Real Life Reflections

At 5:45, Mom rang the dinner bell (literally), and we all came running. The noise that had been spread throughout the house in the form of TV (singular), radios, record players, conversations, arguments, and dogs barking now came together in one concentrated center. "Only three talking at a time!" my dad would yell. We sat elbow to elbow, around the kitchen table every night. Even after Mom went back to work full time, she still had a full meal on the table seven nights a week: meatloaf with mashed potatoes (real mashed potatoes) and gravy or chicken parmigiana with pasta, salad, and garlic bread or a family fav - stuffed green peppers. Most nights didn't lend themselves to loitering in the kitchen. Homework, boyfriends, girlfriends, and the TV (Archie Bunker on Tuesday nights at 7:00 was Dad's favorite) all demanded our attention. If it was your turn to clear the table or wash the dishes though, you didn't have a choice. Of course, the table-clearer had great mo

She was such a tiny little thing. Her jet-black waves framed her face, drawing attention to her brown eyes - so brown that one had to look closely to be sure that they too weren't black. We found her huddled in a corner. There were only three of them. Their parents had been taken away as had their other siblings. Her brothers didn't seem to mind, but she was clearly frightened. My heart immediately ached for her. She was so young to have had so much loss. We sat in the room, simply visiting with her guardians. Her brothers played as if life was everything they wanted it to be. We waited, hoping that our presence, our unintrusive presence, would eventually relax her and bring her out. We hoped to gain her trust by not forcing it. Fortunately, the young are more trusting than the rest of us, and we didn't have to wait long. Slowly, she uncurled herself as she continued to watch us warily. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her body relax. She ventured ever-so-slightly a

I remember that Florida vacation when my brother, Dave, and I played in the ocean. A wave knocked us both down, and he landed on my leg, twisting my knee painfully. My dad carried me the rest of the week whenever we had any distance to walk. I was twelve and thoroughly embarrassed. Now it's one of my most treasured memories of my dad. He died five years later. I remember my last vacation with my dad. We went to Washington, D.C. He was so sick, but he refused to accept defeat. I remember my dad laughing at a remark that Dave made about the quality of McDonald's hamburgers. He laughed so hard he cried. I'd never seen him do that before. I remember taking my Donald Duck umbrella outside on a windy day and trying to fly like Mary Poppins (it didn't work). I remember my brother, Ed, watching Batman. I thought it was a stupid show, and with only one TV and Ed being the oldest, he got to watch what he wanted to watch. I was out of luck - no Gilligan's Island for me. I reme

It is now 10:28 p.m. I should be tucked in bed, Marje at my feet, a book in my hands, and sleep swiftly on its way. . . Well, three out of four ain't bad. Instead of the book, I have my laptop. I may not have time to post my usual Wednesday blog tomorrow, so I thought I'd give it a go tonight; and besides, I haven't had much opportunity to write lately and it's making me grumpy. So if the author of this blog seems to be a little incoherent or dozes off in the middle of it, you know why. In approximately 27 1/2 hours it will be Thanksgiving Day, 2009 - a day when we stop all of our usually activities to attend a feast. There aren't too many meals throughout the year that can hold that title, but Thanksgiving Day? I don't know what else you can call it. It's certainly not just a meal. The feasting itself isn't the primary purpose of the day though - or at least it's not supposed to be. It's meant to be a day to focus on those things in life for whi

Prompt: Write a description, a memory, and a fantasy about a particular object, also a monologue from that object's perspective. Take five minutes for each piece. So Marje isn't an object, but with the recent death of my sister and brother-in-law's infamous dog, Phinney, my thoughts have been lingering on dogs of late. Here goes: Description: Marje is virtually coal-black with long fluffy ears, a short tail and a smooth coat (when it's short or she hasn't been recently bathed). She's just beginning to gray under her chin. Large dogs think she's a pip-squeak. Little dogs think she's huge. In other words, she's medium-sized - about fifteen pounds or so. Cute. She is definitely cute. Dogs and their looks are like humans. Some people are just people. Some are beautiful. Some are cute, and some are . . . well, let's just say they're not eye-candy. Marje is eye-candy in the dog-world. Memory: My favorite dog-memory is one of our previous dog, Minni

