Erica Vetsch's Blog, page 182
December 10, 2015
A Christmas Tradition...Broken
In the spirit of Erica's blog post yesterday (if you haven't entered the giveaway, there's still time!), I was all set to share another one of my favorite Christmas traditions today. But then something happened that made me rethink what I wanted to share.
Let me back up. My husband Dave and I started dating in 1997 when we were seventeen. That very first Christmas, I bought him a cute little Santa ornament. I still remember the moment I saw it, and knew he'd like the jolly fellow. Since it was our first Christmas, it was a safe gift to give. It wasn't terribly personal, yet it was a glimpse of my heart. I dreamed of seeing that ornament on my own Christmas tree one day, when we were married.
The following year, we went on a school trip to London, England two days after Christmas. While we were shopping, I found a cute little tin Santa Claus. By this time, I was quite sure I'd marry my real-life hero, so I boldly said: "Let's buy this ornament, and every time we go on a trip, we can buy another. One day, we'll have a tree full of ornaments from around the world, and we'll reminisce every time we decorate."
Purchased in London, December 1998And that's exactly what we've done for the past seventeen years.
At first, we stuck with Santa Claus ornaments. Sometimes we had to improvise, like the time we went camping in Canada and I learned I had a knack for whittling!
Santa made in Quetico, Canada, 2000
Or when we couldn't find a Santa Claus in Decorah, Iowa, and we found a little figurine and put a string on him.
Purchased in Decorah, Iowa, 2000Eventually, we gave ourselves permission to buy anything that represented the area where we were traveling. We also agreed that if we travel alone, we still need to find an ornament. Dave has one from his mission trip to Africa. I have one from my trip to France.
Purchased in Burkina Faso, Africa, 2008
Purchased in Paris, France, 2009We have ornaments from as close by as Duluth, MN--and as far away as Africa. We have ornaments from various places in the Caribbean, and ones from Europe. We have several from trips to California, Colorado, New England, New Orleans, New York, and ones we bought at our local Wal Mart to celebrate the purchase of our first home, our first dog, and our first cat.
Purchased in St. Augustine, FL (the oldest town
in America), 2013
Purchased in Washington, D.C., 2001
Glass Float purchased in Monterey, California, 2014Every ornament carries a special, heart-warming memory.
But I have three favorites. The one I bought Dave for our first Christmas. The one I bought on our trip to London. And one we bought in New York City just a few months before 9/11. That one is blown glass and the original broke in Central Park when I pulled out my wallet to pay for a carriage ride. The package fell from my backpack...but Dave retraced our steps, and about an hour later, he returned with a replacement.
Purchased in New York City, 2001But then...two days ago...I heard a crash, and then a startled: "I'm sorry, Mama!"
My favorite ornament, the very first one I bought Dave in 1997, was on the floor with a broken hat, and my nine-year-old daughter stood above it with a mixture of alarm, remorse, and apprehension.
I could have cried--but I didn't.
That jolly fellow has been on every Christmas tree we've ever owned, including the first after we were married, living in a little apartment in Ames, Iowa where Dave was going to college. It was one of the only ornaments we had. It followed us to a cute farmhouse we rented after college. And then to our first home, and our second. It sat alongside the first ornaments for each of our children, and it became crowded as each year passed.
I didn't yell at my daughter, and of course I said I forgave her. I didn't make a big deal about it, or make her feel bad (she already felt bad enough). I simply picked it up, gathered the shattered pieces, and tried in vain to glue it back together.
It will never look the same, but I've decided I won't throw it away. It will never hang on our tree again, but it will be put somewhere special for everyone to see--and for all of us to remember that it still holds the same value, even if it's not perfect.
But, more importantly, I want all of us to remember that it's just a piece of painted ceramic. It's part of a temporary world we will all leave behind someday. What I want to remember is the love and memories behind the gift. Those are the things that truly matter and that last.
The ornament has a new story to tell. It speaks to the truth, that we're all broken and imperfect, but we're still valuable and loved.
Hopefully when my daughter looks at it in years to come, the story she will remember is one of forgiveness, understanding, and unconditional love. Because she is far more precious to me than all the ornaments on the tree combined.
Despite his flaws, he's still the same jolly
fellow. :)What about you? Have you lost a special ornament over the years? Do you have an ornament tradition?
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Let me back up. My husband Dave and I started dating in 1997 when we were seventeen. That very first Christmas, I bought him a cute little Santa ornament. I still remember the moment I saw it, and knew he'd like the jolly fellow. Since it was our first Christmas, it was a safe gift to give. It wasn't terribly personal, yet it was a glimpse of my heart. I dreamed of seeing that ornament on my own Christmas tree one day, when we were married.
The following year, we went on a school trip to London, England two days after Christmas. While we were shopping, I found a cute little tin Santa Claus. By this time, I was quite sure I'd marry my real-life hero, so I boldly said: "Let's buy this ornament, and every time we go on a trip, we can buy another. One day, we'll have a tree full of ornaments from around the world, and we'll reminisce every time we decorate."
Purchased in London, December 1998And that's exactly what we've done for the past seventeen years.At first, we stuck with Santa Claus ornaments. Sometimes we had to improvise, like the time we went camping in Canada and I learned I had a knack for whittling!
Santa made in Quetico, Canada, 2000Or when we couldn't find a Santa Claus in Decorah, Iowa, and we found a little figurine and put a string on him.
Purchased in Decorah, Iowa, 2000Eventually, we gave ourselves permission to buy anything that represented the area where we were traveling. We also agreed that if we travel alone, we still need to find an ornament. Dave has one from his mission trip to Africa. I have one from my trip to France.
Purchased in Burkina Faso, Africa, 2008
Purchased in Paris, France, 2009We have ornaments from as close by as Duluth, MN--and as far away as Africa. We have ornaments from various places in the Caribbean, and ones from Europe. We have several from trips to California, Colorado, New England, New Orleans, New York, and ones we bought at our local Wal Mart to celebrate the purchase of our first home, our first dog, and our first cat. 
Purchased in St. Augustine, FL (the oldest townin America), 2013
Purchased in Washington, D.C., 2001
Glass Float purchased in Monterey, California, 2014Every ornament carries a special, heart-warming memory. But I have three favorites. The one I bought Dave for our first Christmas. The one I bought on our trip to London. And one we bought in New York City just a few months before 9/11. That one is blown glass and the original broke in Central Park when I pulled out my wallet to pay for a carriage ride. The package fell from my backpack...but Dave retraced our steps, and about an hour later, he returned with a replacement.
Purchased in New York City, 2001But then...two days ago...I heard a crash, and then a startled: "I'm sorry, Mama!"My favorite ornament, the very first one I bought Dave in 1997, was on the floor with a broken hat, and my nine-year-old daughter stood above it with a mixture of alarm, remorse, and apprehension.
