In the Manor of the Ghost Contest  (Part One...)

To celebrate the release of my new book In the Manor of the Ghost this June 2010 through Desert Breeze Publishing, I am giving away (4) $20.00 Gift Certificates to Desert Breeze Publishing. 

For a chance to win one, simply become a follower at this blog site, Write Where I Want to Be or one of the sites listed below by May 1st.

Winners will be chosen from the follower lists of said sites and announced by May 7th.

http://tinapinson.typepad.com/blog/

http://twitter.com/Tina_Pinson



Details for In the Manor of the Ghost Contest (Part 2)... coming soon


****Disclaimer.... entering this contest is considered a confirmation of eligilbility on behalf of the enterer in accord with rules and any pertaining local/federal/international laws and is void where prohibited. Contest is open to U.S. Residents only.  Odds of winning depend on number of entrants****

In the Manor of the Ghost.

My new ebook In the Manor of the Ghost will be available June 2010 from Desert Breeze Publishing. In celebration, I will be holding a contest to kindle some excitement. Details coming soon.

Don't just tell the story... TELL THE STORY.


Okay that sounds like a contradiction.

And for some of you, like me, who love to put scenes in your stories that are rather telling or love to place omniscient clues through out, then it sounds rather like a license to TELL.

Perhaps it's a little of both. (Shhh don't tell anyone.)

Before anyone believes I'm saying it's okay to use alot of telling in your story, let me ask a few questions and hopefully explain what I mean when I say we need to learn to TELL THE STORY.

To me telling the story is a tool I use to help me extract my story from my brain, clarify what I see and write it down. Sounds simple enough. Right?

How do you tell people about your story or work in progress?

Do you sit down, set your face in a sour lemon sucking disposition and while using a monotone voice, say. . . This story is about such and such.. and so and so? I think you will find it interesting because this character does blah, blah, blah. 

I can already see the audience squirming in their seats, patting their lips to keep from yawning and blinking steadily so their eyes won't roll back in their skulls. Surely you don't talk about your story, your baby that way.

If your like me when you tell someone about your story, you get a bit excited.

You try to paint the picture of your story through your words and the inflection of your voice, because you want people to be interested in your book.

I tend to get so excited in the telling I may freak a few people out. Or slap them silly with use of over exuberant hand gestures. LOL

When I see them running the other direction it's a sure sign I've shared more than they probably wanted to know. Seems they might not have wanted a paragraph by paragraph breakdown when they asked how my story was coming along.

Maybe there are times when a person can overshow. HMMM. Just a thought.

I have been criticized for writing telling scenes, but as I told you earlier, sometimes I like them. Sometimes I think we try to remove too much. On the other hand, I try to show more often too. And when I have a hard time with a scene I close my eyes and envision myself telling the story about my characters and their lives.

My family calls that LOST, day tripping or zoned out.  They come in and find me crying and talking back and forth between my characters and wonder if I'm not going crazy or already there. But they have learned to leave me alone because they are never quite certain how a character might react if pulled from their scene.

Other times, I try to tell someone else about it and just to hear the words in my mind, or in my own voice, it helps me build on the scene and hopefully draw the reader into a world. A world they can see with their own eyes just because my words allowed them the ability to take the trip.

And isn't that what we as writers hope to accomplish? Of course we want to reach an audience with our stories. Several of us probably hope to sell a gazillion copies and become the next big name in writing.

I know I don't want people to buy my books, read the first chapter and toss the book aside because it was boring as spit and they could care less about the characters.

I realize not everyone is going to like the way I write. Just as I realize I shouldn't try to write like everyone else?

Then I lose the story teller's heart that I was gifted with. I don't care to go there. Do you?


What do you think about telling scenes?

What process do you go through to paint a picture with your words and get beyond the monochrome realm?

 Do you think a person can over show in a story?

It's Time for a Knee Party.

If you were Queen Esther or the prophet Daniel, what would you do to help heal the state of America?

Like me, you can probably think of a gazillion things you'd like to do.