What? God rested? God? The God? The one Who "never sleeps nor slumbers" according to Psalm 121? Either Moses (the author of Genesis) lied about God resting or King David (the psalmist) didn't have a clue. or did he? How can both be true? Let me toss this thought out to you: I think God rested on the seventh day as an example for us to follow. He didn't sleep or slumber, but neither did He work. He simply sat back and enjoyed all that He had done that week. I can just see Him sitting on a beach chair in heaven, shades on, head back, soaking in the rays of the sun He had recently created. He hears some laughter, maybe a few birds twittering happily, and He sits up to look around. A big grin spreads across His face as He watches His creation having fun enjoying having been created. He elbows Jesus, sitting there to the right of Him, and says, "Son, check this out - the kids are playing tag - Adam and Eve and the sparrows." The Holy Spirit comes up behind them

The prompt for this story was: someone just found out that instead of the six months they thought they had, they actually have another twenty years to live. Lily scooted herself to the edge of the exam table and set one foot on the floor and then the other. She absently untied the gown the nurse had given her, let it fall, and walked over to the chair upon which her clothes were piled - her bra and underwear discreetly tucked inside her blouse. I guess this is good news. She thought. Mechanically, she dressed. After 73 years, dressing didn't take much thought, which was a good thing today as she was lost in the doctor's words. "Are they sure?" Margaret asked incredulously as she set her glass of Merlot down on the table. "He ran the tests three times because he couldn't believe it himself. He says there's no mistake. He's completely confident. There's not even a hint of it anywhere - in any part of my body. He called it a miracle." Lily took

At a recent writers' conference that I attended, the presenter gave each writer two random pieces of paper. One had an emotion listed on it. The other had a place and the weather. Our task was to create a story using those prompts. My prompts were: anger, the Rockefeller Center and a bright, sunny day. Michelle slammed the taxi's door and stepped out into the flood of early-morning pedestrians, each of them oblivious to the others. They walked with hands tucked inside coat pockets and heads bent against the biting wind that blew through the tunnel of tall buildings. Michelle squinted as she looked up the seventy-plus stories in front of her. The sun in the cloudless sky belied the freezing temperatures below. Taking a deep breath, she stormed into the building. Impatiently, she waited for the elevator. Impatiently, she road it to the fifty-first floor. How could he? I've given my life's blood to this company! I've given my life's blood to him! It wasn't enou

For some reason, I've had a heck of time coming up with a blog topic this week. I started one on dog lovers vs cat lovers, but it went the way of the delete button. I jotted down a number of ideas, but they all fell flat until I heard my husband ask our son if his iphone had bluetooth. Bluetooth? Isn't that a tooth that either needs root canal or to be pulled? Iphone ? Somebody didn't pass high school English. Maybe you meant my phone or perhaps your phone? It's not as if I hadn't heard these words before, but they struck me this time around. Have you ever listened to some of the words we use everyday? We say things (like bluetooth ) that sound utterly ridiculous, yet we toss them around as if they make perfect sense. What about google ? We use it as both a verb and a noun. " Google it and see what you get" or "Did you check Google ?" What kind of word is google ? Judging by the sound of the word, the feel of it as you speak it, I'd say

I have a daughter. She got married a few months ago (7 months to the day), and her color of choice for the flowers and decor was purple. It was beautiful and elegant, yet simple - a reflection of the bride herself. In general, when you ask people what their favorite color is, they give you a one-word answer; and that's the end of it. They don't have a story to go with it. They simply like the color for reasons they may or may not know. Ami's favorite color has long been purple. Why? Who knows. She just likes it. I'm not sure if there's a cause and effect here, but her love affair with the color purple began in the spring of 1986. I was pregnant with her little brother at the time. She had turned two in December. I'm not sure how much her little mind understood about the growing bulge in my mid-section, but at the time, she was the center of her daddy's and my universe, so all was well. Ami accompanied me to my monthly doctor visits, invited by the doctor, to

