Chili~Hogs

April is National Poetry Month! The rain soaked grass rests in spring glory. The sun's hand on my head, a breeze wraps its arm around my shoulder, reminds me why I live here—enough! 

Sometimes you just can’t force it. But it is beautiful today.

 April 25^th The Open Door  Women’s Prison and Re-Entry Ministry is having its 6^th Annual motorcycle fundraiser ride, Chili~Hogs, sponsored by the Water’s Edge Riders. Not a motorcyclist myself, I appreciate the WER’s commitment to prison ministry.

At the end of the run (University UMC, 3501 Patrick St., Lake Charles) The Open Door will serve chili dogs from Noon until 2 PM. As a faith-based community organization over twenty churches are represented in the people participating to make this fundraiser a success. It’s always great fun and everyone (Including YOU!) are welcome to lunch, and listen to live gospel/bluegrass music with Charles Manuel and Friends. 

I know it’s a commercial, but as president of The Open Door, it’s what I do. Hope you’ll come pass a good time with us and hear some of the fabulous testimonies from women who are turning their lives around.  If you’d like to know more about our prison ministry check out my column, Beyond the Wire in the Voice of Southwest Louisiana.  thevoiceofsouthwestla.com 

Couldn't Keep It To Myself

Mid April. Spring is sprung in Southwest Louisiana. Socked in with rain. The river runs brown with mud, but the azalea's persist; puddles of color blossom beneath mammoth bushes.

It's been a few months since my last post, and I apologize. Time restraints, plus my inner writer's voice, "Who wants to read what I have to say?" have kept me away. But this past weekend, invigorated by the Jambalaya Writer's Conference in Houma, Louisiana, I have found my voice anew. I want to thank the keynote speaker, Wally Lamb, for part of my recovery, and my good friends of the Bayou Writers Group from Lake Charles, LA who never cease to "Encourage, Educate, and Inspire" me whenever we get together. bayouwritersgroup.com

A fan of faith not fate, I feel it is no accident; I signed up in February for the Jambalaya conference completely oblivious that Wally Lamb, too, shares my passion for women's prison ministry.

A privilege to talk with him, I purchased two anthologies he has edited from the women at York Correctional Institute (Connecticut), where Wally has co-facilitated a writing workshop for the past sixteen years. 

In the book, Can't Keep It to Myself, Wally Lamb's acknowledgement, filled with insight and grace, accompanies the true stories of incarcerated women who, as Dr. Lamb states, "are 'tough cookies' not because of their crimes but because they will neither be defeated nor silenced." 

Honest with the reader and themselves, the women pour out their private and painful experiences and the poor choices they've made. In this process of healing, they give us the opportunity not to fear the incarcerated, but see them as human beings on a common journey with the rest of us. 

Still searching for my place in the universe jigsaw, I just can't keep this book to myself. I will continue to read and share my musings about prison ministry and Wally Lamb, author, educator, and volunteer.  wallylamb.net

Throw Me Something, Mister!

It’s Carnival Season in Louisiana. The French tradition of Mardi Gras is upon us. Children are out of school for three days, businesses close to accommodate throngs of parade goers, and noisy revelers dance in the street.

My cousin, a snowbird from Indiana, is visiting. I encouraged her to come this week, so we could “pass a good time”. Sunday we hit the parade route to see the Children’s Parade. A first time Carnival goer, it was fun to see the foolishness afresh from her perspective.

Hours prior to the floats arrival, police stand in groups of two or three encouraging the swell of people to stand behind protective barricades. Their cruisers block the intersections, flashing a constant blue strobe adding to the organized chaos.

A couple ride past on bikes, down the empty pavement lined with partiers. They stop to visit with the police. The woman wears jeans and a t-shirt while the man sports a black full body cycler’s suit, rainbow wig, and black face. Behind his ten-speed, he drags a child’s wagon with some serious stereo equipment pumping '80's tunes. Children wear hats that light up and dogs trot past in tutus. A vendor pushes a cart selling glow in the dark wands and feather boas. A vibration and cheer snakes down the street. “It’s coming! The parade’s started!”

Two hours of floats filled with Boy Scouts and family kewes, alongside organizations devoted to excess. Interspersed with dance teams are convertibles caring Little Mr. or Miss Whatever pageant winner. I haven’t been to a parade in years.

