tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12674446208407265502024-03-18T19:54:42.132-04:00Miss Mollie's MusingsMy thoughts on life. My family memories. My faith in Jesus.Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.comBlogger1168125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-33910966307470622602023-06-12T17:47:00.002-04:002023-06-12T17:47:49.784-04:00My WritingI utilize Medium, Simily and Substack, if you are really interested in reading my work. <div>I'm feeling the pageviews from Singapore have other intentions. Working on getting rid of this blog.</div><div>Thank you.</div>Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-84565375714008326172022-12-28T12:46:00.001-05:002022-12-28T12:46:18.929-05:00Word Picture for 2023<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSZcUxJiecqWj3Nqua7KncQOsFtCNhOnE_58KQpm8zIyGuRUh18fjR_tN0R5pr3t1_mysz9GyIjPK6KDn4hBGz25vOu4hy-nJL3CoWpzn1lS3ZynDn4j-4IXqkuii3n7-232tgqZJn4CYg_6lvYCPEM06fiRTBME2u7KgztekSb1-AALSh7tL4HrHsrg/s2048/316825360_797680654829410_8890234638481549126_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSZcUxJiecqWj3Nqua7KncQOsFtCNhOnE_58KQpm8zIyGuRUh18fjR_tN0R5pr3t1_mysz9GyIjPK6KDn4hBGz25vOu4hy-nJL3CoWpzn1lS3ZynDn4j-4IXqkuii3n7-232tgqZJn4CYg_6lvYCPEM06fiRTBME2u7KgztekSb1-AALSh7tL4HrHsrg/s320/316825360_797680654829410_8890234638481549126_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Word
Picture for 2023</p>
<p align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Imagination</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Every
year since I started blogging, I have a word picture. This year, I
chose Imagination. In November, I drove over to Ohio, where I worked
as I wrote my novels ten years ago. The flat land fueled my imagination.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">I started back at writing as my work schedule demands less of my "off"
time. As I took in the scenerary, I thought, this is my word. My
imagination recharged to write novels. It feels as unlimited as this blue sky over flat farmland. Who knows what will grow this year.</p>Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-72902301679232803652022-01-01T16:07:00.006-05:002022-01-01T16:17:06.748-05:00Picture/Word of the Year-2022<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQ029KdTlgEqKZnDkfttTMM29Dbt0xrr-lr8asfDzRHi-BtvOW9vDT66Uz17Lnv9qWqFS7FWtW47ZCRCAjI_SWvW8dT9EpGJqkDCzW2nEts4qIVFdiJzx9ugkPWy1kv9I_NQVX4u3Uho71UcJCcQSwHHIE1wI_ZkcV0p7hSIl64_ESjdtADlkSKA-ImA=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQ029KdTlgEqKZnDkfttTMM29Dbt0xrr-lr8asfDzRHi-BtvOW9vDT66Uz17Lnv9qWqFS7FWtW47ZCRCAjI_SWvW8dT9EpGJqkDCzW2nEts4qIVFdiJzx9ugkPWy1kv9I_NQVX4u3Uho71UcJCcQSwHHIE1wI_ZkcV0p7hSIl64_ESjdtADlkSKA-ImA=w320-h244" width="320" /></a></div><br /> My picture/word reveal for 2022, "Revive."<p></p><p>My dog at the beginning of March became lethargic.I put a request out on Facebook for prayers, not for healing, but for comfort. He's an old dog, but until that day, Harrison, at fourteen, was lively with bright eyes, only slightly clouded. We half carried him to the car. My heart broke as legs gave out underneath him. We waited in the car until it was time for him to go in. After a while, they helped us into the exam room. The young vet palpated his abdomen and suggested an x-ray.As we waited for the resluts, he didn't fight to have his nails trimmed and he hates having his feet touched.</p><p>Finally, the news came. A tumor grew around his liver and spleen. She didn't suggest putting him to sleep that night or soon, she only said, "You'll know." A few prescriptions came home with us and a suggestion from a friend to use can food seemed to help turn the course. I was cautiously hopeful. I cried at the end of <i>Toy Story 4</i>, as I imagined saying good bye to my long time friend.</p><p>A few days, after many mornings of watching if his chest rose, he got stronger. He crawled the stairs.</p><p>By the end of March, in this picture, he loved his walks again. They were shorter, but he anxiously watched as I put on walking shoes and grabbed bags. He needed help to get him into the car, but happiness crossed his face.</p><p>I started calling him Lazarus. I felt he came back from the dead. He improved every day. He revived. Now, these last few weeks, he has returned to puppy behavior, panty raids, tearing up paper, and attacking the cat. Not just revived, but full of life! Was he anticipating a midnight visit with Santa?</p><p>Revive. Harrison's recovery is a symbol for much to revive in the coming year. God gave me more time with Harrison and that gave me hope in a situation that was one of the hardest I have gone through. The evening of that horrid day, my faithful pal laid at my feet, as I was alone. God knew I needed that physical presence of an earthly being, who wouldn't say platitudes. </p><p>Dreams that seemed buried and long forgotten will be revived in 2022. I heard and believe that. I am really writing again. The death shrouds that kept my flame diminished for writing fell to my feet. A vision I had of working with children thirty years ago came to life in August. So, similar to what I had imagined in 1991, on a prayful morning and had forgotten, until I saw in the flesh, kids coming up to me for hugs. Confirmation. Revive.</p><p>So hang on my dear readers who have been waiting for more novels. I see me writing and finishing them the first part of 2022. It is still a process with editing and publishing, but Godspeed on Revive. Circumstances change and mostly my grit returned to favor this dream.</p><p>Like Harrison, an old, almost dead dog returning to puppy vigor, revival will be full tilt. Maybe the dreams were buried or on life support, kept alive with half hopes, but I believe the excitement with discipline, trusting God, will return to life more abundantly. What do you see God reviving in your life?</p><h3 style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #7f7f7f; font-family: "Source Sans Pro", sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 24px 0px 8px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">2 Corinthians 5:17 — King James Version (KJV 1900)</h3><div class="bible-reference-content" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #3d3d3d; font-family: "Source Sans Pro", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="bible-reference-verse-text short-reference" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="resourcetext" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 2em; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p class="lang-en" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 1em; line-height: 34px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-size: 1.2em; font-weight: bold; line-height: 0; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: super;">17 </span><span style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 1.575em; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Therefore if any man </span><span style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 1.575em; font-style: italic; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">be</span><span style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 1.575em; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> in</span><span style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 1.575em; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> Christ, </span><span style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 1.575em; font-style: italic; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">he is</span><span style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 1.575em; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.</span></p><div><span style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 1.575em; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></div></div></div></div><p><br /></p>Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-19822843923924071452021-12-12T13:04:00.002-05:002021-12-12T13:04:41.811-05:00Peace in a Weary World<p> </p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">As I
write this, a front howls through our area. Thankfully, only wind and
rain fight with the untypically warm temperatures for the end of
fall. They dropped with the front passing; sixty one to thirty seven
degrees. I hear about the tornadoes overnight in southern states of
Kentucky, Arkansas, Illinois. The death toll of historic proportions,
the headlines scream, as well as damage we have not seen in that area
in years. And maybe the longest tornado on ground, in history.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">We're
ending the second week of Advent. This week named Peace. Last Friday,
as we approached Peace week, it flowed over me. Walking my dog in
calmer weather in the evening, catching the Christmas lights,
solutions vanquished problems I worked on. Being in God's will, I
could say for certain, as it was second Friday in December, I knew
peace and rest. It is well.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">The next
scene in my novel, my work in progress, I saw. I had lost seven
chapters with an unexpected computer update a few years ago, so I
have been trying to capture what I wrote and wondering if that is
really the way I should go. I must admit, some days like the the lost
chapters, I had lost interest. Many life struggles lived in the
shadow of "I must write," making my novel seem like a mountain. I'll
also blame Facebook, which is easy to read, and easily interupted.
I felt writing a toll road that I didn't want to travel, but only
occasionally. I sprint for a day, then sputtered off course.
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">This
peace I experienced that evening told me everything will work out. My
mission is with kids, now. My little patient has made strides over
the past six months. I struggled at first as grief I had to suppress
over another case and the temporary status of this case checked my
heart. By day three, though, his small hand reached for mine and I
think he hooked me by that jesture. He does well because I cultivate
learning with everything we do. I lead the horse to water and
finally, he has taken some drinks. I feel I am where I am to be.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Sunday,
members of our family joined David and I in church. I chose the
balcony so they wouldn't feel displayed. David and I had joked about
sitting in the balcony since we started going there, so that was a
reason, too. A wonderful service about peace awaited us. The choir's
<i>Silent Night</i> enveloped me. My soul soared like the notes
reaching the rafters. Peace.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">I carried
that peace all day and into Monday. Even the thank you note
mentioned they felt peace this weekend staying with us and they felt
I created it. Peace has to be within. Peace that passes all
understanding.
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Yet,
Tuesday, circumstances threatened peace. Sickness, death, threats,
society not recognizing their sin flooded my mind. I wrote, “I
heard the bells on Christmas Day. So much sadness this day and
praying. But God is not dead those bells ring out. Peace on earth,
good will to man.
