Day 28 Loving and learning to let go - a mom's journey

When my children were young, our schedules were defined by their sports seasons. Summer, spring, winter fall their interests defined my life. I have always felt so lucky to have children. To me the fact that you get pregnant, carry the baby while it grows is so wonderful. My first child I went through the pregnancy without a father there but I so enjoyed the whole process. I can remember my dear mother driving from Auburn once a week to visit me in Tacoma. We'd go shopping, go out to lunch just have a fun time week after week. One beautiful late fall morning, she came to visit. Having got more and more pregnant she got anxious for the baby to be born. I can remember her visiting and taking me shopping and insisting we walk, walk, walk.
Later that day the labor started and off I went to the hospital. In those days Tacoma General apparently was short staffed. The one on-call doctor would be a while getting there so they gave me something to slow the labor down. My parents drove from Auburn and through the night we waited until finally the small, red crying baby girl was born.

I will forever remember those first moments of getting to hold that small, live bundle of joy.

The next day or so in the hospital I learned how to bathe and feed this small wonder. The morning of my discharge it seemed absolutely incredible to me that they let you take the baby home. I realize that's dumb, but for me it just seemed impossible something as absolutely incredible as getting to keep a baby could happen to me.

Later on in my life, I would be blessed three more times. Each time the wonder of it astounded me. How lucky I have been to be a mother. I have always told my children that no matter what, having them is one thing I will never, ever regret, I feel truly blessed. With the motherhood came the responsibility to see my children didn't miss the opportunity to do as many things as they could. As they grew, I became a Little League mom, a swim team mom, a basketball mom. It seemed as if the practices, games were never-ending. One sesaon, I had three different children in three different Little League teams. A single parent, my life consisted of taking kids to school or daycare, working, rushing back to take kids to practice, pick kids up from practice and fix dinner, check homework and do chores. It was a busy, busy time in my life. The memories are there to treasure as I grow older and my times of being the delivery mom wind down.

I tell my clients at the treatment center where I work, "There are many things in my life that I may regret, but giving my children time has never, and will be never one of them." As the children age, leave home, struggle, succeed and have their own lives they don't always remember all the times of here and there and everywhere they needed to go. That's ok, because now in the late season of my own life is when I remember my own mother taking me to piano practice, picking my up from Girl's Club, or tennis practice, or an afterschool game. It is that heritage of wanting our children to have the chance to experience life and all it has to offer. As adults, we know that in every life the dark times will come; that is the story of life. You are either coming out of a crisis, in the middle of a crisis or about to go into one. A difficult thing for many people in recovery is accepting the fact that even when they are doing all the right things, bad times, suffering will come, it is part of the human condition.

As a mother, I was doubly-blessed. I got to experience Little League, games, football, basketball, soccer, twice. I raised two sets of children, seven total. I did hundred of parent conferences, school welcome nights, school projects. My life in that regard has been very rich. Now before someone decides to get me a plaque for mother of the year, let me be brutully honest. Being a troubled teen, 60's hippy wasn't the best preparation for being a parent. I had more character defects and personality disorders than some psychology textbooks. I lacked wisdom, emotionally stability and insight. There are many things I have done or said that I wish I hadn't. Coming to grips with the reality of my lacks was a journey of learning to forgive; a journey that had to start with me. learning to forgive myself.

The only way I was able to forgive myself was through seeking God. By myself the pain, shame and regret for my mistakes would have overwhelmed me. Without believing that I was forgiven through Jesus, it would have been impossible for me to continue on in life with my huge list of would of, could of, should of, and another big list of shouldn't have. How thankful I am that by that grace of God I'm not who I was, and that by that same grace I won't be the person tomorrow I am today. I like these definitions; mercy is not getting what you deserve, grace is getting what you don't deserve. I got grace and mercy and I work on being honest with my family about my past. Owning your own stuff helps heal wounds of the heart.

Sometimes, as kids struggle with the challenges of finding their own place in the world, it's discouraging to see how little I am a part of their world now. That too is the natural order of things. You will never see a mother bird pulling the wings of a fledgling baby ready to fly away  out of the nest. If anything they are pushing that baby bird out of the nest, forcing them to fly.


For me, releasing my children and grandchildren to their heavenly Father's care is a daily ritual of sorts. On my way to work on the long commute I lift each child, grandchild up to God asking for their protection, that they would be surrounded by His Holy Spirit, and that for those on paths that might just be too dangerous; that God will guide them back into a knowledge of His love, His purpose, anHis comfort. My mother used to say, "No one realizes my ministry of prayer. I lift my family up to God daily. I have a silent ministry." Learning to be a silent partner in my families lives has been a growing experience. For me, learning and accepting that fact I must step back and let my children grow up has been challenging. I have been so used to being there. Trying to help them, fight for them, encourage them, lecture them. Learning the value of surrounding them with prayer will continue to be the next stage in this journey of motherhood. Realizing our faithful Creator loves them more than I ever could, or can allows me to have faith that I can claim the promises in the Bible and that as I pray for these children He will guide them safely home.

Today, may the God of all comfort cheer your heart and your soul. May you release your children, grandchildren and loved ones into the care of the heavenly Father who loves them and you with His everlasting love. And if you have not found your own way into God's family remember, He is always there waiting to show you the way home.

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Day 27 The Jetty

Along the Oregon coast, my favorite spots by far are at the mouth of the Columbia River. I love the way the ocean meets the river's mouth in a broad expanse of rolling waves, a few white caps breaking with the bubbles of foam at their peak. I have spent many happy hours on both sides of that River.

The North side, rich with history and trails and lighthouses has it's own charm. You can spend hours exploring, hiking and soaking up all the richness of the trees, views and fresh salt air. For me, in earlier days, the jetty held an attraction for it's opportunity to fish. I would laboriously climb up it's rocky side of the jetty's unforgiving sides and perch with my cousin to fish. We would sit for hours, watching the weather roll in and the deep blue of the waves crash against the base of the rocks. We baited our hooks, cast them into the deep and would be rewarded with nervous tugs on our lines. It is good fishing there and so awesome to pull up the green, gray and silver shining fish. We'd finally tire, climb down the rocks and head for the cabin to clean and cook our catch.

The South jetty on the Oregon side holds more attraction for me now. Driving or biking out to the jetty a peacefullness of nature settles into your soul. Once there you can opt to go to the river or ocean side. You can first climb the sturdy wooden stairs to the overlook perched above the side of the jetty. There, so close the waves can splash you with their spray you can take in the views of the beautiful coastline. To the South the miles of clean, pristine beaches, the blue shadows of the distant hills. To the North, the majestic river, pushing it's way to the sea, and the Washington hills with the light of the lighthouse saying it's fond hello. I love this spot, it's vastness, it's unspoiled beauty nutures my soul.

