Something great about finding myself back into the throws of routine, is the weekend. No meetings or appointments, no expectations outside of family life. It is so nice to get that break at the end of the week.
I absolutely love days when we have nothing planned. A "go with the flow" kind of day can lead us anywhere really. We sometimes find ourselves working in the yard, baking in the kitchen, catching a good movie . . . but none of it is planned. Today we are going to spend some time with my favorite pair, Jodie and Curt. On our loosely planned agenda we've got a volley ball game on tap, along with enchiladas and Jodie's famous chocolate chip cookies. : )
I think back to the "good ol' days", when getting together with them seemed so much simpler. Back before any of us had kids, we would make a spur of the moment decision to gather for a good game or Rook or dinner out at Chili's. We wouldn't think twice to drive a half an hour to get to our favorite restaurant, and spend the entire day doing it. We didn't have to worry about soccer practice, helping with homework or an occasional discipline problem. We were young, and well, in a lot of ways stupid (I speak for myself of course).
Nowadays, I can't even tell you how many times we have tried to re-live those memories. These days, we will make plans to meet at one of our houses, with hopes of watching a movie or playing some cards. It never fails - the shuffling of little feet and continuous demands destroy our plans every time. All we can really do is laugh about it. This is a season, and I'm sure that someday when we are old and gray, we will get those uninterrupted moments of saying "red is trump and JoJo is my partner".
We share so much history with Jodie and Curt, or should I say Codie and Jerk (he he). It has been such a blessing watching all of our kids grow together, and even more, watching one another change and mature. Having family land in the same town is truly a dream come true.
With God's perspective, we can see that those little stinkers who are interrupting us today, are a manifestation of what we dreamed up all those years ago. Back in the day, we would sit at that glass table of Jodie's with pregnant tummies and a head full of dreams. We would talk about . . . what did we used to talk about before the kids? Did life even exist?
Movies, card games - honestly, who needs them? Life is about going with the flow . . . and right now "the flow" means family.
Saturday, August 18
Friday, August 17
Sixteen
With the start of the new school year, I found myself hitting the wall of stress yesterday afternoon. I rested next to Mark last night after the kids had finally gone to bed. My face was washed, my teeth were brushed, and my chapter read . . . I was ready to call it a night.
As my head hit the pillow, my eyes may have closed, but my heart and mind continued to race. With the kids starting back on their routines, and with me jumping back into ministry - well, let's just say that there has been plenty to do.
I've tried to continue in my "off for the month" mode as far as my spirit goes. Sending a breath prayer up here and there, talking with God about my attitude and some hurts . . . these are the ways God and I enjoy spending time together. We had a really good meander through the month of July. Long walks, the discovery of blogging, a visit to my Mom's . . . and the lazy list goes on. I didn't have to worry about making lunches for school, finding soccer cleats or figuring out how to face a confrontational situation.
Don't get me wrong, I love order, structure and routine. I function better when we are on time and everything is in it's place. Being a wife and a mommy really is my favorite job in the whole wide world. It is the most difficult call - much like running a large corporation. Don't knock the intricacy of keeping tummies fed and boo-boos kissed.
I also feel very much called to ministry. Seeing other people reach their full potential in Christ really gets my juices flowing!!
But with routine, comes added responsibility . . . and hence, the stress. I have a habit of carrying more than God ever intended. I carried a pretty heavy load on the way to bed last night, but my Loving Father rescued me in the dark of the night.
My eyes opened, I was wide awake. The clock said 3:05am, and I knew that the Lord wanted me to get up. I grabbed my blanket, and headed for the living room. The light was so bright when I turned it on, but illumination is what this heart longed for.
I began reading Scripture. A dear friend recently directed me to 2 Kings 18 and 19. It is the story of Hezekiah's prayer - and God's answer. The angel of the Lord destroyed 185,000 people that night. I think it's safe to say that God lifted a pretty big burden.
Then I grabbed my prayer journal, and began writing about each and every concern I had. There ended up being 16 major concerns . . . no wonder it felt so heavy! Sure, I may have prayed about these before, but this morning was different. This time, as I wrote them down, I decided to leave each and every concern at His feet. I literally felt each burden lift as the ink ran.
16 worries, 16 heartaches, 16 potential disasters - no, not on this bright morning.
Instead I choose to see the destruction of 185,000 enemies . . . with the expectation of 16 miracles.
As my head hit the pillow, my eyes may have closed, but my heart and mind continued to race. With the kids starting back on their routines, and with me jumping back into ministry - well, let's just say that there has been plenty to do.
