"Where Have I Been?"

manuscript:  n.  A single, original copy of a book, article, composition etc. written by hand or even printed, submitted as original for (copy-editing and) reproductive publication.

book:  n.  A long work fit for publication, typically prose, such as a novel or textbook, and typically published as such, a bound collection of sheets.

"So, now that the book is coming to completion, are you going to begin writing the blog again?" The question posed by my niece set me to thinking. It has been a long time since I  placed an entry in the blog. Perhaps you thought I had fallen off the face of the earth. Where have I been?

"What's the difference between a manuscript and a book?" my daughter asked. "Sometimes you call the writing a manuscript; other times you call it a book." My personal analogy is that a manuscript can be compared to a pregnancy where the fetus is an unborn child. It is no less a baby, but it cannot be held nor can it live on its own. Upon reaching full term development, birth takes place. And so it is with a manuscript, and a book is born.

Many years ago, I was given a small hand-written slip of paper. A prophetic statement of sorts, one of the things written on it was that I would become a writer of psalms. Tucking it in my wallet, I carried it with me until my purse, along with the wallet, was stolen. It had become worn, the penciled writing faded, but occasionally I would pull it out and read it. Its loss saddened me more than anything else that had been taken.

Over the years, I made an attempt at fulfilling those words, but, alas, I found I had nothing to say. Finally, I stopped trying.

Several decades later, probably four or more, the need and desire to share a message, that of God's love for HIs creation and His desire for relationship and friendship, began to develop, and this blog was born. I never connected it to that quiet message from years gone by, but perhaps there is one.

Essays have been the means of expression as I happily wrote away, sharing the experiences of God in my daily life. My intent and desire is not to tell anyone how to live their life but, rather, to promote thought, for questions to be asked, for life to be considered in a spiritual, eternal light instead of just a physical, temporal one.

After quite a number of posts had been written, the thought entered my mind--What would happen if I made a compilation of these entries, creating a book? It seemed like a simple, practical idea, that of placing the essays under a single cover. 

I began by taking several sample entries to a local editor. Her response was encouraging and unexpected as she supported the validity of the writing, suggesting I self-publish. The first task was to print out all of the posts from the blog, almost 200 of them. Working from that stack, a format began to develop.  

This should be a piece of cake, I thought. After all, everything is already written, and all I have to do is just arrange it in a readable manner. I was in for the surprise of my life. And that is where I have been.

Writing, editing, and rewriting is solitary and time-consuming, but I wanted it to be done well and done right.  Hour upon hour has been spent with pencil in hand, going over the entries time and time again. I'm not sure how long it has taken, but it correlates to the scarcity of new blog posts. 

Self-doubt has come like a tsunami, receding, then returning again, as I am not a trained writer. My writing and what I write about is raw, a personal exposure of me and my life.  Vulnerability is ever present. At times I withdrew, the process and project too daunting.  

Several months ago, I sensed a deadline and, with it, subtle pressure. Time is always of the essence, and timing is everything. I was asked to make a commitment to complete what I had begun. And that is where I have been.

Needing an illustrator for the cover page and chapter inserts, I asked my Heavenly Father for one. She had been right under my nose all along, my son-in-law's mother. I could not have asked for any better as she has captured the message and the spirit of the writing to a "t." They are beautiful, and it is my honor and privilege to share them.

Needing an editor as well, my own search was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Google and its resulting choices and options were overwhelming. I asked my Heavenly Father for one, and He delivered. While plodding along, I received a message out of the blue from a childhood friend saying she was "just wondering if you are looking for help" along with the name and recommendation of one. "Yes! Yes! Yes" was my response, "an answer to my prayer." The connection was made and the push was on toward completion.  

The manuscript was sent intact to the editor very recently. She is thorough, competent, and just plain good. Her kindness is evident as she presents her assessments with objectivity. The final revision is near completion, and there is the possibility it will be delivered to the publisher next week.

This is a self-publishing project, as I feel it is important that I am the one who decides the message I want conveyed and how that is done. A publishing package was purchased many months ago, an incentive to keep moving forward. When I spoke with the publishing company last week I was told there is a turnaround time of two to three months after they receive the manuscript until it is delivered as a book.