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Our
Lord is the calm in the storm, the Comforter, the Healer, the Lover
of our souls. Now, that's Good News.”</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Peace
comes with the reason Jesus, a King born a Baby, grew up to be the
sacrifice for the sin of the world. His blood changes our sin DNA and
we become new creations, in His blood line, now. The angels declared
it to the shepherds on that night two thousand years ago. God showed
up to the outcasts and He will show up for you. He says, “Peace
unto you, with whom I am well pleased.”
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">The
storms do not go away. The Light shines through the storm, only
because of Christ. He brings eternal peace in relationship with the
Prince of Peace. Enter into that relationship and go deep with the Lord. Peace will not be shaken as you learn more of Him and His eternal peace.</p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M7670CXvPX0">Casting Crowns - I Heard The Bells on Christmas Day Live - YouTube</a></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Acknowledgment:
Henry W. Longfellow, and my minister, Rick Stauffer.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-13689828076566787322021-12-01T19:47:00.000-05:002021-12-01T19:47:18.977-05:00Destitution<p> </p><p align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">I pray
for destitution this Advent season. Wow! That's a weird prayer. I
blame it on <i>My Utmost for His Highest </i>by Oswald Chambers. May
we be destitute.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">This past
Sunday morning I was led to this. I read Psalm 24. The whole earth is
the Lord's and all that is in it. It begs the question, Who can go to
His mountain? Those with clean hands and pure hearts. Well, who
really is that?
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">The last
few days, I was reading Matthew 27 about the trial and crucifixion of
Jesus. Saturday, I read Psalm 22. The words of this Psalm
specifically spell out what Jesus experienced, even though they were
written many years before- a prophecy of King David's. I can't
imagine what David envisioned or lived, to “see” these words. All
this points to the Cross, the Great Exchange, the only action that
makes a new heart. I had been thinking on the sacrifice.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">That is
how we go to the mountain of God, by way of the Cross. Our hands are
pure because Christ took our sins. I sat to contemplate this after
reading Psalm 24. I wrote to God that morning, “You are so great,
yet You invite us not only into Your presence, but to be Your
dwelling place, Your presence. - Wow! The greatness of You in me, a
broken, clay vessel. I should fall, prostrate. I don't want to give
up. Fill me more.”
</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">I
continued to pray for revival. I'm not praying for a hoopla
experience, a flash in the pan. I want one that changes hearts. We
may become new hearts, new creations. I finished for us older
believers, crack the stone off our hearts.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">The
Gospel of Mark begins with preparing the way of the Lord, make His
paths straight. John the Baptist called Israel to repentance. He
baptized with water of repentance. Jesus baptizes with fire. A little
later in the chapter, Jesus' water baptism from John shows His
identification with us in repentance. His Emmanuel, one hundred
percent Man and one hundred percent God, perfect, carried through the water baptism of
repentance in preparation for the Cross, where He took on our sin
DNA. With this, Jesus forms new hearts- Happy Advent.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">This
exchange makes us all level. We all sin and we are all on the same
level as the worse sinner. This is where Oswald Chambers comes in.
“The Gospel of the grace of God awakens an intense longing in human
souls and an equally intense resentment, because the revelation which
it brings is not palatable. There is a certain pride in man that will
give and give, but to come and accept is another thing. ...do not
humiliate me to the level of the most hell-deserving sinner.”</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">We need
to be destitute. We need to see our great need, or God cannot work
with us. We can only “enter into His Kingdom through the door of
destitution.” - Oswald Chambers, again.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">All of us are not OK. We all need Jesus. We all need the Cross. We humble
ourselves to accept what we cannot do on our own. We should have the
sense of need only One can fulfill. Like in <i>The Christmas Carol,</i>
facing our own death may bring us to new life- the Ebeneezer Scrooge
moment. This Advent, I pray we are all destitute. May a revival break
out. Admit our need, we are never worthy, yet God in mercy made a way
for all people through His Son on the Cross.</p>
<p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">Changed
hearts or new hearts, for that I pray. Make us destitute- Make us
destitute, to be full in Jesus.</p>Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-37798800991203425762021-06-26T16:51:00.000-04:002021-06-26T16:51:10.799-04:00Seasons' Colors<div> Just like that Spring is over</div><div><br /></div><div> and summer has come.</div><div><br /></div><div> Fallen blooms brown</div><div><br /></div><div> crushed on the ground</div><div><br /></div><div> Spring has death, too, </div><div><br /></div><div> in a display of color.</div><div><br /></div><div> Gives way to green</div><div><br /></div><div> unlike the colors following fall </div><div><br /></div><blockquote><div> giving way to white or dull. </div></blockquote><div><br /></div><span><a name='more'></a></span>Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-9797891401531741362021-01-01T19:14:00.001-05:002021-01-01T19:14:53.281-05:002021 Word Picture Reveal<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEeQ82z-VkueHGJDd3wduolkoaKdHS1ilG4D_rzmLWeUsOHiHmAZtohiBdRft2KoWBZNFoIGVihNyep4FUId3UL3Od7Fre-LOagNU3qJMTaFcxopfLvgpz7dfc5I84t3v02pbVCMrOvo43/s2048/122682757_10220850004813669_6300519844673181988_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEeQ82z-VkueHGJDd3wduolkoaKdHS1ilG4D_rzmLWeUsOHiHmAZtohiBdRft2KoWBZNFoIGVihNyep4FUId3UL3Od7Fre-LOagNU3qJMTaFcxopfLvgpz7dfc5I84t3v02pbVCMrOvo43/s320/122682757_10220850004813669_6300519844673181988_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Home</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVbPgBGv2to">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVbPgBGv2to</a> </p><p>Who could have guessed what kind of year 2020 would have been? Maybe Home should have been the word last year, but 2019 was not 2020. Praying 2021 is not 2020.</p><p>Home, though, we have grown used to. I look at it this year as the refuge it is to be. We come home. Home can be a sanctuary where are yoked with Jesus. Courage can be built at home. Abundance starts at home. We rest at home. We walk through the door to hope. Our dreams may start in the safety of home, even if the dream makes us soar from home. There is glory at home. Shalom will be on homes as we trust in Jesus. I will write the light at home.
</p><p><br /></p>As I have spent more time at home these past months, masking myself deters my wanting to leave. I do walk often. As I noticed families more this year being outside together, I felt nostalgia. Seeing kids riding bikes, roller blading or skate boarding reminded me of home when I grew up. I picked this area, as less hills and being close to Buhl Farm Park would lend itself to those kind of activities for my kids.
This picture screams HOME to me. The dog knows he's home. My son-in-law powered washed it that day. I see hope, shalom, glory in my home. I see improvement. I see writing the light there. Dreams will come to pass there. More than shelter, I feel courage to grow. Celebrate me home.Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-70038738996879183192020-01-01T13:58:00.000-05:002020-01-01T13:58:06.809-05:00Write the Light-My Word/Picture for 2020<br />
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I sit
here on New Year's Day afternoon, ready to edit what I wrote in the
early morning. The day started gray, but the sun soon broke through. The
wonderfully blue sky of low humidity shows off the bright light.
Remnants of snow remain on the ground. I plan to go to a
contemplative place today. Happy New Year.</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Another
year. Another picture and word came easily. Like Hallmark, I started
watching the Christmas movies early. Of the selection, I viewed <i>Thomas Kinkade's
Christmas Cottage </i><span style="font-style: normal;">second, back in
November</span><i>.</i> Thomas is in college and floundering a bit
with his gift of painting. His mother is losing the cottage, but has
hidden it from her boys so they will enjoy their Christmas break. A
famous painter, played by Peter O'Toole, lives next door. The death
of the love of his life stymied his painting, along with health
issues. At the very end, he makes this valiant effort of one more
painting so the mother can save the cottage. He trudges to their home
after the small town spent all Christmas Day sprucing her property
up. He discovers he must paint the light and so he leaves that legacy
to Thomas Kinkade, “Paint the light.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
thought, that's it, I must write the light. I had not only my word,
but the picture, too. As Christmas grew closer and then intersecting
with Hanukkah, the references to Light are too numerous to mention.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I feel
like a teenager tackling a term paper with material everywhere and
trying to narrow it down.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
remember my first harshly graded paper, I got a C, with “Be
concise” written in red. I was upset, but also glad I was
challenged. I think before in junior high, high grades came with
obedience. Oh, there may have been a spark of worth but certainly not
deserving excellent grades. I was a good girl. This social studies
teacher pointed out my skating habit and wouldn't let me stay in that lane.
I am grateful to him. I wasn't changed by that one paper, though. The C and comment started the journey to maturity.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Light
fills this time of year. From the outdoor decorations to candles,
trees and the knowledge of the source of all Light. Jesus said, “You
are the light of the world.” In light, there can be no darkness. A
flame does not cast a shadow. I love Ted Dekker's promotion for a
study he wrote. The little girl starts singing loudly about “This
little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine.” She grows older and
the voice falters, till as a young woman, her light goes out. Ted
comes out and asks, “Who said your light was little?”
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Christians
have Jesus living in them. The Light flows through us, or it should.