Lundi Gras—Monday, rain mixed with cold breezes licked the area. We took our revelry inside to the local civic center for the Costume Promenade. I wanted to give my cousin a close-up view of the sequined gowns, satin, beaded tuxes and huge feathered headdresses. I’d never been to one of these events, a veritable who’s who of people in the community. From our perch in the balcony, we spent an hour and a half watching the royalty dance down the runway while an announcer gave important info on where people graduated from high school. Slipping out early, we detoured down a hall and walked into the staging area, getting a glimpse of how the royals sweat. Up close, we oohed and ogled the participant’s over-the-top evening attire and won the title “feather groupies”.

Fat Tuesday—this afternoon, we dined early at a café on the parade route and poised ourselves to stand in the cold to watch the Krewe of Krewe Parade. “Throw me something, Mister.” Seasoned now, my cousin hooted and waved, securing two more gallon Ziploc bags of beads to pack in her suitcase.

     

Tomorrow’s the beginning of Lent, a time in the church community of reflection and self-denial. I think I’ll give up parades. 

Enlarging Our Vision

Along with my family and writing, prison ministry is my passion. In January I was elected President of the Board for The Open Door Women’s Prison and Re-Entry Ministry. I am honored, as I serve alongside some amazing women. Masters in their faith, I have grown to realize the meaning of the church. From differing denominations and faith backgrounds we come together in holy service. Christ’s hands and feet on the ground, working with the least of these who made choices that landed them in jail. 

The scope of what’s about to happen within the Re-Entry mission field is exciting, but frustrating as well. Within days of accepting my present position, the Board was told the building where we've had our offices since 2006 is being sold. We have to the end of February to relocate. Meeting on a weekly basis for the past month, the volunteers who serve The Open Door have worked enthusiastically as we see God’s vision unfold in dynamic ways. Enlarging our vision to meet God’s has been the challenge. 

At church yesterday and repeated again in my morning Upper Room devotional was the theme to show God's awesome grace and love to everyone we come into contact: the surly checker at the grocery store, the man who cut me off in traffic, those who have hurt me. Sometimes, I have to be reminded the point of my existence and my passion. I must go, now, one of TOD's Re-entered Citizens is waiting for the Spirit of Christ to drive up with skin on.  

A Good Marriage

My passion for prison ministry is officially married with my writing. A column I call, Beyond the Wire, is now a feature in a local magazine, The Voice of Southwest Louisiana. A brainchild of my early morning muse, writing journal articles is a stretch from my comfortable fiction where I’m allowed to wax poetic and lie.

I chose The Voice because it focuses on positive aspects of the region and people from the southwest area of the state. That seemed a good marriage for my column, concerning The Open Door Prison and Re-Entry Ministry. This monthly column features volunteers and a few of the clients, whom The Open Door helped find new beginnings. 

Visit The Voice of SWLA, www.thevoiceofsouthwestla.com 

and see my January article, “Crime Fighters” under Favorite Columns. Let me know your opinion. 

Not a Cliché

At the local gym, recently, I ran into a man who lost his wife over the Christmas Holiday. We had become acquaintances over the years through our morning exercise ritual. Obviously devoted to each other, the older couple shared a good-natured sense of humor that always delighted me.

Shirley’s illness arose quickly, but she lingered near death for several weeks. Never good at funerals, I skipped it. Seeing her husband, George, sitting with a friend after exercise, I said a prayer that God would be with my mouth and guard the door to my lips, as I exited the building.

I hate the obvious platitude, “I’m sorry,” that awkward acknowledgement necessary to move on. I planned to express something simple, but less trite. Rubbing Georges shoulder, I proceeded to fumble and say exactly the “I’m sorry” I didn’t want.

Quite relaxed and gracious, George relieved my bumbling, mentioning how Shirley always said she was “ready,” but how none of us really are. “We’re hardwired to live.” Hand still on his shoulder, I nodded remembering her words and 

took a swig from my water bottle. Then he surprised me by adding, “If they sold tickets to heaven, I doubt anybody would stand in line.”

I’m not sure if it was nerves, or the quirky way he came out with it, but I started to laugh, and promptly squirted a mouthful of water over my grieving friend. A good sport, he acknowledged my ridiculousness with an amusing comment. Certainly not a cliché moment, the incident broke the tension, I so feared.

Strange how God answers prayer. 

