Newest Update

October 29, 2018

We visited James on October 29th to deliver the last load. A freezer, kitchen cabinets, a microwave cart, a lamp and end table, and some new clothes. He has continued to work hard on his home. He is so grateful for all that has been done for him! We helped him install the kitchen cabinet and unloaded the chest freezer so he could install it later.

Here he is saying goodbye! And God Bless!

Before and After Shots

What a difference a day makes. I've been posting random pictures of the updates on James' little home that was flooded. It was even hard for me to figure how it looked before and how it looked after the repairs have been made with all the unorganized shots I had.

First of all, before we got involved, James had worked hard! He had torn out and replaced the lower inside walls and insulation. He had ripped out the rotten floors and put down subfloors, so he had already done a lot on his own despite having a severe kidney and bladder infection from ingesting some of the nasty water when he swam from his flooded house to his boat. He ended up spending a few days in the hospital and hasn't felt 100% since. It was all so overwhelming, he was at a loss of knowing what to do next.

So many people have helped financially, but some physical labor was also needed. That's when some men, including the pastor, from Waxhaw Baptist Church stepped in. In one day, this is what five men accomplished:

Before and after (front of the house)

Before and after (back of the house)

Before and after (left side of the house)

Before and after (right side of the house)

Before and after kitchen (beautiful floors!)

It's pretty amazing, isn't it? There is still some work to be done like underpinning and cleaning up. We're going down Monday to take a few things and try to figure it all out. James is extremely grateful! And from all I've heard, this project has been just as big a blessing to everyone who has contributed to it as it has for James! It sure has been for us. God Bless!

The Doers and shakers!

Since my last post, I have been overwhelmed by the generosity of friends, family, neighbors, the people of Van Wyck Presbyterian Church, members of Waxhaw Baptist Church and even complete strangers in the quest to help James, the person I wrote about who lost everything in the aftermath flooding from Hurricane Florence. Click here for links to his story.  And here, and here where we delivered his car.

Today was a day of action! Several men from Waxhaw Baptist Church showed up to work this morning and I've already been getting photos of their work in progress. Here's what the outside of the house looked like before and then some work in progress.

Before

Painting in progress

Replacing porch floor in progress

They're also working on the inside of the house and have put down flooring and are painting.

Floor down - painting in progress

These men have had a long day of hard work and I'm sure they'll be ready for a hot shower and soft bed tonight. I am so thankful for them and what they've done!

 And a big thanks to Jonathan Cox, the owner of Cox Warehouse Discount Furniture in Whiteville for donating this wonderful recliner for James. It was delivered today! Jonathan is a nephew of Susan Moss Deans, one of my first contacts in the Whiteville area who was willing to help!

I'm sure James is kicking back in this recliner tonight after an emotional day of seeing his home come together.

Between the BBQ fundraiser and money donated by friends, family, and church members, we have also been able to purchase James new kitchen cabinets to replace the ones that were damaged in the flood and a chest freezer which is much needed since his main source of food comes from hunting and fishing.  We plan to take these down next week and help him install the cabinets, the kitchen sink, and the faucets. The donations are also making a big dent in the biggest purchase of all, the Jeep.

The Jeep (before we delivered it to James).

The Letter of James was addressed to the early Christians and it encouraged them to be "doers of the Word". Our present-day Christians are taking heed and abiding by the Word!
  James 1:22-25 - "22 Do not merely listen to the word, and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says. 23 Anyone who listens to the word but does not do what it says is like someone who looks at his face in a mirror 24 and, after looking at himself, goes away and immediately forgets what he looks like. 25 But whoever looks intently into the perfect law that gives freedom, and continues in it—not forgetting what they have heard, but doing it—they will be blessed in what they do." 

I will continue to update this blog as we do the final touches that will make James' life a little more comfortable. Love and Blessings to all!

With God's Help

I don't know where to begin. I'm exhausted from our 9 hour round trip today, so I think I'll tell most of this story with photos. If you haven't read this link, His Name is James, you may want to read it first since it tells the backstory. But if you'd rather not, I'll give you a short recap. James lives in a community called Crusoe Island surrounded by the Green Swamp in Eastern North Carolina. He's one of many in the Carolinas teetering on the edge of poverty. The very people who, when faced with setbacks tend to give up hope of ever pushing their way up and out. Most times they just dig in a little deeper until no one knows they’re there.

