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Rita Klundt Posts

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Breaking the Silence

Afraid of speaking and having my words twisted

Afraid of the message my silence sends

Grieved to have relationship taken from me

Grieved, with no option to make amends

But I am a child of God

Broken, yet I am made whole

Cut off from the future I wanted

But good is secured for my soul.

Perplexed when I look for good reason

Perplexed by deceit and known lies

Angry for bridges now burning

Angry for lost family ties

Guilty of worry and doubting

Guilty, my mind looks for blame

Humbled, belittled and sorry

Humbled by effort so lame

But I am a child of God

Broken, yet I am made whole

Cut off from the future I wanted

But good is secured for my soul.

Wretched am I from betrayal.

Wretched and harmed in the fight

Frantic that time has no answers

Franticly praying at night

But I am a child of God

Broken, yet I am made whole

Cut off from the future I wanted

But good is secured for my soul.

And cheer can be found for the taking

Cheer. Jesus has lifted my head

Joy, brought fresh every morning

Joy overcomes and every dread

Yes, I am a child of my Father

 I shall not be moved from His side

He has clothed me with mercy and gladness

Light for my darkness supplied.

Yes, I am a child of God

Broken, yet I am made whole

Cut off from the future I wanted

But good is secured for my soul.

Note from Rita:

Friends who know me well (and some who barely know me) are aware that one of my daughters decided to estrange herself from me, my husband and nearly all of our family. I’ve gone from stunned and frozen to restless and searching – and back again several times for nearly eight years.

Breaking the silence is risky, but I’m ready. The status quo isn’t good enough for a child of the almighty and everlasting God. It isn’t about healing. God is taking care of that. It isn’t about winning, giving up or giving in. God fights those battles that need fighting. And He always wins. I’m tempted to defend myself, but I have no weapon other than my Father’s promises, and anyway, I’m weary from the inner battle.

Breaking the silence does not mean that I am ready to talk about it to just anybody. It simply means that my words won’t be filtered by what I think my daughter needs to hear. That might sound strange, unless you have parented a prodigal.

Surprised? That I would think about parenting a prodigal? Hasn’t the prodigal decided they don’t need parenting? But I’m still parenting – from a distance. Giving her “space.” So I’ve been parenting in silence. In my prayers. In preparation for “some day.” That won’t change.

Breaking the silence is all about surrendering . . . to God’s new design on my life.

Yes, I am a child of God

Broken, yet I am made whole

Cut off from the future I wanted

But good is secured for my soul.

Featured Post

Almost There!

My 2nd Real Life. Real Ladies book of short stories is within weeks of being published. The edited manuscript was emailed to the publisher weeks ago. One would think that the hard work is done where I am concerned.


There’s still work to be done. The cover needs to be designed and I barely have a clue about what I want. The publisher will put me in touch with the cover designer soon, and I have to have a better clue before that email or phone call. (Note to self: Remember to pray about the cover and for the cover designer.)

I’m excited to be planning a book signing/book launch party, but wait? Fewer than half of the 21 women who contributed stories have returned their publishing agreement to me. No books are printed until that happens. Then there is the tiny issue of scheduling. What is the best date? What is the best time? God is in these stories. I am sure of it, and my faith is bigger than a mustard seed, but I am finding it a struggle to plan and coordinate an event where there are 21 essential female players.

“One day at a time,” I tell myself. “One task at a time.”

The publisher sent an email earlier in the week, asking me to complete an author information form. Nothing daunting. Information I need to receive royalties. Copyright stuff. And part of that form needs to include 2 descriptions of the book for Amazon. A short description and a long description. My task for today.

The short description only (ha ha) took me two hours and several edits. It has to fit into a small space, yet give an adequate and inviting description. Tight writing is a challenge.

I felt relief having completed the first assignment and moved the curser into the next big blank space on the template. More room. More words for the longer description, but that too was a challenge. A longer description of the book? It’s an anthology. Where will the words come from? I believed that the short description summed it up just fine. What more could I say? I started and deleted several times over the next hour. I hadn’t had breakfast. It was now after lunchtime , and my husband had eaten the last of the leftover roast beef.

I wrote hungry, and now this assignment felt like work, because I’d rather stick to writing stories and not write about my writing. How does one describe these stories?

But this particular assignment turned out to be a joy . . . a pleasant trip down memory lane and a look forward to the day when these stories (28 of them) will be published and recorded in the Library of Congress. That’s cool! And no matter what anyone says, these ladies and their stories have added to the kingdom of God with a testimony of His goodness.

Here is what I wrote as a short description:

How do you see God? As a fairytale character? A problem fixer who never seems to fix any of your troubles? Or do you sense God’s heart when you can’t see His hands working for your good?

These motivational stories help women see that Jesus is ALL there, ALL the time—in your mountains of trouble, pesky molehills and the good stuff between.

 . . . And my long description:

This book of true, short stories begins by telling about an innocent girl and her puppy. Sweet. The second story takes you to a dreaded place, a hospital, where one can’t be sure what to fear most – the noisy, coffin-like machine or the probability of a cancer diagnosis.

Turn the page and another little girl named Stella, with one affectionate statement, will lift you to a happier place. Ah! The good stuff that makes the awful bearable. Vicky, in her story, doesn’t tell us whether it was an addiction, or a longing to be with the “in” crowd that led her to problem drinking. She was slow in waking to her circumstance. Or was she just in time? Next, a single mother battles with her past and resists seeing a future.

A grandmother recalls the antics of her daughters, the “thinker” and the “comic.” Another real life, real lady admits to falling prey to a Picasso-like flirt. Spoiler alert: She lives to write about it. And we all know the saying that when you marry a man, you marry his family. Never was that more true than in Sandra’s story. Janice isn’t able to share her story without crying. So she wrote it. And the title of Aimee’s story, “Bittersweet,” tells you that she’s had mountains of trouble, stomped out her share of molehills and still came out appreciating the good stuff between.

“Choosing Hope” sounds helpful and healthy as long as you’ve got something to hold on to. But could I do it in the middle of my disaster? Marcia’s “Choosing Hope” sounds an awful lot like choosing to trust. Rebecca gives in to her anxiety. That’s what she does, knowing she will miss out on the good stuff God wants to give her. She’ll only agree to baby steps. Frustratingly cautious baby steps. Until she falls into a God-designed trap and agrees to a huge leap.

Kristi had one of those God moments that she carried with her for what seemed to be no reason at all—until the phone call.

Life on the farm is not always green pastures and fields of daisies. Diana’s story will rip at your heart.

Anita has some poems for you. They read somewhat like Dr. Seuss, but only to soften the subject matter and the trueness of her story.

“My Secret” and “Persistent Love” ought to be required reading for every preteen person—boys and girls alike!

Lara tells stories on her grandmamma because . . . because . . . well because her GG should be a character in a novel.

And Lesley, well she approaches life from an unusual direction, but God has landed her right where she can do some of her best work. Because God is good like that.

A honeymoon for the books. Yep. That’s a good description of Lesa’s 1970s story.

A Real Life Real Ladies book would not be complete without a coming to Jesus story. Dona tells how Jesus pursued her and didn’t give up. And Rita’s “Just Pray” is a story for the woman who doesn’t know what to pray and the one who has prayed a thousand prayers over the same problem and hasn’t seen God’s answer yet.

To the woman who says, “If there is a God, he is not on my side,” get to know the ladies in this book. They want nothing more from the telling of their stories than for you to sense God calling you to his side. They would love to help you take your first step in his direction.

This is the second in a series of Real Life Real Ladies books. Twenty-one women promise to motivate, educate, alleviate or simply entertain with their twenty-eight true and sometimes quite personal stories. No nagging. No preachy lectures. Just stories to remind us that Jesus is ALL there—ALL the time.

Be watching for Real Life. Real Ladies: Mountains, Molehills and the Good Stuff Between to be released. And yes! You are invited to the book release party!

How did I do with my assignment? Let me know.

Featured Post

Night Shifts and Daydreams

Her lower back ached, and there were three hours more before she would be heading home. She lit up the screen at the foot of her sickest patient’s bed to chart on his worsening pain, and at that moment, forgot about her own.