The Battle Begins

Monday—the very first one of 2015. I’m not into resolutions. The sound of breaking glass comes to mind, an entire hutch of china overturned. A Hollywood vision includes me running through a burning woods with my arms overhead to protect from hot falling promises.

Now GOALS, that’s another subject. Those are expectations we are reaching for, like the next rung of the monkey bars. This morning as I returned to last year’s goal to exercise regularly, I ran into a writer friend on the walking track. We spent thirty minutes catching up, encouraging each other in our careers.

Once home, over coffee, I set a schedule, blocked time to write more consistently, submit weekly, and blog regularly. It looks great. Very neat and orderly on lined paper.

But my Christmas present lies open next to the DVD. I hear the evil footman calling me. “Come gorge on season three in the boxed set of Downton Abbey." Ooh, and look at that stack of novels I received. They’re piled a foot deep on the table next to my rocker.

Those damn monkey bars. Even as a child, I could never get beyond the third rung. Where’s Gollum when you need him with that disappearing ring act.

The battle begins. Bring on the fire.

2015 Promises to be a Great Year

It’s 2015, and I have set some lofty writing and publishing goals. After much research and prep, I’m getting a website up this month. My plan includes improving my electronic skills. I have a devotional pending for the Upper Room www.upperroom.org and a series of articles about The Open Door Prison and Re-Entry Ministry to be published in The Voice of SWLA www.thevoiceofsouthwestla.com. Yes, 2015 promises to be a great year.., and yet, I feel guilty. So many blessings, I don’t feel worthy.

Psalm 23, verse five comes to my mind. “You set a table before me in the presence of my enemies.” 

I envision a large round table covered with a white tablecloth. A delicate silver cup with a handle sits in the middle, engraved with my initials. I’m trying to see the faces of the people sitting across from me, but I don’t see any enemies. Over the years, I’ve tried to forgive those who have hurt me. Sometimes I have had to take the pain and lay it down SEVERAL times. The chairs appear empty.

Wait! There’s a shadow, a puff of smoke rising. The chairs aren’t unoccupied. They’re filled with apparitions and mirrors. My smarmy “selves” are seated all around. Those annoying characteristics, like perfection, sarcasm, self-centeredness, criticism, and negativism have all come to the Table. He offers me the Host. I swallow the bread and wash it down with the juice. "God forgive me my trespasses." But I don’t.

   

“You anoint my head with oil.”

The shepherd of Bible times oiled the sheep’s head to keep gnats with unseen disease away from their eyes.

Have you ever seen a child bend down to pick up a toy and miss the edge of the table by a fraction of an inch? What undetected calamity am I protected from every day—covered by the healing oil of grace. The human cells divide, sluff, repair, produce antibodies, unseen mysteries of which science only dreams. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

“My cup runs over.”

He pours into my little silver cup blessings beyond full. Overflowing and beyond my imagination.

Yes, 2015 promises to be a great year. Now you guys at the table scram, I’ve got work to do. 

Who Can Resist

We’re expecting! The whole family—we’re so excited—expecting, again.

Gas or no, who can resist an infant’s smile? And coo…, they’re so vulnerable and sweet. Their skin smells so…, like a baby.

I know, I know, the nightly news is bad. The newspapers run red with murder and war. Sometimes you hate the idea of bringing a kid into a world that’s crazy.

But we’re expecting! Right now—soon.

What? Angels sing?

“Glory to the newborn King. Peace on earth, and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled!”

Yes. Who can resist?

Father Christmas Smiles Gray

Another Poem. Season's Greetings!

This is the view from my window. What's yours—physically or emotionally?

Father Christmas Smiles Gray

The river, she is busy today.

Roiled and irritated

runs ahead of the storm,

a grab for the Gulf and warmer climes.

Dry leaves chatter, "Foul,"

to the southern blow.

"Make up your mind, it's December,

we've given all."

The neighbor's awkward palms

planted out of place, 

wave their fronds

like silly schoolgirls—cry, "Bully."

Swaying on the banks,

naked cypress wag

lacy Spanish moss north or south

harlots to any passing gusts.

Red vinca hold fast their bed;

snap like a matador's cape,

"Bring it ON,"

they taunt the North wind.

Now tears of rain splash dance

cold across the surface.

Father Christmas Smiles Gray

in Southwest Louisiana.

Winter Thanks

In winter I lean toward melancholy. I tend to leech happiness from nature's color.  

Today I wrote a poem and wanted to share. 