The people in Crusoe were hit with an enormous setback after Hurricane Florence flooded their community in late September. James wasn't the only one hit hard and he's not the only one struggling to recover. He lives humbly in a small shack (way off the beaten path) that I'll estimate to be about 16' wide by 12' deep. He didn't have much in his house, but what he did have, he lost. Here's a photo that I took today.

James' humble abode

After the torrential rain that accompanied Florence, James went to bed one night not knowing what the next day would bring. His power was out and his flip phone's battery had died. He awakened to find his house flooded. The water continued to rise to about 4.5 feet and he was forced to make his way out of his property by this small handcrafted boat. He was rescued at the end of the road almost 2 miles away.

He also lost his truck in the flood. Our purpose for visiting him today was to take him a Jeep that we bought along with Henry's brother Gary. Two other friends also donated generously to the cause and we're hoping to get a few more contributions from other generous souls. We had planned to have a fundraiser, but James was in such dire need of transportation, we didn't want him to have to wait that long so we went ahead and bought it trusting that God would make a way. It was an absolute joy to see his face as Henry handed him the title and the keys!

A big smile

James introduced us to another survivor of the flood. Charlie, a small bear cub, has been hanging around since the flood receded. James thinks he must have become separated from his mother as they were swept downstream from the Waccamaw River. He sleeps in the big oak tree behind the house and plays hide and seek most days. He's a fat little bear so he must be getting plenty to eat. His presence has been a great diversion for James.

Charlie the Bear

On our way in and out of the road that leads into this community, we were dismayed to see the results of the flood. We only took a few photos, but every single homeowner seemed to have all their belongings ruined and out at the curb for trash pickup.

I look at this chair and wonder how many children and grandchildren have been held and comforted in it; how many family gatherings it has seen in its day; how many generations of this family have placed their weary bodies in it after a hard day's work. I look at this chair and I see myself; my own favorite chair sitting atop a mound of memories and I want to crawl up into it and cry for the person who placed it there. 

When we heard about the flooding in that area, we had struggled with how to help. When you donate your money to flood relief, you don't know where it's going. But then God put James in our path and we knew exactly what to do.

An Update on James

My heart is so full right now as I write this update from my post from yesterday. You know, we watch world news and political rants until we're heartsick, but we tend to forget that our world is also filled with so many KIND-HEARTED people! Here's an update on the story about our friend near Whiteville who lost basically everything in the flooding. He has now made his own repairs to the floors that were falling apart. After I posted James' story I got many responses from people who want to know how they can help. We'll get to that later. Then my post was shared by many people including my dear friend, Linda. It reached one of her cousins in Whiteville who has a true servant's heart. I just now chatted with this cousin whose name is Susan and she said she had been praying for God to reveal the next person for them to help. Her husband is in the logging business and knows James but didn't know his circumstances. In one day's time, these gracious people have already visited him, assessed his situation fully, found out his basic needs (refrigerator, small stove, and a bed.  I am just blown away by their kindness.

Now from this end, we'll be working on buying James some transportation. When we get back from a planned trip this coming week, Henry and I will be planning a BBQ fundraiser to help fund the cost of the vehicle and other pressing needs. Also, I plan to donate all proceeds and royalties from my books so we may be calling on people to buy BBQ and books. Books make good Christmas gifts and BBQ makes for good Fall of the year eating!

And, as Linda's cousin Susan says, God works in mysterious ways! Yes, He does!

His Name is James

His name is James. He lives in a little shack in the isolated community of Crusoe Island deep in the Green Swamp of coastal Columbus County, NC. It's located right off Highway 130 between Whiteville and Shallotte. He’s proud of his family surname, or at least until it trickled down to his own father, who along with James’ mother, was an alcoholic. James’ family once owned big blocks of land in downtown Shallotte, North Carolina, but when James’ daddy got his inheritance, he began to sell off bits and pieces. During his drinking binges, he sold the land for way under market value to buy whiskey. He eventually squandered it all away. The children had a rough time of it. James didn’t have much of an education. His parents didn’t think it important.

James grew up a rebel with somewhat of a temper to match his red hair, but somehow, he met and married a “good woman” (in his own words). Even though James knew by his own family history that alcoholism can tear families apart, he followed the path of his father and he lost his good woman. Addictive cycles are hard to break. He was a hard worker though. Without an education, he took menial labor jobs, most of them on shrimp boats, but a few carpenter jobs here and there. Not much money, but he was paid in cash, so he scraped by.  He drank and hung out with his buddies on weekends and would probably have continued along that path until he died.

