Depressingly Close to Darkness? Step Back.

10 Feb

They say God won’t give you more than you can handle. I say that’s a bunch of baloney.

I’ve been mulling over that phrase for a few weeks now, after a recent email conversation with a friend. I know the sentiment comes from a good place, but these words present such a simplistic view of a complex God that I’m wondering if uttering them as solace might do more damage than good. I can think of three families right this minute who are struggling with more than they can handle.

Did their troubles come from God? I don’t think so. The Bible tells us that all good things come from God, but all we know for sure about the negative is that sometimes He allows bad things to happen. Still, is it any consolation when we’re hit with tragedy or pain that it probably didn’t come from God? The logical response to that thought is, well then, why is He allowing it?

Every year about this time I go through what I’m finally beginning to recognize as depression. It may be a seasonal effect brought on by the dark and cold, the short winter days, and the weariness of less exercise, but this year it’s compounded by a heart-wrenching sadness because people I love are hurting deeply, and a fearful awareness of life’s uncertainty. We’re not guaranteed a single breath on this earth, let alone another hug from a loved one. How can we not become depressed at such revelation?

We can start by stepping back into the light and reexamining the situation. By remembering that darkness is not a color, but a tool that hides color. Under the proper light, we can see so much more of the picture. Sometimes what we think is revelation is actually the lie.

I often imagine my life as a beautiful tapestry being woven together strand-by-strand, the joy and sadness creating rich colors of every hue that merge with and contrast each other in a dramatic, unique story that only my life can tell. Sometimes, particularly in the winter months, I find myself with my face pressed into a tiny portion of that tapestry, sobbing at its bleakness. If I step back at all, it’s likely in a desperate attempt to yank out the dark strands and replace them with more joyful colors. I can’t weave, so I stuff and jam strands into the crevices until they look like weedy tufts spilling out at odd angles.

The Weaver knows, however, that if I could chose my own colors, and even if I could weave them in, I’d ruin everything. Without the dark hues, the final creation would just be evidence that I existed. What I imagined as bright colors would seem dull and ordinary, because without challenge or adversity, what would bring true joy? There might be an absence of sorrow, but that’s not joy. The entire piece would probably look beige.

Up close look at a carpet

Up close, the lines make no sense. I thought about including the bigger picture, but we each have our own, so I leave that part to you.

To fully understand the artwork AND the dark colors, I must stand all the way back and view the creation as a whole. In that light, I’d see an amazing story of victory and triumph over, at times, seemingly insurmountable odds, I’d see surprising twists and turns just when the end seemed sure, and I’d see a testimony about God’s bountiful goodness and generosity toward a woefully undeserving child.

Lately, I’m envisioning my own tapestry as a single strand in itself, being woven into the lives of those around me. When we purposefully examine how our lives are intertwined, and how much we can affect each other, we can become either overwhelmed or awed at the concept. I choose awed, because I know the Weaver, and I trust Him.

You see, it’s in those times of going through more than we can handle that we’re forced to give up trying to manipulate the strands by ourselves. He never expected us to handle it all. He wants us to let Him weave, to lean on Him, to pour our hearts out to him, and to love him regardless of what we see in the tapestry up close. In the right light, we can see our lives, not as fragile possessions we might lose at any moment, but gifts in which every undeserved breath and hug is a treasure. We can look to others and see how our strands are aligning, whether for one season or for many years, and to notice how, intertwined, they strengthen each other.

So it is with awe that we can step back and see the tapestry He’s weaving, understanding that we’ll never, under this sun, be able to see it all. But if that part we can see, if we look with the proper light, is so stunningly magnificent, just imagine the entire story!

I know, even as I write this, that it’s not always easy to take a step back. If you’re like me, and you still have your face meshed into the darkness, promise me that you will at least remember there’s a bigger picture around you, waiting for you to turn your face. When you’re ready, look up first, and trust Him to help you see it.

—

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight. – Proverbs 3:5-6

 

 

 

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Courtin’ Disaster with Tumbler Roulette

30 Jan

Our family is playing a dangerous game of Tumbler Roulette.

It’s a game borne of stubborn pride that began a little over a year ago when we first purchased those colorful plastic chalices at a discount store.

So pretty, we said. So tall. So spacious. So perfect. What’s not to like?

So very not dishwasher safe, that’s what. We learned after the first wash, when some delicate hair-line shoots appeared at the base of each cup.

Now, any normal family would just hand wash the no-longer-perfect vessels at the first sign of fissure. But did we switch to hand washing to preserve said drinkware? We did not. This might be my fault. Although my brain has fully processed and accepted the prescribed procedure for hand-washing dishes, I’m not exactly, shall we say, enamored with the task. I’d rather do most anything else.

In fact, I’m pretty sure that, were my dishwasher to blow a gasket an hour before guests arrived for a swanky black-tie gala, I’d swap out the good china for paper plates in an instant. You can really learn something about folks by watching them try to stab at carrots with plastic cutlery, know what I mean?

So naturally, we continued to use these tumblers daily, dumping them thoughtlessly into the dishwasher, which, as dishwashers are wont to do, would steam-heat those suckers at about 130 degrees.

Every day.

Cracked Tumbler

Beautiful, horrible, fascinating

With each wash, the intricate lines deepen and spread like a Jack Frost original across the plastic canvass. Any day now, either a slow leak will seep onto our coffee table and coat it with a sticky grape juice veneer, or, amid a sudden shattering explosion, one of us is going to wind up with a lap full of iced tea.