I've been on vacation the past couple of weeks, and although my computer came with me, we didn't spend a lot of time together. My original plan was to finish my book, but Siffi (my gremlin) had other plans. I obviously failed to follow my own advice when dealing with a gremlin and obeyed her without fail. As if she'd put me in a trance, I was completely under her power. I can't say that this was a totally negative experience. I think perhaps that a little of the mogwai in her subconscious was at work or maybe it's that God can bring good out of everything. I may not have spent much time writing, but I did learn a lot about choosing a wedding dress, what not to wear, living as little people in a big world, and parenting eighteen children all thanks to TLC. I traveled through time all over the world with The History Channel and hung out in Smallville quite a bit. I also read two books ( Point of Origin , Patricia Cornwell and Broken For You , Stephanie Kallus). Of cou

I have my very own personal gremlin. Chances are that you do too. I've named mine Mr. Siffilate - Siffi for short. His name means "whisper," and that's exactly what he does. He whispers to me, reminding me of my shortfalls and failings. He tells me why I can't do the things that are in my heart to do. Like write. Siffi is somehow related to Wormwood (of The Screwtape Letters). They may even be brothers. I haven't checked that deeply into either's ancestry to know for sure. It's not all that important. Siffi is a little guy. He looks like . . . well, like a gremlin. He's small and furry and a little round (he tends to like doughnuts and fast food). When you first meet him, you might even think he's cute. He has a killer smile that draws you in, and then he starts talking. Oh! He has such a smooth tongue and knows how to use it! I could just listen to him all day. It's almost as if he hypnotizes me. I become enamored with his voice. I can'

The giant sycamore lets go The leaf flutters Stalls Flutters again Falling ever so slowly Gently Patiently To the ground Beneath the tree Suddenly Unexpectedly A gust of wind Snatches it With its strong arm Carries it off To flutter And fall Somewhere Far from the giant sycamore

The river overflowed its banks, the water rushing wildly downstream as if in a hurry to escape some unseen fate. It carried with it the broken limbs and branches from woody plants upstream that had dared to stand in its way. The trees that, at other times of the year, lined the edges of the of the river making a graceful canopy over a serene and gently flowing cascade of water, now stood in the midst of this tempestuous scene with branches barely visible above the rapids that threatened to uproot them. Anyone could see that now was not the time to attempt a crossing. It was deadly, espeically with all the women and children. They weren't in such a hurry that they couldn't wait a few weeks or even months until the water receded and flowed within its banks once again. Yet that wasn't the plan. They'd been told to pack up and be ready to cross. So they did. Each family stood waiting, and when the Ark of Lord passed in front of them, they fell into step behind it. God had k

Mr. Shores knew how to coach a winning volleyball team. He wasn't particularly friendly or nice, but he was good. He was competitive. He meant to win and he drove us hard to achieve that goal. Most of us were eleven years old; a few had already turned twelve. We were in the sixth grade. I'd barely made the team, and he only put me into the game after we had a significant lead. I played every game though because the other girls on the team were that good. I didn't mind the bench. I was never alone on it. There were four of us who bench-sat until he was confident that we could do no harm regardless of how many balls we let sail past us. I loved playing volleyball and was thrilled to have made the "A" team even if it was to primarily watch from the sidelines. It's fun to be part of a winning team regardless of how a small a part you play. In this mode, I became adept at cheering my team on to its many victories that year. This was "back in the day" when

Patty sauntered into the kitchen. Her mother was at the stove stirring something in a huge pot that smelled heavenly. "Mmmm! That smells great! What is it?" Patty asked as she tried to get a peak. "Never you mind. It's not for us anyway. How was school?" Her mother asked, blocking Patty's view of the source of her olfactory delight. Patty shrugged her shoulders, giving up on viewing the contents of the pot and walked over to the icebox - it was an icebox, not a refrigerator - a box that held large blocks of ice that had been delivered by, who else? The iceman. The year was 1942. Patty was thirteen. She'd been born in October, 1929 - four days before Black Thursday. She knew nothing of affluence. No one did in those days, which made being poor, if not easier than it is today, at least more tolerable. Of course, universal poverty isn't insulation against covetousness. There just aren't so many covetees sitting across the aisle in history c

My apologies to my massive fan-base for my silence the past few weeks. I've opened this page several times in an attempt to blog, but the result has been . . . well, nothing - nothing at all. I think I might have inserted a title at one point, but then no words came to fill the void below the title. It's been a busy year within my family: both of my children got married, one of them also graduated from college, both of them moved with their new spouses, one of them to a new city; but this past month has been especially full. Of late, I've found myself in conversations with people, knowing that it's mine turn to say something, willing myself to come up with words - any words to fill the empty air between us as my co-conversant stares at me in expectation, but my brain is blank. Nada. Zip. Zilcho. Zero. Null. Thus my silence on the written page. There was simply nothing there. In this brain-dead state, I despaired of ever writing again. What had I been thinking anyway? Th

