Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Fulfilling My Sister's Dream

Those of you who do no know me well, I have a younger sister who is a "Ruebella baby" which means she was born blind and deaf, with other mental limitations and health issues due to our mother having Reubella measles while she was pregnant with her.  She has a dream of becoming a Marine Biologist and running a Shark Center.  She will never accomplish that dream, her special needs prevent that from becoming a reality. However, the beauty of being a writer is that I can write her story as if she had accomplished this dream.  Her name is LeeAnn, but in our fictious story, we call her Faith.  Please enjoy "Blind and Deaf Faith."

Blind and Deaf Faith

Short Story Fiction
By Lynn Donovan
Faith was just like everybody else; she grew up, went to college, established herself in a rewarding career. The only thing she didn’t have—sight and sound.
Gestational Rubella measles left her blind and deaf at birth She knew nothing different. Thirty surgeries, lens implants, and corrective lensed glasses allowed a myopic view of her surroundings. It let her read and maneuver without the gaudy, white cane that screamed, “Blind person walking!”
Hearing was another matter. Hearing aids and even cochlear implants were ruled out early in her life due to her non-existent nerves. But she didn’t care. Life was—as it was. Besides, she could hear through her feet. Approaching footsteps were felt and she would turn toward the person. The mail cart rattled so violently, she knew when to step out of her office and receive her bundle with a nod. Few realized she could not hear. She liked it that way.
As a marine biologist, she communicated with everyone by writing notes or sending e-mails. The notes were simply passed on through intra-office mail or a giant clip on her office door. This aloofness had gained her a reputation as an eccentric bitch, but she’d rather be thought of as a bitch than deaf, handicapped, or worse yet—different.
Besides, she preferred to work alone, except for the sharks. They were her life, her single-minded focus. She loved working with them, studying them, feeding them, and writing about them. Interacting with people was unimportant to her. With her immediate family, mom, dad, and sister, she communicated with her hands. But with the rest of the world, she wrote down her thoughts, commands, and instructions. The internet made that easy. Everyone typed rather than spoke on the internet. She simply refused to participate in any video conferencing where speech was required.
Everything was as she wanted it to be. Her routine was, well—routine, and that suited her fine. She contributed to the knowledge-gathering infrastructure of the marina through her diligence and dedication to sharks. Her life was fulfilling and complete.
Until he walked in.
Dr. Donnie Fitzgerald, PhD., Marine Scientist, and now her supervisor, had been transferred in by a committee she ignored. Her lack of verbal skills had found the one niche she could not fill—public speaking. She could publish anything they needed to disseminate her valuable knowledge about the importance of preserving the sharks and their habitats. She set up social networking sites where she could “chat” with the public. But she could never present any information publically.
Now she had to deal with Dr. Donnie Fitzfumble, Fitzfutile, Fitz-whatever, just stay out of the way. She hated him instantly. In her mind, she signed his name with an F at her right temple. That allowed her to insert an additional vulgar name. Since she was forced to share her office, her marina, and her sharks with him—it was her own delightfully private insult.
“Funding. It all boils down to funding,” signed Hope, her older sister, at Thanksgiving.
“Why can’t we get funding from the blog, Twitter, Facebook, even Pininterest? What about the mail?” Faith demanded. “I set up a webcam. The sharks can be observed twenty-four-seven. Why isn’t that enough?” She folded her arms across her chest.
“Look at me!” Hope gestured with two hooked fingers pointed at her eyes. “Some things require face to face. Sales, fundraising, things same as that, require face to face.”
Faith frowned. She knew Hope was right, but it didn’t make her like it any better.
