tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74261168501251995882024-03-12T17:22:13.032-07:00AniLouMinaryAniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-27269510208571932752020-03-30T12:34:00.000-07:002020-03-30T12:34:08.440-07:00To Mark Where God Has Spoken<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><i>“…I will build an altar to the God who answered my prayers when I was in distress. He has been with me wherever I have gone.” (Genesis 35:3b NLT)</i></span></div>
<div class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 16px;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><i>Jacob set up a stone pillar to mark the place where God had spoken to him. Then he poured wine over it as an offering to God and anointed the pillar with olive oil. And Jacob named the place Bethel (which means “house of God”), because God had spoken to him there. (Genesis 35:14-15 NLT)</i></span></div>
<div class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 16px;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><i>Don’t you realize that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit, who lives in you and was given to you by God? You do not belong to yourself, for God bought you with a high price. So you must honor God with your body. (1 Corinthians 6:19-20 NLT)</i></span></div>
<div class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 16px;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Other words for distress are anxiety, disappointment, perplexity, vexation, and heartbreak. There are more in the thesaurus but these concepts stand out for me as we navigate through the COVID-19 storm. Early in January my daily Bible reading took me to Genesis 35. Knowing the story of Jacob and the challenges he went through, this was my prayer, “So many times, God, we’ve been in distress and we’ve prayed to You and You stayed with us all through our journey, every move, every place we’ve lived. I’m struck by the fact that You ‘went up’ from the place where You spoke to Jacob. Did he see You go, keeping his eyes on You? I want to keep my eyes on You. May my LIFE be like a stone pillar to mark that You have spoken into me.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 16px;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5HWEYujbUlw/XoJHjuYte4I/AAAAAAAAAmA/caZPixChzbsY4OlbJrHxJb33omcGKaX_ACEwYBhgLKs0DAMBZVoDEympQi8OpHIapcSrmBNDteNgChef42JgpnQa5M17mAgIHT0hJIDacuU6mls5Ow2k79qzcqjan8guNpSt3pM0N7XGHFTgDxTaZVybTM7TIiLXAYt5YX54Rju4El4whJiky7EZ4dKMf1qx0AaUJ72W-gUHlVJ3qv66VGTfSMdv-ljRTP2cTheofnSJsVLnCNJFZlRexgi1xNaUzh7xSTUJiCLlBY0VNP5p0MrTLqj9WQyP9xXJ6Gq1zzvV0uusYkk5jy7o2CssCpdh_PX5mtkiRf3dkhrR0v2tXDF1pJbQCmasq4S-_DvLloowW2mtweGtdUnfi2NMftk5arxkdRWgA7ZWRcgLVqtdrTrgRWZtRZuP9C7Picoyik8AYwYlTCCF08e1J6lYuw1w_zPVn-Ypf8XzTG-MwzeyP3mZzd45C1DNbndrmuKEkv4FjFKbDqm3GeCQoWyT7SIHYO_ZDzd_rOtPzSibwDUrGDCfhu5qFpDy95NWr6TJa9quzGsqRButYYfnNsZ5mUv_VNPETg0sW5wYRS6ywNJUoq-jkW44hgPl-tb_Ritd7sICjc9jmoA8Apmvrskr4L1D8tPfapMeTkZ2i07Bu3E4w_5aJ9AU/s1600/Heart%2BRock%2BIMG_0274.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1243" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5HWEYujbUlw/XoJHjuYte4I/AAAAAAAAAmA/caZPixChzbsY4OlbJrHxJb33omcGKaX_ACEwYBhgLKs0DAMBZVoDEympQi8OpHIapcSrmBNDteNgChef42JgpnQa5M17mAgIHT0hJIDacuU6mls5Ow2k79qzcqjan8guNpSt3pM0N7XGHFTgDxTaZVybTM7TIiLXAYt5YX54Rju4El4whJiky7EZ4dKMf1qx0AaUJ72W-gUHlVJ3qv66VGTfSMdv-ljRTP2cTheofnSJsVLnCNJFZlRexgi1xNaUzh7xSTUJiCLlBY0VNP5p0MrTLqj9WQyP9xXJ6Gq1zzvV0uusYkk5jy7o2CssCpdh_PX5mtkiRf3dkhrR0v2tXDF1pJbQCmasq4S-_DvLloowW2mtweGtdUnfi2NMftk5arxkdRWgA7ZWRcgLVqtdrTrgRWZtRZuP9C7Picoyik8AYwYlTCCF08e1J6lYuw1w_zPVn-Ypf8XzTG-MwzeyP3mZzd45C1DNbndrmuKEkv4FjFKbDqm3GeCQoWyT7SIHYO_ZDzd_rOtPzSibwDUrGDCfhu5qFpDy95NWr6TJa9quzGsqRButYYfnNsZ5mUv_VNPETg0sW5wYRS6ywNJUoq-jkW44hgPl-tb_Ritd7sICjc9jmoA8Apmvrskr4L1D8tPfapMeTkZ2i07Bu3E4w_5aJ9AU/s320/Heart%2BRock%2BIMG_0274.jpg" width="248" /></a></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">As the weeks go by during quarantine, what kind of stone pillar am I putting in place to honor God? I picture Jacob searching for just the perfect rocks to pile up on top of each other to form his pillar. Maybe some have a sheen and sparkle to them while others have a dull finish but are solid and firm. Will my pillar have rocks that shine out and chunks that give stability? Like the piece of sparkly quartz as I’m standing patiently in line at the grocery store and there’s no toilet paper in stock, or the marble slabs of gratitude for the medical professionals putting their lives on the line. A plain and solid rock goes into place when I act in kindness and with a smile. And how about a big ol’ conglomerate boulder of respect for our government leaders trying to do what’s right to keep us as safe as possible. And let me not forget the foundational granite stone of faith as I trust God when our income source is denied because our business is non-essential. Or will my pillar crumble to gravel under the pick axes of anger, bitterness, blaming and doubt?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qDIQpKCKwzg/XoJHs7Fth0I/AAAAAAAAAmA/wm3OX2qGz0smxeTMRrl737STnN4QuHDywCEwYBhgLKs0DAMBZVoAtDJRih_xIWAAhqzLYKqq5XVvwpIEYoreljlfCYupbOiDfnWZO4SAq5K9d8fwc0hGx0Znvz4RGUYKCK9B956rt3keCyfGFCzfk9aThdveqNPo2s1RJhlPDoA7U4oz0PkwQAaSXk-LXkQi-CwyN4eAxr5Hl9kJXWY5KBIOnSHg0ZBCw2dM__OJfUhpdwcTEWkiwHkZMnoh1_4V_OHE5it-7Lc1RvPSMHOeQxPkWlm1dyjyDgdfl_pvFiypB4WD1QioRMqdA-HlVlixhW7citLfdh9LpRgu9TZOiplXrxGhId3tcTP4v1R3hw07Q39yyDf1Nd4HmQnZl5Z_RbVzaeYQM4ebhkHtMowyiUh-2GvUAbxuqYcLwDVo66Qv_Gy1vteg3N94nQ-IyRjrhuvq-Lz-8XcycHiZfW1_-Y8UC6DaCBQZLYm5F1eaCQZIcWiN_T4aIpBHP5BCODp0o7atuQfk-lKdEiIMlW8OrEV8-W2XVZUvGWSOb8VRnym68F9JPjf-WYuFpWc3Ki_3pBes1IB2wBugCrqPODv-cAMRSitmu3Ri7XqeGYvTzI3fx1L-Cqtz-9KyGv2NUZj9STH4UbMH2O0WO8hZrRgwwjpeJ9AU/s1600/One%2BRock%2BTower%2BIMG_0929.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1385" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qDIQpKCKwzg/XoJHs7Fth0I/AAAAAAAAAmA/wm3OX2qGz0smxeTMRrl737STnN4QuHDywCEwYBhgLKs0DAMBZVoAtDJRih_xIWAAhqzLYKqq5XVvwpIEYoreljlfCYupbOiDfnWZO4SAq5K9d8fwc0hGx0Znvz4RGUYKCK9B956rt3keCyfGFCzfk9aThdveqNPo2s1RJhlPDoA7U4oz0PkwQAaSXk-LXkQi-CwyN4eAxr5Hl9kJXWY5KBIOnSHg0ZBCw2dM__OJfUhpdwcTEWkiwHkZMnoh1_4V_OHE5it-7Lc1RvPSMHOeQxPkWlm1dyjyDgdfl_pvFiypB4WD1QioRMqdA-HlVlixhW7citLfdh9LpRgu9TZOiplXrxGhId3tcTP4v1R3hw07Q39yyDf1Nd4HmQnZl5Z_RbVzaeYQM4ebhkHtMowyiUh-2GvUAbxuqYcLwDVo66Qv_Gy1vteg3N94nQ-IyRjrhuvq-Lz-8XcycHiZfW1_-Y8UC6DaCBQZLYm5F1eaCQZIcWiN_T4aIpBHP5BCODp0o7atuQfk-lKdEiIMlW8OrEV8-W2XVZUvGWSOb8VRnym68F9JPjf-WYuFpWc3Ki_3pBes1IB2wBugCrqPODv-cAMRSitmu3Ri7XqeGYvTzI3fx1L-Cqtz-9KyGv2NUZj9STH4UbMH2O0WO8hZrRgwwjpeJ9AU/s320/One%2BRock%2BTower%2BIMG_0929.jpg" width="276" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 16px;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">When I remember that it is God Who is my strength and it pleases Him to make me strong (Psalm 89:17 NLT), I’m confident His inscriptions will cover the structure as each stone settles into position. This attitude is free for the embracing; I encourage you to start gathering your stones as you shelter in place. What beautiful monuments we’ll have to mark where God has spoken.</span></div>
AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-65952796433971144242019-04-03T13:32:00.000-07:002019-04-03T13:32:06.932-07:00Shalom Shattered, Shalom Restored
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}
span.s1 {font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; font-kerning: none}
span.s2 {font-kerning: none}
</style>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">It didn’t bloom last Spring, this tulip in its little pot. A stem came up with promising green leaves but no blossoms ever appeared. Perhaps the confines of the planter restricted its roots.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NnFhwb8r_9s/XKUMtVrIksI/AAAAAAAAAjk/zEPb63f_qwsd7FHqgQkN9Hm8c2taeqmWACEwYBhgL/s1600/Shalom%2BRestored%2BIMG_3381.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NnFhwb8r_9s/XKUMtVrIksI/AAAAAAAAAjk/zEPb63f_qwsd7FHqgQkN9Hm8c2taeqmWACEwYBhgL/s320/Shalom%2BRestored%2BIMG_3381.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"> What a sweet surprise to discover it pushing up through the soil a couple days ago. As I’ve been led recently to look at the shattering of shalom in my life, God is using this plant to speak to me. My heavenly Father has brought a lot of healing to my heart’s garden over the years. But I recognize that there are still constraints that choke my growth.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">One of my earliest recollections of trauma involves the death of my sister, Debbie, at age four. I was born eleven months after her so we were very close. And yes, I remember her clearly. When she died, I was told that she’d gone to be with Jesus in heaven; my constant companion, my best and essentially only playmate, had left me behind. Such a time of confusion, bewilderment and the unfairness of it all. Then when I thought we were going to see her—it was the funeral we were going to but I didn’t understand what that was—and expecting to see Jesus too, because of being told earlier that’s where she’d gone, I was sorely disappointed that Jesus was only a painting on the wall, and my sister lay unresponsive and cold in a pretty box. I felt foolish for my beliefs and somehow thought I should’ve known. But how could I? I was only three years old.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">I can see where this experience has led me to often see myself as left out, not worthy of being included. It seems silly, I know, to think of not dying as a message that I wasn’t worth including, but that is how my little three-year old brain worked. It was a lie I believed about myself and carried along with me, a box I restrained myself in. Also from this I can see where I hold myself away from whole-heartedly investing in relationship with loved ones because how could I stand it if they leave me behind too. Then there’s the sense of “I should’ve known” in any given circumstance where there really is no way for me to know in advance something that is beyond my comprehension.</span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
</style>
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">Thankfully my Jesus is not confined to a painting. He was with me in that earliest time as He now is in this present time. The Holy Spirit has brought healing and will continue to do so. Fully experiencing the pain and sorrow and grief means that I will fully experience the joy He has for me. There is no shame in not knowing what is around the corner and failing to understand life and the confusing incidents in it. Like that little tulip in the planter on my balcony that didn’t reach its bloom last year but is poking its head up again this year, trying again for another chance, my heart is coming up through the grime of sorrow and finding a place of inclusion in His light. Shalom restored.</span></span></div>
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
span.s2 {font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; font-kerning: none}
</style><style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
span.s2 {font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; font-kerning: none}
</style><style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
</style><style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
</style>AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-49202691992217360712018-12-11T15:59:00.000-08:002018-12-11T15:59:41.447-08:00Inner Delight
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
</style>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Confronting and overcoming obstacles while sitting around a dining room table this past Saturday wasn’t about the food. In fact, that peppermint popcorn? Yum! The only obstacle between those kernels of buttery sweetness and my mouth was having only two hands to deliver them. What I’m talking about transpired with a small group of women who’re responding to God calling them to write…to write their stories, explore ideas together and share them with others, learning how to do that effectively. There are casserole-sized doubts and pressure cookers of misgivings and feelings of lack in each of us. As we opened our hearts we found serving platters of encouragement, affirmation, camaraderie, and strength, with a smorgasbord of humor on the side. And I came away with a feeling that I’ve struggled to identify.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">It is a sense of something special and wonderful happening, like when you’ve got the soup kettle on the stove,</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iSiWSWYYJSI/XBBJeT2lzoI/AAAAAAAAAjE/cFOkN8zQfTUX3Uc2TDEPH33h_Brd27DtgCEwYBhgL/s1600/Soup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1600" height="135" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iSiWSWYYJSI/XBBJeT2lzoI/AAAAAAAAAjE/cFOkN8zQfTUX3Uc2TDEPH33h_Brd27DtgCEwYBhgL/s200/Soup.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
and the ingredients are starting to simmer, smelling absolutely heavenly and promising. <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">It finally came to me as I journaled later. I'm calling it "inner delight" and it lines up with a prophetic word given to me quite awhile back.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><br />
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">It was about 30 years ago; I was attending a women's Bible study in a small church with a friend. During the small group discussion and prayer time, one of the women said that she had a "vision" pertaining to me. She “saw” me leading/teaching/mentoring women in some way. At the time I kind of scoffed at the idea, being a busy wife and mom raising four kids and I couldn't imagine women wanting to follow me anywhere or listen to anything I had to say. And this whole idea of “prophetic vision”? Lets just say it was a dish I was dubious about sampling.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Looking back I can see how God has led me through doors that I wasn't expecting, stage right and stage left and behind the scenes, has brought me through a variety of experiences, including leadership training and positions, and now He shines a light on this particular spot, the spot He intended all along. The inner delight that comes of being where He has called and prepared me to be as He overlooked </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9uRJyQZFxKs/XBBJYwj4eMI/AAAAAAAAAjA/jMNBr7A5Vs02VRd3S3xFe4hGdMGGx5bWACEwYBhgL/s1600/Recipes%2BIMG_9348.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1232" data-original-width="1600" height="153" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9uRJyQZFxKs/XBBJYwj4eMI/AAAAAAAAAjA/jMNBr7A5Vs02VRd3S3xFe4hGdMGGx5bWACEwYBhgL/s200/Recipes%2BIMG_9348.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