The emotions, the feelings run deep as the things I write about are so personal. How will the book be received? Will it be overlooked as just another feeble effort of an amateur writer? How well am I able to deal with criticism and ridicule? Of course, I have no way of knowing, but it has not stopped me in the journey or the quest of reaching the finish line.  

The desire of my life has always been to make a difference, not only for this life but for all eternity. If only one person is touched, then it will have been worth the time and the effort.

After what feels like a very long pregnancy--a very, very long one--I have the sense birth is taking place. The manuscript is becoming a book. It must stand on its own; I am neither propping it up nor supporting it. It is either a living work, or it will simply fade away.

And that is where I have been. Thank you for your patience.  

I will let you know when I am able to introduce you to "Tidbits and Pearls--A Book of Essays on Living Everyday Life With God." 

             

   

    

  

     

"On Lifechanging Events"

Part I--The "Flood of 1964"

lifechanging:  adj.  Having a significant effect on the course of one's life.

Life is a very personal, individual matter; lifechanging events even more so.  When such an event takes place not only is the outer of one's life touched and affected but the inner as well--emotionally, mentally, spiritually.  While making physical adjustments and compensations, an inner turmoil, an upheaval often follows; settling into a place of peace, rest, and reconciliation may not take place for quite some time, if ever.

A bad hair day or the fact that, ever since I had some ignition work done on my truck, there is a ding when I open the door whether or not the key is in it does not constitute a lifechanging event.  Those are annoyances, nuisances.  A vacation when the weather was not cooperative or those three or four days which kept everyone housebound because the snow was a foot deep does not qualify either.  Lifechanging events are those times in our lives which create an emotional tornado, an earthquake which shakes our very core.  They are those times when everything is turned upside down and mark a turning point in time, the ones we use as a "before" and "after" marker in the timeline of life.

It was Christmas time, and the "Flood of 1964" was that kind of an event for my young family and me.  Several hundred miles away, a warm Chinook wind hit an early snow pack in the Cascades, melting it.  That snow melt ended up, literally, at our doorstep.  The low-lying areas of the small coastal town where we lived were filled with water, and that is where our home was.  Almost everything we owned was wiped out by an unusual set of circumstances.  Newly married, with a 1-year-old son, we had only recently moved into the area for a new job.  We had no resources,  The move and purchase of a mobile home had taken all the money we had.  When the water subsided we found ourselves homeless and broke.

Our lives had been completely altered; and yet, life continued on.  I can still remember trying to set up a household afterward  in the small motel suite provided for us by the Red Cross.  Our worldly possessions had been condensed into only those things which weren't affected by water.  We were starting from scratch.  The flood was lifechanging.  While the whole community was affected, I was dealing with my own singular, private loss.

I suspect many of you have had your own lifechanging event and can relate to my experience.  Perhaps it was a fire, a vehicle accident, a difficult medical diagnosis and prognosis, a business failure--lifechanging events are varied and uniquely individual.  And always personal.

This much I know and believe to be so:  I am given three choices when life hits me full on.  I can turn to my Creator, I can turn on Him, or I can turn away from Him, denying the fact He even exists and cares.  In my life I opt to seek Him and His help.  Life is hard enough as it is.  I prefer not doing it by myself when I don't have to.

I am also of the belief that nothing is happenstance, that there is purpose and design to my life.  Four months after that destruction we found ourselves on two acres of country property, the site where we raised our four children and were able to give them "the best childhood any kid could ever have."--their quote, not mine.

The "Flood of 1964" was lifechanging on many levels.  Spiritual growth and maturity comes at a price sometimes.  While often extremely difficult, it is invaluable.  It is how change takes place.  

Part II--The Rest of the Story

The "Flood of 1964" resulted in the loss of my family's home and almost everything in it.  We were one of the fortunate who were covered by flood insurance.  Our home at the time of the flood was a mobile home and, since it had wheels, was given the same kind of coverage as an automobile.  While not a huge amount of money, it was at least something.  Those who lived in regular houses were not afforded any protection or compensation at all.

Housing in the area was in short supply due to an influx of population which had come to man a newly built paper mill, so we had no real options other than to replace the mobile home.  Excitedly, we placed an order for our new home, unsure where it was going to be set up.

