I M M A N U A L

“The Virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and they will call Him, Immanual – which means, God with Us.”

The uniqueness of His conception, the miraculous works of His hands, and His glorious resurrection from the dead reflect a Mighty God to whom nothing is Impossible.


This Mighty God is Our Redeemer, the Christ, Our Savior, the Messiah.


This Messiah is a compassionate and long-suffering Redeemer, who delights every day in showing us new Mercies.


This Redeemer is a Wonderful Counselor, by our side, pleading our case, our ever faithful Advocate.


This advocate is the Word of God, who became flesh and made his dwelling among us, to make us aware of our deepest Need.


This Word is the Lamb of God, who takes away our sin, so that with His Father we can be United.


This lamb is our Prince of Peace, who will never leave or forsake us and promises to give us grace in Abundance.


This Prince of Peace is the only begotten Son of the Everlasting Father, who was given, so that we can have Eternal Life.


This begotten Son is the one, who was to be called Immanual.

God With Us...Who right now, on our behalf is:

                 Working out the Impossible...

                   Performing the Miraculous…

                            Extending Mercy…

                  Interceding and Advocating…

                               Meeting Needs…

                               Building Unity…

                            Providing Abundantly…

   Lighting the Way to Everlasing Life.



                                                I M M A N U A L  .....  God Is With You!!!

Through It All

In a previous blog post, I said that I intended to blog more in the future.  Well, I certainly failed miserably at that good intention. 

When I left off last time, at the end of 2008, I had no idea what the next twelve months had in store.  I had anticipated hours of writing uplifting and encouraging tidbits throughout the year.  But I actually wrote, well, practically nothing!  I must confess that by the time the year ended, I felt neither uplifted, nor encouraged, only over-whelmed and grateful that 2009 was finally behind me. 

Having just acquired an Income Tax Practice from a colleague who decided to retire, I hit the ground running in 2009.  Now, while being able to purchase a business enterprise in a down-turn economic climate is certainly a blessing, buying a TAX business in December was just this side of insanity!  It was a bit like dashing to catch a moving train, then once aboard, jostling and tripping my way from engine to caboose while the train bumped relentlessly over the rails.

At the peak of "the season" on March 14th, the train was suddenly and unexpectedly derailed on a dark winding stretch of road by an under-the-influence driver intruding into my traffic lane.  The unavoidable collision resulted in my Honda spinning out and my transporation from the scene being put into the hands of 4 georgeous young men in fireman uniforms and 2 only slightly less georgeous ones with and ambulance.  Now, had I been 30 years younger and 50 pounds lighter, this predicament might have been quite delightful, but alas, I was not, so it was merely quite humiliating!

In the end, although my poor 12-year-old Civic was a total loss, no bones were broken, no internal injuries occurred, and not a single stitch was required.  The doctor said I was "lucky".  I disagree.  It was the hand of Jesus, not random "luck" that brought me through  virtually undamaged.

Then on April 15th, the closing day of "the tax season from stessville" my train was derailed again.  Another driver, apparently of the opinion that stopping for red lights is over-rated, ran one as I was crossing an intersection.  So, for the second time in a month (yes, a month!) I was giving license and insurance information to policemen.

It was the middle of the afternoon at one of the busiest corners in Hemet.  Thankfully, there were about a dozen witnesses to vouch for my innocence and to jot down the plate number of the guy as he sped away from the scene.  This time I was not alone.  My two young grandchildren, Alexander and Elizabeth, were in the rental-car with me.  Again, by the grace of God, none of us were hurt.  (At least not physically.  Psycologically though, I must say, never having to drive a car again would be Heaven!)

As a result of these two lovely vehicle mishaps, I spent the next 10 months fighting with the California DMV due to a snafu in clearing the title for my Honda and with Hertz-Rent-A-Car due to an even bigger snafu with their damage waiver coverage.  Both issues were eventually resolved, in my favor, but what a nightmare it had been getting there! 

In mid-May I traveled to Albuquerque, New Mexico, to attend my grandson's high school graduation.  (No, I did NOT drive there!  I may be just this side of crazy, but a death-wish I do not have!)  I went via Amtrac, which fortunately stayed on track all the way there and back. 

Joshua's graduation was pretty much the only bright spot of that otherwise rather bleak year.  I will always be eternally grateful that I was able to be there with him for it.

Now just in case two car accidents was not enough drama for one year, yet another train-wreck occurred in October.  My daughter's marriage, which had been troubled for a long time, fell completely apart.  Having been a single-mother for most of Leslie's life, I knew how difficult the road that lay ahead might prove to be for her.  In the end, we both agreed that the only reasonable choice was for us to move in together so that I could be more available to assist with the needs of her two children.

The logistics of working out such a living arrangement presented some unique obstacles.  (Like requiring us to move stuff and people 30 miles in 3 seperate stages.  Now that was fun!)  But, in spite of it all, by Christmas 2009 we were pretty much setled into a three-bedroom-two-story in Moreno Valley.

In retrospect 2010, although full to overflowing, seemed quite calm and uneventful.  For starters, we got through it without denting a single fender.  Thank God!