my initial scoffing, and the knowledge that He gave me the desire of my heart—His recipe for inner delight. Could be the woman in that Bible study group had a preview glimpse of it for me.<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
</style>
</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And these women I am privileged now to sit with at a table are ladling out all kinds of tasty words to savor.</span></div>
<br />AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-15554615771442457122018-11-20T15:41:00.000-08:002018-11-20T15:41:05.608-08:00A CARDBOARD TESTIMONY
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}
p.p3 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
</style>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">STUCK IN A STAGNANT SWAMP.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">UP AGAINST A BRICK WALL.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">WANDERING IN A MAZE.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">SQUARE PEG IN A ROUND HOLE.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">MISSING THE ACTION.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">AN ACCIDENT WITHOUT PURPOSE.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Umm, yeah, that’s been my reality the past few months. And I’ve felt as much like a cliche as those phrases. BUT God hasn’t been stuck, wandering or missing. I couldn’t see behind the curtain where He’s been busy putting answers together for the requests I was making: #1) to be in relationship with other Christian women local to my area who desire to write, and #2) to find a way to serve in His kingdom.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">It meant stepping a bit out of my comfort zone to attend an event where I basically didn’t know anyone. It was called “Safe Harbor”. And through that window, a light glowed, showing a pathway to explore. That pathway led to something called “Rooted”, a 10-week class at Calvary Community Church in Sumner, Washington. In a small group setting, we shared our life stories with each other, saw how God is present, cheering for us and empowering us, knitting us together as a community in order to be of service to each other as well as the larger community around us.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">At our Rooted Celebration Evening last week, along with several dozen other people, I </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8fJzLJ6aLFk/W_SYxQHyE5I/AAAAAAAAAiY/fMOWA_SMe7o8imXcoOlSkZczUE8G8ytAACEwYBhgL/s1600/Day%2B20%2BLimited%2Bedition%2BPicMonkey%2BImage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1135" data-original-width="1600" height="141" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8fJzLJ6aLFk/W_SYxQHyE5I/AAAAAAAAAiY/fMOWA_SMe7o8imXcoOlSkZczUE8G8ytAACEwYBhgL/s200/Day%2B20%2BLimited%2Bedition%2BPicMonkey%2BImage.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">participated in The Cardboard Testimony. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-align: center;">My cardboard sign proclaimed on one side </span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; text-align: center;">where I’d been before Rooted, and on the other side where I am today.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">My small group leader asked us to choose a new name for ourselves. The name that jumped out at me was MASTERPIECE, designed on purpose with purpose, not an accident at all.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MtHzRseJ6I4/W_SZBauziuI/AAAAAAAAAic/en8TlPK8Jd8TnP5YO7cRy6Fo3QZgkQZpQCLcBGAs/s1600/Rooted%2BCelebration%2BCollage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MtHzRseJ6I4/W_SZBauziuI/AAAAAAAAAic/en8TlPK8Jd8TnP5YO7cRy6Fo3QZgkQZpQCLcBGAs/s200/Rooted%2BCelebration%2BCollage.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1">Going forward I’m stepping into a new role, as facilitator of the women in my small group from Rooted. There’s the answer to my second request. My first request? Well, at that event I went to outside of my comfort zone I met a woman with a powerful story who desires to write a book and who needs encouragement in getting that done. She introduced me to two other women who want to write and are looking for encouragement. They asked me to mentor them! I think we’ll all be mentoring each other as we each have something to offer.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">RAFTING OUT OF THE MUCK.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">A LADDER OVER THE TOP.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">GPS THROUGH THE MAZE.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">FOUND THE CHISEL.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">ON STAGE.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">MASTERPIECE.</span></div>
<br /><br />
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
</style>AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-39739937935565047042018-01-26T12:56:00.000-08:002018-01-26T12:56:07.260-08:00Let the Ice Cubes Fall Where They May<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Although I’m an introvert, I like to fit in and feel included, and I understand it requires getting involved. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-b8HJjXScXYE/WmuTy2fvicI/AAAAAAAAAhY/qbIb5pitvcA_NaoCfHauQ8cJSxr_szvGQCEwYBhgL/s1600/Calvary%2BCommunity%2BChurch%2BIMG_2755.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1113" data-original-width="1600" height="276" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-b8HJjXScXYE/WmuTy2fvicI/AAAAAAAAAhY/qbIb5pitvcA_NaoCfHauQ8cJSxr_szvGQCEwYBhgL/s400/Calvary%2BCommunity%2BChurch%2BIMG_2755.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Calvary Community Church, Sumner, Washington</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
To that end I attended a women’s Bible study that began yesterday at a church nearby. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
I love women’s Bible studies and this one is called <i>Discerning the Voice of God </i>by Priscilla Shirer. I know I will enjoy the lessons and learning. And based on my previous experiences, it’s a good way to connect with other ladies especially if the group is small enough. The class had probably several dozen women attending but the church set it up so that women can sit in groups of eight or so at tables. I felt quite welcomed at the table I was escorted to by one of the ladies in charge and enjoyed a lovely conversation with another gal who was new to this event.<br />
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">But then! It was ice-breaker time! I confess I am so not a fan of plunging into what could be a freezing environment via the Similarity Bingo game. You’ve probably played a version of it a time or two. You are given a list of likes, dislikes, activities, traits, etc, and the goal is to find one person in the room who shares a commonality with you for each item on the list. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hMeGm4WvD6w/WmuT1HD7rOI/AAAAAAAAAhc/J5EnN_md-rs3hZnED3_H2QO84PuAacjDACEwYBhgL/s1600/Similarity%2BBingo%2BIMG_2758.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hMeGm4WvD6w/WmuT1HD7rOI/AAAAAAAAAhc/J5EnN_md-rs3hZnED3_H2QO84PuAacjDACEwYBhgL/s320/Similarity%2BBingo%2BIMG_2758.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anyone born in Bellingham? Anyone? Anyone?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Bedlam ensues. Some people opt out of playing. Usually I’m one of them. I’m not afraid of approaching people I don’t know especially in a church setting. So it’s not fear that would make me choose to sit it out. If the end result is for people to get to know each other, I’m all for it. But this kind of activity, at least for me, feels like a waste of time in that regard. I knew I’d get names on my sheet of paper but I would likely not remember the people attached to those names. But yesterday I chose to interact and let the ice cubes fall where they may. Why?</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Well, it’s been a month since we moved and the only people I’ve talked to, other than my husband, kids and grandkids, are the staff in the apartment leasing office, store personnel, and librarians. And those have been mostly just in passing. So it is time for me to break out of my own shell and move past any isolation I’ve put myself into. Even if I didn’t establish a long-time friendship with this activity, I felt like I came to understand myself a little better and it was what I needed to do for my own growth.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
</style>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">When the game ended, I slipped back into my chair and was warmly greeted by the new friend I’d made earlier. She’d opted to sit out. That will be my choice next time.</span></div>
AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-35740737074359241452018-01-23T19:43:00.000-08:002018-01-23T19:43:02.793-08:00Find Friends<div class="p1">
This is the devotional I wrote and shared with my writing group this past Saturday:</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“I look up to the mountains—does my help come from there? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth! He will not let you stumble; the one who watches over you will not slumber. Indeed, he who watches over Israel never slumbers or sleeps. The Lord himself watches over you! The Lord stands beside you as your protective shade. The sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon at night. The Lord keeps you from all harm and watches over your life. The Lord keeps watch over you as you come and go, both now and forever.” (Psalm 121, NLT)</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">When we last saw our heroine, she was lost in a maze of moving boxes. Two months later and she has emerged, grateful for the destination God has provided. For her and her hero, being in their castle together after living in two separate realms, is most satisfying. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1O2rZKRYlOY/Wmf9E8kRaEI/AAAAAAAAAg4/FUguOgx4aZccpQPJyRlnZoldaSNnIWQDQCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_2504.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1397" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1O2rZKRYlOY/Wmf9E8kRaEI/AAAAAAAAAg4/FUguOgx4aZccpQPJyRlnZoldaSNnIWQDQCEwYBhgL/s200/IMG_2504.jpg" width="173" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our new neighborhood</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Hey, in the middle of this move, we weren’t sure where we were going to be, or even when. The apartment application process took more time than usual due to needing various work and wage confirmations so we weren’t expecting to be able to get into it until after Christmas, if at all. Then suddenly things fell into place and we could move in before Christmas!</span><span class="s1"> It meant a bit of a scramble but were we ever grateful when after days of rain, the morning broke bright and sunny on December 23rd, our moving day. We were even more grateful we weren’t moving after Christmas when Whatcom County was in the throes of Icemageddon!</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-chf7tunSbOk/Wmf9bLDLIXI/AAAAAAAAAg8/09hZRfiJFU8N8qJWe7PlTmesX9__8yWswCEwYBhgL/s1600/Day%2B23%2BSparkly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="946" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-chf7tunSbOk/Wmf9bLDLIXI/AAAAAAAAAg8/09hZRfiJFU8N8qJWe7PlTmesX9__8yWswCEwYBhgL/s200/Day%2B23%2BSparkly.jpg" width="195" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moving Day! Snow on the ground but blue sky above!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Being in Bonney Lake made celebrating Christmas in Enumclaw with some of our kids so much easier. Only a half hour drive instead of three hours. Our friends that my husband was staying with for three months, were having family come for Christmas so the bed he vacated was much appreciated. Our friends had surgeries scheduled for January as well so I think it’s a relief for them to be without an extra boarder as they recover.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">My husband’s job involves him going out on sales calls to home owners that could be anywhere in Washington state. He is given his list of appointments via email first thing in the morning. There isn’t time for him to share them with me but we recently learned how to use a particular app on our iPhones. It’s called “Find Friends”. So at any time of the day I can tap on that app and see where he’s located. At least as long as there is a cell tower near him. There’ve been a few times when all I get is “Location cannot be found.” The first time that happened I kind of freaked out. My lucky sister was the one who got the slightly panicky P.M. from me to, “Please pray.” My imagination had me picturing a car-jacking, or a home invasion and his phone being destroyed. Now that I know sometimes service is interrupted and that he’ll show up on the app eventually, I’m all c’est la vie.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
span.s2 {font: 11.0px Helvetica; font-kerning: none}
</style>
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">This move has been an exercise in patience and trusting God to show us one step at a time. He had His eye on every tidbit of the process, He oversaw the apartment application, the missing employment verification forms, our friends’ surgery schedule, and the weather! And because the Lord Himself watches over us, He doesn’t need a Find Friends app!</span></div>
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