But one day, something fabulous happened that would change his life forever. He got saved. He quit drinking then and there, cold turkey, he said. He started going to church every time the doors were open. He found some better jobs and saved up a little money and pretty soon he was wooed by another woman and remarried. A woman who talked him into buying a little piece of land and making a down-payment on a double-wide. It was the best house either of them had ever had and she was happy with her new-found wealth. And she was a good housekeeper; you know the kind that keeps the house and throws the husband out the door. And that’s what she did. She had a job and said she would make the payments. She didn’t, and she didn’t let him know that she was so far behind on the payments, neither of them could have come up with the money to pay what they needed to pay to keep it out of foreclosure. So that’s where it went, foreclosed by the bank. And there went his life savings and along with it, his credit.

And right after that is when we met him. James loves working with wood and is very talented. He makes beautiful vintage-style dough bowls and other smaller wooden bowls. I bought a few things he had made, not knowing that this was his main source of income along with a few odd jobs. He was sixty-two by that time and it’s hard to get a job at that age. He resorted to drawing his social security early, but it was less than $500 per month because of the years of scraping by on the cash he was paid and not paying into social security. Some people would say this was his own fault not paying into SS, but when you don't have much of education and you're just scraping by at a poverty level, you live for the here and now, not the future. When we found out his financial condition, Henry hired him to come to work in our weekend tackle business at the beach. He worked for us seven-plus years until we closed the business two years ago. We came to love him and we’re proud to call him our friend.

What drew me to James was his witness for the Lord. He didn’t have much - an old shack in the swamp, a beat-up old truck that was always breaking down - but he was happy. The Lord provided for him, he said - maybe not the things he wanted, but the things he needed.

After Hurricane Florence came through, the news stories of the flooding in Whiteville caused us to worry about him. We called him several times but got no answer. We left messages. Today he called us back. He lost everything he owned in the flood. His home, his old pickup that was no longer working, and even the small used car he had bought by saving up money from selling dough bowls. He was home when the flooding occurred. His power was out, and he hadn’t heard the threat of floods or he would have left with at least his car. The “house” had filled with two feet of water. He knew he needed to leave and when he stepped off his porch, he was in water up to his neck. He took his one-man boat to the nearest road and got a ride to a shelter. After the flood waters receded, he came back home to find most everything inside ruined, including his refrigerator. He said he salvaged his mattress by drying it out in the sun for the next few days. When we talked to him tonight, he was waiting for his niece to pick him up to get a few groceries. He bought some lumber yesterday to rebuild his floor.

The bad thing is that he will get no government assistance because he doesn’t own the property, he only has a lifetime estate from the owner to live there. James has fallen through the cracks. When Henry talked to him on Friday, he said, “I’m blessed. So many people had it much worse than me. They lost their lives, or they lost their children. I’m still here and I don’t know why.”

His biggest blessing, he says, is that he knows God and knows He’ll be with him through thick and thin. He always has. And here I am thinking that this poor guy has gone through a lifetime of hardships and how could he possibly not throw up his hands and say, I quit. But no, he’s blessed, not materially or physically, but with spiritual blessings that exceed all understanding. That’s James.

I’ve thought about setting up a “Go fund me” page for him or a fund through a church for donations. I’ll try to figure it out in the days ahead and let other people be blessed by helping the man who is always “blessed” no matter what his circumstances.

One of the many small bowls I've purchased from him over the years.

 UPDATE: I just talked with James, telling him we are trying to get some help for him. His most pressing need right now is transportation. He is hard at work at this very moment replacing his floors to make his house livable. They were made of particle board and were caving in from the flood. He is living in it as he is working on it. He will need a refrigerator and some kind of small old truck that runs. He wanted me to know that he didn't call us just to ask for help. "I'll get by," he said. "The Lord will take care of me." I said, "James, sometimes the Lord takes care of you by using other people." His answer, "I never thought about that.

I love living in the South where blackberries and muscadines grow wild. I have fond memories (and some not so fond) of going blackberry picking when I was growing up in rural North Carolina and the wonderful jams and jellies my mama made with them. My nephew (who is about my same age) and I were each given a gallon bucket with instructions not to come back until the buckets were full.

