Rita Klundt

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The Typo

Published by Rita Klundt on June 23, 2026

The word “form” is one of those words I search for and find nearly every day as I write. It’s a typo. I type f-o-r-m instead of f-r-o-m. After 30 years of nursing, my fingers have muscle memory from typing the word “form” hundreds of times more than the word “from.”

It’s one of those subtle mistakes that my eyes want to skip over. My brain transposes the letters R and O. I recoil a bit each time I see that particular typo. The word “form” bugs me. It creates an extra step as I self-edit my writing. It’s annoying! But the word prompt for last week was “form,” in the context of transFORMation, the larger concept—the acronym.

Completing forms was part of every one of my nursing jobs, but the forms multiplied once I became a clinical research coordinator—forms to complete while interviewing patients, forms reporting patient symptoms and problems, forms to complete even for the patients who were doing spectacularly. Forms, especially the electronic ones, were often not adequate for communicating a complex patient problem.

My job required creating forms as legal documents, including a form to track what I’d done with all the forms. Blank lines! Oh, how I love the freedom of a blank line. Oh, how I dreaded reducing what had been written on a blank line to checkboxes and numbers.

In the same way many readers prefer holding an actual book over words on a screen, I preferred a patient chart, held together with those long, and quite effective paper-binding clips. The thickness of a patient’s chart indicated the complexity of a medical history. I could adjust my schedule to accommodate the amount of data inside. Opening an electronic medical file was often surprising, for the sheer volume, and often for what was missing.

Many nurses battled that transition form paper to electronic charts, even the young ones. It transformed our methods and our order of doing things. We were slow to trust it was for the patients’ good. We knew it was not a perfect system. With the shift from ink pen to the keyboard, the number of forms multiplied at least tenfold.

It was early last week when I went for my annual physical. While the doctor had one form open on the screen, I asked him how much weight I’d lost over the past year. (I’ve been trying!) It frustrated him (and me) that he had to leave one form (the lab form) to give me an answer. Back in the day, he would have used one finger as a bookmark, flipped the tab labeled “Vital Signs,” then quickly given me an answer before returning to the divider marked “Lab Results.”

Forms!

Instead of staring a hole through my doctor, I stared at a bulletin board and waited for his answer. There, I read a notice. It said, “Please notify the nurse, prior to seeing your healthcare provider, if you have a form that needs to be completed or signed. There will be a $16 charge to complete any form without a corresponding office visit.”

Forms! Forms! And more forms! Where do all these forms come form? And what does all this talk of forms have to do with last week’s word prompt? I’m getting to it.

Without looking to Oxford or Merriam or Webster, I can tell you that to create a form is to create boundaries, and boundaries are great … depending on the creator. What matters is knowing where exactly those boundaries are needed and having the ability to place them and shape them.

Example: I got an F on my first 7th grade art project. Unlike my teacher’s declaration, yes, I could identify a rabbit in my back yard or in a book. I could pick the shape of a rabbit in a lineup of jumping animals. But the assignment was to form one from clay. And yes, I could see how some of my classmates were forming their clay, and how their ability to pull an image from their brain with their fingers was far greater than mine. Just one more reason for me to recoil at the word.

TransFORMation? Is that even possible for people like me? There are people like me, right? People who struggle to check the right boxes and write only in the allotted spaces. People for whom the answer does not appear on the form in front of them. People who appreciate the narrative more than simple numbers and empty checkboxes. People who get frustrated by checking boxes with no option to explain. People who squeeze to stay inside boundaries, or stretch to fill otherwise empty space … boundaries that, by the way, seem to apply to someone else’s more perfect specifications.

Psalm 139: 14-16 (CSB) says: “I will praise you because I have been remarkably and wonderfully made. Your works are wondrous, and I know this very well. My bones were not hidden from you when I was made in secret, when I was formed in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw me when I was formless; all my days were written in your book and planned before a single one of them began.”

That means there’s hope for people like me. We were formed on purpose and meant to please our creator. He set our boundaries, created our shape (our form) in such a way as to make us remarkable and wonderful. He has our tomorrows planned! He has fit us with an assignment in mind. That too is according to His meticulous and unique specifications.

So, why should I recoil at the thought of the word “form?”

Many of my seasoned coworkers chose to retire rather than learn and adapt to the digital world. A single mom, I needed the paycheck. Plus, it wasn’t bad at all—once the shock wore off. For a while though, it was double the work to document a patient’s progress and double the forms. Administrators didn’t trust the system either, so we were required to fill out both paper and digital forms. It was slow-going, and the world of clinical research was slower than most other specialties.

I loved my job and could have worked as a nurse for much longer than I did. But I wanted to be a writer. Blank lines called to me. Making the change was not easy … altering my schedule, overhauling my budget. I missed walking the hospital halls and seeing patients in the office and being an advocate. I still loved being a nurse for all the reasons I had wanted to be a nurse in the first place. The noteworthy difference? I no longer needed to manage all those forms!

And that’s when I realized that fingers have such good memory. They were formed that way. A friend of mine fell recently and broke her right arm. Like most of us, she’s right-handed. She can almost hear her right hand scoffing at her left, saying, “It’s so easy. You simply comb her hair and brush her teeth this way.” But her left hand has no such memory. Our left hands may be a mirror images of our right, but unless we are gifted and ambidextrous, they were formed for different tasks.

My friend does not need instruction to teach her left hand to perform the tasks her right hand has been doing with ease all these years. She’s practicing. She’s creating muscle memory. She’s doing therapy. Her arm is healing, but she’s struggling. She’s having to make accommodations, and settle for less, because muscle memory, with few exceptions, is a slow process. My friend’s right hand still remembers how to pick up a skillet and fry a hamburger. She doesn’t need to give it instructions. Her arm and hand have great muscle memory. But she does need to restrain her arm and wear a sling. If she doesn’t, her hand will grab that skillet and it will hurt. Without the sling, she could re-injure her arm. Muscle memory is a powerful thing.

Like my tasks as a nurse still have me tapping letters in a particular order, my eyes automatically examine, my ears love a story of healing or restoration, and my feet want to run toward a disaster and not from it. I’ve been formed, and my muscles have memory.

The only instruction we’d been given in the 7th grade about working with clay was a reminder that we’d only be given so much clay and a warning that it would harden more every day. I might have been able to do something with the project, but I kept putting it off. Discouragement set in. No matter what, that blob of gray clay appeared to be someone else’s discard. Dried up and hardened more every day. And then it was too late.

Life has a way of transforming us. Passively. Negatively. Like that lump of clay, we fiddle with things—for a while. We ask for help too late or we don’t ask at all. I should mention here that the art teacher was aloof and seemingly unapproachable. He was harsh and treated questions as interruptions. He praised students with natural talents and made a point to mock and shame the work of others. I froze. I gave in to defeat. An F was better than his humiliation.