Kaboom.

Yet we persist.

Why do we do this, when disaster is utterly avoidable? When it happens, and it will happen, the mess is going to be epic. These are 32-ounce containers.

I think part of the reason we do this is because each of us believes, deep down, that one of the other two is going to get it. From an entertainment perspective, for the two observers, D-Day has the potential to be highly amusing. Assuming, of course, we’re out of the soaking radius. And assuming we’re out the soak-ee’s rage range.

When it happens, I promise to post a damage report.

But let’s switch tracks now, shall we?

When you think of it, we’re all playing a similar game, only with life. Sadly, in this case the stakes are a bit higher. What kind of Tumbler Roulette are YOU playing? Is your Last Will and Testament so out of date it lists the oldest of your four children as your only dependent? Are you putting off that doctor’s visit about the lump on your leg because you’re afraid to get bad news? Charging just one more item to that credit card?

Kaboom.

Why do we gamble so flippantly when disaster is completely avoidable? Why are we so surprised when the tumbler shatters? Some of us even go so far as to get angry at God when the tumbler shatters. Plastic wasn’t in his original design scheme, don’t forget.

However, he is holding out a tumbler of sorts that he wants very much for you to deal with. What do you suppose it might be? And, now that you’ve been reminded, what are you going to do about it?

Don’t delay, there may not be much time before it shatters.

——————–

Go to the ant, you sluggard; consider its ways and be wise! It has no commander, no overseer or ruler, yet it stores its provisions in summer and gathers its food at harvest. –Proverbs 6:6-8

 

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It’s Just a Little Snow, but it’s a Good Reason to Mix Myself a Milktoast Mai Tai

22 Jan

Happy Snow Day, East Coast!

I had such a good response from my last Totally Made Up Interview that I decided today would be the perfect day to conduct another one, primarily because I wanted to blog about the weather but I lack sufficient knowledge of such matters (except that my RI family is laughing at us and our headless-chicken antics right now).

So today we’re talking with Mr. I.C. Flakes, renowned—in my mind anyway—expert on winter storms and winter storm preparedness. We were supposed to talk last night so he could tell everyone that there’s no need to panic, but he got caught in that 3-hour traffic jam when that lil’ ol flurry blew through.

However, he’s here now, so we’ll start by talking about storm preparations…

Q: Mr. Flakes, here in these pre-storm moments, do you have any advice for our readers?

A: Of course. Settle in, it’s going to be a long one. Find your flashlights. Look under the beds, for Pete’s sake, they’re in that house somewhere. And stay off the roads.

Q: Good advice, for sure, thank you. I can’t find my flashlight, so I’ll buy one as soon as we’re done here, when I pop out for some bread and milk, you know, because Topper said. It IS a ten-loaf storm, don’t you know?

Storm Food

Okay, Topper, I’m ready! (Callin’ this my milktoast Mai Tai)

A: Out of the question. Stay off the roads, I say. Anything you might have to do is something you should have done yesterday. The shelves are bare now and there’s nothing left to buy. Besides, you don’t even drink milk, and the last time I saw you eat bread was at a Christmas party in 2014 when the host offered it to you, beaming because she’d made it herself. If I recall, you only nibbled until she turned her back and then tucked it under the other slices on the plate.

Q: I didn’t know you were watching. Either way, Topper said, so I kinda have to. It’s not even snowing yet; I think I’ll at least try.

A: You’re nuts, all of you. Nobody should be on the roads today except first responders, snow plows, grocery store employees, and wine distributers.

Q: Grocery store employees?

A: Someone has to restock the wine. When this thing blows over, there’s going to be a mad rush.

Q: Well, I have to go out anyway. I need boots, and a shovel, and perhaps a wood stove.

A: Did you not know winter was coming?

Q: Wait, is that an answer or a question?

A: …

Q: At any rate, how about during the storm. Do you have any advice for what to do during that time?

A: Well, I suggest you front-load your electronically necessary tasks. When the power goes out, most of your efforts will be directed toward eating everything in the fridge before it goes bad.

Q: When the power goes out? Is it that likely?

A: Are you from these parts? The power goes out when an overweight bird perches on the wire; of course it’s going out. That’s why you need to find your flashlights now, before dark.

Q: Okay, I hear you. Heading downstairs now to search. Pulling out blankets, getting firewood in. Charging the phone. Making a place for the dog to sleep. …I think I understand now. Don’t panic, but prepare as best I can now while all is calm.

A: I think you’ve got it. My work here is done.

Q: Um, actually, there’s one more incredibly pressing issue, considering the possibility of no power this weekend. Do you have any thoughts on how we can see the Broncos play New England Sunday if the outage continues?

A: I’m one step ahead of you there. There’s no way I’m missing that. As soon as I hang up I’m taking off for the airport. I’ll be in a little hotel outside of Phoenix by sunset to wait out the storm in front of the television.

Q: Wait, are you driving?

A: I said it’s important for YOU to stay off the roads. Improves my chances of making my flight. So…guess I gotta run.