Tax season, although just as busy, went much more smoothly and was far less stressful than it had been the previous year.  Due no doubt, to my having been much more adaquately prepared going into it.  But then again, shaving over 50 miles a day from my commute probably didn't hurt either.

It has been a year of adjustments for all of us and we have come through it better than we were when it began.  That in itself would have been more than enough good fortune after the train-wreck of 2009.  But the year held one more fabulous blessing for me, Chicken Soup published another of my stories in "Chicken Soup for the Soul, Christmas Magic".

Through it All, God's Faithfulness has been great!  HE has sustained us! HE has provided all that we have needed! HE has given us unbelievable peace in the midst of it!  Could God have prevented some of it from happening?  Absolutely. Positively. Certainly.  But if HE had, would we have been so aware of HIS Help, of HIS Faithfulness, of HIS Deliverance, or of HIS Peace?!  I very much doubt it!

 For it is in trials and difficulties that the Grace of God is most clearly evident. 

 It is in the darkest places that His Light shines most brightly.   

 In times of utter uncertainty that His Truth speaks most loudly.

 In seasons of sorrow that His Joy is made perfect.

 And in violent storms that the deepest expression of His Peace is manifested.

Tea With Carol

My friend Carol, called me on Christmas Eve from her home in Dorset, England. As we spoke I was reminded of this piece I wrote a few years ago, in response to a call out for "Tea Lover" stories. Revisiting it again, brings back many delightful memories of my British buddy, whose warm tea and witty conversation I miss so very much.

I thought I was a tea drinker. Every day I consumed several glasses of that delightful beverage, iced, with a touch of sweetner. So I figured that made me a "tea lover". Then I met Carol.

Carol was from England. She had come to "the states" with her husband and young son and they began attending my church.

Carol was warm and witty, we quickly became close friends. Her husband, Chris was the on-site maintenance supervisor for an apartment complex down the street from our church. I lived on the other side of town. So the convenience of her location, coupled with her welcoming hospitality, made Carol's home a natural meeting place. I could regularily be found sitting in her dining room drinking tea.

Strong hot tea served with milk in sturdy mugs. With her British roots, Carol believed this was the only proper way to serve tea. Adding ice she said, was an insult to the leaves. Compounding this injustice by adding lemon was high-treason. To drink tea without a bit of milk in it, well, only uncivilized peasants did such a thing.

I was not in the habit of putting milk in my tea. Quite frankly I thought it tasted a little weird that way. I would, however, never have offended Carol by asking her to serve it otherwise.

I was unmarried, with a teenage daughter who usually worked on weekends. So, I was frequently invited to Sunday supper at Chris and Carol's home. These suppers introduced me to classic English dishes, like Bangers & Mash and Shepherd's Pie. They also reflected how quickly Carol was becoming a fan of our typical American food fare. She was especially fond of pizza topped with ground beef & pineapple. Which she ate, in proper British fashion, with a knife and fork.

Carol loved baking savory desserts. These were leisurely consumed with pots of tea, on her patio, accompanied by lively conversation and hearty laughter.

I repaid Carol's gastronomic hospitality by chaufferuring her. Carol hated driving in America. Our California freeway system terrified her and she assiduously avoided it. She consistently sought alternate routes and traveled back roads even when doing so took her miles out of her way. So, whenever possible, I would drive for her. Always upon returning her safely home, regardless of the time, she invited me in for a cup of tea. Carol believed that anyone who boldly navigated the treacherous minefield we call a highway needed "bracing up" afterward.

In Carol's eyes, hot milky tea was more than just a thirst quenching drink, it was comfort in a cup. She lit the flame under her copper kettle on hot summer afternoons, as readily as she did on cold winter nights.

When Carol began publishing a church newsletter, I became convinced that her teabags had a supernatural ability for bringing out latent creativity in people. Her vision was to get as many members of our congregation involved in the newsletter as possible. She wanted a "family" paper that everyone related to and felt part of.

To accomplish this, she invited people over to her apartment for a "cuppa" tea. As they sat sipping the steaming brew, friends who did not even know they possessed such talents, were soon drawing cartoons, writing poetry, sharing stories, telling jokes, and jotting down recipes for publication in her monthly paper.

Carol's tea also seemed to have greenhouse properties. Lukewarm tea offended her taste-buds. She could not tolerate her guests drinking it. If her own cup sat long enough to cool off, she gathered up everyone's mugs and poured the contents into her many flower pots. Everything Carol "potted" from philodendrons to orchids flourished. Her patio was shaded by a plethora of leafy-green plants and cacti that she had rescued, restored, or rejuvenated with TLC and a "spot of tea."

Seven years after their arrival in California, a series of circumstances made it necessary for Chris and Carol to return to England. As we packed up belongings she was taking with her and yard saled items she could not take, we shared our last cups of tea together. Those were bittersweet days of reflecting on fun times we would no longer have and looking forward to good things awating her "across the pond".

Our tea got salty as we cried out our final hours together. As I hugged her good-bye, I promised to fly over soon and visit her.