</style>AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-48608408360824493452017-11-09T15:03:00.001-08:002017-11-09T15:03:09.260-08:00Pilgrimage to Jerusalem<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I’ve often said that waiting for something isn’t hard for me. It’s not that I’m patient exactly but I find things to occupy my time while I’m waiting. Change is a different ball of wax. I</span>n spite of my opposition to it though, t<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">hat ball of wax will drip. In a way I want this upcoming change to happen NOW so we can be done with it, and I have reason for that, but I also have mixed feelings about it.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">After being laid off from the job my hubby’s had since mid-2013, he accepted employment with another company. Oh, so full of gratitude that God provided this new job within four weeks! The catch is that the office he will work out of is about 115 miles away. Doesn’t seem like far but when it’s in the Seattle area with its famous freeways, where you’re free to sit in traffic for hours on end, a daily commute is out of the question.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Yep, the change I’m talking about is another move for my hubby and me.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Here’s where my mixed feelings arise. I’ve loved being back in the county where I was raised. Reacquainting myself with familiar territory, seeing friends from childhood, feasting my eyes on nature-rich scenes, frequent family get-togethers (especially with my sister), it’s all been so good. The tears come pretty readily when thoughts arise of not having easy and quick access to it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">BUT circumstances are such that the move will not happen right away. In the interim, he is staying with friends of ours close to his new place of employment during the week, and coming home on weekends.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Now, I’ve often experienced being on my own for days and weeks and months in previous scenarios involving my husband’s work situations. And it works out okay. I’d rather have him home every night but a paycheck coming in regularly is not a bad thing. But folks, I confess I’m becoming eager to have both. This week I’ve had a little taste of it. I’m spending the week with our friends too!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
</style>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">With rain pattering on my umbrella this morning I explored the yard around their home, letting my eyes be refreshed by the lines of their landscaping, which, yes, includes a slide.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /><span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8NIV8LcvOBs/WgTbdGfwZTI/AAAAAAAAAgE/32DWq00vHJcdW7cXviCNqQ-9eBYQYJ4CgCEwYBhgL/s1600/Slide%2BIMG_9595.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1457" data-original-width="1600" height="289" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8NIV8LcvOBs/WgTbdGfwZTI/AAAAAAAAAgE/32DWq00vHJcdW7cXviCNqQ-9eBYQYJ4CgCEwYBhgL/s320/Slide%2BIMG_9595.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Caught a shot or two of chickadees at the feeder.<br />
<div class="p1">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jI_E9tSuyng/WgTb2DerDiI/AAAAAAAAAgM/pN7HkQUb6mIIKaJCAUarARKVaT7f7Q_owCEwYBhgL/s1600/Chickadee%2BIMG_9686.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1552" data-original-width="1135" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jI_E9tSuyng/WgTb2DerDiI/AAAAAAAAAgM/pN7HkQUb6mIIKaJCAUarARKVaT7f7Q_owCEwYBhgL/s320/Chickadee%2BIMG_9686.jpg" width="234" /></a></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /><span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
A glimpse of a bear peeking over the patio fence. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bnjKlsvneoE/WgTcm9qngaI/AAAAAAAAAgU/9VIM2jW_5DoK1L5LTcq59LO4ACvimHPbgCLcBGAs/s1600/Bear%2BIMG_9643.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="239" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bnjKlsvneoE/WgTcm9qngaI/AAAAAAAAAgU/9VIM2jW_5DoK1L5LTcq59LO4ACvimHPbgCLcBGAs/s320/Bear%2BIMG_9643.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">As I meandered I mused on what I read earlier in the day in my quiet time. “When they walk through the Valley of Weeping, it will become a place of refreshing springs. The autumn rains will clothe it with blessings.” (Psalm 84:6 NLT) According to the preceding verse, <i>they </i>are those who receive strength from the Lord, having their minds set on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. I am on a journey to the place God has chosen for me, and my husband, where we will be together. On the way there may be a few tears pattering—with change, that’s to be expected. Aaaah, refreshing springs and the blessings that sprout from autumn rains are part of the change too.</span></div>
AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-71402905440982598342017-07-20T14:47:00.000-07:002017-07-20T14:47:17.109-07:00Wasting Away in Blackberries<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The old farm where I grew up is in the process of being destroyed organically. My dad sold it thirty-plus years ago and since then, it has become unrecognizable. Blackberry vines surround every structure and wherever there’s an opening the vines have snaked inside, digging in their thorns and pulling down roofs and decimating walls. Little of the barn buildings can be seen and I expect by next year blackberry vines will fully encase the house. Who knows why the present owner has allowed this destruction but it hurts my heart to see this once beautiful piece of property looking like Sleeping Beauty’s castle before the prince came to rescue her.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X-ZgXBxA5aU/WXEimwgvy1I/AAAAAAAAAfY/BX3qw9GSxOkLeH3UYd4sQvfGrOiGobuiACEwYBhgL/s1600/2017%2B5%2B16%2BTom%2BRoad%2BHouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1123" data-original-width="1600" height="224" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X-ZgXBxA5aU/WXEimwgvy1I/AAAAAAAAAfY/BX3qw9GSxOkLeH3UYd4sQvfGrOiGobuiACEwYBhgL/s320/2017%2B5%2B16%2BTom%2BRoad%2BHouse.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Renovating isn’t even at option at this point. If ever I were able to buy back this land, we would have to bring in a bulldozer and completely level it before we could restore it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">A writing exercise sent me to this verse: </span><span class="s2">“</span><span class="s1">The LORD determined to tear down the wall around the Daughter of Zion. He stretched out a measuring line and did not withhold his hand from destroying. He made ramparts and walls lament; together they wasted away.”</span><span class="s2"> (</span><span class="s1">Lamentations 2:8 NLT) As sad as it looks and for various reasons according to further study, God made the choice to let Israel, the Daughter of Zion, be destroyed. Whether it was with blackberry vines or some other vegetation, or at the hands of sword-wielding warriors, the end came. He still has a plan for full restoration that He is working on. He has measured it all out and knows exactly how far things must go. Clearly grieving over loss is an expected part of the process.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
span.s2 {font: 11.0px Helvetica; font-kerning: none}
</style>
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I grieve over losing things, from certain places I enjoyed living in, to those I love making less than best choices or at least, contrary to my beliefs, to friendships that soured and died, to my own youthfulness passing by. I look around to see where God put His measuring line in hopes the mark He placed for the boundary is in sight. Knowing that God uses a measuring tape reassures me that there will come a time of restoration. When I understand that tearing down a city allows a new one to be built, hope surges up and the pain in my heart ebbs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
span.s2 {font: 11.0px Helvetica; font-kerning: none}
</style>AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-19281116190133263922017-07-15T17:00:00.000-07:002017-07-15T17:00:47.444-07:00Never Too Late, Never Too Old<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">A devotional I shared with my writing group today.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us.” (Hebrews 12:1 NLT)</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">As writers, some of us feel we have nothing significant enough to express. Others of us think it might be too late to develop our skills, that we’re too old. Maybe our attitude is that there are already so many writers, who do we think we are jumping onto the page.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">From the time I was about twelve years old, in addition to writing, I’ve had the desire to interpret and share my world through a camera’s lens. Never had anything fancy in the way of photographic equipment—instamatics back in the day when we used rolls of film, followed by cartridges. Cameras were always point-and-shoot types with film, and the same now with digital. Except for the last couple of years I’ve mostly used my iPhone6. Someday I’d like to have the opportunity to get acquainted with cameras that have adjustable lenses and learn how to use them. But I’ve been told, regardless of the equipment, that it’s your own eye that is responsible for a great photograph.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In photography, as well as in life, sometimes it takes looking at things from a different perspective. With camera in hand, it might require getting down on your knees, or squatting rather unbecomingly. I’ve even resorted to holding my iPhone low to the ground and without even looking at what’s on the screen, snapping away and hoping for the best. Lots of shots get deposited in the trash; thankfully no film gets ruined anymore. But there are times when a photo that I’ve captured in that way ends up capturing me when I see it later uploaded onto my computer screen. One such recent photo makes me think of our lovely group of women who aspire to write.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I don’t know what the flowers are called but they grow in wild crowds on the spit at Semiahmoo at this time of year. As my husband and I meandered along the path, the sun, a hazy blaze on the western horizon, set up its last hoorah for the day with those flowers. Quarter-sized centers of bristly brown, surrounded by candy-corn petals, they looked good enough to eat. Grabbing the sun’s setting rays, they lit themselves up, dancing in the breeze. They didn’t compare themselves with each other, they didn’t consider it too late in the day to splash their beauty across their world, and though some were losing their petals, they waved just as energetically as their fully-petaled companions.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GqcLBEEilmg/WWqrgzW_rkI/AAAAAAAAAe4/-ETzmKesRK8Fo8nJA_T3ZwNhfftoCUlIgCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_1754.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1289" data-original-width="1600" height="257" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GqcLBEEilmg/WWqrgzW_rkI/AAAAAAAAAe4/-ETzmKesRK8Fo8nJA_T3ZwNhfftoCUlIgCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_1754.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
</style>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">It’s not too late in the day for us. I know Hebrews 12:1 refers to pursuing our faith-walk but could we apply the principle? Isn’t our writing part of our faith-walk? Remember when the sun is setting here, it’s rising somewhere else.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-12270884010445887922016-11-13T15:55:00.000-08:002016-11-13T15:55:54.792-08:00A Much-Needed Prescription<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">With four children, the oldest age six, the twins age four, and the baby not quite a year old, it was no wonder the mom felt frazzled, and she looked it too. Holding her youngest on her lap while the pediatrician checked the baby’s ears and listened to her heart, the mom allowed herself to relax a little in the chair. A sigh, one of those involuntary sighs that she was famous for, chose that moment to escape. The doctor scooted his wheeled stool across the room to his desk, and picked up his prescription pad. He smiled at the mom. “Baby is doing fine. But I’m going to write a prescription for you, Mom.” He scribbled a few lines and then handed her the slip of paper. She read it over.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Are you serious?” she said.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Yes,” was the smiling and emphatic reply.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The prescription read: “One weekend with [your husband] and without children at my vacation cabin on Lummi Island.” </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In the four years that her kids had been under this doctor’s care, she’d seen his kindness, patience, compassion, and gentleness with them, as well as his skill as a physician, but to be the recipient of his generosity and obvious concern for her mental well-being brought tears of gratitude. She felt that the weekend away did much to help her hang onto her sanity. A move to another state shortly after meant a new pediatrician but she always thought of him as the best one her kids ever had.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Thirty-some years later she read on Facebook that a certain Noemi Ban, holocaust survivor, would be giving a lecture at Western Washington University about her experiences. Always interested in knowing more about this, she signed up to attend, along with her sister. She pondered the woman’s last name. It was the same as that of the wonderful pediatrician who cared for her children. Could they be related? </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">If you haven’t already guessed, I was that frazzled mom. It was this past week that I went to the lecture. And there was the pediatrician in the front row proudly watching his mother, at the age of 94, talking about having hope and love, instead of hate, even after suffering so dreadfully at Auschwitz. I spoke with Dr. Ban for a few minutes during intermission. I said, “You must be so proud of your mom!” He smiled and admitted he was. I went on to express my gratitude for his care of my children, and of me with such an unusual prescription. He said he recalled that occasion and how my husband had done a little carpentry work for him on the cabin to help defray our medical expenses with him as well. He asked about my kids. Then giving me a hug, he thanked me for connecting with him that evening. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FbAOqX-SxSA/WCj1ei2DJNI/AAAAAAAAAeE/pgQpSJ3BQrg91ziUQGjLBiKNHDmXjm3TACEw/s1600/IMG_3233.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FbAOqX-SxSA/WCj1ei2DJNI/AAAAAAAAAeE/pgQpSJ3BQrg91ziUQGjLBiKNHDmXjm3TACEw/s320/IMG_3233.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My sweeties, 1984</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