But what is the most important step?


Well...

You may never be Queen of a nation like Esther, you may never be asked to put your life on the line. but as a child of God, you have been chosen by the King of Kings.

You may never be a prophet such as Daniel, you may never be asked to advise a king, but you, as joint heirs with Christ, serve the Sovereign Lord of the universe.


You were placed here for such a time as this.

What will you do?

Perhaps the best place to start is by following the examples of the Esthers and Daniels who came before you. It's time to seek the wisdom of God. The wisdom of the ages.

It's time to bend a knee before the Lord and pray.

"If my people who are call by my name will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven and will forgive their sins and heal their land." 2 Chronicles 7:14

Name That State Song


1. )  Dreams come true in blue _______, and mine could all come true this magic night of nights with you…


2.)  There's too much love in the               heart too much love in this               heart…


3.)  I'm in a world so wide, it makes me feel small sometimes. I miss the big blue sky, The                kind…


4.)  And the               rocky mountain high, I’ve seen it raining fire in the sky…


5.)                   , where the wind comes sweepin' down the plain and the wavin' wheat can sure smell sweet


6.)                , take off your rainbow shades,                , have another look at the world…


7.)  With the rain in my shoes, / Searchin’ for you / In the cold                 rain, ...


8.)  Country Roads, take me home to the place I belong,                   , mountain momma


9.)   I got to Kansas City on a Frid'y / By Sattidy I larned a thing or two


10.) Lost my heart in the Black Hills, the Black Hills of Dakota, where the pines are so high ...


11.) Meet me in Montana, I want to see the mountains in your eyes…


12.) Seems it never rain in Southern California / Seems I've often heard that kind of talk before…


13.) The windy city is mighty purdy… Im tellin you boys…We got more life in Deadwood city than the whole of Ilanoy


14.) New York, New York, it's a wonderful town, the Bronx is up and the Battery's down…


15.) Where the river is windin’, big nuggets they’re findin’ North to Alaska…


16.) That’s the night that the lights went out in Georgia…


17.) I wish they all could be California girls…



18.) My home's in Alabama, Southern born and Southern bred…


19.) Back where I come from, I'm an old Tennessean…


20.) Just an old sweet song, keeps Georgia on my mind…


21.) I’ve got some oceanfront property in Arizona, from my front porch you can see the sea…


22.) Kansas City lights, in my mind they shine so bright…


23.) I'm caught up in missing Missouri ‘cause I wanna be with my family…


24.) Cause a Mississippi girl don't change her ways / Just cause everybody knows her name…


25.) All my exes live in Texas…



Fill in the blanks.  All the answers have the name of a state in them. If you can think of any other songs with States in them, don't hesitate to share.

When your character walks off the page?

The day before he was just a character in your novel. Then suddenly, it's as if the pages of your book have come to life and he walks right off the written page and into your world.

He's standing right in front of you as real as the breath you take.

What do you do? Do you chase him down? Do you stop and catch your breath?

Do you call out his name?

Share some of things you've done after you saw your character come to life.
If you're not a writer, how did you feel when you saw someone that looked just like your dream walking?

The Queen of Sophistication


I am sophistication personified.  I am a walking testimonial to grace and elegance.

I am a big liar.

Okay... I aspire to be seen as someone who has her act together. But what is one to do when their own body gives their lack thereof away? 

Some might say I have two left feet. Au Contrare. My feet are a perfect set. Unfortunately, they each have a mind of their own. Put me in stilettoes and watch me 'dance'.

I am tripped up by my own two feet, sidewalk cracks and shadows. I've tripped over wind, fallen on air and did the Miss Congeniality splat more than I care to mention

The harder I try to Runway Walk it, the worse it seems to get.

I've been stuck in road tar, stuck in the hem of my dress, stuck in mud.

I fell into an open manhole.

A manhole?  Who falls into a manhole?

If it were just my clumsy feet, I might be okay, but...

