BLESSED Journal

I've Moved to BLESSED to http://blog.karenjordan.net. Check it out!

2010-04-16T09:37:00.000-07:00

If you've been looking for my BLESSED Journal articles, I've moved them over to my personal blog and website.

So, check out BLESSED http://blog.karenjordan.net!

See you soon!!!

Karen

February Folly (by Linda Miller)

2010-02-23T20:49:00.000-08:00

Frozen month, often gray and drear,
Has us in its grip I fear.
Caught somewhere in limbo
Betwixt winter and spring
We wait with longing
For the birds to sing,
For the flowers to spring forth,
For the air to warm,
The butterflies to appear
And the bees to swarm.

We long for that sky of cerulean blue
With wispy clouds that
The wind has swept through,
The hint of green on the hillside brown
To brighten the way home
As the sun goes down.

We welcome the light
As the days grow longer,
And the feel of renewal
That grows ever stronger.
Tis not by accident her days are shorter
Than all her sisters on our annual calendar.

© 2003 Linda Miller All Rights Reserved

Linda Miller lives in Little Rock, Arkansas, where she works for the Arkansas Baptist State Convention. She is a widow, mother of four children, and grandmother of eight. Besides family, she loves God, music, and words. Her purpose for being is to share glimpses of glory, to brighten the lives of those around her, and to affirm that God knows best even when we don’t understand.

Photos/Nick Ledbetter

"Welcome, Miles!"

2010-02-09T19:08:00.000-08:00

Stillness calmed the room as the nurse placed my first grandson, Miles, on the stainless steel table, draped with hospital linens already soiled by his life fluids. Bright heat lamps illuminated his little wrinkled brow that refused to pose for the cameras—loud wails, shivering, shaking fists—then, muffled weeping. A strange silence swept over us as God visited this holy space, admiring His newest creation. Miles had arrived, and his God was with him.

When the doctor handed my daughter, Tara, her precious little boy, we forgot the anguish of her teen pregnancy. With his arrival came peace. Those who dared to observe his birth joined God in His beaming pleasure. Through Tara's travail, Miles drew his first shallow breath, all red and ruddy, as God's gift of promise. Mercy and grace, twin faces of hope, comforted all hearts, as his storm-dark, blue eyes greeted those who already loved the mystery concealed in this event.

The first glimpse of my grandson brought a moment of ecstasy. The doctor's butt-slap was loud applause, and Miles' screaming response was a misunderstood song of angels lauding his birth, giving glory to his Creator. All in Heaven pressed close, standing on their balconies with raised hands and voices, honoring God's newest earth-child, as God ushered this baby into our family with a command to all believers to "Welcome Miles!"

Just days earlier, this faceless little boy had been considered an interloper. He quickly progressed to intruder status; then, he burst forth on the scene as the hope for all creation—new life!

© 2010 Karen Jordan (revised) All Rights Reserved

Photo/Dan Jordan (Miles and Tara)

Photo/Dan Jordan (Miles and his namesake)

The Starter Rope

2010-02-02T16:45:00.000-08:00

You can still see where the old pier jutted out from Fort Travis, just across the channel from Galveston Island. History says that the pier was also used as one of the first ferry landings to access Galveston from the Bolivar Peninsula, but for Dad and me it was just a good fishing spot. The old pier was a great place to anchor up, cast a live shrimp, and wait for the strike from one of those big speckled trout that cruise in and around the channel adjacent to the North Jetty.

Flywheel. It was one of those lazy summer days when numerous other fishermen anchored up around the old pilings for a morning of fishing. We watched as one anxious angler prepared to move his rig to another location. He had a fairly nice boat with a stack of Mercury cylinders hanging off the back. Now some of you may not be familiar with Mercury motors, but in the 1960’s the more the horsepower, the taller the motor. And one of the notorious characteristics of the brand was sometimes they were a little hard to start.

Needless to say, this was one of those mornings when this fellow’s motor was a little more than cantankerous. He cranked until the battery ran down, blessed the motor with a few adjectives, then popped the cowling to see if he could determine why the motor wouldn’t fire. With no obvious mechanical problem, he then retrieved the auxiliary starter rope, which by the way was just long enough to wrap around the flywheel and spin the motor one quick revolution.

Epiphany. After about twenty minutes or so of wrapping and pulling on the short rope, the ingenious fisherman got an epiphany. He dug around under the bow for a few seconds and came out with an anchor rope, from which he promptly cut a length of about sixteen foot. As we watched this activity from our vantage point, Dad commented, “Tommy, you may want to put your rod down and watch this.”

So we settled in for the show. We both could see what was about to occur, because the boat with the contrary motor was about sixteen foot long, the new starter rope was about the same length of the boat, and the guy was wrapping the rope, loop after loop around the flywheel. He then grabbed the rope with both hands and literally ran to the front of the boat, spinning the flywheel with every running step. The motor fired off in-gear and leaped forward. You learned in school that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. So true to scientific law, from the front of the boat to the back went the angler. He managed to grab the motor and stay in the boat, but by this time the boat was on a solid plane, and turning a tight circle among all the other anchored boats.

Farewell. He struggled to maintain his balance as he stumbled forward and fumbled toward the controls, all the while ignoring the hailing comments from other boaters in the area regarding his mental capacity. We were actually amazed that he successfully navigated the rampaging water craft around, through and narrowly missing collision on the high sea before getting control. As the boater lined out his rig, dad and I saw him mouthing words of farewell to the rest of us, as he politely waving over his shoulder to everyone and retreated toward the opposite shore line.

I never quite made out his comments, but I imagine he was somewhat proud that he overcame this brief inconvenience and continued his day of fishing. After all, a bad day of fishing is always better than a good day at work.

© 2009 Tommy Barnes All Rights Reserved.

Gene T. ‘Tommy’ Barnes, a retired Safety Professional with ExxonMobil, addresses topics about his faith, family, and life as viewed through work, family, and hobbies. Tommy and his wife, Penny, live in Southeast Texas. They have three married daughters and four grandchildren.

Photos/Tommy Barnes

Mr. Johnson's Thumb

2010-01-29T14:34:00.000-08:00

Growing up next door to Mr. Johnson was fun. He was always nice to me, even when Mama ran me out of the house for fighting with one of my brothers. He didn't have much hair, but always pulled it over the top of his head. I asked him why he did that one time, and he said that if he didn’t, his head would get sunburned. I thought a hat would have looked better, but I didn’t tell him.

Once, he invited our whole family to come over to have homemade ice cream on his front porch. He made it out of red strawberry-flavored soda water with lots of sugar. There was not any left over because everyone liked Mr. Johnson’s strawberry ice cream so much. Mr. Johnson really knew how to do a lot of things.

I especially enjoyed it when Mr. Johnson worked in his yard. I could sit in my swing in our front yard with my dog, Luke, and watch him yank on his lawnmower. He would wrap the short rope around the engine over and over again, pulling it until it started.

One hot summer day, while Mr. Johnson was mowing his grass, he ran his mower up against our Hurricane fence, and one of the wheels got stuck. Mr. Johnson leaned over and yanked the edge of the lawn mower to get it loose, and the edge of the mower raised up like it was going to flip over.

Suddenly, the mower died, and Mr. Johnson hollered “Oooh!”

It scared me when I saw blood on Mr. Johnson’s hand, so I ran inside and told Daddy. He bolted out the front door and jumped our fence to help him.

Somehow Mr. Johnson’s hand slipped under that mower, and the blade cut his thumb off. Daddy saw his thumb laying on the ground, so he picked it up with a rag and took it to the doctor with them. There was a lot of blood. I wondered if the doctor would sew it back on when they were gone for the two hours. He didn't.

After that, I couldn’t look at Mr. Johnson's hand. That little “nub,” where his thumb used to be, made me feel funny. It stuck out about an inch and was useless. He couldn’t hold a spoon to eat his strawberry ice cream with that hand, and I saw him cranking that ice cream machine with his other hand, too. There were lots of things Mr. Johnson couldn’t do because of that missing thumb. When I asked him if it hurt, he told me, “Only when I think about it.”

I had no idea what that meant, but I nodded my head like I did.

Losing his thumb didn't seem to change Mr. Johnson much. Once I climbed up on their back porch and peeked in their back door, and I saw him putting up blackberry jelly into little Mason jars with Mrs. Johnson. That’s when I looked down at my hands. I guessed that losing a thumb wasn't that bad after all.

But I was still happy that I had both of my thumbs. I might need to hitchhike sometime.

© 2009 Tuck Mantooth All Rights Reserved

New Day, New World

2010-01-14T13:47:00.000-08:00

Everyday is a brand new world
Full of hopes and dreams;
A time to look at life afresh,
Dispense with yesterday’s schemes.

Everyday is a brand new world.
A chance to begin anew,
To close the door on things of the past
And make a wish come true.

Don’t let yourself get caught in the trap
Of those things that might have been.
God has new things in store for each of us,
A chance to begin again.

So, secure in His Love, just trust in His Grace,
Even with tears in your heart.
Turn life’s page as the sun goes down,
With dawn comes a brand new start.

© 2004 Linda Miller All Rights Reserved

Photo/Ledbetter family (Erica and Megan, Linda's granddaughters)

A Hunting Tale

2009-12-29T15:33:00.000-08:00

Excited about the first true hunt of the year, I eagerly, but groggily, get out of bed at 4 a.m. I load the last of the gear, start breakfast, and go to wake my 6-year-old hunting partner, Connor. This is where it begins to go bad.

After a few minutes of effort, I finally get Connor awake enough to understand that it was time to go hunting. With a very confused look, he checks the window, looks at me, and says "Dad, it's dark outside."

Uh-oh!

He gets up and starts to get ready. Then exhaustion sets in. He melts down about not wanting to go. He's too tired, and he doesn't want to kill ducks because they're cute and cuddly.

Oh, geez!

Then, my daughter, Katie, gets up because she has had an accident. Much drama ensues. My wife gets up to deal with her. Humor is in short supply.

Katie realizes that we are leaving to hunt. She wails at the top of her lungs because she will miss us.

Two kids wailing and my wife in a foul mood, my dreams of a glorious hunt are fading fast.

My wife leaves me to my fate with two distraught kids. I console my daughter and calm her enough to get her back to bed. I turn my attention to my son, pooched lip, crocodile tears. Clearly, he's not up to an early hunt. Resigned to my fate, I tell him to go back to bed.

I slip in to our bedroom to tell my wife that we are not going hunting. In the iciest voice I've ever heard from my sweet bride, she says, "Now I know why they have duck camps."

I ask if that means I can buy a cabin near Stuttgart. As she rolls over, she mumbles, "Yes."

Having salvaged something of the day, I dutifully assume my place on the couch to finish my long winter's nap.

© 2009 Jeff Corley All Rights Reserved

Jeff Corley works for the Arkansas Baptist State Convention. He and his wife, Jill, and their two kids live in Central Arkansas.

