Colors

My memory of art college was spending every Saturday buying what my son needed for his next week’s projects.
 “More colored pencils?” I asked; “You have at least a hundred by now.”
 “But I don’t have these,” he replied.
“Haven’t you learned to blend colors yet?” I asked… as I paid.

 Months later while we were traveling to Grand Rapids to spend a relaxing weekend, my son asked me to count the number of greens I saw. It was lovely spring day, my favorite season; and I wasn’t on-call for two whole days. So I smiled and began counting, but within a few minutes I lost track of whether that was a new green or not. The Creator of the Universe had painted the waking of nature with myriads of greens in all its shades, tints, and hues.

“The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts;” wrote Marcus Aurelius.

And this mother told her son, “You can have as many colored pencils as you’d like.”

Today, my son is a successful graphic designer and I am a colorist a.k.a., a color-er. I started with a set of colored pencils and an adult coloring book to pass the time and to keep from being bored.

 Soon I added gel pens…








                                                     then a cart to hold all of them.

 I never seem to have just the right shade. Sound familiar?

I love the flow of ink on the paper and seeing the combination of multiple shades of a color group form a flower. I’ve graduated from a 12 per box to 120 and still want more choices.

 The transition from threads and yarns to ink actually came first. The colors I use for my needlework add dimension and texture. My grandson called it threading (drawing with thread) when he was a toddler. 

Coloring does pass the time for this homebound woman. As a bonus, I have discovered bright colors becoming bridges to happy memories and problem-solving becomes easier while coloring. Best of all, coloring connects me to the author of all colors.

 I am thankful we earthlings were given eyes with “some of the most complex structures in all of nature. The human eye can take in a million simultaneous impressions and can tell the difference between eight million different colours.” (@http://www.eyesite.co.uk/news/humans-vs-animals-who-has-better-vision/)

 Jürgen Moltmann wrote, “Our disappointments, our loneliness and our defeats do not separate us from him (God); they draw us more deeply into communion with him.”It is when I’m coloring that I understand that the best.

 And it is through the eyes of others I see what my walls hide from me: [As I run each day] “ I learn to notice perfect strangers who go out of their way to share a smile; I pay attention to dogs grinning as they walk their owners; and my eyes are drawn, again and again, to nature waking up.” ~ Ryan J. Pemberton

Do You Write? Are You a Writer?

When Can You Call Yourself a Writer? 

Guest Post by Jerry Jenkins

Do you ever wonder whether you’re really worthy to call yourself a writer?

You have a deep desire to impact people with your words.

But doubt creeps in and you ask yourself:

• “What makes me a writer? I’ve never published anything, let alone a book.”

• “What I have written is no good. I’m not even sure I should be doing this.”

• “I can’t honestly call myself a writer. I’m nowhere near good enough!”

Sound familiar?

If you let it, that voice will keep you from ever sharing your message with the world. So let’s fight the voice of doubt with a dose of truth.

How Does a Person Actually Become a Writer?

Every once in a great while you’ll hear of someone who decided to write something, or was badgered into it, and surprised everyone by becoming known as a writer.

But, usually, becoming a writer takes a normal course. You become a writer the way you become a bicyclist or a gymnast or a dancer, singer, cook, or plumber.

See where I’m headed with this?

You walk—and trip and tumble and plop—before you run.

Your bike tips over and you skin your knee, perhaps a dozen times, before you catch on to riding a bike.

You ruin a lot of recipes, burn cakes and pies and assorted fowl and bovine, before you become a cook.

You soak your clothes and floors and everything else in sight before you learn the ins and outs of plumbing.

Being bad at something we want to succeed at is part of the process. It’s how we pay our dues.

If you’re not willing to fail, to stink, to be lousy, to make mistakes, to accept correction and criticism and counsel from experts, you’re not likely to progress.

So When Can You Call Yourself a Writer?

As soon as you’re willing to dive in—regardless how good or bad you are.

Just do me one favor:

Don’t decide you’re not a writer before you’ve mustered the courage to try.

Accept that you will be bad at first, just like we all are at everything we try for the first time. Humility is not only a good starting point, it’s the posture to adopt for your writing career.

Wannabe Vs. Writer

But if you’re only talking about being a writer, only reading blogs about it, only going to writers conferences, hobnobbing with writers, dressing like a writer (whatever you think that means), you’re not a writer. You’re a wannabe.

Wannabes talk about writing. Writers write. They may not write well yet, but they write.

When your seat is in the chair and your fingers are on the keyboard and the words are appearing on the screen, you’re in the game.

