There’s a favorite place with piney scent and water lapping on the shore;
The strum of a guitar or a sweet and gooey s’more;
Voices low and secrets shared and laughter in the air;
And firm and solid knowledge of Jesus with us there.
– CJP
Photo: https://www.facebook.com/DJamesKennedy?fref=photo
“He who has conquered doubt and fear has conquered failure. His every thought is allied with power…”. So says James Allen in his wonderful work, As A Man Thinketh. That would be great, wouldn’t it? To conquer doubt and fear instead of them conquering us. Said and done are two different things, and you know which is easier. So much of what we do in life has to do with what we think: whether we think it’s worth the effort, if we believe we can, if we’re willing to look failure in the face and keep going. I do know this – that faith is like having a shot of confidence directly to the heart. Of course we doubt. Of course we fear. Despite our sometime claims to the contrary, each one of us is acquainted with our personal faults and failures; and because of this we know that we
aren’t up for whatever mountain is in front of us. It’s okay, because faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen, and there’s more at work in this tired world than we can imagine. So today, I invite you to stand up to those old discouragers, doubt and fear. They’re invisible anyway. And you, my friend, are more powerful than you think.
Quote: As A Man Thinketh by James Allen, Fleming H. Revell Co.; Hebrews 11:1; Photo: pixabay-CC0-Public-Domain.jpg
She shook the snow from her foot. Stepping into a rather large slush pile on the curb wasn’t a good omen for this meeting. Why was she even going? One, she didn’t even know the guy. Two, a random drawing at the local coffee shop probably wasn’t the best way to meet someone. Three, where was her best friend who had talked her into it in the first place? Half-way across the state by now, she guessed – making a trip home to surprise her family on Valentine’s Day. Who surprises her family on a day meant for love?! Well, okay. Maybe that wasn’t quite what she meant. But any sane person would know what she meant without her having to clearly articulate it.
She pulled the paper heart out of her coat pocket and squinted at the address. It was just the next block. When the barista had given them each a pink paper heart with their lattes and told them to write their name on it, it had seemed harmless. She had noticed he told his male customers to write their name and also the name of a local diner or restaurant, 
time, and date. Later, another barista had passed around a glass canister for each to drop in the pink paper. As they left, they were given a heart with a name, restaurant address, date, and time. Her friend’s poor guy would be stood up. If she was any kind of smart, hers would be, too. Still, underneath it all she believed everyone should agree with her assessment: Valentine’s is a day when corny is cool.
She stuffed the heart back into her coat pocket, pulled off a glove to run her fingers through her hair, and stole a glance at herself in the window of a shop she passed. One more building and she would be there. She stopped. What was she thinking? She would just go home. No harm, no foul. As she turned around, she bumped into a man. Mid-twenties, she guessed. Dark hair. Athletic build. Tennis shoes with a small rip on the right side.
An ‘excuse me, maybe you should look where you’re going’ nearly escaped her lips. It didn’t. He looked up from what he’d been reading. In his hand was a pink paper heart.
Valentine’s is a day when corny is cool.
Image: enwikipedia.org-heart.jpg
He unfolded the paper and reread it one last time.
You want to move on, I know. But in case somewhere down the road when your mind wanders to past things and you want to remember, I’m leaving the twig on the base of the statue in the park we used to call ours. I know how you loved it – that small, silly representation of first love I broke off from a fledgling tree during our first walk there. Remember how every walk after, we toasted the growing 
tree with that twig? You can have the symbol of its springtime buds and summer leaves and vivid autumn color and sparkling snow resting on its bare winter branches. You can have the path we traced so many times, the faint sound of timeless music playing at the band shell on the other side of the lake, and the pungent scent of lakeshore. You can have the sunsets so brilliant they make your heart ache.
I’m leaving in the morning. I’ll always hope for your happiness, for good things to come your way, for blessing to meet you on the sidewalk.
He refolded the note, stooped down and slid it under her apartment door. Turning, his form bathed in a sunset of deepest orange and red, he walked away.
Image: Acer_tataricum_twig-wikimedia-commons.jpg; pixabay-sunset-214576_640-CC0-Public-Domain.jpg
Precious gems are found through diligent search and hard work. Diamonds don’t grow on trees. Gold doesn’t come knocking at your door.
A person’s character is precious, more precious than a gem. That inner rock, that beautiful soul isn’t standard, like power steering is in a car these days. It’s an option.
It’s an option gained by paying attention to our thoughts and steering unworthy ones back to a better path. It’s learning how each behavior affects those around us and how to temper it. Ditto speech. It comes from linking effect with cause, from patiently seeking to understand ourselves and then molding our daily habits to conform with what will breed wisdom and understanding.