Photo/Jeff Corley (Connor Corley)

Photo/ABSC (Jeff Corley)

Why Christmas?

2009-12-20T13:55:00.000-08:00

It’s not about the pretty lights
Nor the gifts beneath the tree
It’s not about the songs we sing
Nor the glad festivities.

Though we may long for mounds of snow
And strings of cranberries
The happiest time of every year
Is not about any of these.

It is instead a special time
To recall with heaven and earth
The actual reason for this special season,
And to rejoice at our Savior’s birth.

He brought us hope, when we had none
A chance at redemption, for all we had done
He paid the price for you and for me
So we could share His blest eternity.

We wonder anew at His sacrifice
And share with you His Gift of Life
Merry Christmas to one and all
But Thank You, Jesus, most of all!

© 2009 Linda Miller All Rights Reserved

Linda Miller lives in Little Rock, Arkansas, where she works for the Arkansas Baptist State Convention. She is a widow, mother of four children, and expecting her newest grandchild in January. Besides family, she loves God, music, and words. Her purpose for being is to share glimpses of glory, to brighten the lives of those around her, and to affirm that God knows best even when we don’t understand.

Christmas Guilt Trip on Ice

2009-12-03T12:42:00.000-08:00

In 1989, the ice storm arrived as predicted. I warned Mother that we might not be able to make the dangerous eight-hour journey for Christmas.

Even though Southeast Texas seldom experienced freezing rain or snow, we already saw evidence of the storm in Arkansas. But Mother belittled our fears and urged us to attempt the trip. "The weather report here looks okay to me."

Mother's pressure prevailed again, as usual. Against our better judgment, we submitted to her demands and packed our car.

Snow and ice covered the roads from Central Arkansas to Southeast Texas. We held our breath and prayed as we witnessed stranded motorists and dozens of accidents. Cars spun off the road all around us, but we continued in spite of the hazardous road conditions.

"Watch out!" I yelled, as a black sport car darted around us on the shoulder of the road.

"Eeee!!!" our 14-year-old daughter, Tara, screamed.

"Be quiet, and let Dad drive!" her older brother, Adam, complained.

The argument and complaints continued from the back seat.

Tara begged, "Dad, would you stop at the next exit?"

"We just stopped! We’ll never get there at this rate!" Adam griped.

My husband, Dan, sighed as he gripped the wheel, dreading the long drive with sleep depravation and three other restless passengers. More than just the icy weather chilled the atmosphere in our car with two teenagers and two cranky adults on board.

We reached the halfway mark in our journey after 12 long hours, due to the slick roads and traffic accidents. Exhausted, we searched some fast food and a cheap hotel room. Dragging my suitcase behind me, I looked back at the luggage carrier on our car and asked, "Are our gifts locked up?"

"Nope!" Dan sneered.

When I called my mother about our delay, I sensed her anxiety. Without electricity, her concern for her own comfort and safety emerged.

After another risky eight-hour drive, we pulled into Mother's driveway. By that time, Dan and I only grunted at each other when necessary. And our teens feared to utter one word of complaint. So, we all bailed out of the car, hoping to find solace inside. But when my stepfather peeped out the window, I knew more trouble lurked on the other side of the door. Mother greeted us with the news of lost power. So, stranded without electricity, our tempers flared in the dark, nippy atmosphere.

Soon, we discovered our extended families had cancelled the holiday parties because our local relatives feared traveling across town. I sensed the tension building, and I feared tempers might spew any second from this pressure cooker environment.

As we unpacked our gifts, the framed pictures of our children, slid off the icy hood of the car and broke into a thousand pieces. When we arrived home a few days later, we received a call from my mother-in-law. Apparently, the crystal clock we gave her exploded when it thawed after we left.

When I told Dan and the kids about the clock, we all laughed.

"I promise--I'll never let Mother persuade us to travel that far on the dangerous, icy roads again--even for a Christmas party.

Dan just shook his head and snickered, "Right!"

© 2009 Karen Jordan All Rights Reserved

Photo/Dan Jordan (Mom cooking for Christmas)

Photo/Dan Jordan (Adam and Tara posing by Christmas tree)

Photo/Mary Jordan (Tara, Adam, Karen, and Dan posing for annual Christmas picture)

The Fence

2009-11-23T20:49:00.001-08:00

It seems like some major event has to push me into a change. So goes the story with the fence.

We first built our fence to keep our two dogs off the adjacent highway. But after a burglary in 2008, we expanded the purpose of the fence for additional home security, in addition to serving as a general pet enclosure to accommodate two adopted dogs that we rescued from “death row.”

The fence gate proved to be an inconvenience—having to get in and out of our vehicles to open the blasted thing every time we left and returned home. So, to keep the dogs inside of the opened gate added an additional challenge. Being “creative,” I decided the most humane thing to do was to add an electronic barrier to the gate area, hoping the dogs would be discouraged from escaping when the open gate.

The first encounter with was quite “a shock”—literally. Both Nordica, the big female black and tan mixed breed, and Rufus, the high energy male, trotted up to the barrier. And they were very surprised when the collar activated. Both dogs stood straight up on their hind legs, made a quick u-turn, ran back about 30 feet, and stopped. Then, they looked back to see what had “stuck them in the neck.”

Nordica, the big female had an interesting solution. She learned that if she would run just as fast as she could, close her eyes, and run through the open gate, it only hurt for a brief second—she was “free.” So, the electronic field had to be widened.

One or two penetration tests later, both dogs decided that it was more comfortable to just to avoid the open gate and stay inside the fenced area. About 10 days later, we removed the collars to see if they would stay inside. And to our surprise, they made no attempt to leave. So, we began to leave the gate open.

One afternoon, my wife, Penny, came home, and Rufus trotted out to meet her—outside the open gate. He had discovered that there was no longer any restraint, an action for which we again put on their collars. Since we couldn’t explain to the dogs what the collars mean, they were forced to learn by another painful experience. Rufus happily trotted to the open gate. But when he reaches the invisible barrier, he actually did a full back flip as the collar delivered the warning. And, once again, he retreated to his permissible limits.

Freedom of God’s boundaries. God sometimes deals with me in ways that are similar to a long leash or the dog collars with the electronic gate. He allows me to explore the limits of my freedom in Christ. But when I reach His invisible barrier, He provides a sharp reminder that I belong to Him. And He provides true security as I remain within His grace and protection. As long as I acknowledge the power and protection of His boundaries is recognized so the question remains.

What is your power source, and how do you keep it charged and effective in you life?

Gene T. ‘Tommy’ Barnes, a retired Safety Professional with ExxonMobil, addresses topics about his faith as viewed through work, family, and hobbies. Tommy and his wife, Penny, live in Southeast Texas. They have three married daughters and four grandchildren.

Photo: Penny and Tommy Barnes (with two more puppies)

By the way, Tommy says he can always tell when his dogs are happy—by the smiles on their faces.

The Devil Made Me Good

2009-11-09T17:31:00.000-08:00

My Aunt Doris lived in a very big house with lots of comfortable chairs and big beds near sunny windows. I loved to visit there when I was young. Her children were much older than me, and they didn’t even seem like cousins. She had seven dogs that really liked me.

But Aunt Doris was a lady that I was very careful with. She had a quick temper and a sharp voice. Plus, she could swat my behind and make me feel guilty even when I didn’t deserve it. She walked around her house with authority, keeping her bluff in on me like she did her white French poodles.

Between my trips to her home, Aunt Doris bought two new couches and a daybed for her den. When I arrived, I ran and bounced on the first one, and she caught me in mid-air as I leaped to the next one. She said, “Take a look at that picture on the wall over there—I bought that for you, little boy.”

After she yanked me back and scolded me for jumping on her new furniture I walked over to see what she was talking about. It was a strange picture that changed as you walked up to it. It was like two pictures in one. It switched back and forth as you walked by it. From across the room, there were pretty ladies huddling in a circle with big, poofy dresses stretched over petticoats. They were leaning in, whispering something to each other.

But when you got closer, the picture was of the devil’s face smiling right at you. When I focused on his beard, his scary eyes met mine, and I saw his sharp horns and his evil smile.. The women just disappeared when the devil showed his face.

When you walked by the picture, I expected to just see ladies in a circle but the devil was there, waiting for you to look at him. I hated looking at his face. It scared me.

Why did Aunt Doris buy it for me? I wondered if everyone could see the devil’s face, or if it was just me, because I was bad. Aunt Doris claimed that I was the only one that could see that face. And I must have done something bad if I saw the devil there.

Aunt Doris called it “art,” but I think it was just her way of making me be good and not jump on her furniture or tackle her dogs. It worked. Daddy always told me that the old devil would get me if I didn’t mind him, and I guess Aunt Doris figured that it would work for her, too. I can’t figure out why anyone would want a picture of the old devil on their wall anyway.

The devil always was grinning like he wanted to get me, so I kept on being good and minding my Aunt Doris. When I grow up, there won’t be a devil on my wall. He can stay there with Aunt Doris and make somebody else’s kids mind her.

© 2009 Tuck Mantooth All Rights Reserved

Legacy

2009-10-28T21:28:00.000-07:00

What legacy would I leave my world,

If I had all the world to give?

Would it be material riches, wealth and fame;

The living legacy of a household name?

Would it be Solomon’s wisdom, an inventive mind,

An expansive life not constrained by time?

Would it be health and happiness,

Or a life filled with ease?

Of course, we’re human,

We all wish for these.

And being human, as well we know,

Those things we want, may not all be so.

And so we must, while we are living,

Do the best we can with the things we are given.

Too many times, to my chagrin, I have taken a leap

And fallen flat on my chin.

Not blessed by nature with a hardy soul,

I tend to be timid when I should be bold.

I don’t enjoy battles that I can’t win;

I’m not a person who can lose and grin.

But life is a battle and we’re all in it.

We may as well fight from start to finish.

And God has given us all we’ll need

To live the life we’re supposed to lead.

We have The Book. We have The Word.

We have The Christ, Our Lord Above.

To share with the world these gifts of love,

Is a goal that each of us is capable of.

And so, my one real hope is to somehow leave

My part of the world a somewhat better place

And an extra smile on some lonely face.

I’d like to leave

A legacy of love

          And caring,
               Encouragement
                    And sharing...

The One Who Made and Saved Us All

© 1998 Linda Miller All Rights Reserved

Linda Miller lives in Little Rock, Arkansas, where she works for the Arkansas Baptist State Convention. She is a widow, mother of four children, and expecting her newest grandchild in January. Besides family, she loves God, music, and words. Her purpose for being is to share glimpses of glory, to brighten the lives of those around her, and to affirm that God knows best even when we don’t understand.

Photos/Karen Jordan Glorieta Christian Writers Conference

Thinking of You (On Your Birthday, 10/15/28)

2009-10-15T13:49:00.000-07:00

I think of you

when leaves turn brown;

falling gently
to the damp, soft ground.