</style>
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Hearing and reading Noemi Ban’s story (<i>Sharing is Healing, a Holocaust Survivor’s Story </i>with Ray Wolpow), I realize that it was she who influenced her son to be the kind and generous man who took a personal interest in his young patients and their parents. She raised her children to love life and to overcome hatred, a much-needed prescription in our world. I know my children were just a few out of the hundreds who were benefitted in part by this one woman. I feel blessed to have heard her say, “Life is for living. I love life!” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
</style><style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
</style><style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}
</style>AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-20599939163044455472016-10-12T12:13:00.000-07:002016-10-12T12:13:00.809-07:00It's All Playing!<div class="p1">
Playing in the leaves and the pumpkins, playing with words, playing with photos, it's all playing! I'm no poet but when a prompt for Haiku showed up in my writing group, it called forth some words that may or may not be considered poetry but it appealed to my desire to play. Take a moment, dear reader, and play with me. Be refreshed.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Nhnj1hMYJAo/V_6FM9QeP3I/AAAAAAAAAdA/fzKBg6TBDWkIVzuHnetW182WYOB2a_2cQCLcB/s1600/IMG_1428.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Nhnj1hMYJAo/V_6FM9QeP3I/AAAAAAAAAdA/fzKBg6TBDWkIVzuHnetW182WYOB2a_2cQCLcB/s320/IMG_1428.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">With edges curling</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Crisping to red and yellow</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">A lone leaf resting<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fXhwa_jwjUc/V_6GqOXXTcI/AAAAAAAAAdI/N0p4S9l2IT8ky75xQNivp1zubTTEg7ydgCEw/s1600/Task%2BComplete%2BIMG_1837.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fXhwa_jwjUc/V_6GqOXXTcI/AAAAAAAAAdI/N0p4S9l2IT8ky75xQNivp1zubTTEg7ydgCEw/s320/Task%2BComplete%2BIMG_1837.jpg" width="261" /></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Once shady partners</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Simmered in sun, blown in breeze</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">
</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Task complete, they fall</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Yes to the pumpkin!</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Forget past seasons’ neglect</span></div>
<div class="p1">
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And doom of compost</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BbdtJH3imc8/V_6HHJXkCxI/AAAAAAAAAdQ/y6xGvN5C8sw6Yw5bwk5A5FlVX6ct_W-fACLcB/s1600/Yes%2BPumpkin%2BIMG_2312.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: inline !important; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BbdtJH3imc8/V_6HHJXkCxI/AAAAAAAAAdQ/y6xGvN5C8sw6Yw5bwk5A5FlVX6ct_W-fACLcB/s400/Yes%2BPumpkin%2BIMG_2312.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="p1">
</div>
AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-46239289479633596442016-07-29T18:59:00.000-07:002016-07-29T18:59:08.784-07:00A Ladybug Speaks<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Nobody notices the wallflower. You know, the quiet, shy person sitting on the sidelines, alone, not drawn into conversation or even approached in search of a listening ear. Yep, I’ve been a wallflower; occasionally I still am, by choice thinking erroneously that my company isn’t wanted anyway. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IpAlxuARR9E/V5wGSWayKDI/AAAAAAAAAcM/X8vTNdrbIXQ-UstMGlLh4K7csuCZAVg-QCEw/s1600/Fiery%2BBush%2B1759.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IpAlxuARR9E/V5wGSWayKDI/AAAAAAAAAcM/X8vTNdrbIXQ-UstMGlLh4K7csuCZAVg-QCEw/s320/Fiery%2BBush%2B1759.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="p1">
I’ve noticed lately that God enjoys initiating conversations with me. Not that I’ve had the burning bush experience or instructions to put on a stone tablet kind of thing. Actually, according to Chris Tiegreen in the <i>Hearing His Voice </i>devotional book as he referenced Hebrews 8:6 (<i>He is the one who mediates for us a far better covenant with God, based on better promises</i>), we’ve got it way better than dear Moses in the communicating with God department. </div>
<br />
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">It may be a mysterious sounding concept but having the Holy Spirit as a constant presence, I’m increasingly aware that God welcomes interaction with me. And He usually starts the dialogue. He doesn’t limit Himself to one mode of expression. I think I have a favorite though. Well, a close second after the Bible. He catches my eye and my ear with the tiniest details in His creation, His home away from home. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">An answer to my unspoken, unexplored questions came in red with tiny black dots. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Zp3hxGay87M/V5wHSKoYlCI/AAAAAAAAAcY/mFTZsrnfZJMZXgYAQ7aA3JZYCKYJ6qQTQCEw/s1600/Day%2B11%2BOutdoors%2BIMG_2965.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Zp3hxGay87M/V5wHSKoYlCI/AAAAAAAAAcY/mFTZsrnfZJMZXgYAQ7aA3JZYCKYJ6qQTQCEw/s320/Day%2B11%2BOutdoors%2BIMG_2965.jpg" width="283" /></a></div>
All alone on a leaf, quivering in the breeze.<br />
<div>
<div>
<br /><br />
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Life’s breezes have me all a-quiver, with some uncertainties and unknowns as well as exciting potential. A ladybug spoke God’s message to me, “Hold on to the living vine. He won’t let you fall. And He makes all things beautiful in the midst of it.”</span></div>
</div>
</div>
AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-3712482316889970002016-07-25T16:25:00.000-07:002016-07-25T16:25:36.976-07:00Garden of Desires<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Hope that is put off makes the heart sick, but a desire that comes into being is a tree of life.” (Proverbs 13:12 NLT) </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I don’t have green thumbs and I have no desire to dig in the dirt. But I love to look at what others have planted and brought to bloom. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9_BSKU5bTDI/V5adGgP4zBI/AAAAAAAAAbI/qhWiBso0flA59ByiErFrZsHioehU_tLAgCEw/s1600/IMG_3069.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9_BSKU5bTDI/V5adGgP4zBI/AAAAAAAAAbI/qhWiBso0flA59ByiErFrZsHioehU_tLAgCEw/s320/IMG_3069.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
There are things other than plants that I have great longings for, where growth and ripening seem to be a far off dream. Will the branches of those trees ever be covered with leaves? Do my longings have anything to do with what God longs for? What are His yearnings? </div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I believe the yearnings and desires of my heart are shaped by God. </span><span class="s1">He is the Gardener who planted those desires, so like a child with both hands </span>grasped by her Father in a never ending circle of dancing grace, I’m going to keep on expecting fulfillment and satisfaction from Him.</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D2J5yb4gXRw/V5ad_Vzq9GI/AAAAAAAAAbM/89I1qT_jmI4GaTJojvz6bOvN8bkhLMbdwCLcB/s1600/Out%2Band%2BAbout%2Bfor%2BMPC%2B046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D2J5yb4gXRw/V5ad_Vzq9GI/AAAAAAAAAbM/89I1qT_jmI4GaTJojvz6bOvN8bkhLMbdwCLcB/s320/Out%2Band%2BAbout%2Bfor%2BMPC%2B046.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
When I lean in to watch as He waters and weeds my garden, I am assured He will reap what He has planted in me, a tree of life.<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-66656112213205086022016-06-10T17:06:00.000-07:002016-06-10T17:06:16.671-07:00Opening the Shell<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Here we are, approaching the halfway mark for 2016. It seems like just yesterday I was opening up <i>Hearing His Voice</i> by Chris Tiegreen, the new devotional book I’d chosen to peruse for the year, fitting as it did with the sense that God was calling me to listen more for His voice. In my own journal I’ve scribbled down impressions on my heart initiated by the daily readings. If you’ll have me, I’d like to share some of those with you, a little at a time. Maybe they will resonate with you. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">God already knows me down to the very nucleus of every cell in my body and all the vastness of my soul. After all, He created this shell of mine and breathed life into me and then redeemed me. He is not only aware of me, He is deeply interested in me. This sixty-two year old woman who still has doubts about so many things, who feels scattered in her thoughts and beliefs, who isn’t consistent with her habits (the “good” habits anyway), who gets irritated with herself and others.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /><span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Jc2V1xrLU8E/V1tUh4UHs6I/AAAAAAAAAas/mM2IxmzmjA8WidjOrEwtbXANPfmjufJLgCKgB/s1600/IMG_3934.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Jc2V1xrLU8E/V1tUh4UHs6I/AAAAAAAAAas/mM2IxmzmjA8WidjOrEwtbXANPfmjufJLgCKgB/s320/IMG_3934.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Yes, His interest in me is personal and intense. I want to turn my attention to Him and become deeply interested in Him. Not just stories about Him, but in Who He is and what He has to say to me. I do believe He speaks and I am opening up to hear Him.<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-42789806539759406382016-01-16T15:08:00.000-08:002016-01-16T15:08:20.467-08:00An Invitation<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">When
God instructed Moses to construct a place, a tabernacle, in which the
Israelites could worship Him while in the desert, He gave an
invitation to the people to join in with the gifts He'd provided for
them. Craftsmanship, materials, precious metals, and design abilities
to name a few. And so,</span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal;">
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">All
whose hearts were stirred and whose spirits were moved came and
brought their sacred offerings to the Lord. They brought all the
materials needed for the Tabernacle, for the performance of its
rituals, and for the sacred garments.” (Exodus 35:21, NLT)</span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">An
invitation came my way recently. It began with me wanting snacks for
my tummy. I got a feast for my soul.</span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 0.14in; margin-bottom: 0in; widows: 1;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-exjeixUGtug/VprLmKvH8JI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/fkO424XxJ8U/s1600/Jan%2B7%2BIMG_0577.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-exjeixUGtug/VprLmKvH8JI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/fkO424XxJ8U/s320/Jan%2B7%2BIMG_0577.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">One
evening last week on vacation with my hubby on the Pacific Coast of
the Olympic Peninsula, we set out for a walk to the little grocery
store. I glanced ahead and my heart skipped a beat. You know when
that late afternoon light hits and everything goes golden? My view of
the western sky was blocked by some foliage and buildings but up
ahead I could see the cabins were aglow. It was almost like I was in
a dream and unable to make my feet go faster so I could see what was
happening out there.</span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8zgGrqjDfrc/VprL-gaxv8I/AAAAAAAAAaU/RfddzU_AjKw/s1600/Jan%2B7%2BIMG_0589.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8zgGrqjDfrc/VprL-gaxv8I/AAAAAAAAAaU/RfddzU_AjKw/s320/Jan%2B7%2BIMG_0589.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">And
then! And then! I was past the blockage and I wanted to dance. Oh, I
did dance. With my iPhone camera. The views at Kalaloch are always
beautiful but this was spectacular. The low-lying clouds had rolled
up like a stage-curtain that had then gotten stuck and the sun poured
through the slit in red and gold profusion.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">As
I snapped picture after picture, I felt like God called out to me,
inviting me to participate with Him in creating art. This stretch of
beach and bluff, the trees, the sky, all His creation beyond our
comprehension. And it was a privilege to be there, to respond, to
find angles and perspectives, to create.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">It
was never clearer to me than in that moment, and I hope to carry that
realization forward, He is always inviting us to participate in His
creation. Photography, writing, teaching, whatever the gifts He's
given, we get to create with Him.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fBGniURoO0I/VprMGoQ-HSI/AAAAAAAAAag/v5WdhTO1MKI/s1600/Jan%2B7%2BIMG_0584.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fBGniURoO0I/VprMGoQ-HSI/AAAAAAAAAag/v5WdhTO1MKI/s640/Jan%2B7%2BIMG_0584.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
</div>
<div align="left" class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-35589582512091692642015-11-17T21:32:00.001-08:002015-11-17T21:32:28.837-08:00A Psalm of Peace in the Storm<div class="MsoNormal">
In the writers’ group that I’m in, we are given weekly
writing challenges. Last week’s challenge was to write a psalm of thanksgiving.