The poor man moaned and the furrows of his seventy-five-year-old brow deepened. A ventilator breathed for him and a catheter drained a scant amount of cloudy, dark yellow urine. She scrolled his list of medication looking for the best option to comfort him, but how long had it been since his last dose?

Only one bag of IV fluids, and that bag was three-quarters full, enough to last through her shift. She folded back the sheet and blanket from his left arm and used a penlight to examine the back of his hand to find the IV sight clean and all tape intact. The man showed his Popeye muscles. He jerked his arm out of her grip with surprising strength when she tried to place his arm in a more natural position. Startled, she took a step back.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Put your arm wherever you like, but I was just trying to make you comfortable.”

She covered his shoulder and walked to the other side of the bed to complete her assessment, and the man opened his eyes. It was too dark to see if they were brown, black, blue or hazel. She lifted her stethoscope from around her neck and whispered again. “Let me listen to your heart. I’ll be quick.”

It used to be that a nurse could warm her stethoscope by rubbing it against the palm of her ungloved hand. No so anymore. “I’m sorry, but this might still be cold.”

Her left hand slipped under his hospital gown for a listen. Irregular—few of the hearts on the her unit beat to a regular rhythm. His lungs crackled, depending on where she listened, and the ventilator did the work for him since he’d lost his drive to breath. Compensating.

She listened for nearly a minute before she heard a weak rumble in his belly. “Not good, but adequate,” she said. “Something’s moving.” She stepped to the foot of the bed and exposed his feet.

The nurse before her had marked an X on the spot where the strongest pulse could be found. Faint, but present. Feet warm to the touch. But the man’s heels were dry. She didn’t turn on the lights, but imagined a pool of crusty, skin flakes on the sheet. Lotion. Lots of lotion.

She removed her gloves to retrieve the small bottle from the bedside stand and poured a healthy amount into her palm. Her next three minutes were spent massaging an old man’s feet and calves.

Midway through, she realized that she should be wearing gloves. There was that story about a nurse getting scratched by a nasty and scraggly toenail. Uggh! But that didn’t happen and she rubbed her hands together as she walked to the sink. They were smooth and unscathed.

She went back to the bedside stand and squirted out a spot of lotion to counteract the effects of strong antibacterial hand soap. She rubbed some on the back of her hands and massaged between her fingers and around her wrists.

The screen behind her had gone black and needed a refresh. She tapped the keyboard and recorded her assessment findings. Done.

She remembered the grimace on her patient’s face and wondered if anything had changed, so she took the few steps to the head of the bed.

A hand reached out from under the covers. The grimace was gone and his eyes were open. The old man’s hand tremored and waited for her response. Begging with those eyes. She didn’t start out wanting to work on this unit—where patients couldn’t talk or communicate well, and she hated having words put into her own mouth, but this man was wanting to ask for something, and she was sure what it was.

“You want some lotion on your hands too?”

The corners of his lips turned up as much as the tube and tape would allow.

“Of course you do,” she said softly.

She went for the lotion a third time.

“This stuff has no scent. None of that fancy oil or wrinkle remover, but it’ll do the trick,” she said.

He smiled with his eyes.

“Feels good, huh.”

The nurse returned his smile. She stroked one hand for only a few seconds before the one with the IV in it came out shaking like a hungry squirrel. The nurse gave her hands another squirt and slathered it over her palms and fingertips. Careful not to disturb his IV or the finger oximeter, she massaged her patient’s hands until he’d closed his eyes.

The monitor above the bed showed a slower heartrate and a regular rhythm.

She arched her back after sliding the heavy glass door closed, and her fingers went to the small of her back to rub what ached. No pain in Heaven.

Well, the rest of her shift flew by. The charting, checking labs, calling for an urgent respiratory treatment for her other patient, and then calling family. The unit was bustling by 7:30 a.m.

The sun highlighted her car’s streaky windshield and made her think of retiring and using her days for cleaning and chores and shopping and reading and going places instead of going home to sleep.

I don’t know how many years I’ll have. I’m sixty-five.

She’d forgotten to use lotion on her face and hands before she crawled into bed. Room-darkening blinds already closed, and the thermostat already set on 67°.

Too late. Lotion can wait until this afternoon, or until I get to Heaven, whichever comes first.

The slow, metronome-like white noise of a ventilator had followed her home and she drifted off to sleep feeling that her body couldn’t handle many more twelve-hour shifts.

The sound of traffic outside and a distant train whistle did not interrupt her sleep. The sounds a house makes when nobody’s up and about did not phase her, and the sun was blocked twice, first by those light-blocking shades and second by her closed eyelids. There was no furrow on her brow.

She rolled over about 2 p.m. as if to brush off a dream. She and her nightshift coworkers call them daydreams even though they happen during sleep.

It seemed that she had arrived in Heaven and the praising and thanking and the worship had paused for a talk with Jesus.

“What’s a nurse supposed to do here in Heaven?” she said.

There’s plenty for you to do.

“How is that? No more pain. No more death. No need for hospital beds and ventilators.”


“It’s great up here. Don’t get me wrong. The joy and the freedom and the singing, but they’re begging down there for nurses with my experience, and the patients are so much sicker than they used to be.”

You want to go back?

She tossed her pillow to the other side of her bed and fanned the blanket. “No. But you don’t need nurses up here. You don’t need nurses up here. You really don’t need nurses up here! What is a nurse supposed to nurse up here?”

She squeezed her eyelids closed before allowing herself to wake. Her hand went to her shoulder and patted, not her own shoulder, but the warm and bigger-than-life hand she felt there even after she knew it was only a dream.

But was there more to her dream? She took in enough breath for a long sigh. “Then how can I be useful in heaven? Why does God want me there?”

Her dream didn’t continue. They never do. She crawled out of bed the same way she’d crawled in when no voice from Heaven came down to lift her up.

Breakfast, when regular folks are planning supper. Opening her Bible in the middle of the afternoon. She picked up where she had left off the day before at Revelation, the 14th chapter—the dream still on her mind.

“And I heard a voice from heaven saying, ‘Write this: Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from now on. Blessed indeed,’ says the Spirit, ‘that they may rest from their labors, for their deeds follow them!’” (Revelation 14:13, ESV).

“Maybe I can’t begin to interpret all this verse might mean,” she spoke aloud where only the Holy Spirit could hear her. “Jobs won’t be a job up there, and I think maybe I’d like to be a nurse in Heaven. No need for IVs, cardiac monitors or ventilators. No slow logins. No charting. Absolutely no bedpans!” The nurse looked up as if confirming that her whimsical prayer would make it all the way through the clouds John spoke of when he wrote Revelation.

As it often happened during her afternoon Bible readings, her thoughts traveled back to the hospital. That old guy, the one whose eyes spoke appreciation for a simple foot massage had been a pastor. She searched for the verse about beautiful feet. She knew it was in Scripture. Somewhere.

“How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him who brings good news, who publishes peace, who brings good news of happiness, who publishes salvation, who says to Zion, ‘Your God reigns.'” (Isaiah 52:7, ESV).

She kept reading in Isaiah and never did get back to the planned reading in Revelation. Things were settled though. If the only job she had in heaven during pauses in the singing and praising was to apply lotion to the feet of the saints, she would be most satisfied and highly qualified.

(This post is dedicated to all those night shift nurses out there, especially the ones who still offer backrubs. I retired from nursing but have the occasional dream about caring for patients. In the “old days” new nurses were taught to always to offer a sleep-time backrub. What happened to that hospital ritual? A foot rub was the next best thing, and I remember a tall, lanky preacher, with not much left on his bones but those Popeye muscles. He really appreciated a good foot rub.)

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Featured Post

This Woman

She lives in the filth and pain of her past when God has invited her into His own home.

Who is this woman?

What is it about a prison with no bars that she would fight to sleep there?

She wears shame as an undergarment, a dress and a coat when God has adorned her with the beauty of salvation.

Do you know this woman?

She says, “I know the bridegroom is coming.” But will she whither like a soggy leaf? Or will she wash and dress herself in righteous deeds?

She hears her name called, yet claims no hope. She is smarter than most, but falls for the lies of her enemy.

Will this woman ever let God move her?