On the day she and Dr. Fitzgerald were to enter the tanks, she typed up all the shark information, laminated the multi-colored papers and bound them with a plastic ring. She had inserted pictures of the sharks beside the descriptions and, in particular, why they were in captivity. The print was large, so she could see it. To anyone else, it appeared to be benefit readability under water. Since communication underwater was all point and signal anyway, her goal was to point at the picture and then at the actual shark. He could read the rest. Or not.
The scuba gear was arranged on a bench in the non-public access area of the pools. She was mostly geared up when Dr. F arrived. Ignoring him, she hoisted the air tank onto her back. She reached for the regulator, but missed due to the extreme angle it hung from her tank. The hose appeared in her limited peripheral as his fingers guided it toward her face. She grabbed the regulator and jerked away. Sharp, glaring eyes told him she didn’t appreciate his interference. His eyebrows rose but his mouth did not move.
She paused. Glancing back at him, she shrugged. He nodded and returned to squeezing into his wet suit. She’d never considered him before. His muscular limbs and smooth abs might place him around her age, maybe younger. She remembered his face from a photo she had examined. Light sprigs salted his otherwise dark neatly cut hair, but the skin around his aqua-blue eyes was smooth. Premature grey, maybe?
He glanced up at her as he zipped his black and green suit. Her eyes darted to the bench, and she sat down next to the laminated manual. Her heart beat violently in her chest. She consciously inhaled and exhaled to slow down the uncomfortable feelings—all of them. She hoped he would assume she was oxygenating her lungs, preparing for submersion.
Once he bounced up and made a two-finger salute, she stood and handed him the manual. He opened it, scanned the pages, and nodded. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder indicating she was ready to go in. He gave the scuba signal, “okay.” They stepped over to the side of the pool, suspended one finned foot over the water and hopped in. Pain instantly pressed against her skull. She removed her regulator, squeezed the nose of her mask and pushed air out her ears for relief. Dr. F hovered, watching her, then held up the “okay?” sign again. She did the same and took the lead, swimming down into the shark tank.
An eight-foot-long tiger shark swam toward them. Faith reached over to the laminated manual and turned to the orange page. She pointed at the picture and then at the shark as it serpentined past them. Dr. F nodded and scanned the page. He pointed to his side, indicating the shark’s original injury. She nodded and pushed off the bottom of the pool. The shark made a side-ways arch with its spine and doubled back toward them. It slithered through the space they no longer occupied, then doubled back again. She knew its territory had been invaded, and it did not like it.
She swam over to where the nurse shark hung out. She showed Dr. F the appropriate blue page. It had been caught in a fisherman’s net as a newborn. It’d never had a chance to learn to survive in the wild. Now six foot in length, it was a member of Faith’s family. Dr. F held up two index fingers, “small.” Then pointed down, “here.” Faith nodded.
On through the tank they swam locating and identifying each species. A dark mass passed into Faith’s visual range. The Tiger shark was still agitated. It was time they left him alone. She would treat him to fish chunks once they got out. She turned to Dr. F and gestured the scuba sign, “go up.” He signaled, “Okay.” In the lead, she propelled herself toward the exit ladder. A dark hazy contrast against the light-blue wall indicated she wasn’t far from the ladder. Three, maybe four more strokes then she would remove her fins.
Suddenly her chin slammed against her chest and she tasted blood. Her body jerked backward, and the strap to her air tank slipped away from her shoulder. Another jerk pulled the other strap and spun her around. The Tiger shark was attacking her. It held the tank in its razor-sharp teeth and shook it violently, yanking her along with it. She kicked at its underbelly and struggled to remove her arm from the strap. The shark let go of the tank and darted past her. She swirled to keep her eyes on its position. It was between her and the ladder.