I think of you
in the cool, evening breeze;

sitting quietly
under the fall trees.

I think of you
as squirrels scamper by,

and birds fly south
in the autumn sky.

I think of you
as crickets chirp at night;

I'm roasting marshmallows
over the fire light.

I think of you
almost every day--

your smile, your eyes,
your loving way.

Can you believe
it's been so many years?

Traveled many miles,
cried a million tears.

Do you think of me
in that heavenly place?

I just can't wait
'til I see your face!

Lemon Breaded Pudding

2009-10-02T16:33:00.000-07:00

I really thought I could do it.

The lemon poppy seed cake looked scrumptious in the photo, and the recipe didn’t seem too complicated. It was the perfect dessert to make for a party at our new church. True, I didn’t have much baking experience before my wedding. But I’d been practicing for two years, and I was determined to prove my culinary abilities. I would make my husband proud.

Step One. On the big day, I carefully followed the recipe’s instructions with only one exception. My prep time took a little longer than planned—that old experience thing, I guess—so I shortened the cooling time. I didn’t think fifteen minutes would make much difference.

I was right, of course. The cake slid out of the loaf pan unblemished, filling the kitchen with a lemony aroma. I sliced the small loaf into three layers. Perfect. Time for assembly.

I spread filling on the first layer. Perfect again. Then I placed the second layer of cake on top of the first. The cake wobbled a bit, but it looked just like the photo. Everyone’s going to love this dessert, I thought. I steadied the cake with my free hand as I started to spread the second layer of filling.

Now What? Disaster struck within seconds. Both layers of warm cake gave way and crumbled under the filling’s weight. “No! No! No!” I screamed as my creation disintegrated into a yellow puddle.

Hoyt ran into the kitchen to see why I was yelling. I burst into tears as he stared at the mess. While hugging me with one arm, he dipped a finger in the ruins. “Too bad, sweetie,” he said. “It really tastes good.”

What could I do? We’d promised to bring a dessert to the party, and I didn’t have time to make anything else. We didn’t have the money to buy a nice replacement dessert. “Lord, we need an idea right now!” I prayed.

God to the Rescue. Suddenly inspired, I grabbed a spatula and started scraping up blobs of cake and filling. I threw the blobs in a bowl; Hoyt stirred. We laughed as we mashed up the third cake layer, emptied the filling bowl, and mixed it all together. My “cake” was dumped into a glass serving bowl where it was garnished with lemon slices. “Oh, by the way, this dessert is now called Lemon Breaded Pudding,” I told Hoyt as we headed out the door.

At church our bowl took its place next to stiff competition: a homemade Baked Alaska. But when the party was over, our bowl was empty.

Several people asked for my Lemon Breaded Pudding recipe after the party. I told them it was simple and easy to remember. Plan a project to impress others, but foul up the plan completely. Indulge briefly in despair and panic, and then turn the mess over to God. Watch Him transform your failure into something that can bless others. It’s a recipe I’ve never forgotten.

© 2006 Donna Savage All Rights Reserved

A pastor’s wife, Bible teacher, and popular speaker, Donna Savage encourages women to trust God in a challenging 24/7 world. Donna has written for publications like Today’s Christian Woman, Discipleship Journal, Marriage Partnership, Pray!, and The Upper Room. She also contributed to the anthology Women Ask, Women Answer and two Chicken Soup for the Soul books. Donna publishes Joyful Sounds, a bi-monthly e-newsletter, and blogs about faith and joy at donnasavage.blogspot.com. Donna and her husband, Hoyt, have two young adult sons: one married and living in Phoenix, the other a graduate student in southern California.

Sailing

2009-09-14T21:42:00.000-07:00

“Garage-sailing” became the best venue to interact with my grown daughter early on Saturday mornings this summer. The only way to get to know her, as an adult, seems to require a loss of sleep on my part. Her menagerie of young children, pets, and strong-willed husband leaves little time for me to ever talk privately with her.

After four or five hours of visiting garage and yard sales across our city, seeing children selling toys and lemonade, and young families selling all their furniture for an upcoming transfer to another state, our best time is spent afterward, sharing a Starbuck’s brew and relaxing in their cool coffee house. Garage sailing is hard work!

Estate sale. While driving around, directed by our Garmin Nuvi navigator digital screen map, we discovered an “estate sale.” Estate sales are held when heirs of a deceased or displaced family want to sell everything left to them. They hire a specialty company to come into the house, inventory everything, and place a high price on each item. Then, they advertise the estate sale, set up a cash register at the front door, and sell everything to those like us who walk in searching for a bargain, giving bigger discounts off the ridiculously high prices as the days pass.

That should be the end of this story, but it is not. As we trekked around town over these past weeks, there are some things worthy of mentioning, for my own family members, who might later inherit something that I own.

Glass lady. The “glass lady” estate sale exposed that she had a knack for making totally useless glass figurines of all shapes and sizes. Wind chimes and pickles and fruit made of crystal-clear and colored glass were offered at bargain prices from fifty cents to ten dollars each. And on day three of the sale, all items were discounted by fifty percent. As I stood looking out her kitchen window on her patio at the scavengers going through boxes of her clothes and old musty paperback novels, two small stained-glass snowflakes tucked away behind a cheap kitchen curtain on a suspension rod peeked out at me. They were priced at only a dollar! Now, they hang in my bathroom window. Did the glass lady ever suspect that I would one day salvage her prizes, her creations for less than the price of a cold drink?

Kiwanis Club. Another estate sale featured the personal items of a past president of a local Kiwanis Club, circa 1976. His frames and gilded certificates still hung proudly on his “ego wall.” Certificates of appreciation, bordered by shiny plaques with etchings commemorated volunteer service to his community. One large gold frame contained a walnut gavel glued to a brass background inscribed, “For Faithful Dedicated Service.” Mr. President never dreamed that I could have purchased all his mementoes for less than a dollar. I passed on everything there, preferring to earn my own reminders of successes. However, I did think twice about the walnut gavel.

Snob Hill. One trip to an area of our town dubbed “Snob Hill” allowed commoners like us a tour of an “old-money” mansion, previously occupied by one of our city’s elites. Large wooden turned stair rails, thick carpet, and authentic Mexican tile in the kitchen and veranda complemented the works of art on the wall. Watercolors, oil paintings, and carved marble statues adorned the proud central receiving areas of the home. Three full stories up, half a dozen bedrooms were decorated with motifs of lace and frills. And I wondered, “What would this proud family have done if they had any idea I would be here, inspecting their prize purchases from around the world, with the ability to use my credit card and buy any of them?” But we resisted, after being severely tempted by an old bear rug priced at just a bit over a hundred dollars.

Moth balls. My most recent estate sale adventure left me sad, noticing that all of the clothing for an elderly man and woman were both still hanging in their closets, and that photographs of their children were still on the dressers, slightly bronzed by age. What had taken both of these folks at the same time? Was it death? Or was it a nursing home? I decided not to dwell on that issue. Instead, I wandered through their kitchen, noticing the crystal still in the cupboard, and the knives and forks bundled up for sale at bargain prices. Into the bedrooms, I found a pennant from Notre Dame, tennis trophies from the Country Club, and a “Life Award “of some type in an expensive frame. Why did everything smell of moth balls?

Voyeur. What part of me has been changed after becoming such a voyeur? Why do I feel compelled to “look” and then walk out of each house feeling somewhat dirty? I suspect that attending such estate sales has impacted me the same as attending a funeral for a distant relative or a business acquaintance. I sense that I am seeing my own future, and the gross lack of appreciation for a life well lived, by people who have no appreciation for what has transpired in their lives or family. The auctioning-off of possessions here smacks of the same distaste as a bankruptcy sale at a local farmhouse.

My estate. Knowing such valuable things now, instead of after it is too late to make changes, is very important to me. What should I do to keep such vile people out of my home, my house, and my memories, becomes the question. I really don’t know. However, my resolutions include a new will outlining the handling of my “estate” in some manner other than inviting the locals to walk my halls, judge my taste, and end my legacy so well accumulated and displayed as it is now. My arrowhead collection and coins will be bequeathed to the grandchildren. My gun will be delivered to my son. My father’s railroad watches will sit on my children’s mantles, and the rest won’t matter.

I wonder what other valuable trinkets I should give away before I lose them in some estate sale sponsored by some rude distant relative or debtor, who doesn’t appreciate my particular hillbilly taste.

© 2009 Jordan Family All Rights Reserved

My Journey’s Path

2009-09-04T14:06:00.001-07:00

You all know the year I’ve had
But life is interesting on journey’s path,

I met a man in the bend of my road,
Quiet, shy and all alone,
He met a girl with hurt and pain,
Another’s loss was his gain.

We started to talk,
We cried and laughed,
And continued to venture,
Down journey’s path.

Similar stories,
Hopes and dreams,
Both were shattered,
Flowed down stream.

With broken hearts,
Bruises and scars,
With hand in hand,
We began a new start.

We walk and talk,
Skip and dance,
We live and love,
And make romance.

We run and play,
Leap and twirl,
This man on the road,
Has rocked my world.

Creating life,
From what seemed dead,
Joy and excitement,
For what’s ahead.

© 2009 Klansee Juckett Tozer All Rights Reserved.

Klansee Juckett Tozer and her husband, Mark, live in North Little Rock. A graphic designer for the University of Arkansas at Little Rock, Office of Communications, she earned a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from the University of Central Arkansas, Conway. Klansee loves to spend time with her family and friends, including her two stepdaughters (Alyssa and Charla) and her niece and nephew (Caleb and Cali). She enjoys walking their dogs (Molly, Max, and Gaddy), taking pictures, scrapbooking, and exercising. Klansee also likes to writing poetry, “It's almost like a cleansing or healing process….”

Tattle Tail

2009-07-15T20:54:00.000-07:00

The only thing my Daddy ever told me not to do was to not play pool. I could walk to the Pines theatre, go to the Rexall drug store, and get a cherry coke. But Daddy made me walk straight home after the movie and the drug store. And I wanted more than anything else to play pool. But only “hoods” ever played pool, when I was a boy.

Tulley's Café. One Saturday, I saved a quarter from my movie money. I could have bought a big box of Junior Mints, a Slo‑Poke sucker, or some Sugar Babies. But I knew I was going to use that quarter to play pool in Tulley's Café. Every time I walked by that old café, I looked in and saw the huge green pool table right by the window. I knew that it only cost a quarter to play, and I had a quarter.

Pool table. My friend, Tommy, and I walked right in Tulley’s front door after the movie let out, and we raced up to that pool table. Both of us of us had our quarters. We dropped our first quarter into the slide coin slot and pushed it in—the balls all fell out of the side into the bottom tray. The noise was so loud that everyone in the café stopped and looked at us for a moment. But then, they went back to smoking and drinking coffee, like we weren’t even there.