I've gone to school with panty hose hanging out my pants. come out of the bathroom with my skirt in my pantyhoses. Tracked toilet paper down the hall. Broke a red pen (or two) when I sat down and forgot it was in my front pant's pocket. Broke a blue pen when I sat down and forgot it was in my back pocket, broke a black... you get the gist.

I've spent many a days tying my shirt around my waist for other reasons than I was warm.

I've sat in enough food and spilled enough on my person to feed a third world country.

Even nature knows my name or target. I've been pooed on by more birds than I care to mention. I've taken to telling friends they'd do better to walk a few paces away from me or in the least carry an umbrella.

I've been thrown by horses and chased by bats, bit by dogs and clawed by cats. (golly I'm a poet)

What I've shared is a short list of my personal pitfalls.  I could fill volumes.

Invaritably these things happen when I'm in the mist of company or many times while trying to catch the eye of a school crush. (That's a story all in itself.)

You may wonder why I share these foibles. 

Maybe it's because my lack of sophistication is one of the reasons I love to write.

When I write, no one can see that I can't walk a straight line and chew gum.

When I write, the words flow and carry me away to new worlds, places beyond my clumsiness. I can formulate a sentence and not trip over my tongue.

When I write I find grace at my fingertips, elegance in my characters.

I am no longer the klutz vying for a hint of sophistication, I am the story teller, ruler over the minions that reside in my stories, queen of an imaginary realm.

And perhaps I share these things to remind you if God can use me, he can use you.

Write on...

Last time we shared some of our fears as writers

This time let's share some good news .

I've heard of the Snoopy Dance, high fiving, screeching and screaming.

I've heard of wailing and crying and people just being plain dumbfounded

Maybe you moon walked, did a triple flip on the furniture or cartwheeled.

Maybe you didn't jump so high you landed it a tree, but... 

Tell me what you did when you got your book contract.

And if you're not a writer, share what you did when you got some exciting news.

THE HUSBAND TREE by Mary Connealy

I won Mary Connealy's book The Husband Tree in a contest. And I promised her I'd even try and read the book. But I didn't have to try. From the first line I was drawn in. I got the book in the mail and finished it within three hours the same day. Now I know what the buzz is about.

The Husband Tree is the story about, Belle, a woman who lives in a hard country, Montana. After marrying and burying three husband's, and raising her four daughter's, she's become as hard as the country in which she dwells. Men have given her nothing but grief and she's decided that she doesn't need help from any no account males. Belle can take care of herself , and her daughters. She's done so for years.

Silas Harding, has lost in love himself. And in the process was forced to leave his home just to get away from the no account females in his life. He decides women are nothing but trouble and life would be better spent with out one in it.

His metal is tested when he signs on to drive cattle with Belle and her daughters (who are all memorable in their own right). At first, dealing with the contankerous lot of stubborn females, Silas is certain he'll be able to hold true to his promise and never care for a woman again. But Belle isn't anything like the whiny, weak women of Silas' past, she doesn't use her wiles on him, doesn't try to trap him and turn his head. No Belle plum confuses him, because She doesn't need him or want him for nothing more but a hired hand. So why does he find himself falling for her?

And strangely, once Silas begins to help on the drive and take care of her and her girls, Belle finds herself questioning her vow to never marry again. Silas has done more for her in a month than any of her husbands before. He heart opens toward him, but she wonders if a man can truly be trusted.

Even her daughter's hearts begin to thaw under the warmth and care that Silas gives them.

I don't want to give the story away. But The Husband Tree is funny and heartwarming. Mary Connealy has spun a tale that will pull you in and take you along for a wonderful ride. Let me encourage you to take the ride.

Writer's are a strange breed. That's what I hear anyway. We have some funny quirks.

For example: The more rejections the better, they are badges of honor.

Writer's have fears.

We are afraid we'll never get published.

But some are afraid they'll get published and people will find out the're phonies.

Some are afraid they'll only sell one book.  Others are scared they'll sell a million.

Some are afraid they'll lose their imagination and never be able to write again.