Our faces need to glow with the Light shining from within.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We live
in a dark world as we try to illuminate it. Some do not want light. I
feared for a while that writing the Light made me seem naive as I
struggled again with style and platform. I am confident, I am to
write. I am to publish. I will write the Light.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
letters of John have been the main focus of my time in the Bible in
December. I think we all need to visit these epistles more than we
do. The writing shouts what our lives as Christians should be. We
should have no fear. Greater is He who is in you, than he who is in
the world. Perfect love casts out all fear. The words renew my
calling as a writer and as a person of the Cross. Emboldened, I will
not write in shadows, cowering that I may offend someone. I am who I
am, a child of the Light. I will write the Light.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
2020 has
been touted as a year of vision. I pray the Light I write will
strengthen the vision. The times are bleak, but they have often been.
Believers need to rise up and love. As the old song,<i> Love is the
Answer </i>by Todd Rundgren, pleads, "Light of the world shine on me."</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTFZhpcsaFyq6cwB7tCAmICGebAX6X7Rp8qb32fHyFYj1CId_GGlkDDIbOCAR4QT_VWEkzVwe6BI7glCMnJZosfBuCtjWFT1hDVvtpnGs3NXi68oFGadmEyB0xftjsDPnep8vFrjFYkE94/s1600/74481471_10217737174394854_5155736109996572672_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTFZhpcsaFyq6cwB7tCAmICGebAX6X7Rp8qb32fHyFYj1CId_GGlkDDIbOCAR4QT_VWEkzVwe6BI7glCMnJZosfBuCtjWFT1hDVvtpnGs3NXi68oFGadmEyB0xftjsDPnep8vFrjFYkE94/s320/74481471_10217737174394854_5155736109996572672_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I feel I
have been preparing for this word/picture for a long time.<br />
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-23996985539240874442019-12-25T17:50:00.003-05:002019-12-25T17:50:55.159-05:00 Gray Memories
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A foggy
Christmas Eve to a pitch Christmas morning lead to no bright dawn
today. I remember, when I was six or seven, in first grade, I woke
and took a peek downstairs. A toy land of a ranch for Jane West
sprung up on one side of the tall Christmas tree, built I heard in my
adult years, by my big brother and his friend. I got a watch that
Christmas, too, and even though I couldn't tell time, I remember a
hand being on the seven. Don't ask me why. The living room spilled
over with gifts, wrapped and unwrapped.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
No one
else aroused, as my siblings were teenagers. My parents, I learned
later had just tucked the turkey in the oven at six thirty for our
noon meal. They collapsed in bed. After my peek, I couldn't contain
myself and ran to their room, oh, so dark on an early winter day. My
words tumbled out of my mouth as I told them all Santa had left for
me, even down to the watch that I couldn't tell time.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They
listened without complaint or grumble. They bolstered my belief. That
helped later when my faith grew. I believed in the lavishness of God.
They help me work for what I wanted to achieve. I never doubted
myself as a child, teen or young adult.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Today, I
worked a Christmas morning. The fog thick as my bah humbug covered
the earth. I could see the sun outlined behind the laden air. I knew
this feeling would go like that sun would break up the water
molecules graying the earth. Yet, I slumped in my soul and fought the
blues as I drove in the car.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I pushed
the address in the GPS. I thought I was heading farther south until I
saw where I was to turn. Oh, that Mitchell Road, not the one in New
Castle, I glimpsed. I drove through my home town, where no relative
lives any more. I have friends here still and the morning brightened.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
After my
admission, where I was most welcomed because she could be home, I
stood for a minute on the porch in the country. Water glistened on
the bare branches in the brightening sun, still valiantly burning
through the fog, the light in a thousand sparkles instead of one
strong force.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I didn't
go the way the GPS would have me go. I turned it off and drove
down Mitchell Road past where the trailer park where I baby sat as a teenager, a house I would have loved
to buy as a young adult, friends' houses and roads off this one. I love our hills,
being on top of them, gazing at the Shenango Valley. I love driving
down the hill into my home town.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
More
friends' homes, decorated Christmas famously in the lightening sun
lined Main Street. My old home with windows dark and siding gray,
waits for the love it once had. No one is there. My old home is
empty and I want to love it once more. I heard the promise and I know
these things take time. I can't live there. But if I lean close, I
can hear the voices of Christmas morning and smell the turkey
roasting, maybe a fragrant candle mingling with all those great
aromas of pies, bean green casserole and baked corn. I hear the
voices of delight from the kids and parents, as we all open gifts. A
Christmas parade or football on the only TV, in competition with the
radio in the kitchen playing Christmas specials completes the morning
sounds.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My road
out of town to the next patient was one way to my grandmother's. She
didn't drive and more often than not, my dad had the task of getting
her for the holidays. I often rode along, happy to see her and Bitsy
with a red bow. The terrier, the same age as I, I sometimes walked
when we had a green Christmas.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Today, I
see one child on a side walk of the neighboring town. I glance up the
street and a brother is on a skate board. I think how when the
weather was warm like today, I rode a new bike to my best friend's in
the afternoon. I had never visited a friend on Christmas Day before.
Christmas Day was always a day for family.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I come
home early afternoon, today, in the full sunshine. My admission
visits done, but paperwork awaits. As I'm eating leftovers for lunch,
my daughter from Texas calls. We had a family group text of good
wishes and “Happy New Year...in jail.” from the Christmas movie,
<i>It's a Wonderful Life.</i> I'm glad to talk to her. I hear her
husband in the background, chatting with his family. They had brunch
on the picnic tables pulled together with coworkers at the RV resort.
It is sunny, but not as warm as predicted there. I enjoy our sun and
bright blue skies out my window, as I listen to my baby's voice.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I take a
nap after, smelling ham today and baked beans. I fell into a deep
sleep and surprised it was only a few minutes. Naps can be like that.
I'm awake long enough to relish the sun shine.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We've
eaten an early dinner and I am writing. I know this is what I am to
do. The sun sets a few minutes later than a few days ago. The days
lengthen. At five, I hear the local church bells. I didn't have that
growing up. No hymns, just the ringing in of eight am, noon and six
at the Good Shepherd.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My
memories don't feel so gray, now. I miss my family, but I'm grateful
for my childhood. Sure, there were moments, but none too bad.
Expectations not met at times caused some blues. As my husband
says,”It never was what we remember.” But the memories comfort as
we make new ones.<img alt="Image may contain: 1 person" aria-busy="false" class="spotlight" src="https://scontent-ort2-2.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/532483_4586620097288_99471003_n.jpg?_nc_cat=109&_nc_oc=AQno1U4uRgATDOpHMywBBkwWCJWGGcSZKxuhxqdwlLFwDJHn6rMEYi-OXncKzbQsNBI&_nc_ht=scontent-ort2-2.xx&oh=aedf95d63ae2611d1e386c259f23536e&oe=5EB0DEBC" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; border-bottom-color: currentColor; border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-image-outset: 0; border-image-repeat: stretch; border-image-slice: 100%; border-image-source: none; border-image-width: 1; border-left-color: currentColor; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-color: currentColor; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-color: currentColor; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; color: #1c1e21; display: inline-block; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; height: 960px; letter-spacing: normal; max-height: 100%; max-width: 100%; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; vertical-align: top; white-space: normal; width: 955px; word-spacing: 0px;" /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A few years before the Christmas I recalled today. I was in preschool- 1965. </div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-69522889822264748682019-09-30T22:09:00.000-04:002020-12-05T10:32:38.959-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-30674314089642010292019-01-01T07:57:00.000-05:002019-01-01T07:57:51.738-05:00Picture/Word Reveal for 2019<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhoN9kPpxE4fl4D4ybYOzGmOtgCttiQhZmQu58t7jB_jJ6hnFdlbqN59tgd0wBIsc8YJ6FJ6nmCeRdMWS86SfQtVegnV2KZfRRz0Y6ZmooIuxzhfx2nJgLa0iw2KWwnlLTKx_wmpeItLQP/s1600/32888035_10214131471934546_2389661215845515264_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhoN9kPpxE4fl4D4ybYOzGmOtgCttiQhZmQu58t7jB_jJ6hnFdlbqN59tgd0wBIsc8YJ6FJ6nmCeRdMWS86SfQtVegnV2KZfRRz0Y6ZmooIuxzhfx2nJgLa0iw2KWwnlLTKx_wmpeItLQP/s320/32888035_10214131471934546_2389661215845515264_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In my quiet time for
the last several months, a word repeated itself. At first, I used the
English word and yes, that was a good word. It dawned on me,
I'm hearing the Hebrew and I know there is more depth than in the
English. This word continued in my thoughts, <i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">I
knew</span> it will be my word of the year.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The word, <i>Shalom.</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
Yes, it means peace and peace is beautiful. I breathed it in. Shalom
is more. One morning, I googled it. Oh, so much more. From the
Refiner's Fire site: Shalom- Peace (as a greeting)- wholeness or
completeness, soundness, health, safety, prosperity. It implies
permanence. Strong's Concordance- also perfectness, fullness, rest,
harmony, the absence of agitation or discord. Root verb- complete,
perfect and full. Sar Shalom means Prince of Peace.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">A
mighty blessing on many levels. I started using it as I left my
patients' homes. So many need Shalom, the soundness, health and
permanence of this blessing. The depth of Shalom fills me with
reverence. I don't want to say it lightly.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
give the meaning, too. It is more than peace. The realization that
I'm to use this word continued to push me, it is my word for 2019.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
was praying and worshiping one evening, and thought I need to find my picture. I use a picture I captured during
the year to take me into the new year. The picture complements the
word of the year. Shalom, deep peace, needed to be felt in my photo.