I could have cried--but I didn't.
That jolly fellow has been on every Christmas tree we've ever owned, including the first after we were married, living in a little apartment in Ames, Iowa where Dave was going to college. It was one of the only ornaments we had. It followed us to a cute farmhouse we rented after college. And then to our first home, and our second. It sat alongside the first ornaments for each of our children, and it became crowded as each year passed.
I didn't yell at my daughter, and of course I said I forgave her. I didn't make a big deal about it, or make her feel bad (she already felt bad enough). I simply picked it up, gathered the shattered pieces, and tried in vain to glue it back together.
It will never look the same, but I've decided I won't throw it away. It will never hang on our tree again, but it will be put somewhere special for everyone to see--and for all of us to remember that it still holds the same value, even if it's not perfect.
But, more importantly, I want all of us to remember that it's just a piece of painted ceramic. It's part of a temporary world we will all leave behind someday. What I want to remember is the love and memories behind the gift. Those are the things that truly matter and that last.
The ornament has a new story to tell. It speaks to the truth, that we're all broken and imperfect, but we're still valuable and loved.
Hopefully when my daughter looks at it in years to come, the story she will remember is one of forgiveness, understanding, and unconditional love. Because she is far more precious to me than all the ornaments on the tree combined.
Despite his flaws, he's still the same jollyfellow. :)What about you? Have you lost a special ornament over the years? Do you have an ornament tradition?
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December 8, 2015
Christmas Memories and Traditions
Erica here: I thought it might be fun for us CC&C girls to share some of our Christmas memories and traditions, and we'd love to hear some of yours, too! And because it's Christmas, we're giving away a fun little holiday gift.
Anne's Family Tradition:
Anne and family at the Christmas tree farm.
Our family has gone to Christmas Tree farms for 28 years to cut a fresh tree. It's morphed over the years into a "traditional argument" akin to the family funk that seems to happen when you try to take family pictures. Someone is always disagreeable. Someone is late. Someone is too happy. Someone has too many expectations. Someone wants a fake tree but always gets out-voted in the family vote for a real tree. The tree is too tall, too short, too bare, too prickly, too fat, you get it. But finally, we all laugh, come together in harmonious agreement and bring the tree home. That's when we pray Dad gets it in the tree stand without having melt down over stuffing it into the tree stand, muttering like the father from A Christmas Story and his broken furnace. We turn on Christmas music, don our Santa hats and decorate while Dad takes pics and begs to turn the Notre Dame game back on.
Love family shenanigans.Jaime's Christmas memory:
Jaime's Willow Tree nativity
I remember setting up our manger scene. It was my most looked forward to event of the Christmas decorating season. My mom's manger scene was handmade by friend with beanie people :) with felt faces. Each character were old friends, and through that, Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the angels all became old friends. A familiar story but one I cherished. Now I look forward to setting up my manger scene, one my mother-in-law gave me my first year married, and my kids get excited to set up and play with theirs. It's a familiar, warm feeling to greet old friends, and be constantly reminded of the birth of my Savior!
A kid-friendly nativity!
Gabrielle Meyer's family tradition:
Gabe's family trimming the tree.
One of my favorite holiday traditions is Christmas Tree hunting. We always go the weekend after Thanksgiving and we always have my parents and Dave's mother with us. It's a fun time for our children for many reasons, but especially because they have the undivided attention of their grandparents.
Some years it's freezing, some years it's mild. Some years there is snow on the ground, and some years we trudge through stiff grass. But always, there are smiles on our ruddy faces and anticipation in our hearts for all the fun we'll have decorating and setting gifts under those branches.
After we select the perfect trees (three of them, one for each house), we also help decorate them. At my parents' home, I have three siblings and their spouses, plus all twelve nieces and nephews. My parents have purchased a Christmas ornament for each of us every single year. That's a total of twenty-two NEW ornaments this year alone! The oldest is a bulb from my parents' first Christmas Tree in 1974. Needless to say, the tree is LOADED with ornaments. All of us gather together for this event. My parents separate the ornaments according to family when they take them down, so the boxes are neatly organized and each person is responsible to hang their own ornaments. Afterward, we eat soup and sit around visiting.
My in-laws like to put up their tree closer to Christmas, so we usually go out there the following weekend. It's a much quieter event, since our children are the only grandchildren at this point, and one of Dave's brothers lives too far away to join us. But it's fun to help decorate my husband's family tree and see all the ornaments from his childhood, which, after twenty years feels like mine, as well. Historically, my in-laws' tree has also been much bigger, since they have a nineteen-foot ceiling in their living room. It's an impressive sight.
The last, but certainly not least, is our family tree. We always decorate it with just our children and have a quiet evening at home. Ours is the smallest of the trees, but at nine feet high, it's not that small! It's fun to pull out all the ornaments and reminisce about where we bought them, or what they mean to us. Our children always ask us the same questions, year after year, and we tell them the same stories. I'll share a bit more about our Christmas ornament collection in a future post, because it deserves one all its own. :)
Such a lovely Christmas tree!Erica's Christmas Tradition:
In our family, we have three hard and fast Christmas traditions.
1. We must watch SCROOGE sometime during the month of December to get firmly into the Christmas spirit. It must be the 1950's version starring Alastair Sim.
2. We must attend the Christmas Eve service at Cornerstone Evangelical Free Church. This is my favorite service of the year with lots of singing and the Christmas story and candlelight.
3. On Christmas morning the Vetsch family eats Christmas waffles for breakfast before opening our gifts. This tradition started many years ago when my husband gave me a waffle iron for Christmas. (It's okay, I asked for one!)
Share with us one of your Christmas traditions or memories, and don't forget to enter the drawing for a sweet treat from us to you!
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Anne's Family Tradition:
Anne and family at the Christmas tree farm.Our family has gone to Christmas Tree farms for 28 years to cut a fresh tree. It's morphed over the years into a "traditional argument" akin to the family funk that seems to happen when you try to take family pictures. Someone is always disagreeable. Someone is late. Someone is too happy. Someone has too many expectations. Someone wants a fake tree but always gets out-voted in the family vote for a real tree. The tree is too tall, too short, too bare, too prickly, too fat, you get it. But finally, we all laugh, come together in harmonious agreement and bring the tree home. That's when we pray Dad gets it in the tree stand without having melt down over stuffing it into the tree stand, muttering like the father from A Christmas Story and his broken furnace. We turn on Christmas music, don our Santa hats and decorate while Dad takes pics and begs to turn the Notre Dame game back on.
