Author: Rita Klundt

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.”]

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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Hey Girl!

Hey Girl!

Published by Rita Klundt on April 12, 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what,” I answer. “Not today.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey Girl! Find Your Pulpit and Preach It.”

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

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Diddly and Squat.

Diddly and Squat.

Published by Rita Klundt on February 4, 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Peace and Good Will

Peace and Good Will

Published by Rita Klundt on December 21, 2022

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

The Hallmark movies end that way.

But as for me, and at my house,

The creatures stir and we might have a mouse.

The stockings need hung and the cookies need baked.

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

The washing machine chose this season to die.

I forgot the pecans for Dad’s favorite pie.

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

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

I’m tired of hearing the same Christmas songs

About Santa and reindeer and bells that ding-dong.

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

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

I plan. I work hard for our holiday cheer,

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

While others are laughing and merry and bright

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

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

I wonder if something is wrong – with just me.

I would love to have quiet and time for myself.

I would love a retreat with a personal elf?

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

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

Then out on the lawn I hear a strange clatter.

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

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

The man is disheveled. His coat has no collar.

His hands are all red and cracked from the cold,

He sniffles and coughs like a virus took hold.

I step back not wanting to get myself sick.

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

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

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

I return to my knitting and cup of hot tea.

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

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

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

There are presents to wrap and a message to post.

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

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

How many years I have cooked for that man?

My phone does a dance on the table with glee.

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

Then what to my wondering eyes does appear?

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

He is scraping away at my pile of snow fall.

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

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

Except for the bills that I hide in my stash.

I yank on the yarn and my knitting looks bad.

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

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

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

I’m sorry life dealt him a hard circumstance,

And maybe he’s working his very last chance.

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

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

I stew in frustration, yet sense God at work.

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

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

Or an awful abuser who brings horrible grief?

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

My rugs have been cleaned and my hair is uncombed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

My sidewalk and driveway cleared lickety split.

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

He carries his shovel and crosses the street.

He turns to admire. Work. Thorough and neat.

Then he catches a glimpse of me pulling the curtain.

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

I had him all wrong. My attitude stank.

My lofty ideals in that moment lost rank.

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

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

Forgive me, Lord. I took the wrong stance.

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

I gave a quick look through my basket of knitting,

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

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

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

The man is so gracious, accepting my thought.

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

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

No romance or hero or damsel unable.

Just kindness and industry given for free.

The night peace and good will was offered to me.

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

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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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