Everybody Loves a Story

The Lesson of the Spider Plant

2011-09-07T10:43:00.000-07:00

My spider plant has spent its summer outside on the picnic table beneath the trees. This morning when I sat down and opened my Bible, I noticed a cluster of tiny white flowers beginning to open.

I smiled and suddenly flew back in time to another spider plant someone had given me when I was much younger.

Our house was full of children then and sometimes life was hard. The roof often leaked and so did the children. How does one keep up with washing and then drying sheets draped behind the stove on rainy days? In those days, a dryer was not an option. And the children, the meals; so many needs, so little energy. Self-pity, resentment, worry, I struggled with them all.

But God wasn't silent in those years. I believe that's why He sent the spider plant. I remember the day I got it. I put it on the window sill and stood back, enjoying the way it added a touch of grace to our battered living room.

Then it started to sicken. I tried watering it daily. It didn't help. I fertilized it. The leaves grew even more yellow. Then someone suggested it needed a new pot.

I'll never forget what I saw when I shook the plant loose from the old pot. A rat's nest of tangled roots turned inward and left no room in the pot for anything but--you guessed it--roots. Those roots were literally wrapped around themselves, strangling each other, choking out life.

Kneeling on the living room floor covered with newspapers and holding that sick plant, I suddenly understood the lesson God was teaching me. I saw myself as God saw me. Truth whispered in the depth of my spirit. "Eva, this is what happens to you when you let selfishness consume you. Your thoughts turn inward. Your energy turns to self-pity. Bitterness and resentment begin to grow inside you, sapping you of energy and enthusiasm. You no longer desire fruitfulness, holiness or godliness."

I needed the object lesson of the root bound spider plant so long ago. I still do. Why? Because the roots of selfishness and self-pity--resentments and bitterness--are subtle and destructive. They creep into our lives. Instead of growing in godliness and fruitfulness, its easy to become self bound with nothing to give others. But God shows us a better way. How often over the years has He reminded me, "His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness through our knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and goodness" (1 Peter 1:3).

"Everything, Father?" I ask.

"Yes, my beloved Daughter. I have given you everything you need as you walk through this life. Hold onto my Hand and we will walk together."

I close my Bible, look out at the yard, dappled in its coat of sunshine and shadow. I think of the lesson of the spider plant, and I smile.

That We May Find Joy

2011-08-26T12:22:00.000-07:00

We often seek joy, but in this world, with its trials and tribulations, true joy can be illusive. I thought about Naomi and Ruth. Their lives had been torn and disrupted. Yet they trusted God and followed His biding. God loved them both. He didn't leave Naomi and Ruth alone in their grief. The Great God who promised to nurture and sustain the widow and the fatherless would bring forth new life. From Boaz and Ruth's union came fruitfulness forevermore.

Fruitfulness forevermore; I remember pondering those words when my grandson came home from the hospital. My youngest son and his wife had named him for both his uncles -- tiny Mark Andrew would carry on our two oldest son's names.

Still ill from a lengthy bout of bronchitis, pleurisy and a lingering cough, I was afraid to hold, or even touch him. But I sat beside him and observed his long slender hands, his tiny face. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, he had his Uncle Dow's smooth dark hair and those pointy ears we'd laughingly called "Spock ears."

This little boy would never know the first Dow Andrew, but he will know him one day in heaven. A prayer left my lips. "Lord, Jesus, Saviour, Lord, bless this little one. Draw his heart close to Yours that he might love and worship You forever."

Even as I prayed a longing resurrected in my soul -- I was reminded again of the great paradox of Scripture; life comes out of death. The idea of fruit bearing is the same for me as for Naomi, the same as it is for the grain which falls into the earth in order to bring forth great harvest. Our Lord illustrated this when He said: I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds. The man who loves his life will lose it, while the man who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life (John 12:24-25 NIV).

The women said to Naomi, Praise be to the LORD, who this day has not left you without a kinsman-redeemer. May he become famous throughout Israel! He will renew your life and sustain you in your old age. For your daughter-in-law, who loves you and who is better to you than seven sons, has given him birth. (Ruth 4:14, 15)

God always keeps His promises -- When we trust the Master Gardener with the seeds of our lives, He gives us an abundant life filled with incredible fruitfulness and joy -- not just during this life here on earth, but the kind of fruitful joy which lasts for an eternity.

Note to Joann and Mary - In the shuffle of getting caught up on past correspondence, your emails were deleted. As I went to read your email--somehow I clicked on something which deleted them and I can't get them back! Would you send your emails again? I would so love to hear from you. You have been such an encouragement to me.

Praise from the Pit

2011-04-13T13:10:00.000-07:00

Just as the women blessed Naomi and praised God after Ruth gave birth to a son, so I have also been blessed by loving women friends. Petey is one of them. A deepening of our relationship came the year we shared a cabin at the Oregon Christian Writers Summer Conference following my son's death. After we settled in, we spent time praying for our families and those who would be attending the conference. Then we talked about what God was doing in our lives.

Petey's words almost tripped over each other when she described what the Lord had been teaching her about the high praises of God. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, my back braced again the edge of the bed, I leaned my elbow on my knee and cupped my chin in my hand.

My friend's excitement was palpable, as she drew a folded piece of paper from the pages of her Bible. I listened as she read aloud what she'd written:

Determined to praise the Lord in spite of being in the pit, I sat in the Sunday worship service obediently, but joylessly rasping out my praise to God. As I blew my nose and blended my quavering voice with the congregation, the Holy Spirit reminded me of the verse, "Let the high praises of God be in their mouth." (Psalm 149:6 KJV).

She looked up and smiled at me. "I've never understood what high praises are," she said. "and if there are high praises, are there also low praises? What is the difference?" She turned the page over and continued reading.

"What are high praises, Father? Your throne is fixed in the heavens. As I praise You from earth, doesn't my praise always rise the same distance to reach You? Why is some praise 'high praise'?

"And then I thought of Joseph (less his coat of many colors), who praised God from his pit. 'You are like Joseph,' God seemed to say to my spirit. 'You are alone in a pit of confusion and pain, unable to climb out of your sorrow. When you offer the sacrifice of praise from the deep pit place it must rise higher to reach My throne. It becomes high praise-most precious in My sight.'"

Struck by the truths she had gleaned, I leaned forward. "I've done that," I whispered, "I mean praised Him from the pit. Except it wasn't me. "

I remembered the last two hours of my son Dow's life. His girlfriend Jane and I had been at his side, doing what we could to ease his pain and agitation. We assured him of our love and our hands were gentle as we cared for his needs. When he took his final breath Jane and I bowed our heads and wept. The first words that poured out of my mouth were from the Holy Spirit. "Thank you, Jesus, thank you, Jesus. Bless Your Holy Name."

I had barely finished my story when Petey was beside me. Her hands touched my hair, my forehead. The prayer and blessing she spoke wrapped around my aching heart. "Lord, bring healing and peace to Eva's mind, heart and spirit, even her whole body. Grant her Your Blessing from this time forth and even forevermore." Then she hugged me.

As my Friend held me in her arms, I realized the words of thanksgiving I had prayed to Jesus the morning my son died had been a sacrifice of praise. The words of thanksgiving which flowed from my lips the day Dow flew away to heaven were the kind of praises the Psalmist David wrote when he penned the words, Let the high praises of God be in their mouth..."

Some of you have experienced terrible pain and the unspeakable darkness of the pit. You may be languishing in the pit right now. To you, dear ones, I speak God's blessings, sending healing and peace to your aching broken heart, in the name of our Lord.

Wings of Blessing

2011-04-03T13:36:00.000-07:00

There are many blessings scattered all throughout the book of Ruth. The harvesters blessed Boaz (2:4), Naomi blessed Boaz (2:19,20), Boaz blessed Ruth (3:10), the elders and all those at the gate blessed Boaz and Ruth (4:11-12) and the women blessed Naomi (4:15)

A thought finds its way into my mind. Our Lord wants us to bless others.

Last week as I rode the Max train to teach a writing class in Tigard, an elderly lady who had just moved to our town sat across from me; it was her first time on the train and she was apprehensive. For awhile we talked about buses and schedules then she began telling me her story. A full blooded Cherokee Indian, lonely, handicapped at birth, she had gone through many hard things. But life was better now; she proudly showed me her engagement ring as she told me about the Irishman who had asked her to be his wife.