Otherwise, you’re talking, but no one is listening.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be a writer.

But if you want to call yourself a writer, you have to write.

Do You Have the Right Stuff?

I can tell within the first minute of critiquing a writing student’s work whether they have what it takes to succeed.

How?

I’m not mean, but I’m straightforward. I assume they want honest input on how to improve, and so I tell them. It can be hard to hear.

Their expression and body language tell me immediately whether they are eager to learn and grow or if they were merely hoping to be discovered.

I know it’s hard.

It can be scary to show your work to a professional, even more so to an editor or publisher who will decide whether to buy it or reject it.

But real writers want the feedback. They want to get better, to learn, to grow, to succeed.

Are You a Writer?

If you’ve failed and are still writing, if you’re scared and are still writing, if you’ve stood up to a stinging critique and made your piece better by applying what you learned, if you’ve stayed at it despite that pervasive fear of failure, you are!

How do you know when you’re really a writer?

When you’re writing. Good, bad, fearfully, courageously—regardless.

If you’re in the game and plying your trade, say it loud and say it proud:

I am a writer.

My response: 

YES! I am a writer. I love sharing life lessons. I love learning how to do it better. I am an encourager through spoken and written words.

I am still the seven-year-old who wrote stories in her head every night before falling asleep. Only now I write them down. And I am a forever student. Improving my skills includes sitting in silence while listening and watching what's happening around me. 

My last published story was written after sitting in my recliner with no sounds to distract me. I watched the robins in the tree outside my window. After a while, I looked deeper and was entranced by the dance of the trees. I moved to the computer and wrote "A Touch of Red." 

My writing was by choice when I was young. At age 60, it became a calling/a ministry.

YES, I Am a writer!

Book #8

The Pilgrim’s Progress

Paul Bunyon was arrested for preaching the gospel without permission and spent 12 ½ years in prison. During those years (beginning in 1660), he wrote a number of works, the best of which was the allegory, Pilgrim’s Progress, which became a classic and touched the lives of billions of people.

An allegory is a story, poem or pictures that can be interpreted to reveal hidden meaning, typically a moral or political one. Pilgrim’s Progress is an allegory of a spiritual journey. [Synonyms include parable, analogy, metaphor, and symbol.]

I am reading the 1834 abridged edition of The Pilgrim’s Progress along with Steven James’ Quest for Celestia: A Reimaging of The Pilgrim’s Progress (2006).

Both are intended to reach a new generation.

I will be writing the book reviews later, but first I want to share a story of an unusual consequence related to reading the unabridged book.

Remember the book Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bed Day? Well, I think I’ll call my story…

Alex, the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Boy

Everyone that knew Alex would agree whose qualities and dreaded it when he showed up.

Unlike the Herdmans*, the worst kids in the history of the world who lie, steal, smoke cigars, swear, and hit little kids; Alex caused havoc by being uncooperative, loud and rude. He had no respect for grown-ups, no friends and didn’t care. At least that’s what he said.

Selah ~

Connie

* Character's from the book The Very Best Christmas Pageant Ever by Barbara Robinson.

Guest Post

                  A GLIMPSE OF HIS SOUL

                       By: Joseph J. Mazzella

     YEEEE!  The sound jarred me out of my dreams on a cold, Winter’s night.  I sat up, threw aside my blankets, and fumbled for my glasses in the dark.  I opened my bedroom door and saw a light coming from the bathroom.  I knew then that it was my youngest son, Casey.

     Casey has had a severe form of Autism all of his life.  He speaks only a few words and is bound by his daily routines.  Small changes that we handle easily feel like the end of the world to him.  Sometimes when he’s upset he will cry uncontrollably, scratch his face, or hit himself.

      This time, however, I knew from the noise he was making that he was happy.  He was engaging in his favorite Winter pastime, sitting on the closed toilet seat while warming his feet on the heating vent next to it.  I walked into the bathroom and said, “It’s late son.  Time to go back to bed.”  Then I leaned over, kissed his forehead, and looked into his eyes.

      At that moment something happened that touched me to my soul.  Suddenly, there was no Casey and no me. There was only light.  I felt like I was floating on a lake of love and joy

surrounded completely by a Divine presence.  It was a moment of perfect peace.  Then I blinked

and when I opened my eyes again there was only my son smiling up at me. 

I think that for a moment God had allowed me to see a glimpse of my son’s true soul, unlimited by his handicapped mind.  I knew that it was one far brighter, stronger, and more loving than my own.  I felt so blessed being able to see it.  I thanked God again for my son while I watched him walk back to his bedroom.