And there you have it. Mr. Flakes is long-gone now, so I cannot get him back, even if you have questions. I’m watching the first snowflakes  drifting down outside my window with both an eagerness and child-like wonder. And yet, I do have one two last requests, even for those of you watching us from around the internet world. Whether there’s snow or not where you are this weekend, check on your neighbors. and please say a prayer tonight for the large homeless population out here this winter, that they might find shelter this weekend in a safe, warm place.

Stay cozy, stay safe, and I’ll see you after we dig out!

——————–

“Oh, that I had the wings of a dove!  I would fly away and be at rest. I would flee far away and stay in the desert; I would hurry to my place of shelter, far from the tempest and storm.” —Psalm 55:6-8

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Chocolate Muscles and Frozen Peas: Love is Complicated

13 Jan

Thirty-two years ago, on a Friday the 13th, something wonderful happened when I agreed to drive over to the Justice of the Peace in South Kingstown, RI, with Jerry Fitzsimmons. How could I resist, considering his oh-so-captivating suggestion:

“Do you wanna?”

Why, yes, I did.

Not that it was a rash decision. We’d been engaged for a couple of years, but our plans for a traditional wedding had been repeatedly thwarted by military orders and a life-altering car accident. I wonder sometimes if we’d have gone through with the ceremony if someone had told us the date. That I wore black, the only dress I’d packed for our trip to my parents’ home, only added to the surreal situation, as did the attire of our witnesses, who stood at the opposite ends of decorum’s spectrum – one of my brothers looking spiffy in his Marine Corps dress blues, and the other, a carpenter just off a roofing job, slumped over the justice’s podium wearing dirty, ripped jeans and smelling as if he took his manual labor seriously.

Nevertheless, we took the plunge together and headed off into the world of…well, something a lot less romantic than the phrase “wedded bliss” should be allowed to connote.

In fact, our first years were more like weeded bliss. We each had to compromise more than we might have wanted to, and our compromises were usually less a result of gallantry than argument-induced concessions. He’s a practical, hard-working, methodical, technically proficient detail man and I’m a somewhat flighty, spontaneous, irresponsible, artistic dreamer.

Somehow we survived. We made it through the adjustment years, the parenting young children years, the “what if I missed something better out there” years, the “our children are screwed up and it’s all your fault” years, and even the (still ongoing, but let’s call it a phase) years of, “if she rips open one more bag of frozen peas like that I’m going to give her a frozen peas experience she’s not likely to forget.”

If I’ve learned anything, it’s that I had no idea what love is when we married. In fact, if we had relied on love as we defined it in our early years to get us through, we’d never have made it. I formed my idea of love by reading silly romance novels in my 20s, and I think he formed his by watching shoot-‘em-up action movies. Love is not summed up that easily. Were it so, I could have stopped looking when I read, “Her heartbeat quickened and her pulse raced until she felt the crimson heat flush clear up to her cheek bones.” And he would be striving to become the hero in the final scene of a battle saga: “He hoisted the BGM-71 TOW missile launcher effortlessly onto his shoulder, grunting in her direction, ‘C’mere,’ and she followed dutifully, staring wide-eyed at his bulging muscles as if they were made of priceless chocolate.”

Nowadays, our action scene is a little less breath-taking, as in, “He’d just settled down with a nice cold beer in front of the TV to watch ‘Braveheart’ yet again, and she, in those dratted flannel pajamas, had just pulled out the nighttime sleep-aid-enhanced pain medicine and was heading upstairs to find her book, when they turned to each other and said in unison… ‘I thought YOU were picking Charles up from youth group!”

It’s the scene afterward that speaks volumes about love.

We finally got our church wedding on our 25th anniversary, and it was a special moment that solidified, but didn’t change what we have. Our relationship still isn’t perfect. Most likely, I will always tear little gnaw-holes in the frozen peas bag, holes just big enough for eight or nine peas to escape at a time, and he will always tease the cat just as it curls up to snooze on my lap, forcing me to give him that look. I will always cry when I’m tired, and he will spend the rest of his life trying to figure out whether to try to hold me or let me cry it out. (What? Help him figure it out? Are you nuts? Where’s the fun in that?)

RosenJer

A glimpse of the younger, bolder, tougher, but not-so-wise years.

You see, what makes our relationship work is that we’ve become as close as two friends can be without some strange and awkward surgical procedure, and we’ve learned so much about each other that we can’t imagine being with anyone else. We see each other as a gift from God and value that gift as more precious than gold. Who else but he would know I’d get more joy out of the pair of purple “porcupine” socks I found in my stocking this Christmas than any amount of sparkling jewelry? And my joy comes from knowing that, not only does he “get” me, but if I said, even once, that I wanted the sparkling jewelry, he would have moved heaven and earth to get me some.

Because love is not about things, or feelings, or what sort of wedding ceremony binds a couple, or about always being right, or ever being right, for that matter. After 32 years I’m beginning to understand, love is about striving for second place. If I put him first, and he puts me first, well now, we just might make it another 32 years.

Besides, I’ve improved our chances by replacing his copy of “Braveheart” with “Pride and Prejudice.” Next time I cry, he can use that to figure me out…

I love you Jerry. You will always be my hero.

———

“No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God abides in us and his love is perfected in us.”  – 1 John 4:12

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Chaining the Free Spirit: New Year’s Writing Resolutions

10 Jan

This, my first blog of the new year, breaks all the resolutions it contains. I’m going to run it anyway, because I find that particularly funny.