The train pulled into my station and I stood up. "Your stop?" she asked

I nodded and held out my hand. "I'm glad you shared my morning." Then the very words that God had given me as I'd meditated on His Word spilled out from my lips. "May God bless you, my friend."

A blessing given. A blessing received. She reached for my hand and clung to it, there was emotion in her voice, "My Sis," she said, "my sister."

Those simple words, "May God bless you," have colored my days these past few weeks. I remembered again how God used them to comfort me following our son's death nine years ago; a hand on my shoulder, a whispered, "May God bless you, my friend, may He bless you and your family."

I have sometimes imagined blessings as wings of truth God has placed deep within the soul. A blessing sets those wings into motion.

For a moment tears mist my eyes. May God bless each person for whom You have me to pray as I look back, remembering. . . .

May the LORD bless you, dear Friends.

Letting Go -- God's Unfolding Grace

2011-03-30T10:24:00.000-07:00

I'm reading Ruth chapter two--a Book found in the Old Testament of the Bible. But I don't get far and I know why. When Ruth asks Naomi to allow her to go into the fields of Bethlehem and glean grain it's hard for Naomi to let go. But listen to her words. "Go my daughter."

I read Naomi's words aloud and tremble. I know what it's like when fear reigns and everything in you wants to hold tight to the ones you love. With her lips Naomi says, "Go, my daughter, go," . . . But what about her heart? My imagination takes over. Go, my daughter, go . . . . into the fields where the hot sun will scorch your shoulders? Where backbreaking labor will tax your strength as you stoop, again, and again, and again as you gather the occasional stalk of ripened wheat and thrust it into your mantle.

Ruth, the young Moabite widow, steps out of the house and onto the road as Naomi watches, silently holding back her tears. Oh, Ruth, my daughter, I would go with you, but this is something you must do alone. I am too old, too tired and the reapers are young. You, my daughter, an undefended foreigner will certainly be a target for abuse and I-

Naomi smiles and lifts her hand. Go my daughter, go, and may the LORD be with you . . .

But for me it was, "Go my son, go." The summer following the death of our oldest son, quite unexpectedly our sewer suddenly backed up and backed up and backed up some more. We had no recourse, but to put in a new drain field.

It was a huge undertaking. My husband rented a back hoe and our youngest son drove it into the backyard. In spite of his height, he looked small and inexperienced sitting atop the giant machine teetering precariously on the uneven terrain. His hands fumbled with the gears and fear shot through me.

My wound was fresh, it was gnawing a hole at my insides. Oh, God, I can't bear to lose another son. I can't -- I bowed my head. Lord, I can't watch.

My Lord spoke deep within my heart. It's okay my daughter. Let go. I'll watch your son for you.

I lifted my face, smiled and raised my hand to our son in an A-okay. The triumphant smile which spread across his face warmed my heart. His hand lifted high as he returned my signal.

The back hoe moved forward, lurched. My son sat tall, his shoulders squared, head held high. I turned and went into the house. As I did, I understood a bit more of what it means to let go.

God's grace unfolded to me, just as it did for Naomi and Ruth as they entered the "safe place." Boaz spoke of it in Ruth 2:12 (NIV): " . . . may you be richly rewarded by the LORD, the God of Israel, under whose wings you have come to take refuge." Listening to the heart beat of the Lord Most High, Ruth and Naomi were safe and secure in the shadow of God's eagle wings.

As Naomi let go, God's grace unfolded. Together Naomi and Ruth entered the place of acceptance and trust, a place to heal and grow close to the heart of God. He is the refuge to whom we can go and find healing for our souls.

From Ashes to Beauty

2011-03-08T15:55:00.000-08:00

This winter our pastor began a sermon series on the book of Ruth. I faced it with mixed emotions; it was the book God had used to help me through the time of my son's death. "Lord," I said, "I don't really want to go back."

But go back I must and I'm not quite sure why He wants me to remember again my journey toward wholeness. I only know that it would be for me a step of obedience.

I start in the first chapter of Ruth and as I read marvel anew at the many times the phrase,"go back", whispers across the page to confirm His Word. Like Naomi I need to go back.

God had been faithful during our son's first battle with testicular cancer. After two surgeries and six months of chemotherapy the prognosis had been positive. "If it doesn't come back in six months he has a fifty-fifty chance it will never recur. After five years he'll be considered cured."

Twelve years later I stood beside my son in the emergency room. He clutched a basin in his hands and his knuckles were white against the white sheet. His dark blue eyes fringed in those long dark lashes we all loved so much, looked bigger then ever.

His voice was hoarse. "They took pictures, Mom. The doctors think the cancer's growing again. Only this time, this time--it's probably in the liver."

The cloud of concern which had shadowed me for several months as my son had complained of frequent back problems darkened, became ominous. I didn't know what to say, except, "We love you, son. Never forget, we're praying...."

Later that afternoon I went to work at the church where I was secretary. The sun crept close to the horizon by the time I took the recycle bin across the street. I set the container on the curb, then turned. I heard the screech of tires. I looked up. A city bus loomed above me. I could have reached out and touched the hard cold metal.

For one wild moment I wished that bus hadn't stopped. Lord, I don't want to go through what's ahead.. The chemo-again-the nausea-again, the waiting after each blood draw. Will the cancer count be the same, or down, or will it be on the rise?

I caught the bus driver's eye, spread my arms in a gesture of apology and stepped back. I could imagine his thoughts. Crazy woman. Why don't you watch where you're going? Why, I could have run you down.

I stood on the side of the road, stunned at what had almost happened. I gazed up at the faces of the passengers peering down at me from the windows, then turned away. Fear of the future pierced my soul. My pain was fresh, eating a hole in my heart.

Even as I wrote these words, I relived the bitterness I felt in my soul that day. But time has since gentled the agony and where there had been only pain, there is now a sweetness. Is it the presence of my Lord?

The honey of God's Word drops gently into my soul and becomes my song:

Your righteousness reaches to the skies, O God,

you who have done great things.

Who, O God, is like you?

Though you have made me see troubles,

many and bitter, you will restore my life again;

Praise be to the Lord God, the God of Israel,

who alone does marvelous deeds

Praise be to his glorious name forever;

may the whole earth be filled with his glory,

Amen and Amen

(Psalm 71:20-21; 72:18-19)

Giving Thanks

2010-11-24T15:13:00.000-08:00

Today I am remembering my children and grandchildren from Thanksgivings past. Some of our grade school and high school aged grandchildren are now grown and although new ones have since entered the world, circumstances manage to keep us apart. Thanksgiving this year will be quiet, maybe even a bit lonely, but reading journal entries from the “Thankful Book” encourages my heart. I read on, remembering joy and gladness:

* I'm thankful for life going on after the towers fell . . . for God showing His face in America. I'm thankful for another peace filled day. I'm thankful for my best friend . . . *grandpa* . . . FOR FAMILY! FOR WHAT JESUS DID FOR ME!

~ Granddaughter KN

* I am thankful for: trees and leaves, wind and gushing rain. My dad, my Mom, my special loving family, coffee and pie.

~ Daughter LG

* I am thankful for music and my children singing. I am thankful for Dow's whimsical smile and huge hair, walking, fall leaves, snow and my sister's smile. I thank God for all things, good and bad . . . God has given me so much.

~ Daughter BN

* I am thankful for something for Christmas and I know what it is! I'm thankful for the song I played and I'm thankful for having fun!

~ Grandson SN

* I'm thankful for my grandpa Bud who went into World War Two and fought for our country and I'm thankful for my old dog named Bull.

~ Granddaughter GG

* I am thankful for my experiences in my new school. . . . my friends and family, and my little Bible (thanks again Mom and Dad!). . . and the chances I've had to mirror Jesus. I am especially thankful for the trust and safety I have found in God. (P.S. And don't forget blissful mud!)

~ Granddaughter JN

* I'm thankful for all the relatives being nice to me at the thanksgiving we had with my Dad. All the people were also very nice.

~ Granddaughter VG

* I'm thankful for cats and apple juice; for warm blankets and soft beds . . . which is where this very stuffed bird is going to land in a few minutes. Oh, and I'm thankful for smiles and back rubs, too. At the very top? Thanks for love.

~ Daughter CG

* Thanks giving, waking up every morning to the next day of my life, for children, grandchildren and a faithful wife and about everything I ever wanted. A full life of memories and love, thankful I can be me. Thankful the LORD has given me 72 years to enjoy it in.