Others are afraid they'll go brain dead from imagination overload.

What are some of your fears?

We can all use a little support. We can all use a bit of sunshine when the days are bleak. They say laughter is the best medicine so I hope this gives you a little laugh today.

Does Anybody Hear Me?

I wonder...

Has anyone ever really heard my voice?

Has anyone truly read and understood the words I've written?

Has my life made a difference in the smallest way?

When I draw my final breath and am removed from life, will pieces of my story remain in the annals of times?
Or given the time of my life and the way I spent it, will anyone even know that I existed?

I wonder... Oh Lord.


Have I truly heard your voice?

Have I truly read and understood the words you've written?

Have I allowed you touch my life, and touch others through me in the smallest way?

When I draw my last breath, when I reach for eternity, will it be said of me that I lived for you?
Or will anyone even know that you existed in me?

I wonder... Oh Lord what is the measure of a life?

That I sold a million copies of a book?

That I made a million dollars?

That I lived a million lifetimes in a million seconds?

That I touched a single life?

I wonder...
Lord, make me to know my end.
And what is the measure of my days.
That I may know how frail I am

Indeed, you have made days as handbreadths,
and my age is as nothing before you.
Certainly everyman is but a vapor.  Selah

Surely every man walks about like a shadow;
Surely they busy themselves in vain;
He heaps up riches,
and does not know who will gather them.

And now Lord, what do I wait for?
My hope is in you.  Psalm 39: 4-7

Where did that thought go and other mysteries...

I think, therefore I am...

I am, therefore I think...

I think I am so... I am I think.

Thoughts are everyday part of life, they should be cohesive.

Like notes on a scale, they can flow like a beautiful aria,

or sound discombobulated, like they're being played by my dog.

I should be able to put them on paper. I should be able to relay them to others.

Some are better unspoken. Some have me in chains

You can put your mind into a quandary just thinking about your thoughts.

Especially when they are scrambled.

Have I lost you completely?

Don't feel bad I lose myself all the time.
                                    Like now, when I'm trying to wax poetic about thoughts.

How come I can practice a song, and sing it through, but when I stand in front of the mirror, my mind goes blank? I've sang the song through without a paper crutch for the words and suddenly the words, once my eyes see my lips move, slip my mind?

Is it age that throws my mind akilter?  I wished that was my excuse. Age probably adds to the break down of my thoughts, or the interpretation of them, but I've had problems for years.

Most people do.

Think about that test you're about to take, the one you've studied for. And how, when they lay the paper in front of you, your mind takes a day trip to forgetfulville.

Or perhaps you have a mental grocery list. It's small, but when you reach the store, it's gone. Like the phone numbers you've recited over and over as you tried to punch in the number. And still dialed wrong.

We're constantly second guessing ourselves. We think of everything at once.

For example, you know as you're flying away for that week vacation, you turned the stove off. Still there is a sense of doubt. No matter what you do, the thought chips away at your reasoning and leaves you with the expectation that your house will be shards when you return because of the explosion.

Or you thought you said something that might have offended someone, and it drives you to near distraction because you're certain they're going to hate you. The thought strangles your sleep until you have to call and apologize. And they had no idea what you were talking about.

Thoughts are strange. They can be thought provoking, thoughtless, you can loose a thought, or get one. Thoughts seemed to be hooked right to your blood pressure. They elate, they uplift, they encourage, they disappoint, they reprimand, they hurt, they hinder.They are ever with us, and ever elusive.

As a writer I can dream a story from beginning to end, but when I go to write it down the words can get lost in translation? My thoughts can't formulate a paragraph, let alone a sentence. Which can be quite irritating one is looking for wordage.

Stories are full of sentences, don't ya know?

Amazingly, I can sit down and think the story through again. See it plain as the nose on your face ( or mine when I cross my eyes.)

Maybe my thoughts aren't firing properly from brain to fingers to keyboard. So I decide to try a tape recorder. Some people swear by that technique.