Winter Thanks

The gold and copper jewels

lay scattered brown across the lawn.    
A week ago their glitter

shimmered in the breezes.

Bare branches beseech the sky,

or is it praise?

Upstretched thanks for the rest.

Sap’s down with a winter nap.

Morning Murmurations

Driving home from an early morning workout at the local gym, I saw it. A huge flock of birds dancing and dipping in the sky. A black ribbon of feathers, dancing to the beat of some music I wasn't hearing. 

Last fall was the first time I had spotted this phenomena called murmuration. The dictionary attributes this to a flock of starlings. I had originally thought these birds were migrating, but I don't believe starlings are migratory, so maybe they're just showing off for the ones flying South. God has a sense of humor.

Check out the video from England. Many more birds than I saw. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DmO4Ellgmd0

Justice For All

I sit on the Board for The Open Door Prison and Re-Entry Ministry, a non-profit, faith-based organization. The Open Door’s purpose is to help incarcerated women find hope through classes and mentoring. Upon release from jail, we continue the bond of trust and offer guidance through the difficult period of transition into the community. I volunteer, going into the local jail weekly to help with the Literacy program.

Yesterday, I visited our offices and had an opportunity to reconnect with a client from Literacy who was recently released. Her family had finally scraped together her bond. She had been jailed and held for the past six months without formal charges and without legal counsel. Just prior to release, she was given a court appointed attorney who was a civil lawyer, unversed in criminal law. Unfortunately, this isn’t a unique situation. Louisiana’s legal and penal systems are broken.

I’d like to state: not everyone in jail is guilty no matter what the news reports. If you don’t have the cash to hire a lawyer, it’s a maze of injustice. The system is set up for the poor to fail and be jailed on technicalities.

Failure to appear - but the court date was changed and you weren't contacted.

No excuse, show up to court or you’re in violation.

A bench warrant is issued for your arrest.

Can’t afford $75 per month Probation costs because you can’t get a job.

No excuse, write a warrant.

No wonder Louisiana has the HIGHEST rate of incarceration in the world.

If you're fortunate enough to have money – It’s a good-ol’-boy system with plenty of hoops that only a speaker of legalese can maneuver. There’s no such thing as innocent until proven guilty.

I’ve mentored women who sat on the inside for months even years, worrying about their parent’s health or children’s welfare with no solid legal information coming from their appointed attorneys until just days before trial. The court system is out of step with the twenty-first century and unwilling or able to spend revenue to update and link computer systems. The misspelling of a name can leave someone in jail until a family member straightens out the error.

Public defenders are assigned hundreds of cases each. They end up working with the D.A. in order to push cases through the courts. To save political face the system offers the jail-weary a plea bargain for time served. Men and women reach for the straw that’s offered desperate to get out, leaving the guilty as well as the innocent a record that haunts them, a ghost on every job and apartment application.

Society has turned a blind eye. Few will hire someone with a record. Gripped by media driven fear, we pass mileage for more deputies, more equipment, and more jail space, when we need justice with grace. Precious dollars spent on education and public programs to enrich life would offer encouragement, rather than a slap at every right turn. We need change. I don’t know the answers, but I know God is just.

What’s your experience? 

It's the South

A new building has been going up on the edge of town. The joke is,  It's another dollar store. 

• Population of our little hamlet? - 4600, give or take. 
• Number of dollar stores? - 4.
• Our newest business? -Another dollar store.

I stopped to take this picture and a woman ambled out to my car with a smile, "Do you need something?" 

"No, I wanted to post on my blog that we now have 5 dollar stores." 

She waved her hand. "Oh, we moved. That store down the block is closed. Have you been inside? We have groceries." She gestured come hither, "Check it out." 

I went in and looked around. Nice store. Nice people.

Hospitality in the face of adversity. It's the South. I love it. And my new dollar store.

The Promise of a Good Read

Last week at the monthly meeting of the Pulpwood Queens of Southwest Louisiana, I had the pleasure to meet Ann Weisgarber, author of The Promise. An intriguing historical fiction, it personifies the 1900 hurricane that devastated Galveston, Texas and weaves the reality of social class, and the power of the human spirit to survive into a superb tale of love and loss on multiple levels.

Ann, a delight herself, chose to attend our meeting rather than Skype. We enjoyed her enthusiasm and description of her writing process. She graciously agreed to share her writing method and journey to publication.