This one came about after reading Psalm 69 and recalls a white-knuckled driving
experience I had. With all that’s happening in our world today, I think it
speaks deeper.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">Peace in the Storm</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nKZZ7sBkKKw/VkwLgS7ZyeI/AAAAAAAAAX4/Gkv6GFqIAW0/s1600/IMG_7639.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nKZZ7sBkKKw/VkwLgS7ZyeI/AAAAAAAAAX4/Gkv6GFqIAW0/s320/IMG_7639.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The storm clouds have opened and deluged me. The river has
flooded and my way leads between deep chasms of dark water. Night envelops me.
A front headlight of my car has gone out, while the oncoming traffic blinds me.
The humiliation I feel at my own fearfulness overwhelms me. Oh, Lord, as I
press forward with dread, will You come to my aid? Reach down, guide me and
bring me to safe, well-lit streets.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am reminded that, yes, Your faithful saving presence is
always beside me. Your light fills my soul. You bring me through the darkness
and keep my head above the high splash of road-width puddles. Although I cannot
see what lies ahead, praise flows from my lips for You are delivering me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I peer through the unending wild whipping of the
windshield wipers, when they seem to make no headway on visibility, You bring
peace to my heart. You hear my cry and know my voice as a shepherd knows his
sheep. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Your Name is on our lips, Abba, You hear the cry of
those drenched by the </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nG6vEsYXGac/VkwMDUEX7eI/AAAAAAAAAYA/f12RZl0NNUU/s1600/IMG_7643.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nG6vEsYXGac/VkwMDUEX7eI/AAAAAAAAAYA/f12RZl0NNUU/s320/IMG_7643.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
rain; You do not despise Your rain-soaked people. You are
our umbrella of light and peace and safety. Let all those who travel on dark
country roads give You thanks.AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-66260037453871815462015-09-24T17:10:00.001-07:002015-09-24T17:10:28.229-07:00Relating to Autumn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--KzpXNJvmMo/VgSN5xLXVkI/AAAAAAAAAW0/9QAs7vLAJjU/s1600/Punkins%2Bin%2Ba%2BCart%2BIMG_5817.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--KzpXNJvmMo/VgSN5xLXVkI/AAAAAAAAAW0/9QAs7vLAJjU/s320/Punkins%2Bin%2Ba%2BCart%2BIMG_5817.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s fair to say that I don’t really have a favorite season,
unless it’s the season I’m in. Okay, if I’m going to be honest, maybe winter is
the only season that isn’t quite as favorite as the others. But we don’t have
to go there yet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the things I like about autumn is the abundant pops
of orange as I’m driving through the countryside. Pumpkin patches! Happy
bulging orbs of orange, still on vines, stacked on wagons, propped on fence
posts. Images of pumpkin pie swirl in my brain and the thought teases my tongue.
Yum! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xIEL_QmeIxg/VgSN8mmMWxI/AAAAAAAAAW8/weXWqYGLCwc/s1600/Punkins%2Bon%2BPosts%2BIMG_5778.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="259" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xIEL_QmeIxg/VgSN8mmMWxI/AAAAAAAAAW8/weXWqYGLCwc/s320/Punkins%2Bon%2BPosts%2BIMG_5778.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QyjBL_kJZpw/VgSN-wxC_XI/AAAAAAAAAXE/cuXBWSIO8w4/s1600/Punkins%2Bon%2Bthe%2BVine%2BIMG_5795.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="156" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QyjBL_kJZpw/VgSN-wxC_XI/AAAAAAAAAXE/cuXBWSIO8w4/s200/Punkins%2Bon%2Bthe%2BVine%2BIMG_5795.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nrkuTvkMboE/VgSOoQPCDvI/AAAAAAAAAXM/_gA_xdzUy-I/s1600/Rain%2Bthru%2BWindow%2BIMG_5262.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nrkuTvkMboE/VgSOoQPCDvI/AAAAAAAAAXM/_gA_xdzUy-I/s400/Rain%2Bthru%2BWindow%2BIMG_5262.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
I’m a fan of sitting cozily inside while the rain slashes
down the windows. It reminds me of the time in first grade (fifty-some years
ago) that I was allowed to sit on a stool in front of the classroom and read a
story to my classmates on an afternoon when the rain almost drowned out my
voice. And I had to read very loudly about
Lassie saving the kittens from their watery doom in the ditch. Hooray for the
hero! <i><o:p></o:p></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And what other season actually gets two names? With
rainstorms spewing and leaves descending in showy piles, autumn tends to fall
all over herself. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q7qRETerxXY/VgSPC3MuaoI/AAAAAAAAAXU/ffKF0uyzJQE/s1600/Fall%2Bon%2Bthe%2BShore%2BIMG_5030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="274" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q7qRETerxXY/VgSPC3MuaoI/AAAAAAAAAXU/ffKF0uyzJQE/s320/Fall%2Bon%2Bthe%2BShore%2BIMG_5030.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8W_Fh_-ejr4/VgSPT8tlkWI/AAAAAAAAAXc/-tiqL_lF1z4/s1600/Fallen%2BLeaves%2Bon%2Bmy%2Bhat%2B004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="195" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8W_Fh_-ejr4/VgSPT8tlkWI/AAAAAAAAAXc/-tiqL_lF1z4/s200/Fallen%2BLeaves%2Bon%2Bmy%2Bhat%2B004.jpg" width="200" /></a>I identify with autumn as she stumbles along, trying to hold
on to summer, bumping against winter, with not a single grasp of graceful
spring. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-43072320855873306822015-04-16T13:37:00.000-07:002015-04-16T13:37:22.501-07:00DON’T LOOK AT ME! <div class="MsoNormal">
One of the first descriptions about me that I remember
hearing as a child was, “She’s shy. Don’t even look at her or she’ll cry.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wait! Wait! No worries, friends! While I still do cry
easily, there’s no need to turn away. I’ve come a long way since then. But I’ll
be honest with you. My shyness hasn’t disappeared, and temperamentally I’m an
introvert so it still takes a lot of effort for me to engage in conversation or
interact with people I don’t know. In previous blog posts, <i><a href="http://mylittlecorner53.blogspot.com/2013_02_01_archive.html">Role to Minister</a> </i>and <i><a href="http://mylittlecorner53.blogspot.com/2013_03_01_archive.html">MonstrousLimitations vs Super Power</a></i>, I dealt with this. Good for me to review! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Good to remember also that once I get started with a
particular interaction and can focus on the other person, and as long as I give
myself time to re-energize afterward, I generally enjoy it, which is what I’ve
experienced over the past few days. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In <a href="http://mylittlecorner53.blogspot.com/2015/03/hee-haw.html">my last post</a> I shared about “Be the One”, a mentoring
program, and the writing opportunity I’ve been offered. What that entails is
getting the stories of the mentors and mentees, how the program has affected
them, and then putting the stories into readable form. The plan is to undertake
that task the first couple weeks of May. In addition I was asked if I would
take on interviewing local businesses that sponsor the program and get their
feedback. I said, “Yes.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whoa! That’s a whole lot of interacting with people I don’t
know, folks! So what motivates me to overcome my shyness and get out there and
do it? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, the idea that kids are falling through the cracks when
there’s a God-designed someone for each one of those kids to throw them a
little life line, and here’s a program that can match these people up if only
the word can get out there sort of starts the fire in me. And as I said in my
previous post, my heart responded to that scenario in a big way. This is the
purpose God designed me to fulfill—helping to get that word out there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So far the sponsoring businesses I’ve contacted have been
incredibly receptive and willing to share their hearts for the program and this
community. I admire them!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, excuse me while I re-energize before it’s time to gather up </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qqbfzd5k9Tg/VTAbPX_ewbI/AAAAAAAAAWU/wcCsdHE-P2s/s1600/Interview%2Bmaterial%2B003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qqbfzd5k9Tg/VTAbPX_ewbI/AAAAAAAAAWU/wcCsdHE-P2s/s1600/Interview%2Bmaterial%2B003.jpg" height="256" width="320" /></a></div>
my interviewing paraphernalia for the next interviewee. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-425991171382719932015-03-26T15:14:00.000-07:002015-03-26T15:14:43.051-07:00HEE-HAW!<div class="MsoNormal">
My writers support group explored inspiration last month,
and we took a look at why we write. The meeting was…inspiring! So why haven’t I
written much since then? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, I think sometimes I need something more specific to
motivate me. I’ve been praying for God’s direction in my life for my writing. And
I believe He is sending some answers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few days ago, my sister and I met with Nancy McHarness who
founded Partners for Schools in our local school district. She told us about
the “Be the One” mentoring program she launched last year in the high school
and middle school. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LC2pGbMvLQw/VRSC5_HLebI/AAAAAAAAAVw/DiVyA_m2kj8/s1600/Be%2Bthe%2BOne%2BBanner%2Bframed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LC2pGbMvLQw/VRSC5_HLebI/AAAAAAAAAVw/DiVyA_m2kj8/s1600/Be%2Bthe%2BOne%2BBanner%2Bframed.jpg" height="292" width="320" /></a></div>
When she presented the opportunity to assist in a writing capacity,
I felt my heart respond in a way that I haven’t experienced in a long time. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know the details of how God will move in this
response yet but I am continuing to search His heart. As we all know, searching
God’s heart requires reading His words, His Word. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My daily reading is taking me through Deuteronomy. Plod,
plod, plod through Duty-ronomy, right? Still, I’m seeing God’s heart is there. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you see your neighbor’s ox or sheep or goat wandering
away, don’t ignore your responsibility. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eUySGXqItqA/VRSDHSglT5I/AAAAAAAAAV4/LyKB0aauZew/s1600/Goats%2B074.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eUySGXqItqA/VRSDHSglT5I/AAAAAAAAAV4/LyKB0aauZew/s1600/Goats%2B074.jpg" height="292" width="320" /></a></div>
Take it back to its owner. If its owner
does not live nearby or you don’t know who the owner is, take it to your place
and keep it until the owner comes looking for it. Then you must return it. Do
the same if you find your neighbor’s donkey, clothing, or anything else your
neighbor loses. Don’t ignore your responsibility. If you see that your
neighbor’s donkey or ox has collapsed on the road, do not look the other way.
Go and help your neighbor get it back on its feet!” (Deuteronomy 22:1-4 NLT)<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, I’m a farmer’s daughter but it wasn’t a donkey on the
side of the road that hee-hawed to get my attention. What grabbed me is a
concept. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
“Don’t ignore your
responsibility.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My responsibility in and with my writing is to help return
something lost, to give something back to my community. The ramifications of
that can be minimal, or they can be monumental. Either way, my writing matters.
Our writing matters. For me, seeing HOW it might matter is a huge boost of
encouragement to engage my mind and my fingers in releasing what God has put in
my heart. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am eagerly waiting for the next steps. I’ll keep you
posted. Meanwhile, here are some of the reasons I came up with for why I write,
from the silly to the serious:</div>
<ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc">
<li class="MsoNormal">The
voices! The voices! The voices!</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Something
has to go between the beginning of the sentence and the period.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Someone
has to keep the alphabet alive.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">In
order to keep my keyboard happy. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Because
the words won’t put themselves on the page.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">I
might be able to express a thought just a little differently than everyone
else.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">It’s
my nature to encourage with words.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">There
are stories only I can tell.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Worlds
are like chisels used to expose reality. </li>
</ul>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-46634503410560941332014-12-24T12:54:00.000-08:002014-12-24T12:54:12.666-08:00All I Want For Christmas<div class="MsoNormal">
As a little kid all I wanted for Christmas was…Christmas!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VLP5DoOKCtE/VJskEq0YjiI/AAAAAAAAAVA/XvJNEhQlvu0/s1600/Prepping%2Bfor%2BChristmas%2B013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VLP5DoOKCtE/VJskEq0YjiI/AAAAAAAAAVA/XvJNEhQlvu0/s1600/Prepping%2Bfor%2BChristmas%2B013.jpg" height="251" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dad’s disdain toward the commercialism, and the dogmatic
idea that it was connected to pagan influences, prompted him to ban the
celebration of Christmas in our home. No excited anticipation for Christmas
Eve, no countdown to Christmas morning. No Christmas tree. No letters to Santa
Claus. I often wished Santa was real so I could avoid the embarrassment at
school of having to answer “Nothing,” when asked “What did you get for
Christmas?” No, there were no presents to open. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, okay, one set of grandparents always gave each of us
five dollars and the other grandma gave us something, like a pair of darned
socks. And I mean, darned in the sewing sense. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But besides that, our Christian home didn’t embrace any of
the traditions observed by most of the people we knew, not even for the fun of
it. Other than Mom’s little Nativity set up in a corner and a big dinner with
relatives, the season was bereft of Advent Wreaths or church Christmas
services.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But as a seventeen-year old, I discovered that the <i>giving</i> of gifts could not be prevented.