Her eyes darted around. Where to escape? Where was Dr. F? The shark arched its spine and glided through the water, straight toward her undulating legs. She drew her legs and arms in close to her body and screamed. Bubbles spilled from her mouth. The shark rammed into her torso. Plastic scraped across her wet suite rather than teeth. She opened her eyes. Dr. F’s multi-colored laminated pages protruded from the shark’s mouth as it shook its head fervently.
A firm grip took hold of her arm. Dr. F kicked long fluid strokes with his fins, pulling her toward the ladder. He shoved her up out of the water and scrambled backward, fins sticking out from the ladder. He fell on his bottom next to her and stuck his feet straight out across the sloshing surface of the pool. Crab-walking away from the sinking dorsal fin, he wiggled to get the air tank off his back. Faith’s eyes darted from him to the water. She could not stop hyper-ventilating. “Uhh, uhh,” the sound escaped her mouth as she tried to regain normal breathing. She swallowed. A metallic, copper taste caused her stomach to lurch. She closed her eyes to fight the nausea.
A hand touched her shoulder. She jerked and kicked away from it. “Uhh!” she screamed. Dr. F grabbed her by both shoulders and held her firmly. She stared into his eyes and shook her head. His eyebrows knitted tightly together, and he slowly nodded as his mouth moved. Something about his face cleared the terror in her mind. She stopped fighting and relaxed. Her head turn to the right. Red covered her shoulder. She jerked away. It wasn’t her, it was him!
Blood flowed from a gash that laid open from his knuckles to beyond his wrist. She grabbed his forearm and squeezed her fingers around the muscle. He looked up into her eyes and smiled, then his eyes rolled up as color drained from his face. He fell limp across her lap. She held tightly to the arm. It was the closest thing to a tourniquet she could devise.
“Ooooo!” she screamed and stamped her foot. “Ooooo! Ooooo!”
She felt the vacuum effect of air moving and knew the heavy doors had been opened. People frantically ran in to them, cell phones to their ears. “Mum, mum, mum.” She screamed the best she could and held up Dr. F’s bloody, torn hand. Someone wrapped something white around Dr. F’s arm and pried her bloody hands off. Adrenaline waned. The room tilted and began to spin. Everything elongated into a darkening tunnel—consciousness waned with it.
# # #
Faith sat next to her family as Dr. Fitzgerald stood at the podium, delivering the speech he and Faith had written. His heavily bandaged hand resting on the podium, it had been six weeks since the accident. Representatives from large corporations sat among local residence as Dr. F spoke. A slide show flashed brightly colored pictures of severely injured sharks; rescuers feverishly scrambling to save them; medical staff, including himself and Faith, administering hypodermic aid to the animals; expansive undersea terrains; healthy, revived sharks traversing the aquarium; and finally young people pressed up against glass walls admiring and learning about the sharks.
The words of his speech scrolled along the bottom of the huge screen. Faith drew her eyebrows together. Subtitles? She scratched out a question on her program and handed it to her sister. Hope glanced down and then back up at her. “Don’t you know?” she signed with small, discreet gestures.
Faith leaned back, “Know what?”
Hope turned her head and glared at her for a moment. “Dr. Fitzgerald is deaf, Faith. The subtitles help the audience understand him. Although, I don’t think they’re necessary.” She leaned away from Faith and shook her head. “You really didn’t know?”
Faith shook her head. She lifted her eyes back to the podium and the man who stood before the people. Suddenly the audience jumped to their feet. Their hands slammed together and vocal vibrations filled the air. Faith stood and clapped too. She smiled at her sister, who stared at Dr. F. Faith touched her sister’s shoulder. Hope turned.
“I saw him first.” Faith signed.
Hope dipped her head and smiled.