I swore too...(not in a good way) As soon as I hit the record button, my thoughts were frozen. I sat there with my mouth open, the first word caught on the tip of my tongue. I couldn't for the life of me spit it out.

Figuring I trick my mind, and make it think I'm was talking my story through, I sat the recorder on voice activation. I started to speak, managed a few words and started to giggle.

Certain that if I can't see the recorder, I won't be able to tell, I lay back, and close my eyes to think of my story. When I'm relaxed,  I will try to dictate to the recorder.

I take a deep breath, start talking once more and shortly I'm laughing and have to stop.

My mind tells me I'm a dork, everyone can see me and I'm alone. And strangely, or not so strangely, with my eyes shut, I can still hear my voice.

And by my way of thinking, the sound is funny and foreign. Meanwhile my good little thoughts are encouring me to try again.

Why do my thoughts bump into one another?

Maybe it's because I think too much. My mind is always critiquing me. It has to know and it has to be right. My mind is intricately designed and while I think I can do everything at once, my mind doesn't do well with overload. But it believes it can.

How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and every day have sorrow in my heart?

 How long will my enemy triumph over me?     Psalm 13:2

Yes sadly, my very thoughts can become my enemy. They inhibit me from trying, from seeking what God has for me. Other times, my thoughts are my friends, they keep me grounded, they define my conscience and remind me to pray.

At times there seems to be a fine line of distinction between friend of foe.

Thank God he knows the difference.

The best thing I can do is take a deep breath, set my my paper and pencil aside, shrug off some of the worries, discard the extras that have slipped in and fried my mental circuitry, lay them at God's feet and let him renew my mind. He knows what's going on in my thoughts more than I ever will.

For the word of God is living and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.  

                                                                                                   Hebrews 4:12

Oh Lord, quiet my thoughts.

Passages...

Here I stand at the onset of another year, it's but a step across the threshold, but it feels like I'm perched on a precipice ready to fall into the abyss. I study the sands of time left in my year as they fall through my fingers and settle on the ground at my feet.

Shifting through the granules with the toe of my shoe, I unsettle the sands. Some rise, and carried by the wind of ages, they flutter in the space about me, sparkling like diamonds in a night sky. I search for moments of meaning. There are fulfilled dreams, echoes of laughter and tears, moments of joy and sorrow, times of courage and fear. They are etched in my memory, as unforgettable as each breath I take.

But while those memories have meaning, many more of the time passages that filled my year still lay at my feet, heavy and blank. They are banal, misused, and misspent. Putting them together I can build endless days of nothingness.



Shamed by the wasted minutes, I long to pick them up, tuck them back in an hour glass and flip time. Then I could relive them, spend them, but the year is drawing to a close; I'll never hold them again. I scoot some away with my foot hoping noone will notice.

The last granule of time slides slowly through my fingers. A strong breeze circles my legs and sweeps the remaining moments of the year past away. I study the year ahead, it is bright with promise, with dreams. I am excited to face the unknown that spans the distance before me. Yet, I am fraught with fear.

Is this really a step or a precipice?

I study my empty hands and draw them, clenched, to my chest, afraid to gather another year. What if I squander it?

I could try harder. I could do better.

I resolve to make no resolutions. No resolutions, no failure. And yet a part of me, something deep in my spirit, wants to take that first step toward tomorrow and fly. I want to take that first step and achieve. I want to take that first step and dream.

My inner longing skips forward. My feet inch toward eternity like a slug. I close my eyes and hold out my hand. Ready to grasp the new year. Praying I won't fill overwhelmed when it fills my hand.

It's daunting to think about a year, all 365 days, 8,760 hours, 525,600 minutes, 31,536,000 seconds of it to be exact.

My fingers tense, and begin to draw shut. I hold my hands higher.

Oh God, please give me the wisdom to spend this new year wisely. Please don't let me squander it.

When I open my eyes, and lower my hands, I find they are filled with the seconds, minutes and hours of but one day. I blink and look again. Can that be right? One day? I turn my eyes heavenward as a new thought pushes into my head.

