official town hall. Noted speakers like Frederick Douglass, Daniel Webster, Jefferson Davis, and Susan B. Anthony spoke here in this place often called “The Cradle of Liberty.”

We took in the Paul Revere House, the oldest house in Boston, where Paul Revere lived from 1770-1800. Just days earlier, we’d visited the Minuteman National Park in Concord and stood on the very spot where British soldiers captured Paul Revere on his midnight ride to warn Samuel Adams and John Hancock that the British were coming.

Our last stop for the day was Old North Church in the North End. The Church, built in l723, made it Boston’s oldest house of worship, but its notoriety comes from the night sexton Robert Newman hung two lanterns in the belfry to signal the advance of British troops to Paul Revere waiting on the distant shore.

Reaching our expiration dates, we never made it to the USS Constitution, but instead found a wonderful outdoor café in the North End and had a nice dinner, and then later left Boston filled to the brim with not only food but also enough history to talk about for weeks.

What we didn’t know, is that as we visited and pondered the significance of these historical markers in our country's history, a diabolical scheme to attack this nation was unfolding at that very hour. I recently read a National Park Service document, which noted National Parks shuttered in the aftermath of September 11 and included Minuteman National Park among the many we’d visited that summer of 2001.

My children would memorize much of Longfellow’s “Paul Revere’s Ride” in homeschool the following year and together we’d remember these landmarks of freedom made even more precious to us because of the events of 911.

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

"Unless the Lord watches over the city, the watchmen stand guard in vain"(Psalm 127:1).

Dream Summer: At Gettysburg and "...the last full measure of devotion..."

2011-09-05T20:58:00.003-04:00

This is a post in an occasional series entitled Dream Summer of our family's cross country trip in the summer of 2001. We will conclude on September 11 as we observe the ten year anniversary of 911. For more in this series, just click on the Dream Summer label.

On our way to Boston, just north of Roanoke, Virginia on Interstate 81, I noticed an exit that would have taken us to Appomattox where Robert E. Lee surrendered to Ulysses S. Grant. Many historic battles took place in this area, so I looked north along our route to see what might be of interest. We only had time for one stop. Jerry and I both agreed our sole detour had to be Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.

The depot where Lincoln arrived on the train.

Every schoolchild in America has probably at one time or another had to memorize in either part or whole the Gettysburg Address. I’ve always had a mental picture of President Abraham Lincoln, worn and tired from the demands of war, standing in Gettysburg for that brief address having no idea that generations later we in this country would still be reciting those same words in schools and institutions of higher learning.

We walked the battlefield, the cemetery and listened to a park ranger lecture. However, later, when I filled out the field trip sheet at the beginning of home school, the experience that most impressed my children was the cyclorama. A giant circular painting, along with dramatic sound affects and lighting told the story of the Battle of Pickett’s Charge at Gettysburg. The loss of life and the sorrow that accompanied the battle was almost more than my heart could bear.

On three July days in l863, Confederate troops under General Robert E. Lee, and Union troops under the command of General George Meade clashed in the little town of Gettysburg. This culminated on July third, when 12,000 Confederates moved across open fields in an attack labeled “Pickett’s Charge.” The attack, put down by Union troops, cost more than 5,000 lives in a single hour. This ended the battle and is known as one of the most decisive battles of the war. When it was over, there was more loss of life on these fields than in any other battle fought in North America at any time--more than 51,000 were killed, wounded or missing. Many just boys.

I’ll never forget the last line of the Cyclorama presentation--a quote from one of the Confederate officers, Col. Eppa Hutton. He said, “We gained nothing but glory but lost our bravest men.” The dead and dying covered the fields of Gettysburg. The town’s people took care of all, whether north or south. Later, it was decided to create a National Cemetery in Gettysburg for the Union Dead. It was for this cemetery dedication that Lincoln came.

Me and my history weary children in front of the Gettysburg Memorial

One of the great orators of the time, Edward Everett, was asked to give the principal address. He delivered a well-received two-hour speech. Lincoln was next and only spoke for about two minutes. Everett later said to Lincoln, “I should be glad if I came as near to the central idea of the occasion, in two hours, as you did in two minutes.”

This was a grim period in our nation’s history, but for those living under the shackles of oppression, this war bought freedom.

Freedom is always costly.