Wednesday, October 31, 2012

A Halloween Story

The Crickets’ Warning

Short Creative Non-Fiction
By Lynn Donovan

If I hadn’t been standing in the entry way in my baby-doll pajamas, pounding on the ceiling with my shoe to get a cricket to stop chirping, I wouldn’t have noticed the front door standing wide open.
       It was eleven o’clock at night and my parents were not home. They had gone out with their friends for drinks and camaraderie, or whatever it was they got out of being with their boisterous buddies at a place called Polly’s Pub. I was sixteen. Well past the age of needing a babysitter.

Yet, here I stood, shoe in hand, arms raised over my head, trying to silence a cricket, unaware the front door stood open. The street was silent, but my dog suddenly, fearfully barked and I jumped. Oh God! Where was he? I looked at the gaping door. Should I step outside to look for him? I couldn’t move. His muffled bark came from the direction of the kitchen. The pantry, perhaps?
OH GOD, someone was in the house and had put him in the pantry! And here I was, in skimpy pajamas, all alone. I ran to my parents’ bedroom and fumbled through the phone book. Tears soaked the yellow page ads as I searched for the Pub’s phone number. At last, I found it and pushed the numbers. Polly answered. I forced myself to speak clearly.
“May I please speak to Everett Bryan, this is his daughter.”
When daddy came on the phone, I lost it. “Daddy? There’s somebody in the house,” my octave peaked, “and I don’t know where Gaylord is, I heard him bark, but I can’t find him. I’m in your bedroom, and I’m really scared. Can y’all come home? Please!
He chuckled but agreed.
Rocking back and forth, I sat on their bed and stared out the window for their headlights. An eternity pasted in the darkness of that window. Finally, their car pulled into the driveway and I ran down the hallway.
“Come on Gaylord!” my dad said.
The beagle ran into the house, ahead of them, tail wagging and happy to be let in.
“Where was he?” I cried.
“In the garage.” Daddy laughed.
“I thought he was in the pantry!” I said, fighting the temptation to hug my dad. “How’d he get in the garage?”
“I don’t know. I guess you heard him at the door.” Dad said with a dismissive shrug.
The door leading into the garage was next to the pantry door, I supposed it did make sense. Still, how did the front door get open? They didn’t seem any too concerned. So we all settled into bed.
I slid under my pink and white gingham comforter and listened to every unfamiliar creek of the house. I couldn’t sleep. Even the crickets were silent now. Were they scared too? Did they know something was wrong? Why were my parents so calm? The front door had come open, somehow. Gaylord was in the garage. Something wasn’t right.
Then I heard it.
The crickets’ rhythmic chirping began again. They were mocking me in my fearful, sleepless state. I turned on my side, covered my ears and cried. I was alone in my fear. I was alone in my consciousness that something was wrong. But what?
I never knew. Not then. Not now. But every time I hear crickets’ chirping, I think of that terrifying night. And wonder—
Who opened that front door?

Monday, October 22, 2012

Chance to Win

Help me increase my membership to 100 and your name will be entered in a drawing to win an autographed copy of

The Clockwork Dragon anthology. 

The drawing will be held Sunday, November 25, 2012.

Good Luck!!!

Three Authors, One legend, One dragon.
A Legion of demons. Nine Stories.
Who will survive and who will lose their soul?

Friday, October 5, 2012

The Clockwork Dragon Released Soon

October 25, 2012

Look what will be released very very soon!  I have four stories and one collaboration in this collection of Clockwork Dragon short stories.  I'm excited to share it with all of you. For me and Jennette Mbewe, it is our first publication. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.  See you in print!  The Publisher is AltWitPress.

And now we have the trailer on  Check it out!

Sunday, September 9, 2012

Am I Muddying the Water?

The Bible says, 2 “Son of man, take up a lament concerning Pharaoh king of Egypt and say to him: ‘You are like a lion among the nations; you are like a monster in the seas thrashing about in your streams, churning the water with your feet and muddying the streams. Ezekiel 32:2 NIV