I looked through my phone at all the pictures. I narrowed it down to
two, well, maybe three, as I reassess my pictures. And as of December
thirtieth, I haven't decided, maybe four or more. I think though, I
will return to the first one, I chose shortly after that night of
worship.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Then
I study them again. The word</span><i> permanence</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
sticks with me. Does the picture convey a permanence? Or do I want
the scene of spring, flowers, or my dog in green summer to be
permanent? Shalom means more than only peace. I need to sleep on this
decision.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">December
31, I decided. The picture would be of the old business district,
Broadway of Farrell, Pennsylvania with a rainbow after one of our
many rains this spring, summer and fall. Farrell started as South
Sharon with the influx of jobs from the steel mills over a hundred
years ago. Permanence as the city still stands after the decline of
manufacturing. The rainbow is the forever promise of God to not
destroy the earth with a flood again. I'm concentrating on the
permanence of Shalom.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
wish you the blessing of Shalom, the deepness of this word and the
permanence of the blessing.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-71925256449303683012018-12-27T12:43:00.001-05:002018-12-27T13:16:17.901-05:00Mercer County's Season of Love<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fifty
years ago,on the West Coast young people experienced the Summer of
Love midst the turmoil and upheaval of old ways. The ground shook
beneath the Establishment. Riots in the cities played out on national
TV, as well as here in the Valley. We saw changes from the old guard
even hit here. Among the hippies, drop outs and flower children, a
movement for Jesus People started there, too. It spread east.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Three summers later,
June 1971, with the world still in the midst of this unrest, two boys
had plans of driving a paneled truck to Florida. A week before Marty
Mattocks and Frank Parish were to leave, they met Jesus at the Barn
in Newton Falls,Ohio. Their itinerary stopped at Mercer, as they
spoke with Jim Erb, along with Deanna Snyder. They wanted to work
here for the Lord.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
First, Jim, offered
his leadership and had the kids meet in his home. The boys and the
first gathering declared they wanted to keep this out of the church
building. Within weeks, fifty kids attended the weekly gatherings.
The meetings had to be moved to Brandy Springs Park which worked in
the summer, with camp fires providing the atmosphere for singing and
testimonials. Summers always move to fall, though, with chilly
evenings. The pavilion wasn't always available, either. The park
couldn't keep up with the movement.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In stepped Ralph E.
Watson and his wife, Louise, offering their barn one mile south of
Mercer for the Thursday evening sessions of the Jesus People of
Mercer County. Within two months, the crowd grew to 350, some nights
up to 400. The new gospel music, a folk and rock combination played
on guitars by Loree Schmidt and others, opened the meetings as the
young people mingled and drifted in. Sharing what Jesus had done
opened the meetings, speaking to many hearts. A speaker, either Jim
or guest ministers, like Dr. Joseph Hopkins or Reverend Jack
Chisholm, brought a brief message. Then a consecration song with more
prayer saw the people out. About ten percent of the attenders were
adults. Rainy nights, a fourteen year old Ralph Watson pulled cars
out of the mud with his tractor.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The nights grew
cooler and a heater was introduced. Some kids still smoked
cigarettes. The insurance company threatened to not cover any
damages, in fact drop the policy, if this continued. The barn proved
too chilly and the movement met a dilemma.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
After much prayer,
they decided to erect a new structure on the Watson farm, just for
the meetings.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Jim Calvert of the
Calvert Lumber Company in Sharon visited the Barn, by chance, with
his brother, a photographer. He learned of the need and donated the
material at cost and free labor by prefabbing it in his shop. He
oversaw volunteers at the new site, still on the Watson farm.
Everything, including wiring and an oil furnace(which cost $500),
came to $3500. The total covered by donations. Soon the Jesus People
moved into a new barn ready for meetings January, 1972. They had no
debt with this building, warmer than the old Barn.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The ministry could
be seen as an adjunct to many churches. Jim estimated 75% of the
teens were from various denominations and 25% were the hippies, and
dropouts who needed to meet Jesus and probably wouldn't have felt
comfortable in a church building.
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Two Catholic nuns
attended one night and were delighted at what they saw in the
movement of the Holy Spirit. The Protestant clergy around the Valley
also endorsed the movement. Lives were changed. Many of the young
people affected are still involved in their churches to this day.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Jim led the Barn
from 1971 to 1976. They also had three Jesus Festivals in 1974, '76
and '78. When Jim stepped down, the Barn went on for a while without
him. But like many things of this era, changes in the culture
outdated the specific ministry.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Many of the
practices of the Barn ministry became mainstream in the churches. The
music would be the most obvious. Christians debated the style of
music, even leading to two different worship times to accommodate the
styles. Greetings and testimonies confirm community. Healing services
attract many. The Barn created community which churches need.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In a time of
upheaval, like the late '60's, a special need arose for ministries
like the Barn. The Jesus People Movement is still alive, as evidenced
by recent e mail received. 1968 to 2018, fifty years after the
Summer of Love, what will attract young people to Jesus, now?- Could
a simple stable setting still invite hearts to Jesus?</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Thank you to Jan
Erb, Jim's widow, for the interview and pictures, and sharing the
Pennsylvania Farmer article from August 12. 1972. I agree with the writer
at the end of the article, “wish there were a Ralph Watson and Jim
Erb in every rural district of the land!”</i><br />
<br />
<br />
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Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-15982123569484215772018-12-25T23:13:00.001-05:002018-12-25T23:13:44.291-05:00Winter Light
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Winter
Light</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
by
</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mollie
Lyon</div>
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Catch
it early</div>
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Winter
light</div>
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When
late morning</div>
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Rushes
to afternoon dusk</div>
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Last
gasp of the sun</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fills
the earth with glory</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Day
gives up to night</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Her
glow fades quickly</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Losing
all that's bright</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The sky
suddenly dark</div>
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Once
home we stay</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We
frown at the early eves stark</div>
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Wishing
again for the longer day</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ending
with concerts at the park</div>
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Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-73776977094891484312018-07-30T12:01:00.004-04:002018-07-30T12:15:06.509-04:00Clergyman James Satterfield<br />
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</div>
<br />
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Clergyman James
Satterfield</div>
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by</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mollie
Lewis Lyon</div>
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Let me
introduce you to the Clergyman. He is one of my ancestors that has
made reading about my line easier because much is written about him.
He would be an uncle, about seven generations back.
</div>
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He was
born in 1767, the fifth child of James and Margaret (Meed)
Satterfield, in Queen Anne County, Maryland. The father died and
Margaret married a Mr. Davies. The family moved to Washington County,
Pennsylvania as they were farmers and the country was expanding.</div>
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James
didn't want to stay on the farm, though. 1790, exporting provisions
to New Orleans provided a new venture. He built his own flatbed. Most
flatbeds at this time carried flour, bacon and whiskey. James only
carried his flour and some from his neighbors. He did well with this
trip, enough that he could sail back to Baltimore. He visited friends
in Maryland. On his walk back to Pennsylvania, he had time to wonder
about life. He quoted about his thoughts on the walk, “I felt
something pressing on me that I should take the money thus earned and
go to learning.”
</div>
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Part of
the choice came from an earlier decision at fourteen, as some sources
state, he found religion. After his time at the academy at
Cannonsburg, Pennsylvania, he pursued a course in theology under Dr.
John McMillan. This was common at the time. A sort of apprenticeship,
like many trades, to prepare the student for his vocation. The
foundation of Princeton Theological Seminary, the first of its
kind,in 1812, impressed James. He believed this to be a great event
in the history of the Presbyterian Church. He did not attend
Princeton, as he was established by then as a reverend. He wanted to
see uniformed scholarship for ministers of the Gospel.</div>
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By 1800,
James was licensed by the Presbytery of Ohio and must have felt
secure enough in his profession that he married Polly Orbison of
Washington County, October 28, 1800, soon after a missionary tour
among the “Indians,” as far as Detroit. According to Neshanock
Presbyterian Church in New Wilmington history, on the fourth Sabbath
of July, 1801, he received the call from the united congregations of
Moorefield and Neshanock. Moorefield was log cabin church where the
cemetery is now in Hermitage.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Both
churches were built of logs. March 2, 1802, after the Presbytery
fasted and prayed, they laid hands in the presence of the
congregation, set him apart to the office of gospel ministry and
installed him according to his call.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
James was
thirty three and they felt he had “ripeness of judgment and breadth
of experience.” He was strong, “physically, mentally and
spiritually.” But they weren't as good at paying him his income as
they were of paying him compliments. He had to purchase two hundred
acres on the Shenango River, outside of Wheatland. This land was
closer to Moorefield Church. He lived on this land and farmed it
until his death. Unfortunately, Polly died July 23, 1802.</div>
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Between
the two congregations, he had one hundred forty members. He also held
offices higher up in church government, such as treasurer, moderator
and stated clerk at different times. He was a minister, a farmer and
traveled on church business. Catechism was taught in homes, so he
found himself on horseback often to teach this as well.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
frontier soon gave way to new settlers. New denominations grew in the
area, to compete for church membership. Atheism and lawlessness posed
a bigger problem. As trees fell though, sin's actions couldn't hide
as well. Churches then held their own trials for the members.