That’s a lesson I hope my children carried away that warm August day when we left Gettysburg. Psalm l05 says, “...they fell heir to what others had toiled for...” That’s where we are. We have fallen heir to the benefits of what so many gave their lives for, not only at Gettysburg, but also in every war in which we have fought.

Even with this country’s flaws, it is still great, because of so many who have given and are still giving as President Lincoln said that day, “...the last full measure of devotion...”

See Jeff Daniels' rendition of the Gettysburg address here.

A God Arranged Rendezvous

2011-09-03T09:18:00.004-04:00

Yesterday morning, my husband, Jerry, and I took a little out-of-town excursion and wound up eating breakfast at a Cracker Barrel along an interstate highway. As the host seated us, I wondered why she took us past so many empty tables to the back of the restaurant. Just as we were about to take our seats, though, I caught a glimpse of a woman seated next to us, who seemed very familiar.

As I sat there, trying to place her, Jerry leaned back in his chair, and when he did, he saw the woman’s husband.

“I think that’s Mark Rutland,” he said his eyes showing surprise.

“And that’s Allison,” I said as the light finally dawned. “What are they doing HERE?”

Dr. Mark Rutland and his lovely wife, Alison, now live in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where Mark is the President of Oral Roberts University. These precious people played a significant part in our early walk with the Lord. Through couples conferences, revival meetings, and what often turned out to be just the word we needed—the tape of the week, we grew under their ministry. We hadn’t seen them in years, but followed their ministry through mailings and Christmas cards.

Now, hundreds of miles from home, what WERE they doing in this Cracker Barrel?

Jerry smiled at Mark, and it took a few moments for our decades to peel away.

“Oh,” Mark said, “I didn’t recognize you at first, Jerry.” But, yes, he remembered the lawyer who would become a pastor, who showed up at the altar at almost every revival Mark preached in his early years as an evangelist.

After we greeted each other, we had to ask. “Why are you here?”

Turns out their son, Travis, has just taken a position as pastor of a church not many miles away in…get ready…my hometown. In fact, not just the town I grew up in, but if his son were to walk out in his parking lot, he could see the back yard of the house where I was born. All of this stirred my heart, and what came so strongly to mind is something God showed me just months ago.

I don’t often get to visit my birthplace, just a few times a year, but on the last visit, I noticed a dramatic increase in the number of churches there. Within a half-mile distance, I counted maybe nine churches, most begun in recent times. And that didn’t even take into account others scattered throughout the little community. The town has such a Godly history through the work of many including R.A. Forrest and R. G. Letourneau, that I’ve often wondered if God might do something extraordinary there, but when I saw all these new churches, the sense of that became even stronger.

Now, he was sending the son of this wonderful couple to pastor there. Again, I sensed God powerfully at work.

We didn’t have much time to visit, as they were on their way to visit their son, but it was just enough time for me to feel God’s smile. Jerry and I marveled at what it took to orchestrate that meeting. We were at a place, to my memory, that we have never been on a Friday morning, and I’m pretty sure the Rutlands have never been either. They were just leaving, so five minutes later, we would have missed them, and of course, there’s that host who determined to plant us deep inside the restaurant. Then, to find out their son is serving in my hometown. Well, I just don’t even know what to say, except God is up to something.

It's definitely a matter for prayer, and my heart bursts with joy this morning at the prospects.

Please check out the Global Servants website which the Rutlands still oversee. Their ministry spans around the globe.

"There is one body and one Spirit--just as you were called to one hope when you were called--one Lord, one faith, one baptism; one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all" (Ephesians 4:4).

A Guest Post from Christy Award Finalist Gina Homes

2011-08-31T21:04:00.000-04:00

Christy Award finalist Gina Holmes has dropped by today to share about her newest release, Dry as Rain. She also offers writing advice for aspiring novelists.

Gina Holmes is the author of the award-winning novel, Crossing Oceans and newly released Dry as Rain. She founded Novel Rocket (formerly Novel Journey) in 2005 where she continues to wreak havoc to this day. She and her husband and fabulously good-looking and brilliant children make their home in Southern Virginia. You can learn more about this modest writer at www.ginaholmes.com or www.novelrocket.com.

When you’re constantly receiving rejection letters from publishers or agents, the last thing you’re probably thinking about is publicizing a novel you can’t even seem to sell.