Had I failed so miserably the prior year that God could no longer trust me with more than a day?

I want to weep. Tears fill my eyes, and begin to track along my cheeks.

The winds of heaven caress my face and assure me that God wasn't holding time back because of my failures. I am reminded that God's mercies are new every morning.

I can dream for a lifetime of tomorrows, but a lifetime is made in the moments that build a day. A month is built by the accomplishment of days and a year is forged by months. I have only to face the new day to begin my journey, and merely the minute at hand, God the architect of my life, the one who knows the beginning and end of my story, will walk with me and guide me. I have only to hold out my hand and believe.


Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.    Matthew 6:33-34

TWAS THE DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS...
and just look at my house.
For a brief moment, it's holiday beauty could grace a magazine cover
now it looks like it was attacked by sage grouse.

The stockings once hung
by the chimney with such care.
lay askew on the mantle
or strewn on the chair.

The children are sleeping late,
snuggled in their beds
with visions of Exlax, Prilosec or Pepto Bismal
dancing in their heads.

Pa is in his tennis shoes.
I've tugged on some spandex
as we contemplate hitting the gym
and trying to work up a sweat.

When out on the lawn
there a rose such a clatter
I ran to the door, tripping over boxes and wrapping
to see what was the matter.

Out in the yard, the dogs barked
and ran the fence in a flash
try to catch a stray cat who'd slipped in
and attacked the left over bones in our holiday trash

I grabbed a quick breath, snapped up a broom
and headed to the yard, to the fray.
To clean up the strewn garbage
and shoo the interloping cat away.

I tied the last bag
and crammed it into the bin
Then leaned against the fence with thoughts of Christmas now past
and thoughts of family and friends.

Christmas arrives much too quickly
but leaves much too fast.
Leaving me bereft to wonder and wish
if we couldn't find a way to make Christmas last

And laying a finger
aside of my nose
my lips lift in a smile
and joy soon arose.

I consider the presents, my family
and my friends.
And I know Christmas can last
Oh yes, yes it can

Cause Christmas isn't just what I got or who I saw
yes, that's part of it, that's true
but Christmas is Christ
and the gift he gave...lasts the whole year through.

Merry Christmas


and may your dreams be fulfilled, your prayers answered and may your New Year overflow with blessings.

Congratulations to Laura, and Supermom, who's name were drawn for the gift cards. And because I added a third one, Michelle is a winner also.  Thanks so much for coming to my page. Come again.
Merry Christmas

Starting December 1st...Follow the link below and join the Desert Breeze Blog Scavenger Hunt for a chance to win prizes throughout the month of December.

http://www.desertbreezepublishing.blogspot.com/

The Christmas Child
Behold a virgin will conceive and bring forth a son,
they shall call his name Emmanuel....

I love the sights and sounds of Christmas. The air has a bit of a nip to it, (in Colorado anyway), people are decorating their homes with lights and greenery and all kinds of whimsical lawn art. Anticipation is growing as everyone (well, most everyone) makes plans to be somewhere with family and friends, discussing gift exchanges, holiday parties and what they're supposed to bring to the meal among other things. You get to put up the tree and pull out memories with each ornament. You get to watch holiday movies and listen to yuletide songs on the radio. The world seems a bit gentler, a bit less hurried, or that could just be my waning eyesight (I'll probably see it different after Black Friday).

I love Christmas.

I love the smell of cinnamon, pine, pumpkin, turkey and peppermint. I love lights that color the December night. But while I look forward to the season and I kind of dread it too.

That probably sounds terrible. But it's true.

I love putting out the decorations, I dread having to pack them away. (Maybe that's why the lights are still hanging on the eaves of my house from last year.)

I love getting together with family and friends, I dread the goodbyes, especially if they've traveled from afar and have to leave. And then there's the family squabbles that manage to arise.

I love sending out cards and sentiments, I dread having to prepare the letters and sentiments I so love to send. I wonder if anyone reads them or even cares.