I've tried to continue in my "off for the month" mode as far as my spirit goes. Sending a breath prayer up here and there, talking with God about my attitude and some hurts . . . these are the ways God and I enjoy spending time together. We had a really good meander through the month of July. Long walks, the discovery of blogging, a visit to my Mom's . . . and the lazy list goes on. I didn't have to worry about making lunches for school, finding soccer cleats or figuring out how to face a confrontational situation.
Don't get me wrong, I love order, structure and routine. I function better when we are on time and everything is in it's place. Being a wife and a mommy really is my favorite job in the whole wide world. It is the most difficult call - much like running a large corporation. Don't knock the intricacy of keeping tummies fed and boo-boos kissed.
I also feel very much called to ministry. Seeing other people reach their full potential in Christ really gets my juices flowing!!
But with routine, comes added responsibility . . . and hence, the stress. I have a habit of carrying more than God ever intended. I carried a pretty heavy load on the way to bed last night, but my Loving Father rescued me in the dark of the night.
My eyes opened, I was wide awake. The clock said 3:05am, and I knew that the Lord wanted me to get up. I grabbed my blanket, and headed for the living room. The light was so bright when I turned it on, but illumination is what this heart longed for.
I began reading Scripture. A dear friend recently directed me to 2 Kings 18 and 19. It is the story of Hezekiah's prayer - and God's answer. The angel of the Lord destroyed 185,000 people that night. I think it's safe to say that God lifted a pretty big burden.
Then I grabbed my prayer journal, and began writing about each and every concern I had. There ended up being 16 major concerns . . . no wonder it felt so heavy! Sure, I may have prayed about these before, but this morning was different. This time, as I wrote them down, I decided to leave each and every concern at His feet. I literally felt each burden lift as the ink ran.
16 worries, 16 heartaches, 16 potential disasters - no, not on this bright morning.
Instead I choose to see the destruction of 185,000 enemies . . . with the expectation of 16 miracles.
Thursday, August 16
Hospital Corridor
For the past two nights, I have had some pretty unsettling hospital dreams. With each dream, I find myself subject to the prison of a hospital bed, facing some kind of life threatening illness. Last night, I dreamed that I needed to have major surgery. During part of my dream, the doctor had already performed a portion of my surgery. He decided to sew me up and then leave me without any pain medication.
These dreams have brought me back to a time when I really was held captive in a hospital bed. Seeing doctor after doctor, enduring test after test. Nobody knew what was wrong with me . . . which was worse than any certainty I ended up having to face. There is something so unsettling about the unknown.
I eventually landed under the care of a young and gifted doctor, who thought opening me up would help solve the mystery. His discovery of how sick I really was left me with no options. Surgery was inevitable, and I was scared half out of my mind.
There was something so unforgettable about that experience. I don't think I have ever been that afraid before. It was the absolute worse pain I have ever experienced. Fatigue hit me like a monsoon. I was literally fighting to say alive. And then there was the unforgettable wedge of injustice that was put between myself and God. This whole nightmare is nothing I would choose to live through again.
Want to know something interesting though? As bad as it was, I wouldn't trade it for the world. I came out of that storm a little bit stronger, with a new appreciation for life and a more resolved faith. When I think back to the days when getting out of bed was excruciating . . . when getting from my bedroom to the kitchen seemed like a marathon . . . when crying was all I had the strength to do . . . when I remember that dreadful season, my heart is strangely warmed.
The pain is a distant memory, one that tries to torment me in the dark of night. But the lingering love and care of my Great Physician is what I remember most. He was there to wipe every tear. He gave me the courage to face what seemed insurmountable. My God carried me when I just couldn't take another step. He cried with me, cradled me and loved on me.
Sometimes I find myself crying when I think about that experience - not because of the heartbreaking encounter, but because God's presence was so real . . . I knew, that I knew, that I knew, that I was not suffering alone.
I often treasure the glow of that hospital corridor.
These dreams have brought me back to a time when I really was held captive in a hospital bed. Seeing doctor after doctor, enduring test after test. Nobody knew what was wrong with me . . . which was worse than any certainty I ended up having to face. There is something so unsettling about the unknown.
I eventually landed under the care of a young and gifted doctor, who thought opening me up would help solve the mystery. His discovery of how sick I really was left me with no options. Surgery was inevitable, and I was scared half out of my mind.