Eight balls. It took us about a minute to accidentally knock the eight ball in the wrong hole, which we knew meant that the game was over. We just knocked the rest of them in for nothing. Then, the same thing happened in the second game, when I hit the black eight ball too hard on my first shot. Our quarters were gone, and neither of us won. So, we slipped out and headed home, wishing we had another chance at pool or maybe some of those Slo-Pokes.

Phone call. I still wonder who called Daddy. When I got home, he already knew that I had been in Tulley's, and I had played pool. I always thought that my grandmother, “Miss Beulah,” had something to do with it. I got spanked hard and hollered at—Daddy said I couldn't go to the movies for two weeks. He didn’t let Mama spank me, because she wouldn’t hurt me enough.

Playing pool wasn’t worth what I paid for it. I wasn’t even allowed to walk in front of Tulley’s Café after that day. Daddy made me cross the street before I got there. And I never found out for sure who tattled on me just for playing pool.

Secrets. Tommy and I later suspected that my grandmother had Mr. Tulley call Daddy, so I wouldn’t come in there again. Miss Beulah drank beer and smoked cigarettes there, and it was her way of keeping me from knowing what she was up to. She might have even had a boyfriend; I don’t know. She kept secrets from me when she could.

Pool, beer, and hoods. What was funny, I already knew what Miss Beulah was doing. I had seen her in there on other Saturdays, when I peeked through the door or window at that pool table. One day, I told Mama and Daddy that I had seen Miss Beulah drinking beer. They just told me to stay away from that place, or I would get hurt by the hoods that were there playing pool.

Miss Beulah was not a hood, and she didn’t play pool. But she drank that beer at Tulley’s, and tattled on me just so Mama and Daddy would keep me out of her beer joint. Maybe she was just paying me back for tattling on her.

Why were only hoods allowed to play pool, anyway? And only in beer joints?

© 2009 Tuck Mantooth All Rights Reserved

Mama’s Hands

2009-07-02T13:58:00.000-07:00

I can’t remember the day—or even the year. But I can remember how I felt: I felt so loved by the woman whose wrinkled hand I grasped as we strolled through the crowded mall. I recalled memories of a once-busy mom who made each of her five children feel as though we were her favorite. Mother, Mom, my Mama.

My mind started to wander to a little girl standing by her mother decades ago. Mom and I stood in a simple, yellow kitchen where the warm spring air blew through the open double windows. There were no dishwashers in those days, so Mom would wash, and I would dry.

Talks. We had wonderful conversations over a sink filled with dirty water. Time seemed to stand still, as we talked about boys and whether pimples would be a permanent part of my life. Yet, it wasn’t just time that froze … the quick pace of life was replaced by the voices of a young girl and her mother.

One of Mom’s favorite expressions was, “Things just have a way of working out.” Now with each passing year, I understand that time does give perspective. I’m learning that the web of life unfolds into something that makes sense—something that does work out.

When I was teenager, Mom would put words to what I called a horrible, no good, terrible day. She’d say, “Oh, you’re just having a dumpy day.” As a middle-aged woman of the 21st century, I still have dumpy days, but now I know what to call them.

Thanks. As Mother and I crept through the mall, my thoughts continued to wander. I recalled the long-ago Thanksgiving when Mom and Dad traveled hundreds of miles to be with my husband, children, and me. After the usual greetings, we gathered around a family heirloom—the large oak table, where I had sat as a little girl. As we bowed our heads, we could see decades-old pencil marks engraved deeply into its dark wood. We held hands and paused to pray. Whether young or old, we went from person to person thanking God for another year’s blessings.

After Dad shared his blessing, Mom—who was very hard of hearing—jutted her head forward and shrieked, “Whatttttt you want a new wife?”

“No, Cile,” Dad said, “I am thankful that I have a good wife!”

When Daddy died, I didn’t know if Mom would have the spirit to go on. They had been married for more than 51 years when he left this earth. I remember how they would kneel side-by-side each night at the foot of their bed, praying for their five children. Even now when I look at old family pictures of Mom and Dad standing hand-in-hand, I’m reminded of how they lived heart-in-heart.

Several years ago, Mother fell and was in the hospital for a few weeks. I had the great privilege of spending one of those weeks with her. The nursing students practiced drawing blood from my mom’s hand. They had to use a neonatal needle because her skin was so thin and the vein so difficult to find. It surely was no fun being a human pincushion, yet she rarely complained.

Mom was moved from the hospital to a rehabilitation facility. “Got a star,” she’d say, as she pointed to the star on her bulletin board that announced that she’d walked a few more steps that day. Mom also became somewhat of a basketball personality at rehab. A 6-foot tall African-American fireman, who was recovering from extensive burns, a 90 year-old-plus blind woman, and my 5-foot Mom made up a rehab basketball team. They were never ready for a three-on-three match-up with the high school boys, but their bodies grew stronger, and their hearts united as they learned to appreciate and work with one another.

Treasure. Although Mother can no longer hear, she reads lips like a pro and speaks very clearly. Instead of being bitter about what might have been, she’s grateful for each day that God gives her. When taking me on a tour of her retirement apartment, she took my hand and whispered into my ear saying that some of the residents have races in the hall with their electric wheelchairs. I guess she’s right: Life is what we make of it.

As Mom and I continued moving through the crowded mall, I squeezed her frail hand. She held mine tightly. The droves of people hurrying by never even noticed us. To them, we were just an old woman with her middle-aged daughter. After all, they were searching for bargains! But I had found my treasure.

Mom’s soft hand grasped mine, and I noticed a strange thing: My once smooth childish hands now had thinning skin and even protruding blood vessels. Why, they looked just like Mama’s hands when we washed dishes together decades ago—in the simple yellow kitchen—with warm spring air blowing through the open double windows.

© 2004 Mary Larmoyeux All Rights Reserved

Mary Larmoyeux. The author of several books, including Help for Busy Moms, Mary has written articles for The Family Room, HomeLife, Discovery Years, and other publications. Mary also serves as the Little Rock Evangelical Examiner, and she publishes an e-zine, Encouraging Women with Hearts for Their Homes. In her blog, The Grand Connection, she posts thoughts about grandparenting and offers fun things to do with the grandkids. Mary and her husband, Jim, have two married sons and five grandchildren.

(Photo/Mary May Larmoyeux) Mary Larmoyeux and her mother

(Photo/Mary May Larmoyeux) Mary Larmoyeux

This Father’s Day

2009-06-21T14:03:00.000-07:00

It’s been 30 years and counting, since I last saw his face.
No one else has come along that could ever take his place.
The man that I called Daddy, who loved me as a child,
Has found a home in heaven, where every day he smiles.

It’s been 8 long months and counting, since I last saw his face.
No one else will come along that could ever take his place.
The father of my children, the true love of my life,
Has found a place of peace and rest, far from all the strife.

Life here is uncertain, filled with constant ups and downs.
Then suddenly, it’s all over, leaving emptiness and frowns.
But there’s a better day that’s waiting, when we will all be new
When we again will be together, and acquaintances renew.

It’s been eternity and counting, And I have yet to see His Face
But no other power, in heaven or earth, could ever take His place.
My Heavenly Father is always near, no matter what o’er take me
He forever more will be my guide and never will forsake me.

Prayer
I thank you, Father, for still reminding me every day
That you have always known and loved me.
I thank you for the promise too, that you will always be
All I ever want, all I ever need, never changing, always the same.
When the storms of life come, rocking my boat and sinking my dreams,
Your hand is always reaching, bridging the gap, holding fast the anchor.
Thank you for being my Everlasting Father, every day of my life.

© 2000 Linda Miller All Rights Reserved

Linda Miller lives in Little Rock, Arkansas, where she works for the Arkansas Baptist State Convention. She is a widow, mother of four children, and expecting her newest grandchild in January. Besides family, she loves God, music, and words. Her purpose for being is to share glimpses of glory, to brighten the lives of those around her, and to affirm that God knows best even when we don’t understand.

A Treasure Box

2009-06-19T09:09:00.000-07:00

“Mom, Ethan has my new marble shooter, and he won’t give it back!” Six-year-old Aidan whined.

“Aidan, were you playing with it first?” Aidan’s mom replied. “Or did Ethan take it away from you?”

“No, but I want to play with it!” Aidan demanded.

House rules. “Aidan, in our house we share our toys, and we do not take toys away from each other,” his mom responded.

“But it’s mine! Tell Ethan to play with his own toys!”

“When Ethan is finished playing with it, you can have it back.” Aidan’s mom explained, trying to calm Aidan’s temper. “You have a treasure box for keeping things that are special to you.”

Sibling rivalry. Four-year-old Ethan smiled, as he shot another marble across the floor, under the watchful eye of his frustrated, older brother. And when Ethan’s interest waned, he walked away to another activity, leaving Aidan’s toy on the floor of their family room.

Treasures stored. Aidan jumped up from his puzzle, and he grabbed his toy, carefully examining it for damage. Then, he dragged a step stool up to a nearby bookcase, climbed up the steps, and placed his new marble shooter inside of his treasure box, away from his brother’s reach.

© 2009 Karen Jordan All Rights Reserved

Karen Jordan addresses topics about her faith, family, and writing. Karen and her husband, Dan, live in Arkansas. They have two married children and six grandchildren. Visit Karen’s website and BLESSED DiaBlog.

White Trash

2009-06-15T11:31:00.000-07:00

My grandma’s old house next door was vacant. Grandma might have moved in with Aunt Doris at that time, but I cannot recall. It seemed to me that she was always moving in with somebody.

Grandma rented her old home place to what Mama called “white trash.” She always had a name for everything, even though I didn’t understand what she meant most of the time.

A few months passed, and the white trash didn’t pay their rent. They moved out one night without saying goodbye or anything. Mama said, “You can’t trust that white trash.”

I remember the smell the renters left in that old musty house. All of Grandma’s furniture was ruined. I think it was junk anyway, because Grandma was what Mama called “tight.”

The mattress smelled like a dirty, old wet diaper, just like mine did when Mama waited too long to change me. That white trash had let their kids wet the bed so many times that the mattress had to be thrown out and burned in the back yard.

I never wet the bed after that—I couldn’t stand the way the bed smelled. Plus, I didn’t want Mama to think I was white trash.

© 2009 Tuck Mantooth All Rights Reserved

A Gulf Coast Breeze

2009-06-05T19:40:00.000-07:00

The smell of salt water, shrimp, gasoline, and creosote-soaked dock boards permeated the air. Karen sat on one side of the front seat in the old wooden boat, bundled to the neck in her life preserver, extending one hand over the side of the boat, tickling the water with her fingers. Cathy sat on the other side of the front seat, silently watching other fisherman leave the dock and head out toward the open water of Galveston’s East Bay.

One family’s fishing trip. Mom claimed her usual spot, sitting on the bow of the boat looking back impatiently toward Dad as he pulled the starter rope. I sat on the dock holding the boat with my feet. And I watched as Dad took the straw hat from his head, wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve, pumped the gas tank, and gave the starter rope one more sharp pull.