~ Grandpa BG

Though I miss my family -- those who cannot be here with us -- I walk into this day of Thanksgiving with joy because my Shepherd holds my heart next to His. He is my help--this beautiful One whose healing ointment of comfort fills the aching places in my soul. “For You have been my help, and in the shadow of your wings I sing for joy. My soul clings to You; Your right hand upholds me.” Psalm 63:7

Our Thankful Book

2010-11-20T11:54:00.000-08:00

I looked at the calendar this morning and marveled. November with its gifts of bright leaves, baked beans and bowls of crisp colorful apples had arrived. For a moment time stood still as memories of happier times brought back memories of past Thanksgivings. I even smiled as I remembered noticing our old journal book tucked in a corner of the bookcase.

It was still there; I pulled it out, blew off the dust and opened it. For a number of years our family had captured memories on its pages with family members and friends writing down what they were thankful for each Thanksgiving day in that flower covered journal. We'd entitled it “Our 'Thankful' Book” first dated November 26, 1998, Thanksgiving Day.

Family members and friends who were present, but have since gone on to heaven, had left words to touch my heart. My husband Bud's youngest brother made me smile “Every day above ground is a good day any more. All of the family is a blessing to me,” Joe C. Gibson. The Following year he wrote: “I'm still here and am amazed as ever, and as thankful.” From Bud's sister, much loved aunt and my faithful friend, “I'm thanking God for all the family. For the fun and humor,” Aunt Peggy.

My own dear mother whom I cared for the last year of her life left these memorable words: “I am thankful for family, all so different. I'm thankful for the bubbling ones, for the quiet serious ones. For the little ones, too. May we all grow closer to the Lord where ever we're at in our lives right now.” She signed her name, Gramma Jenny. Then she added, “Most of all I'm thankful that I belong to the Lord. May we all be together in Heaven to praise You forever.”

My own entry, this one on 11/22/01: “A lovely sweet spirit was present here today—I think it was the presence of the Lord. So much to be thankful for . . . Dow's thanks and his being able to eat a whole plateful of food . . .”

It was to be our son Dow's last thanksgiving on this earth, but we still remember. Those who've gone before have left heart prints across our lives, which continue to remind us of thanksgiving, hope, praise and love. As you celebrate Thanksgiving, treasure each moment with those you love--those precious moments are fleeting.

There are times I sorely miss those who are no longer with us--remembering rollicking Thanksgivings of the past. Sorrow breaks my heart and tears flow down my cheeks. Then I read the Psalms, "Enter His gates with thanksgiving, and His courts with praise; give thanks to Him and praise His name. For the Lord is good and His love endures forever; His faithfulness continues through all generations.” Psalm 100:4, 5 “It is a good thing to give thanks unto the LORD, and to sing praises unto Thy name, O most High.” Psalm 92:1 (KJV)

And I smile through my tears.

Strawberry Jam Loving Kindness

2010-10-21T14:05:00.000-07:00

Early this month my daughter Beth and I were asked to speak at a women's retreat at Camp Morrow in Eastern Oregon. I went with fear and trembling, it had been a long time since I'd spoke before an unfamiliar crowd. Would I tangle up my words? Embarrass myself or worst of all embarrass my daughter?

None of these things happened, or if they did it didn't matter to that delightful group of women. What an evening—we laughed together, cried a bit and let our Lord wrap us tight together in His great big arms. The first day and my daughter and I were already experiencing the reality of our Lord's loving kindness.

Later that evening I remembered an illustration I had heard years ago. “I think maybe we could work it into one of tomorrow's sessions” I told my daughter. And then I told her the story I had never forgotten.

“'Do you know what loving-kindness is?' a Sunday school teacher asked her class. The room was silent for a moment and then a small boy lifted his hand. 'I know what kindness is,' he said softly. 'If I was hungry and you gave me a piece of bread, why that would be kindness. But,' a big smile slowly spread across his face, 'if you put strawberry jam on it before you gave it to me, why, that would be loving-kindness.'”

At midnight as I walked across to the bath house I looked up. A moon pinned onto the curtain of night reflected onto the lacy edges of clouds scattered across the sky. Stars dipped low, more brilliant here than at home and I could see their glory in the Milky Way as I hadn't seen in a long time. “Lord,” I whispered, “You're bringing out the strawberry jam aren't You?”

Deep within my spirit I heard His Word. "Yes, I have loved you with an everlasting love; therefore, with loving kindness I have drawn you and have continued My faithfulness to you." (Jeremiah 31:3)

Joy in Life's Shadows

2010-07-02T08:37:00.000-07:00

This spring, here in Oregon's Willamette Valley, has brought us many unseasonably cool and cloud-filled days. Maybe that's why this verse caught my attention. "And the LORD went before them by day in a pillar of cloud to lead them along the way." [Exodus 13:21]

It seems that cloud and pillar of fire are bound up in Scripture with thoughts of guidance. When Israel was wandering in the wilderness, each new day began with the sight of this impenetrable cloud. What would this day bring? Would they journey forward or would they wait another day in the camp?

It seems as though, following our accident a year ago, my husband and I have spent a lot of days waiting for the cloud to move. Yet looking back I see the cloud which overshadowed us did move, but it was according to our Lord's timetable, not ours. Days in the hospital, then with our youngest daughter in Albany, our eldest daughter in Independence, at the end of September our own home in Wilsonville.

It seems like we're still following the cloud, but I continue to read Exodus. When Moses lingered at the foot of the mountain, he heard a voice of his Friend calling. Come up to me on the mountain, and wait there... Then Moses went up on the mountain, and the cloud covered the mountain. [Exodus 24:12, 15 ] In the cool darkness of the cloud Moses beheld the glory of the Lord and heard His voice.

It is so with us. Day by day, as we look forward into the hours which rush up before us, we see not clear skies but a cloud. Then a Voice we know calls softly, "Come up to Me, and be here." The cloud of the unknown, then becomes for us the over-shadowing wings of the Lord; "I have . . . hid you in the shadow of my hand," [Isaiah 51:16].

We sit under His shadow. His shadow is greater than our life's shadows. His presence is real. "With great delight I sat in his shadow and his fruit was sweet to my taste." [Song of Solomon 2:3]. This fruit we first tasted in the dark alone with Him, will be ours to share with others. "What I tell you in the dark, speak in the daylight; what is whispered in your ear, proclaim from the roofs." [Matthew 10:27 NIV]

There is JOY in the shadow, a purpose for the pain. God never wastes our tears--they are precious to Him.

Harvest Time at the Farm

2010-06-23T10:36:00.000-07:00

It's harvest time at the farm. I'm older now, about nine I think. My uncertain fingers grasp grapple with husks and silk as my brothers cut and scrape the corn off the husks. Some of the canning covering the end of the table in the front yard are empty, but not for long. We take turns scooping the corn into the jars. After awhile I put several filled jars on a cookie sheet and, carefully balancing them, carry them into the house.

A blast of heat hits me as I enter the kitchen. The galvanized boiler on the back of the blackened kitchen range bubbles and smacks. Flames leap from the stove as Mother lifts the lid and shoves in more wood. Sweat drips off her forehead, stray hairs straggle from the bun on the back of her head.

All of sudden she burst into song. "Oh, it's hard to be a Christian. Oh, it's hard to be a Christian. Oh, it's hard to be a Christian day by day."

I stare at her. Well if it's so hard be a Christian, why bother?

I've often looked back at that memory. I understand now what she meant. Sometimes it is hard to keep persevering, to keep on when everything inside wants to curl up and quit. Sometimes I'd rather have the quiet rest -- that place of intimacy and love I experience in my quiet times. I want to hear My Lord's whisper "I will give you rest." And He does. Except the other times are there, too. I only wish I knew how to put the two together.

I have a feeling Paul struggled in this area, too. He writes in 2 Timothy 4:10, "And for this we labor and strive." Colossians 1:29 says, "I labor, struggling with all His energy, which works so powerfully in me." Paul is laboring, but because he's in partnership with the Spirit of God, there's also rest and strength.

When we can't hang on any longer, we can cry out. He embraces us with mighty love and in His right hand is power and strength and mercy and grace. Our God is near to each of His children in their struggles.

He's not there just for the crisis. He's present for the dailies and the plain hard work of just living.

Every House is Built...

2010-05-21T12:24:00.000-07:00

I built my first farm beneath the spreading branches of a fir tree at the edge of the garden when I was about eight or nine. I used a hoe to scrape out a creek to wind amongst the ferns and gathered sticks to make a field for animals to graze in. I picked rose hips off the wild rose bushes for sheep, tiny burs from the burdock for hens, then added a cow I cut out from the Ward's catalog. My brother built a barn and a house out of scrap lumber. My farm was complete.