     For all of human history the mentally handicapped have been looked down upon in our societies.  They have been ostracized, tormented, neglected and ignored.  Yet the truth is they are the best souls among us.  They are here on a special mission from Heaven to teach us about love, patience, compassion, and selflessness.  They are here to help our own souls to grow in beauty and light.  They are a blessed gift from God and we should accept them all, welcome them into our hearts, and embrace the lessons they teach.  May we always do so.

Woe Is Me - Part 2 & 3

Fatigue leads to fears. For seniors, like me, those fears include becoming incapacitated, developing dementia, and dying.

For me, my immediate fear is that a diagnosis and treatment will not be found. If so, my current life-style will have to become permanent. The unknown is a fear in itself.

My call to write a book is the hope I cling to each day. I believe God will provide the time and the way to complete it. Therefore, I will accept the challenge to live each day the best* that I can in order to fulfill His plan for my life.

Selah… think on this.

Fatigue brings on loneliness- even when others are present. It stems from fickle feelings, such as, nobody understands what I’m going through, they act like I’m not sick at all, they wait on me like I’m incompetent, cannot they see I need some help? Unrealistic expectations on both sides end in conflict. Fatigue makes it difficult to resolve those conflicts.

I remember years ago that I had hepatitis as a complication of mononucleosis; however, I was not contagious. My dear neighbor made sure I had food and anything else that I needed, but she would not come into my house. Her fear was unfounded and I would have appreciated visiting with her, especially as I improved and slept less. My own parents would not come even though for my son, a first grader, who would have loved a trip to McDonalds^®… definitely more exciting than being stuck with a sick mother .

This time, I live alone and just want the comfort of someone peeking in on me. With little energy for conversation, we could have watched a movie together. Just someone’s presence was what I craved.

I might add, the person, who knows when not to talk, is an extra-special blessing.

As a Parish nurse, I often sat at a bedside without saying a word so the patient could rest. When something was needed, I was there. My presence brought comfort to the patient and the nurses were grateful to have another nurse’s eyes assessing the patient.

Selah… think on this.

Connie

* Future post: "What is the best?"

Troubles Chosen

I recently was honored to have a story chosen for inclusion in volume 2 of Quilting Patches of Life by Lori Wagner.

While it truly makes me happy to have my story published, I was re-blessed as I went back to an awful time of my life, and saw how God blessed me and helped me to grow closer to Him.

Although we don't choose the bad experiences of our lives, they are often turning points along our life's journey. When we return to them, we are then able to see the ripple effects ~ how God has used them for not only ourselves, but for others also.

Would I choose the bad times? No, but in retrospect, I am thankful for each one as they represent the patches on my life's quilt. I know that I just see the underside with its knots and tangles, but God sees the finished topside. He will show it to me someday. Then I will see the silver and gold threads that piece it all together. In the meantime, I am satisfied knowing I'm a work-in-progress.

Selah ~

Shalom,
Connie

Rocks In A Box

I was 9 years old with pigtails and a rock collection.

The world of words had opened new doors of adventure for me; and I had discovered the wonder of rocks. I had my own small hammer to break rocks open, numbered tags that correlated with my small notebook identifying each rock and stone using my library books.

It was a good pastime me, a shy girl with few friends. But, like my friends, I lost my rocks when we moved.

Now, over 50 years later, I wonder who found my rocks hidden under the back stairs of our house on Boerman Avenue. Did they realize how sad I was when my mother made me leave them behind during our next move? Did they realize the hours of work that went into finding new rocks and identifying them? Did they understand that those rocks became valuable lessons for my life? Or are they still hidden under those steps?

Lessons learned:
#1: Memories preserve all the important things in our lives- my rocks were never really lost.
#2: Each rock was and is unique- God's creations are similar, but always are a special blending of DNA.
#3: The beauty of my rocks was on the inside; & the discovery of that beauty was breathtaking
#4: Dirty rocks could always be washed cleaned- in fact, the dirt had to be removed in order to identify it.

Thus, the people in my life have been forever preserved within my memories. Each unique person is filled with great beauty, which is amazing when discovered once the troubles of life are washed away.

Dear Reader, that truly describes me and YOU! We are uniquely beautiful, a special part of God's plan. Always remember that we see the underside of our life's tapestry with its knots and tangles, and blotches of colors like blemishes hard on the eye BUT God sees the right-side, the perfect side that He designed just for each of us.

I left my rocks in a cardboard box underneath the steps, but God never leaves us. Our identification tags say Number One Child of the King!

Selah-

Shalom, Connie