Gambling was one crime a few were charged with.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
At this
time, the physical appearance of James written - above medium height,
lightly, though strongly built, his “face revealed character that
commanded respect.” He found his second wife, Ann Gibson from the
Neshanock Church, marrying her March 27, 1804. The had five
surviving children- Samuel, Mary, Sarah, Margaret and James. Hadassah
and Annie died in infancy. Ann, also passed away September 12, 1816.</div>
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James'
third wife is interesting. Sarah was born 1789, the first white
child born in Pennsylvania west of the Allegheny River. She was also
the daughter of General David Mead of Meadville, Pennsylvania.</div>
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I wish
sometimes the history books told of how they met. The clergyman and
Sarah married September 3, 1816. Sarah died May 22, 1823. They had
two children, Mead and Elizabeth. They lived to adulthood and
married, but neither had children. Mead became a minister, too, in
Harrisville, Pennsylvania. He died after four years of service.</div>
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The
Clergyman, as everyone called James, moved on to found the Unity
Church outside of Mercer, in 1832. He helped start churches in
Trumbull County, Ohio, too, as part of the Hartford Presbytery. June
27, 1837, he was appointed to organized the West Middlesex (in town)
Church as well.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
To the
end of his life they described him, as wearing his hair in a braid,
clinging long to knee breeches and silver buckles after they were out
of style. His physical endurance was remarkable with his many
hardships, yet in his eighty ninth year, he could mount his horse
unaided.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
James
must have kept ties with his first church. His sister, Margaret
Campbell belonged there, and her family. Moorefield, though, on
August 16, 1844, absorbed into a new church at Sharon, Pennsylvania.
He mounted his horse, even in bad weather, November 1857. Services
were all day then and he stayed the whole time. He developed
pneumonia, forcing him to bed at his daughter's home. On November 20,
1857, James spoke his last words. He hoped his wick was trimmed and
burning, like the virgins' lamps in Matthew 25, ready to meet the
Lord. From reading, not only the accounts from his members, but what
he did as long as he did, I think he was ready.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
clergyman's body is buried at Moorefield Cemetery, row 16. 2. About
sixteen years ago, when I first started researching my family, I
found the tombstone and was able to read “Reverend James
Satterfield died, November 20, 1857.” A few weeks ago, I went back
to take a picture and the etching has washed off the limestone.
Fortunately, a couple of women wrote down all the graves in Mercer
County, recorded in volumes. The Mercer County Historical Society and
Grove City Historical Society has copies of these books.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
His
picture is hanging on the wall at Unity Church. I couldn't find it
anywhere for the longest time and I thought, he's too far back. I
asked the Unity Facebook page if they had a history of their church
and the message came back, they had a display with his photograph.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
James
Satterfield impressed me most with his stamina. He came to Jesus at
age fourteen. He decided after making money to learn and leaned to
the ministry of the gospel. He never wavered from what I've read. It
is reported his sermons were well prepared. He handled a trial on his
theology brought about by an elder with grace. He founded many
churches in this area and was part of my spiritual heritage even when
I didn't know it. And he was ready to die, at age ninety in 1857.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<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;"><img alt="Image may contain: 1 person" class="spotlight" height="320" src="https://scontent-ort2-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/35497238_10214320341816175_5376076384777011200_n.jpg?_nc_cat=0&oh=313209f71ace5d5cc7bf1f25ed0b16ad&oe=5C0DF043" style="height: 550px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 413px;" width="240" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Unity Presbyterian Church</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<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;"><img alt="No automatic alt text available." class="spotlight" height="240" src="https://scontent-ort2-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/38200044_10214615226068097_2001447836448718848_n.jpg?_nc_cat=0&oh=207d3590ebaaf897acf12eb4f3e9399f&oe=5BD2B0E5" style="height: 550px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 733px;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unity Church</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<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;"><img alt="Image may contain: tree, sky, plant, outdoor, nature and water" class="spotlight" src="https://scontent-ort2-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/38000377_10214615228748164_6350407660247973888_n.jpg?_nc_cat=0&oh=887462b9dc99b82613ae3c5f5fc1e4ef&oe=5BCF609F" style="height: 550px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 733px;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Along the Shenango River, where James Satterfield's house was </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<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;"><img alt="Image may contain: people standing, grass, plant, tree, sky, outdoor and nature" class="spotlight" src="https://scontent-ort2-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/38026291_10214615346711113_1914938862870724608_n.jpg?_nc_cat=0&oh=05f7d4e41e975091d2ac5a9056795134&oe=5BD4F328" style="height: 550px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 413px;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">His final resting place</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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</div>
Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-12360933674970930872018-05-13T20:03:00.001-04:002022-05-31T15:51:39.199-04:00Stronger Love
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in; page-break-before: always;">
Stronger Love</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
by</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mollie Lyon</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The adult child acts for
self.</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The mother loves without
self.</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The acts slam into her
heart.</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The mother wonders will
the healing start?</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The mother feels despair.</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
She's afraid to clear the
air.</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Each instance digs a hole
more deep</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mother wonders why she
can't weep</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
She wonders why she can
sleep.</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The secret comes</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
With the sun.</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mother's love never ends</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The heart may break</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But it mends.</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Distance may grow</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But child belongs</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
To the One above</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The One containing a
stronger love.</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, she rests in that
thought</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
With Christ's love, they
were bought.</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He'll fight tougher</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He'll fight longer</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After her arms hold no
more</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
His arms are stronger,</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As is His love.</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Hard to imagine</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But there is a love
stronger than a mother's.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKBEQH2Ms6lR63DGgHrPd93bErbL2V5Em5j-0ArERKkV5T8btk1HG3ETD2Uf1rc9xtws58tdfU3cIlAlKoZFDCQPSLJoDxI5mr0sbTX32Ci2hWcftkayrP955lwW-CCDsLZkueEByO9fwe/s1600/13139052_10208037160180561_6746671703282030319_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="508" data-original-width="508" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKBEQH2Ms6lR63DGgHrPd93bErbL2V5Em5j-0ArERKkV5T8btk1HG3ETD2Uf1rc9xtws58tdfU3cIlAlKoZFDCQPSLJoDxI5mr0sbTX32Ci2hWcftkayrP955lwW-CCDsLZkueEByO9fwe/s320/13139052_10208037160180561_6746671703282030319_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-13061631868849886742018-03-13T23:30:00.000-04:002018-03-13T23:30:25.380-04:00Writing Before Dawn
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Writing
Before Dawn</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
March
13, 2018</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Years
ago, my daughter gave me a book, <i>Writing Past Dark. </i><span style="font-style: normal;">A
book where the first chapter had been a magazine article and maybe
should have been left at that. The author promoted the idea of
getting beyond depression and writer's block. The first chapter
offered the most insight and help. The rest of the chapters mostly
felt fluff.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
feel this winter cloaked me in darkness, after so much promise in
December. My novels sales were the best and I thought that might
continue. I wrote more. I found a group that I thought would help
keep me motivated. I even wrote a few days on one unfinished novel
anywhere from two hundred to a thousand words a day.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
also felt a push for physical activity, with one night pursuing the
elephant dance and stumble with my ballet DVD. But I was moving. I walked the dog
around a few blocks, a dim shadow of our usual outings, but it was a
walk. One evening I pulled some muscle in my chest wall or was it my
ribs? That slowed me down, but not like what happened next.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">The
worst was January tenth, I wrecked my new car. No one was hurt, but I
at first sat stunned with the air bag filling the space in front of
me. When I got home, I sat on the couch, not moving at all. After
two hours, I realized this. I felt numb, not mad or sad or glad; I
felt nothing. What could I do? And I thought all the horrible things
that could happen. And what could I do? If they happened, I had to
take it. I had to let go. Did I love my new car too much? I hadn't
even made the first payment.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">But
everyone the next day seemed genuinely glad I wasn't hurt. “Cars
can be replaced.” Yes, and I thought of my dad saying that when a
deer ran into my sister's new car many years ago. And I cried that
night, missing my dad. “But girls like you, cannot be replaced.”
My loving dad.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">The
work load continued to pile. I felt badly missing patient visits-
pushing them to the next day and the next, or canceling on a snow
day. I didn't even know some of them. Push, push, push every day with
more documentation at night. But I love home health and don't want to
do anything else. I consoled myself by calling it my best paying
writing job. Probably even better than free lancing.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Frigid
weather and snow takes a toll on me. I only want to sleep under a
blanket when I come home. That charting, though, hung over my head and guilted
me from doing anything. I became numb, again, with hopelessness.
