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| Stewart house front door decorated for Christmas Tours, Hermitage, Pennsylvania |
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
Teddy's Law Tuesday
Re-post from last year:
As you know, I hope by now, that I write about child abuse on Tuesdays in support of Teddy's Law. I am wavering on how to write today. The Christmas song from the British and Irish rock bands of 1984 plays in my mind. I watch it and read the lyrics on You tube. I think how does this all fit in?
When those images of the Ethiopian children with their huge bellies from starvation first came on the nightly news, yes, we were in the midst of celebrating Christmas in Connecticut. Our loft apartment in an old textile factory screamed "yuppie" all over it, or as we later came to be know as D.I.N.K's- "double income, no kids." A somewhat, but not completely self centered time in our lives was that Christmas time.
We had our two cats we bought in New Hampshire. They were in a sense our children. The male, Arthur, a fluffy sweet Himalayan developed those bladder stones that had killed my first Siamese, Ho Chi. I made better money than an unemployed dad did twelve years earlier. We could save Arthur. Then those pictures of those kids blasted on the TV. Yes, it was their government's fault. Whatever food we sent would sit on the docks because the their government wouldn't distribute it, yet, my heart went out to those kids. But I had a sick cat at home that I could pay two hundred dollars for the operation to save him. How could I let a creature in my care suffer because I felt guilty about starving children across the ocean? Actually, if my money would have helped, I could do both.
I prayed about this, wracked with guilt. Guidepost magazine, that month, ran a story about a cat, a Siamese cat, that a woman prayed to be healed. The point was God cares for our pets, as well. This was well before all this modern obsession with our pets. I took care of Arthur. We had the surgery and changed his diet to the sophisticated cat science food. I still feed our cats this diet.
Sunday, in church, a man spoke of Indonesia. There is a different kind of starvation going on. Peace. They don't know Jesus. They are slaves to religion, but have no peace. They have no hope. They have not the Bread of Life. "Feed the World" played in my mind, again. I heard it this morning on the radio. I thought of how my husband would comment when this song first came out, "No, they're Muslim," in answer to the question, "Do they know it's Christmas time again?"
We can't feed the world. Just as in 1984, often times the food would sit rotting on the docks unable to reach the children, our efforts thwarted. We have to find the key to reach the ones we can. And we need to give them more than physical food. We need to reach one.
So what does this have to do with child abuse awareness? Governments, religions, world systems abuse the children. This man from Indonesia showed a picture of a girl, one of sixty children of a father's many wives, who gave her life to Jesus. She changed and the father knew he couldn't trade her like property anymore. That is just one life out of millions. It is mind boggling. How can we help? We try with one child. We try to reach one person.
Our challenge at church this Sunday: Think of one person here who needs to know Christ, that you can reach this Christmas season. Pray for that person. Then pray for one Indonesian to have that divine appointment with a Christian to meet Jesus. The trickle of one life at a time changes the world. The president of the country told this man that the future leaders of Indonesia will some day all be from this school because lives are changed there.
But don't forget after Christmas about feeding the world. They may not know it's Christmas time, but if we introduce them to the One of Christmas, they will have more than the water of their bitter sting of tears. And don't just thank God it's them, instead of you. Jesus told his disciples against all odds, "You feed them." He will take the little and make it great.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cIxj7Ew_99w
As you know, I hope by now, that I write about child abuse on Tuesdays in support of Teddy's Law. I am wavering on how to write today. The Christmas song from the British and Irish rock bands of 1984 plays in my mind. I watch it and read the lyrics on You tube. I think how does this all fit in?
When those images of the Ethiopian children with their huge bellies from starvation first came on the nightly news, yes, we were in the midst of celebrating Christmas in Connecticut. Our loft apartment in an old textile factory screamed "yuppie" all over it, or as we later came to be know as D.I.N.K's- "double income, no kids." A somewhat, but not completely self centered time in our lives was that Christmas time.
We had our two cats we bought in New Hampshire. They were in a sense our children. The male, Arthur, a fluffy sweet Himalayan developed those bladder stones that had killed my first Siamese, Ho Chi. I made better money than an unemployed dad did twelve years earlier. We could save Arthur. Then those pictures of those kids blasted on the TV. Yes, it was their government's fault. Whatever food we sent would sit on the docks because the their government wouldn't distribute it, yet, my heart went out to those kids. But I had a sick cat at home that I could pay two hundred dollars for the operation to save him. How could I let a creature in my care suffer because I felt guilty about starving children across the ocean? Actually, if my money would have helped, I could do both.