As the motor fired off, we all seemed to breathe a comfortable sigh. None of us, except Dad, ever knew for sure if the old motor would run. And no one worked any harder than Dad, making sure we had a good early start on a morning fishing trip.

Two parental natures. A slight southeasterly breeze carried the ocean scent far inland to prompt this simple snapshot of one of my earliest memories—a memory of three siblings, caught between two parental natures. One sat on the bow of the boat with agitated impatience. The second worked in the back of the boat with unwavering confidence that the motor would start, so a day’s fishing would begin.

Three unique siblings. Sitting on the dock with my feet in the boat, I felt somewhat irritated that Dad would never buy a new motor. My silent irritation often resulted in me not fully committed to getting into the boat. Having been there when the motor didn’t crank, I always wondered what would happen if we got out into the bay, and the contrary, old motor wouldn’t crank, when it was time to go home.

Karen sat quietly in the boat, apparently unruffled by Dad’s efforts to crank the motor, exhibiting an almost indifference to the whole scene. Cathy, just being herself, displayed mannerisms and patience that seemed more aligned with Dad than Mom.

A family legacy. Recalling the moment, my thoughts turn to the patience of our dad, and the polar-opposite temperament of Mom. Characteristics and beliefs of both were passed down to our generation. Some inherited characteristics remain relatively intact, while others tempered our personal life choices, resulting in each of us weathering commitments to relationships, spouses, extended families, and faith—believing that Christ will complete the work He began in us during those early years.

© 2009 Tommy Barnes All Rights Reserved.

Gene T. ‘Tommy’ Barnes, a Safety Professional with ExxonMobil, addresses topics about his faith as viewed through work, family, and hobbies. Tommy and his wife, Penny, live in Southeast Texas. They have three married daughters and four grandchildren.

Modeled Obedience

2009-05-31T21:10:00.000-07:00

It happened every morning without fail. She never cared if we were in the comforts of our home, visiting relatives, or darting off to school. Sometimes, we had to do it several times in between. "It" paints a perfect picture of modeled obedience to Christ. Twenty-eight years of memories bounce and fill my busy mind, but when I look back at my childhood, the memories of family prayer time mean the most.

Morning Prayers. Each day, despite morning temperaments, we paused to pray. Before the car clicked into gear to deliver us to our destinations, my mother required that we pray together. She prayed for our protection, our activities at school, and anything else on the agenda for that day. My sister and I did not mind these family prayer times much, but usually it was just the three of us participating. My cheeks get hot just thinking about the day I realized that my mama was no respecter of persons. She was going to stop and pray even in front of our friends!

Rosy Cheeks. There was no stopping her and on this particular morning my insides were churning. Although it was a given that we would pray before we darted off into our busy day, this was the first time a friend was along for the ride to witness "it." Our neighbor and playmate would be riding with us. Oh, how I wanted my mama to forget to pray on this day. I longed to find a paper bag to slip over my head. What would she think of us? I thought to myself.

Easily embarrassed as a little girl, the thought of our family prayer time being revealed sent me into a tailspin. How would we explain to our friend that our mother was a Jesus freak? How would my sister and I live after this!

My cheeks were rosy and my body began to grow hot as my mama seated herself in the driver's seat. "Okay, let's pray," she said. We all, friend included, bowed our heads as mama prayed. My sister and I sat in silence for the remainder of the trip. I knew that she had done us in. Her modeled obedience would make us outcasts for sure!

Modeled Obedience. Year in and year out my mother continued to pray for us each day. Friends, neighbors, and sometimes strangers would all bow their heads at least once before leaving my mom's vehicle. It was a given. Some snickered, some were reverent, but I know that ALL were changed. ALL got to see my mom model obedience to her Lord, Jesus Christ. Even our childhood neighbor told me as an adult, that the memory of our family prayer time was one of her most vivid childhood memories of our carpooling together.

Family prayer time is a legacy I will surely pass on to my own children.

Thanks, Mom!

Jessica Kirkland, lives in Southeast Texas with her husband, Robb, and three-year-old triplets--Laci, Seth, and Leyton. She has a heart for writing and enjoys sharing her testimony about God's activity in tough circumstances. She addresses topics concerning women's health, faith, and raising young children. Find Jessica's blog at http://inthedetailsjessicakirkland.blogspot.com.

The Image

2009-05-22T17:01:00.000-07:00

“The first time ever I saw your face…” The lyrics to this song, made popular in the early seventies by Roberta Flack, came to mind as an ultrasound zoomed in on the image of my granddaughter’s angelic face just five days prior to her birth.

The promise. As I observed Jill Elizabeth in her mother’s womb, I recalled the scripture where the psalmist expressed his belief that his Heavenly Father knew him even before he was born. “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place…your eyes saw my unformed body” (Psalm 139:13-16 NIV).

The journey. Even though my son, Adam, and his wife, Jenni, struggled with many fears during their journey to parenthood, God had a plan for them. Psalm 139:16 says God ordered all our days and wrote them down in His “book before one of them came to be.”

Could it be that God appointed the very moment that my children would hold their precious daughter, Jill, and her older brother, Zach, in their arms for the first time?

The birth. The day we welcomed my granddaughter into our world, I remembered that first image of her face as it appeared on the ultrasound screen. I tip-toed up to the table that held my new granddaughter, and I observed the nurse examine every inch of her body—from her curly, brown hair to the tip of her tiny, delicate toes. A bright heat lamp beamed down on her body, and Jill shivered and squealed as she adjusted to her new environment.

Jill Elizabeth May 22, 2007

All eyes focused on Jill’s every move. But my camera zoomed in on her face to capture the moment. The grey image on a computer screen had burst into life in full color, desperately crying out for breath, needing the waiting mother and father who had anticipated her arrival. Our promised one had arrived, and we welcomed her with open arms.

© 2009 Karen Jordan All Rights Reserved

Smokin’ with Daddy Buck

2009-05-15T16:54:00.000-07:00

When I walked into Daddy Buck’s house, I often felt queasy from the scent of the sulfur from his well water, the cedar that lined his closets, and the pungent aroma of his pipe tobacco. Daddy Buck’s clothes also smelled like the sawmill where he worked—the machine oil from the saw blades and the yellow pine sawdust.

Sawmill visit. When I visited Daddy Buck at the lumber mill one day with my daddy, I could hardly breathe because the air was thick with sawdust. I stayed close to my daddy as we waded through the wood shavings on the ground.

As we climbed up the creaky, wooden stairs, I gripped daddy’s hand and balanced myself with my other hand on the splintery railings. The shrill sounds of the ripping saws and high-pitched, threatening blades scared me.

Hands of a lumberman. Over the years, those vicious saws hacked off several of Daddy Buck’s fingers. My daddy warned me about how dangerous Daddy Buck’s job could be—feeding logs into the saws and planers with his bare hands. I didn’t dare get close to the saws or to Daddy Buck’s hands.

In fact, I was afraid to even look at his hands. I wondered what they did with those missing fingers. I think Daddy Buck knew I avoided his hands. But one day, he motioned for me to come close to him, while he sat in his thread-bare, squeaky rocker, next to the wood-burning stove.

I cautiously walked over to him, curious to see what he wanted with me. When I got within his reach, he leaned over, grabbed me around the waist with his rough, oil-stained hands, picked me up, and placed me gently on his knee.

Smelly, ol’ pipe. I resisted getting too close to Daddy Buck’s pipe. And I felt my body stiffen as I arched my back and leaned away from his face. Daddy Buck chuckled at my fear of his old, smelly pipe.

Suddenly, Daddy Buck took his pipe out of his mouth, and he offered me a puff. At first, I looked around to see if any one was watching me. Then, I accepted his offer. Afterward, I found myself choking and coughing, trying hard not to gag on the nasty taste that would not go away.

Daddy Buck just stuck his pipe back in his mouth and grinned, “Not too bad, huh?”

I jumped off of Daddy Buck’s knee and ran to the kitchen for a drink of his nasty well water, vowing to never smoke again.

© 2009 Karen Jordan All Rights Reserved

Remembering Mother

2009-05-06T17:21:00.000-07:00

When I arrived at Mother’s doorstep, I heard loud wails and intense sobbing inside. I recognized my mother’s voice, so I opened the door and rushed in without knocking. Mother sat on the edge of her rocking chair with her hands covering her face.

My sister, Cathy, frowned and shrugged her shoulders as our eyes met. She sat next to Mother on a stool, tissues in hand, ready to provide whatever comfort she would accept.

“Mother?” I hurried across the room and embraced her.

“She’s been like this all day,” Cathy explained as she fought back the tears.

Some undiagnosed disease was destroying my mother’s mind. Confusion and darkness ruled her thoughts. And as I knelt down to hug her, she melted into my arms.

“Mother, are you afraid of dying?” I felt her fear surrounding us.

“No…of living!”

Mother had faced death before and survived. But a few years earlier, when her heart failed during surgery, Mother caught a glimpse of the horror of dying without any assurance of Heaven. Mother said that the darkness and horrific ordeal terrified her and forced her to face the emptiness of her faith. Afterward, she discovered the missing link in her spiritual life—Jesus Christ.

As Mother faced her terminal illness, fear and doubts flooded her consciousness again. Would Jesus provide an answer to alleviate her fear this time? Could she really trust Him to be with her as she walked through the valley of her impending death?

I couldn’t save Mother from her disease, but I could choose to trust the Lord to walk with us all through it. As God reminded me of His promises, I recalled His faithfulness through the years. And as we walked though Mother’s last days, God once again provided all that we needed.

Sitting with my mother on her sofa one day near the end of her journey, I noticed her eyes fixed on the high ceiling in her townhouse.

“What do you see, Mother?”

“Heaven,” she responded without changing her expression.

Shocked by her answer, I asked, “What does it look like?”

“Huge,” she sighed.

What a perfect description of Heaven, I thought.

Mother remained silent after sharing her vision of Heaven with me, but I knew she was convinced of her final destination.

© 2008 Karen Jordan All Rights Reserved

The Music Box

2009-04-23T14:20:00.000-07:00

My brother, James, was ten years older than me, and he occasionally brought some of his buddies by our house while he was in high school. I particularly liked Elwood and Harold. Sometimes they would rub their knuckles over my head, call me names, and ask me if I had kissed any girls lately.

Elwood always looked kind of funny at my sister Pam. There were times when I believed that maybe he came to see her, rather than to wrestle with my brother or shoot baskets. I could not imagine why he would ever want to look at her. All she did was put on makeup and listen to the radio. I thought she was ugly, too.

When James was slow coming out to get in the car, Elwood would usually get out of the car and throw a baseball to me. He would always throw them slow enough where I could catch them without getting a bloody nose. Once I overthrew him and put a dent in his hubcap, but he never told anyone.