Oh my! How often do I avoid the Lord’s intent to transform me? I am His clay. He presses and tugs and urges. He’s molding me, still forming me, and I don’t always like it. His hands are skillful, even tender. He cares for me and treats my outcome as vitally important, but I make like the transformation is gonna hurt too much. I resist. I freeze. I expect humiliation when it’s merely humbling.

The word still bugs me. Who knows? Perhaps I could have trained my fingers by now. Perhaps I still could? Type the letters f-r-o-m 100 times? Type it fast, 1000 times?

I know now that I should have practiced—disciplined my fingers, but those little typos can be searched, found and fixed. Years ago, I should have disciplined my thoughts and reactions to people like my 7th grade art teacher. It seems that I’ve let people form how I think and feel about myself when Jesus had a better plan. He formed me before my parents conceived me. He had planned how my life should take shape. But I’ve allowed people and circumstances to take and re-form the remarkable and wonderful life that would have been. I think sometimes that my life is a mess, but where would I be except that God is still forming me, shaping me.

Now, some would anticipate that I do what I did in Jr. High, procrastinate and then fail. They’d call it fate. Que sera, sera. Whatever will be will be. It’s tempting. I’ve considered it. But I know that God is not finished forming me. He didn’t create me and then click on some “Auto Shaping” app.

I’ve got two questions for you: Why would a Christian be so passive and allow just any flawed sinner to press and poke and squeeze, and essentially re-form them? And why would a Christian be fearful and vehemently resist the shape that our Perfect Creator and Savior calls to?

Paul writes to the church in Corinth (2 Corinthians 6:3-10): “We are not giving anyone an occasion for offense, so that the ministry will not be blamed.Instead, as God’s ministers, we commend ourselves in everything: by great endurance, by afflictions, by hardships, by difficulties.by beatings, by imprisonments, by riots, by labors, by sleepless nights, by times of hunger, by purity, by knowledge, by patience, by kindness, by the Holy Spirit, by sincere love, by the word of truth,by the power of God; through weapons of righteousness for the right hand and the left, through glory and dishonor, through slander and good report; regarded as deceivers, yet true; as unknown, yet recognized; as dying, yet see—we live; as being disciplined, yet not killed; as grieving, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet enriching many; as having nothing, yet possessing everything.”

Wow! Paul wrote, “… we live as being disciplined, yet not killed …”

Uh oh! Are we still living a falsehood, bending over for spankings from people whose words have hurt is in the past?” Have we handed ourselves over to their re-forming? They’ve moved on, but we’ve placed their hand on some phantom “Auto Reshape” switch. I’ve let a few mean and cruel words shape my thoughts, behaviors and future. You too? Even as I write this, I’m asking for God to be my disciplinarian, realizing that some of my own wrong thoughts and deeds cannot be found and fixed with a few taps on a keyboard. A typo? Really? That’s what bugs me?

My friend won’t pick up a heavy skillet with her right hand until her humerus (not humorous) bone it healed. Muscle memory works quickly sometimes. I’m asking God to re-train me. I’m asking Him to erase some of my muscle memory and put my muscles to work creating new ones.

1 Corinthians 3:9: “For we are God’s coworkers. You are God’s field, God’s building.”

Paul isn’t only speaking of himself and the apostles who were being persecuted with him. He was looking for neither sympathy nor praise. This was a challenge to the church in Corinth, and divinely preserved for us. Coworkers. Together with God.

I did the word search before posting this. You should find at least two typos. You’ll see the word form when it should be from. I let the typos stay uncorrected, on purpose. That’s me testing you. If you caught it, I’m guessing you might have recoiled … same as me. If you missed it, bless your heart. Either way, each of us was made to be remarkable and wonderful.

Each of us could relax, not be so afraid for God to do a little poking and pressing. I can almost see His fingers. I can almost hear Him saying—This is good. This is very good.

Featured Post

The Writer’s Tithe

The Writer’s Tithe

Published by Rita Klundt on May 22, 2026

What if I tithed on my story?

What if I gave 10 %?

What if I left out the hard stuff

and only told blessing He’d sent?

How many pages to cover

the wonderful things God has done?

So many times Jesus saved me.

To His credit my battles are won.

How can I tell of His wonders?

For most I was unaware.

How many times He surprised me.

I’ve stories and plenty to spare.

But who would sit still just to listen?

And how do I form the words best.

Do I write it or speak it or paint it?

Are you sure, Lord? Is this some sort of test?

My story is so complicated.

No good comes for quite a long time.

A big part of my story is ugly.

Those years had no reason or rhyme.

And if I should tithe on my story,

is it good to expose my worst pain?

I’m forgiving, forgiven and changing.

He’s wiped my sin clean—every stain.

So, how does one “tithe” on a story?

Instead, I’ll tithe work of my hands?

My story is tangled with others

who likely will misunderstand.

Jesus called me to sit and be quiet.

He carried my thoughts to a day

when hurt and betrayal consumed me.

Depleted. Hope driven away.

“Just start where you woke on that morning.

This first draft is written for Me.

The whole of the story between us.

No judgmental eyes need to see.

Let’s cover those things you remember.

Don’t sanitize facts or save face.

Name names. Be honest. Don’t edit.

Just write, and don’t yet erase.

Here’s the thing that matters ‘bout tithing.

Give all and I’ll use what is best.

!0 % is only a number.

That 90 % we’ll invest.”

So, I did as the Lord had instructed,

and I wrote with 100 %.

He was there, even wrote along with me.

Time flew, every minute well spent.

A lot was told only to Jesus.

A tell-all was never the plan.

Confessions and anger and anguish,

He listened as only He can.

An editor cleaned up some errors,

The public has had a good peek.

Now I’ve opened my life and my story

to questioning and to critique.

Not once has that tithe turned to bite me.

Not yet has there been a regret.

Whatever my heart gives to Jesus,

He will use it and never forget.

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Sins of Omission?

Sins of Omission?

Published by Rita Klundt on May 15, 2026

Have you ever been ignored? Disregarded? Overlooked? Neglected? Discounted? Or worse … snubbed? Each of these synonyms points to a different brand of insult and offence.

Can anyone make it to adulthood without experiencing all of these things? Be honest. Has any of us made it through the fifth grade without committing each of these offences?

There’s another synonym that’s not used often these days. Flout. It means to disobey, defy, scorn, spurn, scoff, or contravene and even to violate. To flout means to refuse or reject authority. If you’ve ever lived with a two-year-old, you can picture these things. Most of us have seen it in teenagers. All of us, if we’re honest, have committed these offences.

It boggles my mind and wounds my heart to think that I would turn my back on the Lord’s promises and instruction. But how many times have I stumbled and fallen head first, heart first, into sin? Most often, it’s a sin of omission. I assume God will wait while I’m forgetting, or making a promise and then “finding” excuses.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own understanding; in all your ways know [acknowledge] him, and he will make your paths straight.” (Proverbs 3:5-6, CSB).

Each phrase of that passage is worthy of study, but the word of the week is “acknowledge.” So what does it mean to acknowledge Him in all my ways?

