What Are You Looking At?

One morning I walked down to a dock along the Snake River. The path was paved and even, but I found myself looking down at the path ahead of me instead of looking at the scenery unfolded before me.

Sure, I live in rattlesnake country and a man had recently been bitten by a rattler he inadvertently grabbed hold of at the local Walmart's garden center. Sure, I was unfamiliar with the path and wanted to be certain of my footing.

But why? The paved path before me was clear and even. It was plain. Boring.

And when I eventually looked up to take in the beauty before me?

Stunning.

Glistening water, wild grasses, silvery green leaves, steep brown hills ascending from the river valley.

Why did I focus so long on that paved little path? The potential dangers were absent, and I had missed the splendor laid out before me.

Where is your vision focused right now? Downward, at the individual steps ahead? Or upward, at the vast scenery spread out before you?

If we turn our eyes upward and outward, we will more fully witness the greatness and beauty God has laid out for us to enjoy.

Mmmm, mmmm good!

A Writer Writes, Right?

Conversation with myself, moments ago:

I should write something.

Why’s that?

Writer’s group is tomorrow, and I haven’t written anything yet.

Okay. Go ahead.

I don’t wanna.

What? Why not?

I’m tired. And I’m not inspired.

So?

So . . . . it feels like a chore.

Oh. What are you gonna do?

Take a nap.

Really?

Maybe. I’ll have more energy.

Um, not necessarily. But you still won’t have anything to share with those WOW ladies of yours.

I know. Sigh.

Why don’t you work on your branding stuff?

I’m tired of that right now. It’s getting to the “decision-making-and-focused-writing” stage.

But that’s good, right?

Right. But I have to be inspired to do it.

Won’t inspiration come if you just dig in and start?

Probably.

Well then, go for it.

Maybe.

No, not maybe. Do it. Set the timer for 20 minutes and do whatever you can during that time.

Okay, you talked me into it.

Good. ‘Cause a writer writes, right?

Right. I’ll get my cup of coffee and set that timer.

                That’s my girl! On your mark, get set, GO!

The Fruit of God's Presence

Minute Meditation:

When the Ark of the Covenant was at Obed Edom's for three months, the LORD blessed him and his entire household (2 Sam. 6:11). May our lives be so filled with the Lord and His presence that others  can clearly see the fruit of His blessing in our lives. Mmmm, tasty!

Why Does God Let Bad Things Happen?

While the Littles (my two youngest children) and I played at the park earlier this week, a young boy fell and hit his head on the metal edge of a ramp. Like most head wounds, it bled profusely and his dad led him, crying and holding his head with blood-stained hands, into the bathroom for paper towels to staunch the flow of blood.

"Why does God let bad things happen?" asked Caden, scrunching up one eye and gritting his teeth at the thought of the pain the other boy had experienced.

"Sometimes when we disobey we get hurt," he said, before I could answer.

I struggled with how to explain this deep question, one that adults wrestle with, to a 7 year old. If God is good, and if God loves us, why does He allow bad things to happen? Yes, we live in a fallen world. Yes, our choices sometimes lead to painful consequences. I also didn't want my son to think that bad things only happen when we disobey--sometimes, bad things happen that aren't anybody's fault.

"That is true," I agreed. "But sometimes accidents or other bad things happen even when we ARE obeying, Sweetie. I don't think that boy was disobeying his dad, he was just playing and he fell. Even though God allows bad things to happen, He is right there with us, to love us and help us through them."

"In heaven there won't be any accidents or any crying. Or bees!" he answered emphatically.

"That's right" I replied.


As I think back on the conversation, two scriptures come to mind--Romans 8:28 and John 9:1-3

Romans 8:28 says, "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." (NIV)

In John 9, Jesus and the disciples saw a blind man as they were walking. The disciples assumed the blindness was a consequence of sin and asked, "Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?"

Jesus' beautiful reply? "Neither this man nor his parents sinned . . . but this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life." Then Jesus healed the man.

I know I have heard more detailed explanations to this question in the past, and theologians could lay out scripture upon scripture regarding the topic.

But for me, as for a child, knowing that God is present with us through bad circumstances and knowing that He works for our good in the midst of all things is sufficient.

And I pray that the work of God may be displayed in and through our lives.

Greatest Gifts From Mom

One of the greatest gifts my mom has given me is her support and encouragement in following my dreams and passions. With my mom, I never feel as though I am not enough, or as though the choices I have made to follow God—rather than the world’s view of success—have disappointed her.