She eats junk and is constantly hungry, drinks from a stagnant well and then thirsts. She turns her back to the bread of life and moans at the thought of pure and cool water. Her taste buds crave only the soothing and sweet.

Her family is fatigued. Her friends won’t answer. Strangers don’t bother to speak. Her prayers are always a cry for help.

Does this woman have arms to accept grace or legs that can take her to mercy?

With so much to overcome, she sleeps. She watches and waits for her ride, not imagining how she will get anywhere.

She looks to faithful believers in worship. Pretends to be like them while the One to be praised weeps for her.

Have you seen this woman?

Some invisible roadblock continually stops her.  And the walls she has built are so steep. No human friend can climb them.

She smiles in case someone might see her, but her eyes reveal a different face. She wants us to see humility when it’s pride that exposes her insecurity.

How long does this woman think she can hide?

Her posture stiffens to exude strength, not the strength of a winner, but one who refuses to surrender. She has trained her children to agree and to speak a rigid narrative on her behalf.

She sells herself at a low price and clings to her soul when Christ has already paid. His life for hers.

Why does she laugh at Proverbs 31 and call it a fairytale?

She wishes for another identity and thinks of her purpose as rubbish. She walks middle of the road as if that is a lesser danger.

She has a compelling story, but she, herself, is not compelled . Would she trust her own advice or examples? She tells an old secret to distract from what still matters.

Who does this woman fool by giving a nod to godly council?

She frustrates those who love her. She frustrates herself. Who will look up and see her? Who will stand up for her? Who will offer the hand God might use to lift her up?

Who will walk up to her prison door, step in, and pray with her? Whose prayers will never give up on this woman?

Who, on the day she overcomes, will shout, “I know that woman! She is a friend of mine.”

Now this is the Gospel message we have heard from him and announce to you: God is light, and in him there is no darkness at all. If we say we have fellowship with him and yet keep on walking in darkness, we are lying and not practicing the truth. But if we walk in the light as he himself is in the light, we have fellowship with one another and the blood of Jesus his son cleanses us from all sin. 1 John 1:5-7 (NET.)

For this is the love of God: that we keep his commandments. And his commandments do not weigh us down, because everyone who has been fathered by God conquers the world. 1 John 5: 3-4 (NET).

[This is dedicated to one of my friends who recently stepped out of her comfort zone. Way out. While not all of the statements in this poem are a reflection of her particular struggle and situation, she owns the fact that she has been living in a prison of sorts. But God . . . Yes! But God is about to do something great. Unimaginable. And I can’t wait! In less than one month, I will get to shout, “Hey. I know that woman! She is a friend of mine.”]

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Featured Post

Not Just Anybody’s Blanky.

This is a personal letter to one of my granddaughters, but feel free to eavesdrop.

Dear Kyla,

It’s only a baby blanket to anyone in the world, but me. Simple baby yarn, a simple pattern, neutral colors . . . and it’s worn. This baby blanket was made by a lady named Jean Walsh, a dear friend to my mother, your great-grandmother. Let me tell you about Jean Walsh.

I always called her Mrs. Walsh because that’s all I ever heard Mom call her. She went to the church where Mom and Dad were members when they first moved to Illinois from Kentucky—a single woman with a couple of teenagers.

I never met her husband. Perhaps he traveled for work and couldn’t be at church on Sundays. Perhaps he had died a tragic death. Mrs. Walsh might have been a divorcée. I don’t know. It wasn’t important to my parents, so it wasn’t important to me. She was tall and beautiful. I wanted to be like her, to walk like her, to dress like her and to speak like her. To be respected like her.

I don’t have a picture of Mrs. Walsh, except in my mind.

I don’t have the complete story either, but Dad, Mom and my older sister, Jan, lived in Mrs. Walsh’s big house before I was born. Mom was pregnant with me at the time, if I am recalling the story right. I can’t even say with certainty whether we lived with her for a week or months. I only think it was less than a year, but I can say, for sure, that Mrs. Walsh was one of the most influential women in my life.

I do have photographs of Jan and me standing by a bed of spring flowers in Mrs. Walsh’s yard. We are dressed in our Sunday best. Could have been an Easter Sunday morning. Dad had a good job by then and we had a house of our own, but Mom never had a green thumb like Mrs. Walsh.

It would be a few years after that photo when the first of my forever memories of Mrs. Walsh would happen. There was an important church meeting or training session where only adults were invited. She thought it so important for my parents to attend that she volunteered her teenaged son, J.D., to babysit.

Mom and Dad stood at the front door, telling us to behave and to “Do whatever J.D. says.” He couldn’t have been more than fifteen. Jan saw him as handsome. (I know that because she told me so.) I saw him as fun. We played games around the coffee table and ate hotdogs in the dining room. J.D. made good Kool-Aid.

Funny thing: No one told me that the J in J.D. stood for John. And why would a normal six-year-old question anything, because J.D. is a perfectly fine sounding name. Someone mentioned “John Walsh” later, when I was in my teens. I was puzzled. “I didn’t know J.D. had a brother named John.”

I remember the street and the city block where Mrs. Walsh lived, the steep hill, and the wooden staircase that went to the bedrooms. J.D. only allowed me to go half-way up, never out of his sight or too far for him to catch me. But from halfway up those stairs, I decided I wanted a house like that, with deep, rich wood and wavy glass. (Changed my mind later when I realized that older homes require so much maintenance and a ton of furniture polish!)

Years flew by. I had another sister and a brother, and our family had moved on to another church. Jean Walsh had moved on, too. I heard her name less and less often, but when I did, I could barely listen for my own memories entertaining me. Still today, I couldn’t tell you what she did for a living, but she had a job. I couldn’t tell you where her new church was, but I knew she served the Lord. I couldn’t tell you where she had traveled or what kind of car she drove, but I knew the lady.

When I followed my military husband to Germany, I often thought of people back home, but not so much of Mrs. Walsh. I hadn’t forgotten her, but it had been so long since I’d seen her or heard her name. And when I got pregnant, I had something else to occupy my thoughts.

To my surprise, among the baby gifts sent all the way to Germany, from home, was this green and yellow baby blanket. No one knew whether the baby I carried was to be your father or your mother. (But Kyla, please know that God meant, even then, for you to be mine!)

Your dad was never attached to any one of his blankets, but he dragged this one on the floor a time or two, and for sure, your daddy’s DNA is between the treads, embedded in this blanket. Mine too. No need to explain all the ways your dad deposited his. Ugggh! However, I will tell you that I’ve poured out and dried my own tears on your father’s baby blanket.

First, when I saw the tag and the words, “An Original by Jean Walsh.” Then, when I wrapped your Dad in it, preparing to bring him home from the hospital. Again, several times, when a crying baby brought me to tears, and God showed me how to love and how much He loved me. And today, after I scrubbed on an old stain, and prepared the blanket for future use. I pondered who should have it after me. Who would ever want this forty-seven-year-old blanky?

I thought of you, Kyla. If not now, maybe when you have a baby of your own?

I pray, Kyla, that the Lord has or will, place a lady like Mrs. Walsh in your life and in your corner. I never figured out her mysteries, but I knew she loved the Lord. We didn’t exchange Christmas cards or phonecalls, but she showed up in other tangible ways. At a time when I needed a godly woman’s understanding and advice . . . not my mom , my aunts or a relative, she loved me and thought me important enough to go out of her way to connect with me.

Look around when you go to church next Sunday, would you? If your “Mrs. Walsh” is there, give her a big hug. Then give her a second one, and tell her it’s from your grandma.

Love you, Kyla.

Grandma Rita

PS . . . I’ll go through another storage tub tomorrow. Who knows what I might find.


It pays to have a sister who follows your blog and has a great memory too! Mrs. Walsh did have a husband. He worked for a telephone company, and traveled all over the country. She went to Alaska to sprend the summer with him, and invited my parents to live in her house while she was gone – rent free. Nice lady!

Jan remembers a leather, drawstring purse that Mrs. Walsh brought back for her. “I Can’t remember what she brought back for you,” she says. Her husband would be home at times, but Jan doesn’t remember much about him.