There was something so unforgettable about that experience. I don't think I have ever been that afraid before. It was the absolute worse pain I have ever experienced. Fatigue hit me like a monsoon. I was literally fighting to say alive. And then there was the unforgettable wedge of injustice that was put between myself and God. This whole nightmare is nothing I would choose to live through again.
Want to know something interesting though? As bad as it was, I wouldn't trade it for the world. I came out of that storm a little bit stronger, with a new appreciation for life and a more resolved faith. When I think back to the days when getting out of bed was excruciating . . . when getting from my bedroom to the kitchen seemed like a marathon . . . when crying was all I had the strength to do . . . when I remember that dreadful season, my heart is strangely warmed.
The pain is a distant memory, one that tries to torment me in the dark of night. But the lingering love and care of my Great Physician is what I remember most. He was there to wipe every tear. He gave me the courage to face what seemed insurmountable. My God carried me when I just couldn't take another step. He cried with me, cradled me and loved on me.
Sometimes I find myself crying when I think about that experience - not because of the heartbreaking encounter, but because God's presence was so real . . . I knew, that I knew, that I knew, that I was not suffering alone.
I often treasure the glow of that hospital corridor.
Wednesday, August 15
Paper Dolls
Surprisingly, Makayla's second week of school has been a little bit harder than the first. I think it might have something to do with the fact that the newness is wearing off. She is starting to realize that Kindergarten is very much like a job. She is expected to be there, and to play the role of student from Monday to Friday.
I've been watching her struggle to discover what that role really means. Stepping out of toddler, into the big kid world is a big step. Most times she is ready to jump right in, but then there are the moments when I can tell by her facial expression that it is just too much. A big part of her still wants to be my baby . . . and what mom wouldn't appreciate that?
The other day, Mrs. A sent a really fun project home for Makayla and I to work on. It was an large blank paper doll. The instructions were:
Attached to this letter is a cut out of a child. Your assignment is to help you child make it look like him/her. Give it your child's personality. Paint, felt pens, glitter, fabric, yarn, string, old baby clothes , and doll clothes are a few items that can be used if you choose. Be creative. These will be displayed in the classroom for our students to enjoy.
My girl and I started on the project this morning. We had lots of fun coloring the body, putting on clothes and trying to make painted toenails and flip flops out of a rounded foot. She added some costume jewelry, and we'll be adding some yellow yarn for hair.
Being such a perfectionist, it was difficult for me to watch Makayla draw the face. I bit my lip as she scribbled on a crooked set of eyeballs, and a toothy mouth with pink lip gloss run a muck. She was very pleased with her work, and I praised her for an excellent job.
It got me thinking about how we view ourselves. If God were to give us a blank paper doll, indicating how we feel about what's on the inside of us, how would we decorate it? Would we include glitter and glitz? Would the nose be perpendicular or kind of smashed looking? What about clothes? Would we be dressed like a movie star or more like a street bum?
I think our view of ourselves is important to God. We are his children, being made more and more into the image of his Son every day. Like I wrote back a few weeks ago, people are pretty funny looking. Crooked chins, messed up hair-do's . . . teeth gone wild. The great part about that is, that God never pays any attention to what's on the outside. God is always more concerned about what we look like on the inside.
So what would your paper doll look like? Do you view yourself as a child of the Most High God, as a saint who's been washed clean? Or are you still carrying around some of those old lies that tear away at your true identity?
God will take into consideration the fact that we maybe can't get the idea of royalty just right. Sometimes we may really mess up on believing we are led by the Spirit. But crooked eyes or not - God is always available to celebrate and cheer us on when we do our very best.
Buttons, glitter and glue . . . it's all the same to God. What matters most to him, is the faith of the decorator.
I've been watching her struggle to discover what that role really means. Stepping out of toddler, into the big kid world is a big step. Most times she is ready to jump right in, but then there are the moments when I can tell by her facial expression that it is just too much. A big part of her still wants to be my baby . . . and what mom wouldn't appreciate that?
The other day, Mrs. A sent a really fun project home for Makayla and I to work on. It was an large blank paper doll. The instructions were:
Attached to this letter is a cut out of a child. Your assignment is to help you child make it look like him/her. Give it your child's personality. Paint, felt pens, glitter, fabric, yarn, string, old baby clothes , and doll clothes are a few items that can be used if you choose. Be creative. These will be displayed in the classroom for our students to enjoy.
My girl and I started on the project this morning. We had lots of fun coloring the body, putting on clothes and trying to make painted toenails and flip flops out of a rounded foot. She added some costume jewelry, and we'll be adding some yellow yarn for hair.