What fine habit will you nurture this week?
Photo: en.wikipedia.org_.png
We are all paradoxical. You might be as fit as a fiddle, but have a weakness for potato chips. Your neighbor might be rather aloof, but become a blithering cartoon character when she has a kitten on her lap.
I am a short, aging woman who teaches Sunday School and sings soprano, but has an unsettling interest in spy novels. This isn’t a new thing for me. When I was in the early grades, my mother says she forbade me to read any more Nancy Drew since I was afraid of the dark. First of all, how can anyone object to someone who wears a skirt with matching pumps and solves crime? Secondly, a fear of the dark (or, more accurately, what it is in the dark that you can’t see) is very reasonable and I contend that those of you who don’t feel a little tinge of “did I hear a noise?” when you can’t see your hand in front of your face are the ones with issues. Very dark issues. Lastly, this is the same woman who taught her children “Fee, fi, fo, fum; I smell the blood of an Englishman; Be he alive or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones to make my bread” with great expression and gusto; so maybe we should investigate whether the blame lies completely on Nancy’s doorstep.
My husband and son recently decided to get me a gift. There are just the three of us at home now, and life is decidedly different when testosterone outnumbers estrogen. Well, actually, there are sometimes four if you count my son’s friend who is living with us part-time in order to take some college classes his last year of high school. My husband and I didn’t really know him when he moved in, but he’s an Eagle Scout, so if he was actually a mass murderer, I reasoned he would at least kill us it quickly and efficiently. (Okay, maybe spy novels do creep into my thinking from time to time.) I am really quite comfortable in a house of boys. Perhaps it is a reflection of my childhood in which the only other female besides me in a family of seven was my mother.
I was grateful for this gift – turning it over in my hands. They looked at me with a sort of
amazement (the word here not necessarily denoting something positive) as they described choosing from the titles of a favorite author of mine. Should we get Kill Shot or American Assassin for Mom and on and on. Oh for pete’s sake. It’s just fiction. Maybe. Thanks for the gift, boys. I’ve got your back.
Quote: Jack and the Beanstalk; image: commons.wikimedia.org, CC lic 3.0
We walk into a wonderland of comfort and community, of support of art in all of its forms, of a sense of welcome to all. Well, almost all. The space is comfort with a capital C. Well-used couches and chairs interspersed with small, high, round tables and chairs 
fill the room, and in its center is a backless swivel stool. A large cross hangs at the front, surrounded by art from, I am guessing, church members. An enormous paper mache duck (or is it a goose?) is suspended above us.
Now this is a church. None of that stuffy, organized programming for us! In fact, the programming is all about the church members. Members write songs, songs about peace and finding my way, and perform them in place of congregational singing. There are readings via power point, and whoever cares to read it aloud does so for the rest of us. Only once do two people start reading at the same time and one quickly stops so the other can continue solo.
Communion is really communal. After an explanation that Jesus died for us, the first mention I’ve heard of Him so far, round loaves and pitchers of grape juice or wine are available to whoever goes and takes some. There’s a gluten-free option. People chat freely. Some little kids run around, snacking on their bread. It’s a little noisy, as is the rest of the service. Someone shares a testimony about his art work. Someone reads a poem. An attractive young woman reads a few announcements, one about a trip to South America to build a brick home for a family, a summer project these dear folk have been doing for many years, also an art show. People trying to help others and encouraged to express themselves creatively – that’s a good thing.
What’s not to love?
What’s not to love?
The minister takes his place on the stool. He invites whoever in the congregation will to read the scripture on power point. There is no printed reference, and someone asks where it’s found. He replies it is from Luke. It is, in fact, Luke recounting the time when a centurion sends Jewish elders, friends of his, to ask Jesus to heal his servant. The elders tell Jesus of this man’s love for their nation and his help in building a synagogue. When Jesus begins to go to his house, he sends other friends to say he doesn’t feel worthy for Jesus to be under his roof and, being a man in authority, he knows that Jesus doesn’t need to come to his house at all. All Jesus has to do is say the word and he knows his servant will be healed. Jesus remarks to those around him about the greatness of this man’s faith and the friends return to find the servant healed.
Please think for a minute. Don’t think about what you’ve been taught if, in fact, you have been taught about scripture. What do you take away from this encounter noted in Luke? I’ll tell you what. I’m impressed with the centurion’s faith. I’m amazed at the power of Jesus to heal someone who’s not even in the same town. I’m glad this man gave his own money to help build the synagogue and that there was such a love between him and his friends, both Jewish and Gentile, that they went to Jesus on his behalf. What say you?