Depending on my mood from this vantage point I take a hike through wild strawberries, ocean grasses on sandy trails. Ocean side, depending on the tides you can explore tide pools at the base of the massive rocks forming the jetty. The tidepools harbor, small crabs, starfish, or sea urchin.


         Sometimes we've been lucky and seals play in the waters near where we are. Elegant, sleek, they dive and play in the surge of the tidal waves. Combing the beach for small shells, or sand dollars never loses it's appeal and small smooth rocks polished by the power of the waves present their own beauty. Somedays, I will pack a lunch, take a blanket and bake in the sun. Too warm, I will run to the waves and cool off letting the flow of the waves wash over my feet and caress my toes. It is a wonderful way to spend a day, listening to the waves, watching the birds and just resting.

Recently in my life I have noticed that almost every one I meet is weary. The biggest complaint I hear over and over is, "I'm tired." Young people, old people, working people, stay at home people everyone is tired. I must confess, I too often fall into that same category. Why is it that so many of us live our lives at such a frantic pace that we face everyday with an emotional lack? We are running on empty so to speak.



I like the verse in Matthew 11: 28 where Jesus speaks, "Come unto me all you that work and are tired. For I will give you rest."

I personally want to claim that verse and look again at my life and figure out how to prioritize my time so I don't get caught up in the rush, rush, rush of things.
Today, my Sunday, I have more things to do than I can fit in.

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The celebration of life includes times of rest and refreshing. So much of me wants to do some of the things on my list and then hurry off to the Jetty. To rest, restore and refresh. Knowing and understanding that Jesus often went to the mountains and seaside to rest and reflect helps me accept that "not doing" something is ok. That I don't always have to be working, working, working.

Today, by prayer, through faith, with wisdom I will sort through the list of have to do's, want to do's and must do's. I will carve out a time for my soul and body; to nurture my spirit and gain strength for the week ahead. I will I hope visit the ocean, the sea is calling my name...

Today in your own hectic life allow yourself the freedom to rest. To just take time to relax, refresh and renew. If the ocean calls your name it's ok to leave some of the must do's undone. God knows we need time out, he understands we need rest. Have a blessed day.

Day 26 The Prodigal Daughter - Finding the way home

Sitting near a window I looked at through the treetops to the city scene below. I leaned up against the tie-dyed wall hanging and tried not to cry. Here I was alone in my apartment in downtown Palo Alto, California. I'd come home after working an evening shift to find closets open, drawers tossed and my fiance's clothes gone. He had left without so much as a goodbye note. It had been a wonderful evening, sun still shedding it's last warm rays, a cool breeze ruffling the leaves of the trees. None of that helped how I was feeling now, I had been abandoned.............................

In High School I had dated plenty of nice boys. Guys with good family backgrounds. Guys who had plans for the future and shared common interests. After High School in my first year of college I met someone who was the opposite of all the boys I'd met before. A product of the Beatles era, this guy knew the lyrics, spoke the language and came from a world I knew nothing about. He talked about his days in San Francisco, the parties, the concerts, the wild times. He shared his youth, drugs, crime, jail. It seemed so romantic and exciting. He met my parents and my father, a good judge of character, let me know what he thought of him. "He's a loser Robin, " he told me with love. "He's got no plans, no future and he doesn't have any manners."

For me, that's all it took for me to decide he was even more interesting. I had grown up in church, been a good child and had found myself longing for excitment. I also felt rebellious as all get out. I played my records loudly and sang to their tunes. My radio blarred from my car radio, "Are you going to San Francisco?" I dyed beads and strung necklaces. I shared my opinion, often and unasked. I was part of the in "me" generation and we were going to show the establishment how wrong they were.

My boyfriend, anxious to be away from my parents authority talked me into withdrawing my savings, packing my belongings into my car and leaving home. I left watching my world grown fainter in my rear view mirror. I didn't cry, I didn't think twice, I was having and adventure. Off we went driving I-5 to California. One of the first stop's we made after stopping for gas, was to a dumpster where he convinced me hanging on to my clothes was foolish, that I needed to let go of possessions. Arm load, after arm load of expensive clothes found their new home with yesterday's garbage.

Finally, after several days, we got to California and ended up in Palo Alto. I don't know why we went there. We didn't know anyone there really. Somehow we just decided that was the place to go. The first night or two we slept in the car until we finally found an apartment manager who was willing to let us rent a small apartment. I used some of my dwindling savings and we unloaded what was left of my belongings. For several months we survived. I worked at a fast food job to support us while he 'looked for work." At least that's what he said. One day, home early I heard a female voice call out to him, "Hey Ernie," she asked, "Are you going to be over at the bar at the usual time?"

I snapped. Looking for work? I don't think so; all the days I'd been working he'd been going to the bars and hanging out. An ugly argument continued and he left in a huff. I cried myself to sleep and wondered why in the world I ever thought he was nice. A week or two later I came home and he was gone.

I'd like to say that I learned from that mistake, that I went home, moved on with my life and said goodbye to a horrible relationship. Unfortunately that was not the end of the story. He called my folks house one evening about five weeks later, "I'm sorry," he said, "I just got so stressed out. Please let me come back. I love you." Well, apparently I'm weak willed and weak minded, I let him come back. My parents however put their foot down. "You're not going to live here unless you're man and wife!" They called a pastor friend and in my parent's front room we said our vows, no friends, nothing very special just a ceremony.

My new husband was restless in his country surroundings. He was used to th night life in a big city. Then news came in the mail, the United States Army had drafted him! Well he was a tried and true hippy, hated the Viet Nam War and everything about the establishment. There was no way he was willing to join the Army. We argued, we fought, he insisted. We packed up the car again and headed for Canada. We lied as we crossed the Candadian border telling them we were on our honeymoon. We drove further and further north. Winter was setting in and the snow and cold began. My savings was almost gone at this point and after a day or two we found rooms for rent with an Italian couple that spoke no English at all. We had a bedroom, kitchen and bathroom. All completely empty. The weather temperature continued to drop to unheard of lows, 50 below zero. The windows in the apartment froze up and we couldn't see anything outside whatsoever. We had to wear all the clothes we had just to keep from freezing when we went outside.

My husband tried to get work but no body wanted to hire an illegal immigrant. Accepting money under the table he worked at a gas station for about a week until they fired him. My husband, used to a life of crime, shoplifted in the grocery stores. He tried to get me to shoplift also, but I refused. I hadn't been raised to be a thief. One night bored, we cranked our radio up loud and danced late into the evening over the bedroom of the owners. Early in the morning our Italian landlord used the only English he knew, "Out!" He screamed coming up the stairs to where we were, "Out!" So we packed up our belongings and drove out in the large city of Edmonton, Alberta.