Jan remembers more: Mrs, Walsh worked, until she retired, for a family who owned a grocery store. My Pekin friends might remember Vogels. She wasn’t a checker or a regular store employee. Mrs. Walsh’s office was located in the historic Herget mansion – another familiar name to long-time Pekinians. Also, Jan got by with calling her”Walshie.” Perhaps that’s because we called Janice “Jannie” back then. Now that I hear that name, I’m guessing I called her that a time or two, but that was mostly a Jan thing. One last trivial fact about Mrs Walsh. She was the one who encouraged Jan when she was sixteen and wanting a job. She tells me that Mrs Walsh helped in getting her hired, checking groceries at Vogel’s.

Yep. Mrs Walsh did more for our family than crochet a baby blanky.


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Featured Post

Book cover pending . . .

I’d like for you to meet the characters I’ve been living with (in my head) for a few years now. The manuscript, The Doll House Secrets, is close to being complete, and these ladies are about to leave the nest they’ve built behind the screen of my comuter for the wild, wild world of editors and reviewers. No spoiler alert necessary for this short excerpt. I know how to keep a secret.

(When four 80 year old women inherit a big house from their friends, Leonard and Eileen, do they sell or move in together? They decide to take a week and try the house on for size and comfort. But first, they need to deal with the “stuff” left behind. What do you think they should do? What would you do?)

From what is currently Chapter 11:

Charlotte sat on a barstool at the end of the kitchen island where she had piles and stacks of journals, photo albums and loose papers.

“Why don’t you do that on the dining room table?” Sharon said. “The chairs are safer and more comfortable. Plus, Birdie will be back with groceries in a few minutes.”

 “The lighting is better here.” Charlotte didn’t bother looking up. “Why don’t you go back to helping Alice clear out Leonard’s underwear drawer?”

“You may not realize it, but you’ve been at this for over an hour.” Sharon feigned interest and read a few lines from an open journal. “It took me all of five minutes to bag up underwear, tee-shirts and socks. Leonard’s dresser drawers are empty and wiped down. Between me and Alice, his closet is half empty. We used all six of our boxes. The rest of the stuff for the church’s clothes closet will need go in bags.”

Charlotte still doesn’t look up. “You’ve got the bedside tables and the bathroom to do, and we’ve got to decide about Leonard’s coins. They aren’t exactly a collection, but how do we carry them to the bank and lift them on the counter? I think they need to be sorted first.”

Sharon pulled a carton of milk from the refrigerator and sniffed. “We’ve got to clean out this fridge.” She pinched her nostrils, held the container as far away from her face as possible and poured the contents into the sink. “The drain is clogged. The drain won’t drain!”

Charlotte picked up another journal. “Pull the plug.”

“I can’t put my hand in there. I’ll gag.”

“Use some tongs.”

“The same tongs that will touch my food?”

“Never mind.” The stool tipped and screeched against the tile floor when Charlotte shifted her weight to step down.

“I tried to tell you.”

Charlotte reached into the sink and released the seal of the strainer basket. She pumped a spot of soap and washed her hands with the vigor of a surgeon, then spun the roll of paper towels until she had about four. “And that’s how that is done.”

Sharon paid no attention to Charlotte’s theater. Instead, she began emptying the shelves of the refrigerator onto the kitchen counter.

Charlotte looked up for the first time since Sharon entered the room. “Where will Birdie unpack groceries?”

Sharon opened the cabinet door where the trash bin was hidden and pulled it out. Condiments, cheese, eggs, juices and a box of baking soda were removed along with sticks and tubs of butter and a canning jar labeled “Bacon Grease.” Dates of trusted use were examined and made quick work of determining what would be tossed and what could be saved. “And that’s how that is done.” said Sharon.

Charlotte chuckled and turned a page.

Big yellow gloves were found in the right spot under the sink, but Sharon had to stoop and stretch for the spray bottle of disinfectant. She scrubbed. She rinsed. After a long swirl of dish soap into the sink and a short squirt for perfection, she turned on the water. She didn’t wait for the sink to fill before she started wiping the walls and shelves of the refrigerator.

A fly on the window might have wondered why she would make every movement of her hands and feet so noisy, but Charlotte knew. The same fly would not care that Sharon put so much muscle into cleaning the inside of a refrigerator. But Charlotte did.

Charlotte stepped off the barstool with grace this time and slid the barstool into position under the counter. As the last of the stacks and piles was gathered from the island and placed on the dining room table, she mumbled to herself. “We won’t be eating in here for quite some time.”

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Featured Post

To Dream. To Dance.

I used to dream of monsters in the dark, under my bed.

I used to dance in fairytales with heroes in my head.

Dad said “No” to dreaming of some far-off, handsome prince.

Mom’s dance showed that trusting God is safe, yet great suspense.

I grew to dream of lovers, travel, jewels—amazing stuff.

I grew to dance with danger where too much is not enough.

I’ve struggled some with dreaming of what’s not and ne’er will be.

It’s hard to dance where Satan lies with small print guarantees.

I’ve learned to dream of freedom from the pain of sin and debt.

I’ve learned to dance in rhythm, living well with few regrets.

I sense my dreams are greater as my nights are growing long.

And my days for dancing shorter as my body grows less strong.

But this I know of dreaming, seeing Christ as Life and Lord:

My future’s full of dancing, and the dance but one reward.

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Go Ahead. Shine!

The stars are always out there, even in broad daylight. But they show up and show off best in absolute darkness. Night and day. That’s the way anyone would compare my sister’s ability on a keyboard with mine. Night and day. She plays the piano. I play with a piano.

There’s a whole long story from my childhood about having my musical talent overshadowed by my younger sister. I won’t bore you with it, except to say that I made it easy for her to shine.

Still, I love to play with a piano. I can’t believe I let a dozen years go by without a tuned up and ready-to-play piano in my home! Oh, we’ve had a piano for most of those years, but technicians and tuners told us she was a lost cause and could never be fully tuned without risking the need for replacing major parts and extensive refurbishing. Again, I won’t bore you with the details, except to say that a car in similar condition would be written off as “totaled.”

We’d had musicians (real ones who know how to “work” a keyboard) come into our living room and be drawn to our baby grand. I’d warn them. “She’s terribly out of tune.” They’d tap a few keys and grieve with us for a moment before closing the lid over her aged, but authentic, ebony and ivory. Others have tried to revive her, but no amount of talent or attention would bring her back to her days of youthfulness or usefulness. I played with her less and less.

Our baby grand died a slow and agonizing death. We didn’t care to have formal services or put an obit in the paper. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to have her cremated or carried to a “graveyard” —that unspeakable place where pianos have gone before her. So, we cautiously removed her wrought iron harp (the heart of every piano) and laid out the other parts of her body for a viewing. I grieved, then made plans. She’s a donor. Her shapely frame is set to become a bookshelf. Her harp will be the base of a conversation-starting coffee table. I hope to see her keys and strings become beautiful wall art and keep some memories alive.

We brought home a rescue piano a few months ago. She’d been left behind by a woman we never knew, an elderly church pianist. Her kids had no use for a heavy piano and no means to move one out of the old lady’s house. The poor Wurlitzer was stranded. Of all the things we can’t take with us, why not pianos?

Compared to the old baby grand, our new (gently used) piano takes no floor space at all. Great! But I saw the squiggly marks as I dusted and polished her up after the road trip to our home. It sort of made me angry, thinking one of the church pianist’s children or grandchildren had gone unsupervised and gotten ahold of a permanent marker. Then I saw them, like freckles. Stained into the wood with purpose. Random, yet consistent. Patterned in a way no child could have. The builder had put W’s all over her, like a signature, proudly saying “This one’s a Wurlitzer.”

Until last week, our new/gently used piano hadn’t seen a tuner since the 1980’s. Even fully tuned, she’ll never have the rich resounance of a baby grand. She doesn’t suit my taste as far as furniture goes, but year for year, her body hasn’t aged nearly as much as mine. She does what she was built to do without complaining. I’m thrilled to have rescued her. She’s in tune, and there’s no reason to think she won’t be around for a long, long time.

It’s good to have a tuned and ready-to-play piano again. Old songbooks and sheet music came up from the basement. Songs from the 60’s and 70’s. Old gospel songs that Mom and Dad used to play and sing. Classic hymns and favorite songs of praise. Yes!