In my refusal to return to the mobile park where we were flooded, there was only one other setting in the small town which would accommodate the all-electric feature.  We made the decision to have it brought to the alternate park even though it was a very crowded space.  Having grown up in the country, being squeezed in on all sides didn't set well, but there was no other choice.  My husband was working the midnight shift, also known as the graveyard shift, and was to stop on his way home from work to place a deposit.  Anxious to get home and get some sleep, he forgot three days in a row.  Because we hadn't secured the site it was given to someone else.

We had the pending delivery of a new mobile home and no place to put it.  As we wrestled with the situation, my husband said, "Let's go find some property to put it on."  Now that makes perfect sense, doesn't it?

We got in the car with our son and headed out with no thought or direction in mind.  Heading up a winding, twisting road we had never driven before, I was quite certain it led nowhere.  The road followed a creek, and 2 1/2 miles in, we discovered a plot of land, and I was proven wrong.

We had a whole $100 to our name, which we used as earnest money with the promise of $900 for the down payment.  It turned out we were able to claim our flood loss on taxes and that $900 came just in time to finalize the deal.  We had a place to bring the mobile home to.  Talk about timing!

Our home up Scholfield Road was a gift.  I loved living there.  The mobile home was replaced with a house as the family grew, and it was a gathering place for people of all ages.  It was where my children grew up, and I would not trade that place, that space, that 

time for anything.

Do you wonder, do you question why I live my life the way I do?  The One who made me has taken such good care of me and continues to do so.  He is the reason why.

"We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose."  Romans 8:28

"On Wasps in the Garden"

Part I:

“Good News, Good News”

The bank is covered with ivy and blackberries, and it is my annual task to cut back the blackberry briars, encouraging the ivy to take over.  Since it is one of my least favorite gardening tasks, I tend to postpone the job, and this year was no exception.  Procrastination, however, does reach its limits, and I finally made the decision to tackle them and headed up the bank with pruners in hand.

It is bound to happen sooner or later was the thought that had been playing in my mind over and over.  A person can’t go traipsing through the brush and dried vegetation like I do without expecting to run into the nasty buggers.  “What are you talking about?” you may ask.  I’m talking about another encounter with wasps.  It is, after all, that time of the year when wasps become even more temperamental, aggressive, antisocial, and downright vicious than usual.

Wasps and bees are not one and the same.  Their similarities begin and end with the fact they are both flying insects with the capability of stinging. 

Honey bees are mild-mannered and social, living in large colonies.  Not only do they pollinate 1/3 of the food we eat, but they produce honey in their hives for themselves and for human consumption as well.  If one is stung by a honey bee it is a defensive reaction, never an offensive one. 

  

Wasps, on the other hand, are naturally a more aggressive predator.  There is nothing passive about them.  Whereas honey bees use pollen as a source of protein to feed their offspring, wasps provide meat for their larvae, classing them as carnivores in my opinion. 

By the end of summer, the beginning of autumn, the workers have nothing left to do.  They have fulfilled their mission of providing insects to feed the young grubs back in the nest.  Their food of choice is often decaying fruit, rather than the protein they eat early on, and they handle nature’s wine in the same manner many humans do.  They become mean drunks.  In addition, the queen has stopped producing the hormone that keeps the wasp colony within the nest.  They are on a final binge, as these workers die when the weather turns cold.  To say they are not nice is a gross understatement.  Behaving with a definite spirit of aggression, they have no problem expressing themselves in an attack and conquer fashion.

Wasps have the advantage.  Their nests are often hidden, tucked away underground, invisible to the naked eye, a virtual landmine, and they know where we humans are long before we find them. 

  

Last season I drove my weeding tool straight into a wasps’ nest buried in the ground.  Instantly my hand and forearm, my ankle and lower leg were covered with them as they stung ferociously.  When one swats at a wasp, a chemical is emitted within 15 seconds, a signal of distress, and those in the nest respond.  They swarm, attack, and even chase.  Unlike honey bees which sting once then die, a wasp can sting repeatedly so the potential is a recipe for disaster.

My body reacted to the sheer quantity of venom.   My breathing wasn’t affected, but my heart was pounding and, within a matter of minutes, I had a full-blown case of head to toe hives. 