My husband got an idea that we could save money by sleeping in the car so we piled everything around and found a dark place to park. Sometime in the night we were awakened with a loud banging, "Get up!" a uniformed police officer was saying, "You've got to find shelter, you're going to freeze to death in there." My husband tried to protest we were ok but the frozen water bottles next to us weren't good proof of that. We drove to a cheap motel, rented a room and slept for a few hours.

"We've got to go home!" I cried. Exactly like the prodigal son I realized that at home at least I would be safe and have food to eat. "We've got to go home!" Finally after crying and pleading my husband gave in and we started out to cut across Canada and come to the States through Vancouver BC. As we drove, the snow started and became a blizzard. We could barely see the road in front of us as we drove, through the night. We continued, no snow tires, no tread, just two stupid American kids trying to get home. Somewhere up in the mountains the car started to slip and into the ditch we went. It was dark, there were no houses for miles, and the weather had dipped to a record 60 plus below. I started crying, and praying. "Please God, help us. Please." For what seemed a long while, all was quiet. Sensible people were home in their beds, only here we were stuck in a snow bank.

Hundreds of miles away, unknown to me, my father had been woken up from a sound sleep with a burden to pray. He went to the dining room table, and head in his hands he prayed and prayed asking God to help me. He stayed there, praying until the heavy weight on his heart lifted.

Back in the car, alone in the dark, a set of lights appeared through the blizzard, a voice called out in the darkness, "Are you ok? Do you need some help?"Did we ever. A man in a truck had noticed the car tracks, not yet filled up with snow and decided to get out and see if he could help. He just happened to have a winch on the front of his truck which he used to pull us out. Finally out, we thanked him and went on our way. Slowly, cautiously we creeped through the storm across the mountain pass.

Tired, aching, cold we stopped an old boarding house and rented a room. It was odd, but warm. One bathroom for a dozen rooms. The next day we drove straight through until we reached the Canadian border and crossed back into the United States. I heaved a giant sigh of relief, I knew here at least we wouldn't freeze to death.

A half a day later and we pulled into my parents drive way. The welcome home was warm, if a little strained. For two months we lived in their basement. My father always a hard worker was astonished that my husband was content to play cards, or watch TV all day. He showed no signs of having any desire to look for work.My father got heim started on projects in the yard, but my husband still didn't seem too motivated.

My husband decided that anything was better than the life we were living. He called the draft board, said his goodbyes and went to turn himself in. I cried, and then sighed a sigh of relief. Maybe things would be peaceful now, I thought. Several hours later I was cleaning our room when I heard footsteps on the stairs, in walked my husband. "Why are you here?" I asked. "What happened?" He explained he went through the whole intake process, did all the paperwork, then went through the physical exam. The examining Dr. pulled him aside and let him have the bad news, "Son, you've got a mal-formed bone in your right foot. I'm afraid the Army can't use you." So home he came.

Life continued on and I got pregnant. My husband seemed moodier than normal and said he needed to walk to the store and get some smokes. I didn't hear from him for another two weeks. He called, apologized and asked to return. Frantic I let him come back and didn't protest when he insisted we move away from my parents. We got a small apartment in Tacoma and attempted to make the best of things, or so I thought. One day he complained of a headache and asked me if I would go to the store and get him some aspirin. I left, picked up a few things and returned. His clothes were gone, and so was all the money we had tucked away in a drawer.

I didn't hear from him for ten months. I carried the bady to full term, went through labor and delivery alone and tried to adjust to being a single parent. I cried through much of that pregnancy until I reach a point that I gave everything to God and just focused on reading my Bible and getting ready for the baby. I can remember actually feeling happy. When the baby, a little girl, was three months old I got a call from my huband. He was sorry, ya da, ya da, and could he come back? Again, I didn't listen to comman sense, or to reason, but I allowed him to come back. Again he decided we needed to move, and move we did. From the bright clean, happy apartment to a dirty, scary run down house in Vancouver Washington.

For once in our relationship, my husband got up, went out and got a job. For several months our lives consisted of cleaning, repairing and painting the old house we were in, and having the routine of him working and me being alone with the baby. It wasn't horrible for me, I loved having a child. For him, however, it was a different story. He came home one day in the middle of the day, he didn't "feel" good. He asked if I could run to the store and get him something to eat, maybe ice cream. I went, came back and found our infant daughter alone in her crib, my husband's clothes gone and an empty house. I didn't hear from him until 13 years later.

Why did I go after someone who was so contrary to all the life I had known? I don't know. I know rebellion had a huge part. Along, with the baby I struggled to find myself a place in the world. It's been an uphill battle where if I keep faith in God, and stay on the right path, things are good. If I stray, go after the world and it's values, my life begins to get out of control and I make more poor choices.

Was I glad I had parents who loved me enough to welcome me back with open arms? Yes I was and just as happy to know a God who cares enough to give each of us second and thrid chances to do it right. I was the prodigal daughter, who more than anything else needed to here these two words, "Welcome home."

Today, if you are in your own rebellion, stop, take time out to pray to an ever caring God who will help you find the way back home.

Day 25 Forever Tomorrow

But I am trusting you, O Lord, saying, "you are my God!' My future is in your hands."
New Living Translation     
                                                 Psalm 32:14

When I was young I was allowed to roam free throughout the countryside in rural Auburn. My parents had no fear of me running into anything dangerous. At age seven my mom bought me a 6 inch knife in a leather pouch that I wore on my belt. How proud I was of that knife. I spent time whitteling, cutting branches to make spears. I was an adventurer equipped for anything. I spent countless hours hiking through those woods tracing the old logging roads and deer trails. I would often go by myself up into the woods. I would tramp for a while, enjoying the scenery, then I would find a nice spot, enjoy feeling the sun on my face and lean up against a tree to sit a while and think.

I didn't always stay on the ground since I loved to climb trees and vine maples were my favorite. Their branches were thin but wiry and would leaf out in patterns almost parallel with the ground. I would go, up like a monkey and find myself a perch to rest and reflect. What I needed ot think about at such a young age might be puzzling to some people. Certainly I couldn't have that much to keep me occupied. Oh, but I did. I loved books, and through their pages I would explore, travel and imagine worlds far beyond my own reach. I was forever dreaming of tomorrow.

Sometimes I would tire of the woods and I would pack up my fishing pole, a snack and get on my old red bike. I'd take off down the old West Valley Hiway in Auburn and head towards Kent and the Green River. In those days, there were miles of river bordered only by trees, riverbanks, and brush. Going past old homes, dotted here and there on my way to the river I would imagine who lived there, and wonder what they were like. A barking dog or two might notice me but nobody else paid any attention. I was just a small child on a bike going somewhere.