One day, when I thought Elwood was about to play ball with me, he got out of his car with a wrapped box with a big red bow tied around it. I just knew that he had bought me a new baseball glove, because I was almost old enough to play Little League baseball in our town. But I soon learned that Elwood had not been out shopping for me. None of James’ friends ever gave me anything.

The box was a gift for Pam. She opened it in front of everyone, and she wouldn’t even let me help her open the present or anything. It was a metal music box with dancing angels engraved on all sides. And when you lifted the lid, it played “Tiptoe through the Tulips” over and over again, until it was unwound.

Pam acted like she was embarrassed but put that music box up on the dresser in her room so everyone could see it. Every time I lifted the lid, it played that tune. After a while, I knew the whole song.

Elwood couldn’t have given Pam anything that I liked more than her music box. He moved off to go to work in Louisiana, and he didn’t come around much after that. I guess Pam didn’t like that box very much, since I heard her say once that Elwood was “Dead Wood”. Maybe that’s why he moved away. I always liked Elwood for giving her that music box for me. And for playing baseball in my front yard.

© 2009 Tuck Mantooth All Rights Reserved

Sergio

2009-04-16T20:27:00.000-07:00

"...and a little child will lead them” (Isaiah 11:6).

When I studied in Spain a few years ago, a five-year-old boy named Sergio, the grandson of my hostess, Beni, served as one of my best language teachers. Sergio would sit with me at the kitchen table, after everyone else had left the room after a meal, and pretend to be my teacher.

Child Teacher. As Sergio picked up each piece of fruit, one-by-one, in the ceramic bowl on the kitchen table, he would offer it to me and wait for me to tell him the name of the fruit in Spanish. If I didn’t respond quickly enough, he would look me straight in the eyes and teach me the appropriate word.

“Me-lo-co-tón,” Sergio said slowly, as he held up a peach and waited for me to repeat after him. And after I responded, he would flash his bright smile, clap his hands, and applaud, “¡Qué bien!” [Great!]

Then, Sergio would grab another piece of fruit and continue to quiz me, until he thought I had mastered each Spanish word. As he grabbed a banana, I would always laugh as I responded, “Ba-na-na.” Sergio didn’t know we used some of the same words in English.

I bought Sergio candy and toys when I went shopping to express my gratitude to him. One day, I gave him the mini-flashlight that I carried in my purse from home. As he ran to show his mother, he danced around the apartment snapping the light off and on.

Sergio also reminded me of my own grandson, Miles, who was just a few years older than him. And he helped me not feel quite as homesick as I interacted with him.

Adult Student. In studying Spanish as an adult, I experienced both humiliation and judgment. Since I was somewhat shy, my host family often became very impatient that I had not mastered their language. The looks they exchanged when I tried to speak in their tongue were downright de-humanizing and embarrassing at times. They would sigh heavily and roll their eyes. Then, they would speak slowly with raised voices, as they repeated phrases toward me.

I felt so ignorant when I couldn’t find the words to express what I wanted to say. But Sergio always responded to me with patience and kindness. He helped me because he wanted to be with me, and we always enjoyed our time together.

Life-long Learner. I suppose I was too stubborn to give up on the goal of becoming bilingual during my studies in Spain, even with all the difficulty I faced. I now appreciate the Hispanic population in my own community, and the struggles they must encounter to survive in a country where most people do not speak their native language.

I discovered some surprises about myself in my efforts to learn another language. My husband, Dan, became more aware of my weaknesses than anyone. I’m sure he’ll never forget the night he walked into our family room at midnight and found me on our carpeted floor in a fetal position—crying because I had received a “B” in a conversational Spanish class.

I laugh when I think of that particular moment now. But at the time, I didn’t see the humor in the situation. Learning a new language proved to be one of the most humbling and difficult experiences of my life. But in spite of the hardships and disappointments, I enjoyed some of my most memorable and effective teachable moments with my young friend, Sergio.

© 2009 Karen Jordan All Rights Reserved

Karen Jordan, author/teacher/speaker, addresses topics about her faith and writing. Karen and her husband, Dan, live in Arkansas. They have two married children and six grandchildren. Find Karen’s website and blog at www.karenjordan.net.

A Mother’s Love

2009-04-07T17:22:00.000-07:00

When I was very young in East Texas, we often visited a large lake just below a dam on the Neches River to go swimming. I liked going there to dig in the white sand and make tunnels for my little red plastic trucks. So long as I stayed away from the water, I was free to dig, get dirty, and really enjoy myself.

To put a little fear in me about the fast current and deep water, my mother always told me, “Remember the little girl that drowned near Evadale under the bridge.” [Actually, I didn’t want to die anyway.]

I noticed once that there was a big black beetle digging alongside me in the sandy soil near the water. I took a stick and thumped her a few times before my mother scolded me, “Leave that nasty bug alone—it’s a 'tumblebug’!”

The strange bug would roll up dirt into a ball larger than her own body. Then, she would stand on her head and try to push the little ball up the hill with her hind feet. After that, she would slip and tumble down to the bottom. I watched her over and over again.

I know now that Mama called her a tumblebug because of how many times she rolled down that slope with that ball following behind her. Later, I found out that the tumblebug actually was not rolling up mud or dirt—I overheard Mama call it “dog poop.” No wonder Mama told me it was nasty!

I never saw anything work as hard as that beetle. What I didn’t know was that she had laid an egg in the center of that ball, and she was making sure it hatched and had something to eat—she was vigorously ensuring its survival.

I respected that tumblebug more after I realized how much she cared for her baby. And I wondered if my mama would have been willing to stand on her head and roll a big ball of dung up a hill for me. Probably not. She didn't even like to cook.

© 2009 Tuck Mantooth All Rights Reserved

Baited Obedience

2009-03-30T21:43:00.000-07:00

“Ethan, where are you?”

The Search. Ethan’s silence prompts Tara once again to begin a search for her two year old.

“Mommy, I think he’s in the bathroom,” four-year-old Aidan beams, his hands on his hips, and his head tilted to one side.

Tara stumbles over a dozen Hot Wheels as she hurries down the hall. Stopping at the closed bathroom door, she listens for evidence of mischief.

“Ethan, open the door please.”

The Sneak. Muffled giggles echo in the newly tiled bathroom as the faucet begins to flow freely. Tara turns the knob while leaning to push the door open, only to find it blocked. Ethan takes cover—barricaded by an open drawer, securing him from all outside intruders.

“Ethan!” Tara demands.

Again, Ethan refuses to respond to his mother’s request. Safe behind his fortress and proud of his temporary victory, he chuckles.

The Snack. After hearing her young prankster, Tara pauses to plot how to extricate him from his makeshift hideout. Then, she smiles and announces to her other preschooler, “Aidan, thank you for not playing in the bathroom. Let’s go pick something for you from our treat box.”

Listening for Ethan’s predictable reaction to her bait, Tara leads Aidan toward his coveted reward.

“I’m coming—wait!” As Ethan struggles to open the door, he slams the cabinet drawer and drops a handful of toothbrushes. Then, he bolts to the kitchen leaving the bathroom faucet running.

When Ethan turns the corner into the kitchen, he witnesses his older brother choosing a snack. And Ethan whines, “Can I have some candy, Mommy?”

“I’m sorry, Ethan. You chose not to obey me, so you won’t get your special treat today.”

The Sorrow. Ethan stops and frowns in disgust as Aidan provokes him with a sly grin. Then, Ethan glares at his older brother, obviously angered by his mother’s response. Suddenly, Ethan turns and stomps into his bedroom.

As Ethan stares out his bedroom window, he crosses his chubby little arms and glances over his shoulder, hoping to earn some sympathy. Even at his tender young age, he learns the high cost of disobedience.

© 2009 Karen Jordan All Rights Reserved

Karen Jordan, writer/teacher/speaker, addresses topics about her faith and writing. Karen and her husband, Dan, live in Arkansas. They have two married children and six grandchildren. Find Karen’s website and blog at www.karenjordan.net.

A Springtime Resolution

2009-03-23T19:39:00.000-07:00

My legs quiver as I step onto the sidewalk in front of my home. How can I launch out for a walk feeling so weak? I take a second step, knowing I have to go forward with my plan to regain my health by exercising. My motivation to exercise overpowers my temptation to stop. I gain strength in each additional step, as I begin my lesson in perseverance. But it will not be an easy journey. There are obstacles to overcome and goals to reach. Can I make it?

Renew. Exercise, like any worthwhile endeavor, demands strength and stamina. Neither of these attributes have been a part of my life for some time because of some stress-related health problems—like migraines, back pain, and insomnia.

The first morning I attempt my new exercise program, everything within me resists it, like opposite poles of two magnets. I would rather do just about anything than exercise. So, today I let temptation win. I stay home and feel guilty the rest of the day.

Resolve. By the next morning, my previous day’s failure serves as my primary motivating force. So, I lace-up my walking shoes, purchased just for this occasion, and I take a few minutes to stretch out the kinks in my stiff, achy body. Then, I walk slowly out of my garage and down the hill. I proudly accomplish my first goal. And the next thing I know, I’m crossing the street facing the next block.

Okay, this is going to be a breeze, I think. But by the time I turn the corner, another fear presents itself, as if to try to stop me in my tracks. Because of all the crime recently, an all-male construction crew working on a nearby house sends a chill of fear down my spine. And I hesitate to walk in front of them, since our neighborhood is somewhat isolated during the week during work hours. To remove this obstacle, I decide to change my route and proceed in another direction. So, I catch my breath, and I walk on.

As I walk uphill, I become short of breath. When I slow down to breathe, a gray squirrel catches my attention. He’s busy burying an acorn in my neighbor’s yard. I watch him as I walk by. When I look up, I’m already at the end of the street, about to turn the corner to complete another block.

Revive. I continue to accomplish small goals as I walk. In a short while, I resolve that I’ve gone far enough, and I return to my home. With my mind cleared by the fresh air, I sense my body weakening from the exercise. When I arrive home, I’m exhausted. But to my surprise, I feel invigorated by the experience. As I sit down for a cool glass of water before I shower, I recall the distance I’ve covered. I feel satisfied and proud of my accomplishment. And I’m grateful that I resisted the temptation to quit.

I find strength as I face my weaknesses each day. When I address my fears and trust in a power that is above my own ability, I’m able to accomplish more. In 2 Corinthians 12:8, Paul tells us that the Lord’s “power is made perfect in weakness.”

Although my day-to-day victories toward improving my health may seem like a small victory to some people, they represent a lifelong battle for me. And as I take one step at a time—by faith—I’m able to go the distance.
“He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint" (Isaiah 40:29-31).

© 2009 Karen Jordan All Rights Reserved

Karen Jordan, writer/teacher/speaker, addresses topics about her faith and writing. Karen and her husband, Dan, live in Arkansas. They have two married children and six grandchildren. Find Karen’s website and blog at www.karenjordan.net.