Or was it? I needed a family. It wasn't until I carried the family I cut out from the catalog that my farm became a real farm. I loved that little family. Years later, the tree still stands, but the posts are gone. I have no idea what became of the house, or barn, or the precious family I carried back and forth in a shoe box.

My husband and I built a house together when our children were small. It grew board by board and so did the memories. Beth lost a doll inside the walls . . . years later she remembered she'd put it there for safe keeping. Her two-year-old brother poked nails down a knothole. My husband found them years later, a strange mountain of rusted nails alongside the foundation under the house.

Our children are grown now-all six of them. They've gone on, some live in houses built long before they were born, some to build houses of their own, others to share the home they grew up in with their parents. The happy boy who stuffed nails down the hole has a brand new house in heaven that his Father in heaven built for him.

Hebrews 3:4 says: ". . . every house is built by someone but He who built all things is God."

Looking at my family, I see God’s hand working there—He is still building. Our Creator loves families, they're important to Him. We can leave our burdens concerning our families in His tender care. We can trust He has their best good in mind, and in this there is peace.

Just Give Them to Me . . .

2010-04-27T08:33:00.000-07:00

Unable to sleep, I sat on the edge of the bed, sipping a cup of hot chocolate. As I looked down at my sleeping husband sudden tears filled my eyes. Our day together had been difficult as he still suffers mental confusion since last summer's accident.

Today had been one of the hardest yet and despair clouded my soul. My heart cried out, O Lord, I don't know what to do. Even as I whispered those words I thought of Abraham, the friend of God. He had waited long years for the son he and Sarah had been promised; it was the desire of their hearts. Abraham could tell his Lord all about it, because he knew his Master cared about every detail of their lives. (See Genesis 15:1-5).

Tears dampened my cheeks and in the best way I knew how, I gave to my Lord my own heart desires for our family. As I rolled each care on Him, peace came to quiet my troubled spirit. Afterwards I slept encircled in His arms.

Giving my Lord my heart desires that night reminded me of when I was young. The desires inside my heart weren't bad ones, some of them were indeed extra special--I think God even planted them. The problem was, I didn't trust Him enough to let go. I held them tight inside, refusing to release them. Instead of being a blessing, they turned into a weighty thing.

And all the time His voice kept whispering, "Just give them to me, Eva." At last I picked up my Bible, a notebook and a pen and walked down to the creek. I sat down on top of the culvert that goes under the road. My feet dangled high over the bubbling waters as I began to write. Tears mingled with words only my Lord could see as I wrote them down. The desires of my heart were precious.

Then I leaned over and tossed my tear streaked words into the water, watched as the stream took the paper away.

All of a sudden I couldn't bear it. I kicked off my tennis shoes and lowered myself into the dark culvert. Would my paper come out on the other side or would it be submerged in the tunnel? I felt like a small child as I splashed through the swiftly running water. But I had to know, I had to see. White flashed on the other side, then was gone, hidden beneath the water. I ran toward the spot.

Stopped.

The desires of my heart were inside an indentation in a rock. It was the only rock in the creek and it was shaped like a heart.

I knew beyond all doubt that the most fragile part of me was in safe hands. The Lord held them close to His heart. In the best way I knew how, I'd done my part. My desires were His responsibility now. I had done what I needed to do. I gave my Lord the most precious thing I had--the desires of my heart.

As we offer to our Lord our sacrifice--our pain, our longings, whatever is inside us--a wonderful thing happens. He draws near.

"The Lord your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing" (Zephaniah 3:17 NIV).

Transformed

2010-01-17T15:15:00.000-08:00

Our God is a faithful Creator who "makes all things works for the good of those who love him." (Romans 8:28) As I lingered over those verses a question formed in my heart.

"Lord," I asked. "Do you really transform despair into beauty? You made that promise when you said you had been sent ". . . to comfort all who mourn and provide for those who grieve in Zion--to bestow a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair." (Isaiah 61:3)

And suddenly I remembered the ancient pickup truck my husband parked in the back yard outside the kitchen window. He told me and the kids to throw our garbage and discards into it, so he could drive it to the dump. It didn't take us long to fill that old pickup with smashed plastic jugs, rusted pipes and cans, tattered clothes and crushed cardboard. But then that old pick up wouldn't start.

And so it sat.

For months, every time I prepared meals or cleaned the kitchen, I'd look out the window and see that dented vehicle with its ton of garbage. I hated the sight--the disorderly ugliness grated my spirit.

Winter came and one night it snowed. I went into the kitchen to make hot chocolate and someone turned on the porch light. I looked out the window.

Huge snowflakes drifted down and light reflected off the pick up windows. Ugly cans, frayed sponge rubber, a rusted mattress, all were frosted in an intricate design of white fringed with black.

It made me want to cry.

That old, ugly pickup with its mess of garbage had been transformed into beauty.

I'll never forget that precious picture of God's grace. That long ago night He showed me, in a new way, His power to transform ugly circumstances and situations into beauty.

Since then I've seen Him do the same for people who've been bruised and scarred. Yes, our faithful Creator has power to bring forth hope and beauty from ashes and despair.

He's done it before. He can do it again.

The Miracle of Birth

2009-11-18T17:21:00.000-08:00

One of the most significant moments of my life was to be present when my granddaughter, Malaya Leigh, entered the world.

March 2, 2007--I stood at the bedside of my daughter, Leigh. Delivery was imminent--I couldn't help but think about the miracle of birth. For nine months this little one, soon to be born, had been surrounded by fluid. For nine months this new life had floated in protected warmth and darkness, close to my daughter's heart.

Then . . . within a matter of seconds, a dramatic change took place. The tip of our baby's head appeared, no bigger than a dime. Then the head disappeared. Another contraction and Leigh pushed hard. Once more a bit of dark hair appeared, then disappeared. So close--our Baby was about to be born.

Our daughter cried out and pushed again--the top of our baby's head appeared. Within moments Malaya's entire head emerged . . . then her shoulders. My granddaughter burst into the world . . . and took her first breath. Her first cry brought to tears to my eyes.

The doctor lifted our naked granddaughter high.

I'll never forget the moment when her eyes made contact with mine; the wonder of that moment defies description. The Almighty Spirit had breathed into Malaya Leigh the breath of life.

There is something beautiful about the breath of the Almighty. Even His name, the Holy Spirit, carries the idea of moving, vitalizing breath. The breath of the Almighty takes the thoughts of God and gives them voice.

In His presence we discover a deepening joy. A baby's fingers wrap around our own; we bite into an icy watermelon on a hot day; we discover an expected flower blooming in a desert, or the wonder of a delicately formed snowflake. Our spirits are moved. We respond by allowing God to still our hearts, give us a song, or deepen our adoration as we stand shoulder to shoulder with others in worship.

When we allow these experiences to imprint our lives, they teach us more about what it means to reverence and adore our Lord.

The Day Our World Blew Apart

2009-10-14T09:33:00.001-07:00

My classes on Writing Your Life Story began the last day of September. Each week this Fall I teach two groups of men and women who are eager to continue writing the story of their lives. Their first assignment: capture on paper their own unique experience during a memorable event which impacted their lives.

During class time we brainstormed and came up with national or regional items students most vividly remember. Examples: the day President Kennedy was shot, the day Mt. St. Helens blew its top off--for me it was the Columbus Day Storm that blew up from the south to cause wide-spread destruction across the Willamette Valley.

This is my story:

THE DAY OUR WORLD BLEW APART
By Eva J. Gibson

Columbus Day, 1962 was the day my husband Bud and I planned to do our weekly grocery shopping in Newberg OR. Although we lived near Wilsonville, food prices were more reasonable in the neighboring town.

As I zipped our 17 month old daughter into her one piece red suit I looked out the bedroom window. An unusual yellow light highlighted the fir trees alongside my parent's house on the other side of the field that separated our two homes. The firs tossed uneasily in the golden light, turning, back and forth, back and forth, flashing their restless branches like ballerina dancers all in a twirl.

I watched for a few minutes, placed the little one in her crib then grabbed up a brush to smooth our four year old daughter's blond curls while our three year old son peered out the window. A few minutes later we came into the living room as a 2 X 4 from the porch my husband was in the process of constructing crashed down breaking the front window. A shower of glass blew inside and at the same moment our large picture window bowed with the force of the wind.