I prayed about this, wracked with guilt. Guidepost magazine, that month, ran a story about a cat, a Siamese cat, that a woman prayed to be healed. The point was God cares for our pets, as well. This was well before all this modern obsession with our pets. I took care of Arthur. We had the surgery and changed his diet to the sophisticated cat science food. I still feed our cats this diet.
Sunday, in church, a man spoke of Indonesia. There is a different kind of starvation going on. Peace. They don't know Jesus. They are slaves to religion, but have no peace. They have no hope. They have not the Bread of Life. "Feed the World" played in my mind, again. I heard it this morning on the radio. I thought of how my husband would comment when this song first came out, "No, they're Muslim," in answer to the question, "Do they know it's Christmas time again?"
We can't feed the world. Just as in 1984, often times the food would sit rotting on the docks unable to reach the children, our efforts thwarted. We have to find the key to reach the ones we can. And we need to give them more than physical food. We need to reach one.
So what does this have to do with child abuse awareness? Governments, religions, world systems abuse the children. This man from Indonesia showed a picture of a girl, one of sixty children of a father's many wives, who gave her life to Jesus. She changed and the father knew he couldn't trade her like property anymore. That is just one life out of millions. It is mind boggling. How can we help? We try with one child. We try to reach one person.
Our challenge at church this Sunday: Think of one person here who needs to know Christ, that you can reach this Christmas season. Pray for that person. Then pray for one Indonesian to have that divine appointment with a Christian to meet Jesus. The trickle of one life at a time changes the world. The president of the country told this man that the future leaders of Indonesia will some day all be from this school because lives are changed there.
But don't forget after Christmas about feeding the world. They may not know it's Christmas time, but if we introduce them to the One of Christmas, they will have more than the water of their bitter sting of tears. And don't just thank God it's them, instead of you. Jesus told his disciples against all odds, "You feed them." He will take the little and make it great.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cIxj7Ew_99w
Monday, December 1, 2014
Grateful for National Novel Writing Month
National Novel Writing Month is over. I anticipated the community of writers, the newness of a story and the thrill of word counts rising. I have a great story only partially written, to be completed this month. I found the voice for family stories, that now, I need to edit before sending to family. Christmas gifts! I experienced the thrill of productive writing, as I let other things go. All in all, even though, I lost two thousand words last Wednesday (not for my novel, though, thank God), which made me realize I didn't have the time to do the fifty thousand words in one month, I cherish this past month.
This morning, I woke with clarity as to what to do with the two novels of this month. I finished the one from last year and started another. In my fashion, it seems, I saw this morning that the second will be first. I have the complete plot for Outside of Time. Last Free Exit needs a lot of work, yet.
That also seems to be God's pattern. He uses the second first. Abel over Cain, Jacob over Esau, Judah's twins by Tamar, one broke out first, then was born second. Or in David's lineage, the last wife's son, Solomon, was actually born second to Bathsheba. And Jesus said, "The first shall be last."
The writing journey teaches me to lean more on God. The life journey shows me to trust only on the light for the step on I'm on. We must make plans, but stepping only where the light shines, instead of worrying about the miles ahead.
I'm watching one of my dear residents die. A fight for life, even though, she said for a year she doesn't want to live. Sadness over life's blows and disappointments or is it fear of what the subconscious sees in the death haze, that makes dying a struggle? I'm not sure, but I can tell you, the human spirit knows life is God given and fights to hold on, even in depression. A spark keeps that fire of life going. This is bringing back memories of my mother's dance with death. Even to the slipping of consciousness, yet, the declaring, "My Mollie," when I tell them I'm there to comfort.
I hold a hand, I pray, I recite scripture, I sing or hum a hymn. I ask Jesus to have mercy. I hide the sadness in my chest. I fear the tears.
And I know I will use this for my novel. Ted Dekker commented that his books are like a journal of where he was when he wrote them. And so I'm finding with my writing as well. I have a large plastic container of ten years worth of journals. The ones I wrote in every day, when I dreamed of being a writer and worked at the discipline before I deemed declaring I am a writer.