Before I continue, let me stop a moment and give this very loud and clear disclosure: nothing, nothing, NOTHING, matters more than writing a killer book. Spend 99 percent of your writing time perfecting your craft and fashioning a story that will change the lives of those who read it, or at least entertains them.

But with the other one percent of your time, even if you’re just starting out, start building yourself a PR folder. You’ll thank yourself later.

My debut novel, Crossing Oceans, released May 2010 with Tyndale House Publishers. Though it was the first to earn a publishing contract, it was actually the fifth novel I’ve written. I started my marketing folder back on book two because I was sure it would be published. Although book two still collects dust, as does three and four, I’m lucky to have gotten that head start.

The thing with publicity is if you wait until your book is releasing or even about to release, you’re almost too late.

Once you sell your first novel, you often are under contract for a second, and possibly third. I was contracted for a second novel which was due the end of the month my first novel released.

I had more than a year to write this novel, so I didn’t stress. Until that deadline snuck up on me and I wasn't even close to being finished. What happened? Well, I had some personal things that set my writing back. I got married to an amazing man who distracts me just by walking by. Major life changes, no matter how good have a way of slowing the literary flow—for me at least.

After what seemed like a ridiculous amount of time, I finally turned my sample chapters in for approval… they weren’t approved. The story I'd planned and plotted was too different in tone from the first. I was asked, for my own career good, to hold off on this one and try something else. Both my agent and publisher were in agreement, and after a little consideration, so was I.

I found myself with just a few months to publicize my all important, debut novel, and write my all important sophomore novel.

I also had children, a day job and Novel Rocket to tend to. Guess what? I was certainly stressed, but not as stressed as I would have been had I not started preparing for that moment years in advance. I’d like to share some of what has helped me.

What can you do now to get ahead of the eight ball?

1. Buy your website URL and begin to build it. You can go very expensive and pay thousands for a professional site, or you could start small and do something like godaddy, where you build your own site. I took a third route and hired someone to make me a template and then set it up like a blog, so that I could tweak and update it easily.

2. Get professional headshots. I hired a friend whose work I admired but who is still considered an amateur. For fifty dollars and my husband agreeing to baby-sit for an afternoon, I got a few really great and professional looking pictures. Don’t let anyone convince you that a good headshot is a waste of money for a novelist. On Novel Journey we post lots of author photos, many of which look like candid shots that other people are cut out of. Remember how important perception is. I look at a substandard picture and I subconsciously think this author is no perfectionist, and am less likely to want to read their work. Spend the money and get a good promo picture of yourself.

3. Keep a file filled with the names of magazines you come across that fit your writing. For example, if you write Victorian era historicals, Victorian magazines might later be interested in an article written by you. Jot down the names of them and any other publications you come across that might be a fit. This will save you a lot of research time later on.

4. Keep a folder of book reviewers you’ve come across that seem to enjoy the type of stories you write. I send myself emails with the reviewer’s name, books they’ve reviewed and liked, their email address and, if I know them, how I know them. While it’s true that they might not still be reviewing when your book finally releases, it won’t hurt to try.

5. Start reading marketing/publicity books now and take notes. My personal favorite is the simply titled Publicize Your Book. If you can only afford one book on marketing/publicity, I highly recommend you make it that one.

6. Read The Tipping Point. It will explain some very important concepts on what makes things popular. It’s an easy and surprisingly entertaining read.

7. Read How to Make Friends and Influence People. The book has been around forever for good reason.

8. Keep a list of natural influencers. You’ll call upon these folks later for help in getting the word out about your book.

9. Help anyone you can. For one, it’s just the right thing to do, for two, what goes around comes around.

10. Start building your platform now. Write articles, create a blog with excellent and frequently updated content, volunteer to teach classes on what you’re an expert in, or for whatever committees in ACFW, or other writing organizations you belong. People are much more likely to be interested in your book if they feel like they know you and you’ve shown interest in them.

In conclusion, Crossing Oceans, my debut novel went on to hit CBA, ECPA and PW's bestseller's lists. Did my platform and diligent efforts pay off? I tried to do everything right—to write an excellent story, to build a platform, network, help others, and everything humanly possible to publicize my book.

Was that what made the difference?