Could I win this game? I didn't feel like a winner.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">No
one complained. Patients wanted me to visit. Some days, I confidently
completed everything on time. My supervisor appreciated my positive
attitude.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
didn't write on my novels. I journaled every morning. Gobs and gobs
of words poured from my pen in cramped cursive sometimes, looking
more like my mother's writing. Or I printed important words. Some
sentences show a combination. I wrote. I felt, though, I had nothing
to show. I quit writing for the site I pay to be on. To think of
writing for publication gave me a headache. Writing in my journal
proved,though, I kept writing past darkness; I kept writing before the dawn.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
looked forward to this week. I worked my seven day stretch and spent
most of my day off finishing all the charting I tried to do in the
evening or morning. I got some done, but not nearly enough. A lot of
clicking answers. Jameson School of Nursing prepared me for OASIS, or
at least picking the best answer. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">This
week, I am scheduled for jury duty. Today, as I prepared for the
first day, my Facebook memory came up that I was working on my novel,
</span><i>Last Free Exit. </i><span style="font-style: normal;">I
wrote several of my scenes, based on my last jury duty experience. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Across
from the courthouse, sits the old county jail. Again, one of my
experiences there as a nurse caring for a prisoner, lent to my scene
in </span><i>Last Free Exit.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Morgan visits Iggy in jail, she feels the hollow thud in the chest when
those bars close behind you.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">The
paintings on the rotunda, I used in </span><i>Country,</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
another novel in progress. I peered at the face of the one, up on the
ceiling, and confirmed, “Yes, that is Eva.” Then, I entered the
court room to wait for our directions. My model for Mike in </span><i>Last
Free Exit</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> walked into the room.
He nodded to me and I thought is this </span><i>Last Free Exit</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
Day?</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">The
trial I didn't get pick for would have been an experience for writing
about Maria. In</span><i> Summer Triangle,</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
I didn't feel the need to have a trial for the story. They never
found the rapist. Today, I thought, maybe I need to finish that part
of the story. I think of a sequel for </span><i>Last Free Exit</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
and </span><i>Summer Triangle. </i><span style="font-style: normal;">To
confirm that, the stylist who did my nails today was named Amber. And
well, maybe looked a little bit like Amber. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">The
best thing about today is I remembered how fun it was to always be
thinking of story and itching to write. The places, people and
phrases jumbled together to inspire. Is this the dawning I've been
praying for? Will I tumble out of my bed where I slumbered for too
long? The joy of writing come before dawn, again. I only hope it will
stay.</span></div>
Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-30418146360744380782017-12-31T15:52:00.001-05:002017-12-31T15:58:07.819-05:002018 Word/Picture Reveal<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When all else fails,
write something new. 2017 found me floundering and faltering with my
works in progress, as well as my blog posting. I was not consistent.
I battled fear, self doubt and deciding who is my audience. Fatigue
with adjusting to being a case managing after five years pushed me
into the couch at night.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
No excuses, I am
finding my new way. God promised me abundance with nursing and
writing in the fall of 2016. I had my word picture of 2017 as
“Dream.” I followed my dreams, but also knew work precedes dream
fulfillment. I found I needed sleep. Oftentimes dreams pushed away at the
slight twitter of my eye lids by worry. I couldn't remember them in morning light.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
December brightened
the dream of my published writing. I sold more books in this month
than the whole year. My health, after long years of an annoyance with
my gut, is straightening out. Yes, I had the dreaded tests and found
out not much is wrong with me. Metamucil twice a day returned me to
less doubt of going out and helps me with energy I lacked, for too
long.
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
With confidence, I
reveal my word/picture for 2018. And more than confidence; hope,
can-do spirit and determination bubble up from my soul. I haven't
felt like this looking at a new year in a long time. It is more than
resolution. It feels ordained, if I dare write that word.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My word is Glory.
And as with most ideas a person hops on, I see it everywhere and I
have been using it in many correspondence since I decided in mid
December that was my word. I read it in my Bible every morning. My
devotions will bring it in to the day. Not that glory is an unusual
word, but I listened to a motivational podcast today where he
mentioned how we think, we see. An example my husband and I have
noticed for a long time, once you buy a car or even think of getting
a certain model, suddenly, they are everywhere in your vision.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I see myself
writing. I have the scenes coming to me again, as I rest. Words for
poetry returned this week. I declare I will write on my novels
without hesitation. This is more than wishful thinking. I am
bolstered by the events of the past few days.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I boiled down my
mission one morning this week. It is to touch people with Jesus. My
privilege with two careers helps. I witnessed the two intermingling.
Verbal reviews of my novels tell me they affect readers. I must press
on with both nursing and writing, together. And I know I am supplied
for both with Jesus' riches in glory.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="en-NLT-29482"></a>
2018 will be filled with Glory. Everything I do will be for the glory
of God. Colossians 3:4 And when Christ, who is your life, is
revealed to the whole world, you will share in all His glory.</div>
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="en-NLT-29483"></a><br />
<br />
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<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-8028740260323501452017-11-09T21:48:00.001-05:002017-11-09T21:48:53.527-05:00Trump Country<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<i>I wrote this a year ago. I am finally brave enough to post. </i></div>
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<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipksY92RYBq0jhPa5xoSSevXihYD3nCmH-yJ69HjxGPmDTAmJF5AkLZ6Wn4RjPtQyLyUkPuSCbq6-cPXhICHdB0Xl9QB5gDJl9UNDQpIhBL6x2ONDHG5-Ll6TMZBbYdGFUyjsNuvCyYNo-/s1600/15025536_10209566265167230_4740533807767135560_o.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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipksY92RYBq0jhPa5xoSSevXihYD3nCmH-yJ69HjxGPmDTAmJF5AkLZ6Wn4RjPtQyLyUkPuSCbq6-cPXhICHdB0Xl9QB5gDJl9UNDQpIhBL6x2ONDHG5-Ll6TMZBbYdGFUyjsNuvCyYNo-/s320/15025536_10209566265167230_4740533807767135560_o.jpg" width="240" /></a></i></div>
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<div class="Standard">
<i> </i></div>
<div class="Standard">
If I had been an editor or a news reporter, I would have
screamed for this story. But I probably wouldn't if I lived in the big cities
of Philadelphia, New York City or Boston or even the smaller cities on the
northeast coast. And never if I lived in California. Except I am from here and
being friends with many supporters of Trump, maybe I might have picked up on
the posts and the comments of how many signs for Trump/Pence there were as
opposed to Clinton/McKane. Well, there were the Hillary for Prison next to the
Trump posts.</div>
<div class="Standard">
One Hermitage neighbor counted four hundred thirty-five to thirteen on
long trip in western Pennsylvania. He also is in the military. Right there are
stories that journalists could investigate. How does the military vote? Who do
they want for their commander in chief? Instead of relying on their own opinion
about some words, most likely taken out of context.</div>
<div class="Standard">
But that is not the point of this piece. I do not want to write
about the bias of the media. I do not want to write about how lazy the
journalists are. I don't want to acknowledge too much about their short
comings. Except they really missed the ball with this story because they didn't
visit or live here.</div>
<div class="Standard">
I did something today, I never did in Emporium, but always
wanted to do. I got up early and took a walk. Harrison, my dog, was restless
and at a quarter to seven, leashed dog in hand, I left the house, the sun not
quite over the mountain on the east side of town. The rain with snow mix left
the forecast pleasing me with scattered clouds pink. The temperature cool, but
comfortable for me in a hoodie, a Penn State one, of course.</div>
<div class="Standard">
I head west toward the school. The sleepy town before waking
up struck me with the thought: these are good people only wanting their
small-town decency. The ones that didn't have to leave the area for work, like
my husband did many years ago. They want jobs. They want the closeness of the
family, many enjoying four generations. They want to watch their Steelers on
Sunday afternoon after church and dinner.</div>
<div class="Standard">
I near the school. I marvel at the sign announcing parent
teacher conference. They start at three thirty, one at six thirty and then nine
this morning. They have the decency to realize most parents work and they seem
to accommodate the parents. In Hermitage, I never got that courtesy. Either
very early before school started, when I needed to get the girls ready for
school or during the day. Even the elementary music concerts were during the
day to fit the teachers schedule. But I am digressing. </div>
<div class="Standard">
The Emporium school district used to consult the churches in town to
not schedule anything to interfere with religious functions. No sports on
Sunday because they knew the parents wouldn't let the kids go. At one time,
they also refrained from having events on Wednesday nights, a traditional
mid-week night for church, because week to week is not enough. I can't say for
sure they do this anymore.</div>
<div class="Standard">
I know even in this mountain town, they have had problems
with “Mexicans.” The European sounding names represent families here, whose
parents or grandparents immigrated the legal way. The stores in town were
started by such families. The new illegals do cause trouble with drugs.</div>
<div class="Standard">
I return to the home of my ninety-one-year-old mother-in-law.