Main Street, I wrote the year after my mother died and a bit of her is in Martha's mother. I described the symptoms of congestive heart failure as they were fresh in my mind. Plus, as a nurse, my case load is mostly of dying hearts in the aging population.
The seed of Summer Triangle came before a pregnancy disrupted our lives, but as I wrote it much of my life experienced what I wrote. I'm still not able to go into the details, but when I think of that NaNoWriMo of 2012, I remember.
Reading books mark times in a life as well. I've been pondering a book my mother recommended I read several years ago, before I was married,
maybe my senior year of high school or freshman year of nursing school. As the daylight grows shorter and dreary, I think of that book. I believe I will go to my basement (I think I know exactly where that book is) and revisit it.
At work, a bag of books sits in the break room. A book I read in junior high winked at me. I just skim through it. It is "smutty," but as I peruse the pages, I see how it took me to the Old South. A well written story takes you places, this novel just took me places a fourteen year old needn't go.
I am looking forward to finishing my novel and revising the other. I am excited of the clarity shown this morning. I am joyful for December first, and grateful for another National Novel Writing Month in the annuls of my writing.
This morning, I woke with clarity as to what to do with the two novels of this month. I finished the one from last year and started another. In my fashion, it seems, I saw this morning that the second will be first. I have the complete plot for Outside of Time. Last Free Exit needs a lot of work, yet.
That also seems to be God's pattern. He uses the second first. Abel over Cain, Jacob over Esau, Judah's twins by Tamar, one broke out first, then was born second. Or in David's lineage, the last wife's son, Solomon, was actually born second to Bathsheba. And Jesus said, "The first shall be last."
The writing journey teaches me to lean more on God. The life journey shows me to trust only on the light for the step on I'm on. We must make plans, but stepping only where the light shines, instead of worrying about the miles ahead.
I'm watching one of my dear residents die. A fight for life, even though, she said for a year she doesn't want to live. Sadness over life's blows and disappointments or is it fear of what the subconscious sees in the death haze, that makes dying a struggle? I'm not sure, but I can tell you, the human spirit knows life is God given and fights to hold on, even in depression. A spark keeps that fire of life going. This is bringing back memories of my mother's dance with death. Even to the slipping of consciousness, yet, the declaring, "My Mollie," when I tell them I'm there to comfort.
I hold a hand, I pray, I recite scripture, I sing or hum a hymn. I ask Jesus to have mercy. I hide the sadness in my chest. I fear the tears.
And I know I will use this for my novel. Ted Dekker commented that his books are like a journal of where he was when he wrote them. And so I'm finding with my writing as well. I have a large plastic container of ten years worth of journals. The ones I wrote in every day, when I dreamed of being a writer and worked at the discipline before I deemed declaring I am a writer.
Main Street, I wrote the year after my mother died and a bit of her is in Martha's mother. I described the symptoms of congestive heart failure as they were fresh in my mind. Plus, as a nurse, my case load is mostly of dying hearts in the aging population.
The seed of Summer Triangle came before a pregnancy disrupted our lives, but as I wrote it much of my life experienced what I wrote. I'm still not able to go into the details, but when I think of that NaNoWriMo of 2012, I remember.
Reading books mark times in a life as well. I've been pondering a book my mother recommended I read several years ago, before I was married,
maybe my senior year of high school or freshman year of nursing school. As the daylight grows shorter and dreary, I think of that book. I believe I will go to my basement (I think I know exactly where that book is) and revisit it.At work, a bag of books sits in the break room. A book I read in junior high winked at me. I just skim through it. It is "smutty," but as I peruse the pages, I see how it took me to the Old South. A well written story takes you places, this novel just took me places a fourteen year old needn't go.
I am looking forward to finishing my novel and revising the other. I am excited of the clarity shown this morning. I am joyful for December first, and grateful for another National Novel Writing Month in the annuls of my writing.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
Teddy's Law Tuesday
Repost:
Speak words of life into every situation...Remind others to do so, as well. When you are out, shopping, eating at restaurants, at school or church presentations, be bold and speak an encouraging word, even if the adults belittling the child are annoyed with you. Do it anyways. We must be aware and help where we can.