I quickly herded the children away from the bending glass and placed them so they would have the shelter of the over sized buffet in the dining room. The window crashed inward and the force of the wind blew shards of glass through the room and out the kitchen window. The wings of the canary in the cage beside us trembled. “Let's pray,” I said and the two older children fell to their knees.

There was a sudden lull in the wind. “Come!” I cried.

Broken glass carpeted the living room and the long hall that led to the bedrooms. Even through my small daughter was in my arms I somehow managed to grab the little ones hands and run with them down the hall. I swung them outside the window then followed with the baby.

The wind pulled at our hair and clothes as we raced to the field where no falling tree could find us. We stopped in the middle, watched as my parent's barn swirled loose hay out the open sides. Then the old barn stepped forward one giant step and sank to its knees like a tired old man. The walls slowly crumbled into nothingness and only the roof remained.

We looked back at our house. A third of the roof was being rolled up like a scroll. Another blast of wind and it sailed out into the field as we watched. Old growth fir trees in my parents canyon were uprooted. They descended slowly, shaking the ground where we stood with the force of their fall. Other standing trees, both cedars and willows, snapped in the wind and tumbled earthward. Branches rode the wind through the remaining trees as they tried to find a place to settle.

I looked down at my small daughter in my arms and smiled; she lay, contentedly blowing bubbles. For a moment I was struck by the beauty of the colors against her open lips and red suit. Beauty in the midst of chaos. Isn't that just like our great God?

My husband who had gone to check on a fallen apple tree early in the storm joined us. He wanted us to take shelter in my parent's house which was still standing but I was afraid. What if the storm blew it apart while we were inside? I felt much safer standing in the field. As the wind slowed and the rain came we got into the family car and listened to it tap the roof. It was a long time before we felt safe enough to bed down next door.

We returned home the next morning to cracked wet linoleum and blue sky staring down where the roof had once been. Big drops of water dripped off the rafters. The canary slept on her perch. She greeted us with a few uncertain peeps, other than that we were on our own. There was no electricity, phone, water or protection from the elements and the children were hungry.

I went out to the garden and brought in carrots and potatoes. A package of meat in the frig was still cold. I cleaned the vegetables in the drain across the road, cut them into pieces and piled them into a big kettle with broken pieces of hamburger.

Bud dug out our camp stove and my parents and brother came over with winter squash and apples. We added the squash to our hamburger soup and saved the apples for later. We ate together in the living room with sunshine smiling through the rafters and knew we were blessed. We may not be able to get to the store for awhile but we could share what was in both our cupboards and gardens.

So what if winter was coming. We'd rebuild again. Our home would rise again. And it did.

Roll, Crash, Crunch

2009-07-12T21:45:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone out there. This is Eva's daughter Beth. Monday afternoon (July 5) Dad and Mom were in a terrible accident on the freeway. Dad drifted into the shoulder gravel and lost control of the Ford Explorer. They tumbled end over tea kettle across three lanes of traffic to land on upright in the grassy median between the northbound and south bound lanes.

The odd thing is that Dad and Mumsie's lives were saved by an invention of my brother-in-law Paul. He holds the patent for those airplane wire barriers stringing down the middle of I-5 from Wilsonville to Salem. If it weren't for that barrier my parents would have flipped into the southbound lanes of the highway.

Miraculously they survived. Mom has some pretty bad bruising but she's alright. Dad broke his neck, but the break did not sever or damage his spinal cord. The top of Dad's head was literally scalped from his head by the broken windshield. The surgeon was able to close the wound so the bone is only exposed in an area about the size of a 50 cent piece.

Friday we brought Dad to my sister's home, where he and Mom will stay for the next six weeks while he is recovering. Please pray for Dad's quick recovery from his wounds and that Mumsie will feel God's presence and the love of her friends all around her. Mom is carrying a terribly heavy burden.

Thank you so much for your love and prayers.

Strawberry Truths

2009-06-09T18:59:00.000-07:00

Perseverance, steadfastness, faithfulness--these are areas the Lord has stressed in my life. Maybe that's why my Lord keeps bringing me back to Hebrews 11 and 12.

My deepest childhood fear was always a fear of failure, so I never tried anything new. When I was in my teens a family friend noted, "Eva doesn't have any backbone. She's spineless."

As an adult I've struggled with following through on hard things. Often I'm tempted to give up, run away or withdraw. But God is greater than my weakness.

My paraphrase from Hebrews 12:1 (TLB) is His Word to me: "Strip off anything that slows you down or holds you back, and especially those sins that wrap themselves around your feet and trip you up; and run with patience the particular race that God has set before you. Run . . . endure . . . agonize . . . persevere . . .

A memory--I'm nine years old and my brothers and I have a job picking strawberries at the neighbor's place a mile down the road then another quarter or so after the crossroads. We have to walk to get there but it doesn't matter.

At least not at first. The morning was cool and we were excited about the money we'd earn. The neighbor would pay us twenty-five cents for every carrier we picked. Except the sun shone hot and the day stretched long.

At 2 o'clock I stuffed a single dollar into my pocket and headed home. The details of that walk are still vivid. My brothers took off ahead and I plodded along alone.

A long stretch of road bordered by fields meant sunshine all the way. But a huge oak alongside the road offered a slight reprieve. After that, more sunshine, and a wooded area where sheep grazed. I fixed my eyes on the dense shade cast by those fir trees and kept on. After that, more sunshine, and then the trees along our driveway welcomed me. My knees trembled by this time, and my face felt like it was on fire. But I wasn't going to stop.

I opened the front door and looked inside. My eye caught my reflection in a mirror on an opposite wall. I couldn't tell where the red strawberry juice around my mouth ended and the sunburn on my cheeks began. But I had made it.

I stepped across the threshold. I was home, home at last.

Waiting for Morning

2009-05-25T16:19:00.000-07:00

Waiting for Morning
( looking out Beth and Alan’s window in Independence)
May 23, 2009

How great are Your works, O Lord!

The silver sky with its hints of blue,
Even the cedar with it’s many branches stands motionless,
Waiting for the sun to deepen its colors with burnished gold.
Awaiting the touch of the rising sun.

You, O Lord, are exalted forever.
(paraphrase from Psalm 92:5-7)

Your thoughts are very deep, O Lord!
Like the sky depths of deepening blue

Your thoughts call to my mind:

“I am faithful, my daughter.
“Lift Your hands to the Son!
“Dance and be glad! You belong to me!”

You are the Lord, that is Your name,
You will not give Your glory to another,
Or Your praise to idols. (Isaiah 42:8)

Lord, I worship You.

Shadows on the Roses, The Mystery Continues

2009-05-11T08:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Mother's Day and I spent a good portion of it reading the comments on my blog and catching up on my daughter's blogs. So to all of you readers out there, “You encourage me!”

Writing can sometimes be lonely, especially when your story takes fire and moves off in directions you're not quite sure how to handle. Actually this is the first time it's happened to me to this extent. But it does lend a certain excitement.

How is this story going to end anyway? I can't even turn the pages and take a sneak look at the last chapter because Shadows on the Roses isn't finished yet. So I have to write don't I? Otherwise I'll never know how it all turns out!

When I started this blog I was on Chapter 13, today I'm starting Chapter 28. I'm putting up a short excerpt for you from chapter 27. I wrote it yesterday. It's first draft, but I'd love to hear what you think anyway! Thank you again--you dear friends do so encourage my heart!

From Chapter 27:

Clarissa and Blake savored their dessert, hot chocolate fudge over a delicious concoction of warm brownie, topped with vanilla ice cream and whipped cream. Afterwards they lingered over hot coffee, a large computer print out of a family tree spread between them.

“I had to show you this,” Blake explained. “If you'll look closely you'll see my great, great, great grandfather's name, John Walters, a well known jeweler who lived in the middle of the eighteenth century.” He grimaced, “known to the other branch of the family but previously unknown to me or, as far as I can determine, to my mother.”

Clarissa leaned forward. “Why, this is fabulous,” she explained. “But how did you find it?”

“I guess you'd say it was through the marvels of the Internet, with the help of a private investigator and Anna Marie, one of our lost cousins so to speak. She's the one who sent this family tree.”

“But—but why?”

Blake leaned forward and touched her hand. “After I found out that you'd found Dirk's ring at the cabin where he died, I sensed a connection. But I had nothing to go on, not really, not until I got a call from a lady I didn't even know. She'd been working on putting together her family tree, and listen to this.”