Being such a perfectionist, it was difficult for me to watch Makayla draw the face. I bit my lip as she scribbled on a crooked set of eyeballs, and a toothy mouth with pink lip gloss run a muck. She was very pleased with her work, and I praised her for an excellent job.
It got me thinking about how we view ourselves. If God were to give us a blank paper doll, indicating how we feel about what's on the inside of us, how would we decorate it? Would we include glitter and glitz? Would the nose be perpendicular or kind of smashed looking? What about clothes? Would we be dressed like a movie star or more like a street bum?
I think our view of ourselves is important to God. We are his children, being made more and more into the image of his Son every day. Like I wrote back a few weeks ago, people are pretty funny looking. Crooked chins, messed up hair-do's . . . teeth gone wild. The great part about that is, that God never pays any attention to what's on the outside. God is always more concerned about what we look like on the inside.
So what would your paper doll look like? Do you view yourself as a child of the Most High God, as a saint who's been washed clean? Or are you still carrying around some of those old lies that tear away at your true identity?
God will take into consideration the fact that we maybe can't get the idea of royalty just right. Sometimes we may really mess up on believing we are led by the Spirit. But crooked eyes or not - God is always available to celebrate and cheer us on when we do our very best.
Buttons, glitter and glue . . . it's all the same to God. What matters most to him, is the faith of the decorator.
Tuesday, August 14
Matching Socks (Con't.)
Today's post is a comment Jodie Leonard sent in response to my Matching Socks post. I am SO glad she decided to share the full version of the story, so that you wouldn't have to put up with my broken interpretation.
Prepare yourself for God's remarkable lesson . . .
I must say this has been quite the welcome assignment. I am longing to write down the sessions of counsel by my Great Friend from above. I feel challenged of course to even dare to retrieve such a wonderful encounter. Writing it feels simple and complex, just like everything else in the Kingdom of God.
Here I go, with a little more than I was given back then. It would only be fair to start with the truth of where I was when I was rained upon by His great love and tender affection. I was battling the voices in my head about the loss of my dear four year old, child wonder, son. Mr. Clay Evan Leonard. The boy who would never enter Kindergarten much less become a teenager, man, or father. If I dare to think of this truth, I am back to where I was way back then. Struggling to find peace in my thoughts and fears. I just couldn't. Everything I saw, heard, felt, smelled, or tasted was all wrapped up in the loss of a child. Question after question after question was left unanswered, and I felt alone in a cement room, with nothing but myself. The longer I spent with myself, the more I realized I didn't even know the person asking the questions, and had no idea what I believed, or why. I needed answers.
I found that when I heard sermons, read the Word, and prayed, I found something familiar. Something I felt, but couldn't put words to. It was the peace I was looking for. I was starving, thirsty, and near death. I saw scripture was my food, but I didn't know how to eat it, to let it nourish me. So in His heavenly wisdom, He began to teach me to see things in my everyday life as heavenly lessons. I found that even the scripture, which was my food, was used against me in a way that challenged my heart and mind to get down to the bottom line truth. I will go in the direction of what I was challenged with, with Clay's death to demonstrate the battle and the solution.
I would hear things like, "It is your fault Clay died. You weren't a good enough parent to protect him. You didn't feed him right. You weren't smart enough to find the right cure. You didn't work hard enough. You can't trust doctors… anyone, not even yourself!" I began to crumble under the beating, knowing I really didn't have a rebuttal to any of these accusations. My spirit screamed out for help, even when my body or mouth could find the strength or words to ask for what I needed. I would search the scripture to find something that would help, it was my only hope. I would find things like. John 9:3 "Neither this man nor his parents sinned, 'said Jesus', "but this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life." and Psalm 139:16 "All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be." Deuteronomy 8:3 "He humbled you, causing you to hunger and then feeding you with manna, which neither you nor your fathers had known, to teach you that man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord." I realized that these scriptures matched up with the spirit of what my questions were.
Here it comes......
We all have unanswered questions like a basket of mismatched socks. If we spend the time to find them, there are two socks to every pair. We know by the stitching, color, and size whether the sock fits. We know our own socks. We know some have holes in them, but it doesn't change the match. When we find the perfect match we have to put them together, and seal them up. If we are left with left over socks, (unanswered questions) we ask God to help us find them. In His kingdom, they never disappear. It takes time and focus to keep up on the socks, but eventually we learn that keeping them in order makes our lives easier, and we have security in knowing we have socks to depend on. There is nothing like needing socks and not having any available. We have to depend on the socks that we have until we find the strays; taking special care of the matches we do have.