Ann,

How did the idea for The Promise evolve? 

After I finished my first novel, The Personal History of Rachel DuPree, but before I found a publisher, I freelanced for The Islander, a magazine published in Galveston, Texas.  My assignment was to write articles about people who had unusual jobs.  For one article, I interviewed a brother and sister who owned and managed a small independent grocery story on the west end of the island.  Their father bought the store in 1963 when this part of the island was sparsely populated.        

The interview was fascinating.  Tap water wasn’t safe to drink, the electricity went out frequently, and there were more rattlesnakes than children.  If that was the west end in 1963, what was it like at the time of The 1900 Storm, the worst U.S. natural disaster where at least 6,000 people perished?  Did anyone live there?  If so, who were they?  How did the hurricane impact them?

Curious, I read everything I could find about Galveston.  I learned that dairy farmers, cattle ranchers, fishermen, and their families lived down the island, as the rural end was called then.  Much had been written about the hurricane’s impact on Galveston’s densely populated East End but almost nothing about the people who lived outside of the city limits.  They’d been forgotten and that felt like an injustice.  Their lives mattered. 

When my first book was published, I was offered a contract for the next two books.  I immediately knew I would write about rural Galvestonians and the storm.  Although my characters were not actual people, The Promise is my way of honoring the memories of the victims and the courageous survivors.   

You said last night that you aren’t creative but use research to move your story. Could you elaborate? 

Some writers such as J. K. Rowlings and Stephen King spin wonderful, creative worlds only they could imagine.  I don’t have that gift since my practical nature keeps me grounded to the real world.  I begin with a one-page rough outline and then turn to research to help me fill in the blanks.  As an example, during the very early days of The Promise, I took a cemetery tour conducted by the Galveston Historical Foundation.  I went simply to learn more about Galveston.  Long after the tour ended, I kept thinking about the cemetery and its possible role in the novel.  Months later, I wrote a scene where three of the main characters gather around a headstone in the cemetery.  If I had not taken the tour, this scene would not exist.         

Is The Promise your first novel?

It’s my second.  The first one, The Personal History of Rachel DuPree, takes place in the South Dakota Badlands during 1917, and is a story about ranchers.  It was inspired by an unlabeled photograph of a woman and by a sod dugout I saw while on vacation at Badlands National Park.  At the time, I taught sociology at Wharton County Junior College in Texas and didn’t think of myself as a writer.  Haunted by the photograph, though, I felt compelled to write a short story about the woman whose name had been lost to history.  I was three pages in when I realized I didn’t know how to write fiction.  I took non-credit creative writing classes from Houston’s Inprint and during the first four years, publication was not my goal.  That was liberating since I don’t worry about critics. Instead, I focused on doing the best job possible to give the woman in the photograph a voice.   

Things changed when an Inprint instructor suggested I consider publication.  Three years later, it was published first in the UK by Pan Macmillan, then in France by Belfond Editions, and next in the U.S. by Viking. 

Since I had a contract for the second novel, The Promise was a different writing process.  My UK editors never pushed but I felt internal pressure to perform and imagined critics saying the second book didn’t live up to expectations.  A writer friend, Thomas Cobb, told me the second book is often much harder to write than the first one.  This eased the pressure.  Other writers had struggled with their second novels and had survived.  So would I. 

You mentioned to our group both books were published first in the UK.  Why?

It took a year to find a literary agent who was willing to represent The Personal History of Rachel DuPree.  She helped me with the ending and I’ll always be grateful to her for that.  She showed the manuscript to editors in the U.S. and they turned it down.  The agent lost interest and we ended the relationship.   Months later, I read in Poets & Writers about Will Atkins, an editor with Pan Macmillan who was willing to look at manuscripts not represented by agents.  I dusted off the manuscript and sent it to him figuring I had nothing to lose.  Eleven weeks later, Will offered me a contract. 

Rachel DuPree was nominated for several literary prizes in the UK, and Will offered a contract for two more books.  Although it didn’t win either prize in the UK, the nominations sparked interest in the U.S and Viking published it a year later.  The Promise was also published first in the UK and a year later in the U.S. by Skyhorse. 

Will Atkins gave me a break that changed my life.  The Promise is dedicated to him.

Any advice for new writers?