I’m not keen on making resolutions, but it became quite apparent toward the end of last year that my “take-work-as-it-comes-and-hope-for-the-best” time-management style might not be the most effective.  At one point, I was juggling eight projects simultaneously. Not only did the quality of my work suffer, but I noticed I was writing and editing in my sleep, or at least, when I should have been sleeping and not worrying about deadlines.

So, let’s jump right in, shall we?

One: This year there will be no procrastinating. I know, I know, most people establish their resolutions around the first of the year and not the 10th, but I had some residual 2015 issues to resolve first. And then I had this sleepless week, and then the eye thing, and…Anyway, I mean it. A few of my blogs might contain some pretty odd ramblings and a shopping list or two, but I’m serious about writing regularly, particularly when it comes to blogging, which brings me to resolution number…

Two: I will blog weekly in 2016. Blogging gives me joy, and has become relegated to an “expendable” corner of my life. I’ve noticed that, in much the same way a busy mom puts her own needs last, I tend to put personal goals aside to satisfy business commitments. This is emotionally unacceptable. If I’m going to grow as a writer, I gotta wax poetic on a regular basis or all those internal giggles that seem to multiply in my brain when I observe life are going to combust and I’ll wind up as cynical as Maxine, the greeting card lady. While that could make for some more interesting blog entries, I prefer something a little less erratic.

Three: Despite my serious distaste for administrative tasks, in 2016, I will keep to a schedule. This one is going to hurt, as I’m not only a free-spirited, ADD, fly-by-the-mood-of-the-muse writer, I also tend to see planning as the process of using valuable work time to write about what I’m going to do instead of actually doing it. However, I think the only way the blog will have a fighting chance of not getting pushed off the schedule is if I have a schedule to begin with. This will also prevent me from taking on too much work (I hope) and

Four: So, I will GENERALLY schedule blog writing for Saturday mornings (and yes, I know it’s Sunday evening. I never blog on Sunday—all the more reason to put this on the blogosphere today—see first sentence). However, I cannot totally commit to a particular day of the week, as not only do I occasionally enjoy a weekend off with my family, but the calendar often dictates my blog topics. For example, two specific non-Saturdays I’m looking forward to writing about this year are Lost Sock Memorial Day (May 9), and Lazy Day (August 10). The first sounds like fun to write about. The second, well, we’ll see how I feel…

…Besides, the second week in October is National Pet Peeve Week. Just imagine where that can take us! No, I cannot box myself into one day. Life should still contain a modicum of spontaneity. Speaking of spontaneity brings me to…

Five: This will be a year of sitting still, and getting up. First, I must train myself that even when I’m not in the mood, I should write. Writing begets writing. Day-dreaming begets sleeping. I sometimes put off writing because all the stars aren’t correctly aligned, or the caffeine hasn’t taken effect, or I’m not sure the words will come. It usually ends with a nap on the couch. This is silly, because I’ve never been unable to write when I actually sit down and start.

However, for the sake of my health, I also have to move. I’ve noticed that sometimes when I am in the mood to write, I work straight through meals and dentist appointments without ever looking up. So, I will schedule (yes, you read that right) time to get up and send the blood flowing back into my limbs. Also, with a little help from the dog next door, I’m scheduling regular walks around the block.

So that’s it for resolutions, essentially. The rest of my plans for the year are more like goals than resolutions:

In 2016, Joe and I would like to get “Caged Sparrow” into the prisons, where it is sure to make a positive impact (word chosen specifically for Christina) on inmates staring at potentially life-changing crossroads. The book is selling quite well for a self-published endeavor, and it’s getting great reviews on Amazon, but we’re waiting expectantly for it to become more than just a good story. It’s meant to encourage and inspire.

I’m also working on completing two books this year. The first is for a client, whom you’ll meet soon. It’s a fantastic story about faith, trust, and hope. If all goes according to plan, it will be completed in February (look for a blog announcement the first Saturday of the month). The second is a personal project that I plan to bring to the May writers’ conference in Asheville, NC to see if it has any market potential. If it’s successful, you’ll be able to hear me shout my joy from the rooftops. If not, I’ll just try somewhere else and blog about persistence.

Calendar

Empty Pages of Possibility

There’s something sweet about the clean slate of a new year. The past is behind us and the future stretches before us like unused typewriter ribbon. (There now, I just lost half of you.) I’m excited and curious about the words that will fly across my keyboard this year, quite possibly even faster than I just jumped through 200 years of writing media. But one thing I know is that, with friends like you, I’ll be blessed for the experience because we’ll be making the journey together. Because without you I’d just be talking to myself.

Praying you and your families will be blessed this year as well.

Happy New Year, happy writing, and happy reading!

——————

“Let us examine our ways and test them, and let us return to the Lord.” (Lamentations 3:40).

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State of the Portrait Writer Report

31 Dec

How Did We Fare in 2015?

As 2015 draws to a close, it’s time for the now-annual State of the Portrait Writer report, in which I will examine my writing progress thus far. In re-reading my year-old journal entry of expectations for 2015, I’m amazed at how many of the events I planned or promised last year (to myself and others) never materialized. This is to be expected because, as I’ve learned and re-learned throughout the year, I’m not in charge. In fact, if everything had turned out as I planned, it would have been quite the boring year. Instead, it’s been a year of victory and surprises, and a wee bit of sadness. However, it’s also been a year of seeing first-hand what God can do in our lives if we step aside.