The funny part about scripture is that it doesn't really answer my questions in a way that we in our flesh are satisfied. His Word always points to who He is, which is the answer my Spirit longs for. I still have unmatched socks, but am continually anticipating the "uncovering". Every question has an answer, if I am willing to ask the Maker. He really doesn't have to explain anything to me, but somehow in His tender mercies He does.
"Then Job replied:
Even today my complaint is bitter;
his hand is heavy in spite of my groaning.
If only I knew where to find him;
if only I could go to his dwelling!
I would state my case before him
and fill my mouth with arguments.
I would find out what he would answer me, and consider what he would say.
Would he oppose me with great power?
No, he would not press charges against me.
There an upright man could present his case before him,
and I would be delivered forever from my judge.
'But if I go to the east, he is not there:
if I go to the west, I do not find him.
When he is at work in the north, I do not see him;
when he turns to the south, I catch no glimpse of him.
But he knows the way that I take;
when he has tested me, I will come forth as gold.
My feet have closely followed his steps;
I have kept to his way without turning aside.
I have not departed from the commands of his lips;
I have treasured the words of his mouth more than my daily bread." Job 23:2-12
I can ask all the questions I want, and it gives Him great pleasure to answer them, but sometimes I have to wait. Not that He couldn’t answer me, but so He can answer me in a way I understand.
“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil, my cup overflows. Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” Psalm 23:5-6
My food, which are his promises, are available in the presence of my enemies, if I will just eat. They are mmm..mmm…good!
Posted by jojo to At His Feet at August 14, 2007 1:31 PM
Prepare yourself for God's remarkable lesson . . .
I must say this has been quite the welcome assignment. I am longing to write down the sessions of counsel by my Great Friend from above. I feel challenged of course to even dare to retrieve such a wonderful encounter. Writing it feels simple and complex, just like everything else in the Kingdom of God.
Here I go, with a little more than I was given back then. It would only be fair to start with the truth of where I was when I was rained upon by His great love and tender affection. I was battling the voices in my head about the loss of my dear four year old, child wonder, son. Mr. Clay Evan Leonard. The boy who would never enter Kindergarten much less become a teenager, man, or father. If I dare to think of this truth, I am back to where I was way back then. Struggling to find peace in my thoughts and fears. I just couldn't. Everything I saw, heard, felt, smelled, or tasted was all wrapped up in the loss of a child. Question after question after question was left unanswered, and I felt alone in a cement room, with nothing but myself. The longer I spent with myself, the more I realized I didn't even know the person asking the questions, and had no idea what I believed, or why. I needed answers.
I found that when I heard sermons, read the Word, and prayed, I found something familiar. Something I felt, but couldn't put words to. It was the peace I was looking for. I was starving, thirsty, and near death. I saw scripture was my food, but I didn't know how to eat it, to let it nourish me. So in His heavenly wisdom, He began to teach me to see things in my everyday life as heavenly lessons. I found that even the scripture, which was my food, was used against me in a way that challenged my heart and mind to get down to the bottom line truth. I will go in the direction of what I was challenged with, with Clay's death to demonstrate the battle and the solution.
I would hear things like, "It is your fault Clay died. You weren't a good enough parent to protect him. You didn't feed him right. You weren't smart enough to find the right cure. You didn't work hard enough. You can't trust doctors… anyone, not even yourself!" I began to crumble under the beating, knowing I really didn't have a rebuttal to any of these accusations. My spirit screamed out for help, even when my body or mouth could find the strength or words to ask for what I needed. I would search the scripture to find something that would help, it was my only hope. I would find things like. John 9:3 "Neither this man nor his parents sinned, 'said Jesus', "but this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life." and Psalm 139:16 "All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be." Deuteronomy 8:3 "He humbled you, causing you to hunger and then feeding you with manna, which neither you nor your fathers had known, to teach you that man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord." I realized that these scriptures matched up with the spirit of what my questions were.
Here it comes......
We all have unanswered questions like a basket of mismatched socks. If we spend the time to find them, there are two socks to every pair. We know by the stitching, color, and size whether the sock fits. We know our own socks. We know some have holes in them, but it doesn't change the match. When we find the perfect match we have to put them together, and seal them up. If we are left with left over socks, (unanswered questions) we ask God to help us find them. In His kingdom, they never disappear. It takes time and focus to keep up on the socks, but eventually we learn that keeping them in order makes our lives easier, and we have security in knowing we have socks to depend on. There is nothing like needing socks and not having any available. We have to depend on the socks that we have until we find the strays; taking special care of the matches we do have.