I recovered from that onslaught, but it was not an event I wish to repeat again.  While Al Qaeda and Isis are definitely terrorist groups, these tiny, black and yellow, flying, stinging critters have the capability of striking their own kind of terror.  The mere thought of them causes me to cringe.  Fear sat on my shoulder as I set off to do the necessary work on the bank. 

On the ivy bank, I had clipped two or three blackberry vines back when I felt something bothering my foot.  Looking down, I saw several of my least favorite insects flying around my feet.  Glancing up, it was then I saw the hole in the ground and the wasps swarming out of it.  Given my past experience, I am amazed at how composed I was.  

I walked calmly down the hill—yes, calmly.  When I was a distance away, I killed the two left on my foot.  One was trapped between my shoe and my sock, so he was stinging over and over again.  I got in the truck, where I have a bee sting kit, and headed home, conscious of my breathing and physical response.

I’m certain you have heard situations described in terms of “good news, bad news.”   This experience, however, is only “good news, good news.”  Yes, I was stung, but part of the good news is my body did not go into shock.  While I have no desire to meet up with a family of wasps again, it is good to know I was able to continue breathing, and I did not break out in hives.  My response to the initial assault was a gift.  Typically, I would become hysterical, swinging for all I’m worth.  Additional good news is that I did not step on that nest.  It was less than a foot away.  Had I gone up the hill at a different angle I would have walked right on top of it.

My life is not in my hands.  Once again, I was being watched over and taken care of by my Heavenly Father.  While I continue to be apprehensive at the thought of wasps, and my foot swelled like a football, not a morsel of this encounter was a negative, only positive.  The day ended with “good news, good news.”

It goes without saying that the blackberry briars are still up on that bank.  I think I’ll wait for cooler weather.  That, and for my client to have the nest destroyed.

Part II:

“A Return to the Scene”

It had been three weeks since I mowed.  After encountering the wasps’ nest on the bank of blackberries and ivy, I had postponed the mowing job as I was uncertain what kind of nearby activity might set them off.  My client had called in a professional to dispose of the nest, and she notified me she had checked several times, and there was no sign of them. 

As I unloaded the mower from the truck I found myself thinking that I was returning to the scene of the crime.  While no crime had been committed, I was returning to a scene, one which evoked unpleasant memories.

I found myself checking out of the corner of my eye as I mowed past the place where the nest had been located.  I’ve seen several wasps flying around the past few days, and the cooler weather has dampened their nasty dispositions, so the threat of an attack is past.  And yet the memory lingers.  I still have not tackled those blackberries up on the bank.

Experiences from our past, some of them from decades ago, have a way of sneaking into the present, influencing not only the way we think, but how we live, holding us emotionally and mentally hostage.

The mind is a tricky beast to try to control.  In fact, I’d place it on an equivalency with the tongue when it comes to the degree of difficulty to exercise control over.  That’s probably why people spend so much money on seminars, books, and videos in an attempt to gain better control over their thoughts and subsequent reactions and responses to those thoughts.  Oh, that it was that easy to simply train one’s mind.

Experiences which have caused pain, sadness, turmoil, or grief have the potential of being springboards.  Even though that time in one’s life will probably not be repeated, the memory and thought often is enough to taint the present.  It’s as though we return to the scene each and every time a similar situation occurs.  I suspect that is why “they” say when you get bucked off a horse, just get back on again, stressing the importance of not allowing a single incident to define one’s future.  Sometimes that is possible; other times it isn’t.

A dental experience, involving drilling without being numbed; three very serious bicycle accidents involving my family; a drive on a logging road with the potential of ending horrifically; my family swimming in a river, a deadly end averted—these are just a few of the springboards in my life.  I know you have your own.  Anyone who has lived life does.

So how does a person live in the present, not allowing the past to color it?  Personally, I haven’t stopped going to the dentist, and I have not forbidden my grandchildren from riding bicycles or swimming, though I don’t take any sight-seeing tours through the mountains on logging roads.

How does one live without being affected or influenced by those experiences from our past, dealing with a mental recurrence of a difficult time, a return to the scene, as it were?  There is no easy answer, as each individual and each situation is unique.  My personal experience, however, attests to the effectiveness of dealing with a great one-on-one counselor, my Creator.  He knows me better than anyone else, and healing is possible.