Fresh picked blackberries

The first half of the bucket was pretty easy to fill with all the blackberries on the perimeter of the bushes. But the second half involved maneuvering your hands through the thick thorns without losing too much blood. The tangled briar patches of berries were often overgrown with weeds and were a natural habitat for snakes to hide out. Couple the prickly thorns and the threat of snakes and you can just picture the two of us dipping in and out of those blackberry bushes like we thought they were going to devour us.

Common Garter snake (ick!)

Trying to fill a blackberry bucket in those conditions brings out the worst in you. You start eyeing the other person's bucket with envy, even sneaking a berry or two into your own when they're not looking. Then there was the arguing and the spills and trying to get that elusive fat blackberry just inches away from your reach, a delicate balancing act that sometimes sent you teetering head first into the brambly bush.

Finally, with buckets filled, we were fast friends again, tromping down the path and across the creek, through the pasture with cows that we knew were going to charge us at any moment. What a dangerous mission we had been on! Then we would march into the kitchen holding our buckets up for Mama to see and beam with pride when she pretended surprise that we had picked so many. But the best part was eating leftover breakfast biscuits with the hot jam that came from the jar that was not quite full enough to put a lid on and seal. Mama would shoo us outside along with the flies we attracted with our sweaty bodies and our sticky jam-coated fingers. We would sit under the shade trees reliving our adventures and the stories would become bigger with the telling. The cows in the pasture became bulls, the garter snakes became poisonous vipers.

But the lingering taste of fresh blackberry jam was almost enough to drown out the misery of what naturally came next - chigger bites. Those pesky little creatures also love to hang out in the blackberry bushes and you don't realize you've been bitten by the bug until the incessant itching starts. But when you're ten years old and chasing lightning bugs, June bugs and dragonflies, you hardly notice.

Fresh blackberry jam

It'll Be Okay

I sometimes take the challenge when I'm given a poetry or short story prompt from one of my favorite writing magazines, The Writer's Digest. I did so today when my brain screamed that it needed a break from editing. The prompt was to write a poem with EX in the title. It could be an EX-husband, an EXtra special occasion or even EXtracting juice from a coconut, haha. Once upon a time before my days of short stories and full-length novels, I wrote poetry, but it's been a long time. Back in the day capitalization and punctuation rules for poetry and prose were pretty much the same. I love poetry that rhymes and there are so many different rhyming schemes. The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost (see link)  is in the ABAAB scheme. That and the ABAB traditional rhyme scheme are the ones most of you will remember from basic high school English. I also love the unconventional rhyming schemes that poets like Odgen Nash used. I still find his light and humorous poetry delightful!  But sometimes punctuation, capitalization, and rhyming get in the way of our thought expressions so these days almost anything goes. With that in mind, I'm claiming poetic license on my scrambled thoughts in this poem. The challenge, an EX word. I immediately thought of those EXamination rooms where many of us have waited to get good or bad news. It can be a stressful experience. After you've read my poem, I challenge you to write one of your own using EX in the title. It's good mental exercise!

Examination Room

Another scan, another probe

the caller said--just routine

Routine for who my thoughts replied

It’s me, not you

We’ll fit you in Thursday next,

six days from now okay?

My thoughts screamed, no not okay

but answered, yes that’s fine

It’s nothing, I heard from friends,

we’ve been through this before

But that was you, not me my thoughts replied

No worries, I said instead

A mammogram an ultrasound

and then a curtain pulled

to wait with my own thoughts

those wretched thoughts of doom

A knock, a smile, a chart in hand

She lingered by the door

Good news, a false alarm

We’ll see you in a year

For some, the news is not so good

so I’ve learned to never say

It’s nothing, you’ll be okay

I’ll give a hug instead

By: Glenda Manus

Seven Wings to Glory

I don't normally review books in my blog posts, but every now and then, a book will come along whose characters are so richly-developed that they capture you from the beginning, so this time I felt I needed to share it. 

In Kathleen Rodgers’ first book, Johnnie Come Lately, Johnnie Kitchen’s life unfolds on the pages, flaws and all. But Mrs. Rodgers weaves the story so well, that instead of judging her, I found Johnnie’s openness and honesty so endearing, it made me love her just as she was.