Many of you who have been with me from the start might be bored by this list, but in celebration of the 130 new readers I picked up in 2015 (yay, and thank you!), for today’s blog I will recap the highlights of the Portrait Writer’s year:

In January, the hubby and I celebrated 31 years of marriage, which translates into 30 years of him listening to me yammer about being a “real writer” and one year of watching me in action. By that time I’d been working from home for 11 months and still had nothing to show for my efforts. After a financially challenging and emotionally frustrating year, however, he was, and miraculously still is, my greatest supporter, without whom there would be no Portrait Writer…and no cheesecake.

February was a month of learning to listen, or to discern exactly what I should be listening to. I was fooled by imitation voices in I Got Screwed!, and later fooled by lovely noises, in Ask Not for Whom the Phone Rings, both of which brought much frustration, until I wizened up. I sure hope I’m smarter now, but it’s a daily battle.

Willa

Love

March brought sadness and a greater appreciation for love and family, when Willa, the Fitzsimmons’ matriarch, left us for a far better place. Although her four children are still reeling from the loss, and miss her more with every Bronco victory they wish she could be sharing with them this year, they are finding solace in knowing she’s no longer in pain. One beautiful ray of light that has emerged from this cloud, her children—the Fitzsimmons Four, who seemed to have been drifting apart, have created new, tighter bonds. Despite the California/Virginia divide, they spent more time together and kept in e-touch more in 2015 than they have in many years, and we’re all praying this trend will continue.

Food staring

Livin’ in the Fridge…

April started in a delightfully silly way with a foolish fridge, and then devolved into a month of contemplation. We examined the need for sports-fan-like loyalty for one’s spouse in Married for Life, and hubby tackled school lunches in No Fishy Business.

In May I shared with you my love/hate relationship with lists in My Ship Will Float, and I finished out the month on an overwhelming high with the cover reveal for my first book, “Caged Sparrow.” I also made promises I couldn’t keep for June, but that’s an entry for…

…in June, I realized I couldn’t make my self-appointed deadline for “Caged Sparrow,” and contemplated cutting corners, which gave me a new appreciation for my Best Boss Ever, in Deadlines and Rocket Surgery. I chose my next writing project in Who Says you Can’t Go Home Again?” That project quickly fell to the sidelines to make room for another and to show me that, once again, I’m not in charge. Rest assured, the project is still on the horizon.

Sparrow in prison book cover

Caged Sparrow

In July, “Caged Sparrow” became a reality, bringing to fruition my life-long dream of becoming a PUBLISHED AUTHOR. I gave my first Totally Made-up Interview in Let the Caged Sparrow Fly! And, while the book is not exactly flying off the shelves—more like falling off—sales are progressing as expected. Reviews on Amazon are quite kind, and some aren’t even from friends and family. Joe and I wanted only to hear that people’s perspective changed upon reading his story, and we received many notes and comments that this, indeed, is happening. Also in July, Hubby and I hit the open road and all the open doughnut stores between San Francisco and Pittsburgh, in Down Home America. This saga turned out to be so great it rolled into…

Corn and bean field: Succotash

Succotash, get it? Corn and beans? Nevermind.

…August, with Salt, Bugs and Doughnuts, which lulled me into inertia, nearly bringing my writing career to a halt with its Dangerously Pleasant Anchor. I’d say the biggest revelation of August was that not everyone gets my sense of humor. The succotash field pic is a joke. Get with it folks!

In September we explored the undervalue of Teachers (If You Can Read This…) and canines (Treat Each Other like Dogs), both of whom improve our lives significantly.

October was just plain fun. After examining the light in the darkness in Storms May be Brewing, I took you on a somewhat scary journey through a typical ADD writer’s sleep-deprived night in Left Brain, Right Brain. Then I took you to Naples, Florida for a book signing and interview with the now famous Joe Tuttolomondo. What a blast that was, and I haven’t even shared about it yet…hmmm…could be a January blog…

In November and December, I let my blog wind down, paying tribute to my friend Michele in Five Years Strong and Counting, remembering my non-Norman Rockwell Thanksgivings of long ago, and ending the year contemplating the preposterousness of Peace on Earth.

Last year the Portrait Writer published one book, edited two others, wrote 20 short stories and about 30 blog posts—all fulfilling, fun work. The short stories provided enough income to keep me writing, and I’m excited about what’s around the corner. More on that in 2016.

Have a happy and blessed new year, everyone. And remember, you’re not in charge.

————–

In his heart, a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps. — Proverbs 16:9

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That Seemingly Preposterous Peace on Earth

14 Dec

Hi everyone,

I’m so sorry to be absent for such a long time. Certain (good) priorities seem to be taking all my time lately. However, because people are asking if I’m still here, I will post a favorite Christmas piece from last year. I should be back in the writing saddle next week. Until then…be at peace!

Peace on Earth? Preposterous! Or is it?

We’re entering what the angels announced to the shepherds as a season of, “Peace on Earth, good will toward men,” according to the King James’ version of Luke 2:14.