In reflecting on these things, I realized I have an abundance of experiences to draw from in my life which make me an advocate of this approach.  More than a few situations in life already lived have the potential to ground me, bring me to a screeching halt, but for the work of the One who made me.  There are many things from my past which no longer touch me or affect me or my life because of God—His hand, His touch—in my inner psyche.  It all takes place in the mind and the inner being, you know.

We--He and I, aren’t all the way through the wasp thing yet.  I will say, though, that I made it through this season with nothing more than a swollen foot and a bite on the neck.  I am, however, considering skipping next August and September when the wasps go on their rant.  Thank God He walks me through these things.  

"On Being Godly"

godly:  adj.  Of or pertaining to a god.  Devoted to a god or God; devout; righteous; gloriously good.

godly:  adv.  In a godly manner; piously; devoutly; righteously.

The illustration in my mind’s eye was crystal clear, the message even clearer.

The water was deep, murky, and foreboding.  The rock cliff dropped off from the edge of the bank, and there was no purchase available, nothing to hold onto so she could hoist herself up and out.  She had been in the water for quite some time--swimming, swimming, swimming.  Her strength gone, her stamina spent, she was in a “treading-water” mode, her resolve quickly waning.  With no way out, she had no hope of ever making it ashore.  Soon, very soon, she would give up.  And she would perish. 

The silent observer was unseen but within reach.  All that was needed was to reach out, extending the necessary helping hand to pull her up and out of the water.  "A godly act," was my thought.

Just what is a godly person?  How does one become godly and what difference does it make?

Personally, I would challenge the dictionary definition of godly with my own:

godly:  adj.  One who is in tune with God.

It is the nature of humankind to try to alter God and His standards, either by removing or adding a word or a letter from the original, generalizing them and making them more palpable.  Such is the case here.  Goodly and godly are not one and the same.

Often, a godly person is viewed as one who does good works, adheres to religious principles, is schooled in church doctrine and history.  Perhaps he/she has turned away from a conventional way of life in order to live one of solitude, concentrating and focusing on prayer and service.

God is love.  Godliness is a state based on that fact rather than on outer actions.  It has its beginnings as one becomes acquainted with God as a person, godly words and deeds the result of that relationship.  The difference between goodly and godly is they come from His mind and not that of man. 

One who is godly will never broadcast the part of their lives which is very personal.  There are no fundraisers or posts on Facebook.  They naturally do what has been given them to do and continue on, often never realizing the impact and difference made in other’s lives.

Godly, not goodly.  There is a difference.  It is in the being, not the doing.  

In thinking about the picture given me, it was evident it was a picture of God.  Unable to help myself, He reaches out His hand.  It is my choice and my decision to accept the offer of help or reject it.  

A godly person does the same, representing Him, emulating Him.  There is no room for self.  And that does make a difference. 

   

“Of course, there is great gain in godliness combined with contentment;”  I Timothy 6:6

“…pursue righteousness, godliness, faith, love, endurance, gentleness.”  I Timothy 6:11

 

  

        

"On Being OK"

OK:  adj.  In good health or a good emotional state.

Upon greeting  me, a client often asks, "How are you, Ladonna?" 

"I'm OK," I typically respond.  

"Just OK?" he questions. 

 I usually laugh and answer  "It's better than not OK."  

Heading out to mow, it was four weeks to the day since I took an inglorious spill in a crosswalk in downtown Boise, Idaho. There was nothing casual about the fall, no trip and stumble, rather a splat to the street. 

A visit to the emergency room verified my initial comment as I pulled myself up. "My jaw is jacked up." An X-ray confirmed that it was indeed. I had actually broken my jaw.

There is no cast for a broken jaw, and, in order for it to be stabilized, extreme braces were put in place. The initial plan was for screws to be placed in the gums and then wires attached. The correct wire wasn't available so plan B included braces with bands. Thank God.

"Liquids only for six weeks," I was told. At first, I could ingest liquids with a syringe through a very small tube. After twelve days I would be promoted to just the syringe. No chewing allowed. My blender became my best friend.  

Adjustments were made as I filled the fridge with protein- and calorie-rich dairy products and shakes, maximizing meals with as many legumes as possible, creating dishes with combinations of a variety of foods to provide the eighty grams of daily protein suggested by a dietitian.  I was never able to come close to that.

Settling in to the process of physical healing, I wasn't prepared for the need to be healed emotionally.  