I'd stash my bike in the weeds, hike to the riverbank and find a quiet spot to bait my hook. Looking back it amazes me that at seven years of age here I was biking for miles, going to the river to fish. I just didn't try to fish, I fished. I caught nice fat trout that tasted so good fried up at home by my mom at dinner. I love trout to this day, floured, salt and peppered, and fried golden brown in a pan. Nothing tastes as sweet as that tender, pale meat flaking off the thin bones as you eat.

The solitary nature of my being has continued through-out my life. I love people but for the most part, I stick to myself, content to experience life on the quiet side. I pray a lot for people, asking God to step into their lives and help them find the right path. I don't always know how to fix other people's problems, but I do know how to pray, to lift them up and ask that they be drawn to the One who can fix them.

Recently, it has become increasingly real to me that I have fewer tomorrows left, that my life is winding down and like the hikes in the woods where I found a comfortable place to enjoy the sunshine, maybe now I need to do the same. I hear news of people I've grown up with, passing away, or struggling with cancer and it makes me realize how fortunate I've been to have this long life without major illness. I been blessed.

Now, in the natural order of things, a slowing down has begun, a winding down as age weathers my smile, and weakens my frame. I do not dread old age, it is as if a welcome friend I've know before has come calling to say hello. Most of my hours I feel a real connection to God, I sense His presence, His care and it carries me through times when the weariness threatens to overwhelm.

I loved the movie, The Never-Ending-Story. When the blackness threatened to engulf the country the hero's fought it back. I do not need to fight this darkness back, but I do feel as if I need to celebrate life now. The dreaming, the planning is less a pastime as I realize that each moment is precious, not to be recaptured, or reclaimed.

If occasionally fear does make it's way into my mind, I pray. God has helped me go through many, many different trials of life. There were times I thought I couldn't, or wouldn't make it, but I did and now it's just another step in the journey. I believe that there's a heaven, and I believe that Jesus is there for making me a mansion. Some people might make fun of me, I don't care. I've seen how intricate this life is. I've taken science and biology classes and learned that life is even infinitely more intricate than our senses can tell us. Faith has sprung up in my heart from the soil of experience, discovery, and trust.

I'm living my tomorrows today, and how glad I am that I can believe that God has my future in His hands not no matter what my tomorrows bring He will help me me through.

Today if you are in fear of your tomorrows, dare to believe that God is there, He is real and He is only a prayer away.

Day 24: I remember Mom

     Right now, a breeze sweeps through the hanging branches of the cedar trees outside my window. The faint sounds of the creek, dwindled by the summer, drift through the woods. All day, the sky has been foreboding, as if at any time a thunder storm could stir itself up and wash the day clean with its rain.

     I must admit, it's hard for me to slow down and relax unless I get away from my home. There are always so many things asking for my attention, pets to wash, laundry to do, bills to pay, letters to write. Occasionally, tired, worn out from work, recreation and life I take a time out, like now for instance. Two small wind chimes, making their music in the breezes are my companions through mornings, evenings, the seasons of my life now.

     Near my front door, a valiant, persistent rose, Angel Face, produces dozens of bright pink roses to welcome me home.That rose, somehow touches me with it's spirit to live. No one pays much attention to it, but there it grows, providing beauty and fragrance faithfully, year after year. For each of us, there are those small islands of peace and beauty where we can find comfort. Maybe it's a favorite coffee cup and a comfortable chair where we've curled up with many a good book. For me, a source of continual comfort is my Bible. The cover is worn and tattered. The pages have their corners curling, and here and there a fingerprint or two can be found. Inside, my favorite verses are underlined, and in the margins are dates when these verses stood out with particular emphasis. Scattered throughout are notes of certain benchmarks in my life, a word or two here and there reminding me of urgent needs or making records of answered prayers; words that encourage my heart when darker days appear.

     This Bible bears testimony of times of heartache, times of sorrow, times of joy. It is like an old friend whose familiar voice is so good to hear on the phone. In times of need, in times of pain I go to my Bible and find comfort. When my mother died, I received several of her Bibles. In her Bibles, her favorite verses are also underlined, here and there messages of hope or courage are written in the margins; or pleas for a loved one's needs. What I would give to hear my mom's voice again, to see her smile when given some small gift of something she enjoyed. But, although she is gone, so much of her remains through memories of the things she did to celebrate life, and communicate love. Though these reminders in her Bible is communicated the story of her own journey through life.

     She is gone for now, but someday I trust, I will see her again, without that weakness of old age she really didn't like, or the struggle of losing her eyesight so she could no longer read at age 91. She learned, through her years to enjoy the little things. To treasure the beauty of her hanging baskets of fuchsias or the rows of petunias with their bright, fragrant faces. She loved to cook, and treasured the joy it gave others to sit down and enjoy a good meal, steaming hot and fragrant. Throughout her life, she baked a thousand pies, more cookies, and tended her home with a sense of purpose that instilled a love of beauty in those whose lives she touched. 

     Her favorite spot as she became older was her comfortable rocking chair with the small table next to it where she kept her Bibles, devotional books and boxes of cards. Her letter and card writing remained a ministry to her family and friends into her nineties. A cheerful word, a few dollars tucked in for a special treat. Her children and grandchildren loved hearing from grandma. She always tried to say something positive to them about their life, and continually reminded them that God loved them and would remain faithful to them all the while encouraging them to be faithful to Him.

     Now and again, as I go through some of my boxes, looking for this or that, I will find one of her cards, her quiet ministry of love sent with messages of hope and encouragement. As she learned to enjoy the beauty in her own life; she learned to create beauty and "home" for those in her life. She will be always be remembered for these outreaches of love and kindness to those she met. Whether it was fixing a luncheon for a group of Bible study women, or decorating for the holidays mom always wanted to share beauty.

     How thankful I am that I had this rich heritage in my life. As a working mom now, I must admit it's more than challenging to measure up to my mother's standards, but here and there I try to find a way to show that same care to those I love. Granted, more often than not, I find myself buying people things, taking them places in lieu of making dinner, but I continue to try. Love comes in many shapes and sizes, but as long as it is continues to be demonstrated the legacy will continue.

     If you are one of the many people, who did not ever have that opportunity to experience a legacy of love, take heart. God who is the author of all love, still waits to write on your own heart and life His message of eternal love. He is only a prayer away. You can learn how to create your own legacy for now and for eternity.