After Carol left, I stopped putting milk in my tea. Even though I had acquired a taste for drinking it that way, I could never seem to get it quite right on my own. Perhaps it needed her British touch to steep properly. Maybe it was simply the company I drank it with that made the difference.

I haven't yet been able to fulfill my parting promise to Carol, but I am eagerly looking forward to the opportunity of doing so. I can think of nothing that would give me more pleasure than once again sharing a hot milky cup of tea with Carol.

Mom's Poinsettias

Mom loves poinsettias. Every Christmas we had them in the house. They were as much a part of our holiday tradition as tinsel and stockings. From the beginning of Advent through the Feast of Epiphany, their red leaf-like blooms greeted us warmly as we came in on cold evenings.

By Valentine's Day the cheerful blossoms had all dropped off and the coffee table held sorry looking stems in faded pots. Dad kept trying to throw them away. Mom, the staunch defender of the pitiful poinsettia, would argue for the plant’s right to bloom again.

“It isn’t dead” she would tell him, “It’s dormant. If we just keep it watered, it will come back to life in the fall.”

So there the ugly thing would sit, gathering dust, until Dad could sneak it out of the house. He usually accomplished this by sometime in July.

This battle of the “lobster flower” went on until the Christmas I was in eighth grade. That was the year that the fate of Mom’s poinsettias was forever altered.


That holiday season there was an epidemic of red leafiness in our living room. It seemed like everyone who came over to offer us a bit of holiday cheer, brought one of the little darlings with them. Each time a new plant appeared, I could hear Dad quietly groan.

By the time the tree was taken down and the ornaments stored away for another year, there were more than half a dozen droopy looking poinsettias gracing the coffee table. Seeing Dad eyeing them deviously, Mom must have sensed she had no hope of holding on to her hoard, without a good survival plan. A few days later, she found one.

The previous summer, my parents had moved us to a new house on a corner lot. As Mom surveyed the large front yard with her botanical eye, she noticed a patch of dirt between the porch and the ivy bed.

“Here,” she boldly announced, “We will plant the poinsettias.”


“What?” replied Dad, somewhat taken aback.


“The poinsettia plants in the living room. I want to plant them, right here.” Mom retorted, in the voice she used when responding to some dim-witted question from one of her children.

“Just imagine how festive and welcoming the house will look when they start blooming again.”

Now Dad was a smart man who knew when he was licked. Shaking his head, he wandered off to find a shovel in the garage as Mom dispatched my sister and me to the house to collect the poinsettias.

Dad was not the handy-man type. Anything remotely resembling a DIY project tended to make him cranky. After a few attempts at “turning the earth” he irritatingly exclaimed, “This soil is too hard to plant anything in.”

Undaunted, Mom sent my little brother for the hose. Quite some time later, after saturating the soil with water, the bedraggled poinsettias were successfully planted.

As Mom stood joyfully admiring her yuletide garden, Dad, having had enough of the whole business disappeared with a newspaper under his arm.

“It will be so beautiful next Christmas?” she gushed euphorically.

By the following Thanksgiving, we realized that Mom’s vision had merit. The once naked stems aligning the front porch began blooming. Just as she had predicted, the house took on a more festive appearance that Christmas.

Mom’s poinsettia patch grew as new plants were added every January.

The winter that my brother was deemed old enough to wield the shovel, brought as much ecstasy to Dad as that first planting had given Mom.

About fifteen years later, Dad retired, the house was sold and my parents moved into a condo. Without Mom’s perennial garden greeting us as we came home, the holiday season lost a little gaiety. We all stopped giving her poinsettias for Christmas.

Now it was December, 1993. I had not thought about Mom’s yuletide plants for a long time. Dad had passed away eight months earlier, after a two-year bout with cancer. I was having a hard time getting into the holiday spirit.

I decided to focus all my energy into making Christmas merry for the youngest members of my extended family. Hoping this would somehow, vicariously infuse my own heart with a bit of cheerfulness.

The baby, Bridget, my little namesake, was only four months old. A few stuffed animals and teething toys would do for her. Sean, aged seven and Joshua, just turning three, were obsessed with Ninja Turtles and Power Rangers. Finding action figures and transformers for them was not difficult.

It was my five year old niece, Amanda who was posing a problem. Mandi had lived with my parents since she was a toddler. She and Dad had a particularly close bond. His passing had been confusing and painful for her. I was convinced that the “perfect” gift would make her little heart feel better.

>Mandi loved Cabbage Patch Babies.She was especially partial to the little boy ones. So, Aunty Bridge decided that was what she should have. The Cabbage Patch craze had died down by then, but even at its peak, BOY babies had been hard to find.

I spent weeks searching everywhere I could think of for one. I had been to no less than twelve shopping malls in four cities, without any luck. Now, Christmas was only a few days away. I was running out of time, yet I couldn’t seem to give up the hunt.