 In Seven Wings to Glory, I once again found myself under the spell of Mrs. Rodgers’ excellent writing skills. This story deals with the topic of racial issues in the past and present of the little town of Portion, Texas. Johnnie’s troubled mother is back in town. Will Johnnie get past the feelings of abandonment and deceit from her childhood and learn to love her mother again, or will she let those feelings simmer and come to a boil like the crockpot of pinto beans on her kitchen counter?

And how will she handle the racial hatred that threatens her own family’s safety?

I think my favorite part of Seven Wings to Glory is the way Mrs. Rodgers portrays Johnnie as a military mom. Her love for her children is intrinsic and unwavering, and as her son goes off to a war zone, she lives in constant fear of a black car appearing in her driveway bearing bad news.

The characters were so real; the story line so authentic, I found myself frantically worried that, (1) Victoria, Johnnie’s mother was going to try yet another suicide attempt, (2) that her friend Whit was going to be targeted for her skin color,  and (3) that her kitchen window would be bearing the load of a gold star rather than the blue one presented to her upon her son Cade’s deployment.

Please have a box of tissues handy when you read this; not that the book is filled with sadness only, but that it is filled with all the trials and joys that go along with our humanness and our ability to laugh and cry over them at the same time. Thank you, Kathleen Rodgers, for bringing about all these emotions in us that verify that we’ve just read an outstanding book!

Tender Hearts

Have you ever had one of those "being in the right place at the right time" moments? I experienced one of those today when I met someone who left her footprints indelibly stamped across my heart. She is a soon-to-be sixteen-year-old girl and I saw her at the hair salon while I waited my turn for my hairdresser. She was dressed in a chic black and white sundress with shoes that matched. Her blonde hair was shiny clean and in a mid-length stylish cut. Fingernails and toenails were polished a vibrant pink to go along with her pink-tinted lip gloss, and her pink purse was hiked upon her shoulder. My first thought was that she should be walking down a runway working for a modeling agency; she was that striking. She gave me a big smile when I walked in so I initiated a conversation with her, telling her how pretty she looked. An animated conversation ensued and I was impressed at how easily she talked to an older woman. 

She's a little nervous about starting high school this year because it's a different school and she worries about making new friends. She tells me about her gymnastics classes but laments that she'd rather be taking piano lessons. It's her passion, she says. But it's apparent she has more than one passion; another is theater. In a recent school play, she played Maria, Julie Andrews' role in The Sound of Music. I shared with her that my granddaughter is also involved in school plays but works behind the scenes. She was familiar with that role and said, "Oh yes! A play can't go on without the set designers and lighting crew. I love the behind-the-scenes people." Is there anything she doesn't love, I wondered. Her goal is to be a Broadway actress, she says, and I told her that with her personality, talent, and enthusiasm she could be anything she wanted to be. I asked her name because I want to make sure to watch for it on a Broadway billboard someday. She laughed and said that her name is Brady.

I asked if she was waiting for a haircut and she said, no, she was waiting for her best friend who was getting her hair trimmed. I asked if her best friend was her age and she told me no, it was her teacher; the one who had taught her all three years of middle school. She then shared with me that she'd cried when she graduated from middle school this year and she was really going to miss her teacher and her friends. I was sitting there marveling at what a wonderful teacher she must have that would take time during her summer vacation to spend with one of her students. It takes a special kind of teacher to do that, but most teachers in that field are indeed special people. You see, Brady is a high-functioning Down syndrome child. She is also the most delightful young lady I've ever met. 

I learned a valuable lesson in the twenty minutes I chatted with Brady and I'll share what I learned. Don't ever hide behind your phone in a waiting room texting messages and reading Facebook posts. Don't read a magazine when there are interesting people all around you to talk to. You may miss an opportunity to meet someone like Brady who will make you realize that the world is a better place because of the person you just met! And you may, like me, walk out of that waiting room with a much more tender heart than when you walked in.

Go Brady! I predict that you will have a good and happy life and I hope to see you on Broadway some day!

New Book Release for September!