The best part? The kids are grown and out of the house. They can no longer joke or compare me to better musicians. My husband doesn’t seem irritated by my stumbling over sharps and flats or notes that go way above or below the staffs and are hard for me to see, even with my glasses. I’m thrilled when he recognizes a melody. He sits in his recliner with the TV remote in his hand and listens until I finish all the verses and the chorus. Sometimes twice. He tells me he thinks I’m better after just a week of practice. How blessed I am.

An hour of piano practice every day for the rest of my life won’t make me shine, and that’s okay. But an hour of praise—every day this week? I already realize a difference. For sure, it’s brightened something inside of me.

“And those who are wise shall shine like the brightness of the sky above; and those who turn many to righteousness, like the stars forever and ever.” (Daniel 12:3 ESV)

Praising God keeps me sane. It keeps me encouraged and gives me energy to do his work. Praising Jesus has no prerequisite. Praising Him, in fact, is the prerequisite. What a waste to confess sin to any other god, one who can’t act on said confession. How futile to pray to any god who is not, and never will be worthy of praise. Only the God of the Bible is almighty, everlasting, holy and loving and proven to be faithful. We can’t take hold of what God offers us until we recognize The One True God for who He is, what He has done, and we tell Him so. Whether the words are shouted from a mountain top or as a fleeting thought from our deepest need, praise is where every honest-to-goodness prayer begins and ends. Praise the Lord!

How sad that I went so long without my favorite instrument of praise. With a musical instrument or without. With singing and dancing and raising of hands, or without. It takes no special talent or gifting to praise the Lord. Got no rhythm? You can praise the Lord. Don’t know treble from bass or accelerando from a cappella? Praise the Lord anyway. Can’t carry a tune? Still, praise the Lord.

Praise opens the door to fellowship with our creator and savior.

“Enter his gates with thanksgiving, and his courts with praise! Give thanks to him; bless his name.” (Psalm 100:4 ESV)

The instruction to Praise God is given more often than any other instruction in the Bible. More than serving or loving or giving.

“Let everything that has breath praise the LORD! Praise the LORD!” (Psalm 150:6. ESV)

If Jesus is your Lord, you should polish up some praise and shine.

“Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the LORD has risen upon you.” (Isaiah 60:1 ESV)

So go ahead. Be the one who shines your light into the darkness of this world. What are you waiting for?

“I will bless the LORD at all times; His praise shall continually be in my mouth.” (Psalm 34:1 ESV)

So go ahead, because everything good begins and ends with praise and glory to God, the Alpha and Omega. When we don’t have the talent, time or temperament to do much of anything else, we can praise the Lord. Praise the Lord, the light of the world! Mention his name. Give him glory, especially in the darkness. Then watch him shine.

“You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.” (Matthew 5 14-16 ESV)

God has “marked” you for something great. He signed and sealed you the moment you called on him and confessed your need to be lifted out of darkness. On that same day the Holy Spirit said, “This one’s mine.” His light is in you. So. Go ahead. Shine.

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A Devil’s Tool

(Rhyming poems are for adults too.)

I’ve been caught by this tool of the Devil,

and suppose that you might have been too.

It sneaks through our thoughts to our actions,

then soon drives many things that we do.

As a sin, it gets little attention.

It can be really hard to ID,

But there’s evidence of its destruction

in everyone’s family tree.

As children, we might have been scolded

without hearing this sin called by name.

Maybe that’s why there’s so much frustration

when we want what another has gained.

Can you guess which of the commandments?

Is it two, four, six, eight or ten?

Here’s a clue:  This tool of the devil

makes us feel that we always must win.

We call it the big, green-eyed monster

and preach without offering grace.

Yet when we spend time with the mirror

we see all the green on our face.

The haughty and proud deny envy,

but if they would only think twice.

Beyond their material possessions,

would more skill or influence be nice?

You won’t hear me saying, “It’s easy.”

Instead, hear me cry, “Help me, Lord!”

I use up my time and my wages

and then want what another has stored.

When we do harbor envy or covet,

it’s disguised rather well as a need.

Our fam’ly and friends might not see it,

but God knows our pride and our greed.

He said to us, “Thou shalt not covet,”

not to punish, withhold or control.

For each of us personalized blessings.

More than needs, his abundance can flow.

Help us run from the good and the better

and to chase after all of God’s best.

Then His goodness should pour out on others.

Not hoarded. Not owned as a quest.

Oh – The list could go on – what we covet.

Some take this sad sin to the grave.

Where they want for the peace and contentment

of others, forgiven and saved.

The last of the Ten Commandments

should never be seen as the least.

When we fail to obey the nine others,

could covetous be the true beast?

So I ask of the Lord to reveal it

when He sees this sin in my way.

I can count on His tender reminder.

It’s something like this that I pray:

Now I lay me down to sleep.

I trust the Jones’ you will keep.

If all my stuff someone should take,

I’ll be content when I awake.

Thanks for your wise and clear commands.

Thanks for your strength and guiding hands.

Whatever circumstance I find,

help me not scheme for what’s not mine.

Help me to pray this every day,

for envy has a sneaky way.

I pray your mercy on this fool.

Help me avoid this devilish tool.

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Featured Post

A Belated Birthday and ThankYou

The young lady pictured with me here had a birthday yesterday, and I intended to send her this message, but my screen time got interrupted, and that didn’t happen. So I’ll tell her today, and you may as well hear this too. When you’re done reading, is there someone to whom you owe a belated birthday greeting or thank you?

Happy (belated) Birthday, Dawn!

I’ve been meaning to thank you for that session you lead during the 2019 mission trip to Hawaii—the one where you introduced a plan for reading the Bible. I know you didn’t create the plan, but you’d been living it. And that was clear. I thought about starting on January 1 of 2020, but then decided to do my own thing. It took me 18 months to get through the entire Bible, but I did, and that was a fruitful 18 months.

 Midway through 2021, I started over, in Genesis, and was doing fairly well, but got discouraged because I saw that I wouldn’t finish in six short months. Plus, I had let a lot of worry creep into my thoughts. My worry became anguish, the kind of anguish I hadn’t felt since my 1st husband took his own life over 35 years ago.

COVID didn’t help, but my anguish had little or nothing to do with that sort of virus.

Looking back at the last half of 2021, I was experiencing depression. There’ve been times when circumstances have dumped me into a depressed state, and then abandoned me there for a while. That’s probably happened to you as well. I fight and shake off the crap. But it’s the Lord who eventually lifts me up and opens the blinds. I get a good whiff of fresh air (nearly always in the form of scripture or song) and I’m on track again.

This past December, however, my spirit had been down so long that hopelessness threatened. I began to identify with friends who suffer from chronic depression in a way that I’d never been able to do before. Funny thing: One of them didn’t know it, but she was ministering to me as she labeled, even alphabetized, her struggle with anxiety and depression, then posted it online. I hope she’s better for that exercise! I know I am.

Hang with me. I’m close to the reason why I need to thank you!

My son and his family sent me a new Bible and a journal for Christmas. Guess what?! The Bible has a plan laid out for reading it though in a year. The SOAP plan!! And the journal … it’s got all the standard blank lines. Each turn of the page represents a new day and has these headings: Scripture – Observations – Applications – Prayer.

It was all I could do to wait until the New Year to start. But I did.

Dawn, it isn’t you who speaks to me every day. It isn’t you who lifted me from depression and gives me hope. It isn’t you who urges me to stick to a purpose and think on lovely things. But it was you who planted the seed.

Thank you, Dawn. The SOAP you told me about has been good for my body, heart and soul.

I think there might be sandy beaches in Heaven, like the one we enjoyed in Hawaii. And the pedicures will be free. If not, we’re taking some great memories with us.

So glad God gave you another birthday, friend.


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Featured Post

Come to the Stable

I was walking along with no place to go.
No invitation. No gifts to bestow.
I wouldn’t be seated at a table of friends?
My purpose in life seems a means to their ends.

“Come to the stable.” I heard a child say.
“I’ll be the Mary. I’ve a big role to play.
My costume’s pale blue, but the fabric’s quite plain.
Come to the stable, by the tall candy cane.”