Sitting alone in the Colorado Rockies with my mind free of its usual constraints, imagination took over; and I penned the following: What is it about the mountains? A mountain stream gurgling, rushing as if in a hurry to reach some destination far below where I sit watching, listening, relishing. I could sit here beside this stream for hours, days even - a stream babbling life and serenity to anyone who will hear. Even so, I would be remiss if I failed to mention that I'm not really alone here. There are others enamored by the mountain's beauty. Other humans, yes of course, but I speak of flies and mosquitoes. By all appearances, these Rocky Mountains are a hot vacation spot for them as well - along with not a few ant families. Because of this, my hour here will not stretch into days lest my body become the feasting ground for these tiny campers. . . but perhaps they aren't vacationers. Perhaps this is their homeland, and I've invaded it - a massive alien to them. Perha

I attended a wedding this past Saturday. The groom stood up front with the bridesmaids, groomsmen, and the minister behind him. Everyone stood and watched the bride walk down the aisle towards him. She was stunning, beautiful. She held her father's arm with one hand and a bouquet of white in the other. His eyes never wavered from her face, only blinked in an effort to clear their tears.There were over two hundred people in that room, all of them watching the bride - except me. You see, I was the mother of the groom. A few months ago, I was the mother of the bride - a much more prestigious position. As mother of the bride, I helped plan the party. I had input. I had a voice. The ceremony and the reception were on my home turf. All of my family and most beloved friends came to celebrate with us. I had the time of my life that day. It was all about my beautiful, wonderful, amazing "little" girl, and I loved lavishing her with the attention. But here's the thing - my husb

Today is Fathers' Day. My own father left when I was seventeen, though it wasn't his choice. It was cancer. I've gotten used to Fathers' Days without him, and most years, I do okay. Although I don't think I'll ever stop missing him. It's been thirty-one years since my mom woke me in the middle of the night and said, "Daddy died." He wasn't a super-dad. He wouldn't have won a contest if I'd written an essay about all the things he did for us. Truth be told, he didn't really do a lot of hands-on parenting. He didn't coach our little-league teams. He didn't take us fishing or camping or hiking. He didn't come home from work each night and play ball with us or go to bat for us when a teacher "unfairly" disciplined one of us. So what did he do? He loved us, and we knew it. We were safe as long as he was there. He was our protector, our provider. Dad always knew what to do. We didn't have to worry. He would rig

I have a pet peeve. I have a pet passion. As you might expect, they're polar opposites. My pet passion is simple: be who God made you to be. You don't have to be anyone else. You don't have to live up to anyone else's expectations. You don't have to answer to anyone's judgments of you except God's. He's the One to whom you answer. We only have so many years on this earth. I want to do something with those years. I have a t-shirt that says: "You have one life. Do something." I want my life to make a difference. My name may not go down in history, but if I love passionately, if I obey the call of God for ME, I will affect other lives. That's all I want - to affect at least one other life in a positive, life-giving, life-changing way. In order to do that, I have to be who God made me to be. I have to do what God made me to do. We're all so different. That's on purpose. We all need what each other has to give. I've lived most of my

Today is June 12, 2009. Nathan and Megan's wedding is two weeks from Saturday. Ami and Brad will celebrate their 15th anniversary on that same day (by 15th, I mean 15 weeks, not years). Nathan will have been a college graduate for all of 7 weeks on the day of his wedding; and he will have lived on this earth (independent of my womb) for 23 years and 1 day. To say this has been and continues to be an emotional season for me would be akin to stating that Barack Obama is president of the United States - it's just a fact. I find myself often on the verge of tears and easily tipped over the edge. I watch the little boy who lives behind us with longing for the days that were, the days that trickled through my fingers, averse to my attempts to hold them tight. Jonah has brown hair and a little body just like Nathan's at the age of 3. He rides his jeep down their steps over and over and over - giggling each time he hits bottom with a thud. He throws rocks - at their house (Mom obv