With money saved from babysitting jobs, I got something for each of my family
still living at home. Only Dad did not accept the one I got for him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Confession time here. I admit that a bit of rebellion
against my dad’s dogmatism figured into this act of good will. But the joy I
felt at giving gifts gave me a glimpse into God’s delight at giving the
greatest gift, His Son Jesus Christ. And a teeny tiny twinge of what refusal to
accept that gift might mean to the Father of lights, the giver of every good
and perfect gift. (James 1:7)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do understand Dad’s initial stance that Christ’s birth
date is not recorded anywhere and was likely not in wintertime at all and that
Christmas got tied in with less than Biblical beliefs. But in later years Dad relaxed
about those issues, figuring they weren’t deal-breakers, and he opened up to
the season’s celebratory options. Joy to the world! </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4Zy1A1Xta0U/VJsjcDH6HXI/AAAAAAAAAU4/JWV7_oklmxY/s1600/Frog%2BTrumpeter%2BWorship%2BChrist%2B050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4Zy1A1Xta0U/VJsjcDH6HXI/AAAAAAAAAU4/JWV7_oklmxY/s1600/Frog%2BTrumpeter%2BWorship%2BChrist%2B050.jpg" height="320" width="297" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband and I enjoyed establishing our own seasonal
traditions, which included providing gifts for our kids and ways for them to
give to each other. Their anticipation made it fun for us. Finances were of a
sort that we had to keep it pretty simple, but even if we’d had more freedom
there, I think low-key would still have prevailed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another confession here. Even though we celebrated
Christmas, I sort of did what Dad did. I got huffy when someone said “Happy
Holidays” or used “Merry Xmas” as a greeting. Why did I take offense? How did
those things take away the joy in my heart of knowing my sins are forgiven and
that Jesus Christ reigns? By protesting belligerently, did I bring any peace
and good will into the world? Later I realized holiday comes from holy day and learned
the X in Xmas is the Greek letter used for Christ. Like in the ichthys, that
fish symbol many use to identify themselves as Christians. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whether my Christmas time comes with simple imagination or
with elaborate trimming, what freedom there is in realizing no offense was
intended.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Hh3SLhmbl2Q/VJsmfqPNOnI/AAAAAAAAAVM/8LKg9Xid110/s1600/Polar%2BBear%2Bdriver%2B2636.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Hh3SLhmbl2Q/VJsmfqPNOnI/AAAAAAAAAVM/8LKg9Xid110/s1600/Polar%2BBear%2Bdriver%2B2636.jpg" height="216" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All I want for Christmas nowadays is to be joyous, in
discovering what brings delight to others and to God’s heart. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-58570121734849939132014-08-06T14:18:00.000-07:002014-08-06T14:18:50.970-07:00The Heights of Panic<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s been years since I’ve had the nightmare. The one where
I’m in a car driving or riding pleasantly along. In the mountains, or along a
cliff, sometimes on a freeway or a country road. We encounter a curve and the
mood changes. Our car fails to negotiate it and over the shoulder and downward
we plunge. It feels like the rocks and waves are rushing up to meet us. I know
it means death and a scream tears from my throat. And that’s when I wake up.
Usually waking everyone else in the house too because the scream was out loud,
not just in my dream. My heart pounds, my breath comes in gasps, I’m crying.
The terror is so real. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a dream I had repeatedly from childhood on into my
adult years. Sometimes the end wouldn’t come until our car was fully
underwater. With each repetition it felt more and more real until in my dream I
would be saying, “It’s not a dream anymore, this time it’s real!” Fear overwhelms.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve always had acrophobia, an extreme irrational fear of heights
and falling. I hated riding or driving in mountainous areas as the reason for
the fears from my dream was so in my face. But as an adult I would pray for
God’s help and force myself to go in order to participate in activities I
enjoyed such as women’s retreat in Big Bear, <st1:state w:st="on">California</st1:state>. Even with prayer the nightmare
preceded these events and I would border on panic the entire route.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One year the nightmare came with painful intensity. I woke
both myself and my husband with my screaming. Sobbing, I said to my husband, “I
can’t take it anymore. Will <i>you</i>
please pray for me?” And he did.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wrote <i><a href="http://www.faithwriters.com/wc-article-level3-previous.php?id=28394">Weapon of MassDestruction</a></i>, a fictional story based on this incident, for the weekly
challenge at faithwriters.com. And I’ve not had the horrible nightmare since.
Mountain driving and high places were still challenging for me but manageable. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until a couple weeks ago when my husband and I decided to
spend a Saturday afternoon driving up to Artist Point in the <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mt.</st1:placetype> Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest, in the North
Cascade Mountain range.<i></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AW766C5T4N4/U-KTshWBRnI/AAAAAAAAATo/WKWfJeBBwU4/s1600/To+Artist's+Point+011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AW766C5T4N4/U-KTshWBRnI/AAAAAAAAATo/WKWfJeBBwU4/s1600/To+Artist's+Point+011.jpg" height="260" width="320" /></a></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Artist Point is a mere 5100 feet in elevation. <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mt.</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Baker</st1:placename></st1:place>,
at 10,781 feet, holds its lofty white head high above. But the route, the only
route, is about 55 miles long and the last sections of it are a series of
switchbacks and hairpin turns with very few guardrails.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had not been up <a href="https://www.google.com/maps/place/Artist+Point/@48.8581046,-121.6879392,3523m/data=!3m1!1e3!4m2!3m1!1s0x5484f64c6fbc2825:0xe39934d6c5a2ac2d?hl=en">this highway</a> in over thirty years but my
reaction took me by surprise. A painful, panicked reaction. We emerged from the
heavily forested region where views of the precipices could not be seen to
suddenly being out in the wide open vista of rocky cliffs above and below. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My
chest tightened, my heart pounded. I murmured, “Oh, this is getting hard for
me.” Then as my husband negotiated a particularly <a href="https://www.google.com/maps/place/Artist+Point/@48.8558074,-121.6810481,440m/data=!3m1!1e3!4m2!3m1!1s0x5484f64c6fbc2825:0xe39934d6c5a2ac2d?hl=en">tight turn</a>, I felt the world
tip and spin around me and without my seatbelt holding me upright I would’ve
probably resorted to a fetal position—not an attractive look for a sixty-year
old woman. It was the nightmare feeling in full reality. I yelled something, I
don’t know what—the whole scenario is blurred in my mind now. Scared my husband
half out of his wits. So grateful for his skillful driving.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1zifpWHkOiQ/U-KVZaSHvcI/AAAAAAAAAT0/GGWkljVFheI/s1600/To+Artist's+Point+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1zifpWHkOiQ/U-KVZaSHvcI/AAAAAAAAAT0/GGWkljVFheI/s1600/To+Artist's+Point+001.jpg" height="165" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband pulled over at the next pullout, which didn’t
really reassure me as the edge was RIGHT. THERE. OUT. SIDE. MY. WIN. DOW! Or at
least it seemed that way. Hubby asked me if we should turn around and go back
down the mountain. I managed to calm my breathing. And I said, “No. I want to
go as far as the road goes.” No way was I going to let this fear triumph over
me. It’s been decades since I was last up here and I wanted to see beautiful
Artist Point and the other amazing scenes. <i><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nlcnS6bfE9w/U-KVo6ctjmI/AAAAAAAAAT8/SiZmjFwzelY/s1600/To+Artist's+Point+016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nlcnS6bfE9w/U-KVo6ctjmI/AAAAAAAAAT8/SiZmjFwzelY/s1600/To+Artist's+Point+016.jpg" height="145" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mt. Baker shrouded in clouds.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fsry8CrJMUU/U-KWIae4qsI/AAAAAAAAAUE/CyNFJJ-BL_k/s1600/To+Artist's+Point+025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fsry8CrJMUU/U-KWIae4qsI/AAAAAAAAAUE/CyNFJJ-BL_k/s1600/To+Artist's+Point+025.jpg" height="254" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt bad for scaring
my husband. I felt bad that it sounded like I didn’t trust him; that it looked
like I thought he meant to kill us both. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that is the nature of a phobia. It takes over the senses
and cancels out reality. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
According to what I’ve read since this incident, the extreme
fear of heights can be an inborn one, with some people more affected by it than
others. In addition I have vertigo so constant changing of direction will
affect my balance and make me feel that I am falling when I am not. An article
in Wikipedia states, “<span style="background: white;">The human balance system integrates<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Proprioceptive" title="Proprioceptive"><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">proprioceptive</span></a>
[<span style="background: white;">the<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sense" title="Sense"><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">sense</span></a><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white;"> </span></span><span style="background: white;">of the relative
position of neighbouring parts of the body and strength of effort being
employed in movement], </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vestibular_system" title="Vestibular system"><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">vestibular</span></a><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white;"> </span></span><span style="background: white;">and nearby
visual cues to reckon position and motion.” I am challenged in this area
already so if you put me in a world where visual cues have receded, don’t be
surprised then to find me in the fetal position. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white;">I enjoyed our stroll around Artist Point </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qVvqBKHaC4s/U-KXaEZaGtI/AAAAAAAAAUY/UIAAj_1hECk/s1600/To+Artist's+Point+014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qVvqBKHaC4s/U-KXaEZaGtI/AAAAAAAAAUY/UIAAj_1hECk/s1600/To+Artist's+Point+014.jpg" height="265" width="320" /></a><span style="background: white;">once we got there, </span><span style="background-color: white;">but fighting back tears of shame the whole
time did detract a bit. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white;">Before we headed back down the mountain my husband
reassured me that there was no shame to be had. We discussed the fact that as a
child the responsible adults in my life had ridiculed me, for the fears I
expressed on this very route, the scene of the crime, so to speak, and used the
opportunity to frighten me further. Sort of a situation of traumatized trauma. I
work on forgiving them and accepting release from this tyranny. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WtPdplk8qyE/U-KXq325szI/AAAAAAAAAUg/A3dWnZMT4cc/s1600/To+Artist's+Point+020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WtPdplk8qyE/U-KXq325szI/AAAAAAAAAUg/A3dWnZMT4cc/s1600/To+Artist's+Point+020.jpg" height="258" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white;">On our downhill trek my dear husband purposefully drove even more
sedately and with a mind for my comfort. I kept my eyes looking up with the
name of Jesus in my heart and quietly on my lips. Fear still lurked but panic
stayed at bay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X9AoCxZpyRY/U-KX4cRt3cI/AAAAAAAAAUo/nxH19NSFrgg/s1600/To+Artist's+Point+021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X9AoCxZpyRY/U-KX4cRt3cI/AAAAAAAAAUo/nxH19NSFrgg/s1600/To+Artist's+Point+021.jpg" height="290" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white;">I am confident that Jesus my Lord does not
look at me as shameful because of my fear. (<i><a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=psalm+69%3A33&version=NRSV">Psalm 69:33</a>; <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=romans+8%3A1%2C+38&version=NCV">Romans 8:1, 38 </a></i>) H</span><span style="background: white;">e gives me grace and tells me to have it
on myself. No shaming from him. (<i><a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=hebrews+4%3A14-16&version=MSG">Hebrews 4:14-16</a></i>) Reminding me that it's in the middle of
terror that bravery and courage are demonstrated. (<i><a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=2+corinthians+12%3A7-10&version=MSG">2 Corinthians 12:7-10</a></i>)</span><o:p></o:p></div>
AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-5905749613402932972014-07-16T14:20:00.000-07:002014-07-16T14:20:56.532-07:00PART THREE OF THE CORNERSTONE SAGA<div class="MsoNormal">
This is the third and last episode
in the saga of Cornerstone Ranch; unless inspiration takes me back there again
at some point. Thank you for reading! I’d
love to hear from you.<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span>(If you need to get caught up before reading this, see <a href="http://mylittlecorner53.blogspot.com/2014/05/sneak-preview.html">Part One</a>
and <a href="http://mylittlecorner53.blogspot.com/2014_07_01_archive.html">Part Two</a>)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RQS75-9D4rQ/U8bhdPyiDEI/AAAAAAAAASA/FdQwuK8Gm80/s1600/Neath+Western+Skies+title+081.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RQS75-9D4rQ/U8bhdPyiDEI/AAAAAAAAASA/FdQwuK8Gm80/s1600/Neath+Western+Skies+title+081.jpg" height="328" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lips set in a smile of smug satisfaction, Clayton caressed
the ledger’s leather cover. Things were looking mighty good here at Cornerstone
Ranch. Lush pastureland sustained ever-increasing herds of cattle and flocks of
sheep. Along with a creek running through the 100,000 acres, good fortune had
led Clayton to dig water wells in just the right spots. Even in the dry <st1:state w:st="on">California</st1:state> summer nobody
went thirsty. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_knneCbCHp4/U8biQFepvvI/AAAAAAAAASI/HoAoUREwamg/s1600/Cattle+in+field+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_knneCbCHp4/U8biQFepvvI/AAAAAAAAASI/HoAoUREwamg/s1600/Cattle+in+field+004.jpg" height="238" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Cornerstone Ranch foreman chuckled as he anticipated an
entertaining evening later at the saloon in Dry Gulp.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>That town’s gonna have to change its name one of these
here days, </i>he mused<i>. Ain’t no
way none of us is goin’ thirsty no how. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ITNYV55Hu8U/U8bitaVtbfI/AAAAAAAAASY/SeHmEhNFB5Q/s1600/Cramer's+Saloon+025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ITNYV55Hu8U/U8bitaVtbfI/AAAAAAAAASY/SeHmEhNFB5Q/s1600/Cramer's+Saloon+025.jpg" height="257" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">**</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Everyone
there knows they owe their success to me and my boys out here on the ranch. We
bring ‘em all the business they can handle. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All the same, a small shudder rose from some locked down
place in his middle when he looked out the window. The weeping willow at the
edge of the gully whispered an oft-repeated accusation. <i>Murderer. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Clayton flapped his hat at the window dismissively. <i>Ain’t
nothin’ but the breeze in that durn tree.