When I entered a writing contest in 9th grade, she encouraged me, and was excited for me when I won. When I tried out for the Miss Idaho Pageant and Young Woman of the Year, she and my dad were right there beside me, supporting me and cheering me on. When I was the first person in our extended family to attend college, Mom believed I could succeed. And I did.

When I had my first child at 19, out of wedlock, she stood by my side and helped me.

When I met my husband Barry, an incredible Christian man, she was excited right along with me, encouraging me and rejoicing with me. When my husband adopted my son, she was there with her support.

When Barry and I had our first child together, Mom was present with her love and strength, rejoicing with us. When that same baby became sick just days later, and we discovered he had three congenital heart defects, Mom was right there with us, her support, love and prayers a comfort to us. When he went to be with the Lord after only 25 days of life, she was there.

When I wrote an Easter play that was enacted at church, she rejoiced with me, and came to see the play. She enjoyed it and told me how proud she was of me.

When I gave birth to each of my next two children, she was there—or at least en route to our town and hospital, depending on the quickness of the delivery!

When I decided to leave my career to raise my children full time, she encouraged me and was happy for me.

When I began a jewelry design business, she was one of my biggest fans, and she delighted in the creations I made.

When I began writing, her excitement and encouragement helped spur me on.

Thank you, Mom, for being my mom. For supporting and encouraging me. For helping me to know that I am special, that I can and do make a difference. Thank you for encouraging me in my relationship with Jesus. For believing in me. Thank you for loving me. You truly make a world of difference in my life.

I love you, Mom.

Lessons From a Hairy Carrot

What do you see when you look at this picture? Lunch? Old, hairy carrots? Garbage?

Wanna know what I see? I see potential. I see life. I see something that has been uprooted and intended for destruction. . . . which isn't yet ready to admit defeat.

Regardless of its condition or age. Regardless of how long it has spent in a cold, dark place. Patiently, persistently it has pulled from its reserves of energy, ever waiting to reach a situation more conducive to further growth. Sending out silky root tendrils and pale leafy tops in preparation. Waiting, ever waiting.

That sounds like US at times, doesn't it? I think that's exactly why the carrots struck such a chord within me when I saw them--I had considered them dead, but they were very much alive and ready for action!

May these carrots encourage and remind us that where there is life, there is hope. Hope for growth or regrowth. Hope for achieving our fullest potential. For He's not finished with us yet!

Fare Thee Well, National Poetry Month

Has April yet nearly passed us by?

My how the days did fly!

Merely one day more

Til we close the door

On National Poetry Month.

But do not fear!

For today you'll hear

Something to rehearse

It's all about a verse,

We call prose poetry.

Prose poetry is, well, poetry that is free of outward trappings of rhythm and rhyme scheme, of stanzaic patterns, of line length and syllable counts. They contain more natural speech and word patterns than other forms of poetry. Although free of the outward strictures, the poems contain a hidden, inner discipline that mold and shape them.

They are prose and they are poetry all at the same time. Beautiful concept, isn't it?


Following is a prose poem by Oscar Wilde:

THE ARTIST

by Oscar Wilde

ONE evening there came into his soul the desire to fashion an image
of THE PLEASURE THAT ABIDETH FOR A MOMENT. And he went forth into
the world to look for bronze. For he could think only in bronze.

But all the bronze of the whole world had disappeared, nor anywhere
in the whole world was there any bronze to be found, save only the
bronze of the image of THE SORROW THAT ENDURETH FOR EVER.

Now this image he had himself, and with his own hands, fashioned,
and had set it on the tomb of the one thing he had loved in life.
On the tomb of the dead thing he had most loved had he set this
image of his own fashioning, that it might serve as a sign of the
love of man that dieth not, and a symbol of the sorrow of man that
endureth for ever. And in the whole world there was no other
bronze save the bronze of this image.

And he took the image he had fashioned, and set it in a great
furnace, and gave it to the fire.

And out of the bronze of the image of THE SORROW THAT ENDURETH FOR
EVER he fashioned an image of THE PLEASURE THAT ABIDETH FOR A
MOMENT.

And following is a prose poem freshly penned by Bernice Seward:

A POEM IN PROSE

by Bernice Seward

A poem in prose is a poem indeed, unfettered by external bonds. Of rhyme scheme, of meter, of stanzaic compaction. Not compelled to march by corporeal command.

A poem in prose is a poem indeed, engendered from a glorious seed. That sprouts, that grows; roots reach down, tender leaves stretch out--to be and become, to blossom, bear fruit, with cadence and structure, God-breathed, found within.

 Have you ever tried your hand at prose poetry? I'd love to hear about it. Or hear about newly inspired verses!