Monday, July 30, 2018

Clergyman James Satterfield

Clergyman James Satterfield
Mollie Lewis Lyon
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.

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At Unity Presbyterian Church

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Unity Church

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Along the Shenango River, where James Satterfield's house was

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His final resting place

Sunday, May 13, 2018

Stronger Love

Stronger Love
Mollie Lyon

The adult child acts for self.
The mother loves without self.
The acts slam into her heart.
The mother wonders will the healing start?
The mother feels despair.
She's afraid to clear the air.
Each instance digs a hole more deep
Mother wonders why she can't weep
She wonders why she can sleep.
The secret comes
With the sun.
Mother's love never ends
The heart may break
But it mends.
Distance may grow
But child belongs
To the One above
The One containing a stronger love.
So, she rests in that thought
With Christ's love, they were bought.
He'll fight tougher
He'll fight longer
After her arms hold no more
His arms are stronger,
As is His love.
Hard to imagine
But there is a love stronger than a mother's.

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

Writing Before Dawn

Writing Before Dawn
March 13, 2018
Years ago, my daughter gave me a book, Writing Past Dark. 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
No one complained. Patients wanted me to visit. Some days, I confidently completed everything on time. My supervisor appreciated my positive attitude.
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.
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.
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, Last Free Exit. I wrote several of my scenes, based on my last jury duty experience.
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 Last Free Exit.  Morgan visits Iggy in jail, she feels the hollow thud in the chest when those bars close behind you.
The paintings on the rotunda, I used in Country, 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 Last Free Exit walked into the room. He nodded to me and I thought is this Last Free Exit Day?
The trial I didn't get pick for would have been an experience for writing about Maria. In Summer Triangle, 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 Last Free Exit and Summer Triangle. To confirm that, the stylist who did my nails today was named Amber. And well, maybe looked a little bit like Amber.
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.

Sunday, December 31, 2017

2018 Word/Picture Reveal

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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.

Thursday, November 9, 2017

Trump Country

 I wrote this a year ago. I am finally brave enough to post. 

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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”  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.
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 Meet John Doe, “The people have spoken.”
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.

Sunday, July 9, 2017

Why Do I Wait?

Why Do I Wait?

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.
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.

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.

I think how this would frustrate me before. I think before Summer Triangle 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.

I do find it interesting that besides the launch of Main Street, a Gables and Gingerbread Story, 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.

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.

I had written one scene for Walking with Eternity 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.

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?

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.

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 The Way It Was, with Westinghouse stories prods me to continue another novel, I started in 2011. Country, a Gables and Gingerbread Story, 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.

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.

I'm reading Oswald Chambers' My Utmost for His Highest, 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.

Thursday, June 29, 2017


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.

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.   Why haven't I written? Why do I resist now, that which I desired to do for so long?  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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.  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 Bridget Loves Bernie, as a kid, which was my influence on vastly ranging religious backgrounds in a marriage and families.

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? Me, Myself and Bob 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?

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.

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, Walking with Eternity, yet, again, that must be written.

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.”

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.