Love family shenanigans.Jaime's Christmas memory:
Jaime's Willow Tree nativityI remember setting up our manger scene. It was my most looked forward to event of the Christmas decorating season. My mom's manger scene was handmade by friend with beanie people :) with felt faces. Each character were old friends, and through that, Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the angels all became old friends. A familiar story but one I cherished. Now I look forward to setting up my manger scene, one my mother-in-law gave me my first year married, and my kids get excited to set up and play with theirs. It's a familiar, warm feeling to greet old friends, and be constantly reminded of the birth of my Savior!
A kid-friendly nativity!Gabrielle Meyer's family tradition:
Gabe's family trimming the tree.One of my favorite holiday traditions is Christmas Tree hunting. We always go the weekend after Thanksgiving and we always have my parents and Dave's mother with us. It's a fun time for our children for many reasons, but especially because they have the undivided attention of their grandparents.
Some years it's freezing, some years it's mild. Some years there is snow on the ground, and some years we trudge through stiff grass. But always, there are smiles on our ruddy faces and anticipation in our hearts for all the fun we'll have decorating and setting gifts under those branches.
After we select the perfect trees (three of them, one for each house), we also help decorate them. At my parents' home, I have three siblings and their spouses, plus all twelve nieces and nephews. My parents have purchased a Christmas ornament for each of us every single year. That's a total of twenty-two NEW ornaments this year alone! The oldest is a bulb from my parents' first Christmas Tree in 1974. Needless to say, the tree is LOADED with ornaments. All of us gather together for this event. My parents separate the ornaments according to family when they take them down, so the boxes are neatly organized and each person is responsible to hang their own ornaments. Afterward, we eat soup and sit around visiting.
My in-laws like to put up their tree closer to Christmas, so we usually go out there the following weekend. It's a much quieter event, since our children are the only grandchildren at this point, and one of Dave's brothers lives too far away to join us. But it's fun to help decorate my husband's family tree and see all the ornaments from his childhood, which, after twenty years feels like mine, as well. Historically, my in-laws' tree has also been much bigger, since they have a nineteen-foot ceiling in their living room. It's an impressive sight.
The last, but certainly not least, is our family tree. We always decorate it with just our children and have a quiet evening at home. Ours is the smallest of the trees, but at nine feet high, it's not that small! It's fun to pull out all the ornaments and reminisce about where we bought them, or what they mean to us. Our children always ask us the same questions, year after year, and we tell them the same stories. I'll share a bit more about our Christmas ornament collection in a future post, because it deserves one all its own. :)
Such a lovely Christmas tree!Erica's Christmas Tradition:In our family, we have three hard and fast Christmas traditions.
1. We must watch SCROOGE sometime during the month of December to get firmly into the Christmas spirit. It must be the 1950's version starring Alastair Sim.
2. We must attend the Christmas Eve service at Cornerstone Evangelical Free Church. This is my favorite service of the year with lots of singing and the Christmas story and candlelight.
3. On Christmas morning the Vetsch family eats Christmas waffles for breakfast before opening our gifts. This tradition started many years ago when my husband gave me a waffle iron for Christmas. (It's okay, I asked for one!)
Share with us one of your Christmas traditions or memories, and don't forget to enter the drawing for a sweet treat from us to you!
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Christmas Regrets
I previously wrote this in 2011, but the same feelings revisit me every Christmas ...
I remember sitting on the stairs with my Gramma Wright every Christmas singing carols ... "where the treetops glisten, and children listen to hear sleighbells in the snow ..." Gramma spent every Christmas with us until I was eight. She jumped clear out of her skin when our dog's nose touched her hand, she smiled at everything I said as though it was the most genious piece of information she'd ever heard, she gave the best Christmas presents ...
Until I turned nine. That Christmas she was in a nursing home and her present confused me. It was a plastic doll face with crocheted blue and white bonnet and three blue and white crocheted hot pads buttoned to its neck. I remember opening it at home, Gramma wasn't there, and staring at the ugly, strange gift and feeling disappointment. Last year Gramma had given me a plastic mixer that actually mixed eggs if you turned the handle fast enough. This year ... needless to say, this greedy, ungrateful little nine yr old donated it to the local Good Will.
I would give anything to get it back. It would hang in hallowed spot on my kitchen wall, plastic doll face and all. You see, it was the last Christmas gift I would ever get from my precious, best friend in the whole wide world. It was the best she could give. I found out later, shortly after she died, that the only place she could shop was the nursing home craft store. It was the closest she could come to getting me a doll. At nine, I cried, hard, wrenching tears. Gramma had passed and I tossed her last act of sacrifice away.
Today, twenty-eight years later, I know Gramma would forgive me. It's Christmas when I most miss her, it never goes away ... the missing. I'm sure she's happy though, where the treetops glisten year round. Someday I'm going to find me a dollfaced hot pad and buy it - just to remember the love shared one Christmas from a passing Gramma to her granddaugher. I love you Gramma.
Do you have a Christmas memory, a special someone you really miss, or a holiday regret?
_______________________________________________________
Professional coffee drinker, Jaime Jo Wright, resides in the hills of Wisconsin. She loves to write spirited turn-of-the-century romance, stained with suspense. Her day job finds her as a Director of Sales & Development. She’s wife to a rock climbing, bow-hunting Pre-K teacher, mom to a coffee-drinking little girl, and a little boy she fondly refers to as her mischievous “Peter Pan”. Jaime completes her persona by being an admitted social media junkie and coffee snob. She is a member of ACFW and has the best writing sisters EVER!
"The Cowgirl's Lasso", The Cowboy Bride's Novella Collection - Barbour Publishing - COMING MARCH 2016
"Gold Haven Heiress", California Gold Rush Romance Collection - Barbour Publishing - COMING AUGUST 2016
Visit Jaime's web site: jaimejowright.com
Email Jaime - jaimejowright at gmail dot com
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December 7, 2015
"Wait for me, Daddy!"
As a child, I never read the book Where The Wild Things Are..... I didn't need to....
My dad is the youngster in front of his dad, beside his uncle, ready to go huntin'...
In our family, coon huntin' has been a pastime for three generations, and a bit of this Americana sport lives on today. Though Dad no longer owns or raises coon hounds, when my cousin stopped by Friday night to run the dogs behind our house, that old sense of adventure became palpable once more, reminding me of my childhood when I walked in the shadow of my dad's footsteps through the woods in the dark. I recalled listening for the bay of the hounds, dodging tree branches that snapped back at my face from my father's shoulders on the path in front of me.
My son, Ben, age 13, first coon hunt.
Through my childhood, it was my job to handle the puppies and keep them tame before they sold. I knew no other school friends, let alone girlfriends, who'd helped their father's handle show dogs, or sat on a cold cement garage step to watch the hunters skin and tan the furs night after night. At the time, for a young girl who struggled to read, it was more exciting than anything on the bookshelf.
Dad & Me Cousin Drew & Emily
So when my cousin, Drew, stopped by Friday night and my husband decided to head to the woods with "the boys" and their dogs, I smiled inwardly when my grown daughter jolted for her boots and hollered "wait for me, Daddy!"