Acknowledgement is not only an attitude and posture. It’s an action. Lip service won’t do. It means submission when we think we can do better. We might have been educated and trained to do it differently. It means to lean into the leadership of the Holy Spirit and abandon old notions. It means to set aside human logic sometimes, and to risk an earthly comfort or pleasure for a yet-to-be-seen, forever treasure.

All my ways means all my methods, emotions and relationships. All of my dreams and plans. My finances and my schedule! My accomplishments. My calling. To acknowledge Him means to give up control and leave my outcomes to His authority. All my ways means that I must be alert, but I can rest and not worry. Is that even humanly possible? Of course, I know the answer.

I like the chorus to the Casting Crowns song:

“Not because of who I am,

But because of what you’ve done.

Not because of what I’ve done,

But because of who you are.”

Yes, I do know Jesus … and trust Jesus. Still, there seems to be a great divide between ignoring or forgetting the words of the Lord and outright flouting Him. I’ve acted as though sins of omission, the sin of disregard, overlooking, neglecting or discounting what scripture teaches hurt less than what we call sins of commission, or the “thou shalt nots.”

I’ve been wrong. Sin is sin. I know I’ve avoided some awful consequences by avoiding the more public sins. Good for me? But how many blessings have I missed? How many treasures won’t I be able to appreciate because I didn’t acknowledge the Lord in “all my ways?”

How precious to know God loved me enough to go to the cross, not because of who I am, or because of what I’ve done—or haven’t done. He loves me because I am His, and He tells me that He is mine.

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The Puzzle

The Puzzle

Published by Rita Klundt on April 14, 2026

If my life were a puzzle that came in a box,

with the pieces all scrambled and free.

Were the lid to be sealed and cellophaned,

would I like the picture of me?

Would my borders be laid down first of all,

never-minding what’s painted between?

The sheer joy and delight when two shapes connect.

Dare I hope for a beautiful scene?

Other stuff set aside. I’m committed.

Good puzzles take time and need space.

With the focus on me and my purpose,

I look forward to seeing the face.

Well, the hours and memories start growing.

I am building on sad yesterdays.

There’s a piece I wish had gone missing.

I’d replace it with flowered bouquets.

I question why some come together—

Why others whose color won’t fit.

I see my two viable options.

To keep working with patience or quit.

I imagine my life as that puzzle,

Not flat, laying helpless or still.

Not stealing my time or my table,

But needing God’s hand and His skill.

I can stubbornly force it together—

Be satisfied with crooked and bent.

I can choose to ignore the unfinished.

I can waste every effort I’ve spent.

But I gaze at the lid and the picture.

What I see is phenomenally sure.

It’s a picture of me with my Savior.

I am loved and each piece is secure.

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Zeal

Zeal

Published by Rita Klundt on April 3, 2026

I entered the 70^th decade of my life about six months ago, and it took about that long for the spiritual word of the week begin with the letter Z.

“Zeal.” I’m not feeling it. Zeal implies energy, even youth.

When I ponder on that word, however, I recognize my zeal for a good nap on Sunday afternoons. I am zealous for rest and peace and the simple kind of joy.

Lord, thank you for directing my zeal—age appropriately. I’d climb a mountain were the instructions clear and clearly from you. I’d drive across the country or fly to the ends of the earth should you require it, but you have required no such thing of me.

Isaiah was a gray-haired, old man, based on all the artwork, yet the Lord used him to pen these words: “… but those who trust in the LORD will renew their strength; they will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not become weary, they will walk and not faint.” (Isaiah 40:31, CSB).

I am zealous for the brand of zeal Isaiah had. Just like Isaiah, there is no mission, task or good deed before me that the Lord himself did not provide.

My job for today is clear, and there’ll be no rest or peace until it’s done. If I’m to feel the zeal, it will come after obedience. And that means I will visit my neighbor to deliver an invitation to celebrate the resurrection with me on Sunday. She mentioned how she used to go to church and “loved it.” But then didn’t respond to my first invitation. That’s a zeal buster … because I let it be.

If I had to choose between zeal and obedience, I think obedience should come first, but must I choose? Do I need zeal to obey, and doesn’t obedience to the Lord’s voice bring me zeal?

Why do I sit and contemplate “zeal,” when I can have it?

Friend, can we talk later? I’ve got to visit a neighbor. It’s urgent. Sunday is Resurrection day, and I’m not getting any younger.

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Yearning

Yearning

Published by Rita Klundt on March 26, 2026

I yearn for my life to be the scrap of paper

where Jesus writes a love note.

I yearn to be like Jesus—

to treat everyone I meet with compassion and grace—

without sacrificing the truth.

I yearn for Jesus, when His will I’ve disobeyed,

to call me quickly to His side.

His discipline stings, but only for a while.

I yearn to have the Savior hear my prayer

and then speak.

His answers have never failed me, and won’t.

I yearn to put aside excuses …

to give my all without grudge or worry.

I yearn for Jesus, when I wake,

when I work, and at the end of the day.

But my yearning is weak.

Could my yearning be more intentional?

With heaven as home, I yearn to know

that loved ones will be there.

I yearn to follow, and I yearn to lead.

I yearn to be discipled and to disciple others.

I yearn for the joy of the Lord.

It IS my strength.

Am I accountable for my yearnings?

What I yearn for is a gift, not fully unwrapped.

Still, I yearn—for more.

Lord, please don’t take my yearnings from me.

Jesus, change me. Lead me. Push me.

I yearn to be that scrap of paper.

Write a love note on my life.

Sign it, Jesus, and make your signature plain.

I yearn to deliver it.

It would be a privilege, a blessing.

I would be pleased to deliver it—

with a word, with a hug or a smile,

with a helping hand, or with my tears.

This list of hungry souls is overwhelming me.

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Vigilant Waiting

Vigilant Waiting

Published by Rita Klundt on February 21, 2026

“The Lord is good to those who wait for Him, To the soul who seeks Him.” (Lamentations 3:25, NKJV).

It’s been two weeks now that I’ve meditated on the word VIGILANT—another word prompt writing assignment. We get a new word on Monday and are supposed to meditate on it some and then write and post before the week is gone.

I wrote a page and a half, but it was more about vigilantism than being vigilant. I didn’t delete the short manuscript. I’ll save it for another day. Surely, my time was not wasted, but I chased a rabbit and couldn’t seem to bring it home. Some writers would say that I wrote myself into a corner. But I’ve been vigilant about the assignment in other ways. The word came to mind as I read my Bible, prayed and went about doing everyday chores.

So now week two is almost gone, and the word WAIT was assigned on Monday. I haven’t been so vigilant. Tasks have distracted me. I asked myself on Wednesday and again on Thursday, “What was the word this week.”

“Oh yeah,” I answered myself. “Wait.”

A question begs me. “Do I finish last week’s manuscript, or forget about it and work on this week’s word?”

How about a meditation that combines the two words?

Be vigilant about waiting.

“The Lord is good to those who wait for him …” Lamentations 3:25 tells me that waiting is worth it.