No other phrase I know makes less sense these days. As you read this, members of the Islamist group, Boko Haram, are marching across Nigeria, killing all Christians in their wake; ISIS members are beheading children and innocent civilians of all faiths who block their attempts to forcibly institute an Islamic State In Syria; and Russia-funded operations have now killed more than 4,300 people in eastern Ukraine. In our own country, hate mongers are cackling with joy as decent human beings are led astray by the promise of entitlement. “You don’t have to think—we’ll do it for you,” the hate-mongers say. “Don’t waste time examining your lifestyles and searching for answers, just burn, burn, burn and take, take, take!” Our nation is weighed down with rioting and protests, murders, rapes, theft, smuggling, drug dealing…and an increasingly pervasive hate-thy-neighbor attitude.

How did we get here? Does it not make a complete mockery of God’s promise that we would have Peace on Earth?

I don’t think so. I don’t believe the angels were heralding a healed world as much as an escape plan for those who must endure its gradual demise.

To clarify, let’s consider my youngest, who started driving this week (audible sigh). This event forces me to dwell on his impending adulthood. Soon, he will be out there “in the world” making daily decisions about right and wrong without our counsel. His father and I taught him as best we know how to respond to tough situations, but the rest is up to him. My parting words to him as he heads off to college will not be, “don’t murder and don’t hate.” Instead, I will tell him two things: “Remember your God, and remember you are a Fitzsimmons.”

That’s all he needs, in any situation. When he’s at a party that turns wild and learns that the punch he’s been drinking all evening has been spiked, I’m counting on him to remember God and say a prayer for protection. If he keeps a cool head, he will then call home, and his father or I will drive to wherever he is to pick him up. When we find him, will he be crying hysterically? Will he have joined the revelry and be hanging from the chandeliers? Not if he remembers who he is.

Instead, I prefer to believe he will be sitting on the couch, or on the curb, watching the world he knows crumble. He will have likely witnessed some incredibly bad behavior by people he’d thought were upright and responsible. Classmates will be smoking and drinking, and doing things they wouldn’t do in front of their families. Some poor girl will throw herself on a boy just to be liked and give away more than she should. Perhaps he will feel the same heartache we feel when we watch the evening news.

In the midst of the chaos, however, he will know peace. He will know his parents are on their way, and that there might be punishment in his future depending on the situation, at the very least, admonishment, but they will forgive him and love him as much as they did the day before. Then he will be wiser about the world, which should help him deal with the next tough situation.

On the other hand, he might choose to forget us and join the ranks of the lost. Should he choose this path, his life will falter, and he will struggle more than he has to, and bad things will happen. He will scoff cynically at the word “peace,” and perhaps convince himself that God is a liar. In his shame, he will likely turn from his parents. Nobody wants to be reminded of the good when they are pursuing evil. But the moment he decides to turn from that activity, the peace will return. His parents will forgive him and help him get back on his feet. They will never stop loving him. He knows that.

He may also fall victim to the revelers and be injured or even killed by their activity. This is a risk he takes, as we all take, just by being in the world. However, he cannot live in fear of attending parties just because someone might show up with a gun. He can have peace though, in knowing that if something does happen, he belongs to God and God will take care of him in life or death.

Luke 2:14 is translated in different ways, from one Bible to the next. When I struggle with a verse in King James, I’ve found the New International Version often does a better job of translating the original Bible into English as we know it today (and yes, Kevin, this book has been vetted, tested, and authenticated). The NIV version of Luke 2:14 is written, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth, peace to those on whom his favor rests.”   

Jesus My Savior

Peace on Earth starts in the heart.

Surprised? I was. Reading this translation changed everything for me. From this perspective, the angels did not proclaim a blanket promise of peace on earth at all. In fact, Jesus told anyone who would listen that there would never be peace on earth. Our world has become an increasingly wild frat party, enticing good people to forget who they are and seek only to make themselves happy, right now. In the process, innocents are hurt, the line between right and wrong is blurred, and many partiers fall hard into the abyss.

Peace on Earth starts in the heart.

Jesus came to remind us to remember God and remember family—you are a child of the King, after all! If you do that, then you will be able to find peace, even in a crumbling world. Wherever you are, and no matter how bad it looks, you can call him and he’ll go to wherever you are and help you escape.

No, you cannot change the world. It is dying. However, you can change a part of it. Use your talents, skills, and every blessing you’ve been given, to make a difference where you can. LOVE your neighbors (we’re talking the action verb, not the noun). In doing so, you will pull people from that frat party, one-by-one, and put hope and peace into their hearts by sending them back to the loving, forgiving arms of the Father they’re trying so hard to ignore.

If you’re still at the party, and you’re looking for Peace on Earth, try getting on your knees. You’ll find it there.

“The peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” –Philippians 4:7

 

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Not A Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving…

25 Nov

The only Thanksgiving element I absolutely cannot do without is family. For me, Thanksgiving is synonymous with loud, boisterous, prank-pulling, bowl-dropping, too-many-in-too-small-a-space, story-telling, story-denying, over-hugging, over-cologned, and occasionally under-showered, family.

As one of nine children, I remember Thanksgiving as the one day of the year we hosted both sets of grandparents (we’ll call them the Ungers and the Maddisons), and one or two relatives whose branches we never quite located on the family tree but were always called Uncle and Ginny. The uncles changed nearly every year. I remember one who was particularly fond of loading chips into his big floppy fishing cap and walking around offering chips to everyone. Never saw anyone but him take from that cap.

…Plus a Saint Bernard and small black mutt with the heart of a lion and teeth of a piranha. And when they both went to puppy heaven, two dogs stepped in to take their place. Always two dogs.