            Writing is hard work.  It requires dedication and calls for making hard choices about how to use your time.  Having said that, write your heart out.  Ignore the people who say you’re wasting your time and you’ll never be published.  Keep writing but find a writing critique group that gives honest feedback.  Listen to what your fellow writers have to say about your work.  It can hurt but we writers are hardy and we can take it.  Consider that these critiques might be valid.  If so, make edits, throw out pages, and start again. 

            I’ve been meeting with my writing critique group every Friday for four hours for ten years.  They’ve seen me through both books and they aren’t shy about pointing out mistakes.  They make me a better writer, and I hope my feedback about their work helps them.  I’m counting on the group to see me through the next book.   

Have you started the next book?

I’m in the rough-draft stage and I do mean rough in every sense of the word!  It takes place during the winter of 1887 in Utah’s canyon country which is now Capitol Reef National Park.  The narrator is a woman whose husband disappears while mining silver.  The federal government has cracked down on polygamy and men with plural wives are arrested and often imprisoned for years.  Some of them try to evade arrest and hide in the canyons.  The narrator is one of the people who helps them. 

            That’s what the story is as of today.  It could change tomorrow.   

To find out more about Ann Weisgarber go to www.annweisgarber.com 

Receiver/Responder

I mentioned in my post last week that I found my "gratitude meter". Thankfulness raised the volume on my awareness that all we have in this life is gift. This in mind, I finished Bill Hybels' book, The Power of a Whisper, and got a shout. 

This week, I have seen the beauty of a tree whipped in a windstorm, sunlight sparkle the face of the river, a full moon melt the darkness, and a baby's cooing antics. Rev. Hybels talks about not just hearing God but responding. When we receive a gift from a friend, our desire is to respond. Sometimes all that's required is a simple thank you, but if the friend needs something, it would be harsh to smile and say, "Have a good day." 

I'm active in prison ministry, going into the jail every week. I see the plight of the underdog and abused, the just and the unjust, both by family and the judicial system. I've been resting in the knowledge of my role as volunteer, patting myself on the back. But in the book of Matthew (25:14-23), Jesus tells us to those who have been handed a small amount, more will be given. A BIG SHOUT HERE: he's not talking about more money, but more responsibilities. God is nudging me to get up and serve. 
For those who have guts, let them read—The Power of a Whisper. www.billhybels.org/resources.asp

Humming My Frequency

Last week I publicly challenged myself to ask God daily to whisper in my ear. Asking Almighty God to speak to me everyday seems a bit presumptuous or needy. Of course I know we all need God in our daily lives, but I'm no Isaiah, and frankly, I don’t want the job. Prophets are unpopular and never make the bestsellers list.

Reading Bill Hybels’ book, The Power of a Whisper, www.billhybels.org/resources.asp he suggests that God wants a personal everyday relationship where we dialogue with God and expect to be answered. Being more in tune this week, I realized, I received whispers, but I left my gratitude meter in the closet. I hauled it out and dusted it off. To my surprise, the volume rose as my attitude took a one-eighty to the right. Looking at my circumstances through grateful eyes makes every day a blessing. Even in the hard places, the Rock sings to me.

My Mom grew up when telephones were uncommon and required party lines and an operator to transmit. Around the age of ten, I received a transistor radio for Christmas. This little miracle (about the size of 3 decks of cards and weighing a pound) could be held right in the palm of your hand. Mom was fascinated.

I remember a conversation with her after the advent of microwaves and satellite TV, she marveled at the idea of invisible waves that transmit so many different technologies we take for granted. “Think of all the invisible waves that pass by unseen to our eyes.” She was right.

Why doubt Mom now? I’m convicted. I need to create the right device inside me, to receive God’s wavelength. Prayer and gratitude are the starting point. How about you?  

God Whispers

I'm reading a book called, The Power of a Whisper, by Bill Hybels, a well known pastor and author of a plethora of inspirational texts. This powerful book cultivates the idea that the Christian God is personal and wants to be involved in every aspect of our lives. Bill gives extensive examples how God communicates to us in a variety of ways when we daily stop, ask, and listen.

The idea of God talking to me is not news. I've been on his wave length more than once in my life. The notion of hearing God is a strange concept for my husband of forty years. He glances over the rim of his glasses with a wary look when I assure him that the thought I awoke with was inspired, or the niggling to call someone I haven't talked to in twenty years is a God thing. However, the concept of daily asking God to speak and intentionally listening is a fresh thought for me.