I think, this is a place where people still put their birthday cards on the
dining room table. She has many, but not as many as last year on her ninetieth.</div>
<div class="Standard">
In years past, this town and many like it were split somewhat
evenly with the presidential election. I knew Tuesday evening, they were like
the rest of rural Pennsylvania and the rural Ohio I saw. A movement of anti-establishment, called affectionately the Trump train, rolled through this
country. I didn't think it would be enough to win this man the election. I kept
telling the Facebook crowd, this is what I am seeing. It may be anecdotal, but
this is what I am seeing. Don't be surprised if he wins.</div>
<div class="Standard">
They were. One likened it to as tragic as the world trade
towers coming down. Now we are smeared by those who can't understand the
disgust most people had with Hillary and Bill Clinton. NAFTA played a role for
those who could remember industry leaving the Shenango Valley. People want to
work. They see small business getting hammered with regulations and closing in
recent years. I do find it interesting that across the border in Ohio's
Mahoning County, with the six thousand Democrats who changed parties to vote
for Donald Trump in the primaries, it was one of only seven counties that went
for Hillary Clinton.</div>
<div class="Standard">
So, those who don't understand the vote and the election win,
don't see what I have seen. People have felt the failure of low paying jobs.
They see regulations strangling small business. Maybe they really don't hate
the rich, but only want to be able to pay their bills with decent jobs. Maybe
they all want more money in their pockets. Maybe they only want those truly in
need to get help. They see too many not working and liking it. They see some do
make more money not working, making it hardly worth working.</div>
<div class="Standard">
Prosperity could help with the supposed hatred they are
painted with. If we are a working America, we won't have time for the idleness
of name calling. If we are producing, we can concentrate helping each other and
the world as the promise of America is.</div>
<div class="Standard">
A cub reporter back, even in the summer, should have asked,
“Hey, can I go to what they call fly-over country and feel what the mood is? I
can write a story about Trump's appeal.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A few pieces to at least get the disappointed ones to understand there
are opinions other than theirs. I tried with a few East and West Coast family.
They couldn't perceive there was even another view.</div>
<div class="Standard">
I guess that angers me the most. It always angers me. When
people don't see both sides. I am angry at the liberal media who didn't do
their work and fed lies. Generations spoon fed by this dribble, are scared when
even the president they adore has told them we live in the best country. And I
bet he never even had lunch with a deplorable, bitter clinger sitting in the
bars of the VFW halls. But I forgive him and the woman who won't be president.
As John Gleason proclaimed to DW in<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Meet
John Doe,</i> “The people have spoken.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
We will be happy because we're tough. And in eight years,
another peaceful transfer to power will come to the other party. We'll be
working then in meaningful jobs. That is what Americans want to do: work and
live in peace with little interference from the government. Government only needs to protect us with the
armed services and local police and fire departments, help maintain the roads
so we can travel, and give us back choices about our health care. Open it to a free
market. And may abortions be limited and infrequent, not for the convenience of
the woman, but realizing another life is involved. And may all our eyes be
opened to what a great country we live in, because we wouldn't be able to
protest if we didn't live in freedom.</div>
Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-4488226684672517202017-07-09T15:27:00.001-04:002017-07-09T15:27:26.169-04:00Why Do I Wait?
<br />
<div align="center" style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">
Why Do I Wait?</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
Beautifully cool day in the shade
for July, I finally picked up the camp chair to take outside. In the shade, I
could almost wear a long sleeve shirt. I wait all day to write. I feel too many
options on my plate and I can't focus.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
I have talked to David about my
publishing career. We sat at the corner to the high
school. The Hermitage Arts Festival is this weekend, I remarked. I should have
set up a booth to sell my books since I can't make it to the West PA Book
Festival in a few weeks. To hide my disappointment, I go into detachment mode.
I don't have the drive to be at these festivals, lately.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
I got a flyer this week on my door.
The neighborhood garage sale is back, August twelfth. I know I work, the same
reason I can't participate in a few weeks for West PA. I thought, I could just
set up a table in my yard with my books. I double check my calendar, yes, I
work.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
I think how this would frustrate me
before. I think before <i>Summer Triangle</i> debuted, four years ago, I
anticipated recognition, maybe even a little fame. I thought, at least a steady
income. I told David this morning and other times, a person with a dream needs
to have that drive, that naivety. Nothing would be attempted from the surety of
life, if belief in our success didn't drive us.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
I do find it interesting that
besides the launch of <i>Main Street, a Gables and Gingerbread Story</i>, at
the West Middlesex (my hometown) sesquicentennial, my most profitable venture
happened when I was ready to pack up my table. I sat in the Corinthian, across
from one of the bars, for the Art's Alive in the Dead of Winter. The patrons
strolled around with wine glasses in their hands. I'm peddling Christian
fiction. They are looking for art, in paintings or jewelry. “What am I doing
here?” I questioned. As thoughts plop in a head, I heard, “I'd be here. And I
am through you. Whoever buys your books, needs to read them.” I knew this was
from Jesus. I was a little over a month past my abdominal surgery and feeling
weak. My niece helped me set up; because of a bad snow storm, David didn't come
home that weekend. I had doubts about doing this particular show. Yet, those
words, basically saying, it's not about me, turned my attitude around. And it
was my second highest show.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
I know what I need. I should sit in
the chair and write. So, I put it off, instead. I am tired at times. The new
job exhausted me. I'm more comfortable, now, in it. I don't resent what I do.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
I had written one scene for <i>Walking
with Eternity</i> back when I was first on my own, in February. The next day, I
was asked to make a home health visit. The woman, I never met before or since, was the
character with the house, I had just written about. My job inspires me.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
As I wrote in my last post, then, I
need to determine what drives my writing. Why do I wait to sit and write? Why
do I find a million other reasons to not write? Was I writing for money, only,
before?</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
I can't leave my writing dreams
because I didn't have instant notoriety with a fantastic prosperity or even
moderate income. I still feel the desire to write, even if nothing seems to
happen.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
Still, things are happening. I look
back and realize, it has only been four years. Comments are coming in, as
people connect me or my husband to the local paper I edit and sometimes write
an article. I need to do a little more for publicity. I keep treading, but I
cannot wait to write anymore. The latest edition of <i>The Way It Was</i>, with
Westinghouse stories prods me to continue another novel, I started in 2011. <i>Country,
a Gables and Gingerbread Story,</i> stalled because I need historic research
and a plot, more than I had when I penned the first words. Some ideas came to
me, as I rested more in my new job. I can see so much more of it and sitting
down to write is what is lacking to launch it off the ground.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
As I settle into the second thing,
career wise, I know I am to do, the writing follows. Rest, relax and rejoice, I
will tell myself, in a day's work. Another of those thoughts from last fall,
after a praise service, that formed in my brain, “I will have abundance for
both nursing and writing.” I'm hanging on to that promise, too.</div>
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I'm reading Oswald Chambers' <i>My
Utmost for His Highest,</i> devotional. Today, the thought, “You have no
business to find out where God is leading, the only thing God will explain to
you is Himself." Like the night at the Corinthian,
God explained, He is with people. I need to give of myself with no worry about
the gain or the leading. So, no more waiting with the writing.</div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-18655978117328541422017-06-29T21:47:00.000-04:002017-06-29T21:47:10.746-04:00Transparency
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<br /></div>
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I have been fighting with myself
about blogging again. I feel like Jonah in the Bible, running from my mission.
Will my words be used by God? I think no one wants to read what I write. Will I
be deemed too religious? I am scared and that was never like me until recently.
I do want to be liked, but I also want to be myself.</div>
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<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
So, why did I start writing
publicly? Why did I want my words out there? Was I following God's direction or
my own path to fame? I sat myself down lately, examining my motives to
write.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Why haven't I written? Why do I
resist now, that which I desired to do for so long? <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I am back at a job where I am respected and
paid well, do I need to write? The answer crept around the busyness of a new
job. I have time, even though, often I have a lot of charting. I even likened
it to getting paid to write, like a travel writer. I travel and meet
interesting people and write about them, to a limited audience. And I must guard
what I do convey. The rules of HIPAA affect my speech.</div>
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I guard myself a lot lately. Yet, I
always had some censor in the back of my mind. First, a long time ago, it was
my mother, as the editor for all my papers that she typed. Then, other family
members moved into the editing room in my head. I needed to be aware of their
privacy and feelings. A few months ago, I felt freed some from worrying. Did it
free my writing? Not right away did I allow that freedom to nudge my writing.</div>
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<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
I met with some friends at summer's
beginning. We gathered every week last summer for prayer. A lot happened over
the course of winter and we all felt a hedge, at first. We needed transparency,
as does the Church. This has been a problem, probably since the beginning of
the Church, as I read Acts chapter five. The Holy Spirit doesn't strike us dead
when we tell tales making us look good to the leaders or our congregations,
anymore. We die a slow death from deceit. We need to confess to a close friend
or two, how we struggle with sin at times. It is too easy to slip in the back
of the sanctuary, late, sometimes and slip out before the last song and not
speak to a single person. To quit going altogether becomes effortless. The Church
feels undemanding, simplifying the feeling of disconnectedness.</div>
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I am finding, too, in this day and
age, words cut again. People offend quickly. Many talk about the division and I
don't really want to belabor a point we hear all the time. This, though, has
hindered my writing, as I don't want to offend. Yet, I am what I am. I am a
conservative Christian. This is my background from growing up in a church
forming my world view. I listen to other world views, but I feel condemned with
mine in the world court of judgment. I don't write this with self-pity, only
that I had been reluctant to put myself out in public view, until I figure out
why I am writing; where I take my stand.</div>
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<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
I am angry sometimes, though. I
listen and want to hear different points of view. I want to learn. I feel that
when it is my turn, I am shut down. I am prejudged by the world because I
write from a conservative Christian view and that no one really sees my words.</div>
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My last post about summer was a fun. I
mentioned God and religion slightly, because that was how it was when and where
I grew up. My friends accepted each other with our different churches, but we
all believed in God. Roman Catholic, Presbyterian, Methodist, Church of Christ,
Christian Missionary Alliance represented our neighborhood’s affiliations.