She came back from the woods smiling from ear to ear. Having been snapped in the face with a tree branch, she'd been initiated into the nighttime ritual of their wildness. She'd heard the bay of the hounds and watched as they scored a catch. The furs are no longer worth what they were when I was a girl, but the adventure is still high. The wildness of tromping through the woods behind your dad and your cousins, still high value. Somewhere on the moonlit path, beyond the light of home and hearth, she'd witnessed the fire and the fun of a hunter's heart.
She'd understood for a moment, that sacred part of a man's heart--the wild part.-------------Blog post by Anne Love-
Writer of Historical Romance inspired by her family roots.
Nurse Practitioner by day.
Wife, mother, writer by night.
Coffee drinker--any time.
Find me on:Facebook Find me on: Pinterest
Find me on: TwitterFind me on: Goodreads
My dad is the youngster in front of his dad, beside his uncle, ready to go huntin'...In our family, coon huntin' has been a pastime for three generations, and a bit of this Americana sport lives on today. Though Dad no longer owns or raises coon hounds, when my cousin stopped by Friday night to run the dogs behind our house, that old sense of adventure became palpable once more, reminding me of my childhood when I walked in the shadow of my dad's footsteps through the woods in the dark. I recalled listening for the bay of the hounds, dodging tree branches that snapped back at my face from my father's shoulders on the path in front of me.
My son, Ben, age 13, first coon hunt.Through my childhood, it was my job to handle the puppies and keep them tame before they sold. I knew no other school friends, let alone girlfriends, who'd helped their father's handle show dogs, or sat on a cold cement garage step to watch the hunters skin and tan the furs night after night. At the time, for a young girl who struggled to read, it was more exciting than anything on the bookshelf.
Dad & Me Cousin Drew & EmilySo when my cousin, Drew, stopped by Friday night and my husband decided to head to the woods with "the boys" and their dogs, I smiled inwardly when my grown daughter jolted for her boots and hollered "wait for me, Daddy!"
She came back from the woods smiling from ear to ear. Having been snapped in the face with a tree branch, she'd been initiated into the nighttime ritual of their wildness. She'd heard the bay of the hounds and watched as they scored a catch. The furs are no longer worth what they were when I was a girl, but the adventure is still high. The wildness of tromping through the woods behind your dad and your cousins, still high value. Somewhere on the moonlit path, beyond the light of home and hearth, she'd witnessed the fire and the fun of a hunter's heart.
She'd understood for a moment, that sacred part of a man's heart--the wild part.-------------Blog post by Anne Love-
Writer of Historical Romance inspired by her family roots.
Nurse Practitioner by day.
Wife, mother, writer by night.
Coffee drinker--any time.
Find me on:Facebook Find me on: Pinterest
Find me on: TwitterFind me on: Goodreads
December 4, 2015
Interview & #Giveaway with @DorothyAdamek
Super excited to again, feature a new-to-me author! YAY! Isn't it fun meeting all these super talented people? So join me as we get to know Dorothy Adamek today :)
________________________________________________
How did you begin writing?
I began writing when my grade four teacher invited us to enter a story competition to mark the
occasion of his baby’s first birthday. I wrote a story in the POV of the birthday cake. I don’t remember much about the story itself, but I won and my prize was a piece of the birthday cake itself. I thought that was pretty cool, and from that day on, I’ve considered myself a writer. Pay me in cake and I’m happy.
Take us through a day in the life of you, the author (because some us picture you rise from bed, calmly pour your coffee, sit in a sunny little alcove, and write for eight hours before getting ready for a luxurious dinner out with your special someone) ;)
There’s a lot of coffee. You’ve got that part right. Then there’s what we call the ‘school run’ in Australia - the back and forth school routine known around the world to many mums. It’s during school hours I don my writing shawl and get to work. Whilst I don’t have an alcove, I do have a newly situated library in our house, converted from what should have been a dining room and ended up serving as a junk room for years. No more. It’s now my workspace and I try to crank out the word count there each day with Gilbert the Library Cat somewhere nearby.
Tell us where you got the idea for your latest book and why you developed a passion to write it?
Carry Me Home is set on Australia’s majestic Phillip Island. It’s where my family have holidayed for more than 40 years, so I have a personal love for the location. Some years ago, local historians published a newspaper tribute edition to honor the early settlers and pioneers. Thus began my fascination with life on the island in the mid 1870s and from there the story of Shadrach and Finella took shape.
Who is your favorite character in this book and why?
Shadrach Jones, the romantic hero, would have to be my favorite. Hands down. Anyone who gives out of his own poverty captures my attention and this guy knows how to sacrifice.
What is the most important takeaway from your book that you hope your readers see?
I hope readers will be reminded that displacement occurs in all our lives. Some of us are physically upended and need to put down new roots, and others have their lives knocked upside down right where they’re living. The struggle to find where we belong often requires life-changing sacrifices and many times, forgiveness is at the heart of new beginnings.
If you were to be offered the opportunity to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro or to back pack deep into the heart of the Swiss Alps, which would you do and why?
Take me to the Swiss Alps and take me right now! This Aussie has never seen a snowflake fall and with each passing year I’m becoming more and more keen for the experience. I realize there’s snow on Kilimanjaro, too, but I really love cheese, so… Switzerland it is.
And while you’re on this grand adventure, would it be necessary for you to have coffee or tea? (‘cause we’re split evenly in preference here at the CCC blog)
Coffee. Big, bottomless pots.
If you had to write your novel long-hand, would you use a fine point Sharpie, a roller ball pen, a fountain pen, or a pencil?
My favorite pen is a purple ink fountain pen. That’s the one for me.
Your favorite flavor of pie … because we’re heading into pie season!
Your pie season is of endless fascination to me. We’re not as much into our pies in Australia, although I’d gladly take a plate of what I’ve learned you call Razzleberry Pie! For a long time I thought that was one berry. Silly Aussie. Now I know better. Give me a piece of that.
What are you currently working on in the book world?
I’m currently working on Carry Me Away the second book in the Blue Wren Shallows series.
Lastly, will you leave us with a snippet from your book that is one of your favorites and gives us a glimpse into its pages?
Here’s the opening to Carry Me Home. Finella Mayfield’s first journal entry of which there are many more in the book.
July 10, 1875
Aboard the Aurora
Departing Liverpool for Australia
Aunt Sarah says I must mark the days.
She says they are, each one, touched by God and I must look for His fingerprint at day’s end.
Each afternoon while Father naps in his adjoining cabin, Aunt Sarah says I am to listen for coughing and attend to him, as always. And in the stillness of our ocean crossing, I must write in this journal Aunt Sarah calls my Everlasting.