I read on someone's blog this week that Jack Bauer isn't real (http://bradclemons.blogspot.com) You can imagine my horror at such a suggestion! Without Jack, America as we know it, would have been destroyed seven times over (and counting). I love super heroes like Jack: Superman, Spiderman, Batman, Ironman, John McClane, Frodo. The list goes on and on. Why? Why do I come away from super-hero movies sighing in contentment? Why does everything in my world align when a super -hero saves the day? I know the plot is unreal. I know the feats are ridiculous, but I can't help it. These are "feel-good" movies, and I love them. I suppose I could blame it on my brother, Ed, who was an avid Batman fan in the 60's. With only one TV (gasp!), and Ed being my older brother, I either watched Batman or started on homework. Which of those would you choose? So I became an addict in my formative years. Thanks Ed. I'm truly grateful. Super heros give hope. Sure, the actuality o

I attended a college graduation this past weekend - my son's. You may not think that's such a big deal , but as my daughter said, "just because everyone does it, that doesn't make it any less of an accomplishment." Nathan hated school growing up. I don't mean your typical every-kid-hates-school hate. I mean he HATED it. I truly, honestly despaired of him graduating from high school. Oh he wasn't lacking in the brains department. It was just a lack in motivation. He sailed through the classes that held his interest (that would be any music class he had), but if the subject bored him, forget it. We spent hours together inching our way painfully through history and English year after year every year. Even kindergarten was wretched; although history and English weren't on the palette. BUT Nathan had a dream. He wanted to be a sound engineer - not just the guy who runs the sound board. No, that wasn't enough. He wanted to be the engineer. The top dog. T

So you want to be a writer? Well sit down. Close the door. And write. This may sound terribly elementary, but if you want to be a writer, you have to write. Singers sing. Teachers teach. Musicians play their instruments; and writers write. There's so much to learn about the craft, the skill. There's so much to learn about marketing and networking, but those things are superfluous. Sure, you need them to get published; but they aren't the heart of it. Marketing isn't what moves you. Networking isn't the unquenchable flame that causes your soul to swell, that brings you to the point of bursting when your words have been imprisoned for too long. I'm preaching to myself here. My first book is about half written. I am filled with cacoethes for it to perfectly represent the story that lives in me. I must have characters that are engaging, easy to befriend (or hate), cheer on, laugh with, cry with, rejoice with. The plot has to be filled with suspense, humor, creativit

Who inspires you to do what you do? A reporter asked me that question this morning in regards to writing. I was stumped at first. There are so many authors whose work I admire. How to narrow it down? I even had a little over twenty four hours to mull it over, but I still fumbled around when it came time to answer. I finally got it narrowed down to four: J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis for their creativity, Elizabeth George for suspense, and Astrid Lindgren (of Pippi Longstocking fame) for plain old silliness. I'd never thought much about who/what inspires me. Have you? Without inspiration, would we still be reading our books by candlelight or traveling across the U.S. in covered wagons? What inspires me will likely do nothing for you and what inspires you is probably meaningless to me. What is it inside of us that connects to an external who or what and gives us that jolt, that motivation, that passion to go further, to reach higher, to persevere? I don't know the answer to that,

I'm thrilled to announce that I'm going to be published - for real! Two anthologies have accepted my work: Chambers of My Soul (a poem)will be published in Parent Blessings ; and four out of five of my entries to the mid-Missouri writers contest will be published in Well-Versed 2009 : Chambers of My Soul, Raymond, The Best Prize , and Snow's Whisper .

My husband is a youth pastor. He's not your typical twenty-five year old cool, hip dude hangin' out with kids. No, he's a middle age father of a twenty five year old, and he loves teenagers. Every March, he (along with a large crew of volunteers) hosts a weekend retreat for the kids. This year the theme was "Dreams" - not the kind that come to you nocturnally, but the kind that stir in your heart and your thoughts; the kind that put longing in your soul for something more than what you've got or who are at present. In preparing for the retreat, he searched our personal archives for evidence of his own past dreams. In other words, he went through our storage room, digging through box after box. He didn't find everything he was looking for, but he did find a few things that he wasn't looking for - some of the first stories I ever wrote. I've been a bibliophage for as long as I can remember. It was this love of reading that planted the dream-seed of w