Driving across town to see if Toys-R-Us had gotten any since I last checked there, I found myself in familiar territory. Stopping for a red light, I could see the corner-lot house just ahead. As I pulled forward I saw them, Mom’s poinsettias. They had grown taller in the intervening years and their leafy red blossoms engulfed the front porch in radiant, cheerful welcome.

Part of me wanted to hurry past them, to look the other way. But, they drew me, like a honeybee to sweet nectar. I found myself pulling over to the curb for a better view.

Turning off the ignition, I sensed Dad’s presence. His down-to-earth, common-sense voice seemed to be speaking to my troubled heart. “Finding that doll won’t bring me back.” The tears that I had been holding back for weeks erupted like exploding champagne bubbles.

I do not know how long I sat there sobbing out my grief, as memories of Dad and past Christmas celebrations flooded my heart. Nor do I remember what I ultimately gave Mandi as a gift that year.

I do, however, recall buying a poinsettia later that day and placing it on my coffee table, where it proudly sat, until my daughter tossed it out on the Fourth of July.

The Uniform

The other day Alex was playing with a group of kids from the local Catholic school. They were all wearing Red Polo Shirts, Brown slacks, and White tennis shoes. I couldn't believe it. Polo shirts! Slacks on the girls! And Tennis Shoes! How trendy is that! Could they truly call those uniforms!?

I too, went to Catholic School and I wore a uniform, long before it was fashionable or commonplace. The uniform consisted of a green and gray plaid v-neck jumper, white blouse with a peterpan collar, a dumb little beanie, and saddle oxfords.

I was expected to hang up the jumper as soon as I got home each afternoon, so it could be worn again. I never really understood that hanging up ritual though, because it was impossible to wrinkle those plaid skirts. I knew this to be true, because I did everything I could to mess it up.

I stuffed it into my sock drawer. I carelessly tossed it onto the closet floor. I rolled it up into a ball and used it as a pillow. But no matter what I did, the minute I put it on, it took on an “Oh my, how much starch did you use?” appearance. That jumper was the most wrinkle-defying garment ever produced on a sewing machine.

Looking so crisp and tidy annoyed me. I was convinced that trekking off to school in a more rumpled state would make me feel less conspicuous beside the neighborhood girls who got new clothes every September. But, I wouldn’t have minded spending my entire elementary career in the same dress so much if I could have worn something besides a plain white blouse under the jumper.

“I think all the stinky bleach you moms are using to make our shirts so blinding white is warping our brains." I complained to my mother. "I mean really! Our classroom smells like the Hunt Park swimming pool all the time! Do you mom's really think it’s healthy for kids to be sniffing so much chlorine?”

Getting no response, I continued on, “Don't you guys think it would be safer to let us wear colored shirts that don’t need any bleach instead? What’s the big deal with white anyway?”

“The big deal,” she replied icily, “Is that little girls should do as they are told and not be so impertinent.”

At that point I knew I was licked. To pursue my argument in favor of aquamarine and lavender blouses would have landed me in my room, with my rosary, praying for deliverance from my rebellious vanity.

The beanie I had to wear was a nuisance. It was sort of diamond shaped and matched my jumper. It had a thin plastic band sewn into the front seam that was supposed to keep it on my head. But, the band was so fragile that it rarely survived one semester of hop scotch and dodge ball recesses. So every morning I had to hunt up bobby-pins to secure the annoying little thing to my pixie-cut hair.

But the absolute worst thing about that uniform was the saddle oxfords. I hated those clunky black and white shoes. “Why, can’t we wear Hushpuppies?” I whined to my dad. I loved Hushpuppies. They were cool looking and lightweight, and best of all, they never had to be polished.

“Just think of all the money we could save if we weren’t buying gallons of shoe polish every minute of our lives!” I exclaimed to my thrifty father every time I sat down to cover my latest crop of scuff marks.

“Polish doesn’t cost much and no one ever died from shining a few shoes.” was his usual response to my gripping, which pretty much closed the Hushpuppy discussion.

But I wonder. Did the trauma of wearing ugly shoes and boring dresses cause me lingering psychological damage? Did I grow up with complexes and phobias because I wasn’t allowed to make my own wardrobe choices? Did wearing the same outfit to school for years stifle my creativity and cause me to become unable to think for myself?

Oh, I know that uniform made me stand out. It set me apart and spotlighted me as being different from the public school girls I grew up around. But, was that a bad thing? Our current cultural philosophy demands that we tread carefully, so that no one’s self- esteem is stepped on. But, is healthy self-esteem dependant upon us getting every silly thing we want or on our being exactly like everyone else?

Looking back on my Catholic School experience, I can truly appreciate what a blessing it was to grow up in an environment that stressed the importance of honoring God, respecting authority, and living within defined boundaries. Those things have served me well in the forty plus years that have passed since I donned that jumper.

Wearing a uniform to school didn’t scar me for life. It didn’t cause me to feel deprived or abused. It didn’t rob me of my individuality or my creative spark. My dreams are not haunted by plaid monsters in black and white loafers.