The funny part about scripture is that it doesn't really answer my questions in a way that we in our flesh are satisfied. His Word always points to who He is, which is the answer my Spirit longs for. I still have unmatched socks, but am continually anticipating the "uncovering". Every question has an answer, if I am willing to ask the Maker. He really doesn't have to explain anything to me, but somehow in His tender mercies He does.
"Then Job replied:
Even today my complaint is bitter;
his hand is heavy in spite of my groaning.
If only I knew where to find him;
if only I could go to his dwelling!
I would state my case before him
and fill my mouth with arguments.
I would find out what he would answer me, and consider what he would say.
Would he oppose me with great power?
No, he would not press charges against me.
There an upright man could present his case before him,
and I would be delivered forever from my judge.
'But if I go to the east, he is not there:
if I go to the west, I do not find him.
When he is at work in the north, I do not see him;
when he turns to the south, I catch no glimpse of him.
But he knows the way that I take;
when he has tested me, I will come forth as gold.
My feet have closely followed his steps;
I have kept to his way without turning aside.
I have not departed from the commands of his lips;
I have treasured the words of his mouth more than my daily bread." Job 23:2-12
I can ask all the questions I want, and it gives Him great pleasure to answer them, but sometimes I have to wait. Not that He couldn’t answer me, but so He can answer me in a way I understand.
“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil, my cup overflows. Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” Psalm 23:5-6
My food, which are his promises, are available in the presence of my enemies, if I will just eat. They are mmm..mmm…good!
Posted by jojo to At His Feet at August 14, 2007 1:31 PM
Monday, August 13
Writing Group
God has blessed me with an opportunity to join a local writing group. These folks get together once a month, to share about their experiences in the publishing world and to critique one another. Tonight will be my second meeting, and I am really looking forward to it.
There is such a gamut of age, personality, writing style and purpose. I feel sharpened just being in the same room with these people. There are college kids, young mothers, full-time freelance writers, speakers and publishers all gathered around one kitchen table. I find a wealth of knowledge and resources at my fingertips and what's more, I am blessed with the relationships I am building with people who share the same passion.
So what's your passion? What do you LOVE to do? It may be working in the garden, decorating a room, collecting buttons or widdeling wood. Whatever it is, I encourage you to start praying for a "group" that you can go to for encouragement and support. If you are not able to find one out there . . . then here's is a chance for you to get one started!
Life is too short not to spend time doing what you love. Don't pay any attention to whether you are any good or not . . . perfection will come with practice.
Here is the assignment I am bringing tonight. We were asked to write a fiction piece of 650 words. We were given only the first sentence, "He couldn't see the end of the line."
Remember, this is the un-cut version. I'm sure after tonight, there will be quite a few tweaks.
End of the Line
By Joanne Reese
He couldn’t see the end of the line. Steward Moore stared blankly into the bay. The water’s reflection made it difficult for him to trace the bait below. It was his favorite fishing spot, and the most tranquil part of the afternoon; at least it was on most days. A patch of soft grass held his strong build, as he rested under the shade of the evergreen. Sun rays danced off the water as it set to the west. With legs crossed and arms folded, Stewart sat stunned. His dog Sparky slept devotedly by his side.
It had been exactly one month, two weeks, four days, seven hours and fifteen minutes since the rug was pulled out. He thought about that balmy afternoon. It appeared to be a typical day. But as he arrived home from work, Steward discovered a cold and distant welcome. The pot roast he was anticipating never made it to the table, leaving a pit in his empty stomach. The absence of Lydia’s cooking aroma went deeper than the “take-out” he would have to settle for that day. The note on the kitchen table explained everything.
It was an argument he and Lydia had practically perfected. There was never much shouting, but always a deafening impasse. It had to do with her insistence that they “get out” more, and his counter plea to spend more time at home. This time, there would be no making up. There would be no more talking things through, or watching her cry - no more feelings of emptiness. That dreadful August afternoon he found his kitchen empty, and his marriage crumbling.
As the fishing line danced in the wind, Stewart retrieved the note from his pocket. He’d read it a million times. The tear stains and frayed edges were a dead giveaway. He found himself looking once every hour, on the hour, and in all the desperate moments in between. Stewart usually found himself obsessing over a knot in his shoelace or a wrinkle in the bed. But these days, his quirkiness seemed more extreme. With nobody to share the bed with, he chose to forget the wrinkles. He was on to more important things, like fixating on that letter.