</i>He sauntered out of the ranch house and saddled his horse. Time to survey
the little kingdom he considered his own. It had been many years since
Cornerstone’s owner, a gentleman who lived on the eastern coast, had visited.
All the time and effort Clayton had put in gave him cause to believe he was
more owner than Mr. Eastern Fancy Pants would ever be. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Zy8Vh5ojxss/U8bjHUnIT7I/AAAAAAAAASg/-ASI-kz7Chg/s1600/Horse+008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Zy8Vh5ojxss/U8bjHUnIT7I/AAAAAAAAASg/-ASI-kz7Chg/s1600/Horse+008.jpg" height="146" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">**</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Clayton spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the corral’s
hard packed dirt. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It’d be a blue moon that’d see Mr. Fancy Pants settin’
foot here again. To top if off, them ‘messages’ I sent by way of Mr. Fancy
Pants’ agents as well as that son of his, oughta be enough to scare those fancy
pants right offa him. He’ll stay away for good.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>That consarned son of his shoulda never left home. I told
him to skedaddle before he ended up gettin’ tangled in my rope. I was just
protectin’ what’s rightly mine! Ain’t nobody gonna take it from me!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xLXjnnw_118/U8bjXZOYlTI/AAAAAAAAASs/7WA0IcJTuT8/s1600/Weeping+willow+005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xLXjnnw_118/U8bjXZOYlTI/AAAAAAAAASs/7WA0IcJTuT8/s1600/Weeping+willow+005.jpg" height="200" width="169" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The weeping willow stirred again and a shiver went up
Clayton’s spine. He spurred his horse out onto the range and left the willow
far behind. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Squinting his eyes against the glare of the midday sun,
Clayton peered across the high chaparral. Was that a plume of smoke he saw just
beyond the ridge leading to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Santiago</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Peak</st1:placetype></st1:place>? He removed his hat
and wiped the sweat off his face with the red bandana he wore around his neck.<i> </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hR9P87gUHv0/U8bjnlqFrNI/AAAAAAAAASw/hcATmjYPWjE/s1600/Fire+in+the+hills+011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hR9P87gUHv0/U8bjnlqFrNI/AAAAAAAAASw/hcATmjYPWjE/s1600/Fire+in+the+hills+011.jpg" height="243" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Nah, must’ve been a cloud of deerflies. It’s gone now.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fire was an ever-present threat at this time of year. He was
real strict with his cowhands about leaving fires unattended or tossing
smoldering cigarette butts. To be on the safe side, he’d send Little George out
to investigate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After dinner Clayton put on a clean shirt. “Hey, Willy,” he called to his lead ranch
hand, “I’m headed into town. You’re in charge. Most of the boys are goin’ with
me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TCFty4LXaE0/U8bkG62O4vI/AAAAAAAAATE/11DG5oVIxC4/s1600/Bath+house+041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TCFty4LXaE0/U8bkG62O4vI/AAAAAAAAATE/11DG5oVIxC4/s1600/Bath+house+041.jpg" height="320" width="305" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">**</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay, boss,” Willy’s bushy eyebrows waggled up and down as
he pictured the fun they’d be having. Then he remembered something, “Oh, hey,
boss. Little George ain’t come back yet from scoutin’ out that bit o’ smoke ya
seen. Ya reckon he’s alright?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Shucks! You know the man’s part Juaneno Indian,” Clayton
rolled his eyes. “Every so often he takes it into his head he’s gotta observe
some ceremony to the moon or somethin’. Nah, I ain’t worried ‘bout him.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With that Clayton and the boys, whooping and hollering,
galloped off to town. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Several hours later, bleary-eyed, they let their horses
navigate through deep midnight shadows. Slim and Whit’s harmonizing about not
being buried ‘neath the western skies on the lone prairie prompted Clayton’s gaze
upward. He let out a gasp. “What in tarnation is that?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why, that’s a blue moon,” Slim replied, his higher
education kicking in. “And I believe I smell smoke, through which we are
viewing that celestial orb.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fear surged through Clayton, dispelling the whiskey-induced
stupor. <i>Little George! Fire!</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As they passed the weeping willow and neared the ranch,
complete soberness hit. A horse-drawn buggy waited at the gate, a tall
immaculately dressed figure alongside. In a long line to either side, mounted
soldiers stood firm, fire reflecting in their drawn sabers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T6WvykB3Chk/U8bkYBxA_1I/AAAAAAAAATM/JkPy3bLvPrs/s1600/Buggy+006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T6WvykB3Chk/U8bkYBxA_1I/AAAAAAAAATM/JkPy3bLvPrs/s1600/Buggy+006.jpg" height="200" width="164" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">***</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Boss,” Slim said, “It appears Mr. Eastern Fancy Pants has
returned and intends to avenge his heir with flame and sword."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Slim reined in his horse and doffed his hat. “Adios,
Clayton, adios.”</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(* Photo taken at <a href="http://www.co.whatcom.wa.us/parks/hovander/">Hovander Homestead Park</a>, Ferndale, Washington)</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(** Photo taken at <a href="http://cramerclassics.com/">Cramer's Farm</a>, an event venue in Northwest Washington State)</span></i></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(*** Photo taken at <a href="http://lyndenpioneermuseum.com/">Lynden Pioneer Museum</a>, Lynden, Washington)</span></i></o:p></div>
AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-61878658979936253802014-07-07T14:34:00.000-07:002014-07-07T14:34:17.695-07:00Part Two of the Cornerstone Trilogy<div class="MsoNormal">
Another piece of my creative fiction for your entertainment and contemplation. (See <a href="http://mylittlecorner53.blogspot.com/2014/05/sneak-preview.html">SNEAK PREVIEW</a> for Part One in this little
saga)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6xOOK2QhQMs/U7sRx6Hr6WI/AAAAAAAAARs/QdoWzszmDoA/s1600/Plot+Uncovered+Title+photo+017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6xOOK2QhQMs/U7sRx6Hr6WI/AAAAAAAAARs/QdoWzszmDoA/s1600/Plot+Uncovered+Title+photo+017.jpg" height="284" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tNImP-AqDzc/U7sEH_dg9rI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/dJd9xtSzuvk/s1600/Saloon+022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tNImP-AqDzc/U7sEH_dg9rI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/dJd9xtSzuvk/s1600/Saloon+022.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">**</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pondered what the old bartender had told me as the whiskey
settled in my stomach. Clearly he had no idea who he was talking to, or he
wouldn’t have divulged his dilemma. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
You see, I’m a reporter for the Los Angeles Observer, and I was in
Dry Gulp investigating a crime. All right, I’m a <i>cub</i> reporter and I was
there on vacation at my employer’s suggestion. Okay, okay! He chased me out of town
after I got fresh with his daughter, Matilda, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, a couple weeks prior, my resource at the telegraph
office had tipped me off. Two gentlemen, both sporting black eyes and numerous
bruises, and one with his arm in a sling, sent a telegram addressed to a
renowned franchiser back east. Said they’d been assaulted by the cowboys at
that Cornerstone Ranch of his, and what did he want them to do now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I made the acquaintance once of some cowboys from that Ranch
at a certain establishment down by the docks. They seemed to have plenty of
money to throw around. And they relieved me of my wad. I’m no great shakes at
poker, but I think they cheated. I’d sure like to see them get their
comeuppance. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My banishment resulting from my little escapade with
Matilda, had maybe put me where using my expert investigative skills, I could
get back into her daddy’s good graces. I envisioned the headlines. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Cub Reporter Uncovers Plot </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>to Take Over </i><i>Back East
Franchiser’s Ranch; </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Murder and Mayhem Averted Just in Time! <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Great care must be taken. No accusations of yellow
journalism for me. It might boost newspaper circulation but let Hearst and
Pulitzer settle that score without my help. As a professional, I intend to
always proceed with ethics. My stories will have pathos, human interest, and be
sympathetic to the underdog, whenever I find one and it doesn’t bite me first.
And my stories will always be entirely verifiable. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started the process immediately by interviewing the
bartender. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sir,” I said, in my best professional manner, “those two
gentlemen you mentioned, why were they here and why did they get manhandled?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I guess they wuz here ta c’llect the income fer the ranch’s
real boss. But Clay’s set on keepin’ it fer hisself.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Clay, the ranch foreman? What’s he got against his boss?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I dunno, young feller,” the barkeep replied. “But I shore
hope the boss don’t send his son out here like I heard he wuz. I jest know
they’re gonna kill ‘im.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Will you inform the local law enforcement agency?” </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D_YLPNdPTPs/U7sFAlFiKpI/AAAAAAAAARE/8OpHlh4KubU/s1600/Sherrif+Jail+024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D_YLPNdPTPs/U7sFAlFiKpI/AAAAAAAAARE/8OpHlh4KubU/s1600/Sherrif+Jail+024.jpg" height="320" width="258" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The old man’s eyebrows cinched, “The who?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Uh, the sheriff, sir,” I said, arching my own.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, now, I jest don’t rightly know. Granted, my life
ain’t that important, but ‘tis mine an’ I’d like ta keep it fer a spell. My
wife an’ little girl prob’ly be happy ‘bout that too. Clay made it crystal
clear he’d come a-gunnin’ fer me if I messed with his business.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like cotton on a spindle, my brain was already busily
spinning words together. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tcm6lUIHDgQ/U7sF6vkVL1I/AAAAAAAAARI/fPZ1JC4dK_k/s1600/Boardwalk+020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tcm6lUIHDgQ/U7sF6vkVL1I/AAAAAAAAARI/fPZ1JC4dK_k/s1600/Boardwalk+020.jpg" height="290" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sound of boots pounding on the boardwalk interrupted my
thoughts and a man burst through the doors. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hangin’,” he gasped. “Weepin’ willa’ tree—the gully—Clay
and his men! Hurry, mebbe we can stop ‘em!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grabbed my pencil and my composition book and rushed out
with the rest of the crowd. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But we were too late. A grotesque shadow down the gully matched the figure
suspended on a rope. The lynch mob was nowhere to be seen. The whiskey I’d so
recently enjoyed threatened to unman me but I had a job to do.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5-Nq5zBgnG8/U7sGJjTO2LI/AAAAAAAAARU/d4GyVEJmr_A/s1600/Rope+066.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5-Nq5zBgnG8/U7sGJjTO2LI/AAAAAAAAARU/d4GyVEJmr_A/s1600/Rope+066.jpg" height="320" width="250" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">*</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sheriff, what’s next?” I somberly asked the lawman as he
turned his horse towards town.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bQ0xZ33Frew/U7sGmnvSWQI/AAAAAAAAARc/nO3h2mrJnqs/s1600/Telegraph+018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bQ0xZ33Frew/U7sGmnvSWQI/AAAAAAAAARc/nO3h2mrJnqs/s1600/Telegraph+018.jpg" height="126" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">**</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I figger they’ve skedaddled back to the ranch,” he said. “I
shore ain’t goin’ after ‘em alone. Reckon I’ll round up a posse. Gotta send
someone down to <st1:place w:st="on">Los Angeles</st1:place>
too.” He shook his head, “We need us a telegraph office up here.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While some men took the body down, I sketched a picture of
the scene. I felt sure it would have a prominent spot on the front page of the
Observer when I got back to <st1:place w:st="on">Los
Angeles</st1:place>. I was confident my boss would assign me the
follow up on this story. Would the murderers be brought to justice? Would the
owner of the Cornerstone Ranch come to avenge his son’s death? I hoped I’d get
to interview this influential man. It’d be this journalist’s highest
achievement.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(*Photo taken at
<a href="http://cramerclassics.com/">Cramer’s Farm</a>, an event venue in Northwest Washington state)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(**Photo taken at </i><st1:place w:st="on"><a href="http://lyndenpioneermuseum.com/"><st1:placename style="font-style: italic;" w:st="on">Lynden</st1:placename> <st1:placename style="font-style: italic;" w:st="on">Pioneer</st1:placename>
</a><st1:placetype w:st="on"><i><a href="http://lyndenpioneermuseum.com/">Museum</a>, located in Northwest Washington state)</i></st1:placetype></st1:place></span></div>
AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-9362760531948610312014-05-23T08:00:00.000-07:002014-05-23T08:00:02.060-07:00SNEAK PREVIEW!<div class="MsoNormal">
When I come to the end of writing
a story and I look back on it, realizing that a few hours ago this story did
not exist, to go from a blank screen on my computer monitor to word-sketched scenes
and characters—I am astonished. This feeling of gratefulness to be allowed that
adventure is almost overwhelming. Top that off with the opportunity to have the
story published, entertaining my readers and perhaps revealing an underlying
truth, brings me to doing the happy dance. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t have the date when the
book will be published, but I have signed a release for Breath of Fresh Air
Press to include the following fictional story in their Mixed Blessings Books
series, coming out in the near future. Originally written in November, 2010,
for faithwriters.com’s weekly writing challenge, this story received an
Editor’s Choice award. Later weekly challenges prompted two more stories set in
this fictional town of <st1:city w:st="on">Dry Gulp</st1:city>.