In fact, if the truth be told, I miss the boring old thing. Wearing a uniform would simplify my life. It would free me from the daily ritual of choosing what to wear. It would eliminate the bother of matching tops with bottoms. It would save the hassle of shopping at the mall. That uniform was a dependable friend who served me well. I hope there is a garment heaven where my plaid jumper is enjoying a peaceful retirement.

Gregg and The Lakers

Gail C. Goodrich -- Basketball Hall of Famer -- Enshrined 1996.

In spite of the fact that Gregg spent most of his young life with a basketball in his hand, neither I nor any of my sisters, can put our hands on a picture of him actually holding one,

so alas, Mr. Goodrich's photo will have to suffice.

A couple years ago, Chicken Soup for the Soul did a call-out for "Basketball Lovers" stories. Well, I personally couldn't give a rip about the game, but those two words brought immediately to mind a person in my life who truly fit the bill as a "basketball lover".

Chicken Soup didn't publish the story, but I had fun writing it, and thought someone out there...like maybe my mother or my brother might enjoy reading it so...

Before Shaq, before Magic, before Kareem, the Los Angeles Lakers were already setting National Basketball Association records. One of their loudest and most loyal fans was my little brother, Gregg. It was the late 1960’s. LA jersey’s sported names like (13) Chamberlain, (44) West, (25) Goodrich, (52) Hairston, and (22) Baylor.

My brother’s bedroom walls were decorated with NBA posters. Shoeboxes in his closet held dozens of basketball cards. There was Lakers insignia on his pajamas, his sheets, his pillowcases, and his blanket. He slept with his arm wrapped around his basketball like it was a teddy bear.

All Gregg ever talked about was the Lakers. Our family meals were peppered with play-by-play commentary on the latest court exploits of Mr. Clutch, Stumpy, The Stilt, and Happy. Gregg’s recitals became particularly passionate and animated during play-off seasons. After one of his long-winded tirades on slam-dunks, rebounds, and personal fouls, I rolled my eyes and retorted sarcastically, “Who keeps inviting Chick Hearn to dinner? Don’t they have potatoes at HIS house or what?” Which got me rather abruptly excused from the table and dubbed my poor brother “Little Chickie” behind his back, for the remainder of his young life.

Growing up surrounded by five sisters, Gregg’s preoccupation with basketball probably provided the outlet he needed to escape his female infested world. I am pretty sure that my father saw it as such; for he did everything he could to encourage my brother’s obsession with the game. Dad’s personal sports preference was baseball, not basketball, but nevertheless, he spent hours sitting with Gregg in front of the television cheering the Lakers to victory.

When my brother was nine or ten, Dad put a netted hoop on the garage so Gregg could practice shooting free-throws. My bedroom was right next to the driveway. As a consequence, every morning of my junior high years, I was awakened at dawn by the incessant thumping of his ball being dribbled on the concrete and banged against the wooden backboard. I found this habit of “Jerry West Junior” beyond annoying and was not bashful about saying so. But my protests went unheeded and Gregg continued to get up with the sun and shoot hoops outside my window.

When he was in the fifth grade Gregg could rattle off statistics on half the players in the NBA, but couldn’t remember that four times nine was thirty-six and three times eight was twenty-four. So my father, being a rather resourceful man, devised a way of using basketball stats to teach multiplication to my brother. I don’t recall exactly how he went about it, but it was very effective. Before long Gregg could recite times tables as effortlessly as he could spout Chamberlain’s scoring average and Baylor’s assist record.

When Gregg was about eleven years old, a family friend treated him to a live Lakers game at the Forum. Getting up close and personal to the objects of his affection was the highlight of my brother’s life. From the moment he walked through the gate and found his seat in the bleachers, Gregg was drunk with euphoria. When the Lakers walked onto the court, he was mesmerized. He watched every play as if his life depended upon the outcome of that game.

Being in the presence of Lakers greatness so overwhelmed Gregg that for the first couple hours after he returned home he couldn’t even speak about it. Although once he did start talking, even the Boston Celtic’s couldn’t have shut him up.

“I can’t believe how tall Wilt is in REAL life!”
“Can you believe West didn’t miss a SINGLE free-throw!”
“It was SO cool. You could SMELL the SWEAT on their foreheads!”
“Goodrich waved back AT ME!”

Gregg esteemed the entire Lakers Club, but Gail Goodrich was his personal hero. At just over six feet tall, Goodrich was the shortest player on the team. My brother, being rather small of stature in those days himself, was inspired by Gail’s accomplishments and aspired to be just like him. His desire to emulate his hero was so consuming that Gregg, who was right-handed, began developing the use of his left hand because Goodrich was a “lefty”. He did this so effectively, that by the time he was in high school, Gregg was fully ambidextrous and now, four decades later, he is predominately left-handed.

In the winter of 1971, Gregg was in junior high and LA was winning every game they played. In January, when the Milwaukee Bucks ended the Lakers record breaking thirty-three game streak, my brother was devastated. I don’t know for certain of course, but I would be willing to bet, that Gregg shed more tears on that day than the entire Lakers bench.