I love the Christmas commercials, you know the ones that tug on your heart strings, I try to forget they want to tug on my purse strings as well.

Christmas is Special, it's wonderful. It's Christmas.

And strangely, if I'm honest the enjoyment and wonderment of the day gets lost in translation.

Sometimes I long for the simpler days, when I was the child with the wild-eyes and holiday wishes. When I ripped into the packages I wasn't too worried about who had to clean up the paper, bows and packaging shrapnel that would be strewn about my house.

I didn't have to get up early to put in the turkey or spend the day putting the finishing touches on a meal then watch all my hard work be devoured within minutes.

But that's when I was a child, that was a long time ago. (Or maybe just yesterday.)

Perhaps that's where my trouble lies. I have allowed the years to distort the beauty of what Christmas really means.

Christmas needs a touch of moonbeam, a dash of nonsensical, and a dollop of whimsy.

Christmas needs wonder. Christmas needs a CHILD.

For my inner child's own good, I recite verses like...

When I was I child I thought like a child, but when I grew up, I put away childish things...

All the while forgetting...

A little child shall lead them or Christ said to bring the children to him.

But children are messy, children act stupid, I tell myself, and in so doing, I've taken the very gift of Christmas and boxed it with cynicism, packed it with grownup resolve, wrapped it with whys and wherefores, tied it with ribbons of fear and vulnerability and tagged it with a warning "to open could cause dire consequences to your psyche". Then I hid it away so no one could open it.

No one can touch the child within.

Maybe it's time to open the box. To release the child God so lovingly created.

But where does one begin?

It's allowing yourself to share
                                                         

    A Prayer. 

A  Dream.

 A Memory

It's putting one foot in front of the other, listening to the symphonic melodies of snow crunching beneath your overgrown snowboots or the swish of your legs rubbing together as you waddle along in the mounds of padding and warmth of your snowsuit.

It's sticking out your tongue and catching a snowflake or letting your tongue get caught on an icicle. Or perhaps believing you will not shoot your eye out with that Red Rider BB gun.

It's allowing yourself to inhale the crisp air of winter's night, let it paint your cheeks and neck pink and feel the exhilaration as you exhale your warm breath and paint the night in return.

It's taking a moment to stare across fields of winter white, of diamonds on snow and see a canvas for snow angles and not just something you need to shovel.

It's waiting on a Judean hillside, when you know you should be tending your sheep because excitement as tangible as breath charges the air. And you know something amazing is about to happen. Then heaven resounds with a chorus of praise, and a star break the shadows with Glory.




It's following a star, knowing each step will bring you closer to destiny, to wisdom, even though some might call you a fool with stars in your eyes.

It's reaching out for the hand of the Father, letting his touch ignite the warmth in your numbed hands and chilled heart. It's feeling the sensation of being alive and knowing that to follow in his footsteps will take you on a beautiful journey. You're at first hesitant, there are too many unknowns.

But your heart is yearning, aching to follow, so you move your feet, skipping to find the rhythm til your steps match his...

Because you know you'll find the Child at the end of the journey.

And perhaps you'll remember what Christmas is all about.

And perhaps you'll believe...

Maybe my little memory will help you on your journey.

One Christmas Eve, many moons ago, while tucked in a dark cellar, in a bed with my sisters and cousins, I remember getting awakened by the tinkle sleigh bells, and thumps that sounded in my child ears like hoof beats on the roof of my grandparent's house.

"You hear that?" someone said, their voice heavy with fear and breathless wonder.

The noise continued with more bells and reindeer snorts, and a few ho, ho, hos. Squeals echoed the cellar.

"Could it really be reindeer? Was it really Santa?" We wanted to know, but were too scared of the spiders in the cellar to get out of bed and see.

When the noise finally stopped, I lay there with my heart rioting in my skull. Anxious to find out what made the noise that disturbed my slumber.

When Christmas morning peeked through the slit in the coal bin cover, we were up. I fell in with the rest of my excited bunk mates as we headed outside in our pajamas to investigate.