So I changed my direction toward a noisy downtown.
Families and lovers. People mulling around.
The darkness between all the lanterns and lights.
Made my path to the stable on that chilly night.

No one seemed to notice, or they just didn’t care,
That I’d no invitation. No right to be there.
The wind brushed my face and I stopped where I stood
To close my coat tighter and pull down my hood.

I pass “Santa’s Village,” fake toys and fake sleigh.
Fake beard and fake laughter give the fat man away.
Crying toddlers, stressed mothers, bored fathers in line,
Adhere to tradition! Afraid to decline.

A man rings a bell near a bucket for change.
I drop in a coin for a smile. He refrains.
I don’t see a good reason for all of the fuss,
And my lips turn slightly to utter a cuss.

“Come to the stable,” the sweet girl had said.
But where is the show. I believe she misled.
Some pallets of wood shape a child-sized barn,
Held together with rope and pieces of yarn.

I tuck in my chin. The crowd dawdles around.
The actors move little without making a sound.
A farmer’s provided a couple old sheep.
A porcelain baby's pretending to sleep.

What is the attraction? What is the worth?
Oh, I’ve heard the story. A virgin gives birth?
I know about Santa. I sat on his lap.
And what did I get but a boat load of crap!

This Christmas is turning out much like the others.
Cold in a crowd and looking for cover.
My friends behave friendly without letting me in.
My family is busy. No time for their kin.

I’m longing for solace, not vain, empty chatter.
A real conversation before everyone scatters.
But this group, I'm sure, plays the same sly con game.
They want what I give without knowing my name.

I take a step back and then head for the street,
When the girl begins waving and shuffling her feet.
“Hey Lady! Don’t leave! You’ll miss the best part!
I’m telling the story. It’ll tug on your heart.”

Well the girl is a stranger. She don’t know what I’ve done.
Her parents look proud. I should high-tail and run.
When I was her age, I had what she’s got.
But a few short years later, my future was shot.

A part of me fears that she’ll end up like me,
But mostly, my thoughts are of how I can flee.
I should’ve known better than to follow her voice.
But something inside me won’t give me that choice.

Every part of my being says, “You don’t fit in.”
So I try. Appear casual. And put on a grin.
I stare as the snow falls and melts on my face.
Then I slide back my hoodie, defying my place.

These people will think I belong to someone.
A mother, a sister, an aunt who has come.
At the end of her story, whether Seuss or Shakespeare,
I’ll applaud and shout bravo, then quick disappear.

The microphone squalls when she clears her scared throat.
Her hands to her ears wrinkle pages of notes.
But her eyes keep on glancing and twinkling at me.
Enough that the guilt on my face she can see.

A few feet away, Santa shouts “Ho Ho Ho!”
All the children go silent and street traffic slows.
The girl gains composure and the kid’s play begins. 
So sad the performance. “No Room at the Inn.”

The story? I’ve heard it. I’ll hear it once more.
Her voice pure and honest, like others before.
“It’s a Charlie Brown Christmas,” I say to myself.
Remembering the words from a book on some shelf.

She’s reading the lines of a well-written part.
When her gumption kicks in with fervor and heart.
Her hands drop to her side with her shoulders upright.
She recites from her memory to the audience’s delight.

Is that moonlight and glitter, that make her face glow?
The young girl was right. She’s the star of the show.
I forget that my own feet and hands have a chill,
As the moment waves through me with comfort and still.

I’ll be honest. The story? While good, can’t be true.
That babe? He ain’t done what a savior would do.
Where’s the peace? The good will? He's had two-thousand years?
It’s a scam. A bamboozle for my cash and my tears.

Yet my hands come together for earnest applause.
And my heart skips a beat, for no reason. Just because.
“Halleluiah,” yells a man from the back of the crowd.
There’s a word I’ve not heard—in person, so loud.

I don’t understand what is happening tonight,
But I’m lingering. Content, with no urge to take flight.
“There’s coffee and cookies. ‘Cross the street,” the girl begs.
Her parents both nod, and I drop my head.

My senses return. I remember my place.
I’m the oddball. The weird one. A human disgrace.
“No thank you,” I say, without explanation.
The innocent girl too excited to listen.

“I’m drinking hot chocolate. It’s still got caffeine.
There’s no school tomorrow and it gives me good dreams.”
She assumes I am joining the cast and her crew.
Her eyes are stuck on me like paper to glue.

“Are you married? Did you put up a big Christmas tree?
Did you know that your eyes are the same color as me?
Do you have a job in a school or a store?
If you want extra cookies, I can get you some more.”

Between all her queries I barely catch breath,
But this child, with ease, grabs my soul at its depth.
This mini-adult says, “We’re so glad you came.
I’m Gracie Marie. Won’t you tell me your name?”

Well that was the Christmas my life took a whirl.
When I went to the stable and followed that girl.
I’m changed, now and forever, by a Savior, through grace.
I’m still odd. Still the weird one, but the Lord changed my face.

So come to the stable. Downtown ain’t the same.
But we’re easy to find, near the tall candy cane.
There’s coffee and cookies. Hot chocolate if you like.
It’s become my tradition. I’m the one to invite.

So come to the stable. Dress warm. It might snow.
I know it seems corny, like it’s put on for show.
But the Spirit of Christmas breaks through and brings cheer.
My daughter’s the Mary at “The Stable” this year.

A few people have asked if this story is true. Well, it's almost true. Her name isn't Gracie Marie, although I love that name, and the setting was not exactly as I described. What happened, in fact, didn't take place at Christmas time, but for sure, the girl, the lady and what they mean to each other are real. The story that would have been told in the stable that night can be found in the 2nd chapter of Luke.  We’ve let the reading of the Christmas Story become nothing more than tradition—a ritual without remembrance of what actually took place. A promise made to us, from the moment we chose to sin, is fulfilled. So, go to the stable. You never know who you will meet when you get there.

And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed. (And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.) And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.
And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:) To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.
And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.
And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.
And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.
And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds. But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.
And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen …
Luke 2:1-20 (KJV)
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We’re Grown-ups Now

Who were you back in the third grade?

Were you the kid wildly waving a hand in the air because you knew the answer to the teacher’s question? Perhaps you were confident in your knowledge, and desperate to prove it. I was that kid sometimes, and I was persistent to the point of being annoying. Never the teacher’s pet. My heart goes out to the kid I see doing that today, as their arm grows weary and the palm of the opposite hand must offer support.

The occasional humiliation of having an incorrect answer lasted only a short while, and I was over it. There would always be a next time. I relied on those “next times.” I excelled whenever a teacher gave extra credit for participation. I’ve so much volunteer built into me that I should move to Tennessee. Some of my good friends won’t know what I mean by that statement, but I’m not asking for a show of hands here.

Or were you the child with elbows glued to your sides and lips sealed? The teacher’s view was of the top of your head. Your prayer life increased. “Please Lord, don’t let her call on me!” The teacher could usually tell when I hadn’t done my homework, because I could be that child, too. My favorite teacher, Mrs. Curry, used to take advantage of those moments to humble me and force a confession.

One or two of my friends always came to class prepared, but still slumped in their chairs and tried to hide in the crowd of twenty-two other third-graders. Did they not like the sound of their own voice? Did they lack confidence? I didn’t understand. They were smarter than me, prettier than me and less obnoxious. Why would they lessen their profile and try to hide. It made no sense to the third-grader me. Why would they assume a position of shame?

We’re grown-ups now, and I work at not making shallow judgements. I get that we were created with unique and surprisingly effective personalities. God is good that way. So why have I worked to quiet my enthusiasm, soften my tone and respond rather than react? Why are some of my friends taking risks so unlike their personalities would dictate? As grown-ups, we’ve found our place on either side of the middle. It’s not always comfortable here, but we’re not in the third grade anymore. The psychology of it is interesting and all, but I’m not prepared to raise my hand on that question.

But here’s part of the answer—I think.

We all seek to be noticed and known, but on our terms. Some risk being noticed for the wrong things. Some risk not being noticed at all. It takes time (for some of us way more than others) but eventually we become pretty good at weighing the cost of jumping ahead versus missing an opportunity.