That’s the kicker, maybe yes, maybe no. The thing with publicity is that no one really knows what works. All we can do is write the best book we’re capable of, not let any chance pass that will help get the word out about it, and say our prayers.

With my sophomore novel, Dry as Rain in stores now, I get to ride the up and downs with as much wonder as the first go around. It's still every bit a mystery as it always was, but I'm doing what I can once again to help my book's chances of finding readers. . . and not letting book three's deadline catch me off guard this time.

Behind every broken vow lies a broken heart.
When Eric and Kyra Yoshida first met, they thought their love would last forever. But like many marriages, theirs has gradually crumbled, one thoughtless comment and misunderstanding at a time, until the ultimate betrayal pushes them beyond reconciliation. Though Eric longs to reunite with Kyra, the only woman he has truly loved, he has no idea how to repair the damage that’s been done.

Then a car accident erases part of Kyra’s memory—including her separation from Eric—and a glimmer of hope rises from the wreckage. Is this a precious opportunity for the fresh start Eric has longed for? Does he even deserve the chance to find forgiveness and win back Kyra’s heart . . . or will the truth blow up in his face, shattering their last hope for happiness? A richly engaging story of betrayal and redemption, Dry as Rainilluminates with striking emotional intensity the surprising truth of what it means to forgive.

Dream Summer: On the prairie with Laura Ingalls Wilder

2011-08-29T17:33:00.002-04:00

This is another post in a series entitled Dream Summer from our family's pre 911 trip across this country in 2001. For more click on the Dream Summers label.

I kept noticing on the South Dakota map a notation that read, “Little Town on the Prairie.” It was in De Smet, and I remembered that as being the setting for several of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s books. So we made an unplanned detour, which turned out to be a real jackpot.

The people of De Smet take pride in this piece of their history. On the location of Laura’s parent’s, Charles and Caroline Ingalls homestead, the Laura Ingalls Wilder Memorial Society has recreated an authentic homestead, barn, and schoolhouse. Our family was up for wagon rides, playing in the barn, and running through the prairie. Bethany, our gift shop queen, bought a bonnet and apron actually hand made by the women in De Smet.

We boarded one of the wagons to ride through the prairie to the school house they moved there to mimic the one Laura taught in when just a teenager. Written on the chalkboard was a quote from Laura, “It is still best to be honest and truthful; to make the most of what we have; to be happy with the simple pleasures and to be cheerful and have courage when things go wrong.” I’ve often thought of that line and the story of the winter the Ingalls spent in town which Laura captured in the book The Long Winter. Snow upon snow kept the train from getting through to De Smet with supplies and the family lived off brown bread alone for nearly two months. Along with the rest of the town, they were close to starving, but thankfully the train made it just in time.

I looked out over the homestead and imagined myself Laura, a tiny girl in a vast prairie. I could see how she could love it. The prairie, just as all God has made, has its own charm.

Charles and Caroline spent their latter years in town at a house, which Charles built in l887. Laura, of course, met and married Almanzo Wilder and moved to Mansfield, Missouri. All this talk of the Little House adventures made me want to know and see more. I looked at the map to see how far out of the way Mansfield, Missouri was. Not too far. So for our final stop on the way home, we plotted the path from De Smet to Mansfield. On our way, the children and I tried to imagine making this trip in a covered wagon with a little girl.

It was in Mansfield that Laura began to put down her experiences growing up. Laura’s first Little House book, Little House in the Big Woods, was published in 1932, and followed by many others in the series, all written in Mansfield. In the museum adjacent to the house I found it fascinating that they have original manuscripts for some of the books, written long hand in pencil on nickel tablets. Also in the museum are some of the items that traveled from De Smet to Mansfield: the writing desk, which for all of Laura’s readers is so familiar as the place where she temporarily lost her precious money for the house in Mansfield. Also, a quilt, a cupboard and of course there was Pa’s fiddle. Her house is so beautifully preserved I felt almost like an intruder, it seemed that at any moment she might come through a doorway.

As much as I love home and longed to return there, I wanted to linger in Mansfield and savor this time--remember the way the rooms looked and the grain of the wood on the writing desk. Over the next year in homeschool, we’d try to read all of the Little House Books set in the places where we’d been. We’d remember what it felt like to run through the prairie, to ride in the wagon, to play in the barn and recall how far it was from De Smet To Mansfield. We’d remember what it was like to sit on the porch of the Little House on Rocky Ridge and we’d often thank God for the life of a brave little girl named Laura.