By the time my brother started high school he had shot up to a respectable basketball playing height of six feet, four inches. He still loved the game, but began to realize he had no outstanding talent or extraordinary gifts that would get him noticed by college scouts. Gradually, he gave up his dream of playing for the NBA.

Gregg is still a loyal LA Lakers fan, although he isn’t quite so loud about it anymore. A pack-rat by nature, he still has most of the basketball memorabilia he collected as a youngster. When I talked to him about writing this story, I told him that he owes me one for putting up with all of those crack-of-dawn wake-up calls he subjected me to. I am thinking his Lew Alcindor and Earvin Johnson rookie cards should just about cover it.

Oh how I wish I had time to Blog,

It seems I am walking in a Fog.

Too tired to write,

Too weary to fight.

I do each day what must be done,

and try to grab a few moments of fun.

It seems I've been tired for a very long time,

I'm amazed I can still find words that rhyme.

So much has happened in the past year,

Much to rejoice for, much to fear.

In the midst of it all, the Lord has been with me,

Holding me up and setting me free.

Although the road has been quite rough,

God has provided grace enough.

His Joy has kept me from giving up,

Even when there's nothing in my cup.

His peace is sustaining me through it all,

Even on days when I hit the wall.

When I think I can't take another step,

Or times when I feel completely inept.

His voice keeps telling me not to quit,

For He is going to bring good from it.

"Keep holding on my child, you will see,

That NOTHING is impossible for ME."

In the Lord's hands, I will be all right,

And I have taken this moment to write,

To let you know that for you too,

God is there to get you through.

His grace and mercy He will bring,

To help you overcome everything.

Whatever giant, flood, or fire,

No matter if your fate seem dire.

He is there with Mercy and HOPE,

To provide the Grace you need to Cope.

Lovingkindness toward you, He longs to show,

The depth of His love, He wants you to know.

"You are a shield around me, O Lord; you bestow glory on me and lift up my head. To the Lord I cry aloud, and He answers me from His holy hill. I lie down and sleep; I wake up again, because the LORD sustains me...From the Lord comes deliverance." Psalm 3:3-5, 8.

MAY HIS BLESSINGS REST UPON YOU.

One...At a Time.

My house was a wreck! For several weeks my two young grandchildren had been at my home more than they had been at their own. On the days when they had not been there, I was working twelve hour days, an hour away from home. So, I had been too busy to notice that my house was a wreck. But on Saturday, I had a free morning. There was no place I HAD to be and no grandkiddies that needed tending to. As I looked around with an unoccupied eye, I could clearly see “the wreck.”

I went into the kitchen to put turn on the coffee pot and there was a sink full of rinsed, but unwashed dishes and something sticky spilled on the floor. In the living room there was a make-shift bed made up from every available blanket in the house where my grandson had slept a couple of nights before. All twenty-two of Alexander’s “Thomas the Tank Engine” Videos appeared to be scattered, unrewound under the TV cabinet and their empty cases were strewn all over the room.

As I walked across the dining room, I stepped on one of Elizabeth’s blankets. It crunched! I picked it up. She had apparently dumped an entire bowl of goldfish crackers out and tossed a blanket over them. “Are one-year-old children truly capable of making booby-traps for unsuspecting grandmas to fall into?” I asked myself. Her older brother had dumped what appeared to be an entire box of Cheerios onto his wooden railway track to represent an avalanche. AVALANCHE is Right!! There were Cheerios and Goldfish Crackers everywhere!

There were more books on the floor in front of the bookcase than in it. The six empty toy bins testified to the fact that their usual occupants were lying all over the house like so many uninvited cousins form Milwalkee who won’t go home. The balcony was strewn with empty iced tea cans and water bottles that had to be bagged up for recycling.

The dining table was covered with a various sundry collection of stuff like unopened mail, homework, Goldfish Cracker and Cheerio boxes. “If they are going to DUMP them out…why, oh why can’t they THROW them out?” I sighed. There was also a pile of work papers that got put up there because if I leave them on the computer table and Elizabeth finds a crayon lying around, she will mistake them for stretched canvas and scribble all over them.

The bedroom looked like someone with a dirty laundry gun had emptied a round of ammunition onto the floor on one side of the bed and a shipment from “Stuffed Creatures International” had been dropped on the other side. My Journals, which had been neatly stacked on a shelf, had apparently been attacked by a “toddler tornado” because they were untidily spread around underneath my desk. And the bathroom…well, we won’t even GO THERE!!

I poured a cup of coffee, sat down at my cluttered desk, shook my head, and said to myself, “It’s all just too much, even if I spend ALL day cleaning up, I probably won’t get it done and it’s just going to get messed up again tonight when they come back over, anyway. Maybe I’ll just pretend that the maid is coming in next week and ignore the whole darn mess.”

I started to get up and knocked a notebook off the desk with my elbow. As I bent over to pick it up, a quotation I had jotted down on the opened page caught my eye. “Every journey is accomplished ONE step at a time. Don’t stop now.” Whoa! I sat back down and scanned the rest of the page.

The quote was part of a lesson I was preparing for an upcoming Middle School Youth Class that I was teaching. I was planning to stress the importance of some note-worthy one person contributions to society in hopes of showing them how significant they are as individuals.