The Holy Rollers

2009-03-18T04:37:00.000-07:00

When we were young in the 1950’s, my mother would drive us out to the north side of our town where the Holy Rollers were. There was a huge canvas tent with lights strung under it, and the old-style wooden folding chairs—the type that would pinch your finger when you sat down on them too quickly. Mama would pull the car into the ditch alongside the highway and get us as close as possible to the sides of that big tent that were pulled back to keep it cool inside.

The tent was full of country people. They weren’t dressed in their Sunday clothes. There was a choir singing, and a man stood up on a small stage and hollered at his audience. As we sat in our parked car, something strange would always happen. When they stopped singing, and while the man was preaching, we could hear a strange mumbling sound roll across and under the tent. According to Mama, someone would get “filled with the Holy Ghost” and hoop and holler out loud, so we could all hear them. Then another, and another, until they wore themselves out and sat back down.

My brothers and sisters would look at one another and get scared as those people jumped over the chairs—some even rolled around in the sawdust, spread over the grass under that tent. I asked what they were doing, and what it meant to be filled with the Holy Ghost; but Mama never would tell me. I don’t think she knew.

The people under the tent did not know we were listening. And I was certain that if they caught us snickering, when they made the funny noises and everyone hollered “hallelujah,” they would call the police, and we all would go to jail. My brother told me that they would probably kill us.

We guessed that those folks were speaking in another language. Mom called it the “unknown tongue.” It was her way of providing entertainment for us. She was like that. She always found a way to make life interesting, when money was scarce. She would put us in the car, promise to go by the gas station and buy us an RC Cola; then, she would take us to some dangerous place and scare us.

I used to wonder if Mama actually wanted to get out of the car and go sit in one of those wooden chairs. Sometimes she just stared out the windshield at them and kind of looked away. I was deathly afraid that she would get out of the car.

But Mama never took us to church, and she never got the unknown tongue either. I figured that she was as afraid of the Holy Ghost as I was, and that if God gave it to her, the Methodists would talk about her. Church people in our town didn’t like people who didn’t go to church or any strange religion. Mama didn’t give them any reason not to like her. Plus, if Mama had been given the unknown tongue, then I would probably have had to walk home.

© 2009 Tuck Mantooth All Rights Reserved

Roller Coaster to Faith

2009-03-10T16:19:00.000-07:00

Is God really “good”? And can I trust Him? These two questions haunted my mind, as God took me on a roller coaster ride to know Him personally.

Coasting. As a “PK” (preacher's kid), raised in church and baptized as a young child, I could be found at church every time the doors were opened. I learned all the great Bible stories, had great Christian friends, and attended a Christian school. God blessed me with great parents, who gave me a wonderful childhood, and I easily coasted through my teenage years and on to college.

During my senior year of college, I reconnected with an amazing, godly man, who loved me unconditionally, and we married soon after graduation. This season of my life began like the first part of a roller coaster ride—it started out slow—things were good, and we were happy. Then, we began to go uphill, and we didn’t realize what was ahead of us.

Ups and Downs. After three months of marriage, we were expecting our first child. We were at the top; then, suddenly, without any notice, we experienced the gut-wrenching loss of our first child. As we grieved, our hearts longed for a baby.

Thankfully, we soon discovered that we were going to have another baby. But then, another disappointment—miscarriage number two. This terrible process repeated in our lives three more times. And with each loss, our pain grew more intense.

Later, God blessed us with a true miracle--our firstborn son, Zach. As I held him in my arms, I stood in awe of my love for him. I didn't know that I could feel that kind of affection—a mother’s love.

A year later, after another miscarriage, I became pregnant with my little girl, Jill. I cannot imagine our family without her. She is a precious jewel, and I can't wait to do “girly” things with her as she grows up.

Roadblock. As I began motherhood, I thought more about what I wanted to instill in my kids, and what I wanted our home to be like. But I felt something was missing—a feeling that I questioned while we were trying to have a baby. As I talked with my husband, Adam, a burden was heavy on my heart. I thought I knew all the “right” answers concerning matters of my faith—I knew Christ had died for me—I thought I knew it all. Yet, I felt no passion in my faith and couldn’t understand why.

Then, I read the book, The Shack. Even though fiction, it revealed to me what I was unable to put into words. I didn’t trust God, and I really didn’t think He was “good.” I had witnessed Him active in the lives of others. But in my heart of hearts, I just didn’t trust Him.

Early in life, I had experienced health problems, and I was told that I might not be able to have kids—my greatest fear. I wondered, How could a “good” God take my greatest fear and my heart’s desire to be a mom and allow me to have six miscarriages? Yes, He had given me two precious miracles. But I feared that He might also use my children to once again test my faith. I realized that I was bound by fear and very angry with God. Yet, I knew this belief about God was not consistent with what I had been taught about His true character.

Pressing on. After many months of dealing with my fears, grief, losses, faith, and my beliefs and discussing it all with my husband, I decided that I needed counsel with our pastor. He talked with me about strongholds in my heart, and he challenged me to commit to a time of prayer and fasting.

Fast? I had never done that before, but I sensed it was something that God wanted me to do. I needed Him to give me peace, to relieve my burdens, to heal my grief, and to show me His goodness and trustworthiness.

Sudden change. On the first day of my fast, God answered my prayers--a new experience for me. In a simple, broken prayer, asking for God’s intervention, I sensed peace, which is difficult to explain. Something inside of me changed—I felt different. Suddenly, my relationship with God became personal, unlike my previous experiences with Him.

In one instant, my emotional roller coaster ended, as I experienced the inner peace of an intimate encounter with God. Finally, I can honestly say that I know I can trust God on the next roller coaster ride—because I now know He “is” good!

© 2009 Jenni Jordan All Rights Reserved

Jenni Jordan and her husband, Adam, live in Little Rock, Arkansas and have been married for almost 10 years, Jenni works part-time in the children's ministry of her church, but she devotes most of her time with her two children, Zach (3) and Jill (1). She also loves to spend time with her family and friends, and decorate her home, especially for every holiday.

Naptime

2009-02-26T16:39:00.000-08:00

“It’s almost naptime,” I announce as my toddler, Ethan, rubs his hazel green eyes with closed fists. Apple juice stains and a smeared banana dot his gray pullover shirt. His round, pink cheeks are sticky and wet. He lets out an exhausted squeal and frowns with arms outstretched. I kneel on one knee and pull him close.

One down. “You’re sleepy, aren’t you?” Firmly grasping the back of our jade green sofa, I slowly rise with a grimace, aware of the achy weakness in my lower back and hips. His twenty-five pound body twists and squirms in my left arm, as I maintain balance with my right. The pain subsides for a moment, as I rest on the barstool behind me.

I spot the white plastic box and pop open the top. Holding on to me firmly, Ethan curiously eyes my hand, as I reach in and pull out a wet cloth. He lets out a protesting screech, as I wipe the evidence of lunch from his face. A sigh of relief escapes his mouth when I finish. Then, I stand up, repositioning him on my left hip.

“Tell Aidan ‘night-night,’” I whisper. Their eyes meet, and the brothers share a grin. Aidan bolts from his relaxed position on the loveseat and dashes behind it, giggling. As I turn to walk into the nursery, I glance over my shoulder with a loving smirk at my lively three year old.

Ethan and I stare out of his bedroom window for a brief moment before closing the blinds and pulling a dark shade over the window. I hear a hound barking in the distance. Ethan points to the sound machine and says, “This?” I guide his tiny finger to the button, and he mashes down on it, kicking both legs with a squeak of delight. Crickets come alive in his bedroom, and his body begins to relax.

Reaching up onto a high shelf, I find his treasured pacifiers and clip one onto his shirt, as he grabs another with his chubby hand. His eyes almost roll back, as he takes it in his mouth and leans into my shoulder. Placing a gentle kiss in the center of his forehead, I whisper, “Night-night.” Then, I glide out of his bedroom, softly shutting the door behind me.

One to go. Two playful eyes peek at me around the corner of the living room entrance, but quickly disappear. Following the sound of padded footsteps, I stand before the loveseat, hands on my hips. Brief annoyance is overcome with an irresistible urge to grin at his mischievous snicker.

Regaining control of myself, I declare, “You have a choice, Aidan,” with as much sincerity as I can without cracking up. “You can walk to your room like a big boy, and we will read a story. Or I can carry you to your room, and we will have no story time.”

A frustrated grunt is followed by an expectant smile, “Okay. But can I watch a movie first?”

As we walk down the hall, I respond, “Maybe after naptime.”

“Can I have some hot milk?”

“You already had your milk.”

“Can I have some juice?”

“After naptime.”

Aidan climbs on his bed and frowns at me, “But Daddy says I can have some juice.”

“Mommy says you can have juice after naptime. Scoot over, so we can read a story,” I attempt to change the subject.

“Can I sit on you?” I nod in approval, as he crawls on my legs and squirms until he has found a comfortable position. He rubs the back of his head into my chest, and his blonde hair tickles my chin. I close my eyes, as I take in the scent of Lavender baby wash.

“Once upon a time…” Aidan is fascinated by the illustrations and words he has seen and heard at least a hundred times before. Again and again he points and asks, “What’s that?”

Before we know it, the last page is turned, and before I can say, “the end,” Aidan is begging for just one more story. I close the story book, and I roll him over onto his bed. “Let’s say a prayer,” I suggest.

“Let me do it,” Aidan insists eagerly. Then, squinting with wrinkled forehead wrinkled, he sneaks a peek at me out the corner of his eye. I pretend not to notice, and I wait for him to begin his prayer.

“Dear Jesus,” he begins emphatically, “Thank you for Daddy and Mommy and Miles and Ethan and Nonnie and Pop and Grandma Susie and Mary and Pepaw and Adam and Jenni and Zach and Robyn and Karl and baby Ross and Jenny in New York and all my friends and…and….Mommy and Daddy…Amen.”

Yawning, Aidan curls up on his side, and I cover him with a soft baby blue fleece blanket. His sky blue eyes glisten, and his pale skin glows in the light from his bedroom window. I take pleasure in sharing the few seconds of stillness that has momentarily overcome his tiny body.

I waked up! Gently standing and reaching for the blinds, I am startled by his sudden movement. Sitting straight up, an innocent voice announces, “I waked up! Can I have a prize?” I smile and tuck him back in.

“Night-night, Aidan.” I pull the shade over his window, and the room darkens. He is almost invisible under the covers. I press the button on the sound machine and listen to the familiar cricket song.

I tiptoe across the room and start to pull his door shut when I hear, “Um, Mommy?”

“Yes, Aidan?”

“Um, Mommy, I love you.”

My heart melts.

“I love you, too.”

©2006 Tara Jordan Ross All Rights Reserved.

Tara Jordan Ross holds a masters in gifted education and degrees in early childhood and special education. She lives in Little Rock with her husband, Jonathan, and four children (ages 1-16). Tara was a special education teacher for several years before deciding to stay home with her children. Besides managing a busy household, she also serves in the children’s ministry of her local church, and she enjoys writing about her experiences as a mother and teacher.