I’ll be featuring those stories here in my little corner soon. Now for your
reading pleasure and to whet your appetite for the entire Mixed Blessings series,
I give you:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #333333;"> </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hABHI02AVCw/U37fGwt-hUI/AAAAAAAAAQM/OI5_LebEkt8/s1600/Rusty+Wagon+Old+West+011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hABHI02AVCw/U37fGwt-hUI/AAAAAAAAAQM/OI5_LebEkt8/s1600/Rusty+Wagon+Old+West+011.jpg" height="244" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rumors don’t come howlin’ through the window like a <st1:city w:st="on">Santa Ana</st1:city> wind at four
o’clock in the mornin’. Nope, more ‘n’ likely they come tantalizin’ like a
breeze, lickin’ at yer ears, temptin’ ya to position yerself for a mite more o’
folks’ palavarin’. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wish to high heaven I’d fastened the shutters snug agin’
my own meddlesomeness. If I’d’a done that, I mightn’t be in this here pickle,
havin’ to make a life alterin’ decision.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8b_4LTa6wR4/U37fQu_Rn_I/AAAAAAAAAQU/aoI991kkDBw/s1600/Rusty+Wagon+Old+West+012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8b_4LTa6wR4/U37fQu_Rn_I/AAAAAAAAAQU/aoI991kkDBw/s1600/Rusty+Wagon+Old+West+012.jpg" height="112" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I been owner o’ The Dry Gulp Saloon here nigh onto twenty
years, offerin’ the best whiskey in town. And sasspariller fer the ladies. I
ain’t opposed to females frequentin’ my establishment a’tall. But if it weren’t
fer womenfolk I might’a never heard what I’m about to tell ya. So I’m a tad
conflicted about allowin’ ‘em in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boy howdy, there’s this big outfit outside o’ town, The
Cornerstone Ranch. It’s been there since before I come out west. Owner lives
back east. I been out there, providin’ liquid sustenance at a barn dance, so I
know the foreman. Clay seems like a good ol’ cowpoke, never done me no harm anywise.
He’s shore made somethin’ out’a that spread. Ever’ fall his cowhands drive
hundreds o’ head o’ cattle to the railroad, herds so big there don’t seem to be
no end to ‘em. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ys1nORbBKLY/U37fgx1hICI/AAAAAAAAAQg/BFNmjZ33nx8/s1600/Rusty+Wagon+Old+West+005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ys1nORbBKLY/U37fgx1hICI/AAAAAAAAAQg/BFNmjZ33nx8/s1600/Rusty+Wagon+Old+West+005.jpg" height="110" width="200" /></a></div>
Must take in some purdy
good money too ‘cause Clay and the boys drop more’n a bit o’ silver on this
here countertop o’ mine. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I asked Clay once about his boss. He said he ain’t heard
from the feller in years, figgers he done lost interest in the place. That
don’t bother Clay none. Clay says, “Me and the boys’re doin’ mighty fine. Don’t
need him messin’ things up. We been doin’ all the work all these years—I figger
it’s MY place now. He ever shows up? Might jest be a show down in the streets,
that’s all!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I must’a looked a tetch pale faced ‘cause Clay grinned and
clapped me on the back. “Don’tcha worry none, ol’ feller,” he said. “Mr. High
Falutin’ Eastern Fancy Pants ain’t a’comin’! I’m shore he got better things to
do than ride all this way on dusty trains and stagecoaches an’ all. You jest
tend yer bar and no trouble’ll come to ya.”
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, I wadded my botherment like a hankeychief in my back
pocket and got on with my saloon keepin’, like the man said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got me a little gal, Daisy Rose, borned to me and my wife
seven years ago. My wife’s one o’ those ladies who come in fer my sasspariller.
She ended up stayin’. I ain’t sorry Daisy Rose come along but like I said, I’m
a mite conflicted. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I let Daisy Rose have the run o’ the place. She keeps me up
on the doin’s ‘round here. They say womenfolk love bearin’ tales but I gotta
‘fess up, to my shame, my ears’re always flappin’ fer the tale to be told. So I
ain’t never told Daisy not to eavesdrop. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One day Daisy tells me what she heard while she was doin’
her little chores, sweepin’ the storage room. She don’t know what it’s all
about but it durn near made my blood freeze. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seems a coupla Cornerstone cowboys was enjoyin’ a smoke out
back. They’s laughin’ an’ talkin’ about how messengers from Mr. Fancy Pants
been comin’ regular-like to the ranch. How the cowhands got orders from Clay to
give ‘em a message to take back to him. As Daisy Rose prattled, a remembrance
come to my mind of a coupla well-dressed strangers that’d partook of a glass of
my finest. Later I seen ‘em boardin’ the stage, a little worse fer wear. Now’s
I think on it, ‘twas evidence of a cowpuncher’s blows.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TNH1FmxFl8w/U37gB044bCI/AAAAAAAAAQs/rwVQ890nays/s1600/Rusty+Wagon+Old+West+002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TNH1FmxFl8w/U37gB044bCI/AAAAAAAAAQs/rwVQ890nays/s1600/Rusty+Wagon+Old+West+002.jpg" height="340" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Daisy’s a’pullin’ on my vest, “Papa, does Mr. Fancy Pants
have a son? Willy and Little George said when Mr. Fancy Pants’ boy gets here,
they’re gonna throw him a party in the gully where that ol’ weepin’ willow
grows. What kinda party is a lynchin’ party, Papa? Maybe Willy and Little
George’ll invite me.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now I gotta decide if’n I oughta bear this tale to the
sheriff an’ run the risk o’ Clay’s six-shooter finding a place to put a plug in
me. Or am I gonna let Mr. Fancy Pants’ boy get hung so’s I can go on benefitin’
from the Cornerstone’s silver? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wish to heaven I’d’a made Daisy Rose stay home with her
mama. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Photographs taken at The Rusty Wagon, a local eatery)</span></div>
AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7426116850125199588.post-83079998059946393442014-05-20T11:46:00.002-07:002014-05-20T11:46:22.993-07:00DO YOU READ ME?<div class="MsoNormal">
New pages are turning! I’m
anticipating adventure and exploration with a group of like-minded women
writers this year. The following, a piece of creative fiction (originally
submitted for the faithwriters.com writing challenge in May 2010), seems
appropriate for encouraging the members of that group now, and a good reminder
for me. You don't have to be a writer for it to resonate with you as well. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f-tTSbNVV5Q/U3uf7dHqGcI/AAAAAAAAAP8/dQIgeycked8/s1600/Journals+and+pens+437.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f-tTSbNVV5Q/U3uf7dHqGcI/AAAAAAAAAP8/dQIgeycked8/s1600/Journals+and+pens+437.jpg" height="260" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
(Original Title: Text
of Life)<span style="color: #003300;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i>Lord, I’m feeling really lonely. I want deeper friendships.
I see the women at my church who have friends they go out to lunch with, have
over to their homes, take trips with…they’re friendly towards me but there’s a
sense of distance, like they don’t want to invite me in. But not just at
church, in my neighborhood and at work as well. And I want to minister to them
too. How can I do that if we don’t connect?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Have you shared your book with them?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>My book? What do you mean my book? I’m not a writer!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2">
<b>Your life is being written moment by moment, child. What
you’ve experienced from the day you were born until now is your book.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i>Hmm, I’ve never thought of it that way. But no, I haven’t
really wanted to do that, share my book with anyone.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Why not?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i>It’s… well, for one thing, it’s too depressing. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>How so?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i>Who wants to hear about my parents’ alcoholism, the abuse,
my dabbling in the occult and my promiscuity? Before I met you, Lord, my life
was a real mess, a downhill slide…hardly inspiring or uplifting. I’d rather
talk about You, Lord.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2">
<b>My darling child, I do want you to talk about Me, and you
must. But I have a question for you. Your life story is depressing for whom?</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i>Why, for anyone I’d try to talk to, of course.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Delightful child, are you sure the real reason isn’t
because you’re the one it’s too depressing for?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Whoa! You sure know how to ask the right questions, Lord!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I know the right answers too, daughter. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I’m listening, Lord!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The people in your sphere of influence may not read my
Word, but they do read you. They will relate to you when you are honest about
your past, when you don’t deny or discount it, or dismiss it as having no
bearing on the present, or assume it will be depressing to them. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>When they know what you’ve been through, they’ll be able
to see the clearer how I’ve made all the difference. Even the women at church
have secrets they hide because they think no one will understand. What would it
mean to them to know someone like you who has been there?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i>If I’m going to be honest, Lord, I have to admit that I
don’t want to know their stories. Whenever I hear them talking about their
pasts I’m impatient for them to just move on…to get over it. Is that a lack of
compassion on my part?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b>I’m aware of that in
you, my daughter. And the answer is, yes. But it begins much closer to home. </b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i>Are you saying I haven’t been compassionate towards
myself?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b>Now you’ve caught onto
that twist in your plot! And here’s an even better twist: My compassion will
flow through you to others, as you are willing to receive it for yourself. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i>Wow, Lord! I think I know why I’ve been afraid to open up
like that. What if they turn their backs on me, see me as the scum I know I’ve
been and decide I’m not worthy of their friendship?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b>Oh, I know, some may
turn away—I don’t force anyone to do anything they don’t want to. But I have
established a mandate for other believers to be supportive when you open the
book of your heart. I assure you, there will be some who welcome you, who want
to read your story. And I will lead you to them.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2">
<b>Precious child, take a look in My Book. This is something
King David discovered. See here? “God rewrote the text of my life when I opened
the book of my heart to His eyes.” You might have noticed that My Book is full
of stories that could cause stomachs to churn and hair to curl or stand
straight up on end. But David and many others recognized how important it was
to record not only the good, but also the bad and the ugly. You’ve been able to
relate to that, haven’t you?</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Oh, yes, Lord! I have! I love your Word so much!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2">
<b>So, child of mine, how can I rewrite the text of your
life, if you’re not willing to open the rough draft? </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<i>This will not be easy but I’m willing to submit my
manuscript to you, Lord, by sharing it with those who desperately need to see
it.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b>They will be blessed,
as will you, my daughter! <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
(Scripture from 2 Samuel
22:21-25, in The Message Bible)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
AniLouminaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05775333576082577562noreply@blogger.com2