Agatha, owner of Park Place’s newest Bed and Breakfast is enjoying a refreshing glass of sweet tea and a plate of cookies with one of her guests this afternoon. It’s hotter than the 4th of July, but a wisp of a breeze is stirring under the shade of the large oak tree where they sit and enjoy each other’s company. Agatha is quite the character in my soon-to-be-released book, Miss Marple’s B & B. Her husband Charlie, dead going on two years now seems to be playing games from the grave. The old adage of “you can’t take it with you” doesn’t seem to hold true in this tale of the missing fortune. Regretfully when Charlie dies, his fortune disappears and Agatha is left nearly penniless with nothing to fall back on except the beautiful Victorian home that’s been in her family for four generations. Turning it into an Inn may be the best decision Agatha has made in her entire life. In fact, it may be the only decision she’s made in her entire life since she’s led a fairytale existence going straight from a controlling family into a marriage with an older man who has made sure she has the best things in life. Join Agatha for tea. She’ll soon reveal her story of how a leap of faith brings about a change so profound it will change her life forever. "The rest of the story" is due to be released in September. Watch for it!

But for now, she wishes all of you a Happy Independence Day weekend!

Glenda Manus, Author

Getting inside the head of your characters

When I’m in the beginning stages of writing a book, I work really hard to get inside the heads and into the homes of my characters. When I’m doing mundane things like washing dishes, making the bed, or going outside to water my flowers, I use those quiet moments to get to know them. I’ll say to myself, now what would Agatha be doing right now, this very minute?

She lives in a large Victorian house at the end of West Main Street in Park Place. I’ve sketched the floorplan of her home. I’ve walked with her through the library, the living room and up the massive stairway that leads to the four bedrooms she’s going to be letting out to the guests of the Bed and Breakfast she’s just opened. I’ve watched her read books by the light of the lamp beside her bed, and I’ve enjoyed hot tea with her guests while they sit beside the fireplace and chat.

I’ve created a front porch with rockers and painted her porch ceiling blue. I’ve marveled at the turret tower with the circular walls on the left side of the house that reaches toward the clouds, and I’ve looked from the outside in as the upstairs guests gather there in the little circular drawing room to look out upon Main Street as the shoppers pass by during the day and ooh and ahh over the Christmas lights as they’re turned on at dusk.

 Agatha’s front porch is surrounded by boxwoods and there’s a walkway leading to the sidewalk, with street lamps on each side. She has lots of shade trees, a separate 2-car garage, and an old carriage house on the right side of the house. You can look down from one of the second-floor bedrooms and see her English Garden and the exquisite statues and water fountain imported from Italy that anchor it. Beyond that, you can see the blueberry orchard where she gathers the berries to make her jams and jellies.

When I go outside in my own backyard, I see the lush green of Spring, but I have no trouble getting into Agatha’s shoes and following her into her own English Garden right smack in the middle of winter. I know that her husband, the avid gardener, died two years ago and the garden is in a state of disrepair. Winter tufts of brown grass and a small mulberry seedling are growing up between the flagstone squares, trying not to disturb the serene setting. The pump on the fountain quit working shortly after Charlie died and the water that’s left in the bowl by a recent rain is colored a murky brown from the leaves that have fallen from the trees. Agatha breathes a heavy sigh as she looks at what has become of Charlie’s garden. She can only do so much, she thinks, still a little angry at him for dying. Then a new thought enters her mind. A gardener, when Spring comes she will hire a gardener! Why had she not thought of that before?

And where does my character go from there? I make it up as I go along, but wait, I just had another thought.  Agatha is only sixty years old. She’s not dead yet! As she thinks about the gardener she will hire, she decides he must be easy on the eyes. Be careful, Agatha. Don't go there. We're writing a nice clean book.

See how quickly our imaginations can lead us off track? But the amazing thing is that we can merge our minds with our characters and a book is written. I still don't understand how. And we know we had to be a little bit crazy in the first place to have ever wanted to write a book because, by the end of the story, we've begun to act a whole lot like our character, good or bad!

Mountains, Molehills and Miracles

Sitting out on the beach always inspires me to write, which is why in my beach bag of necessities, I always carry a pen and notebook. If I’m having a problem with writer’s block, the beach atmosphere suddenly clears it. If I’m seeking answers to a difficult situation, I usually find that the salt air and fresh sunshine make those difficulties seem less significant.

On our most recent trip there, I had the beach all to myself; not a soul was in sight, so it was inspiration without distraction, a rare thing indeed!

With every swell of a wave, then the subsequent crash that follows, I’m reminded of the mountains out of molehills I’ve made during my lifetime, and of the insignificance of those baby mountains that usually work themselves out with or without my interference. But God’s interference can work out even the worst of my molehills. How do we seek God’s interference? It’s a simple word with big consequences: prayer.