The following is the minister’s take away: he noted that Jews were instructed to not associate with Gentiles and went into some detail about that. His message was about the dividing lines of people then and now. People were invited to contribute to the conversation, which was about division, I guess. The discussion centered mostly around the centurion and divisions today. Okay. I get it. This isn’t really a church for Jesus. He wasn’t invited and no one talked to him even once during the ninety minute service. This is a church designed to push a tired and well-worn viewpoint of “them” and “us”, of victimhood, and what is now an established anti. I would say anti-establishment, but it’s so much more. It’s anti-scriptural authority. It’s anti-Jesus’ teaching if what he says condemns someone or something. It is a church that wants to use the name of Jesus for their own purposes, not His. I wanted very badly to get up and join in the free flowing service by playing “My Jesus, I Love Thee” on the piano and singing along. It wouldn’t have fit in. He wasn’t there.
photo: en.wikipedia.org, Scripture reference: Luke 7:2-10
Conundrum. That’s what I have. Maybe you can help.
I wrote a book that is set to be published the first week of August. There’s just one problem. I’m not crazy about the title. It’s a book about an old Sunday School teacher who gets a bit miffed when she realizes the number of her former students who no longer go to church. She decides to track them down. I love the thought of a Sunday School teacher tracking down her students. I mean, think about it.
Anyway, she and her cousin (everyone needs someone who makes trouble more fun) find themselves in places they would not otherwise be but for this “project”. There are some subplots, of course: a town parade she has to chair (she lives in a town with some admittedly quirky traditions), a shady businessman involved in some unscrupulous dealings, and a little family trouble. Oh, and there’s some found money involved.
The main character’s name is Cathy Covington. Her cousin’s name is Andi. I initially titled it Mrs. Covington’s Sunday School Class. I know. Not terribly riveting. Naming things is not one of my fortes. My publisher is thinking we’ll call it Mrs. Covington Calls Roll. If that title isn’t going to change, at least you have something to do on your snow/cold day.
Here’s something you need to know. When you sign a publishing contract, the publisher gets to make the big decisions. You can put in your two cents, but those final choices belong to the company store. However, I’d love to hear from you if you have any brilliant ideas for a title. I mean, really. Any readership that hits a high mark for my 2014 post entitled In Defense of Juan Pablo is admittedly in touch with popular culture.
Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to think of a title that will make this book jump off the shelves! This blog will self-destruct in five seconds. Good luck.
Quotes and youtube clip: Mission Impossible, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MA2KmJMKFrQ
I sit here, listening to a simple, pretty song being played on the piano
and think life is good.
We’ve just finished celebrating one of the biggest holidays of the year in all of its color and sound and glory, in all of its sweetness and generosity and goodness, in all of its festivity and flavor.
And after the wrapping paper is thrown away and the fudge is gone, we’re left with what we love best.
It’s not the presents nor the surprises. It’s the togetherness. It’s the memories. And underneath it all is an unyielding certainty that our Creator loves His creation so much that whether they celebrate with His light in their eyes or celebrate for reasons far from heaven’s light, He is glad for this lavish time of year.
Enjoy the quiet after Christmas when the noise gives way to some moments of sweet silence. Know you are loved with a love beyond what any of us can grasp.
Celebrate this, too.
“Tonight, folks, you see the miracle of Christmas all around you. It is in the help given to a neighbor, the music resounding through stores and churches, in resplendent parades and pageants. It is in the tinsel and color and sparkle shining through each window. It is in the light of the eyes of a child. It is in our hearts.”
Dan shrugged into his jacket and plucked the key from his pocket to lock the door. He had hit all the right notes tonight. The audience had chuckled and nodded at just the right places. It had become second nature by now. Just as his grandmother had hoped, he had become a very good speaker. Very good. He knew how to move a crowd, how to fill them with questions or anger or, like tonight, fill their hearts with the blessed joy of the holiday.
He stepped quickly down the cement steps, breathing in the cold night air. He stopped and looked around him at muted lights of a city gone dark and quiet on a night when most turned to home for nurture and entertainment. Christmas Eve.
As he turned the lock of his home, a striking building on an upscale city block, his foot nudged something on the top step. Picking it up, he turned it over in his hands. A small piece from a crèche. Whose it was or how it had landed on his step he had no idea, but someone would be missing this tonight. Surely they would want it to complete the Christmas scene.
He bent down and dropped the infant Jesus back in its place as he stepped over it and 
shut his door. He would turn on one of those wonderful Christmas movies tonight and appreciate the stories with happy endings. He would drink cocoa and eat some fudge someone had given him. He would play games on the new computer he had indulged in as a Christmas present to himself.
And the baby Jesus lay in the quiet night outside in the cold.
Photo: Caribou-Coffee.jpg