May your today be filled the comfort of home, the memories of those you love and treasury of being loved. "I have loved you with an everlasting love." ~God

Day 23: Staying Steady

     Often in my own life I've gone through lulls of emotion, purpose, and vision where I've had to sort of regroup and make the decision to stay on the same path. There is something in my gypsy soul which longs for adventure. Strange but true that some of me at this late date thinks longingly about packing up, taking off and trying my hand at living in a foreign land. It is a romantic notion that we can break camp so to speak and just take off from our present life and responsibilities, leaving it all behind to pursue something new and exciting.

    Part of my job as a counselor at the treatment center where I work involves lecturing three times a week. My lectures are 75 minutes long and are on topics preselected by our agency. The men and women, 36 in a lecture hall at a time, have often come to treatment, right from the street. They are used to, "running and gunning" as we call it. They've been committing crimes, using drugs, living a wild and crazy life where no rules is the rule.  So here I come, papers in hand to try to teach them how to live, or at least how to get a plan in place of how to try to live. It's a challenge to keep their attention. I tell stories, use analogies, prepare handouts, I even ham it up a little. I can do a gangster swag walk that cracks them up. Or I can place my hand over my heart, look them in the eye and tell them, "I feel you." (a street-wise phrase for, I understand.)

     My attempt is to keep it real, but give them a message of hope mixed in with whatever educational component I'm required to deliver. I try to always make up a handout that's geared to simple principles, broken down into steps, or smaller pieces that are easily grasped. Oh, I don't for one second think any of them are stupid, just exhausted, worn out, some of them still coming off drugs, and for the most part wondering how in the world they wound up broke, on DOC and in treatment. More than anything else, I think this, "That there but for the grace of God, go I." I pray for constant wisdom, and renewed purpose, since the sheer numbers of clients can be overwhelming. I'm hoping I don't get to the place where anyone of them is just another name; another series of paper processing.

 

     When all is said and done, each of us is on this journey called life. Addiction, crime don't corner the market on challenges, they just make things more complicated. I believe no matter what stage of life, or circumstance of life, God can step in and help us figure things out. That doesn't mean that we sit down in our Lazy Boy chair, television remote in hand and step away from being the main participants in our life, but it does mean we don't have to panic in the middle of the storm.

    
      If I were riding along in a sail boat, the absence of wind would present it's own challenge. A storm in life doesn't always equate to turmoil, sometimes, a storm can equate to just keeping on doing the same things, over and over, committed to staying focused on getting the job done. That kind of dedication, purpose, requires that we submit out gypsy soul to the Creator daily and agree to hold steady to the course in front of us, even when we'd like to take off for more exciting adventures.

 
     On those days when the challenge of keeping on the task before me seems a little daunting it gives me a sense of hope that some day I will have things a little easier, whether it's in heaven or on earth, the hills will break forth before me with singing as I go out with joy.  

Today, when facing the challenges in your own life, take hope, take courage, God is still there waiting to help you through. Send up a prayer and believe. The day will come, when the sun breaks through the clouds, the present trial will end and the hills will break forth in singing as you go out with joy. Take care and have a blessed day.

Day 22: The Trailer

     Old Moe, (our great big Ford F-250) continued to take our family on many special trips. With the addition of our camper we had so much fun. Then, fall of 1995 I got a call at work. "You need to come get your grandchildren." an unknown voice told me. I rushed over to their apartment to find out what had happened. Turns out personal issues with their mom and dad had created a situation where the children needed some place else to stay for a while.

 

     The children then 6 months, 4 and 5 were hungry, anxious and tired. I took them home and sat down. "Oh, " I said to myself. "This is kind of a big problem." Then the baby cried, small, wet, hungry. I knew that me sitting there wasn't going to take care of his needs. I went to K Mart, bought diapers, formula, bottles. Then I stopped at Safeway and got extra food. The kids, fussy, tired, and hungry welcomed grandma in their own way. The baby, once fed, dry and fed, snuggled in my arms and fell asleep. The 4 year old, walked up, kicked me firmly in the shins saying, "I hate you grandma!" and walked away defiantly.

 

     It was admittedly more than a little daunting. At first things were chaotic. A new baby, two very active red-haired young boys, and three other young teenagers. I gave up my room and let the children have a room. Sleeping on the couch isn't too bad, good thing, I was there over a year.

 

     I was determined that these newest additions to our home would not upset our ability to go camping. So we prepared (we thought) and away we went to Fort Stevens. The first night in the camper, the baby screamed non-stop. It was an endurance test for all of us. I don't know if he was getting sick, or it was just unfamiliar in the camper but he hated it, with a passion. Valiantly we kept on with the trip trying to recapture some of the delight of the trails and beaches. It was much like trying to catch a wild horse with a rope made of shoe laces. Dozens of scuffles with the two boys, baby needing changed, fed, by the end of three nights all of us were exhausted.

 

     Home again, I tried to rethink things. Obviously things couldn't keep going just like always, we were going to have to adapt. Several months went by and the winter was upon us. We tried a few more day trips to the coast but it continued to be a huge task. I continued to brainstorm, I knew getting away was something we all treasured. I knew I wasn't willing to give that up. Time went by, a year, then two. The two older boys settled down into the household and found their place in the world. The baby, well, who doesn't love a new baby? He was pampered, played with and adored. He became a happier soul, (just still hated the camper).

 

     Reading The Columbian daily newspaper, I continued to keep an eye out for interesting things. One ad caught my eye, "Free Trailer, you move." Hmm..... I started thinking. Wow, a free trailer, now that was cool, and you couldn't beat the price. I called the number listed in the ad and got directions. I drove over and checked the trailer out. For one, it wasn't a trailer, it was a mobile home, 50 feet long, 12 feet wide with two bedrooms. I checked it out, inside and out. I liked it. Something clicked.

Now, the question became where in the world was I going to put it? I checked into every mobile home park on the coast of Washington and Oregon, (well most of them). There wasn't a place to put them. I began to search further inland. In Westport, Oregon there was a place called, Mr. Ed's Mobile Home park. I called and they said, "Yes they had a space available." I described the trailer and they said, "Okay, that'll work." We scheduled a time and date to deliver it. 

 

      Well, I really didn't have all that much money. I asked around everyone I knew, "Know anything about moving a mobile home?" "Nope," was the general answer. Finally someone knew these Russian guys who had trucks, they gave me their number. Through broken English enough communication occurred for them to set up a time to come look at the trailer.

 

      In the mean while I was visiting the trailer, cleaning, getting it ready. The manager of the park came up and knocked on the door one day, "Incidentally, "she said, "I can give you another trailer free." "What," I said incredulous, "Another trailer??" "Yes, " she answered, "another one." We walked through the park to another row of homes. She showed me inside another trailer. "Hmmm," I thought, "I wonder what I could do with this?"