I believe that God has a plan for us, but Jesus’ words also give me a promise. A promise that He can change His plan if I sincerely petition Him to do so, not always in the exact way we ask, but who I am to say what's best? We've all experienced miracles in one way or another. I have experienced a few myself and they’ve always been the result of prayer. I’m trying to learn, through faith, to expect mountains of goodness and not to resign myself to molehills of pettiness. It's not always easy; those molehills can drag me down in an instant, without warning....until I remember to whom I belong.

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.” Romans 8:28

Writing though Grief

I'll admit to it. I'm grieving for a country I've always been proud to be a part of. Being patriotic is part of who I am. It was instilled in me by my parents, especially my father who made sure we were all schooled daily on national and international current events. He would sit down nightly and read the day's newspaper, sometimes reading it aloud and sometimes just conveying his feelings on a subject that he'd read. Much like my mother, who would read and comment on the Bible research she was studying while preparing for the Sunday School class she taught. Our home education was steeped in God and Country.

I grew up Methodist and there was nothing luke-warm about our Sunday morning sermons. I attended other denominations when I spent weekends with cousins or other friends and got the same dose of worship and praise in their churches. We were all in this together, some just a little more structured than others. I also remember the day that Jesus reached down personally and touched my heart, making it His forever.

Daddy was all about the little people. Being a farmer, he knew what it was like to have good years and bad. He knew what it was about to be on the receiving end and what it was like to be on the giving end. I was also born privileged, but not in the way people speak of privilege now; privileged that in spite of being born and raised in the rural South, there was no racial hatred taught in our home, and for that, I'll be forever grateful.

I was also taught to respect the office of the President of the United States of America, somewhere along the line shortened to POTUS, which sounds like a rather disrespectful term if you ask me.  But if you didn't like a president, you just sucked it up and waited for the next four years, but you still were taught to respect the president. The only time I remember my father truly grieving over a presidential election was when Richard Nixon was voted in for a second term, and we all know how that played out. He was sick for days. I know he would be sick if he were alive today. Instead though, he is basking in God's everlasting sunshine in a place that knows no physical or emotional pain.

I am a Christian writer, and for this entire process of election, I'm ashamed that I've remained quiet about my feelings on Donald Trump. The few times I've alluded to my feelings in written word, I've done so gracefully as not to offend other Christians out there who somehow think this vile man is the answer to the world's problems. I stood by in shock as I watched people defend this man's actions, some of the most un-Christian like actions I've ever witnessed in not only a presidential candidate, but in a person in general. One who believes in the idolatry of money; of pride and ego; of self-aggrandizement. I heard the issues brought up, and I too have struggled with some of the issues, but still I could not even look at this man and not get a sense of revulsion that made me literally sick to my stomach. It was an emotion straight from my heart and soul; a place where the Holy Spirit resides in me.

We've studied Isaiah recently and all I keep thinking about and wondering, is God hardening hearts so that we as a nation are not seeing things clearly? We are told in scripture that he hardens the hearts of unbelievers (look what he did to Pharaoh), but what about believers? And if so, whose hearts have been hardened? I feel mine has been softened as I've prayed and gained clarity in the months leading up to the election, but does the other side feel the same? And as a Christian, why are my gut feelings so much different from those of other Christians. It's so troubling to me - maybe something I will never understand.

I hope and pray that our next president, (excuse me if I can't yet say his name) will not be like King Ahaz of Isaiah's day - too stubborn to listen to the advice of God's prophet and too quick to side with the wrong rulers. If so, we are all in trouble.

I do know that I need my space right now. I need time to grieve. I hope and pray that my friends and family who voted differently will understand if I can't see or talk to them right now. I thought I could move on faster than this, but it has taken its toll.

As I finish writing this as a healing process, I want to encourage my friends who are also grieving for our nation. God is sovereign. He is the ultimate ruler. I don't think he is rejoicing in our choice of leaders, but He has given us hope. There is the hope found in Isaiah, a Messianic hope where we can imagine all of creation is healed and restored, a place where we can live in peace.

The Saga of the Lost Phone

This blog has run the gambit. It has had many identities over the years, but for good reason. My interests have changed, therefore my writing has followed suit. It's been about retirement, sharing bits of wisdom, day trips to small Southern towns, tablescaping, flea market adventures and much more. Recently I changed it to reporting small happenings and gossip in the small town of Park Place, the place of my books, a fictional Van Wyck, but the lost phone saga is not fiction and I'm sure it will never be replicated. Here it is.