The daughters loaded up and left today.  With them went … happiness, I suppose you’d say.  Yes that’s it, happiness.  While they are here, I feel happy; tired, worn out, ready to have my house back, ready to not wash so many dishes, ready to take a nap if I want, but happy all the same.  Now that they are gone, I am alone to deal with my feeling, or lack thereof, for my dementia inflicted mother.  I love my mother, I hate my mother. I feel nothing for my mother.  Somehow in her dementia fog, she knows it.  She keeps saying things like, “honey if I’ve done something to upset you…” 
I look at her with my best practiced confused look and say, “Mom, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  And I either get up off the couch to go do something, like it’s the most important things I need to do at this very moment, or I pick up my Kindle and begin reading, like this is so much more important that talking to her about this “misunderstanding?”  In reality even if I discussed it with her, reassured her I am not upset about anything, which I’m not really, I just don’t enjoy interacting with her, talking to her.  Partly because of the dementia, partly because I just don’t feel like talking to her.  The dementia has reduces her ability to converse to topical, cliché, canned conversations anyway, but even if I did reassure her I was not upset and went into great lengths explaining how I am not upset, she wouldn’t remember my explanation nor the conversation in a few minutes and would probably start the whole thing over again in a few hours. And I really do not like having the exact same conversation about the same subject which I did not want to discuss in the first place.
Yes, I could take the time to reassure her I was not upset with her and that I love her, and in a few hours, she’d say, “Honey, I don’t know what I’ve done to upset you, but I want to tell you I’m sorry.”  For one thing, that’s not an apology.  I hate it when people apologize by saying, “If I did anything wrong, I’m sorry” because that means to me, “I did not do anything wrong but apparently you are mad at me for nothing so I will tell you I’m sorry and you will feel better and be nice to me.”  Yeah, well that doesn’t make me feel better or want to be nice to you.  It makes me madder because you obviously to do recognize what you did or acknowledge your responsibility for what you did.  Either way, you are not apologizing, you are “making nice” and that doesn’t do it for me.
But I say, “Mom, I don’t know what you’re talking about?” 
”Well, I don’t either, but I thought I said something that upset you.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, I thought I said something … silly”
“Well, I don’t think you did.  Maybe you had a dream and thought you said something…But you did not and I’m not upset”
“Well, ok then” she says, maybe ready to put it to rest.
“Ok.” Lord, I hope we are done with this.
And then the next day she will be sitting on the couch watching her favorite TV Channel which has Gun Smoke and Bonanza reruns.  I will have just sat down from puttering around the house, doing whatever needs to be done, like dishes, laundry, straightening up, or checking my e-mail, and she’ll say, “Honey, I wanted to talk to you…”
Oh God here we go again!
I look at Paul for help, but he just gives me a blank glance up from his computer in which he is vehemently playing solitaire, since he’s seen the Gun Smoke episode so many times he could recite every line not to mention it’s not his nor my favorite TV channel.  It’s on that channel for mom and mom alone.
“If there’s anything I’ve said or done.” She starts in.
“Mom, this is the third day you’ve said something about this.  There is nothing that you did or said.  We are alright.” Mic check. Mic check 1…, 2…, 3..., God I hope I don’t sound harsh!  “I think you dreamed this and now you are confused. Don’t worry about it.”
Lord help me love my mother, comfort her, just be nice toward her!
In my mind, I see me putting my arm around her shoulder and comforting her and she feels much better.  But outside of my mind, in my physical reality, I just cannot do it.  So I pick up my Kindle and begin reading, or go outside and check on the tomato plants.  Very important thing I must go do right now, I’ll be back.  Pull some unwanted grass, count how many tomatoes are currently formed and wish I could be a better person toward my mom.  I walk back in the house and tell mom there are three tomatoes and I can’t wait for them to ripen up.
She sounds happy when she responds agreement to the idea that the tomatoes will be wonderful once they are ripe!  She seems happy again.  Thank god.

Sunday, September 2, 2012

Unusual Friends

Do you have friends, past or present, who have unusual names, personalities, memories?  I do.  And for some reason, one of them is on my mind a lot lately.

My unusual friend's name is, believe it or not, James Bond.  He was a special agent (I kid you not) for the Reserves and he looked nothing like Sean Connery!  haha!  But he was a good friend.  Now, here's the fun part of this story.  He and his wife, Georgia, had a couple friend whose wedding anniversary was within a week of theirs and they went out to eat often on a mutually compatible date between the actual date of anniversary, you get what I'm saying.  However, they had to put the reservation in the name of one of the wives.  Why?  Because when the men called the restaurant and told the reservation person they wanted a reservation for four under the name of, you ready for this? Tom Jones and James Bond, the restaurant person hung up on them!  HAHAHAHAHA!

This is all true!!! You can't make something this good up!!!

Georgia Bond and I were good friends and I miss her alot.  Our kids are grown and have children of their own now...where did the time go??? I moved away and lost track.  Shame on me!  But life goes on...right? 

Who do you know that provokes a story just because of their name?  Let's visit on my virtual porch!  Welcome, neighbor!  Have some tea...

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Random Thoughts

Oh My Goodness! My thoughts are all over the place today!  I want to say Goodbye to Neil Armstrong!  He has taken that final one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind...corney but true.  He has taken that final trip into the greatest unknown.  And I, we, shall miss his presence here on our planet earth.

I woke up without a voice this morning!  Coughed all night! My husband loves it, not really, we just tease about the wonderful world for a man whose wife has laryngitis!  HAHA!  But it also made me realize how little I talk to my mom.  Remember, she has Alzheimer's.  She hasn't seemed to even notice I cannot talk to her.  I whispered Good Morning and some other salutation-type greetings.  It made me feel bad, so when I saw my goofy dog, Charlie, laying upside down on my bed, I went and got Mom.  We laughed about how stressed out he is!  (Pun!)  And how cute he looks all stretched out, on his back.  Okay, now I feel better.