My family insisted I stay with them for the first several days despite my claim that I was fine. Surrounding me with love and protection, it was the perfect environment and cocoon in which to begin healing. In retrospect, I wasn't as fine as I thought I was.  

Pain was never an issue; having the rug pulled out from underneath me was.

The lack of confidence and the sense of being unsure of myself and basic motor movements  came like a wave hitting the rocks, unannounced at random moments. I found the fall had shaken me.

The first time I went into the grocery store alone I sat in the truck, steeling myself. My family had surrounded me for ten days, and now I was on my own. Cautiously, gauging every step and every flaw in the pavement, I headed out.  Knowing my inability to express myself verbally because of the restrictive banding, my instinct was to retreat, but an empty larder and the need to feed myself won out. 

Fear has its residence in the unknown, and all of life is just that--unknown. The "what ifs?" took over. What if I fall again? What if the jaw isn't fully healed, and I damage it yet again? What if, what if?

I had to force myself to cross the street to get my mail from the mailbox. Holing up inside my house, curling up into a ball and staying there almost seemed easier and was quite inviting.

My faith, my spiritual being, was shaken as well. "You let me fall.  You didn't keep me from falling," I cried out in those quiet, alone times. God reminded me of Job, who was stripped of his livelihood and his family and still refused to turn on Him.  God does not keep us from difficult situations, but He promises to take us through.  

A client who has had several bad falls with serious injuries described them as being traumatic--a new concept to consider. That description matched some of what I had been feeling, including a real sense of vulnerability.  

Going back to work was my version (or make that God's version) of being pushed out of the nest. I fought it, yet at the same time I knew it was important for my well-being. I needed to get back in a familiar routine again. I did only cleaning that first week. I tested any unexpected ramifications from using the vacuum cleaner, leaning over while working, anything which might cause a shift.   

I mowed for the first time almost a month after falling. It was the first time I had off-loaded and loaded the mower from the truck, the first time I had started my tools by pulling on the rope starter. Was I putting pressure on the healing jaw? Was my ear protection pressing against it? So much of the body is used in the simplest of motions. Was I causing unforeseen damage?  

Peace was not my friend as I concluded my day and headed home. Pulling into the garage, I heard my inner voice--"I am not OK. I am not OK. I am not OK." Over and over again it spilled out until I was emptied. There was only silence as I headed to clean up. Then, very quietly I heard, "You are OK."  

So many times we want to be great, fantastic, fabulous, outstanding, and superb. But those are often bubbles which quickly burst and disappear. My position is being "just OK" is a good thing. 

And I am OK.


"It is well with my soul."



     





         

"On Giving Thanks in Everything"

thanks:  n.  An expression of gratitude.  Grateful feelings or thoughts.

Quietly minding my own business while ironing a pair of pants for a client, the thought entered and settled in, probably through the back door of my mind, before I had a chance to put up my guard."I don't think that's a good idea," I countered, "I'm not going to lay myself out like that," knowing full well there was no way to sweep it under the rug, pretending it wasn't there. Once an idea is given to me it becomes the elephant in the room--It will be addressed and dealt with.  

November and Thanksgiving is months away, the typical time of the year when thanks are garnered and verbally expressed. How atypical is it to initiate an awareness of gratitude when the new year has only just begun? I do march to the beat of my own drum.

The courtroom was empty except for those involved in the trial--the lawyers, defendant, witnesses, judge, and other officials. Empty, that is, except for me and the minister from the church in a small coastal town the defendant had attended as a youth. There were no other friends or family members in support of the one on trial. I had been the recipient of his one phone call when he was arrested.  

The evidence was overwhelming. There was no reason to believe he would not be found guilty and sentenced to serve time. The only question was where and how long.  

"Guilty" was the pronouncement. In my mind I heard, "In everything give thanks for this is the will of God." Unfamiliar with the words, I searched after getting back home and discovered its source in scripture. A new concept was planted that day. A young man was heading for a correctional institute, and the charge was to "give thanks." 

We stayed in touch during his time in correction, writing and visiting. He made a decision while there--that he would never be incarcerated ever again. And he hasn't been. He and his wife own their own truck, hauling all over the country. He is a successful businessman, an asset to society and his family. His life took a turn, a turn for the good, on that fateful day. Unseen though it was, it was a reason to be thankful.