After the quote, I had written: “Mountains are climbed one foot at a time. Marathons are run one kilometer at a time. Symphonies are composed one note at a time. Novels are written one word at a time. Graduation happens on class at a time. Skyscrapers are built one floor at a time. Wars are won one battle at a time.” "And"...I sighed, “Houses are cleaned…”

I set the notebook down and walked into the kitchen with my now empty coffee mug. I opened the dishwasher and started loading it, one plate at a time. Pretty soon the sink was empty and the dishwasher was humming away.

I decided to tackle the videos next. After sitting for what seemed like forever on the floor in front of the TV rewinding, resleeving, and reshelving Thomas and his friends the overwhelming feeling of not being able to get it all done began to fade. As I started tossing hot wheel cars, action figures, and musical toddler gadgets (Why do all their toys make NOISE?) into their respective now-not-so-empty bins, I began to realize that I actually might be able to make a major dent in the mess.

So, maybe I wouldn’t get it ALL done in ONE morning, but I could sure get some of it finished if I just did what I could. Winston Churchill once said, “Wars are not won by evacuations.”

“And”, I mused, “Houses are not put in order by running off to the mall.”

My Way Back

I felt disconnected from life, from loved ones, even from God. Although there were always other people around, I felt isolated and alone. When had this overwhelming weariness started? How long had this feeling of utter emptiness been here? Where had this unbearable burden of hopelessness come from? How long had I been living with this debilitating depression that had stolen all my joy? I wondered if I would ever again find rest for my soul.

Wait! I am a Christian. A follower of Almighty God. I am not supposed to be DEPRESSED! I am supposed to walk in “Peace that Surpasses Understanding” and “Faith that Moves Mountains”. I am supposed to be “More than a Conqueror” who rises above and overcomes and stands in victory. So what is the matter with me?

I know, I will talk my way out of it! Everyone knows that I could win a marathon with my mouth. I will tell anyone who will listen about the faithfulness and goodness of the Lord. I will go on and on about the wonderfulness of God’s mercy and about how His grace gives strength to overcome temptation. Surely speaking the truth to others will convince my own heart!

Whoa! Why is this not working? Why is my heart still empty and unsatisfied? Why do my words of encouragement to others return as nothing but a blaring gong to my own ear?

I know, Prayer is the Answer! Good old reliable prayer. That marvelous weapon for fighting everything from poverty to pride! Surely prayer will deliver me! I will beg. I will plead. I will bargain with the Father in the Name of the Son. It has to work!

So, where is the consolation? Why is my heart still so heavy? Is this chasm of pain so deep that even God's voice cannot penetrate it? Perhaps the Lord has grown so weary of my complaints that He is not listening anymore. Maybe God just does not care!

Wait, don't go there! God has to care! The Scriptures say so and they cannot lie. Ah, the Bible, that is the ticket! The Anointed Word of God. It has guided me through over two decades of trials and tribulations with its Wisdom. Surely God's Word holds the truth that will set me free!

Oh dear, something is wrong! I cannot bring myself to open the Bible. It is after all, a two-edged sword. What if all I can find are passages that convict and heap burning coals of condemnation on my head? What if I read twenty chapters and nothing stirs my spirit? I know, I’ll read Psalms! Surely, that will help. All those people crying out to God in their despair, boy can I relate! But what if entering into all that weeping and worrying just makes me more depressed? No, I cannot risk that, better not open the book, what would be the point?

Maybe I should just give up. Maybe there are no answers. Maybe deliverance is just a myth. Maybe I am to exhausted to care anyway.

And yet, in spite of my physical weariness and my emotional barrenness, there is something…deep within my spirit that refuses to throw in the towel. A tiny seed of FAITH, planted by the hand of the Father, nurtured by the love of the Savior, and so deeply rooted by the Spirit of God that it refuses to be chocked out. A kernel of HOPE that refuses to be silenced, crying out to the Almighty, “Help Me Find the Way--Lead Me Back to You!”

“The Way Back” did not come in a lightening bolt of revelation. It wove its way subtly, over many weeks, through the love and concern of my brothers and sisters in Christ.

It came through Russ and Sandi, whose council I have not always appreciated, but have consistently found to be so rich in Godly Wisdom that it is foolishness not to heed it.

It came through Diana and Sandra, who never shy away from telling me what God has shown them, good or bad, concerning me, always sharing this truth with loving compassion.

It came through Pastor Jim, who graciously accepts me, just as I am, even when I am unlovable and breaking his shepherd’s heart.

It came through Rosie, Mary, and Malinda, who all go out of their way to pull me aside and dare me not to return their hugs, even when my walls are up or I am buried in my shell.

It came through Asneth, whose friendship and eagerness (yes eagerness!) to help me care for Alexander are more precious than gold.

It came through Videll, who won’t let me duck out the back door if he feels I need prayer.

It came through Susan, whose steadfast faith in the midst of the most shattering trial strengthened my own faith more then she will ever realize.