The Cloth There were no plants. No flowers. No lights. No people. No music. It was dark and empty save for a single, rough-hewn cross-illuminated by a single light. There is no trace now of the hopelessness that permeated the air just two days ago. I walk into the same room that isn’t the same room at all. There is life here: potted plants, some six or seven feet tall, beautiful, pure white calla lilies, white cloth airily cascades across the ceiling, colorful lights create a stained-glass effect on the walls. But these are only the background. I am entirely taken by the cross that stands in the front of the sanctuary. My heart squeezes within me. My eyes swell with tears. I cannot avert my gaze though people jostle me as they hurry to get a seat before the music begins. I am drawn as a diviner’s rod to water. The cross stands exactly as it did two days ago, but it is not the same. It is no longer barren. It is no longer desolate. A single sheet of cloth is draped over the cross as if

Jessica Burkhart . She's a tween author. That is she writes FOR tweens. She's not a tween herself. Although that's just about when she began her writing career. I attended one of her sessions at the Missouri Writers' Guild Conference this past weekend, and I walked away feeling like I had somehow missed my own wedding twenty five years ago. She's twenty-two (yes, 22) - my son's age. She's had hundreds of articles published and is in the middle of an eight-book deal. Wow. Check out her blog . After I got over my own sluggish debut into the writing world, I realized that she's been able to get this far because she actually sends out queries ALL the time. She doesn't sit back and hope for an answer from the one editor she sent one query to. She has mulitple queries out - according to her, 30 - at any one time. You can't get published if you don't get yourself into an editor's hands! I know. Brilliant. My favorite part of the conference was

Conferences, they're all over the place. There's a conference for every profession, hobby, and support group. Don't you wonder what happens at some of these conferences? I've heard that there's a conference for mail men (mail persons?). I can't imagine on what topics their main speakers choose to wax eloquent or what their breakout sessions might include: How To Dress Dog Bite Wounds, Tips for Smooshing Large Packages into Small Mailboxes, or maybe Creative Places to Put Packages that Don't Fit in the Box (even after you've tried smooshing them). I head out tomorrow for the Missouri Writers' Guild Conference. I don't have a clue what the itinerary of the weekend will be. I just know I'm supposed to register between 3 and 6pm. I attended the Columbia Chapter of the Missouri Writers' Guild conference back in October. It was my first writers' conference. Typically, writers tend to be introverts rather than extroverts, right? That's p

I realize I've been silent lately, and I've probably lost the scattered crumbs of readers that I had. My only excuse is being a mother - a mother-of-the-bride. She's officially a wife now and has been for all of ten days. I think I've recovered enough to jump back into writing - at least until my son's graduation in May and wedding in June draws closer. I've decided to start blogging on my blog - a novel idea, eh? I realized that posting stories - and only stories - could get old. They're not long for short stories, but they are long for a blog post. My apologies. I'll likely post a story here and there but my goal is to write a blog once or twice a week. We'll see how that works for me. The creative mind has always amazed me. I think that's why I liked to watch Lost In Space and Star Trek in my growing up years. Aliens are fascinating! From one-eyed monsters to extra-large extra-terrestrials such as Jabba the Hut, the appearance and abilities of

This post isn't a story, a poem or a meditation. It's a few questions: What did you like to read when you were eight - twelve years old? What was it about that genre that fascinated you and kept you going back for more? What is your all-time favorite childhood book? You can just comment on this post with your answers . . . please? Thanks!

“What guy studies art?” Pierre asked. A few of my friends and I had gone to the soccer field to practice. It was the dry season, and dirt billowed up around our feet with every kick. I shrugged my shoulders in response and dribbled the ball downfield. “Why would you go to America to play with crayons?” Michael yelled as he ran past me. I passed the ball to him. He took a shot on goal. Achille, our goalie, lunged for it. Just before he kicked it to centerfield, Achille said, “Drawing around here is one thing but to go halfway across the world for a little hobby?” All the guys thought my passion for drawing was stupid or, at best, a hobby. I drew in secret now, avoiding their comments at all costs; but I couldn’t escape them now. I was going to America to participate in a study of talent found in economically challenged countries. With a 95% unemployment rate, Burkina Faso definitely qualified. Regardless of what the guys thought, I had to go. Now, almost a year later, I’d learn