My first faith teaching came from my mom. Her story of a middle-of-the-night visit from God filled me with wonder. After ten years of marriage, she had not conceived and was devastated. Mom loved to tell how God spoke as my father snored. "Don't be downhearted, Lois, you're going to have children." Nine months later my brother was born. I never doubted Mom.

Many times I've wanted a clear voice to pierce the darkness, but I've never experienced anything so dramatic. Like the Bible story of Elijah on the mountain (1 Kings 19), God usually comes to me as "a still small voice", one that needs to be discerned as His or the cacophony in my head. Many times God whispers to me through scripture reading, an inaudible ah-ah thought, and several times he's revealed himself through dreams.

How about you? Has God whispered a word of assurance, a word of warning, or nudged you into action? I'm going to take the next few weeks to cultivate some quiet space and ask God to whisper to me. I'll be sharing my experience along with more about Bill Hybels', The Power of a Whisper. www.billhybels.org/resources.asp

Celebrating Life

It’s been awhile since I indulged my blog. This past summer, I visited family in Michigan and Arizona. July was busy with a Leisure Learning writing course at McNeese State that spurred my creative juices. In between I researched markets and contests, learning Duotrope idiosyncrasies and submitting some short fiction pieces.

I’ve written before that I’m time challenged. For those of you who have an orderly mind, it’s a gift. For the rest of us, time is slippery. Today, as I wrote the date in my journal—Aug. 20^th, it hit me in the face. It’s our son, Clay’s, birthday. He would be thirty-seven.

I do remember that hot August in ’77. My mom and mother-in-law both traveled from Michigan to take care of our three-year-old son and me after the baby’s birth. There was a huge rain storm that week, and I recall watching a man paddle a canoe down our street while I stood at the window and watched, cradling Clay. Our first flood together.

There were other storms: twenty-some stitches down an arm after scaling a chain link fence, broken down cars, no date for the prom, the only grade below A in typing, normal life with a sensitive over-achiever.

Twenty-three-years old, Clay lived and worked in Houston for only a few months before the city was devastated by a massive flood. I remember anxiously watching scenes on TV of highway underpasses clogged with water. A familiar ten lane freeway reduced to a drainage ditch. Clay survived the high water, but a few weeks later we were summoned to Houston for another storm.

Encephalitis was the diagnosis, but with no known cause. The doctors treated the symptoms for 2 ½ months before we were forced to concede. His flood was over.

It’s been 13 years – where does time go? Many good memories packed away, many life experiences richer. Thank you, Clay. Happy Birthday. 

Cuban Missile Crisis

Where were you October 1962? I was in the third grade - almost 9 years old when Kennedy went toe to toe with Russia's Prime Minister Khrushchev. A few nights ago, I watched a PBS presentation, The Man Who Saved The World. It seems a Russian submarine commander refused to go along with his comrades. It took three keys to program and fire a nuclear missile aboard the subs prowling the waters off the coast of Cuba. The commander spurned the idea. 

It would be many years before the truth concerning the sub’s nuclear capabilities were acknowledged by the Russians. Loaded for bear with atomic warheads the Russians were ready to do battle, while the oblivious American Navy threw depth charges trying to force the subs into submission. One missile would have taken out the U.S. Naval fleet poised in the Gulf. This act of war would have Kennedy launch atomic weapons pointed toward Russia and visa-verse. 

I admit I can't remember much. My poor memory necessitates my being a fiction writer. We lie. However, I do remember the "fall-out shelter" born in our shallow basement as fear melded my mother's heart. Each week a few cans and provisions were added to the larder in our cellar. A first aid kit, jugs of water, but what set our bomb-shelter apart, we had a Geiger counter. 

Purchased through a magazine offer, the 10" square box had a plastic hose running from one side with a metal wand supposedly used to detect radiation. The face of the box sported a V-shaped window. When the switch was on a red pointer flipped from one side and back, indicating the battery was good. No one knew exactly how to use it. Of course, there was no way to test, and if it didn't work, there was no getting your money back. For the longest time we weren't allowed to touch "the box". But as I got older, I remember sneaking down the cellar with friends, pointing the wand and making guttural sounds, going crazy with radiation beams wafting from the lone window, and falling down convulsively. Poor Mom.

I wonder how her fears affected a third grader, and then I remember my report card from 4th grade. It showed I gained 60 lbs. in one year. That's another whole kid.

Bun candy bars aside, I think it was the radiation.