The verse that sent me on this morning’s rabbit trail of thought is 2 Chronicles 16:9a:

“For the eyes of the LORD run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to give strong support to those whose heart is blameless toward him…”

Does God call only on those with a hand raised? Of course not. Is he able to see through both confidence and insecurity? He is. Does he expect that we should have our answers prepared? Of course he does. But he’s running “to and fro throughout the whole earth,” to give support to that blameless heart. Can I fathom what it means to be “blameless?” No. But Jesus took the blame already and he knows my heart.

I wonder what tomorrow’s rabbit trail has for me. The God of creation WANTS to meet me there, and I didn’t even need to raise my hand.

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And … success!

The book is published. The book release party was a huge success. So what’s next? Book #3?

Hold on. I’m still basking in the afterglow. Real Life. Real Ladies: Short Stories from the Pew and the ladies who collaborated with me to see this project through deserve some extra time in the spotlight. The room decorations are packed and ready to go again. There is plenty of factory-wrapped candy to go for another round or two of book signings. Already scheduled. The fun stuff!

But marketing this book – any book – to strangers on the internet? Necessary, if anyone outside our small circle of friends and family is to notice our eye-catching cover and then read our stories, but not so fun. I’m tempted to call it done and move on. Book # 3 is calling. Her plot is thick with characters and surprises. She’s lived far too long between my head and my computer files. A little re-writing, and she too will be set for the spotlight. I’m sure readers will love her almost as much as I do.

A few more minutes to bask in afterglow, and then its time to get serious. Editing and marketing. Two of the ugliest words in my writer’s dictionary, but without them, I can’t spell success.

If you will check out this short presentation, I’ll be able to call it my marketing task for the day, spend the next few hours editing and then get back to my basking. These ladies and their stories have an effect on me. If it’s been a while since you read a story that made you say “Ahhh,” you gotta read the book!

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The Christmas Letter

It’s Christmas time and we are bombarded with messages. Our favorite shows and movies are interrupted. News from family and friends on social media platforms is being replaced with advertisements. But one message I look forward to each year is the card from my cousin, Sheila.

She usually encloses a photo. One year she enclosed confetti . . . or was that card sent for a different occasion? Either way, what a mess!

If you are on her Christmas card list, you also get “the letter.” She always shares a scripture or two before she gets down to the business of summarizing the previous year. And over the last several years she’s had a one word theme that is meant to be a reminder for the coming year—for her and the family members and friends who are willing to receive it.

Her word this Christmas is “safety.” She chose Psalm 91:1-2 as her verses for the year:

“Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty. This I declare about the LORD: He alone is my refuge, my place of safety; he is my God, and I trust him.” (NLT)

Sheila never has a perfect year. None of us do. There is always a death or two or three in her family, and because much of her family is also mine, we share in the grief. There is always serious illness in the family and surgeries to report. She needs a lot more paragraphs these days, even to mention only the major health events.

But why choose the word safety? Well, she did mention a college-aged grandson, living with three roommates and playing rugby. (To be clear, it’s the grandson who’s got the roommates and playing dangerous sports, not my elderly cousin. And she’s gonna pay me back for calling her elderly.) Still, why not choose a more traditional word? Has she used up all the Christmasy words? Peace. Good Will. Joy. Star. Light. Worship. Newborn. Expectation. She’s far too creative for a blah word like “safety.”

But I know Sheila, so I grabbed up my Bible and read the rest of Psalm 91. Aha!

Read it for yourself and tell me this isn’t a message that needs repeating this Christmas season.

“For he will rescue you from every trap and protect you from deadly disease.

He will cover you with his feathers. He will shelter you with his wings.

His faithful promises are your armor and protection. Do not be afraid of the terrors of the night, nor the arrow that flies in the day.

Do not dread the disease that stalks in darkness, nor the disaster that strikes at midday. Though a thousand fall at your side, though ten thousand are dying around you, these evils will not touch you.

Just open your eyes, and see how the wicked are punished.

If you make the LORD your refuge, if you make the Most High your shelter, no evil will conquer you; no plague will come near your home.

For he will order his angels to protect you wherever you go. They will hold you up with their hands so you won’t even hurt your foot on a stone. You will trample upon lions and cobras; you will crush fierce lions and serpents under your feet!

The LORD says, “I will rescue those who love me. I will protect those who trust in my name. When they call on me, I will answer; I will be with them in trouble. I will rescue and honor them. I will reward them with a long life and give them my salvation. (NLT)

And that, my friends, is a Christmas message worth putting aside the shopping, baking, and the meal planning . . . everything. Don’t worry that your Christmas tree is lopsided or that half the lights are blown. Put down that wish list. It’s called a “wish” list because you can’t afford it!

In Psalm 91 is THE Christmas gift of ALL Christmas gifts.

But there is a catch. Not false advertising or misinformation, but a condition, a gift tag of sorts—that little label, either dangling from or stuck to the outside of the wrapping.  Something so small and easily overlooked, but it entitles the one whose name appears on it to claim and open the package.

The gift tag for all the safety and protection we need is located in the first verse. “Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.”

Where are you living today? Jesus has a gift for you, and He would love to deliver. What is your spiritual address?


Hey Girl!

(This post was written almost a year ago. It’s been updated for 2023.)

It’s not surprising for me to wake the first morning after a writer’s conference with a “dream” book title in my head. It happens after Priority conferences as well.

Here’s the title I woke with this morning: Hey Girl! Find Your Pulpit and Preach It! Hmmm . . . I stretch and think that sounds like a book I’d want to read.

Sunlight slips through and around the curtain panels to excite my spirit and give me energy after two days of travel and hotels that didn’t deliver what their billboards advertised. “Thank you, Lord, for my comfy bed.” My eyebrows pull hard to lift my eyelids so that I can greet the day.

My husband, Roger, was grumpy, weary and ready for Heaven before we’d unloaded the car last night, so I feel the need to check that he’s still alive. His eyes are open, but I wait. Good. He takes a long breath and lets out a longer moan. Neither of us speaks. He’d been the driver and baggage handler for the trip. You Illinois gals who have gone to Ridgecrest Conference Center in North Carolina (as a driver or a passenger) know all about the Appalachians where the interstate curves, climbs and falls like a carnival ride.

We made it home without incident. No milk, juice, eggs, fresh produce or bread. I need to get to the store. But first, I sit at my computer to document a bit of that Ridgecrest “high” and to save that title: Hey Girl! Find Your Pulpit and Preach It!

Great book title. Don’t you agree? The focus scripture could be: ‘“For I know what I have planned for you,’ says the Lord. ‘I have plans to prosper you, not to harm you. I have plans to give you a future filled with hope.’” Jeremiah 29:11 (NET).

Four chapter titles are in my head within five minutes of waking. I roll over, and wouldn’t you know, five more chapter titles surface.

  1. You Have to Preach. (If you want to make a difference.)
  2. God has a Pulpit in Mind for You. (And it’s like no other.)
  3. There’ll be Detours. (But God won’t waste your time.)
  4. Found My Pulpit. Can’t find the Congregation. (Are you still facing the choir?)
  5. Is Preaching for Girls? (Yep. Check the definition.)
  6. What’s My Sermon About? (Finally. The right question!)
  7. Sounds Like a full-time job. (It sort of is, but with the best perks and paycheck.)
  8. I Messed Up. (God didn’t call you to perfectionism.)
  9. But . . . I Can’t Find the Restroom Without at Least One Friend. (Funny. Oh, how God loves to use funny.)

Now that I see the bulleted chapter titles on the screen of my computer, I wonder. Is this a book God would have me write, or is this an outline of what I need to be living?

“Practice what you preach” rings loud in my head. “When was the last time you led anyone to Jesus?”

The backspace key taunts me, “You and your grandiose ideas! That heavyweight title is for a writer who can sell tens of thousands of books. How many have you sold?”

I recognize the haughty voice as the coach of our opposing team, yet I’m tempted to delete the last hour’s work and go grocery shopping. I’ve already allowed the enemy to speak his losing strategy into my heart and brain where, at the very least, he will rob me of time.

“So what,” I answer. “Not today.”

I go to the living room where my Bible lays open at the place where Solomon asks God for a discerning heart. (1 Kings3:7-15). The story teaches and encourages the lowly of heart.