Wrapped in organza remnants from my wedding ribbons, this journal is nothing of my mother’s by which to remember her. Bound with a leather spine, it’s a clean book of alternate parchment and tissue sheets. Each turn of the page brings the whispered lift of a translucent veil, the crackle of stiff paper. And perhaps, even permission to confide more than I care to speak aloud.
Charged to fill it with the evidence of God’s goodness, Aunt Sarah insists I add pressed petals from my new homeland. Something beautiful. Worthy. At least in her eyes.
Already I dare to disobey.
With England disappearing through my porthole in sea mists of grey and blue, I fear I may never again see God against the backdrop of my birthplace. So I entrust this parting thought to my Everlasting.
I, Finella Mayfield, promise to look for and collect God’s fingerprint in a strange land chosen for me by my father. I promise to become wife to a man I’ve never met, and live the life designed for me since my girlhood. My motherless girlhood, which already stretches six long years since my fourteenth winter.
And I promise to never forget the days I leave behind and the mother stolen from me by a wretched thief.
May God have mercy on the sinner. For I have none.
Contact me at!
Website: www.dorothyadamek.com
Email: Dorothy@dorothyadmek.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/dorothyadamekauthor/?ref=aymt_homepage_panel
Twitter: https://twitter.com/DorothyAdamek
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/DorothyAdamek/carry-me-home
_____________________________________
Enter to win a copy of Dorothy's book sent to you all the way from Down Under!
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________________________________________________
How did you begin writing?
I began writing when my grade four teacher invited us to enter a story competition to mark the
occasion of his baby’s first birthday. I wrote a story in the POV of the birthday cake. I don’t remember much about the story itself, but I won and my prize was a piece of the birthday cake itself. I thought that was pretty cool, and from that day on, I’ve considered myself a writer. Pay me in cake and I’m happy. Take us through a day in the life of you, the author (because some us picture you rise from bed, calmly pour your coffee, sit in a sunny little alcove, and write for eight hours before getting ready for a luxurious dinner out with your special someone) ;)
There’s a lot of coffee. You’ve got that part right. Then there’s what we call the ‘school run’ in Australia - the back and forth school routine known around the world to many mums. It’s during school hours I don my writing shawl and get to work. Whilst I don’t have an alcove, I do have a newly situated library in our house, converted from what should have been a dining room and ended up serving as a junk room for years. No more. It’s now my workspace and I try to crank out the word count there each day with Gilbert the Library Cat somewhere nearby.
Tell us where you got the idea for your latest book and why you developed a passion to write it?
Carry Me Home is set on Australia’s majestic Phillip Island. It’s where my family have holidayed for more than 40 years, so I have a personal love for the location. Some years ago, local historians published a newspaper tribute edition to honor the early settlers and pioneers. Thus began my fascination with life on the island in the mid 1870s and from there the story of Shadrach and Finella took shape.
Who is your favorite character in this book and why?
Shadrach Jones, the romantic hero, would have to be my favorite. Hands down. Anyone who gives out of his own poverty captures my attention and this guy knows how to sacrifice.
What is the most important takeaway from your book that you hope your readers see?
I hope readers will be reminded that displacement occurs in all our lives. Some of us are physically upended and need to put down new roots, and others have their lives knocked upside down right where they’re living. The struggle to find where we belong often requires life-changing sacrifices and many times, forgiveness is at the heart of new beginnings.
If you were to be offered the opportunity to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro or to back pack deep into the heart of the Swiss Alps, which would you do and why?
Take me to the Swiss Alps and take me right now! This Aussie has never seen a snowflake fall and with each passing year I’m becoming more and more keen for the experience. I realize there’s snow on Kilimanjaro, too, but I really love cheese, so… Switzerland it is.
And while you’re on this grand adventure, would it be necessary for you to have coffee or tea? (‘cause we’re split evenly in preference here at the CCC blog)
Coffee. Big, bottomless pots.
If you had to write your novel long-hand, would you use a fine point Sharpie, a roller ball pen, a fountain pen, or a pencil?
My favorite pen is a purple ink fountain pen. That’s the one for me.
Your favorite flavor of pie … because we’re heading into pie season!
Your pie season is of endless fascination to me. We’re not as much into our pies in Australia, although I’d gladly take a plate of what I’ve learned you call Razzleberry Pie! For a long time I thought that was one berry. Silly Aussie. Now I know better. Give me a piece of that.
What are you currently working on in the book world?
I’m currently working on Carry Me Away the second book in the Blue Wren Shallows series.
Lastly, will you leave us with a snippet from your book that is one of your favorites and gives us a glimpse into its pages?
Here’s the opening to Carry Me Home. Finella Mayfield’s first journal entry of which there are many more in the book.
July 10, 1875
Aboard the Aurora
Departing Liverpool for Australia
Aunt Sarah says I must mark the days.
She says they are, each one, touched by God and I must look for His fingerprint at day’s end.
Each afternoon while Father naps in his adjoining cabin, Aunt Sarah says I am to listen for coughing and attend to him, as always. And in the stillness of our ocean crossing, I must write in this journal Aunt Sarah calls my Everlasting.
Wrapped in organza remnants from my wedding ribbons, this journal is nothing of my mother’s by which to remember her. Bound with a leather spine, it’s a clean book of alternate parchment and tissue sheets. Each turn of the page brings the whispered lift of a translucent veil, the crackle of stiff paper. And perhaps, even permission to confide more than I care to speak aloud.
Charged to fill it with the evidence of God’s goodness, Aunt Sarah insists I add pressed petals from my new homeland. Something beautiful. Worthy. At least in her eyes.
Already I dare to disobey.
With England disappearing through my porthole in sea mists of grey and blue, I fear I may never again see God against the backdrop of my birthplace. So I entrust this parting thought to my Everlasting.
I, Finella Mayfield, promise to look for and collect God’s fingerprint in a strange land chosen for me by my father. I promise to become wife to a man I’ve never met, and live the life designed for me since my girlhood. My motherless girlhood, which already stretches six long years since my fourteenth winter.
And I promise to never forget the days I leave behind and the mother stolen from me by a wretched thief.
May God have mercy on the sinner. For I have none.
Contact me at!
Website: www.dorothyadamek.com
Email: Dorothy@dorothyadmek.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/dorothyadamekauthor/?ref=aymt_homepage_panel
Twitter: https://twitter.com/DorothyAdamek
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/DorothyAdamek/carry-me-home
_____________________________________
Enter to win a copy of Dorothy's book sent to you all the way from Down Under!
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December 3, 2015
Christ Our Mediator
I look for opportunities to display the love of God to my children, especially when it happens organically and makes a big impact.