We’re not talking a Norman Rockwell painting here. We’re talking at least one child lying under the living room coffee table with a stomach ache after downing a jar of pickles, another with peas stuck in her nose (you thought I forgot, huh sis?), the always proper Nana going through at least five martinis while Dad played endless pranks trying to get her to swear at him (he always got at least one good shriek out of her—usually involving Pop Rocks or a plastic spider frozen into an ice cube), Grandma doing her best to look unfazed by the chaos but not fooling anyone, and Grampa being the only one of the elders truly having a good time…because he sat in the rocking chair the entire time with his hearing aid off.

There was always a roaring fire in the fireplace, with one or two soot-smudged older boys piling on way too much wood or sword fighting with the pokers. They must fight stealthily to avoid stepping on the Saint Bernard’s massive form splayed in front of the fire, or the youngest siblings who are using him as a pillow. The little dog, for some strange reason, thinks the safest place would be at Mom’s feet. Every so often we’d hear a yelp and a “Someone get this damned dog out of here!” (Sorry about the language, but that was typical Thanksgiving Day vernacular, if not from Mom, then from Nana when Dad finally scored.)

And the rest of us? Let’s just say my Mama didn’t raise any quiet children. By the time we were all seated around the two or three tables, we’d already run up and down the stairs 50 times, played 20 rounds of HORSE at the frozen basketball hoop outside, consumed all the olives (after chasing each other through the house with scary olive fingers, of course) and all the chips, pickles, and anything out of Mom’s slotted spoon range. (Mom was deadly accurate with a slotted spoon.) Frankly, we sat because we were tired. Mom, too, come to think of it.

Here’s where I have to give props to Mom. I don’t remember helping her with Thanksgiving dinner. I honestly don’t. I know for certain the boys didn’t. I do remember the flour on her cheeks and hands, the strand of curly hair that always fell across her face when the steam hit it, and the mounds and mounds of delicious food she put on the table. Every year the feast was fabulous and perfectly cooked, all timed just right and served hot. Pies for days, and gravy the likes of which I’ve not tasted since. If I could send a message to her now in Heaven, it would be, “Mom, I didn’t know. I’m sorry, and I’m amazed, truly.”

Fast forward 40 years to a quieter time. Much quieter. Thanksgiving means so much more to me now, but my family is so much less chaotic. Funny, I only really miss the chaos on Thanksgiving. My siblings all have families of their own, and we live in five different states, so reenactment is highly unlikely, although, combined I think we own a zoo’s worth of dogs and cats.

Thanksgiving_table

Hoping your table is bountiful and your blessings overflowing

To make up for the quiet, and to maximize the joy we feel for this day, my husband and I spend every Thanksgiving in a huge Cabin in Prince William Forest Park with about 70 of our closest friends, primarily our church family and their guests. They won’t run around with peas in their noses or olives on their fingers, nobody will be tripping on dogs (although I hear we may have an Australian Shepherd on site tomorrow who’s also an Afghanistan war veteran, so there’s potential), and everyone will behave, I’m sure.

But I’m bringing Pop Rocks, just in case.

 

Wishing everyone a fantastic Thanksgiving, and praying a grateful thank you to the men and women in uniform, both military around the world and our first responders at home, who will be on duty while we celebrate. Your sacrifice does not go unnoticed.

_________________

 

For everything God created is good, and nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving, because it is consecrated by the word of God and prayer. — 1 Tim 4:4-5

 

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Shout Out to Michele: Five Years Strong and Counting!

7 Nov

“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art… It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.”  – C.S. Lewis

Today’s blog is dedicated to good friends, and one in particular. We all have friends—people we love and enjoy being with, but we should also have one or two best friends (spouses aside), who stand above the rest. Those are people we connect with on a deeper level, and for whom we’d go through fire if they needed us to. God has blessed me with two such friends.

The first is Lisa, who lives in Boston, my friend since we the 6th grade (nearly 40 years ago). I could write volumes about the trouble we got into (well, mostly me while she watched) when we were young and foolish (well, mostly me again).  Lisa and I can, and often do, go months without hearing from each other, but when we get together, it’s as if we never parted. I don’t see Lisa often, but she knows if she were to call me tonight and ask me to come to Boston, I’d be packed and on the road within the hour.

The other is Michele, the reason for today’s musings. If Michele and I were fighting in a battle, we’d be the ones standing back-to-back, each watching out for the other the Jonathan and David battled in the Bible. I’ve only known her for about 12 years, but whenever I read about how David was “knit to Jonathan’s soul,” I get it, because that’s how I feel about Michele. And I know she feels the same way about me because she volunteered to (and actually DID) drive me to the airport last month during a Friday afternoon rush hour. Not Dulles; Ronald Reagan. In the city. Knowing that after dropping us off she’d have to merge with the homeward-bound masses on I-95. That’s a friend.

Michele, my friend

My friend, my hero.

Michele is one of the kindest people I know. She has put others before herself all her life. As long as I’ve known her, she’s never stood in the spotlight. In fact, when she sees this, her first reaction will likely be “This is ridiculous. I’m not special.”

But she is. This is a woman who has endured more than the rest of us would consider a fair share of trials and heartwrenchingly wrong turns, and nobody who knows her entire story would have faulted her if she’d turned bitter. Yet she continues to laugh, to encourage others, and give every ounce of herself away.