There in the snow, were what looked like reindeer prints and sleigh tracks.

My child mind didn't connect that those were supposed to be on the roof. Nor did I find it strange that a gazillion other foot prints dotted the snow around the spot where the sleigh had landed in the driveway. In Child like faith, I believed.

This Christmas I pray you take the journey. This Christmas I hope you find the Child.

The one within. The One who was born to die.

***Share some of your moments of Christmas wonder and whimsy.  (Dirty, profane, comments will be erased) Leave a comment from  now - Dec. 11 and jot down your email address, (make sure to write out  at and dot )  for a chance to win one of  two $20 dollar gift cards to Targets.

A clock out of time...

It was weathered and beaten by the years when Dad found it, but it was no ordinary clock. This clock was made in the mid to late 1800's in Germany. An original Black Forest Clock. It was fashioned in the chalet style, wooden carvings that depicted various animals caught and bound by imaginary hunters decorated its face and a royal stag with five point horns graced the top at the point where the eaves joined.

It wasn't colorful like many you can buy today. No little children came out to dance and spin. Only a little bird popped out of small wooden door to say cuc-koo. It had only two hands to tick off time. No second hand, as perhaps times were slower when the clock was crafted.

Which is amazing when you consider how technology is used today to wittle away the seconds in our daily race of life.

But I digress, back to the clock.

We found the clock while living Germany. (Dad was in the Airforce and we lived in Zweibrucken.)

A series of chains, pendulums, bellows, pipes, springs and weights caused the clock to run. The ends of the chains were weighted by what resembled metal pinecones.

When we got the clock, some of its animals had fallen off, the stag's left rack was snapped, and the chains were missing.

Dad worked at fixing the clock. He reset the animals on the face. Glued the poor stag's rack back on so he could reign over his small realm with dignity. Then he hunted for the proper chain.

One would think that task would be realitively easy considering we lived in Germany. But... he found a chain that seemed to work, only the links were slightly off so the inner workings of the clock were unable to count the moments right.

At the time, that meant little to me. I just like it when Dad set the chains then ran the hands around to make the cuckoo bird pop out it's little door and cuc-koo the hour.

But soon, even that failed to work.  The bellow were torn from age and the spring wasn't as taut as it should be. Even though it didn't work, the clock still hung of the wall like a quaint piece of artful history. People were intrigued and wanted to know about the clock. It had a story all its own and years of research still hadn't told the tale. We told them what we knew. But most of all, they wanted to hear it cuc-koo.

When we moved from Germany, the clock was wrapped and placed in a box. It moved in and out of the box for a time as we traveled from duty station to duty station. Dad continued to hunt for the right chain, but his endeavors failed. He tried chain after chain one was too heavy, one, the links were too big, one, too small. The moments ran fast or too slow.  Without the proper chain, the clock ticked off irregular beats.

When my father passed away in 1994 the unworking clock hung on the wall. With noone to turn the hands or reset the chains, the hands stopped turning and the bird stopped cuc-kooing. The clock, like my father, had become silent only the memory of what the clock could do remained.

The clock's existence changed then, it was either stored in a box, or relegated to the wall of the garage.

Then my son decided to finish what his grandfather had begun. He fixed the bellows, tightened the spring, reset the broken animals, and the stag's horns that had fallen off again. We hung the clock in a place of prominence.

Unfortunately, we never found the right chain either. Oh we could manipulate the chain and get it to run some, and get the cuckoo bird to visit. But it just wasn't the same, the weak bellows tended to rip, the stag's horn was cockeyed and loose, and we grew tired of resetting the chain and hands, perhaps we didn't have the patient that Dad had.

I don't know if the clock will ever be fixed. But maybe... that's just as well.

Looking at it, its hands locked in a moment from long ago. I wonder if they haven't stopped in some wonderful place where time moves slowly, where life was lived in ticks and tocks of minutes, where the stag on the clock is young, where the bellows are filled, where my father stands before the clock adjusting the chain, turning the hands just so, and the little bird comes out to sing.