 

     By the time the movers came to check out the trailer and get the price set of the move I decided to go out on a limb. "There's another trailer here you can have if you move this one." I told the leader of the group. "Really," he responded with a thick accent, "I need one for my mountain property." I showed him the other trailer, we shook hands and a deal was struck.

 

     On the day of the move, I was nervous and excited. "We've got to go over the bridge into Oregon." The Russian driver managed to communicate to me. "I don't have a permit, and they never have that weigh station open." Well it was too late for me to hem and haw over his breaking the law, (or so I thought then) and away we went. The drove like the proverbial bats out of he double l. 

 

     Down through industrial Portland we went, one door flapping in the wind. The man did not stop until we pulled into the trailer park. We drove until we reached the number of the space where the manager had told me I could put it. The Russian men got out of the truck. They spoke in heated Russian, walking back and forth in the space. Finally they came up to my car, "NO!" they pointed to the space, "NO!" At this point I was a little frantic, what did they mean, "No!" I got out walked the length of the trailer, then I walked the length of the space. Oh, the light dawned. I understood what they meant by the no, it wouldn't fit, no way.

 

     I knocked on a trailer door and asked where the manager lived, the person said, "Oh she lives in that green trailer over there, but don't bother she's in town shopping." Oh boy, I thought to myself, now I'm in for it.. I asked the lady if there were any other spots, and she said, "No this is the only one." She scratched her head and then said, "Well, this outfit owns the park across the street, I think there's a space there."

 

     Off we went following her directions, about a mile or so. We drove around looking for empty spots. A large, vacant double-wide spot sitting on a huge lot with trees adjacent to fields beckoned. The truck drivers stopped, and started unhooking the trailer, "We go now. " they said emphatically, "Job!" "Wait," I pleaded, unsure of what to do. "No," they answered, "We go now!." They backed the trailer into the space, unhooked all the lines and sped away. "Oh," I thought, "Here we are."

 

     So over the next few weeks I learned a lot about hooking up water lines, sewer lines and settling in to the trailer park. The kids thought it was a real adventure. We brought their bikes, roller blades, scooters and toys down to the trailer. We stocked the cupboards with pots and pans and lots of board games. At last I had a good reason to go back to Goodwill and I picked up beds, couches, tables and chairs. We now had a vacation place.

 

     The baby loved this new vacation home. He could play, people seemed happier and trips to the coast were just for the afternoon. We didn't have TV, or video games but none of the kids seemed to miss them. When we went to the trailer, we went there for fun.

 

     We kept the trailer for 6 years, enjoyed weekend after weekend just relaxing and playing. It was a happy place for all of us. In 2001 one child made a strange request, "Mom, couldn't we just live here?" I thought it over, I owned a house in Vancouver. What would it be like to live in the vacation home for a while?

 

     Perhaps impulsively I decided, "Why not?" and away we went. For about a year and a half we stayed in the trailer. The kids changed schools and got used to being country kids. I continued to pay the mortgage on the Vancouver home sitting empty, except for all our good furniture.

 

     It was an adventure for sure where I had a chance to be with the children and learn how to appreciate a simpler kind of life. Sometimes, less is more. Now at this juncture of my life where I am in the process of downsizing, it helps me to remember these happy times where "stuff" didn't equate with happiness. Where family times didn't revolve around electronics but just good old fashioned fun.

 

Today, when material things threaten to engulf you with their demands remember God challenges us having food and clothes to be content. Sometimes, simpler is better.

Day 21: The Paper...

     Well, you'd think my experience with the "victory garden" would have cured me from attempting any large projects. It didn't and several months into publishing my small weekly handout to the singles group I attended at our church, I picked up a Nickle Ads. We had several publications in Vancouver that came out weekly and had all kinds of things for sale. I liked looking through them because I liked dreaming about would I could get, if extra money came my way. However on this particular day, I looked at the Nickle Ads with a new eye. Hmmmm. I thought to myself. My little handout, could maybe me a small newspaper like these were.

     I stopped by the Nickle Ads' office and asked some questions. How did they publish their paper, and where did they do it? How much did it cost? The lady was extremely helpful and going home with visions of newspapers dancing in my head, I decided to start publishing.

     The first edition was a classic typewritten, out of the box clip art, little newspaper. I included articles, poems, messages of hope to the struggling soul. I called the Camas Post newspaper and got prices. The first edition I printed 7,500 copies. Wow, was I excited! The smell of fresh newsprint leapt at me as I went to pick up my bundled papers. I was as proud of that paper as if I'd won a Pulitzer Prize. Bundle after bundle of the newspapers filled car and home I went. 

      There began a scenario to be repeated hundreds of times in the next few weeks. I would go into a store, restaurant, bowling alley, tavern, introduce myself and ask to speak to the manager. I was polite and very earnest. Ninety percent of the people said, "Sure go ahead, we'll give out your paper."

     After the first month I realized that I needed newspaper stands. I built a copy, off square, mom and pop, type of stands and put them into stores. In the IGA store near my home my little stand stood near the door. As the stack dwindled, I added more papers. Mentally and emotionally I was determined that I would not allow the pain and suffering my children and I had gone through to be in vain. I was determined to offer other people help, comfort and hope in the middle of their pain. To communicate the message that Jesus Christ cared, died to save them, and was waiting to help them go safely
through their storm.

     For several months I continued to print the paper. I used my own monies and efforts to publish, and distribute my little Single Perspective. One day, at the IGA store a nice looking young man in a suit approached me. "Do you publish the Single Perspective?" He asked. "Yes, I do." I answered excitedly, happy that someone even knew I existed. He introduced himself; he was in charge of distribution for the For Rent magazine in Portland and Vancouver. They had shiny metal racks with dozens of pockets. I'd seen their racks in many of my location and though, "If only." The man continued to speak, "Here's what I want to do for you and your paper. I'm going to have labels professionally made saying, The Single Perspective. We're going to offer you a free space on all of our racks. You just need to keep them filled."

     Truthfully, I wanted to cry, it was too good to believe! How wonderful an opportunity that meant for my little paper. Good to his word, a week or so later my newspaper title appeared on their racks. I got even more enthused, I upped my order to 10,000 copies a month and kept writing, asking for articles, and publishing.

     Some of the children remember going with mom to pick up the papers. The bundles would be piled around them and their car seats as back and forth we went, messengers of hope.

    About nine months into the project I started attending a larger singles ministry in Portland. There after a few weeks, the pastor suggested I leave a donation dish next to my papers. Wow! Now I was getting money to help publish. The head pastor, author of more than a dozen books, liked my paper and my concept. I was hired there to help with the ministry and to keep publishing my little paper. Only now, instead of driving around delivering it to my stands, the church would pay for postage, I would have a group of volunteers get it ready for mailing. Unbelievable! For the next six years I continue to publish my little paper. The Senior pastor asked me to help him get his own church weekly publication into the newspaper format, which I did. I also was asked on occasion to write, and publish the paper when their own graphic artist was on vacation.