I’m the mom of a prodigal, and I’m waiting for her to come home. But waiting is hard when you want to do something. I feel the need to search for her. To find her, and to make a way for us to reconcile and reunite. Waiting is hard. It’s been nearly ten years and only recently have I been able to write and share publicly about being mom to a prodigal.

Some Bible translations use the word hope instead of wait. I like that word better, but it still boils down to waiting. Other translations equate faith with waiting. Faith is a great word … a favorite word … maybe a more spiritual word, but it’s still waiting.

“… To the soul who seeks Him.”

The last part of the verse clarifies what waiting ought to look like. Waiting is NOT sitting around being idle. Waiting is not passive acceptance or settling. It’s work!

It’s also trusting that God desires a right outcome and that He is doing the heavy lifting.

I remember the day she was born almost like it was yesterday. The pains started right before the alarm clock would have gone off. It was her due date. Right on time. Not making me wait one more day.

We’d had a terrible winter storm the week before, but the roads were clear, and the sun came out on the way to the hospital. As the labor pains intensified, I had a strange satisfaction in that my labor would be rewarded with a sweet, newly-born baby before the day was over.

I recall the sights and sounds and smells of the delivery room, and as I write this, I recall the forceps delivery. Enough of that!

My husband was proud to have slipped a pink, size 3T sweater into my hospital bag without me knowing it, and then insisted she would wear it home. Size 3T! Not my plan, but Januarys are cold and a newborn needs an extra layer of protection. A wise nurse helped me to make it work and to support a daddy’s pride.

Paula was a much anticipated and beautiful baby. We had waited, and I had been vigilant about preparing our home to receive her. Everything was ready! God’s timing was perfect.

If I read from Lamentations back then, it was probably to prepare for a lesson. I didn’t study it or stay in the book any longer than necessary. It’s different today. Relevant.

Nine months of waiting for what had been promised paid off back then. Almost ten years now, and I’m still hoping for her to come home. I’m being vigilant in my waiting.

“The Lord is good to those who wait for Him, To the soul who seeks Him.”

I am waiting for the Lord and finding myself satisfied in His goodness. Of course, I ask for Him to hurry and for lots of other things—to keep her safe and help her feel and remember how loved she is. I pray that her heart has not grown too cold or broken. I pray for God to do something. I pray for my pain to end, but strangely, after each spell of intense sorrow is over, and I notice that my world has not collapsed, I sense a deep satisfaction—a comfort and encouragement to keep laboring.

Well-meaning people give me advice. They can’t understand. God isn’t urging me to do something. He’s urging me to wait and to be vigilant about it.

I chased another rabbit all through the scripture this past week. My daily reading plan fell apart, and I was still undecided about that “perfect” verse for combining the words vigilant and wait. I’m not saying it isn’t there. I’m saying I didn’t find it … until this morning when God sent a rabbit to play in our back yard. Silly rabbit. He thinks it is spring already.

‘“The Lord is my portion,” says my soul,

“Therefore I hope in Him!”

The Lord is good to those who wait for Him,

To the soul who seeks Him.

It is good that one should hope and wait quietly

For the salvation of the Lord.’”

(Lamentations 3:24-26, NKJV).

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Unity

Unity

Published by Rita Klundt on February 8, 2026

“I think a thorough discussion of unity should include God’s purpose in giving us spiritual gifts.”

But someone will say, “That’s too much content for our agenda, which is limited to the topic of unity.”

And yet another member of the group asks, “Which set of spiritual gifts would you have us include?”

Then, there is always someone who wants to socialize and share a plate of brownies while the other side of the table has an appointment with their television at home. At the very least, they’d rather be sitting in something other than a folding chair.

And unity just – got – complicated. The meeting we thought would last for thirty minutes? The theme we thought so important? It happens.

The person with the gift of administration might be quick to dismiss an idea that requires faith. The person with the gift of faith might disregard the one responsible for smaller details. The person with the gift of discernment wants to avoid trouble, but needs patience with those whose starting point is mercy. The gift of leadership keeps that person on edge sometimes, making sure that everyone else stays on topic and has signed on the appropriate line. And not everyone in the group with wisdom knows how and when to share it. Doers and givers get things done, but they forget to disciple their replacements, and then wonder why they are “abused.” The encouragers? They can overdo it, but we’ve so much to learn from them. And we forget that preachers and teachers are not always assigned a pulpit or a classroom.

We tend to have tunnel vision when it comes to practicing and caring for our own spiritual gift, which leads to difficulty appreciating what God has given to others. It can be hard to see where other Christians are coming from, and we’ve placed barriers to resist going where they feel led to take us. These spiritual gifts … are spiritual … for God’s purpose kind of spiritual. Too often, however, we attach a worldly label to a fellow believer and consider unity impossible. We work around and through the disunity. It’s quick and seems to satisfy in the moment. It’s not a male/female thing at all, but it sure does seem that for every gift that comes from Mars, there’s an opposing one that hails from Venus. We forget that conformity is not transformation and uniformity it not unity.

We were created by the same God who knew what he was doing when with our spiritual birth he gave us individual spiritual gifts. He gave the same commands to each of us for the benefit of his kingdom. Then, he put us together, under the same steeple!

“Just as each one has received a gift, use it to serve others, as good stewards of the varied grace of God.” (1 Peter 4:10, CSB).

The spiritual gifts are not talents we can develop, but gifts to be discovered, polished and shared. I’ve heard them called motivational gifts. I like that modifier because when we recognize our own motivation, whether it’s to preach, teach, administrate, lead, serve, be generous, encourage or show compassion, our gift is likely to shine and give God glory. And when we take the time and offer grace and space for a brother or sister in Christ to express their motivation, we can be blessed with a complimentary partner.

“Iron sharpens iron, and one person sharpens another.” (Proverbs 27:17, CSB).

In his book S.H.A.P.E: Finding & Fulfilling Your Unique Purpose for Life, Erik Rees offers a brief discussion of four common traps that Satan sets for us where it comes to the use of our spiritual gifts.

The trap of comparison: Each gift is an individual “masterpiece,” but we can get tangled by thoughts and comparisons of things like numbers, abilities and being seen when none of those things adds to or subtracts from our giftedness.
The trap of projection: We assign our expectations to others, and do harm to a ministry when we apply standards of performance based on what others are doing or what we have done. Just as troublesome, we fail to explore the source of the conflict—together.
The trap of rejection: Christians can get discouraged when exercising their spiritual gift gets difficult. That can lead to rejecting their giftedness. The truth? Following Jesus isn’t always easy. Doing things his way, using a spiritual gift according to his purpose works out well for us, but payday is seldom today, and growing pains really hurt!
The trap of deception: Personality, personal desires, and even inherited talents and generational expectations can cause us to believe we have certain spiritual gifts that, in fact, God did not give us. That’s a problem because that trap will hold us when we would otherwise be exercising our true spiritual gift. Seven members of a praise band might all be quite talented musically, and the best of praise bands will typically have a variety of instruments and a variety of spiritual gifts. Music is the talent … the tool, not to be confused with their spiritual or motivational gifting. There’s trouble in paradise when that’s misunderstood.