Stewart’s eyes scanned the familiar prose. The note started out okay. “Dearest Stewart, I will never love another like I love you,” was the opening line. But it went downhill from there. Lydia began drudging up failures and past mistakes. The whole mess eventually led to the sentence that broke his heart.
“I’m leaving you. I can’t live such a mind-numbing existence.”
Stewart pulled a drink out of the cooler and popped open the can. The sound of the carbonation echoed off the canyon. It startled Sparky, sending a series of barks across the water. Quiet, boring, alone . . . this was his life. How would he ever live without his beloved Lydia? They had spent twenty five years together. After raising two daughters and a golden retriever, how could she just vanish?
As the sun sent its last rays, Stewart decided to put an end to his misery. A quiet life is what he always loved. A simple homebody who loved a home cooked meal and a walk through the woods - this was Stewart. Lydia just never understood that. She was always nagging him about this or that; discontented and full of fury.
Stewart crumpled the sheet of paper into a ball. He had spent the first half of his life trying to drown out the noise of complaint. He refused to spend the rest of his life trying to snuff out the defeat of regret.
Stewart Moore couldn’t see the end of the line. A new start seemed so uncertain. But one thing was clear, Sparky and the warm sun were his absolutes. And that was all he needed to give that letter a good toss.
There is such a gamut of age, personality, writing style and purpose. I feel sharpened just being in the same room with these people. There are college kids, young mothers, full-time freelance writers, speakers and publishers all gathered around one kitchen table. I find a wealth of knowledge and resources at my fingertips and what's more, I am blessed with the relationships I am building with people who share the same passion.
So what's your passion? What do you LOVE to do? It may be working in the garden, decorating a room, collecting buttons or widdeling wood. Whatever it is, I encourage you to start praying for a "group" that you can go to for encouragement and support. If you are not able to find one out there . . . then here's is a chance for you to get one started!
Life is too short not to spend time doing what you love. Don't pay any attention to whether you are any good or not . . . perfection will come with practice.
Here is the assignment I am bringing tonight. We were asked to write a fiction piece of 650 words. We were given only the first sentence, "He couldn't see the end of the line."
Remember, this is the un-cut version. I'm sure after tonight, there will be quite a few tweaks.
End of the Line
By Joanne Reese
He couldn’t see the end of the line. Steward Moore stared blankly into the bay. The water’s reflection made it difficult for him to trace the bait below. It was his favorite fishing spot, and the most tranquil part of the afternoon; at least it was on most days. A patch of soft grass held his strong build, as he rested under the shade of the evergreen. Sun rays danced off the water as it set to the west. With legs crossed and arms folded, Stewart sat stunned. His dog Sparky slept devotedly by his side.
It had been exactly one month, two weeks, four days, seven hours and fifteen minutes since the rug was pulled out. He thought about that balmy afternoon. It appeared to be a typical day. But as he arrived home from work, Steward discovered a cold and distant welcome. The pot roast he was anticipating never made it to the table, leaving a pit in his empty stomach. The absence of Lydia’s cooking aroma went deeper than the “take-out” he would have to settle for that day. The note on the kitchen table explained everything.
It was an argument he and Lydia had practically perfected. There was never much shouting, but always a deafening impasse. It had to do with her insistence that they “get out” more, and his counter plea to spend more time at home. This time, there would be no making up. There would be no more talking things through, or watching her cry - no more feelings of emptiness. That dreadful August afternoon he found his kitchen empty, and his marriage crumbling.
As the fishing line danced in the wind, Stewart retrieved the note from his pocket. He’d read it a million times. The tear stains and frayed edges were a dead giveaway. He found himself looking once every hour, on the hour, and in all the desperate moments in between. Stewart usually found himself obsessing over a knot in his shoelace or a wrinkle in the bed. But these days, his quirkiness seemed more extreme. With nobody to share the bed with, he chose to forget the wrinkles. He was on to more important things, like fixating on that letter.
Stewart’s eyes scanned the familiar prose. The note started out okay. “Dearest Stewart, I will never love another like I love you,” was the opening line. But it went downhill from there. Lydia began drudging up failures and past mistakes. The whole mess eventually led to the sentence that broke his heart.
“I’m leaving you. I can’t live such a mind-numbing existence.”