And then, I see my garden is dying.  Now I'm sad, but then again, it means that Fall is on its way and the temperatures are coming down!  YAY!  I'm happy about that!  My really, really dried up cucumber plants made me think about our own spirits and keeping them watered with the word...well you know, without preaching.  It made me think about my own reading of the word, faithfully, every morning...but have I been paying attention?  Actually, I've been reading to get-r-done.  Opps!  I've gotta stop doing that and read to get what God wants me to get.  That makes me feel better just thinking about it!  :)

And, last but not...well you know the cliche', my two-and-a-half year old grandson is on my mind!  He made me cry Tuesday when he and his little brother and momma (my daughter, Nisa) left our house to go home.  I snapped him into his car seat and talked to him about being good for momma, like I always do and he quietly says, "Okay." It's so cute.  Then I spoke from my heart and had to whisper because the words choked me up.  I said, "I love you with all my heart." and he whispered back, "I love you with all my heart." (recognize it was in his own limited articulation, but I knew what he was saying!) and THAT BROKE MY HEART, in a good way!  I'm so in love with my grandchildren!  They are so dear to me!!!  I turned and tried to tell Nisa what he said, but my octive was so high she could barely understand what I said!  Silly Grandma!  I cried about that for two days!  *Sigh*

What do you think?  Let's sit on the proverbial porch and visit...

Friday, August 3, 2012

Flash Fiction Contest

Hey y'all.  There is a Flash Fiction Contest at during the month of August.  I have entered a story, but cannot tell you which one it is...the contestents must remain anonymous until the end.  However, I invite you to go to the website and read the stories.  Vote on your favorite and at the end of the month, we'll see who wins. 

As I understand it, every Friday a few entries will be posted.  After August 20 a voting poll will be available and you can vote for your favorite story at that time.

What is Flash Fiction?  It is a really short story.  In this contest it was 600 words.  There is a theme and five specific words that must be used in the story.  This month's challenge was: You bring home a bit of fluff. Now what happens? You must include these words: runes, sparkle, lobster, hypethral (meaning partly or wholly open to the sky), and collectibles. Go to the web site and see what the details of the contest was for the month of August.  This is very challenging because the story must have a beginning, a middle and an end.  It's a great exercise for writing tight prose, and I enjoyed participating.

 So...I hope you will go to the Readers Realm every Friday throughout the month of August and vote on your favorite story. 

And leave a comment...lets visit! 


Saturday, July 21, 2012

A Tiny Red and White Gingham Apron

When I was little, little I had a red and white gingham apron that either my grandmother made or else my Great-great Auntie made for me.  I wore it EVERY time I "helped" my grandmother in the kitchen.  I had my own baking tools and pans too.  A little rolling pin, and a pastry size pie pan.  I had to stand on a black and chrome stool in order to reach the top of the counter, but my head was still lower than my Grandmother's shoulders.  She was a short woman, 5'3" but to me she was tall.  I remember being mesmerized by the swinging of her chicken wing arm while she whipped batter by hand.  I remember laughing and goofing around while we stirred and mixed ingredients.  Mostly I remember how much I loved her and she loved me.  These memories are precious to me!!! 
How about you?  Do you have moments in your life that are precious you to?  Tell me about it.

Sunday, July 1, 2012

Do you Feel Like You Can't?

Seriously, do you feel like you can't do what ever it is you want to do?  I want to write.  I have a three bedroom house with one bathroom and four adults living with me. That makes five adults, one bathroom. This picture is of my writing desk, which originally and still is my make-up table.  The papers along the top and sides and stacked next to the computer are all visual aids for the book I was writing at the time.  I sit at this desk and write...what I don't like about it is everytime I look up, I see me in the mirror.  Ugh!  Am I really that fat?  You know, the inner talk!  I try to ignore that critical person inside me!  But my point is...I don't have a quiet, exclusive location where I write.  I write at my kitchen table, at my make-up table, outside on our porch table, where ever...when ever I can.