Yes, I think a thorough discussion of unity will include some mention of the spiritual gifts.

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Featured Post

Rooted

Rooted

Published by Rita Klundt on January 8, 2026

I’m rooted.

I found my forever home.

My strength

Is not my own.

I’m both planted … and sent.

It’s winter.

I want so much to see green.

Dead leaves

Fall on brown grass.

I hope. Wait for what comes next.

Mystery.

Underground. Planning. Thriving.

God works

He tells me so.

He covers me. Holds me.

Others pray.

I’ve need and dark circumstance.

I trust

I’m not alone.

I stay near the water.

Blue skies hint.

I am confident indeed.

No fear

Animals play.

This is but a season.

I’m rooted.

Planted by living water.

Thank God

I’ll not be moved.

No matter where he sends me.

“The person who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence indeed is the Lord, is blessed. He will be like a tree planted by water: it sends its roots out toward a stream, it doesn’t fear when heat comes, and its foliage remains green. It will not worry in a year of drought
or cease producing fruit.” (Jeremiah 17:7-8, CSB).

(To Amber, This was inspired by you, written for you, and rooted in the love that surrounds you. You are truly a woman that God both planted and sent. Prayers for you, my sister in Christ. Rita K.)

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Featured Post

Have a Blessed Christmas

Have a Blessed Christmas

Published by Rita Klundt on December 23, 2025

I remember the year I noticed people, mostly my Christian friends, start telling me to have a “blessed” Christmas instead of a “merry” one. It was about five years after my first husband had died. The message was clear and not in opposition to my desires, but I thought to myself. Great! I’m finally able to hold back my tears and enjoy the season, and now you want me to put aside my merriness?

I wanted to lean in on the true meaning of Christmas, for my three children and me. But I’d also decided to work longer than usual shifts and pick up a few more hours as a registered nurse to have a little extra cash for an extra special Christmas. I wanted my son and two daughters to have everything the other kids (with two parents) would have under their trees and in their stockings.

I shopped … for weeks. And I didn’t drop. I was a pro. Incidentally, that was about the time store clerks were instructed to say “Happy Holidays.”

And it was a beautiful tree with plenty of presents. Everything on every list lined out. I managed not to miss a single Christmas program. I had cleaned and decorated into the late night hours and only complained a little. Those were the days when political correctness was a newer thing, but I was a rebel and proud of it.

I said “Merry Christmas” to the clerks I encountered, people at church, to the mailman and my neighbors. I mailed “Merry” Christmas Cards to relatives and friends without giving thought to the price of stamps. Patients and their families gifted me with candy and trinkets of appreciation. I thanked them with a “Merry Christmas to you as well.” With all the hustle and bustle, I still managed to watch some Christmas movies. I didn’t miss a church service. I practiced and sang with the church choir and worked on children’s programs. I baked cookies.

A homemade fruitcake flopped. The kids hated it, but that was only reason to laugh and be merry with co-workers.

I knew that my five-year-old would be the first to wake me, and I was correct. I’d planned well, so that rifling through their stockings would be distraction enough to keep them away from their wrapped presents so that I could get cinnamon rolls started in the oven.

It was a wonderful life—really wonderful.

Brunch at Grandma’s house wouldn’t be until 10am and the cinnamon rolls were ready. The table was set with paper plates, but we had matching napkins and a fresh, wreath centerpiece with berry and pinecones and red bows.

There were five plates on the table when there were only four of us. A mistake on my part.

“That’s for me,” I’m fairly sure it was my thirteen-year-old son who said that. “I get the extra cinnamon roll.” Teasing, but he caused the girls to cry.

“No,” I said. “It’s just an empty plate.”

“It’s for Santa,” the youngest said, although she already knew that Santa was a ruse. I was only waiting for her to admit she knew before giving the older two permission to speak.

But the empty plate continued, nagging me.

I’d been blessed, being able to provide as a single mom, and preparing for this day had been fun and fulfilling, but that empty plate reminded me of who was missing.

“It’s for Jesus!” I said.

We had some discussion about why I didn’t give Jesus a glass of milk and a napkin, and why we’d have an extra plate without an extra chair. I wished I had prepared for that blessed Christmas people were talking about and planned that extra plate as an object lesson, but I hadn’t.

The gifts called with the last bites cinnamon rolls, and we went back to the Christmas tree to gorge in another way. I don’t recall which of my daughters noticed, but one of them did, and jumped from the floor to give me a hug. “Mom! I got everything on my list!”

Later on, at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, we enjoyed a full spread brunch. Then Grandma made us wait for presents until she’d read the story of the first Christmas. She always read it straight out of Luke 2, the King James Version. Her living room was packed, per usual, with presents and people of all ages. (Some of you with larger families know exactly what I mean.)

Grandma’s reading made everyone, from the youngest child to Grandpa, listen. Of course, I can’t say what they were all thinking, but Grandma’s voice as she read that story is something most of us won’t forget.

It was a wonderful life—a really wonderful and merry Christmas.

I had trouble falling asleep that night. If it weren’t for that empty plate! How could I have made such a stupid mistake? I reviewed the events of the holiday over and over and believed my efforts to block a sullen mood had been effective. I fell asleep with tears and woke with them. That was the first Christmas I did not mention Jack’s name or hear it said. I felt guilty for that, and I grieved for days after.

And so that brings me back to the beginning of this article—the title. Now that the kids are grown and seldom make it home for the holidays, I’m touched to have someone wish me a blessed Christmas. Merriness isn’t something we can plan. Why … the other day, I told a grocery store clerk to “Have a blessed Christmas.” She looked at me as though I had shoplifted her merriness. She’ll get over it.

I’d been in her line previously, during the week before Thanksgiving. I’d asked her how her day was going and she mentioned working longer hours and extra shifts, and that her young son was sick.

“Sorry to hear that. I was a single mom for many years, so I know how you feel. You need the money and your kid needs you.”

She nodded and sighed.

“I’ll be praying for you.” I held bills in my hand, the change she had just handed me, and would have left her a hefty tip, but the system would punish her for accepting it.

And I am still praying for that grocery store clerk. I mean it. I want her to have a blessed Christmas. I want her to have a blessed life. And I plan on God leading me through her check-out lane again, and again.

Lord, I want to be one of those people who blesses her by pointing her to the giver of every blessing.

“When he saw the crowds, he went up on the mountain, and after he sat down, his disciples came to him.”

Lord, I want to be one of those disciples who is willing to follow you up the mountain and bring someone with me.

“Then he began to teach them, saying:

‘Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for the kingdom of heaven is theirs.
Blessed are those who mourn,
for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the humble,
for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful,
for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart,
for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they will be called sons of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,
for the kingdom of heaven is theirs.