My youngest daughter, a fellow democrat, is on vacation with some friends in Mexico waiting for the wall to be built so she won't have to come back home. Just kidding, but probably more serious than we know. But of course, she wants her family to join her, one of which I'm feeding and carpooling while she's gone.

Gen is fourteen, going on fifteen. I'm also carpooling the children of a neighbor, who is also in said Mexico waiting for the same wall. One of them is Gregory, Genevieve's age.  Monday, on the way home from picking them up at school, I told Gen that she had a physical therapy appointment and when she acted like she doubted it, I whipped out my phone to show her the email message from her mom, like, uh, grandmas make these things up. I was driving and that's the last time I saw my phone. Having not charged it the night before, I only had about 20% charge left, and everybody knows when it says that, it means it's going to leave you high and dry.

After I delivered Gregory home, I brought Gen back to my house for a few minutes before we left for the appointment. When we got back in the car, I noticed I didn't have my phone. We tried ringing it inside and outside the house, but no luck. It had to be in the house or the car, right? So we went on to the appointment. I would find it when I got home.

Searched everywhere, called it time and again. It was ringing but we couldn't hear it. So at this point, I decided I would be smart like my smart phone is supposed to be, so I logged into my iTunes account and asked it to Locate my Phone. The message it gave told me it wasn't charged. So much for smart.  I've worried about that six-hundred dollar phone more than you should ever worry about a material thing, but I do love my phone! It's also new. 

Meanwhile I got out my old iPhone and charged it up, thinking I may have to resurrect it and switch back to it. Last night I decided to give the Locate My Phone feature one more try. Yay! It looked like it was working this time and zeroing in on a spot on the corner of Steele Hill and VW Road on  the map right before my eyes. My house, it must be here! Then I heard a ping and was so happy until I looked around and found the pinging coming from my old phone that I had just charged. The read-out said "found phone" and that phone wasn't even lost! I went back to the Apple site and tried to pull up my new phone, but it only shows that I own the old phone. I may or may not have remembered to register the new phone on Apple when I got it. Ouch. But I had the box it came in! Yay! It had the serial number on it, so I tried to register it thinking there still might be hope and it would still have a charge since I hadn't used it. I think positive, usually. But aack! Once again, no luck. After the serial number, it wanted an agreement number from the agreement papers where I bought it. Oh, did I ever tell you how unorganized I am? Probably not and I couldn't find it.

So-o-o, this morning I went to Comporium where I purchased the phone and just knew they would have a copy of the agreement number. Wrong! But I don't think she was looking hard. She had a very hard time following along with my story, and she had a neat desk, looked very organized and looked at me sort of condescending, like I was supposed to know to keep those sorts of things.

I came home all blue, rejected and dejected from Comporium. When I pulled in the driveway, Henry walked out of the house to meet me. My phone had been found! He was excited too, because of the six-hundred dollars I'm sure. Where, I asked, feeling a little elated for the first time in two days, actually three days if you count Monday.

It was at the high school and had been turned in by a boy who found it in his book bag.

My thoughts went to Gregory! But how?

Can't you just see this in slow motion. 

Genevieve in front seat, Gregory in back seat.

Book bag on floor. 

Gregory opens book bag to get out his own phone, leaves it open. 

Genevieve has my phone, reads email and lays phone on console.

Brakes applied.

Out of all the places phone could go, it tumbles into book bag.

Gregory closes book bag and gets out of car.

Book bag is left by back door away from hearing ears as we try calling it.

It stays in dark book bag overnight and all next day because there was no school because of election day; then overnight again.

Gregory takes book bag to school this morning, opens it. Hey, what's this phone doing in here?

Takes to office. Smart lady in office charges it and calls the last number called.

Voila! I have my phone back. I did feel slightly unpopular when I checked my messages. Not a single one.

I can sometimes go days without using my phone, but with my daughter in Mexico waiting for the wall to be built and thinking that Gen would need me to put on my superwoman cape to run to her rescue at sometime or another, I went a little crazy with the lost phone. Can you tell?

But the really, really fun part is when I picked up Gregory today at school. I told him I'd found my phone. He said, where did you find it? I said, here at the high school. Some boy found it in his book bag. He turned to me with a look of shock on his face and said in his cute little British accent, "that was me!" Kids! You gotta love 'em!

At least this was a short story and not a book.

The end.