Later today after I first posted, I went to our prayer meeting. Three requests for families that are using verbal abuse toward children, young and grown formed a topic that I felt today is always on God's heart. "Suffer the little children unto Me," Jesus said. Call it what you want, I am always amazed when a cause pops up all over the place.
Be careful little tongue what you say. Speak life.
Speak words of life into every situation...Remind others to do so, as well. When you are out, shopping, eating at restaurants, at school or church presentations, be bold and speak an encouraging word, even if the adults belittling the child are annoyed with you. Do it anyways. We must be aware and help where we can.
Later today after I first posted, I went to our prayer meeting. Three requests for families that are using verbal abuse toward children, young and grown formed a topic that I felt today is always on God's heart. "Suffer the little children unto Me," Jesus said. Call it what you want, I am always amazed when a cause pops up all over the place.
Be careful little tongue what you say. Speak life.
Thursday, November 20, 2014
Blessing
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| Mary Johnston, Martha Hoffman, Jane Thompson, helping in the kitchen on Main Street. |
One of the traditions or chores I enjoyed during the Christmas season was lighting all the red wreaths Dad hung in every window in the house. This picture in our kitchen is one of them. Quietly I ventured through the house as the early evening sun began to set. I'd take a moment at the window, glance out, think a few minutes and continue with the task.
I wanted to continue this tradition in my home. My husband couldn't understand why I didn't want to make it easy with timers. I couldn't explain the wandering through the house as gentle evening prayer for peace. The mystical twilight opens the magic of Christmas.
I had to let this moment go when my daughter as a toddler put the whole light bulb in her mouth. And then as the years passed, the cares of this time of year have removed that desire. I love to sit on the couch with a cup of tea, watching the sunset on early winter eves.
It has been said many times, this time of year, simplify, reflect. A wander through your house at evening, whether to light candles or not, can be an evening prayer.
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| Lamp post at Buhl Farm |
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| Lights at Tara, A Country Inn, Clarksville, PA |
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| Winter sunset at Lake Julia, Buhl Farm Park |
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Teddy's Law Tuesday
Last week on Tuesday we celebrated Veteran's Day and I re-posted my tribute to men in my family who served or are serving in the military.
If you know military families, send up more prayers for the parent who stays home. The stress of caring for home and family could lead to child abuse. The majority of the families are fine, I'm sure. Still, they all need our prayers. That is my focus this week.
I'm not an expert on this, but I did witness some when I was a Navy wife, thirty years ago. In my building, the neighboring apartment's bedroom met ours. I worked midnights, so I was sleeping. The baby next door kept crying and I heard the mother scream at her child. A pit opened up in my gut, swallowing my heart, but I didn't know what to do at twenty four. I laid on my king sized water bed, processing it. She didn't hit the baby that I could hear and eventually I fell back to sleep.
The mother, a somewhat mousey young woman, didn't say much in the halls. New England lent to a stand-off atmosphere, so, I left her alone. Looking at it now, I wish I had offered to help sometime. I imagined she knew I had heard her lose her temper and was embarrassed by it. She didn't live there very long.
Reach out as you can. Offer some free time. And pray for all families, but especially the military ones who are far from their own families and support.
If you know military families, send up more prayers for the parent who stays home. The stress of caring for home and family could lead to child abuse. The majority of the families are fine, I'm sure. Still, they all need our prayers. That is my focus this week.
I'm not an expert on this, but I did witness some when I was a Navy wife, thirty years ago. In my building, the neighboring apartment's bedroom met ours. I worked midnights, so I was sleeping. The baby next door kept crying and I heard the mother scream at her child. A pit opened up in my gut, swallowing my heart, but I didn't know what to do at twenty four. I laid on my king sized water bed, processing it. She didn't hit the baby that I could hear and eventually I fell back to sleep.
The mother, a somewhat mousey young woman, didn't say much in the halls. New England lent to a stand-off atmosphere, so, I left her alone. Looking at it now, I wish I had offered to help sometime. I imagined she knew I had heard her lose her temper and was embarrassed by it. She didn't live there very long.
Reach out as you can. Offer some free time. And pray for all families, but especially the military ones who are far from their own families and support.
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