Lord, you know I’m not the soul-winner the chapter titles of this would-be book imply. Yet my life is good and I am blessed because you wake me in the mornings with thoughts of how much you love me. The enemy taunts and points to my weakness. He humiliates. You humble. You’ve had to rescue me from detours, and you’ve cleaned my nasty messes, yet you allow me a “pulpit” and a “congregation.” What other god would forgive me those things and then give more besides?  It would be better for me to spend the rest of my days inviting hurting people, one at a time, into gospel conversations than to write a book with a catchy title so that a million Baptist women might be momentarily inspired. I want my readers to be more like you, Jesus. Not more like me. Keep my ears tuned to your voice. Give me a heart like Solomon’s and help me put it to good use. Amen.

So now I’m wondering. Have you forgotten? Or have you followed up on that thought or idea you “woke” to because of something you heard at Priority 2022? Have you taken a detour from the road God had you on? Are you distracted by tourist traps and the tempting promises on billboards placed strategically by the opposing teams coach? Maybe you’ve seen the curves, climbs and falls on the road ahead, and you’re tired of driving. Like me, just thinking of a carnival ride makes you dizzy.

Never before in the life of Illinois Baptist Women, or in my life, has the need been more urgent or the call been more clear. Never before in my life have I been more equipped. And never before have I been surrounded by a community of women more ready to find a place to plug in, serve and support. I hope you sense that too.

Don’t let the preaching scare you. It’s as simple as telling your story and making sure you don’t leave out the part where Jesus was your hero. It’s as easy as saying to someone, “I’d love to hear your story sometime.” It works! It really works.

I may have hesitated or missed 90% of what I felt God wanted me to do since last spring, but my oh my, He showed me some of what God can do with my measly 10%.

Hope to see you at Priority 2023. I’d love to hear your story.

Hey Girl! Find Your Pulpit and Preach It.”

How are they to call on one they have not believed in? And how are they to believe in one they have not heard of? And how are they to hear without someone preaching to them? And how are they to preach unless they are sent? As it is written, “How timely is the arrival of those who proclaim the good news.” Romans 10:14-15, (NET).

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Diddly and Squat.

No strength of my own to stand strong or fight, and my voice doesn’t carry much punch.

Please, Word of God, speak while I hold still and pray. My heart and my soul feel the crunch.

The war rages on between Diddly and Squat, and I’m watching from square in the middle.

They pretend to serve truth for the good of mankind, but they dish out manure and piddle.

We voted them in, whether fraud or legit. We can’t trust either side with the facts.

They plot and make deals from behind heavy doors. Public speeches are meant to distract.

The words “hater and hypocrite” are screamed and abused. Who will answer to, “Where is the money?”

They hamper debate on their fat, pork-filled laws, and then laugh as though wicked is funny.

Are you hearing me, Lord? I’ve a lot more to say. I’ve a lot to get off of my chest.

The people you made in the world you created claim their book, not yours, is the best.

I talked with a friend and asked for his thoughts. He told me how he’s got the blues.

“I’m so angry,” he said. “Are you still seeing red? It’s clear we don’t watch the same news.”

The two of us nod and rattle our brains wanting wisdom and right to prevail.

Common sense would be nice. Give the POTUS a slice. He pretends that this sinking ship sails.

Do what you must, but in God I will trust and serve while the buffalo roam.

Pray for Diddly and Squat. They have way more to lose than a vote or political home.

Let the deer and the antelope play while you pray. And be to all folk a good neighbor.

Let never be heard that discouraging word. Do even your foe a sweet favor.

The sky will get cloudy and the capital roudy. Hold on to your mind and your scrupples.

Don’t let childern, misled, pay the price on your head. You’re the teacher and they are the pupils.

Wait! What do I read? It’s a message for me and the friend who will cancel my vote.

Good news from God’s Word, not telltale or lie. You’ll agree it is well worth a quote.

But our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ,” Philippians 3:2

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Peace and Good Will

“Peace on earth. Good will,” they say.

The Hallmark movies end that way.

But as for me, and at my house,

The creatures stir and we might have a mouse.

The stockings need hung and the cookies need baked.

Company’s coming. I’ve got beds to make.

The washing machine chose this season to die.

I forgot the pecans for Dad’s favorite pie.

The children are fighting. They don’t deserve gifts.

I should take it all back and not care who gets miffed.

I’m tired of hearing the same Christmas songs

About Santa and reindeer and bells that ding-dong.

I’d rather be taking a long winter’s nap,

But I’ve got to keep knitting this red and green cap.

I plan. I work hard for our holiday cheer,

But it’s wearing me down, year after year.

While others are laughing and merry and bright

I am sad, quite depressed, on this long winter’s night.

There’s got to be more than gifts, food and trees.

I wonder if something is wrong – with just me.

I would love to have quiet and time for myself.

I would love a retreat with a personal elf?

But the budget is busted. There’ll be no getaway.

I’m stuck in this house with bills that need paid.

Then out on the lawn I hear a strange clatter.

I spring to the door to see what is the matter.

“I’ll shovel your walk ma’am, for twenty-five dollars?”

The man is disheveled. His coat has no collar.

His hands are all red and cracked from the cold,

He sniffles and coughs like a virus took hold.

I step back not wanting to get myself sick.

“No, thank you,” I say rather rudely and quick.

He turns. Not a word. I feel guilty for sure.

But I’ve got my own troubles. I can’t be his cure.

I return to my knitting and cup of hot tea.

If he’s caused a missed stich, it will just have to be.

There’s the church Christmas program and that story to tell.

I’ll be so embarrassed if that doesn’t go well.

There are presents to wrap and a message to post.

I’m hoping that Fed Ex brings what I want most.

Is it too much to ask for new pots and new pans?

How many years I have cooked for that man?

My phone does a dance on the table with glee.

“Scam likely,” it says. Wish they’d leave me be.

Then what to my wondering eyes does appear?

But that man with his shovel. Had I not said it clear?

He is scraping away at my pile of snow fall.

He’s fast and effective. He’s smiling. What gall!

He won’t get a dollar. I spent my last cash.

Except for the bills that I hide in my stash.

I yank on the yarn and my knitting looks bad.

I lock my jaw closed. I am livid. I’m mad.

Let him shovel my walk. Let him clean it off fine.

He’ll come back to my door, but he won’t get a dime!

I’m sorry life dealt him a hard circumstance,

And maybe he’s working his very last chance.

I have a good heart. I don’t mean to be cruel.

But I’m nobody’s patsy. I’m nobody’s fool.

I stew in frustration, yet sense God at work.

Today’s not the day, but this deed I can’t shirk.

“So what do I do, Lord? What if this guy’s a thief?

Or an awful abuser who brings horrible grief?

Don’t ask me to welcome him into my home.

My rugs have been cleaned and my hair is uncombed.

I could write him a check, but then he’d know my name.

I’ll give extra next Sunday—if that’s all the same.

I will pray for him. Yes! What a good Christian does.

I will pray that he finds some warm socks and some gloves.

I will pray for his belly to be filled with good food.

And I’ll ask all my friends to pray for him too.”

My sidewalk and driveway cleared lickety split.

While I sat on my fanny . . . only bothered a bit.

He carries his shovel and crosses the street.

He turns to admire. Work. Thorough and neat.

Then he catches a glimpse of me pulling the curtain.

His lips move, “Merry Christmas.” Then he waves it for certain.

I had him all wrong. My attitude stank.

My lofty ideals in that moment lost rank.

I’m sorry, but sorry won’t cover my shame.

I had passed on my turn to do good in Christ’s name.

Forgive me, Lord. I took the wrong stance.

I’ll return him the favor if you’ll give me a chance.

I gave a quick look through my basket of knitting,

For a hat and a scarf to warm him and fit him.

I pulled from the closet a pair of men’s gloves.

The tag is still dangling. Never worn? Just because?

The man is so gracious, accepting my thought.

Few words came between us. I said less than I ought.

This won’t be a movie on Hallmark or cable.

No romance or hero or damsel unable.

Just kindness and industry given for free.

The night peace and good will was offered to me.

“Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me – put it into practice – and the God of peace will be with you.”  Philippians 4:9

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