You are blessed when they insult you and persecute you and falsely say every kind of evil against you because of me. Be glad and rejoice, because your reward is great in heaven. For that is how they persecuted the prophets who were before you.’” (Matthew 5:1-12, CSB).

So tell me to have a “Blessed Christmas.” You can wish me a “Merry Christmas.” And I won’t judge you if you say to me “Happy Holidays.” But who will challenge me and spur me on—to keep following Jesus, and to bless someone by bringing them with me?

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My Unmagical Day

My Unmagical Day

Published by Rita Klundt on December 21, 2025

There’s nothing magical about Christmas. Now, before you start thinking of names to call me, or think me rude and depressed, yes, I love seeing lights twinkle and candles flicker. I love the season, even though I also get melancholy, even sad, and some days wish we could skip it all and jump right into the new year.

I hear others repeat that same sentiment. Life circumstances, good and bad, seem to boil over at Christmas time. We all have longings and memories that beg to steal our joy. For many of us, that battle repeats during the winter holidays. Just from what I hear from friends and know of my own experience, no matter how hard we try to avoid “the” enemy, “he” shows up … if not for months and weeks, then days at time, or for a little while.

I can fortify myself, prepare for the season and do all the recommended procedures, but the melancholy comes.

My melancholy came last night. A suspicious-looking man stood in a shadow, wearing a dark hoodie that covered most of his face. He stared at me as I walked out of the grocery store. I hurried to get in and start the car. The click of doors locking gave me a modicum of safety when the man left the shadow to walk in my direction. I turned the radio on, feeling ridiculous and recalling my husband’s request that I “stay in tonight” and do my shopping in the morning.

Christmas music from a Christian station took the edge off, and seeing the man in my rearview mirror gave me some calm, so I tried to sing along. I had a boat-load of groceries in the trunk of my car. Rain splattered on my windshield when I would rather have had snow, but that wasn’t it. Tonight was as good a night as any for melancholy.

I drove from the parking lot, wanting to sing. Instead, I began to tear. By the very first stoplight, I was crying and talking to Jesus, letting Him know how hard “all this” was on me. I can’t do it. More than nine years! Isn’t that long enough? It’s Christmas!

You see, I have a daughter—a grown-up, gave me grandchildren and then took them away—prodigal daughter. I have good reason to cry, Lord, but I want not to. Not again. Do something for me. With me. In me. I need you. The rain blurred my view, and tears blurred my vision, but I wiped my eyes with the back of my glove and turned on the wipers.

My melancholy came just that fast. Typical, and I wonder if it weren’t for the loss of relationship with my daughter and grandchildren, would melancholy come at all. This I know: The loss of that relationship appears permanent. Nine years! And it has absolutely nothing to do with the season. The season merely accentuates it. Wait! It may only have been nine years, but this is the tenth Christmas.

I did the math. I tapped out the years on the steering wheel as if being exact made a difference. That’s something I do. I wish that I’m wrong. Ten is a much bigger number when there are 364 days and nights involved between each of those Christmas’. The math is so simple it troubles me. I wish this estrangement were about forgiveness. 70 times 7 is a much smaller number so that any debt, on either or both sides, should have been fully paid by now. I can’t say what I feel when the melancholy lands on me, except that it’s heavy and it hurts, and that I can’t swallow, or breathe for a while. And there are always tears. Copious tears. It must not be about forgiveness.

Then what is it? Why are you being so cruel? My thought was half self-talk to my daughter and half prayer.

I pulled into the garage, determined that my crying would stop. Melancholy is contagious. I’m terrible at stoic, but pulled it off last night, determined not to share tears over the same old story this year, I spoke to the backside of his recliner. “Hello-oh. I’m ho-ome.”

He started to get up. “I’ve got this. Only a couple of trips. You hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Well, I’m craving comfort soup, so I’m going to get some veggie beef soup started before I start baking. I’ll tell you when it’s ready.”

“Don’t cook for me,” he said. “I’ll make a sandwich later.”

I plopped the chopped beef into my heavy-duty, ten quart stock pot. (I paid seventy or eighty dollars for that thing twenty-five or thirty years ago, and using it makes everything taste better.)

I yelled from the pantry toward the television in the living room. “Do we have onions? I don’t see onions.”

“They weren’t on the list when I shopped on Monday.” Roger’s voice reminded me, like spouses do for each other, of another failing.

I said to myself, “No onions then.” I lit the oven to 350° and lined up the ingredients for my soup, minus the onion.

The soup hadn’t started to boil before the first batch of cookie dough was ready. The warning not to eat raw cookie dough was printed in bold on the recipe, but I scraped the bowl and licked the spoon anyway. What’s a little salmonella on top of what I’m already feeling?

I set the timer and sighed over a sink full of dirty bowls and utensils. 8-10 minutes. Long enough to wash the dishes, but not long enough to sit and rest, so I cut open a package of chocolate kisses and started unwrapping the little treats, having them ready to press into hot-from-the-oven cookies. I didn’t sneak even one of those chocolate drops. My attitude deserved the punishment.

Six dozen cookies (two dozen at a time) had my kitchen smelling like heaven, and I was feeling somewhat better. I scooped up a small bowl of soup that smelled almost as yummy and offered it to Roger.

“Too hot,” he said as he sat the bowl on his placemat. “I’ll eat it later.”

I served myself a bigger bowl and ate until all that was left was the red stain from the tomatoes. Roger’s soup sat there, still chillin’, and he sat in front of the television. Ours is an exciting life, but we can handle only so much after 7pm. Yep. That happens every year when daylight savings time robs us of daylight. Someone needs to fix that. Why should we wait until Easter to get our energy back?

I scrambled to find disposable containers with room enough for six dozen cookies, and then ran out of the heavy duty, long roll, aluminum foil needed to cover them. Uggh! There might have been more on the top shelf of the pantry, but that would require the step ladder … also in the pantry, but what a nuisance. I “made do” as my mother would say, by adding plastic wrap that rebelled and clung only where I didn’t want it to. I rolled my eyes and “rolled with the flow” as no one has said since the mid-seventies. Or is that “roll with the punches?” Look it up and let me know if you have the energy or the need to correct me. I told you this was an unmagical day.

Done. Well almost done, except the pot of soup needing to cool before filling single-serving containers with leftovers and putting them into the freezer. Wow! Five meals for the two of us for less than the price of one dinner out. I wanted to feel proud, but my melancholy would not allow it.

Roger said, when I asked about the soup, that it was “good,” and he smiled as he lifted the stock pot and tipped it for me to get the last bits of veggies and beef into the freezer containers. I joined him in the living room where he resumed watching You Tube—something to do with car engines, so I checked my phone. One friend complaining that her son … something I shouldn’t repeat here, although she published it on Facebook.