Stewart pulled a drink out of the cooler and popped open the can. The sound of the carbonation echoed off the canyon. It startled Sparky, sending a series of barks across the water. Quiet, boring, alone . . . this was his life. How would he ever live without his beloved Lydia? They had spent twenty five years together. After raising two daughters and a golden retriever, how could she just vanish?
As the sun sent its last rays, Stewart decided to put an end to his misery. A quiet life is what he always loved. A simple homebody who loved a home cooked meal and a walk through the woods - this was Stewart. Lydia just never understood that. She was always nagging him about this or that; discontented and full of fury.
Stewart crumpled the sheet of paper into a ball. He had spent the first half of his life trying to drown out the noise of complaint. He refused to spend the rest of his life trying to snuff out the defeat of regret.
Stewart Moore couldn’t see the end of the line. A new start seemed so uncertain. But one thing was clear, Sparky and the warm sun were his absolutes. And that was all he needed to give that letter a good toss.
Sunday, August 12
Fixin's in the Kitchen
I thought it would be fun to share some of the masterpieces that have graced my kitchen table over the past week or so. As I mentioned a few posts back, I've decided to delve into sharpening my chef skills. This is my second official week in the groove . . . and so far the response has been pretty favorable.
After my family consumed my latest project this afternoon, I asked for a little feedback from the group. I told them to indicate with either a thumbs up, or a thumbs down as I went through the list of stuff we'd eaten. Pot roast - thumbs up. Pizza casserole - some up and some down. Homemade chicken noodle soup - unanimous thumbs up. Teriyaki chicken, (what we had today) - well, that one took a nose dive. I think the call for pineapple gave everything a strange flavor.
Surprisingly, most meals got a thumbs up (although I wouldn't dare to try and give you a percentage). This means that the meals that were a little above edible will now be added to our regular menu. This is really exciting for me. Adding four meals to a list of maybe fifteen things that I know how to make . . . well, you do the math. This cooking expedition is really paying off!
I'm going to share one of my successes with you today. If this hits your fancy, I encourage you to give it a try. Stay tuned for the garlic mashed potatoes recipe . . .
OVEN-FRIED CHICKEN
1/2 cup butter or margarine
2 garlic cloves, crushed
1 c. dry bread crumbs
1/4 c. grated Parmesan cheese
1/2 c. finely chopped almonds
2 Tbsp. chopped parsley
1/8 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. poultry seasoning or thyme
1/8 tsp. pepper
3 to 6 chicken breasts with skin
Heat oven to 400 degrees. In medium bowl, combine breadcrumbs,cheese, almonds, parsley, salt, seasoning, and pepper; mix well. Melt butter and mix with garlic. Dip chicken pieces in garlic butter and them crumb mixture. Place skin side up in 13x9 inch pan. Bake, uncovered for about 1 hour until tender.
I send you my blessing . . . with a dash of hope.
After my family consumed my latest project this afternoon, I asked for a little feedback from the group. I told them to indicate with either a thumbs up, or a thumbs down as I went through the list of stuff we'd eaten. Pot roast - thumbs up. Pizza casserole - some up and some down. Homemade chicken noodle soup - unanimous thumbs up. Teriyaki chicken, (what we had today) - well, that one took a nose dive. I think the call for pineapple gave everything a strange flavor.
Surprisingly, most meals got a thumbs up (although I wouldn't dare to try and give you a percentage). This means that the meals that were a little above edible will now be added to our regular menu. This is really exciting for me. Adding four meals to a list of maybe fifteen things that I know how to make . . . well, you do the math. This cooking expedition is really paying off!
I'm going to share one of my successes with you today. If this hits your fancy, I encourage you to give it a try. Stay tuned for the garlic mashed potatoes recipe . . .
OVEN-FRIED CHICKEN
1/2 cup butter or margarine
2 garlic cloves, crushed
1 c. dry bread crumbs
1/4 c. grated Parmesan cheese
1/2 c. finely chopped almonds
2 Tbsp. chopped parsley
1/8 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. poultry seasoning or thyme
1/8 tsp. pepper
3 to 6 chicken breasts with skin
Heat oven to 400 degrees. In medium bowl, combine breadcrumbs,cheese, almonds, parsley, salt, seasoning, and pepper; mix well. Melt butter and mix with garlic. Dip chicken pieces in garlic butter and them crumb mixture. Place skin side up in 13x9 inch pan. Bake, uncovered for about 1 hour until tender.
I send you my blessing . . . with a dash of hope.
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