Michele’s capacity to love is so great, she’s practically a professional worrier because she can’t bear the thought of those she cares about to be hurt. She thinks I’m the strong one because I tend not to be a worrier, but I want to take this opportunity to say, Michele, it’s your strength, your generosity, and your courage that inspires me most.

A little over five years ago, cancer and a series of other potentially debilitating medical issues came crashing into Michele’s life. Do you know what this single mom’s biggest worry was?  That OTHER people’s lives might be impacted. Sure, she went through some serious woe-is-me times, and there were many tears, but except for those incredibly horrible down-for-the-count chemo days, she fought hard throughout those years to ensure her two teenagers’ daily routines went on as unimpeded as possible. Think about those years: weekend college visits, driving lessons, prom dresses, high school graduation, and angst and drama out the wazoo. She mommed with a vengeance and got them both off to college.

Now, thanks to her faith, her stubbornness, her many friends, and some rather outstanding medical practitioners, Michele is celebrating being more than five years out from cancer. She wanted to throw a party, but, as you might have guessed, other people and commitments came first.

So today we’re putting Michele first. Some of her friends and I hijacked her selflessness, and we’re throwing her party. We’ll practically have to tie her hands to a chair to do so, but we’re going to sit her down and make her laugh and eat carrot cake and be waited on until she knows, without a doubt, how special and how inspirational she is to all of us.

Now, if we’d invited ALL her friends and ALL the people she’s helped and ALL the people who love her, we’d have had to rent a stadium. But all we have is a private home, so we’re celebrating with those people she leaned on through the toughest years. However, if you know Michele, or if you don’t know her but can relate to what she’s been through, you can celebrate with us and really make her day all the more special if you leave a WOOT! Or a Way to Go! Or any other words of congratulations on this page for her to read during the party. Yes, I’ll make sure she reads it.

After all, she’ll need something to do while she’s tied to that chair.

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“Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work: If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up!” — Ecclesiastes 4:9-10

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A Halloween Story

31 Oct

This is based on an old favorite, snazzed up for the occasion, but it should work—particularly if you haven’t heard it…

 

Bat-o-lantern

Bat-o-lantern. Don’t forget to shine your light!

Last year, a young lad who ought to have spent Halloween night studying for the next day’s Chemistry class decided instead to venture out onto the streets and mingle with neighborhood revelers. He would regret that decision.

From the trunk of his Toyota Echo he pulled an enormous blue and white Lugia costume head piece that he’d worn at a recent Anime conference. Its red eyes glowered menacingly. “Perfect,” he thought. He stared ruefully at the rest of the costume, recalling the fumbling clunky-ness of the oversized wing/hands. He settled for the giant blue talon feet and a full-length overcoat

Nobody around here knows who Lugia is anyway.

The lad wasn’t interested in candy, but in terrifying unsuspecting trick-or-treaters, particularly the younger children. He’d pick a tiny tot to stand behind and slowly lean over him, lowering his large red-eyed Lugia head practically up-side down and eye-to-eye with the poor child and saying, “Sqwaaak.”

If a bag of goodies happened to drop in the ensuing mayhem, all the better.

He was having a rather good time until someone’s dad, who happened to be dressed as a cowboy, came out of the shadows and chased him with a cattle prod. Chased him half-way down the road, until the lad ducked into a side street, avoiding the prod but slamming smack-dab into a giant, wood coffin.

“Ow!” He stepped back, eyeing the casket with suspicion.

What’s that doing here?

He shrugged and started to leave, but as soon as he turned, the coffin lid began to open, slowly…creakingly…eerily…  He just had to peek inside. Wouldn’t you?

Two dark, slanted, evil looking eyes glowed out at him, and a bony finger beckoned. He took a step back.

The coffin moved.

The lad turned and raced out of the alley as fast as one can run in giant bird feet. Behind him, he heard a menacing thumping. He chanced a look back and was filled with terror to see the coffin thudding along the sidewalk, steadily gaining on him. He ripped off his head piece and flung it aside, and kicked off the footwear as he ran.

The coffin sped up behind him.

“Thump! Thump! Thump!”

When he reached his house he used his last ounce of energy to charge up the walkway and fling open the door, pulling it shut behind him and closing the bolt.

“Thump! Thump! Thump!”

Through the peephole he saw the coffin coming up his front steps. He turned and ran upstairs just as the front door crashed in, and to his horror, the casket started up the steps.

“Thump! Thump! Thump!”

The lad raced into the bathroom at the end of the hall and closed the door. Trapped! There wasn’t even a window.

Exhausted and near tears, he was ready to give up, when he spied the open medicine cabinet and knew exactly what he had to do. He crossed the room and rummaged hastily through the pill bottles and bandages, coming up at last with a bottle of Vicks-44.

He took a quick breath to steady his nerves, opened the bottle, then yanked the door open and flung the syrupy contents at the approaching menace, soaking it from top to bottom.

And the coffin’ stopped…

 
 

 

 

You’re welcome. Stay safe out there tonight.

Boo.

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“You are all children of the light and children of the day. We do not belong to the night or to the darkness.” —1 Thessalonians:5

 

 

 

You’re welcome. Stay safe out there tonight.

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You are all children of the light and children of the day. We do not belong to the night or to the darkness. –1 Thessalonians 5

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