It came through Reverand Bob, whose words testify to the glory of God every time he opens his mouth to speak.

It came through Bill, leading me through worship every Sunday morning into the presence of the Lord where my soul found refreshment that enabled me to keep going, no matter how heavy the burden was.

It came through Gale whose quick wit and unconventional perspective of common things, generate laughter that brings more healing power than any medicine ever could.

It came through Ariel, who despite his own apprehensions and insecurities, helped relieve my burdens by taking over leadership of the Youth Ministry and through Amy who jumped in to fill the gap that my stepping down from that leadership left. Watching God work through them reminded me that the Lord is able to take care of whatever we release to Him and enabled me to let go of other things that I held to tightly.

It came through the Youth. The High School girls, Britney, Rachael, Bethany, Jena, and Cheniece who constantly encouraged me and reminded me that I am cared about. Through the Junior High Kids who shared their hearts with me, trusting me with their questions even when I was ill prepared. These young people, all of them, have taught me far more than I will ever teach them.

It came through Keith, Bobby, John, and Jim who go out of their way to help me with dumb stuff I cannot handle, like flooded carpets, locked up keys, and broken windows.

It came through other "moms" who helped ease the stress of caring for a perpetual-motion-three-year-old by watching him once in a while so that I could sit down and finish a cup of coffee.

“The Way Back” came through my church family, in so many ways, as they function one with another in the Love of Christ. They prayed with me. They cried with me. They were gracious to me even when I was not so gracious in return. I will never be able to thank them enough for the loving kindness they have shown me.

I write these words today, with overwhelming gratitude in my heart to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, For it is His tender mercy that gave me the undeserved privilege of sharing fellowship with believers who truly understand what it means to be Servants of the Lord.

Indoor Snow Storm

The story you are about to hear is true. The names have not been changed to protect the innocent, because quite frankly, all the characters in it are guilty. It happened in the summer of 2006 and in April of 2007 I re-created some of the messier parts to accomodated a slide show presentation that I created for a talent-show program at my church using this story. (Picture is from that Slideshow)

Alexander was bored. At least that is what he told me. He was watching a DVD and playing with his “Thomas” Train. He looked pretty busy to me, but nevertheless, he insisted that he was bored. I asked him what would make him, “Not bored”. He said, “Do you have any flour, Gramma?” This question was prompted by the fact that a year or so earlier I had given him a small bag of flour which he dumped all over his wooden railroad to represent snow. It had been a horrendous pain to clean up, so I have conveniently NOT had any flour ever sense.

When I told him that I was sorry, I didn’t have any flour, he whined, “But, Gramma, I need some snow for the Island of Sodar.” (Now for those of you who have never been around five-year-old boys let me help you out a bit, the Island of Sodar is where Thomas the Tank Engine and his Friends live.)

“Well,” I replied, “The paper in my shredder looks kind of like snowflakes, you can use that if you want to.” He wanted to!

A few minutes later he asked me if I would help him drop the snow down on the tracks. I started to do so, but he got all upset and told me that I was, “Doing it all WRONG!” After several minutes of his berating me because I wasn’t simulating the snowfall, EXACTLY like he wanted, I had had enough. I tossed a handful of shredded paper at him and told him to do it himself, if he was going to be so picky about how it got done.

Well, that ticked him off. He picked up a great big handful of homemade snowflakes and flung it at me with all of his kindergarten might. So, I took another handful and set it on top of his head. He responded by telling me I was being “annoying” and hurled another handful my way.

About this time, his baby sister decided that she wanted a piece of the action, so she grabbed up a tiny handful of confetti and tried to throw it. All it did was drop onto her feet in front of her, but nevertheless, she squealed in delight like she had just thrown one out of the park.

The unbridled joy, our little toddler displayed in her bungling attempt at simulated snowball fighting, struck Alex and me as the funniest thing we had ever seen. We both laughed, which elicited another gleeful squeal from his charming sister.

After that the craziness really took off. Alexander put a handful of paper on my head, I put one on Elizabeth’s and pretty soon the three of us were tossing snow all over the place as we giggled in ecstasy.

This went on for half an hour or so, and then Alex decided that it would be fun to build a mountain. He and I started gathering up bunches of shredded paper and forming them into a pile. Just when it was starting to resemble a miniature replica of the Matterhorn, Elizabeth decided she was going to kick it down. She attempted to, missed completely, and fell flat on her diapered bottom. Once again, the three of us broke out in hysterics! Alex, who was in a rather precarious crouching position, laughed so hard that he lost his balance and fell forward, right into the middle of the confetti mountain.

I was sitting there, with tears running down my cheeks, wishing I had a camcorder, because what was going on in my living room was way more hilarious than stuff I have seen win the ten grand on America’s Funniest Videos.

By the time we ran out of steam, my house looked like the aftermath of hurricane Katrina. It took three hours to clean up the mess, and I’m not sure my Hoover is ever going to forgive me, but the sheer simple pleasure we derived by breaking out of the mold to do something wild and crazy together was so worth it! We had made a wonderful memory, and Alexander wasn’t bored anymore.