Norman Vincent Peale

     It was an exciting time in my life. I got to be in an interview with the author of the Power of Positive Thinking and the founder of Guideposts, Norman Vincent Peale. This was very meaningful to me since his book had helped spark my desire to overcome obstacles, triumph over pain and start my paper.

    After six and a half years the church decided to move in a different direction and I was let go. For me, it was a heartache for sure, but God is good and every sorrow comes with a purpose. I needed to regrow my spiritual roots which had admittedly become blurred. I could handle failure okay, I wasn't dealing with success too well and made some poor choices.

     For each of us, God allows us to take different journeys. Sometimes, these journeys are adventures, and we like the scenery. Other times, we go through trials that test our faith, but through it all as we yield to our Creator He will use everything to give him glory. My newspaper days are over, but I like to think that many people who took and read my little paper found a message of hope to help them through dark times. 

Remember the promise, they that sow in tears shall reap in joy. God also has promised that His Word will not return empty. Continue to be a sower of good....eventually you will reap a harvest of blessings.

Day 20: Beginning Again

Some mornings, I get up, greet the day and am so enthusiastic about what's ahead. Other days, admittedly, I'm not quite as excited about what the day might bring. It is part of the human condition that we have ups and downs. Without that ability, we also would lose our ability to care, one way or another about life. Setting small goals to achieve in every area of our life helps with staying positive, content when emotionally we might not "feel" all that positive.

For me, I need to try to set the tone for my day, every morning. I make coffee, get my devotional books and Bible and get ready to refuel for the day. I read three devotional books every morning, Streams in the Desert, My Upmost for His Highest, and A Gentle Spirit. These three books present uplifting and challenged messages daily that help me realize, yesterday is gone, tomorrow is not yet here, but staying focused on what we can do now can make all the difference in our own world and maybe someone else's.

Presently I'm trying to read a chapter of Psalms and a chapter of Proverbs daily. I do this with the expectation that where my own powers of apprehension fall short, God can use the Word to rebuild, and restore my spirit so that I become better equipped to become the person I'm supposed to be.

Like everyone else, I fall short of achieving my goals. I try not to avoid facing my shortcomings, but try to take daily inventory. I ask God to forgive me, try to forgive myself and attempt to have the good grace to ask forgiveness of anyone else I may have offended. The more I continue to do this process, the clearer my spirit and heart become and the happier I feel. It doesn't insure that problems and pressures won't continue to come; it doesn't insure that I will consistently make the right decisions; but it does insure more often than not I am increasingly becoming a better person.

The main thing in life is not giving up; to realize that each day is a succession of "beginning agains" and that it is as we gather strength from God, our friends, and experience we can get up, dust ourselves off and hold our heads up high as we meet the next set of challenges.

I love the fact that God gives second chances, (and thirds, fourths....). With God's help I will gain the strength to not be what I was, to be better than I am now and to constantly cultivate a spirit of thankfulness for the journey.

Today, dare to believe that you can begin again. Be honest with yourself, seek God, and realize today is a new beginning.

Those that sow in tear shall reap in joy. Psalms

Day 19: Become an Encourager...

          Some years ago after leaving an abusive husband, my children and I discovered a church in Hazel Dell where they had a ministry to single adults. Lonely, trying to find my way in life I decided to try the church. How excited I was to find out they had babysitting for the children during the meetings. Week after week my small children and I drove to the singles meetings at our new church. The pastor, Tom, was a friendly soul, warm outgoing, making us feel welcome.  Some nights, we would come in late, a bedraggled bunch in spite of every effort on my part to put clean clothes on the three smallest children, but late or not, we were always welcome.

     The people who attended the group were a mixed bunch of people. Mostly much older than I, (then in my early thirties). Some of the people were quiet, some were noisy, some were faded images of who they'd been, but all shared a common thread, we were now single. "Single again" we met together to find comfort, friendship and hopefully fellowship. We sang, our jovial preacher gave a short talk, and then we mingled. My social skills were rusty and I was apt to do more watching than interacting but I persevered.

     One lady in particular, Merrilee, took me under her wing. She was a pretty, older lady who led singing. She was determined to bring me out of my shell, and week after week she would greet me, ask me how I was doing, make conversation in spite of the fact I was quiet. The group slowly became, my group. The differences among us didn't seem important any more as we got to know each other over time. I began to hear stories of how other people were surviving their singlehood. Many, who had lost their mates to death, mourned their loved ones and struggled to find joy in the path without them. Some newly divorced, faced a battle with bitterness and anger. All of us faced a common enemy; loneliness.

     After a number of weeks, someone found out I knew how to play the piano and every now and then they had me play while they sang. I was nervous, I felt awkward, but I did the best I could. One week, I was invited to be the greeter. Forced outside my comfort zone, I stood at the door and welcomed people to the meetings. Coming out of my shell of isolation was a slow process, but with the help of other loving people, encouraging me, comforting me, I was making progress.

     Several months into the meetings, I decided maybe a weekly handout would be something that would help people connect. My vision was to have articles, poems, announcements of events printed out in a little weekly paper. I shared my idea and the pastor enthusiastically o.k'ed it. When shared with the group the first week, several people volunteered to write, they had poems, or stories they wanted to share. The articles came in, some hand written on worn pieces of paper, some typed and neat, all touching poems and stories of victory and faith. Their stories were of people going through so many trials searching to find hope in a God who promised to help them through. It was for me a wonderful experience to get to know people in a deeper way, to see past their faces, into their hearts and souls.

     Everyday, in each of our lives we meet and are around people who in their own way, may be "single again." It may be that it's not a literal break up of a marriage, maybe an isolation of soul, and spirit. Perhaps, emotionally they've been wounded, and have drawn away from life. It is a challenge to me personally to try to become a "Merrilee" to the people who need encouragement. To reach out to the hurting soul. Often, I will get busy, and forget to be that voice of comfort, then later, regret I hadn't taken the time to be there for someone. And to the "Merrilee's" in my life, (then and now), thank you!

Today, may you (and I) be the voice of comfort and cheer to someone who needs to know you care. May you be the one you helps point the way to a faithful God, who is the God of all comfort.

　

Day 18: The Garden

     In my early thirties, I became pregnant with my youngest child. With three other children at home I spent most days, being a mom and taking care of the house. All young mothers will relate to feeling isolated some days, after you've picked up the umpteenth pair of shoes, cleaned up yet another mess, settled yet another childish squabble; you long for a calm. For me, finding that calm involved on many days, listening to the local Christian radio station, KPDQ.

