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Word Picture for 2023

 

Word Picture for 2023

Imagination

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.

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.

Picture/Word of the Year-2022

 My picture/word reveal for 2022, "Revive."

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.

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 Toy Story 4, as I imagined saying good bye to my long time friend.

A few days, after many mornings of watching if his chest rose, he got stronger. He crawled the stairs.

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.

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?

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. 

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.

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.

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?

2 Corinthians 5:17 — King James Version (KJV 1900)

17 Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.

Peace in a Weary World

 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Silent Night enveloped me. My soul soared like the notes reaching the rafters. Peace.

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.

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.

“Our Lord is the calm in the storm, the Comforter, the Healer, the Lover of our souls. Now, that's Good News.”

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.”

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.

Casting Crowns - I Heard The Bells on Christmas Day Live - YouTube

Acknowledgment: Henry W. Longfellow, and my minister, Rick Stauffer.

Destitution

 

I pray for destitution this Advent season. Wow! That's a weird prayer. I blame it on My Utmost for His Highest by Oswald Chambers. May we be destitute.

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?

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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 The Christmas Carol, 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.

Changed hearts or new hearts, for that I pray. Make us destitute- Make us destitute, to be full in Jesus.

Seasons' Colors

                                               Just like that Spring is over

                                                    and summer has come.

                                                  Fallen blooms brown

                                                 crushed on the ground

                                                  Spring has death, too, 

                                                   in a display of color.

                                                Gives way to green

                                         unlike the colors following fall 

                                   giving way to white or dull. 

2021 Word Picture Reveal

Home

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVbPgBGv2to 

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.

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.

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.

Write the Light-My Word/Picture for 2020

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.

Another year. Another picture and word came easily. Like Hallmark, I started watching the Christmas movies early. Of the selection, I viewed Thomas Kinkade's Christmas Cottage second, back in November. 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.”

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.

I feel like a teenager tackling a term paper with material everywhere and trying to narrow it down.

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.

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?”

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.

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.

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.

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, Love is the Answer by Todd Rundgren, pleads, "Light of the world shine on me."

I feel I have been preparing for this word/picture for a long time.

Gray Memories

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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, It's a Wonderful Life. 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.

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.

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.

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.

A few years before the Christmas I recalled today. I was in preschool- 1965. 

Picture/Word Reveal for 2019

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 knew it will be my word of the year.

The word, Shalom. 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.

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.

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.

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.

Then I study them again. The word permanence 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.

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.

I wish you the blessing of Shalom, the deepness of this word and the permanence of the blessing.

Mercer County's Season of Love

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

After much prayer, they decided to erect a new structure on the Watson farm, just for the meetings.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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!”

Winter Light

Winter Light

by

Mollie Lyon

Catch it early

Winter light

When late morning

Rushes to afternoon dusk

Last gasp of the sun

Fills the earth with glory

Day gives up to night

Her glow fades quickly

Losing all that's bright

The sky suddenly dark

Once home we stay

We frown at the early eves stark

Wishing again for the longer day

Ending with concerts at the park

Clergyman James Satterfield

Clergyman James Satterfield

by

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.

At Unity Presbyterian Church

Unity Church

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

His final resting place

Stronger Love

Stronger Love

by

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.

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.

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.