Several weeks ago, my eleven-year-old daughter* went to my husband a bit upset. I'm not clear on all the details, but I know she was playing a game similar to Hay Day on the computer and she did something she wasn't supposed to (she put a heart sticker in a comment box, which apparently was a no-no), and she was reprimanded by a monitor on the game. Later, when my husband explained things better, he said she had made a mistake and it wasn't that big of a deal, but it still made her upset.
A couple weeks went by, and then one night she came to me, visibly upset. I was folding laundry and had to stop to try to understand what was wrong. She brought up the incident with the game (which I had completely forgotten about), and then she explained to me, with tears in her eyes, that she had told my husband that it was a mistake--but at the time, she knew she was doing something wrong (it truly wasn't a big deal in my eyes, but in her eyes, it was big). I said: "Why are you so upset? You know what you did was wrong and you won't do it again."
"I'm upset because I lied to Daddy," she replied with tears.
That's when I truly understood what was bothering her. The game wasn't really the issue. What shook her up that first night, and what had her upset weeks later, was that she hadn't been truthful with her daddy about how everything had happened. I told her she would need to tell him the truth.
A couple hours passed before my husband came home from work. I knew he wouldn't be upset about the game (it was such a simple issue), but he'd probably be a little upset she lied. I knew he would offer her all sorts of grace because he'd see she was repentant.
When my daughter looked at him, I could tell she was nervous to admit to her daddy that she had lied--and in that moment, I had such a clear picture of how we must look when we come before our loving Father in Heaven.
I also had a clear picture of Jesus' position next to the Throne of Grace. He is our mediator. 1 Timothy 2:5 says: "For there is one God and one mediator between God and mankind, the man Christ Jesus."
Jesus goes before the Father and petitions Him on our behalf--and because of God's love for Christ, He extends the same love to us.
I knew I needed to step in and demonstrate this love to my daughter. As she looked up at her loving daddy, afraid to admit her mistake, I stepped in and said: "You came to me, and now I'm going to tell Daddy what you told me." I proceeded to state in a few simple words what it took her over fifteen minutes to say to me--and my husband responded exactly as I knew he would, with love and kindness--yet offered her a consequence.
Because of the relationship between my husband and myself, I was able to communicate with him on a different level than my daughter can. I had no fear before my husband, and I knew how he would react. I had much more confidence addressing him than my daughter did.
Afterward, I explained to my daughter why I stepped in the way I had. I wanted her to get a clear picture of how Jesus intercedes for us, and that she can go to Jesus just as easily as she came to me.
It was a simple issue, but it made a big impact on her--and, truth be told, it also impacted me.
In this season, as we remember the arrival of Christ, let us ponder all our Savior came to accomplish on our behalf.
*I asked my daughter if I had permission to share this story, and she said yes.
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Several weeks ago, my eleven-year-old daughter* went to my husband a bit upset. I'm not clear on all the details, but I know she was playing a game similar to Hay Day on the computer and she did something she wasn't supposed to (she put a heart sticker in a comment box, which apparently was a no-no), and she was reprimanded by a monitor on the game. Later, when my husband explained things better, he said she had made a mistake and it wasn't that big of a deal, but it still made her upset.
A couple weeks went by, and then one night she came to me, visibly upset. I was folding laundry and had to stop to try to understand what was wrong. She brought up the incident with the game (which I had completely forgotten about), and then she explained to me, with tears in her eyes, that she had told my husband that it was a mistake--but at the time, she knew she was doing something wrong (it truly wasn't a big deal in my eyes, but in her eyes, it was big). I said: "Why are you so upset? You know what you did was wrong and you won't do it again."
"I'm upset because I lied to Daddy," she replied with tears.
That's when I truly understood what was bothering her. The game wasn't really the issue. What shook her up that first night, and what had her upset weeks later, was that she hadn't been truthful with her daddy about how everything had happened. I told her she would need to tell him the truth.
A couple hours passed before my husband came home from work. I knew he wouldn't be upset about the game (it was such a simple issue), but he'd probably be a little upset she lied. I knew he would offer her all sorts of grace because he'd see she was repentant.
When my daughter looked at him, I could tell she was nervous to admit to her daddy that she had lied--and in that moment, I had such a clear picture of how we must look when we come before our loving Father in Heaven.
I also had a clear picture of Jesus' position next to the Throne of Grace. He is our mediator. 1 Timothy 2:5 says: "For there is one God and one mediator between God and mankind, the man Christ Jesus."
Jesus goes before the Father and petitions Him on our behalf--and because of God's love for Christ, He extends the same love to us.
I knew I needed to step in and demonstrate this love to my daughter. As she looked up at her loving daddy, afraid to admit her mistake, I stepped in and said: "You came to me, and now I'm going to tell Daddy what you told me." I proceeded to state in a few simple words what it took her over fifteen minutes to say to me--and my husband responded exactly as I knew he would, with love and kindness--yet offered her a consequence.
Because of the relationship between my husband and myself, I was able to communicate with him on a different level than my daughter can. I had no fear before my husband, and I knew how he would react. I had much more confidence addressing him than my daughter did.
Afterward, I explained to my daughter why I stepped in the way I had. I wanted her to get a clear picture of how Jesus intercedes for us, and that she can go to Jesus just as easily as she came to me.
It was a simple issue, but it made a big impact on her--and, truth be told, it also impacted me.
In this season, as we remember the arrival of Christ, let us ponder all our Savior came to accomplish on our behalf.
*I asked my daughter if I had permission to share this story, and she said yes.
Find me on Facebook
Find me on Pinterest
Find me on Twitter
Find me on Amazon
Find me on Goodreads
Find me on My Website
December 2, 2015
Wednesday Whimsy
Erica Here:
I thought, at the beginning of this holiday season, you might be in need of a little Christmas whimsy to get you in a festive mood.
Have you seen this one drifting about the internet? The baby fell asleep in the line to get his picture take with Santa, and Santa said 'Don't wake him.' And this adorable photo was born.
He looks like he's keeping a Christmas secret.
Thinking long thoughts about Jesus.
Executive Assistant
Earl Grey Aficionado
Find me on PINTEREST
Find me on GOODREADS
Find me on AMAZON.COM
Find me on FACEBOOK
I thought, at the beginning of this holiday season, you might be in need of a little Christmas whimsy to get you in a festive mood.
Have you seen this one drifting about the internet? The baby fell asleep in the line to get his picture take with Santa, and Santa said 'Don't wake him.' And this adorable photo was born.
He looks like he's keeping a Christmas secret.
Thinking long thoughts about Jesus.
Executive Assistant
Earl Grey Aficionado Find me on PINTEREST
Find me on GOODREADS
Find me on AMAZON.COM
Find me on FACEBOOK
December 1, 2015
A Singular & Whimsical Problem - with Rachel McMillan
Jaime here. I am deeeeeeeep in the throes of editing two manuscripts with due dates of next week, so my buddy Rachel McMillan is filling in for me today, which is a super treat for you! She is debut her first novel this next year and her novella A Singular & Whimsical Problem releases TODAY. If you like Sherlock Holmes in female attire, smart, savvy, and altogether highly intelligent turn-of-the-century females, then you are in luck! :) Here's a peek in to Rachel's writerly mind ... :)
__________________________________________
I had it all planned out.