 

     I had my favorite programs, "Through the Bible", with J. Vernon McGee, Chaplain Ray, with his prison ministry, and a daily broadcast from the Portland Rescue Mission. These radio personalities brought life, hope and interest into my busy mom's life. I learned, I grew and I broadened my interests from my own doorstep into the lives of others who were suffering.

 

     Over the course of several weeks a need continued to be mentioned for the Portland Rescue Mission, they didn't have enough vegetables and food to feed the people who came for meals. And, if they had enough food there wasn't enough room to store it. I listened as I cooked the ample meals for my family, pork chops, macaroni and cheese, potato soup and home made rolls. We were, as a family, well fed and nourished.

 

     The seed of an idea grew in my mind, I could plant a vegetable garden for those people, I could help. I started calling realtors to see if there was any land I could use for the garden. Working up my nerve, I visited a few offices in person. I prayed, asking God to guide me. After a number of unsuccessful attempts I found a man who agreed for us to use 10 acres in Felida, Washington. How excited I was! A place to grow vegetables, lots of vegetables. We visited the vacant farm and found an old barn, and acres of empty fields.

 

     I set to work. I needed literal "seed money". We didn't have any bank accounts but I did have an insurance policy my father had bought for me as a child. I called Mutual of Enamclaw, and found out how to withdraw the cash value, $735 dollars. I got the money and began thinking, now what? It wasn't as if I was a skilled gardener or anything. I continued to pray. I called Washington State University and was connected with one of their agricultural research men working in the Eastern part of the state. He listened to my plan and then said, "Listen, we do agricultural research and have seeds by the pound. This is what I'll do, I have pounds of seeds left over that we can't use this next year, let me ship them to you."

 

     I was so excited! I waited and finally the day came that the brown bags of seeds came in the mail. So many bags, labeled with their contents; carrots, squash, beets, corn, cucumbers. Wow! We were in seed heaven! It came into my mind that hungry people really loved potatoes and there were so many different ways to fix them; fried, baked, stews, soups, mashed. Potatoes are a wonderful food. I called a potato farmer in Ridgefield, Washington and asked how I could get seeds for potatoes. (Shows you how little I knew about growing things). The farmer explained that seeds for potatoes, were "seed potatoes". Their farm took potatoes ran them through a cutting machine and the pieces of potatoes with "eyes" on them were the seeds.

 

     I explained about our farm project and how much area we had to plant. He suggested we buy 1800 hundred pounds of seed potatoes. It sounded good to me and off we went in a station wagon to pick up the seeds. Hmm...I apparently hadn't accurately visualized what 1800 lbs of potatoes would look like. They brought out gunny sack, after gunny sack of potatoes until our car was loaded down so far I really didn't know if we'd make it to the farm. We did and the bags of potatoes waited until we got the soil ready.

 

     I rented a tractor and we dragged some kind of "digging" tool behind it back and forth on the fields until they were plush, dark brown and waiting. With babies playing in the playpen outside on the fields, we began the back-breaking toil of using rakes to make our long rows for our crops. Pregnant, sweating, I worked alongside my children's father, he a little puzzled how we'd gotten into this situation.

 

     By hand we planted our 1800 lbs of seed potatoes, our carrots, beets, acorn squash, cucumbers and corn. The rows looked so beautiful! Excited about the thousands of pounds of vegetables we were sure to give the Portland Rescue Mission, I called them to let them know about our garden. Imagine my delight and surprise to hear them talking about our garden on the radio during the next week. The pastor, in good faith to have room to store all the vegetables we were going to give them, continued to ask for financial support to get their new walk in cooler. He preached and asked, we weeded and watched as green shoots began to appear in orderly, (if somewhat crooked) rows over the two acres we'd been able to plant.

 

      As days went by, summer rains watered, summer sun blessed and everything grew at a phenomenal rate; the vegetables, my unborn child, and the weeds! Especially the weeds! We continue to drive the ten miles out to the farm to tend the huge crop the best we could. Overwhelmed I called the Rescue Mission. One day, they agreed to come out and help with the tasks. We waited on the appointed day and finally a van appeared. Eight or nine, kind of worn out looking men got out along with the driver. These men stayed at the mission, some of them appearing to be in various stages of detox. They were cheerful at first,but as the sun beat down, and the heat got worse, I heard one of the men complaining, "Where have they taken us?" He asked with a moan, "Is this some kind of hell I have to go through"?

 

     "Good grief," I thought to myself, "This isn't going too well." The men stayed a little longer then gathered their things and left. The vegetables continue to grow and flourish and now an ungainly eight months pregnant I struggled to nurture these budding plants. I dug up carrots, admiring their orangey goodness. The deep green of hundreds of baby acorn squash nestled amidst healthy vines. Row, after row of potato plants had brown, tight nuggets of potatoes at their roots. The garden was going to be successful!

 

     Harvest time came and I could barely wield a hoe. Huge with child, I clung to two other toddler's hands surveying the "fields ripe unto harvest." I called the Rescue Mission to ask if the men could come back and help with the harvest. They apologized but said the men were unwilling to come back and work on the farm. They did thank me for all we'd done and indicated they finally were able to purchase their new walk in cooler anytime we were ready we could bring them the vegetables. I sat down near the barn and cried, "My vegetables!" I wailed. I couldn't accept we'd done all that work and now we didn't have the strength, time or where-with-all to harvest them!

 

     We harvested what we could and then gave up...there was too much.We took a few boxes of vegetables to the mission and apologized for the small amount, they were very gracious and thanked us for what we could give. After that, I believe I called the local gleaners and gave them the directions to the field and hopefully they were able to put the vegetables on the tables of other hungry people.

 

     What did I learn from that experience? Well, in hindsight, I learned that sometimes working very hard at what seems to be a good plan, doesn't mean everything works out the way you'd thought it would. I'd like to believe that maybe in some small way, telling the radio listeners about the need to house all the expected vegetables helped get the financial support to get their cooler. Maybe, at least thinking of the adventure like that helps me reconcile the expectations with the results.

 

      In my daily walk with God, I'm finding it now more important to run my ideas of what His plans are by a couple of trusted friends. It doesn't mean I don't believe in divine inspiration any more but I do realize that humanly we can create so many ideas of how we can fix things that may or may not be His best plan for us. Trying to make sure that what we're doing is blessed will help us let the results be in His hands; no matter what result, if it's something He wants us to do, things will be okay.

 

Today in your own life, may the seeds you plant create gardens where what you harvest is; love, peace, gentleness, kindness and above all joy!