Text messages. One friend was back in the ER, interrupting what had been a fairly uneventful recovery after major surgery. Another friend warned of slick roads. A friend who had missed a fun outing the night before informed us that her headache was somewhat better. And there was more added to our prayer chain. I scrolled backward to make sure I hadn’t missed any prayer requests, and noted that it had been a few days since I’d heard anything about a premature baby that had yet to spend a Christmas at home with her family. We’ve been praying for many weeks … and had some of those prayers answered miraculously. Of course we weren’t the only ones praying, but we were blessed to have been invited into those prayers.

The day was almost gone and had lived up to my low expectations.

But then … another text. Something that happens every year, but not usually to one of your friends or family members. It was one of those stories that happens in winter where a furnace clogs or breaks somehow, and gas fumes accumulate, putting lives at stake without the occupants of a home being aware. People die.

Not this time. “Praise be to God!” my friend reported. She and her grandson had arrived at her daughter’s house and smelled the noxious fumes even before they entered the home. Lives were saved, according to the utility worker who responded to the call. “They wouldn’t have lived through the night with this level of carbon monoxide.”

There was more to her story, but it’s hers to tell. Anyway, I cried before I finished reading her text. I read it again. Gotta make sure I’ve got this right.

“Roger,” I said. I continued even when he didn’t turn to face me. “(My friend’s name) arrived to smell gas at her daughter’s house. She smelled is as soon as she opened her car door. It was really strong, super strong when they opened the door. They got the furnace turned off right away and let fresh air in the house.” I read the rest of the text aloud.

Roger and I talked a bit. I got a husbandly lesson and reminder of what to do in such a situation while my face was wet with tears. I really don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression of my husband. He’s the best. I suppose other husband’s would have responded similarly. Plus, the living room was lit only by the television and the Christmas tree, and I was trying to hide my tears with a normal voice.

“Who did you say?”

He hadn’t started listening to me until a sentence or two in, and I needed to repeat. I do the same to him, so there’s no complaint here.

And, just like that, my melancholy was gone. Tears flowed heavier, but my heart was lighter. Filled. With gratitude and praise. Thank you, Jesus, for being there, for hearing and knowing our needs before we pray and for coming when we call your name. You are so good.

“We can try to find a movie,” Roger said.

I reached for a tissue from the box on the small table between us. “That’s okay. Finish your video. I need to review my lesson for Sunday.”

Experience tells me that it’s seldom just one thing that brings on my Christmas melancholy. Too little sleep. Too much busyness, even the best kind of busyness. When every other area of my life is going well, there is still something/someone missing. Perhaps it’s when I learn how someone else is “doing” Christmas and begin to compare notes. It can also be a song, a hug from a friend or witnessing a kindness or generosity that would not happen except for the season. My daughter has made herself and her children unavailable for things like that from me and most of our family, making it easy for my melancholy mood to slip in and steal a chunk of joy.

And that man I judged suspicious was probably hiding his face from the cold wind.

This will be the tenth Christmas of my family not being together. And I’m not talking location. One of my kids lives overseas and another lives out east. Togetherness does not require being under the same roof. It’s good that sadness doesn’t need to be our loudest emotion. I’ve experienced some best-ever Christmas’ since my daughter stormed out of our home. She thinks she stormed out of our lives, but that won’t happen. Ever.

Last night was nothing magical, but my melancholy ended in less than a couple of hours, without needing Roger’s shoulder. The smell of fresh-baked Christmas cookies and my tummy comforted with hot beef and veggie soup didn’t do it. That text from my friend is what started the turn in my mood. It was her story on my mind as I opened my Bible.

“And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.” (Luke 2:6, KJV).

“And so it was …” I anticipated the rest of that verse, Recited it, and oh how that lifted my attitude. God’s powerful and eternal story spoke to me again. I kept reading. Every time I’ve heard that chapter read or read it myself, there is a certain tone of voice that calms me and comforts me. Again, it’s not magical or mystical. Luke did the storytelling, but the word of God speaks. I don’t care that it’s Charlie Brown who does the reciting, that story speaks to me whatever my current circumstance.

This is a moment in time, a bump in the road. Settle down.
Stay with me, right here for a while. Don’t be in such a hurry. I’m taking you to a finer place. I’m doing things that you can’t see and won’t realize for a while.
I’ll accomplish every good thing I’ve started in you. And by the way, you cannot fathom the good I’ve already done, or how great my finish will be.
I promised that you’d be delivered. Wait. Anticipate and see.

Now, Jesus didn’t say those words to me, aloud or otherwise, but our encounter left me knowing they were true. Nothing magical. Far better than magic … I encountered the Living God. Jesus is but one of His names.

I woke to my alarm this morning, two hours earlier than usual. I had cookies to deliver. Coat and gloves, not cold enough to need a scarf, but the sun hid behind some pretty thick clouds. Dreary is how I describe days like today.

I went to the church with my cookies and was back in less than twenty minutes. My car barely had time to get warm. Roger was still asleep and those dirty bowls and utensils were still in the sink. My phone says its 45°and Sunny in Pekin, IL, and sunny is spelled with a capital S. We must be living on the wrong side of town because it’s been cloudy the entire time it’s taken me to write this. But we have homemade soup ready to be microwaved when it’s time for lunch, and I had tucked a few cookies away last night for safe from Roger keeping.

My melancholy gone, it wanted to return. My phone had something to do with that, but I sat in my recliner and picked up my Bible for what I’ve come to know as a prompt care visit. No appointment necessary.

^“For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.” (Isaiah 9:6, KJV).

There’s nothing magical about Christmas. But the lights and sights and sounds of Christmas eventually point me to Jesus, my Wonderful counselor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father and The Prince of Peace. He is all those things to me, and more.

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Featured Post

Precious Peace

Precious Peace

Published by Rita Klundt on December 13, 2025

(I feel I may have missed the mark by using rhyme (imperfectly) for this week’s writer’s word prompt that was posted on Monday, By the way, it’s supposed to be a spiritual word – one that prompts thought and writing on spiritual things. But rather than offer up a bounty of excuses, I’ll trust you to give me some grace. Until next week, when perhaps, depending on the spiritual word prompt our writing group is assigned, I’ll have a story for you.)

“Paint a word picture of peace,” she said.

“Pull it from one of the psalms.”

I pondered and prayed,

painstakingly paid,

‘til my tears and my patience were gone.

My laptop then lost all its power.

A blank page pressed hard on my brain.

At the pantry I pause.

Pasta, pancakes, bear claws.

Now, my diet postponed once again.

Plump pillow, it called with pure passion.

I was prompted and promised “good rest.”

But that blank page poked fun.

“Not even one pun?”

That P word woke me. What a pest!

Well, at least she didn’t choose “patience.”

The P word she posts could be worse.

The sky hints of pre-dawn,

I’ve no words to pass on.

So, I plead, “Lord, prime me with verse.”

In Psalm 119 we’re assured.

Read it. Learn how peace is procured.

In scripture it’s plain.

As through clear window pane.

Peace. I’m glad precious peace was her word.

Psalm 119:165: “Abundant peace belongs to those who love your instruction; nothing makes them stumble.”

And you thought, perhaps hoped, I’d be finished.