I had large white squares of Bristol board, thousands of post-its and an outline. I had jot-noted a world into being. I had peppered my universe with my little puppet people and I had a pretty good sense of how I would make them dance and talk and interact.
It was all skeletal really. But I knew the setting and I had my main characters:
Merinda Herringford ( a play on Sherrinford Holmes, Doyle’s first idea for Sherlock) with her blonde hair and brilliant cat eyes and angular profile. Jemima Watts, our Watson, our intermediary, classically beautiful and always falling in and out of love. A kind of counterpart to the fictional ( and oft-married ) John Watson.
There needs to be a romantic lead of course! – my pen hovered mid-air-- I cannot do anything without romance.
Constable Jasper Forth. Jasper! Just like the stuttering man I had a major crush on while watching Road to Avonlea growing up. Perfect! He’ll be tall and look like Andrew Buchan from Garrow’s Law and Cranford on PBS! Nice, open face. Perfect contrast to my lady sleuths.
I wrote out a few sample chapters and tweaked and played and flitted about. I painted my scene: a bustling Immigrant populous of 1910s Toronto, all creaky smoggy poetry- in- motion. Mechanical wheels clashing with horse-drawn carriages. Women who cannot solve crime unless they disguise themselves as men, who stumble amateurishly and trouser-clad into a barrage of adventures.
It would have turned out quite differently if I hadn’t seen the picture, of course. The picture was what made me stop and think and punctuate my fledgling prose with another male character. Who is this man who is so down on his luck that he is shining shoes in Toronto’s slum? Look at the cap pulled over his eyes, the cotton sleeves rolled up over a waffled undershirt. What a contrast! There he is polishing shoes while his own are scuffed, the toes near worn of their leather!
I turned over my imaginative salt-shaker and added a dash of an immigrant workingman reporter. A muckraker! He showed up quite fully formed with black hair and long eyelashes and finger-pads always stained with ink. Then he started talking! But his voice was broken, often tripping like a brook over a log or boulder. English was not his first language. Yet, words were his inky life blood.
I threw him into a scene. Just a dash. Then I played some more. Another dash.
Then I realized that my fingers were typing of their own accord. That wonderful, magical moment where you can’t tell where you stop and your characters begin. He took over. He became a p.o.v character.
I didn’t want a scene without him in it. I wrote 10 times as many words as a novel required: pitting him against other characters, making him interact, wondering where he would show up and what he would say when he got there.
I couldn’t stop.
“He’s too exotic.” One editor said in a rejection letter. “That relationship is a little strange. The one with Ray," another editor remarked as she read from notes in a face-to-face meeting. But my Ray had become, quite of his own accord, one of the hills I would die on as I inched my way toward finding a contract. Ray had to be a p.o.v character. Ray, this strange character who wasn’t in the initial outline and who showed up out of the blue and wouldn’t stop talking.
Now, he features very prominently in my first novel and is spattered as a lead character in all six stories featuring my lady detectives.
As writers it is hard to know what lines to cross and what boundaries to push and what lines to colour in. It’s all abstract, even as we lay out our best intentions as pantsers or plotters. But the magic of writing is letting your imagination create things you are not conscious of. It allows you
to imagine a scene or setting out of nowhere, to flourish a kiss, or place an emphatic word, to punctuate an outlined world with a different character who will change the tone of your work altogether.
Let your characters speak for themselves. Sit there and wait. Practice and crumple pages and try, try again. One might surprise you. Shove his way in and interrupt the logic of your crafted world. And that’s okay.
Stop! Let the characters take over. They are borne of your instinct and as a writer, you need to trust that with all your gut.
_________________________________________
Rachel McMillan lives in Toronto where she is currently watching way too many made-for-tv Christmas movies.
A Singular and Whimsical Problem: a Christmas-themed prequel novella to her Herringford and Watts series is available today on all major retailers, including Amazon. She and Ray DeLuca have a special relationship.
You can visit her blog, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram
__________________________________________
I had it all planned out.
I had large white squares of Bristol board, thousands of post-its and an outline. I had jot-noted a world into being. I had peppered my universe with my little puppet people and I had a pretty good sense of how I would make them dance and talk and interact.
It was all skeletal really. But I knew the setting and I had my main characters:
Merinda Herringford ( a play on Sherrinford Holmes, Doyle’s first idea for Sherlock) with her blonde hair and brilliant cat eyes and angular profile. Jemima Watts, our Watson, our intermediary, classically beautiful and always falling in and out of love. A kind of counterpart to the fictional ( and oft-married ) John Watson.
There needs to be a romantic lead of course! – my pen hovered mid-air-- I cannot do anything without romance.
Constable Jasper Forth. Jasper! Just like the stuttering man I had a major crush on while watching Road to Avonlea growing up. Perfect! He’ll be tall and look like Andrew Buchan from Garrow’s Law and Cranford on PBS! Nice, open face. Perfect contrast to my lady sleuths.
I wrote out a few sample chapters and tweaked and played and flitted about. I painted my scene: a bustling Immigrant populous of 1910s Toronto, all creaky smoggy poetry- in- motion. Mechanical wheels clashing with horse-drawn carriages. Women who cannot solve crime unless they disguise themselves as men, who stumble amateurishly and trouser-clad into a barrage of adventures.
It would have turned out quite differently if I hadn’t seen the picture, of course. The picture was what made me stop and think and punctuate my fledgling prose with another male character. Who is this man who is so down on his luck that he is shining shoes in Toronto’s slum? Look at the cap pulled over his eyes, the cotton sleeves rolled up over a waffled undershirt. What a contrast! There he is polishing shoes while his own are scuffed, the toes near worn of their leather!
I turned over my imaginative salt-shaker and added a dash of an immigrant workingman reporter. A muckraker! He showed up quite fully formed with black hair and long eyelashes and finger-pads always stained with ink. Then he started talking! But his voice was broken, often tripping like a brook over a log or boulder. English was not his first language. Yet, words were his inky life blood. I threw him into a scene. Just a dash. Then I played some more. Another dash.
Then I realized that my fingers were typing of their own accord. That wonderful, magical moment where you can’t tell where you stop and your characters begin. He took over. He became a p.o.v character.
I didn’t want a scene without him in it. I wrote 10 times as many words as a novel required: pitting him against other characters, making him interact, wondering where he would show up and what he would say when he got there.
I couldn’t stop.