His hand tightened over hers, and her stomach dipped. Almost without realizing it her fingers curled around his. “This lady had been tracing her family and it appeared that my mother and I were the only living relatives she'd been able to find that were descendants of my great grandfather, Arthur Nickerson. That's when I found out that he was an identical twin that had left home when he married my grandmother.”

.
His dark eyes met hers and she sensed in their depths the as yet untold story of an old love lingering there. “Keep talking,” she whispered. “I want to hear more.”

Blake continued. “It seems as though his jeweler grandfather who had graciously given the twins identical rings on their twenty first birthday, didn't approve of his favored grandson marrying a German girl. Apparently they had a big argument and Arthur departed for the west with his sweetheart. The sad part was that the family never heard from him again.”

“A love story, lost forever,” Clarissa murmured.

“Not completely. After he disappeared, and years later, the family discovered that the ring belonging to the identical twin who stayed in Boston was a clever imitation of the ring his grandfather had made for the first twin. The family came to the conclusion long after his death that he must have fashioned the second ring he made for the Boston twin from clever substitutes that so closely resembled the real thing that no one ever knew. At least not until much later.”

He sighed deeply. “It grew into a root of bitterness and I understand that. Over the years they tried to find the other brother but he had vanished. We know now that he lost his life in Skagway, gateway to the Klondike gold fields, over 600 miles to the north.”

His fingers tightened over hers. “Clarissa, you have in your possession a most valuable ring, a collectors item that has been sought after by relatives we never even knew about, men and women that were unknown to our family.

“My great grandfather's twin was named Arnold and apparently my forebears never divulged that to the next generation. Nor did anyone ever, beyond sentimental value, recognize the real value of the ring passed down to my brother.”

A dark thought entered her mind. She released her hand and clasped both hands together under her chin. “Oh, Blake,” she whispered, ”are you thinking what I am?”

“Yes. And you might be right. If someone did murder my brother that night like we suspect it may have been because of the ring; maybe even someone who felt that the ring belonged to him and his family, not to ours. I just don't know for sure.”

“Did you mention your suspicions to Anna Marie?” she asked.

“No. But I did do some sleuthing on my own. Or I should say my investigator did.”

“What did he find out? Oh, Blake, this is awful isn't it?”

“Yes, it is. He's Anna Marie's kid brother and I know his name, too; Jim Westerling alias Hugh Westmont and, are you ready for this—alias Sam Weston. He's already served time for drug dealing but he's out now on probation. Has been for over six months.”

Clarissa gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. A cold chill swept through her body. “That's who we met Thanksgiving Day,” she whispered, “and he's running loose right now, right across the road where my kids are going this evening to pick up the wire they pulled this afternoon.”

She slid out of the booth. “Blake, I have to go home. I have to go home now.”

Drifting Leaves

2009-05-02T10:01:00.000-07:00

I look out the window. It's pouring rain again, too cold for early May, but it's still coming down in our valley. Always when I was a child, when it rained, I'd be out in it, tracking down little rivulets, swollen into streams. I'd toss in a leaf and run alongside. How long before the leaf went down? How long before it was caught in an overhanging branch?

I slip into my raincoat and head out the door. Rain splashes my face as I head for the creek. I hear it before I see it, rushing, hurrying. Quiet eddies move fast now, the water, brown and high. As I come close I pick up a winter worn oak leaf and toss it in. For a moment it lingers near the bank, twirling idly. How long before the current rises and lures it from its safe harbor? How long before it starts its race to the river? Before it goes down...down...and under?

I cover my face with my hands. I'd seen my friend in the parking lot of the super market the day before and hardly recognized her. Dark circles under her eyes gave her a haunted look. "Eva," she blurted, "I need to talk." We got into the front seat of her pick up. Tears flowing down her face, she unburdened her heavy heart. My friend was in agony.

I lift my head, look down at the brown water. My leaf is moving away. In a little while the current will take it, further and further away, drifting downward, ever downward. All of a sudden I can't stand it. The muddy bank slurps on my tennis shoes but I pay no attention. I break off the slender end of a budding vine maple branch and reach as far as I can. "Lord," I cry, "show me how to help my friend. I love her and I know she loves me." My leaf eludes me. I lean forward and snag it. I pull it to shore and the wet leaf is safe in my hands.

It stays there as I hurry home. I lay the leaf on my desk, shed my raincoat and reach for my Bible. My morning quiet time in Hebrews had been so real--so wonderful. My Lord, exalted King, Creator of the World, the angels worshipping at His feet. Then warning words of Hebrews 2:1 jump into my heart. We must give the more earnest heed to the things we have heard, lest we drift away.

I remember the words of my friend Geri who has since gone to be with our loving Shepherd. "Sometimes I think the greatest thing we can do for one another is to simply remind each other who Jesus is. When we fall in love with Him with all of our heart, it's that love that will keep us from drifting into sin."

Love, commitment, prayer. Drifting can happen to anyone at any age, at whatever stage he or she may be in their spiritual journey through life. It can happen to me. It can happen to you. It can happen to the ones we love.

My damp leaf is on my desk. I place it between two sheets of paper and set my dictionary and Bible on top. Later I'll carefully tuck my pressed leaf inside my Bible. It will be a daily reminder to stand fast, to pray, to persevere, to hold out a tender hand to those in danger of drifting away.

The Girl of the Silent Generation

2009-04-16T19:01:00.000-07:00

One of the writers in my Thursday morning class wrote a piece which expresses anew how powerful stories can be, not only for future generations, but to many who hear and read them now. She gave me permission to share it with you.

Perhaps reading this piece will inspire you to write your stories for your family and friends--perhaps even get together a group with others eager to share their writing.

Keep in mind that every story you write from your heart will be cherished by someone, sometime, somewhere. I can almost guarantee it, because everybody loves a story.

The Girl of the Silent Generation
By Georgia Meshke

Here I sit in a small room located in the basement of the Tigard Senior Center. A florescent light glares overhead; many long folding tables are gathered in the center of a small conference room surrounded with chairs of various heights and comfort. In one corner is an open door exposing a broom closet and flanking the two entrances to the room are unisex bathrooms. There is no art or decoration on the walls . . . three walls are white . . . the fourth, institutional green.

This is where I spend my Thursday mornings from ten to twelve. Why do I devote my time to this room? I think I'm classified as a senior, but that is not why I am here! I have paid good money to be here!

There are over a dozen men and women that share this space with me, most have been attending these sessions for years. I feel like the new kid on the block, as this is my second term of PCC class, "Write Your Life Story."

Many of the group, from what I can gather, are about my age and demeanor. Most are retired from jobs that we may never know about and, in any case, jobs or occupations no longer define who we are.

The common denominator of the group, a goal we all share, is a desire to put to paper our life memoirs. Whether it is for our families or our own enjoyment, it seems a driving force to "just get it out." The class gives me energy to complete the goal . . . one I started several years ago.

Our instructor is a stately woman, a professional; she has published a series of books for young girls. The stories she reads to us of her childhood years evoke my memories and inspires me to record my story. There are no tests or homework, she encourages to tell our tales in our own individual way. . . there are no set rules. She does recommend using lots of paragraphs and more paragraphs . . . and once in while, “throw in an antidote or two.”

A myriad of stories stream from this group. It is the year of a new president and some of the folk's political views are exposed. Some describe their feelings of how they handled the great snow story of 2008, One woman takes us back to the age of the dime store. I think to myself, "Gads . . . what can you buy for a dime today?" Several doting grandmothers leave a legacy of words for their beloved granddaughters. A sophisticated lady takes us around the world to the exotic land of India . . . I am envious of her daring travels to this land.

I am intrigued by a story that sticks in my brain of a mother-to-be, being prescribed by her doctor, to drink three cocktails a day to presumably prevent losing her baby! Wow!

From a poet's mouth flows a bouquet of words of his memory of a childhood Christmas. He plays to our emotions of a longing for a simple toy, causing a hushed silence among the group, with a few tears thrown in.

We have a veteran of the terrible, romanticized World War II. As a young man he went off to defend his country as a paratrooper, he seems brush it off as just a great adventure. He shares his viewpoint of this famous event and of the times, things we will never find in a history book.

We hear narratives of cats, horses, sewing and simple daily things. One woman has pulled stories and pictures of unknown ancestors from a long forgotten box stored away in her mother's attic; a treasure most of us will never have the fortune to find. I long for that treasure. What would it be like to hear my grandmother's story of her youth in her own words telling how she came to America.