Laura made a note in her Bible of several Bible chapters which were especially meaningful to her. From Psalm 48, "Great is the Lord, and most worthy of praise..."

Storm Watch and a Cure for Narcissism

2011-08-26T21:06:00.000-04:00

I’ve had an article from our local paper floating around on my desk for several days. Can’t get it off my mind. In it, University of Georgia Psychologist, Keith Campbell, says narcissism is increasing in America.

“…National Institutes of Health surveys …show rising scores on a test designed to measure narcissism-and corresponding decline in scores that measure compassion for others,” the article claims.

A few days later, an editorial appeared in the paper that suggested a solution for this problem. The editor said, “One way for each of us to put a check on our own narcissistic tendencies might be to focus on other people.” The editor went on to say, “…it might be wise for each of us to look for opportunities each day—no matter how small they might seem—to lighten someone else’s load.”

Writer and actor Torry Martin makes a habit of spending the first part of his day promoting others. In fact, he helps to set the tone at conferences by his example of placing more emphasis on connecting others than making connections for himself.

The chorus of a song by Charles Meigs written early in the last century, goes like this:

"Others, Lord, yes others,
Let this my motto be,
Help me to live for others,
That I may live like Thee."

As we’ve watched Hurricane Irene bear down on the East Coast, I’d say those of us not in harm’s way in the next few days, are going to be given a premier opportunity to live out the meaning of these lyrics. Our prayers are going up for all those in the storm’s path.

Let’s think about what we can do to help those who may potentially suffer the effects of this storm. Samaritan’s Purse is a good option, because their aid goes out wrapped in the love of Jesus. Of course, we could also do some hands on ministry.

“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look not only to your own interest, but also to the interests of others” (Philippians 2:3-4).

After a day of marketing in this “shameless, self promotion” world of writing and publishing, I’m so ready to think of someone other than myself.

"Others, Lord, yes, others."

Out of Pain, the Wonder Comes

2011-08-23T22:55:00.001-04:00

I’m a little behind on blog posts as I’ve been editing the galleys for “Give My Love to the Chestnut Trees.” I was told today, that the book should go live on several sites within the next month or so and then start making its way through distribution channels. Still doesn’t seem real.

Tonight, I just returned from sharing about my writing journey with a group of precious clergy spouses.

As I prepared to tell my story tonight, I was once more struck by how God birthed this journey out of pain--how he pressed the words from the weight of circumstances.

Over and over again, he’s called me to write in the midst of times when part of me only wanted to lie down and pull the cover over my head. But no. God had other plans.

I think of the words of a long ago writer, who penned his words to another people struggling to be what God was calling them to be.

From Eugene Peterson’s version in The Message, “We’ve been surrounded and battered by troubles, but we’re not demoralized; we’re not sure what to do, but we know that God knows what to do; we’ve been spiritually terrorized, but God hasn’t left our side; we’ve been thrown down, but we haven’t broken…what Jesus did among them, he does in us—he lives!” (2 Corinthians 4:8-11)

And another verse from that same chapter this time from the NIV, “But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God, and not from us” (2Corinthians 4:7).

I am but a vessel formed from the earth, and all the pain sometimes feels as if it may split me into a million pieces, but it hasn’t, and by God’s grace, it won’t, because “God hasn’t left our side.” In fact, he uses all of this to work his good will. He uses the good from the pain to point to His power, His working. It’s about Him and it is truly a wonder.

Eighteen Candles and Unfailing Love

2011-08-19T16:16:00.001-04:00

A big birthday here this week. Tomorrow we’re packing the car, and she’s heading out to a big city university.

A couple of weeks ago, she saw a copy of an illustrated verse I’d done.

“Do you still have the original?” she asked.

I didn’t know, but after searching my portfolio, I discovered I’d probably sold it.

“I’d like to have that verse in my dorm room,” she said. “Could you do another for me?”

Could I do another for her?

I’d do twelve if she wanted.

So, I thought about it a bit, and tried to render it in a style more suited to her liking.

For the times when she wonders…

My prayer is that she’d always know, regardless of circumstances, that Love never fails.

We give thanks for her, and pray God’s protection and blessing on this new adventure.

Where did those eighteen years go?