“He’s too exotic.” One editor said in a rejection letter. “That relationship is a little strange. The one with Ray," another editor remarked as she read from notes in a face-to-face meeting. But my Ray had become, quite of his own accord, one of the hills I would die on as I inched my way toward finding a contract. Ray had to be a p.o.v character. Ray, this strange character who wasn’t in the initial outline and who showed up out of the blue and wouldn’t stop talking.
Now, he features very prominently in my first novel and is spattered as a lead character in all six stories featuring my lady detectives.
As writers it is hard to know what lines to cross and what boundaries to push and what lines to colour in. It’s all abstract, even as we lay out our best intentions as pantsers or plotters. But the magic of writing is letting your imagination create things you are not conscious of. It allows you
to imagine a scene or setting out of nowhere, to flourish a kiss, or place an emphatic word, to punctuate an outlined world with a different character who will change the tone of your work altogether.Let your characters speak for themselves. Sit there and wait. Practice and crumple pages and try, try again. One might surprise you. Shove his way in and interrupt the logic of your crafted world. And that’s okay.
Stop! Let the characters take over. They are borne of your instinct and as a writer, you need to trust that with all your gut.
_________________________________________
Rachel McMillan lives in Toronto where she is currently watching way too many made-for-tv Christmas movies.
A Singular and Whimsical Problem: a Christmas-themed prequel novella to her Herringford and Watts series is available today on all major retailers, including Amazon. She and Ray DeLuca have a special relationship.
You can visit her blog, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram
November 30, 2015
Monday's Post-Turkey Devo by Anne
One thing I've asked of the Lord. To have life, and life abundantly.
I was never interested in just a little of God.
I never wanted anything stale, short-lived, or empty.
Faith and life have to be so much more than pipe dreams.
I never assumed abundant life would require anything less than the sacrifice of my full heart.
That which gives much, requires much.
Emptying. Filling.
When you keep your heart soft, you are continually aware of that ache in your soul only God can fill.
And I for one, would much rather dance the dance of emptying and refilling with my Lord, than succumb to the constant emptiness of a closed and hardened heart.
This week, I'm not sure I could be more full and running over.
The fridge was full. The table set. And yes the food was good, and our tummies were full.
But it is my heart that remains full as I survey God's faithfulness.
Hearing my husband and father tell stories of God's redemption.
Listening to Dad read "When Father Carved the Turk".
Singing around Mom's table, "Great God the Giver". Twelve voices full in rich, four part harmony.
Memories that fill me.
Now the house is empty. The food decimated. Trash taken out.
Time to turn thoughts to the work week. Get set for more outpouring.
Emptying. Filling.
Have you noticed?
The best coffee mugs have chips, stains, and spittle stuck on the rim from frequent use.
The most used vessels are reheated when the contents have been left stagnant and cold.
It's the nature of cups, to be emptied out. And then the filling up, once more.
Because that's the thing with abundant life. You have to empty out to be filled up.
It's the constant use that makes me sure of the Father's love and life.
John 10:10 from The Message tells of this abundant life meant for us. Don't settle for less. But be ready to go all-in.
"Jesus told this simple story, but they had no idea what he was talking about. So he tried again. “I’ll be explicit, then. I am the Gate for the sheep. All those others are up to no good—sheep stealers, every one of them. But the sheep didn’t listen to them. I am the Gate. Anyone who goes through me will be cared for—will freely go in and out, and find pasture. A thief is only there to steal and kill and destroy. I came so they can have real and eternal life, more and better life than they ever dreamed of."
Readers:
Dare to dream. Dare to empty yourself out for His filling.
-------------Blog post by Anne Love-
Writer of Historical Romance inspired by her family roots.
Nurse Practitioner by day.
Wife, mother, writer by night.
Coffee drinker--any time.
Find me on:Facebook Find me on: Pinterest
Find me on: TwitterFind me on: Goodreads
I was never interested in just a little of God.
I never wanted anything stale, short-lived, or empty.
Faith and life have to be so much more than pipe dreams.
I never assumed abundant life would require anything less than the sacrifice of my full heart.
That which gives much, requires much.
Emptying. Filling.
When you keep your heart soft, you are continually aware of that ache in your soul only God can fill.
And I for one, would much rather dance the dance of emptying and refilling with my Lord, than succumb to the constant emptiness of a closed and hardened heart.
This week, I'm not sure I could be more full and running over.The fridge was full. The table set. And yes the food was good, and our tummies were full.
But it is my heart that remains full as I survey God's faithfulness.
Hearing my husband and father tell stories of God's redemption.
Listening to Dad read "When Father Carved the Turk".
Singing around Mom's table, "Great God the Giver". Twelve voices full in rich, four part harmony.
Memories that fill me.
Now the house is empty. The food decimated. Trash taken out.
Time to turn thoughts to the work week. Get set for more outpouring.
Emptying. Filling.
Have you noticed?
The best coffee mugs have chips, stains, and spittle stuck on the rim from frequent use.
The most used vessels are reheated when the contents have been left stagnant and cold.
It's the nature of cups, to be emptied out. And then the filling up, once more.
Because that's the thing with abundant life. You have to empty out to be filled up.
It's the constant use that makes me sure of the Father's love and life.
John 10:10 from The Message tells of this abundant life meant for us. Don't settle for less. But be ready to go all-in.
"Jesus told this simple story, but they had no idea what he was talking about. So he tried again. “I’ll be explicit, then. I am the Gate for the sheep. All those others are up to no good—sheep stealers, every one of them. But the sheep didn’t listen to them. I am the Gate. Anyone who goes through me will be cared for—will freely go in and out, and find pasture. A thief is only there to steal and kill and destroy. I came so they can have real and eternal life, more and better life than they ever dreamed of."
Readers:
Dare to dream. Dare to empty yourself out for His filling.
-------------Blog post by Anne Love-
Writer of Historical Romance inspired by her family roots.
Nurse Practitioner by day.
Wife, mother, writer by night.
Coffee drinker--any time.
Find me on:Facebook Find me on: Pinterest
Find me on: TwitterFind me on: Goodreads
November 26, 2015
Happy Thanksgiving!
"The First Thanksgiving" (1915), by Jean Louis Gerome Ferris (American painter, 1863-1930)
(See more at: http://www.incredibleart.org/links/thanksgiving.html#sthash.6fm3Zqep.dpuf)Wishing you and your loved ones the happiest of Thanksgiving Days from the ladies at Coffee Cups & Camisoles. JaimeAnneEricaGabrielle
"The First Thanksgiving" (1915), by Jean Louis Gerome Ferris (American painter, 1863-1930)(See more at: http://www.incredibleart.org/links/thanksgiving.html#sthash.6fm3Zqep.dpuf)Wishing you and your loved ones the happiest of Thanksgiving Days from the ladies at Coffee Cups & Camisoles. JaimeAnneEricaGabrielle