So, please let me encourage you...if you feel you can't...YES YOU CAN.  Like the shoes: Just do it!  Get 'er done.  When you can, how you can, where you can.  And if you can't, pray about it.  Many, many times, God knows a way.  If we will seek his thoughts, He'll show us how.

What do you think? Come sit on the porch with me and let's visit.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Christians who hurt Christians

I hear about this all the time in church.  Our pastor tells the story about a man named, Alex McFarland, who wrote a book, "10 Answers for Skeptics," It's about his discussions with atheist or agnostics and found that the majority of them had strong Christian backgrounds, like their parents were ministers, and they were so strongly affected by the hypocracy and whatever that they moved in the polar opposite direction.  Do we as zealous christians offend or hurt other christians.  Or equally terrible, do we offend or hurt those whom we are trying to share our gospel?  Do we aid the devil and tighten his hold on these people?

Read this article and let's sit on the porch and talk about it.

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Alzheimer's Steals History

My mother has Alzheimer's and is now living with us.  It's so sad to watch her memory deteriorate.  It's not just that she has trouble with short-term memory, she is forgetting our history.  I can't say to her, Hey mom, remember when...  Because she doesn't.  She remembers way back when she was a young girl, which I understand is typical of this disease.  Their long-term memory is intact for a long time.  It's the latter thing to go.  But she doesn't remember my childhood.  Or people we knew and loved during my lifetime.  She asks me if I remember when her daddy did this and that.  Well, her dad died before I was born.  So, No, I don't remember him doing any of those things.  Our conversations are related to something happening on TV or the weather, or something our dogs did that was cute.  But nothing about our history.  It's very sad.
What do you think?  Lets talk about it.

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Little Things We Do

Every time I read about the little boy and his two fishes and five loaves, I think about the mother who made that little lunch for her son.  She made it for him so that he could go out and listen to this man they called Jesus.  I am positive she had made this very same little lunch for her son many, many times.  She had no idea this day the little routine lunch she put together would become a legacy in the history of Jesus’ miracles. 

Which makes me think…you knew that was coming!  How many little routine things do we do that could be offered to God, and made into something so much bigger than we could possibly imagine, things we never thought twice about.  A smile we offer to a person we pass on the street.  The pause you give to allow someone to move over in front of you on the street.  I’m a tall gal, so I always encounter short people in the grocery store struggling to reach something, and I will pull it down for them…no big deal…or was it?  Did God do something with that gesture?  I have no idea.  This side of eternity, I have no idea.  I hope someday I will be able to see what little things done in my life were used by God to bless others.  Until then, I try to remember the possibility. 

Let me know what you think?                                              

Remember, I’m not a pastor, just a Christian with a thought.

Sunday, June 3, 2012

The Word of God is Like a Radish

Could we say the word of God is like a radish?  I picked the last of my radishes today and was cleaning them in the sink.  Some were too woody to eat and I threw them away, others were small, but edible so I cleaned them and kept them for the table.  I washed them and scrubbed the root free of dirt, thinking about how I keep the root on because … well, because my grandmother always kept the root on.  She did it so that the radish had a “handle” to pick it up by.  But I lopped off the green tops. 

It made me think of the word of God.  How many of us take the word of God the way our family has taken the word of God.  Do you leave the root on, or do you cut it off? So we throw away the inedible parts, or do we keep them in case somebody wants to eat it that way?  Do you take the word for face value, or do you interpret it and determine what it “really” means?  Do we ignore the passages that are inedible, or do we pray over them and meditate over them in order to receive what God wants us to receive from them?

Could the word of God be like a radish?  Depends on how you look at it, I suppose.  Let me know what you think?  Remember, I’m not a pastor, just a Christian with a thought.

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Get over it!

I love you. I forgive you. Let's eat!
Today in Church, our guest speaker, Terry Nance, said these words.  I don't know about you, but it rocked my world.  My son and I have been repeating it all day.  It's such an excellent statement, and so to the point.  We are human.  We will make mistakes and we will sin.  But you know what?  Sinners sin.  Get over it!
Repeat after me:  I love you!
I forgive you!
Let's eat.
And the reason this is so wonderful to because it's exactly how we should treat each other.  Few things are more normal than sitting down to dinner.  So...let's just forgive, forget and get on with life.
I love you. I forgive you. Let's eat!