A retired policeman acquaints us with the politics of the Portland police union during his long tenure. Ears perk up as he relates trade information, things we have never read about in a newspaper or seen on TV. A lady from Turkey spins stories of her youth, written in words for a younger reader as she is aspiring to be a writer of children's books.

A gentleman relates the horror of his first day of kindergarten . . . this was at a time when kindergarten was all fun and games. He so longed to learn to read and felt all his hopes dashed on discovering the only thing offered at kindergarten was play.

Stories are gleaned from old neighborhoods, schools attended, jobs, friends from long ago, relatives, and simple day by day things. We hear stories of childhoods that are tragic, mysterious, wistful, some as typical as, "Leave it Beaver." Others are sad, some happy, a gamut of emotions and thoughts spill from these stories.

The hours fly by, my tummy is growling, I want coffee, a bite to eat, but other than that I don't notice the time. There was not enough time in this session to read my story, but not to care, it was an entertaining and learning two hours.

I will go home, carry on with day to day life . . . write more words and next Thursday morning at the senior center, I will read my story.

A Safe Place

2009-04-06T16:34:00.000-07:00

I went to the beaver dam today. Actually I was on a pilgrimage; I wanted to share what I saw and found and felt with my grandchildren, most specifically Jon and Derrick. How they loved that pond and now they no longer live with us.

I walked across my brother's Dale's field, then into the woods where the trail led to the pond in the canyon. There I smelled the faint woodsy smell of mosses and mayflowers and the pungent aroma of fir branches. I caught glimmers of the pond through the barely budded vine maples and hazelnut.

Were the mallard ducks who had made the pond their own last Fall be there? I headed down to the pond edge and yes, they were swimming toward the dam. Before I could get my camera out they flounced in a great water works display and disappeared skyward. It was then I heard the sound of a bird calling; I had heard it from the top of the slope, but I hadn't paid much attention. Several small brown—or were they gray birds on the other side—flitted through the branches. Could it be that they, angry at my intrusion, were calling out a warning, “human in the forest! Watch out! Watch out!”

I climbed up on the huge piece of a giant old snag that had fallen during the Columbus Day storm of '62 and took several pictures, then moved to several locations to take more pond shots. And all the time I heard that warning call, over and over, and over again. It almost sounded like a froggish “ribbett” call, but it was higher pitched than any frog could make and I knew I'd never heard it before.

Something isn't right, I thought. That's a distress call; a wild creature in trouble.

I got down on my elbows and knees and crawled under the wire fence spanning the upper part of the pond. My jeans got wet and it took a bit to get through. One shoe even sank out of sight and the mud slurped as it let go. As I moved closer to the sound I realized it came from the ground.

There, right in front of me was a beautiful bird with orange and black wing and tail feathers jammed tightly under a root. Anxious to see if there was any way I could help, I gently removed the frightened creature. The bird tried to move away but couldn't go far; it had blood on one wing and had a hard time walking. My daughter and her twins had previous experience in rescuing wild creatures--one of them would know what to do. I took several pictures for identification purposes and headed back home. All the while those shrill distress cries followed me to the top of the canyon where the trail led back through Dale's field and home again.

Clytie, Georgian and Victoria were eager and ready to go. But when we reached the slope overlooking the pond we heard no cry. The duck pair rose upward, the sun was warm on our shoulders. This time I climbed over the fence, holding the barbed wire as low as I could. I spotted the bird almost immediately, lying in the mud. I picked it up, then passed it's motionless body over the fence to my waiting family. Georgia wrapped it tenderly in the towel she'd brought and we headed for home.

While my son and his wife surfed the web, Victoria, Clytie and I leafed through bird books while Georgia cradled the injured bird in her arms. At first we thought it might be a fledgling green heron, it had similar markings and a long sharp beak. Then Clytie found a picture of a flicker that closely matched our prodigy. Grandpa confirmed he thought it was one, too.

Sadly our beautiful bird took his last breath at 6 p.m. He had found his own safe place and we were left with our memories; the beaver pond, the flying ducks and the injured flicker wrapped in his own warm towel who took his own flight up and away.

Bread of Life

2009-03-19T12:46:00.000-07:00

On our way home from church we drove over the newly constructed road which crosses over the wetlands of my childhood. It's a lovely road and the land alongside the old irrigation ditch where I used to meet my best friend is planted with native willow trees.

Today whenever we drive over that road I remember the young girl that was me dodging around the wet areas to get to the place beside the irrigation ditch where my best friend Barbara--who lived on the other side of the swamp--met me.

After that the two of us went on together. Sometimes we'd follow a frog through the tall grass, discover a fish lurking in the murky water. And then there were the bugs and spiders, sometimes a bunny or two; once we even saw a beautiful China Rooster take flight into the air.

By the time we arrived at Barbara's house we were famished, so Barbara would fetch us both a piece of bare bread from a bread sack labeled Wonder Bread. Delicious, except that slice of soft white bread didn't satisfy our hunger. It barely held us until supper.

Although I appreciated that slice of bare bread, I couldn't help but compare it to the bread I ate at home. My Mother made loaves out of wheat we ground ourselves. Whole grain, fragrant and fresh from the oven, it nourished our bodies and our spirits.

It was sort of like the bread the Jews ate when Jesus walked the earth. Their bread, made from freshly ground wheat or barley contained an abundance of vitamins and minerals. Bread broken from that loaf would satisfy the hungriest man, woman or child and it gave them everything they needed for life. "The bread that I will give," says our Lord, "is My flesh--My body--which I will give for the life of the world." (Jn 5:51)

Jesus went on to say, "Just as the living Father sent me and I live because of the Father, so the one who feeds on me will live because of me" (Jn 5:57.) It is through His Word we live, for He is the Word of God. This beautiful communion we have with Him only comes through eating the Living Bread--the most wonderful food ever prepared for mankind. Only as we eat and are satisfied are we able to grow to be like Him.

What Makes Life an Adventure?

2009-03-10T17:02:00.000-07:00

When I think of adventure today, it would be to travel to the Holy Land to do research on a novel about one of the wise men who followed the star.

As a child though, adventure meant following the creek that flowed through our property. Where did it begin? Where did it end?

I remember when my brothers, Dale and Lawrence, were given the job of felling several forty-foot fir trees along the fence line. As the saw bit deep into the trunk, Lawrence and I took turns climbing to the top, to ride each tree to the ground as it fell.

Branches trembled and Lawrence's "timber" shout echoed through the forest as I embraced the trunk. The tree gained momentum as it plunged earthward. At the very last moment I'd let go. When the tree smashed into the dirt, my hands were free. Afterwards I'd pick bits of bark off my shirt and try to peel the pitch off my hands and arms.

An adventure? It seemed so then, but now I'm not so sure. Even though encountering danger and a liking for excitement is, according to the dictionary definition, part of adventure, there's more.

When I place the phrases "to risk, to dare, and venture on" alongside Abraham and Sarah, I understand why their lives have been called adventures in faith. Adventure really does fit with what I'm learning. There's a risk involved with taking God at His Word.

Abraham's faith had taken him away from his homeland.

Now it's taking him beyond the borders of his tent. I can see him sitting outside, starlight silvering the grass. Is he envisioning the heavenly city God is preparing for him and his family in the distant future? "for he waited for the city which has foundations, whose builder and maker is God" (Hebrews 11:10). Do his thoughts whisper, "It will be. God has said. . . ."

I know from God's Word that faith which sees every step ahead is not really faith. Yet neither is faith blind. The eyes of faith focus on God's Word. The ears of faith listen to what God has to say. The will of faith obeys, puts a hand to the task, and gets the feet moving in God's direction. I realize now that walking by faith makes life an adventure.

Give us courage to pray, "Lord, increase our faith."

Shadows on the Roses - A New Twist

2009-03-05T18:12:00.001-08:00

It's Thursday morning and I'm in my office writing a murder mystery, Shadows on the Roses (working title)that I started last summer. It's the first Thursday I've had free to pursue my own writing this year.

January and February I taught Writing Your Life Story classes every Thursday from 10 am -12 noon. I'll be back teaching the first week in April but for now I'm going to spend every Wednesday and Thursday writing on my novel.

This morning I watched a red squirrel climb the Hawthorn tree outside my window, saw big fat white clouds gradually give way to off and on blue. The limbs of the fir trees waved to me with the help of a cold wind which hasn't yet made way for spring. I'm cold but my fingers still move; my goal for today; finish the first scene in chapter 13.