Unfortunately, we had no Jewish or Muslim families in our small town. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>My mother grew up with Jewish families, and
she expressed a positive image of them. We never really talked about the diversity
(I really didn’t know some surnames were Jewish, they were names my mother knew.)
My senior year of high school, I told her I couldn't have dated a Jewish boy I
met in New York. She seemed surprised I said that. I only thought, he could
never accept Jesus and I couldn't give up Jesus. I watched <i>Bridget Loves
Bernie,</i> as a kid, which was my influence on vastly ranging religious backgrounds
in a marriage and families. </div>
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<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
I continue to ask myself, do I give
up writing? Why did I start in the first place? One of the paradoxes of giving
up our dream to God, is that we may get it back stronger, and is that why we
give it up? <i>Me, Myself and Bob</i> by Phil Vischer, explored that, as he
watched his Big Idea Productions slip through his hands. I think, in my saying
I give up writing, am I really hoping for that success? Am I playing a game? I
don't want to do that. Do I want success or do I want to honor God? And if I
humble myself, am I really humbling myself? </div>
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<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
I have been nudged to write on my
blog again, though. For a few weeks, I had a consistently higher page view
count than previously. I should give the viewers new material, I thought, as I
sat in a trance in the evening with Facebook. I imagined a short story about
escaping Facebook Land, but didn't write it at the time. I may yet. No
promises, do I make.</div>
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<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
The last post was fun. It came as I
walked on the first day of summer. I wondered what I would do with the first few
words, where would they go? You may see them or something similar again in a
novel. They opened in my head, a scene for my sequel, <i>Walking with Eternity,</i>
yet, again, that must be written.</div>
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<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
I decided to take my time with
posting, too. I will write them and let them sit a few days, editing and
tweaking and holding my breath, before I hit “publish.”</div>
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<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
Transparency, I hope I always had. I
know now, I can't go on without it. I crawl out of my bomb shelter after examining
the risk of being branded and losing potential readers. I hope in the process,
I will be clear with my words, gaining readers, instead.</div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-67575535081337557052017-06-25T20:45:00.001-04:002017-06-25T20:45:59.914-04:00Summer Rules
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Qfhv22HpSkhUFm1SaWmPPtZEx5dPwTjrkgtL5jlqz4YV995QoVnxrpqHq5INTEWtp1kHle1sRLvrIJNpg8ItpUxhEvg-cBoGzKCrJeDKIJuAv-kXhgNlc610lCKZnpIvAR4f33Ej16et/s1600/Slide602.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1574" data-original-width="1600" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Qfhv22HpSkhUFm1SaWmPPtZEx5dPwTjrkgtL5jlqz4YV995QoVnxrpqHq5INTEWtp1kHle1sRLvrIJNpg8ItpUxhEvg-cBoGzKCrJeDKIJuAv-kXhgNlc610lCKZnpIvAR4f33Ej16et/s320/Slide602.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Stay out until the street lights
come on, and the skeeters start to bite. Catch a few lightning bugs in your
back yard, as you drag yourself into the house. Put them in a mayonnaise jar
with holes in the lid. Set them on the stand beside your bed. Sneak the
flashlight under the covers and read for as long as you can.</div>
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Morning, listen to the birds chirping
through your window. Hey, the lightning bugs escaped! At least they'll be more
tonight. Eat a bowl of cereal while you sit on the floor and watch some boring
TV. Help around the house, till it's time to walk to the pool. Stay there until
supper time when they kick you out. Walk home or sometimes get a ride in the
car of a friend, who lives outside of town. Play until the street lights come
on: Baseball, tag, statute, or a game you made up with your friends. Catch more
lightning bugs for your jar. Maybe Dad can put up your pup tent and you sleep
outside with that friend tonight.</div>
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Listen to the night sounds, the wind
in the leaves, the crickets, the train whistle downtown. Talk about everything
and nothing as you lay watching for shooting stars. Maybe at midnight, a rain
drives you to your porch. Mom's there waiting and Dad pulls down the tent. The
jar remains under your arm, as you trod up the stairs, disappointed the night
goes inside. But your pillow feels good and then the day dawns bright. You do
it again, but this time with a friend. Cross legged on the floor with cereal in
a bowl and the TV show is more fun shared. Dad takes you on errands around
town, until it's time to swim. The suit’s ready with your tag and off to the
pool with a few extra quarters today for an ice cream sandwich. Swim all day
again, with no thought of your skin. </div>
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<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
Ah, Mom wants you to practice the
piano and your damp legs make dull marks on the bench. You stare more than
play, till she shouts OK. Then hop on a bike and ride around town.</div>
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Hair doesn’t get washed till
Saturday night. No overnights on Saturday, because church is the next day.
Everyone goes to their own church and no one argues, we just believe in God.
You don’t care if your friend crosses herself before meals and she doesn’t care
that you don’t. </div>
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<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
A rainy day, you play in a friend’s
basement and watch lightning streak through the house and you say, “Oh, gosh.”
You tell each other tales of lightning strikes and they must be true. TV is
unplugged and maybe you read that book you fell asleep reading the night
before.</div>
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<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
Days of summer and never say you’re
bored. Take a trip to the shore, but you miss your friends. Still it’s nice to
have Mom and Dad always there. Soon, you’re back and then, one friend is gone,
comes back, then another goes on her adventure. You tell of your vacations and
enjoy their toys. As you get older, it’s camps and vacation Bible schools. You go
to everyone’s in town with your friends. Arts and crafts, kool aid and cookies.
Songs with motions and a story. You may get mixed up on the timelines, but you
have a fun time. Play Red Rover because there are more kids than just your
neighbors.</div>
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<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
One day, you realize the nights come
faster and chill creeps in at evening. A car ride to the mall to shop for
clothes. You’re sad, but secretly glad to go back to school. You miss some of
those friends you didn’t see all summer. The days grow shorter and shorter, the
pool seems dull and cold. A last-minute trip to an amusement park or the fair
and yes, you take along a friend. Summer winds down, but you will always
remember summer rules.</div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-58695194119620190882017-01-25T18:06:00.002-05:002017-01-25T18:06:35.219-05:00Wordless Wednesday<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;"><img alt="Image may contain: plant, grass, outdoor and nature" aria-busy="false" class="spotlight" height="320" src="https://scontent-ord1-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t31.0-8/s960x960/16177789_10210229330503449_4594136879422372344_o.jpg?oh=d2ef255b640914ad983afb8247e0a847&oe=5915F6D7" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="240" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Today is the last day of our warm weather</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-64720741153476951662017-01-18T19:53:00.002-05:002017-01-18T19:53:40.062-05:00Wordless Wednesday<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;"><img alt="No automatic alt text available." aria-busy="false" class="spotlight" height="320" src="https://scontent-ord1-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/15941398_10210117901957805_2373043822479889557_n.jpg?oh=16fb218345e36dd282708f48a4832779&oe=58D96B4A" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="240" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cozy evening</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-47512615693502138742017-01-11T18:28:00.005-05:002017-01-11T18:28:53.395-05:00Wordless Wednesday<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;"><img alt="Image may contain: bird, outdoor and water" aria-busy="false" class="spotlight" height="240" src="https://scontent-ort2-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/16003112_10210142159564230_1271956559699304487_n.jpg?oh=c2681cdf43e688b276415d2fed07eb75&oe=58E27911" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The water's stiff</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1267444620840726550.post-81570070041744191442017-01-04T12:58:00.000-05:002017-01-04T12:58:00.584-05:00Wordless Wednesday<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="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKq3PeoWI5y6gwlmyvENsj2AhZES6-UfKAuExJLoB5H2U90ia6ocvh59yDOfSh1V5vk9iPPGGgIWkvMQ0s28-PwVoFQEJMxMrDQmugcwBSf8SOCelZZHvnweMiX0hqus5HQssHmK9-S6jD/s1600/14344235_10209047301033451_3130573899683828551_n%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKq3PeoWI5y6gwlmyvENsj2AhZES6-UfKAuExJLoB5H2U90ia6ocvh59yDOfSh1V5vk9iPPGGgIWkvMQ0s28-PwVoFQEJMxMrDQmugcwBSf8SOCelZZHvnweMiX0hqus5HQssHmK9-S6jD/s320/14344235_10209047301033451_3130573899683828551_n%255B1%255D.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Time to Dream</td></tr>
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<br />Miss Mollie's Musingshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14597330059306204736noreply@blogger.com0