© 2006 Tara Jordan Ross photo “Naptime”

The Smartest Dad

2009-02-17T13:46:00.000-08:00

Debbie’s dad was smart, and that bothered me. I didn’t mind his intelligence so much as the idea he might be smarter than my dad. Neither man could be considered dull, since both were professors at the liberal arts college, keeping watch on the hill behind our suburban town.

Debbie was my best friend; but somehow I needed my dad to be smarter than hers. We were almost exactly the same age, and we looked so much alike that people often mistook us for sisters. That was fine with me. I loved Debbie. But I couldn’t stand the idea that others might think her dad was smarter than mine.

The Contest. The opportunity to prove my theory came at the annual spring elementary school carnival. That Friday night, various games of luck and/or concentration had been set up in the gymnasium. On one table sat a jar full of marbles. Whoever guessed closest to the correct number of marbles in the jar without touching it would receive a new Polaroid instant camera. Flocks of students and their parents gravitated to this table because of the camera. It was the hot, new electronic gadget of the year.

I believed if Dad won the camera, everyone would know he was the smartest dad in the whole school. The thought kept me tiptoeing around the room in anticipation of his turn to guess. At last, we stood in front of the table. Dad studied the jar. He crossed his arms. He shoved his glasses up onto the top of his head and squinted at the jar. He squatted to get on eye-level with the jar. When I thought my insides would bubble over at any second, Dad reached for a slip of paper to scratch out his answer with a stubby pencil he pulled from his shirt pocket.

“There,” he said as he stuffed the pencil back into his pocket. “That should do it. If I win the camera, I’ll give it to you, Kathy.”

The flutter in my stomach turned into a thump. Wow, my very own camera! And a Polaroid, too. “Do you think you’ll win?” I asked.

Dad took my hand, guiding me to another booth. “I don’t know, but I think I have a good chance,” he answered with a wink.

The Winner. We had to wait all the way to Monday for the winner to be announced. The child whose parent won would be called to the office to claim their prize and take it home. The conversation at recess and in the lunchroom was all about who might have won the camera. Some kids blew it off as unimportant, and some said it might be Debbie or even me.

As the tension built that day, arithmetic, which was always a challenge for me, became impossible. All the numbers blobbed up in my brain, and then they fell out in a jumble. But deep inside, I knew my dad never struggled with globbed-up numbers.

At last, the afternoon announcement came over the intercom. “And the winner of the marbles guessing game...”

My heart beat double-time.

“Bob McKinney.”

I almost fainted from the thrill. My dad had won! All the students in my room cheered. The teacher gave permission for me to leave, and I almost forgot to walk in the hall on my way to the office.

The Prize. I clutched the precious box all the way home on the bus, terrified I would drop it or lose it. This was more than the most coveted prize at the school carnival. It was proof that my dad really was the smartest dad.

Now that I’m a grown-up, I realize that while Dad was smart, what was more important was that he loved me. But the one who loves me most and created an earthly father for me was my heavenly Father. He's so smart that He...

· made the entire universe and everything in it;
· wrote a book, with no mistakes, that took over a thousand years to write;
· knows everything you or I think;
· came up with a plan to pay for my sin and yours;
· sent his son, Jesus, to die on the cross; and
· raised His Son from the dead.

My heavenly Father did all this because He made us and loves us and wants us to share forever with him. I really do have the smartest Dad.

© 2009 Kathryn Graves All Rights Reserved.

Kathryn Graves is a CLASS graduate and holds a B.A. in Psychology. Her published works include skits, articles, stories, and devotions. She anticipates the release of a Bible study, Beautiful Feet: A Day Spa for Your Soul, in mid-March and a story in a Hugs book, Bible Reflections for Women, in July. A pastor’s wife for over twenty-five years, Kathryn and her husband live in the Wichita, Kansas metro area. Contact Kathryn at Kathryn@KathrynGraves.com or visit her weblog at www.KathrynGraves.com.

© 2009 Tara Ross photo “Marble Jar”

Scooters, Bikes, and Wagons

2009-02-11T18:11:00.000-08:00

Long after Christmas trees were thrown into the local ponds for fish nesting, Miles still rode his new chrome scooter up and down the steep driveway with his friends. The toy temporarily made Miles a celebrity in the neighborhood, being the first kid on the block to have this particular type of two-wheeler. The bicycle was a close second, since it would take him around the block and over to his friends houses quickly.

Demolition Derby. What started as several of the second graders dragging one another around by tying a strap to the red wagon and pulling it with the bike, soon turned into “demolition derby” for them. Four little boys soon proved that no toy was sacred, and that “fun” outweighed safety and toy condition.

Jamie took the first turn. He pushed the bat-mobile up to the top of the forty-foot driveway, carefully aimed it at the bicycle and wagon below, and turned loose. Three seconds later, all four boys were on the ground rolling around and laughing. Fully expecting a fight or angry outburst, Miles’s grandfather eased to the front door to offer salve to the wrecked kids. By the time he arrived, another boy, Alex, had taken his place at the top of the driveway, and M.J. was headed down into the pile of toys and boys.

Cuts, Bruises, and Injured Egos. For four hours, this process was repeated again and again. While several bruises and cuts were evident, and several egos were slightly injured, the four boys discovered something about themselves that no adult understands. What they use their toys for may not be what the manufacturer intended, and a toy purchased for a much younger, or older, boy, can be altered and used for something much more fun.

A red wagon became a battering ram. An old tricycle evolved into a race car that would turn over and roll after colliding with a bicycle at the bottom of a hill. And a stack of boards, that were intended to be used as a “jumping ramp” for the bikes, was quickly converted to a target for a runaway car. Over and over again, the boards were stacked, the wagon mounted, and down the hill the tricycle went, scattering everything and everyone into the street.

End of an Era. When darkness came, and the streetlights came on, each of the boys retreated to the warmth of their homes. The encounter they had would not be repeated again in the same way. The next week, Jamie’s house had a rented U-Haul van in the driveway, and he was off to Dallas with his parents to seek a new life. Then the following week, M.J. was gone. While several witnessed the moving truck at his house, M.J. never told anyone about moving away. Miles even found his scooter parked in the grass outside his empty house the next week. It seemed so strange that M.J. would move away and leave his beloved scooter.

Today, it was just Alex and Miles on the scooters in the street. A fear of bad weather sent both boys scurrying into their homes, since a tornado watch had been issued. The truth was, it wasn’t as much fun as before. Some other storms had taken M.J. and Jamie away, and wherever they were now, at least they weren’t afraid of the tornado.

Scooters, bikes, and wagons. Such is the day of four little boys playing in the street on a cool winter day before life delivers its losses and gains. And before the toys are rusted and gone. And before everyone moves away.

© 2009 Jordan Family All Rights Reserved

The Treasure

2009-02-04T07:01:00.000-08:00

Maxine began our Sunday School class by announcing that she had prayed for each of us during week. “God impressed me to pray for each of you with a specific scripture.”

The Treasure. I waited anxiously to receive my scripture as Maxine walked around the classroom, giving each student a small slip of paper. She smiled as I looked up and reached out for my piece. Then, I looked around the room and observed everyone gently unfolding their paper, like priceless treasure maps. Everyone studied their own passage without a sound. So, I bowed my head and read these words in silence, “My soul finds rest in God alone; my salvation comes from him” (Psalm 62:1 NIV).

The Search. As I contemplated the passage, the words seemed to penetrate my heart and my mind. What does this scripture mean? And how does it apply to my life? Then, my thoughts turned to Maxine--the idea that God spoke to someone about me startled me. Does God really speak to people? And if He does, why would He speak to them about me? I’d never experienced that kind of communication with God, although I did desire it. But how can you hear the God of the universe? Does He have an audible voice? And does He require a special connection to hear from him?

The Discovery. Can one simple scripture change a person’s life? Yes. This one passage--given to me on a piece of paper torn out of Maxine’s journal--permeated my mind, my heart, and my soul. This defining moment changed the course of my faith as I began to dig for answers to the mysteries of my life in the Word of God, “…Christ, in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge” (Colossians 2:3).

“For the word of God is living and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart” (Hebrews 4:12).

Karen Jordan, writer/teacher/speaker, addresses topics about her faith and writing. Karen and her husband, Dan, live in Arkansas. They have two married children and six grandchildren. Find Karen’s website and blog at http://www.karenjordan.net/.

The Long Leash (by Tommy Barnes)

2009-02-02T12:35:00.000-08:00

There is a technique for training a dog, referred to as the “long leash.” There is nothing really complicated about using the tool or the concept. In addition, the technique is most effective on those strong-willed pets that fight your best intentions to keep them tethered.
The leash logically gets its name from the length, which normally is between 15 to 20 feet. It is equipped with a loop on one end for “the trainer” and a snap, swivel hook on the other end to connect to the dog’s collar.

The idea is for the trainer to hold the leash firmly with both hands against his chest, with the pet clipped to the other end, and simply begin walking. Most pets will briefly fight the leash, and then run out ahead of the trainer. As soon as the pet passes the trainer, the trainer immediately and abruptly reverses direction. This results in the pet receiving an unexpected and slightly painful “snatch,” when reaching the end of the leash.

The pet will then normally reverse direction and again run past the trainer. The trainer will then immediately reverse direction--with the pet receiving the same result. The sequence will continue for about 10 to 15 minutes before the pet realizes that the shock and pain of hitting the end of the leash is eliminated, by simply keep their eyes on the trainer. After about three or four of these short sessions, the trainer will notice that the pet will calmly walk alongside “the master.” While the pet’s eyes may not always be on the trainer, the pet becomes consciously aware that it hurts less to be in tune with the master’s movements.

Okay, you may ask, “What’s the point”? The analogy is fairly “straight forward” for my simple mind. Now I would ask you, “How often have you run out ahead of ‘your Master’?”

Anxious, impetuous, strong-willed intentions can sometimes put Christians out ahead of God’s perfect will. Christ will let you run to the end of your leash. However, you can remain assured that when you hit the end of your rope, you are still firmly in His grip.

© 2009 Tommy Barnes All Rights Reserved.

Gene T. ‘Tommy’ Barnes, is a Safety Professional with ExxonMobil, and addresses topics about his faith as viewed through work, family and hobbies. Tommy and his wife, Penny, live in Texas. They have three married daughters and four grandchildren.

BLESSED Journal

2009-02-01T17:16:00.000-08:00

BLESSED: Building Legacies. Encouraging Spiritual Stories. Equipping Disciples.

We created this new blog site for our BLESSED faith stories. I hope you will share your stories with our readers. We will still post writing prompts and our discussions about the writing process on our BLESSED DiaBlog site.

"Write down for the coming generation what the LORD has done, So that people not yet born will praise him" (Psalm 102:18 GNT).

Keep writing!