The very nature of giving thanks is for there to be a recipient. So often, being thankful is not unlike blowing up a helium balloon, attaching a tag to it, and letting it go up into the sky where it eventually fades away. It is important that thanks be given to God, the person, the source of all things--one on one.  

And this is where the original thought enters in--I am to post a daily thanks, something I have expressed to God in my daily life and share it with you. Who will join me in this exercise? I am not asking you to comment but, rather, take the time in your own life at some point during each day, consider what you are thankful for, and give thanks to God.    

The caveat is "everything." It is quite easy to thank God for all of the "feel good" things in life; He is asking that I thank Him for and in everything. This much I know:  All things are at the hand of God, and in that I can give thanks. A young man, having been found guilty of a crime and sentenced to serve time in a correction facility, satisfies that requirement. 

And so the elephant in the room has been dealt with.  

We shall all watch and see where this leads.


"Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you."  I Thessalonians 5:18



             

"On Injury, Healing, and Scars"

injury:  n.  Damage to the body of a human or animal.  The violation of a person's reputation, rights, property, or interests.  Injustice.

healing:  n.  The process where the cells in the body regenerate and repair themselves.  
The psychological process of dealing with a problem or problems.

scar:  n.  A permanent mark on the skin sometimes caused by the healing of a wound.  A permanent mark on the mind. 

Glancing at my ankle bone, my eyes caught the tiny scar.  I was no more than 4 years old when a stack of 2 x 4 s fell over, trapping my foot.  My brother had been assigned the task of piling the lumber so they would be ready for our father who was building a new house for the family.  Most certainly I was uninvited help, and the incident verified that.  I hadn't noticed the scar or thought about the occurrence in years.

Physical scars are often a personal record we carry on our bodies, marking periods of time and events in our lives, each one with its own unique story.  Over the years, mine has been evidenced with stitches.  There was a time in my life where an annual trip to the doctor was required--my poor mother.  Perhaps for others they are the result of a dreadful bicycle accident, a painful burn, a surgical procedure, scrapes from road rash, a stumble into unforgiving brick hearths or heavy, wooden coffee tables, ad infinitum.  I doubt there is a person on the face of this earth who does not possess a physical scar of some sort. 

There is the injury, then the healing.  And the scars remain--a reminder, sometimes gentle, other times stark, of where we were and what we were doing at an exact moment in our lives, perhaps including the suggestion of having been protected and spared from further harm. 

There are other types of injury as well, invisible to the naked eye.  These are the situations and circumstances which affect one emotionally, causing hurt, anger, dismay, great angst, and the potential for enveloping bitterness--an argument between spouses, friends, or co-workers where hurtful words are exchanged; an illness which takes over and consumes not only the patient but family and friends as well; a bitter end to a relationship where the children become the pawns, the victims; the death of a partner, a best friend; witnessing the self-destruction of a child; ad infinitum as well.

This kind of injury is not so readily healed as the physical.  Cell regeneration is not applicable.  Bandages, splints, stitches, and antibiotics are ineffective.  My personal confirmation, however, is that restoration is possible, the pain lessening as healing takes place. 

And make no mistake--all healing, whether physical or emotional, is of God.  The One who is the giver of life heals as well.

It is told that Christ appeared to his disciples after his crucifixion, death, and resurrection.  Filled with questions and doubts, he was not readily received.  "Put your finger here and see my hands.  Reach out your hand and put it in my side.  Do not doubt but believe," he told a doubting Thomas.  Having done that, noting the place where the sword had been thrust into his side and his palms had been nailed to the cross, Thomas' response was, "My Lord and my God."  *
       
Why does Christ still carry those scars?  Why didn't his body become "perfect" upon resurrection?  These are questions for which I have no answer.  

The experience of injury is one which is common to mankind.  It is said that time heals all wounds, and for many it does.  For others, however, healing is elusive, ever just out of reach.  May each of you know healing at the hand of God--in both the inner and the outer.  And may you "own" your scars with pride, having completed the process, the scar a period on the sentence.  The scars on Christ's body certainly are that, as he spoke from the cross:  "It is finished." *1     


"O Lord my God, I cried unto thee, and thou hast healed me."  Psalm 30:2
* John 20:27, *1 John 19:30