I'm experimenting with an idea that came in the night. It fed right into a new twist I think I can use to bring my heroine, Clarissa, and hero, Blake, together and at the same time tell a story within a story, I hope it works so here goes.

Chapter 12 ends with these words:

His {Blake's} answer was to cover her {Clarissa's} hand and the unusual ring with his own. For the first time since she looked into the angry eyes of the woman she had thought was her friend, she felt an unexpected comfort spread through her being. Blake had untangled the chain which now hung around her neck. Together they would untangle the mystery of Dirk's death. Maybe even solve the mystery surrounding the amber ring. But first she would listen to Blake's story.

She smiled up at him and held her cupped hand with the ring, close to her ear. “My mother always said, 'Everybody loves a story' and that's me 'to the T'as she used to say. I'm listening, Blake. Carry on.”

CHAPTER 13:

“Are you sure you want to hear a family story that for all I know might not be totally correct?” Blake asked. “Family history always get sort of jumbled, it seems to me.”

“That's probably true.” Clarissa settled her tea cup on the table in front of her and leaned back against the settee. “Why even people that are in the same family remember things differently. But that doesn't make it wrong in my way of thinking. It's only that they're human, prone to err. Besides, nobody ever sees everything the same way, that's for sure.”

She straightened her back. “Why just look at Joe and me. We don't even come up with the same year sometimes. He exaggerate sometimes too, but then there's me. I have an overactive imagination so I've been told. Lots of time I remember something someone told me and made the mistake of thinking I was there.”

Blake nodded. "Our family might have embellished our story about our great grandfather and the amber ring, too. But basically I do think the facts are right on.” He took a swallow of coffee and began his story:

“It all began with my grandfather who was born in 1894. Shortly after he was born his father and mother, their newborn son and one year old daughter moved from Portland to a small farm upriver that they'd purchased alongside the Willamette River. I think it was actually in your area, Clarissa, except it was probably on the other side of I-5.

“My mother said they owned almost 50 acres of virtually untouched timber. But there was no house on the property, not even a cabin so they spent their first couple of years in a tent that they erected as soon as they arrived. After that my great grandfather cleared out a grove of old growth timber where they planned to build a house. But great grandfather wasn't much of a manager when it came to money. Every penny he got from doing odd jobs for other farmers went toward buying horses. Horses, horses, horses; he was crazy about them.

“By the time the Klondike gold rush hit in 1897 they were still living in the tent. Whether or not the harsh living conditions influenced him to follow the gold I don't know but . . . .

To Be Continued....

The Power of Story

2009-02-17T11:04:00.001-08:00

Winter term for my Writing Your Life Story students is almost over but Spring is coming and we'll start in for another term before summer hits. Looking back over these weeks I have to say that the one session I taught this winter which ended up as the most helpful, for the most students, had to do with the power of story.

Our goal this winter has been to write one story about each of the following: our birth, earliest memories, elementary school memories and our high school years. That last area had to be my biggest hang up: Every time when it came time to write about my own high school years, I'd stall then quickly go on to a different segment of my life.

This year I wanted to begin in earnest. Where should I start? At the beginning of course. Wasn't that what I told my students?

I sat down at my computer and wrote out two factual paragraphs. I was telling very well but showing? And suddenly I remembered THE POWER OF STORY. Okay, where's the story?

The result: My High School Years Begin.

West Linn High 1954-1956

My world changed dramatically the fall I started high school at West Linn. Wilsonville was at the end of the district, a small town which pretty much consisted of a grade school, a tavern, Aden’s General Store and Post office, and a feed store. Most of the people who lived in the town commuted to Portland by car, a few rode the bus. Others worked in Lake Oswego, Tigard and other small towns that offered more job opportunity.

The eight grade elementary school had less than a hundred students altogether, my graduating class had only eight. Now we were in high school and we were told there were more than 120 freshman alone, perhaps more. Instead of being in the same classroom all day students were responsible to attend six different classes. My best friend, Barbara Workman, and I signed up for General Math, English, P.E., Science, Social Studies and Study Hall and chose to have identical schedules. We even shared the same locker and that’s where the trouble began.

No matter how hard we tried, we two freshman girls from the back roads of Wilsonville, couldn’t quite master the combination. We tried it: 37 R, 19 L, two twirls all the way around twice. The door was supposed to open at 39, wasn't it? Except it didn't. That first week we must have been late for every class although we did eventually make it to most of them. Neither of us could quite figure out what we did right when that gray metal door would finally decide to pop open. Sometimes kicking the door seemed to help, at least occasionally it did. But we could could never quite figure out the combination, not really.

One night my brother Lawrence got mad at me about the whole situation. “I could hear you and Barbara kicking and banging that door when I was at the other end of the hall today. I was so embarrassed.”

I felt heat rise up in my face. “It doesn’t want to open,” I said. “Sometimes it does but most of the time—“

“It’s stupid of you to hit it like that, too,” he said. “I can’t believe you’d do such a thing. What will people think? Everybody knows you’re my sister.”

That was just the problem; nobody knew who I was. I was invisible.

I stuck my nose in the air and glared at him. I didn’t tell him how much I hated that locker or that I felt a whole lot more embarrassed then he did about the whole thing. Nor did I tell him how sick to my stomach I felt every morning when we went down and then up the little hill after the bus made the last turn towards the high school. And what about the sea of strange faces as they surged past us in the hall and the elbows that pushed and crowded? To me, a quiet country girl, the noise they made as they clattered down the hall was unbearable.

Barbara and I finally went to the office. That very afternoon the maintenance man put in a brand new combination lock and wonder of wonders, it worked perfectly. First Right, then Left, two twirls all the way around twice and “bravo” the door popped open right at 39. What a lock! After that we never missed a class, at least not intentionally! We’d proved we could conquer the locker. Now we could settle down to life as Freshman in an alien world.

What new challenge would tomorrow bring?

Can you tell when I stopped telling and began showing? Notice I used fiction techniques to write what is actually known in the writing world as an anecdote and it is anecdotes which put power into writing. Personally I like to think of them as short stories which make pictures in the reader's mine, grab the heart and make them eager to read more. My anecdote/story actually begins in the fourth paragraph.

I hope you learn as much from this entry as I did writing it. There'll be more too, I want to tell about Miss Foote, my English teacher, who told me the good looking guy with the dark hair and big shoulders who sat across the aisle from me thought I was cool. I want to tell about writing my first thousand word essay and earning an A+. And what about that cold winter day Barbara and I hiked across the West Linn Oregon City bridge to find a used couch for an upcoming play?

Those memories are still there just waiting to be captured on paper. It's like I tell my students: the more you write, the more you remember. And everybody loves a story!

Everybody Loves a Story

2009-01-10T18:28:00.000-08:00

Everybody loves a story and telling stories is what I do best. It’s the heart of what I love most, conversing with my family, writing, speaking--even teaching writing which comes naturally, because I don’t teach mathematics or physics.

Twenty-four weeks out of the year you can find me teaching Writing Your Life Story classes for the continuing education department of Portland Community College. The classes meet at the Tigard Senior Center two days a week on Wednesday and Thursday mornings and I love teaching them.

The stories my students write have taken me around the world and back again. I’ve tasted a bit of what it’s like to be a prisoner of War during World II, to travel as a stowaway from Turkey on a ship to Canada in the early 1900’s. I’ve even flown to Pakistan to hunt snakes. I’ve lived in Washington D.C--watched our president and first lady in a parade waving as they were escorted through the streets, experienced a dust storm on a farm in the Midwest and discovered what rationing was like in the great depression. I’ve done these things all in one morning because the students in my classes read their stories out loud.

My students get to help each other make one another’s stories better too, and I get to help. Our Writing Your Life Story class is a highlight for all of us. Everybody loves a story and everyone can write one. And I’ll tell you a secret. You’re the only one who can write your life story because only you know what happened, because you lived it. Because you did, you help others experience it too. Isn’t that the neatest paradox?

Everybody loves a story and now you know why I’m writing this blog. This winter and spring when I teach my classes, I’ll take you with me and you’ll be encouraged to tell your stories to others. Maybe even write them the way the students in my classes do. So welcome aboard to Everybody Loves a Story. If you’re interested come along.

I’d even like to invite those who have no desire to write their story but want to write fiction and non-fiction. I’ve done both of those and although I write mostly in the Christian arena, good writing is still good writing. And Everybody Loves a Story.