But I’ve P words creating loud noise.

Puppies, prove, pretty pansies

Pithy proverbs

Pen and paper. And what about poise?

Now, rhyming plagues me more than some.

Silly poems prompt thought and are fun.

One pointed idea.

Not the whole panacea.

Limericks push to get writing done.

But rhyming can be problematic.

It can pick up a thought and replace …

the purpose/intent of the poet …

with plentiful prose, but wrong pace.

Rhyming does please me, the writer.

I purpose that it might annoy you.

Put the pieces together. Start planning.

Your turn.

Next week’s letter is Q!

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A Devilish Tool

A Devilish Tool

Published by Rita Klundt on December 5, 2025

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.

Have you guessed 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 plenty of 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 my 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 drag 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 my discontent gets in His way.

I can rest in 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 want 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.

( I wrote this rhyming poem way back in 2013, before I knew how fulfilling it is to “play” with words. I’ve been thinking all week that I need to revisit what I started back then, and write the four more poems needed to include all of the 10 Commandments. The last 6 of the 10 are complete, but as you can imagine, commandments 1-4 lend themselves to a deeper respect and caution. I’ve started them, and then deleted them, having been unable to capture the significance of those commandments and do it in rhyme. Anyway … my goal in this particular poem is to draw the reader in with rhymes, and then bring them to ponder how disregarding and disobeying this 10th commandment might be a bigger problem than we think. And by the way, I can’t deny this poem as “autobiographical.” Even as I proofread before posting, the Lord revealed to me where my envy has tarnished an otherwise friendly relationship. I owe someone … probably more than one someone … an apology and another chance. Envy does have a sneaky way, and it is a favored tool of the devil. )

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The Word is “Meditate.”

The Word is “Meditate.”

Published by Rita Klundt on November 23, 2025

The word prompt for this week was “meditate.”

I think it’s good to look back and count our blessings. I think it’s good to look back on occasion, even at the things and relationships that didn’t work out the way we’d hoped. I have good stuff in my past. Bad stuff too. Who doesn’t?

Whatever emotion looking back brings, it’s temporary. Looking back may cause me to grieve, but it’s typically not long before I see that what didn’t work out made room for something new … something good … that looks as though it will work out. We may celebrate an event, look at photos and be grateful for a gift, a good deed or a loving relationship, but it’s only a photo or a memory—a rush of pleasantness that can be gone in a moment.

They call it “water under the bridge,” I suppose because the most any of us usually do is to take a short walk to the other side of the bridge, and say goodbye again. Or if it was a good or a great thing, offer thanks. Now, it doesn’t matter if my meditations takes me to a place of sorrow or rejoicing, it’s a waste of time unless I get off the bridge and head on down the road. I see people living on the bridge, too anxious or afraid to get off the bridge. Stuck on the bridge so long that weeds have grown over and covered the road God had clearly provided.

I think it’s better to look forward and plan … prepare for the trouble I know is ahead, for trouble that is common, and even for those random and rare events that seem to only happen to others. I think it’s good to look ahead and imagine what might be, to make goals, set boundaries and determine what is worth my effort.

Precious few of my worries or plans come to fruition. They’ll call you either a doomsdayer or a dreamer if you spend too much time thinking about tomorrow, so I do that in secret. The hours add up. I probably worry or dream more than others. My first grade teacher called me a “daydreamer,” so it must be true. I’m a mutt in that regard, a mixed breed. I tend to either get lost in today and forget to imagine or meditate about my tomorrows (when I worked as a nurse). I can also dream away complete days and forget about the business on today’s calendar (now that I’m a writer.)

They say that we “can’t be sure that tomorrow will come.” I’d ask “them” to rethink that. Meditate. I think it’s not about whether tomorrow will come or not. It’s about where we will be when tomorrow comes, and what will matter when we get there.

So what of looking back and counting our blessings or grieving what didn’t work out? What about looking ahead and planning, preparing, determining and imagining? Should we schedule time today for looking back and looking forward, or checking that we’re on track in the here and the now?

Yes, about looking back. Yes, about looking forward. And absolutely yes where it comes to managing our todays. God created a tool for doing all three. In it, there is wisdom and meditations and practical guidance that has never failed me. These precious verses are an excellent place to start:

Looking back:

“On that day explain to your son, ‘This is because of what the Lord did for me when I came out of Egypt.’ Let it serve as a sign for you on your hand and as a reminder on your forehead, so that the Lord’s instruction may be in your mouth; for the Lord brought you out of Egypt with a strong hand.” (Exodus 13:8-9, CSB).

“Do not remember the past events; pay no attention to things of old. Look, I am about to do something new; even now it is coming. Do you not see it? Indeed, I will make a way in the wilderness, rivers in the desert.” (Isaiah 43:18-19, CSB).

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has passed away, and see, the new has come!” (2 Corinthians 5:17, CSB).

Looking forward:

“But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be provided for you. Therefore don’t worry about tomorrow, because tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” (Matthew 16:33-34, CSB).

“Lord, make me aware of my end and the number of my days so that I will know how short-lived I am.” (Psalm 39:4, CSB).

For today:

“This is the day the Lord has made; let’s rejoice and be glad in it.” (Psalm 118:24, CSB).

“Pay careful attention, then, to how you walk—not as unwise people but as wise—making the most of the time, because the days are evil. (Ephesians 5:15-16, CSB).

“Teach us to number our days carefully so that we may develop wisdom in our hearts.” (Psalm 90:12, CSB).

“We must do the works of him who sent me while it is day. Night is coming when no one can work.” (John 9:4, CSB).

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Breaking the Silence

Breaking the Silence

Published by Rita Klundt on June 25, 2024

“

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.

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Almost There!

Almost There!

Published by Rita Klundt on June 22, 2024

My 2^nd 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.

Not!

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.

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Night Shifts and Daydreams

Night Shifts and Daydreams

Published by Rita Klundt on November 28, 2023

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.”

True.

“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 14^th 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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This Woman

This Woman

Published by Rita Klundt on September 24, 2023

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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Not Just Anybody’s Blanky.

Not Just Anybody’s Blanky.

Published by Rita Klundt on September 15, 2023

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.

UPDATE:

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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Book cover pending . . .

Published by Rita Klundt on June 14, 2023

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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To Dream. To Dance.

To Dream. To Dance.

Published by Rita Klundt on December 14, 2022

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!

Go Ahead. Shine!

Published by Rita Klundt on October 7, 2022

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

A Devil’s Tool

Published by Rita Klundt on March 26, 2022

(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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A Belated Birthday and ThankYou

A Belated Birthday and ThankYou

Published by Rita Klundt on February 5, 2022

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 1^st 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.

Rita

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Come to the Stable

Come to the Stable

Published by Rita Klundt on December 14, 2021

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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Featured Post

We’re Grown-ups Now

We’re Grown-ups Now

Published by Rita Klundt on July 15, 2021

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!

Published by Rita Klundt on June 30, 2021

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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UPDATE: