Sarah Martin Byrd's Blog, page 14

Idol, X-Factor, Agents, and Publishers

One of the best parts of being a writer is I can go anywhere I want to in the world and stay as long as I want. I can become who ever I long to be, a rich New York City lawyer, homeless beggar, man without a heart, or woman on a mission. A writer's mind can create anything it wants to. There is no right or wrong with so many different personalities to please. One person may read East of Eden and love it; yet another may wonder what kind of drug John Steinbeck was on?

Being a writer is kind of like being on American Idol or X-Factor. We bring our talents to a select few. Our queries go out to agents and publishers hoping the right one will hear the uniqueness of our voice: The power and humility, the compassion, the spirit and humor. There are literally thousands of authors in the world, and all we want to do is be heard. Once the writer's bug has bitten you there is no turning back. The song in our hearts must to be set free.

A fellow Lucky Press author recently self-published a book of short stories that she had written. She, like I, had her first young adult novel traditionally published by Lucky Press, LLC, Athens, Ohio.  Unfortunately, the owner of that company will not be publishing any books this year due to health issues.

My fellow author has also been trying to find an agent or publishing company for her next novel, but she's not had any luck finding one either. So, she decided to self-publish her book of short stories,  just so she could get her feet wet in the self-publishing world. Then, if she tires of the judges shredding her queries she will know a little bit about getting her work published on her own. I think my fellow Lucky Press author is a smart lady.

It's been sixteen months since Guardian Spirit hit the shelves. I have two other novels longing to be read and several children's books that cry for attention. So, I've decided to check into this self-publishing thing for myself. I started my research this weekend and found that there are hundreds of self-publishing companies out there. To which do I turn? Who is legitimate? Who are scammers?

I am very excited, and nervous about the process, but feel certain this is the route I should take with my children's stories. The first one will be a spin-off from Guardian Spirit. I want to take children outside. To get them away from their iPods, DS, X-Box, TV, Wii, and Lord only knows what other electronic devices. I hope my children's books will take them to a gentle flowing stream. There they may see a real beaver dam, and experience for themselves what can happen when a beaver sets his mind on doing something. It doesn't matter how big the tree. Kids need more "I can" instead of "I don't even want to try."

I want children to learn from nature, to be able to tell the call of a hoot owl from the squawk of a crow. But, most important I want them to learn about life, how to treat each other and God's creation, and what makes a family? To always be truthful, and honest. These ideas may seem old fashioned to you, but to me these simple guidelines are the backbone of what makes the distinction between a youngster making a bad choice and a good one.

A child should be taught the difference between right and wrong, and it needs to start at a very young age. It's too late when the handcuffs are being slapped onto their wrists or they are lying paralyzed from a drug overdose. Yes, there have always been kids making bad choices, and there always will be, shucks I'm fifty-three years old and I make wrong decisions all the time.

But, if I can touch one life and make a difference all this fun and hard work will have been for the good. If one day someone says to my grand daughter, " I remember reading a book that your grandma wrote called, Bog Tales. That book helped me become a better person," then rich or poor, famous or a no-body I've done what I've been called to do.

Author's Note: I solicit any information you may have concerning self-publishing. I'm leaning toward Amazon's Create Space. Has anyone used them to publish? What was your experience? Please contact me via my website contact form. Thanks.

Stairway to Heaven

Well, another year has come and gone. It seems as though my birthday rolls around every three or four months these days. No wonder I'm getting so old. I ponder about how our way of thinking changes with time. When I was thirteen I wanted to be sixteen. When I was sixteen I wanted to be eighteen. At eighteen I couldn't wait to turn twenty-one. Then all of a sudden twenty-one turned to thirty, then forty, then fifty. And, before I knew it, in the mail was a AARP card with my name on it.

It's all a matter of opinion, this getting old thing. I, myself choose to look at it this way. Birthdays are just a stairway to heaven, and it's looking like I've climbed about three-fourth's of the way up. Life in itself should be celebrated daily. We shouldn't wait for our birthday to feel special. Frankly I'm happy to be alive, no matter how old I am. With the passing of years I've noticed that along with the moans and groans that come from the aches and pains of old age there are more sighs of contentment and heartfelt laughter.

The years have fashioned me as a majestic old Oak. Standing proud and strong, trunk round and stout, limbs creaking against the wind, yet still graceful as they dance in the breeze. Slowly, but surely with each passing year I grow stronger, prouder, rooted more firmly into my beliefs. As the gray of winter shrouds me in a cloak of ice I may look dead, dormant and lifeless. The heavy snows of winter may weigh me down, but I will endure, for I know the season will soon change. The days will lengthen and the heat will bear down on me, filling me with warmth. My soul is awakened by the Robin's song, and the sprouting of new growth brings fullness to my branches. I am old but I have survived yet another winter, my spirit sings. My heart is content.

That is how I feel as my birthday rolls around every year. On February 2nd Mr. Groundhog and I may, or may not see our shadow, but we'll celebrate the passing of another winter either way. I'll glory in the promise of spring, new opportunities and challenges. The harsh winter winds will blow our way, but God has fashioned us to bend as the oak, to withstand the elements, and weather the storms. Age may bring weakness of bone and flesh, but with each passing year it promises to deliver a greater inner strength, and wisdom that can only come from climbing one more stairstep to heaven.

Stolen Moments

A matronly wife slowly eases her legs over the edge of the pillow top mattress. She silently touches the floor with her naked feet. Slowly she leaves the comfort of her bed and the security of her husband's arms. It's very early, the birth of a new dawn not yet conceived. The lady sneaks away into the early morning hours, she is to meet her lover for a few stolen moments.

Lightly she strokes. Holding all dreams of the future in her hands, she touches, and closes her eyes. She is lost in the night. Swept away on a path to the unknown. Where will this coupling lead? Where will it end, another land, south to the sea or north to the hills? Will she float upon a cresting wave or sit upon the highest mountain? Will she drown in the depths or soar with the eagles? Whose lives will be touched by this union? Will the world be better for the knowing?

The wife opens her eyes and stares at the pages. Again she strokes the sheet as if it were a favorite pet or a cherished lover. She brings the paper down to her lap and lets her mind stray. Away from her comfortable home, far from her resting husband. She drifts away on a rendezvous with fate. To what end no one knows, not even herself…

The above is kind of like the way my life is. No, there isn't a secret beau. But I do "court" with the idea of running away with my pad and pencil. As a writer, I am always trying to find moments to pen down my thoughts. And sometimes I do feel as if I am cheating. I may be in the same room with my husband, listening to stories about his golf game or watching television, my body may be there, but more often than not my mind is far away. It is building a scene for my next story, or creating a new character.

I am passionate about my writing. I take it very seriously. I want every word to have meaning. I long for people to be touched by what the voices in my head have to say. I'd like to think there is purpose to what I am doing. I want you, as readers to know my heart through what I write. I want you to feel the pain of my characters hurt and the joy of their pleasure.

I am now head over hills in love with my present obsession, "The River Keeper."  It really is as if I am being drawn away by its essence. The allure of it taking me from the present world and sitting me right smack dab in the middle of the year 1940, and the great ice dam break on the New River in Alleghany County. I long to hide away inside myself with the main character, Callie Mae McCauley, a little girl who lost everything that day in early March. What will happen as the words of her life gather on my pages?

The setting of my novels become my home and the characters my family. The people in them get up with me every morning, stay close by me as the day progresses and then they lie down with me every night. As this fourth novel is sprouting I feel it might just be my best work yet. As with the flood of 1940, when the rain pelted down on that dreaded day I too am swept off my feet. Washed away from the present, drifting along on a wave of dreams, searching for a few stolen moments with Callie Mae, Granny Jane and Chloe.

Shush. Don't tell anyone about my latest love affair. It's our secret. Okay?

I Want to Be Like John Boy

Okay, yes, I admit it. I'm stuck in the past. I enjoy growing a garden and canning vegetables. I love to watch a plow cut through the soil lifting those spuds to the surface. At my house mashed potato's come from the ground not from a bag full of flakes.

Now don't get me wrong. I certainly don't want to go back to the days of milking cows and churning butter. But I don't want to give up my wood heater either. I guess sometimes I just yearn for the days of growing up on a dirt road. Back when you could let your children romp around in the woods and creek beds without worrying if someone would abduct them.

Change is the only thing we can count on happening, that and the mailman bringing bills. Some change is good, and some is not. The view from my living room window has always been beautiful. Right now it's just a tilled up patch of red clay, but in a few months it will bear a crop of corn or tobacco. Woods surround the field, and most of the time late in the evening deer roams the borders. Several years ago a cell phone tower was constructed on the back section of that property. I remember thinking I'd just die looking at that thing every day. But you know what? When I watch the sunrise over that field I hardly even notice that tower anymore.

In the other direction looking out my back door there is now a huge power-making windmill churning electricity for my neighbor's house. For some reason when I look up toward the Blue Ridge Mountains and see that thing spinning round and round I find it kind of calming, sort of like my wood heater. The things that bothered me as a silly young woman don't seem quite as important now.

So much has changed over the years. Television is the thing that most irritates me. There is positively nothing decent to watch on the tube anymore unless it's Lifetime, Hallmark, or the Pixel channel. Or, of course re-runs on TV Land, and Gunsmoke on the Western Channel, or my favorite, The Walton's on GMC. John Boy Walton has been my hero from the first day I watched the show. Even after all these years as the program begins John Boy's Virginia accent puts me in a trance. It's like a switch goes off and all my stress and worries are magically cancelled out for a while.

John Boy was a writer and as he would go off by himself to write down his stories I pictured myself doing the same thing. In 1971 the show debuted as a movie, The Homecoming: A Christmas Story. The following year it became a weekly show for nine consecutive seasons. When I watch the show now I can't remember a single one that I haven't seen before. At age twelve when the show began I felt as dreamy headed as John Boy did.  The Walton parents, John and Olivia instilled integrity in their children. Honorable values like honesty, hard work, compassion for their fellow man, and a great love for family. They also encouraged their children. Even in the hard times of the depression John Boy's parents supported his dream of becoming a published writer.

I think it should be mandatory that all children watch an episode of The Walton's every week. Some things of old should not be forgotten. I have a road trip planned for early spring. On March 3, 2012 The Walton's Mountain Museum will re-open for the season. Yes, Walton's Mountain is a real place. I can't wait to visit the home of Earl Hamner, the person from whom John Boy's character was formed. Here I'll find replicas of John Boy's bedroom, the Walton kitchen and living room, and Ike Godsey's General Store. I want to stand on the mountain and gaze down the hillside as I've watched John and Olivia do dozens of times, dreaming of a home they might someday build there. Walton's Mountain Museum is located off State Road #29 between Charlottesville and Lynchburg, in Schuyler, Virginia.

May I always remember the lessons I learned from the Walton family, and the inspiration that John Boy still gives me as a writer today. Yes, I love history, the old days and ways. Why? Because I long for simple things and people that are just plain old nice. I encountered an author this week and she was pretty ugly to me. Just because she has a few best sellers under her belt doesn't give her the right to be mean.

I can promise you all one thing. If I ever make any money selling my stories I will not forget where I came from, or the people who helped get me there. If I ever become haughty like that lady was to me, I want someone to first of all slap me for being so stupid, then set me down in front of the television and make me watch an episode of The Walton's. Then, I'll be reminded of how people should treat each other. Wouldn't the world be a much better place if we all strived to be a bit more like John Boy?

Goodnight John Boy, Jason, Mary Ellen, Erin, Ben, Jim-Bob, Joseph, Elizabeth, Mama, Daddy, Grandpa, and Grandma.

(Note: Joseph was Jim-Bobs twin who died.)

My Favorite Things

When I woke this morning I knew the sky was overcast because the light of a new day was not sneaking through the mini blinds. No, I didn't sleep until noon; it was a few minutes before seven. As with most mornings I stretched and rolled over, relishing the feel of cool sheets and a soft pillow. Then as usual my head started filling with the duties of the day.

The domestic stuff first, dishes, laundry and such. Then I knew I'd write this blog and send out a few agent queries and write a page or two, or ten on my new novel. After the house chores and before the writing I hopped on line and checked my email and facebook messages. While chatting with a gentleman who was interested in purchasing my novel, "Guardian Spirit" I started reading a fellow author, Jessica Bell's blog post. It really hit home to me. She spoke about trying to do so many things at one time that we lose the joy of doing them.

How right she is. I thought of my favorite time of the day. Most people will think this is crazy but it's the forty-five minutes I sit in car line waiting for my granddaughter to get out of school. I use this time to do exactly what I want to do, to read. Most of the time it's a novel, sometimes I take my Guidepost and catch up on my devotions or the newspaper. I have been known to have a copy of the World Book Encyclopedia with me if I'm doing research. This is the only time of the day I feel like I can do exactly what I want to do and not feel at fault.

Why should I feel guilty about doing nothing? Isn't it about time this old girl has a little free time? I'd like to be able to leave my pajamas on all day. To get up and start the day without a load of have-to's bearing down on me. To be able to do my favorite things like snuggle up with a fuzzy blanket in front of the gas logs or wood heater and drink coffee or hot cider all morning. To be able to sit and read a novel from start to finish in one day.

I'm sounding pretty selfish aren't I? I'm not complaining. I have the best life a person can possibly have. No one puts any pressure on me but myself. I am my worst enemy. Can a person change who they are? Can we be something we're not? No, I don't think so. I'll never be able to leave my gown on all day or sit idle doing nothing. But I do promise to remember to do a few of my favorite things each day and not feel guilty.

Jessica's blog made me realize that I take life much too seriously. I need to remember to enjoy doing the things I love to do, and not just hurry through them so I can get onto the next project. I have five bird feeders hanging on tree limbs in my back yard. I fill the feeders with food for two reasons. The first being so the birds will have food, the other so I can stand at my window and watch them. Now whose fault is it if I don't take the time to watch those birds as they come and go?  Who is to blame if I wake up on my deathbed one morning and realize that I have hurried through life and missed the best parts?

Psalm 46:10 says, Be still and know that I am God. Maybe I'll heed the Word and do just that. So, talk to you later. I'm off to pour a second cup of coffee and find that novel I've been reading. Isn't that what you're supposed to do on a rainy day?

Discombobulated

For some reason as I welcome the New Year the word discombobulate is foremost in my mind. I wasn't even sure if it was a real word or not so I Googled it. The word means, "Cause to be confused emotionally, or to be confusing or perplexing; cause to be able to think clearly." I'm smarter than I thought I was, for the word discombobulate fits me to a tee right now.

A new year always evokes different emotions in me, excitement, fear, agitation, calm, sorrow, and happiness. I feel the need to clean out drawers and closets, to discard things in my life that are not needed. Not just old clothes or shoes, but feelings of insecurity and doubt. I am anxious of what might happen in my writing career this year. Will I ever find an agent? Did I make the right decision last week when a publishing company sent me a contract for my new novel, "The Color of My Heart" and I turned it down? If there is one thing I've learned in my almost fifty-three years it's to follow my instincts. If something doesn't feel right, then you better listen to that sixth sense and step away.

What about a little self-pity too? No one understands the life of a writer unless you're a writer yourself. When family or friends ask me what I'm doing and I say, I'm working; they think that means I'm sitting at my computer playing games on facebook. People in general just don't get it when you try to explain how many hundreds of hours goes into a ninety thousand-word novel. Not just the initial writing of it but the editing, re-writing and then all the query letters to agents and publishers. Can I get an "Amen" from all you other writers out there?

Seriously, I'm not crazy about trying to market my work myself. I'd much rather be creating a new story. That's why I am desperately trying to find an agent, someone to go to bat for me with the big boy publishing companies. Small publishers like Lucky Press that published my first novel are great to work with on a personal level. I am so thankful to Janice Phelps Williams for saying yes to "Guardian Spirit". Janice is the one who told me I should look for an agent. Why, because she wants the best for me and has confidence in my work.

Long suffering is something that a writer must have. I believe that most authors who self-publish just run out of patience. After dozens or hundreds of rejections they lose hope of ever finding a traditional publisher. I truly do understand. I've come to realize that most of the queries that I send out are not even looked at. The literary world is kind of like Hollywood or the White House. You've got to know somebody to get in.

I don't believe in luck, even though I did feel pretty lucky back in 2010 when Lucky Press published my novel. I do however believe in hard work, persistence and perseverance. My motto is, "Ideas won't work unless I do." If I don't have any queries out there I have no hope of getting a yes. I feel sure Random House Publishing is not going to show up at my front door offering me a couple of million dollars to publish my next novel.

As writers we've got to get our work in front of agents and publishers. We have to take ourselves seriously even if no one else does. In my discombobulated state I resolve to keep on doing what I know I must do. Knock and the door shall be opened, seek and you shall find.

This year I will continue my journey looking for an agent or publisher that feels right, and in the mean time I plan on finishing my fourth novel, tentatively titled, "The River Keeper."  While the cold winter wind howls through the pines I will snuggle up with my pencil and pad penning another work. And if it is meant to be I'll have that next novel out there for all who have been asking very soon. Thanks to you who encourage me with a kind word. And to other discombobulated writers like me we must keep the faith. Remember, it only takes one yes.

Reflections

Christmas Day has come and gone. Gifts have been opened and now wait to be exchanged for the correct size or color. All the decorations are down, except for the Christmas cards. I like to keep them up until I have time to take each one in my hand, and again read what has been scribed inside. Then I'll store them away until next year when my granddaughter and I will make bookmarks out of them.

As the end of the year draws to a close my mind wanders back through the year 2011. It has brought sorrows. Loved ones and dear friends have passed away. But the peace of knowing we'll all be reunited one day shrouds me in comfort. There are so many wonderful things that have occurred this year. My husband, daughter, granddaughter and myself are all healthy. We have warm homes and plenty to eat, and an un-measurable love for one another.

One of the best things that's happened this past year is that my daughter met a man who brings a glow to her face, a kind, gentle soul who is decent and loving. What a joy for a mother to know her child is truly happy. And of course I don't know what my world would be without my granddaughter. She is the sparkle in my life.

I won't say a whole lot about my husband Jerry because he hates for me to write about him. But I am thankful for that blind date back in February 1975, and for the years that have followed. Not all has been perfect, but we've stood by each other, sometimes when we really didn't want to. But, because of that commitment God has blessed us. We have a respect for each other and a love that has stood the test of time. I am blessed beyond measure and proud to call myself Jerry Byrd's wife.

Many other wonderful things have happened this year. One of my best friends has a new grandbaby that she adores. My nephew married a wonderful young lady. I've become not just a first cousin to cousin Kaye, but friends. I traveled to Yellowstone National Park with my sister, looked a buffalo in the eye and marveled at just how awesome our God is to have created all that He has.

There are so many simple things that I am thankful for. My 2004 Nissan Sentra that gets me where I need to go, and Jerry's old custom cab Ford pickup. I love my camper at New River, and the friends that I've made there. The old springhouse that my forefathers built continues to keep me rooted with remembrances of how hard life used to be. My good friend and neighbor JoAnn is always a blessing to me as well as my many other friends and neighbors. And, I adore my kittens, all except for the one who continues to poop on my basement steps.

Another highlight of the year for me has been traveling to schools and festivals, meeting so many new faces, people who have bought my novel, Guardian Spirit, and made the most wonderful comments. You will never know how much I appreciate each and every one of you. This year I finished my third novel, The Color of My Heart. Lord willing I'll find an agent in 2012 and then a publisher for it.

To be able to stay home and help care for my granddaughter and write down my stories is more than I could ever have hoped for and far more than I deserve. As father time clicks away the minutes we should look forward to the New Year and anticipate all that lies ahead. Looking back and having regrets is a waste of time and energy. We may not be able to change the past, but we sure as heck can start out 2012 with new hope and a promise to lose ten pounds, or not.

Being satisfied with what we have is true happiness. In the coming year for those who hate the rain, may all your days be sunny. And for all who love the steady pitter-patter on a cold rainy day I hope you have a warm fuzzy blanket to snuggle up in and your loved ones gathered close by. Choosing to be content in whatever situation you're in is the key to a rich life. Reach for the stars, but don't be upset if all you pull back is a lightning bug.

Happy New Year and God bless you all!

Old Sayings

With just a few days left until Christmas Day I know everyone is probably like me, your brain is zipping in a hundred different directions. Actually, I am ready for the big day. All my gifts are wrapped and I've purchased the ingredients for my pumpkin bread. With that being said I thought I'd share a little holiday cheer with some old sayings… wives' tales if you may.

My Christmas cactus is to blame for this blog. Close to twenty years ago, while visiting with a dear lady named Connie I was admiring her beautiful Christmas cactus. It was bursting with blooms and the color was of the purest pink. I asked her if it would root and she assured me it would and proceeded to tell me to pinch off a few sprigs. So I started to do just that and Miss Connie all of a sudden said, "No."

Oops, I thought. Maybe she was kidding and didn't want me nipping at her flower. "Sorry I said."

"No, no." Miss Connie said, and started to share an old wives tale with me. She said that she couldn't watch me pinch off the sprigs. I was supposed to do it when she wasn't aware of it, steal it so to say. I said okay, and as Miss Connie made herself scarce I pinched off a few pieces. She said that if she just gave them to me that they would not sprout and grow. I guess she knew what she was talking about because after all these years the cactus is thriving. It is just beginning to bloom this year. Every time I glance upon it I think of not only the tale that Miss Connie told, but of her. She is missed beyond measure this first Christmas season without her.

Another old tale I heard this year was that if you split open a persimmon seed and there is something that looks like a shovel inside you would have a bad winter, the shovel represents all the snow you'll have to move. I split several seeds open and there was a shovel imprint on every one. I'm a little weary of this tale since there is no bad weather in sight.

Here's a few other saying I thought were interesting:

*Cutting your nails on Friday or Sunday is bad luck. Fingernail clippings should be saved, burned, or buried to prevent bad luck.

*If you catch a falling leaf on the first day of fall, you will not get sick that whole winter.

*Dropping a pair of scissors means that your lover is seeing someone behind your back.

(This one could come in handy ladies, the saying, and the scissors.)

*The lines on the palm of your right hand that show an "X" represent the number of children you will have.

(Believe it or not there is only one "X" on the palm of my right hand, and I only have one child.)

*You shouldn't jog. It jumbles up your insides. (I live by this one.)

Who knows about such things as these old sayings? I, for one don't believe you have to leave a home by the same door you entered. And, I don't think I'll have seven years of bad luck if I break a mirror. But there are a couple of old, old sayings, prophecies if you will that I do believe in.

I believe this prophecy of Isaiah was fulfilled over two thousand years ago.

Isaiah 7:14

Therefore the Lord himself shall give you a sign; Behold a virgin shall conceive, and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel.

I also believe with all my heart that there is one old tale yet to come to pass. As told by the apostle Paul, two men dressed in white apparel made one of the most profound predictions of our lives. Jesus once came to earth as a little babe. He lived in this land until we murdered Him. Then He arose from the tomb and later ascended to heaven to sit by his Father. But the story is far from over. HE WILL COME AGAIN!

Acts 1: 9-11

9) And when he had spoken these things, while they beheld, he was taken up; and a cloud received him out of their sight.

10) And while they looked steadfastly toward heaven as he went up, behold, two men stood by them in white apparel.

11) Which also said, Ye men of Galilee, why stand ye gazing up into heaven? This same Jesus, which is taken up from you into heaven, shall so come in like manner as ye have seen him go into heaven.

I recommend you be weary of some old wives tales but the above prophesy from the book of Luke is one that you can bank on. What better time of year than Christmas than to believe the inspired Word of God? I don't know if this is an old wives tale or not, but isn't it better to believe, than to not believe and it really be so? Something to ponder on, don't you think?

May you always carry an acorn for good luck and your palm be itchy and ready to receive lots of money. From my family to yours, Merry Christmas, and may God bless you all.

A Christmas Story

Once upon a snowy Christmas Eve young Emily sat snuggled up in the crook of her grandma's arm. The open fire sizzled and popped, sometimes spewing a few sparks onto the black speckled linoleum. Emily pulled her special fuzzy blanket, the one imprinted with hundreds of kitty cats up under her chin. Emily loved cats. The room was warm, but Emily snuggled anyway. She always felt safe and loved when she was with her grandma she called Gigi.

"Gigi, do you believe in Santa Claus?" Emily asked.

"Well of course I believe in Santa. Why in the world wouldn't I?"

"Mama's friend said he stopped believing in Santa when he was eight years old. I'll be eight next year, so will I have to stop believing too?"

Grandma Gigi tilted her precious, and only granddaughter's chin up so the twinkle in their eyes could mingle. "Let me tell you a story Emily."

***

A long, long time ago there were two sisters. The youngest one was about the same age as you are now. The other one was four years older. Their names were Abigail and Sarah.

On a cold winter's evening three nights before Christmas they crawled under the covers and snuggled up back to back, putting the bottoms of their feet together to warm themselves. Soon their giggles turned into yawns and young Sarah sleepily told her big sister that she couldn't wait for Santa to come.

"Surely you don't still believe there is a Santa Claus do you?" Abigail said.

"Yes, I do. Don't you?"

"No! There is no such thing. It's all a myth."

"But how do the presents appear on Christmas morning."

"Presents? You mean the hand-me-downs and stick candy?"

"Yes. I can't wait."

The girl's kept bantering back and forth. But Abigail never convinced Sarah that Santa wasn't real. Sarah went to sleep and dreamed of a magical place called the North Pole and of a special man who lived there with his elves… Abigail had no dreams.

***

"Gigi, your name is Sarah. Is this story about you?"

Yes. Emily it is. When I was about your age there were all kinds of things that happened that should have proved to me that there really isn't a Santa. But you know what? I never stopped believing. Even now as an old lady I believe. Do you know why Emily?"

"Why Gigi?"

"Well that year when my sister Abigail stopped believing in Santa she lost her joy. There was no excitement in her eyes and she was sad all the time. What really scared me was that she never really got that joy back. When it snowed it was always a yucky mess to her while to me it was a winter wonderland of beauty and peace. As we grew older things that should have made her happy seemed to irritate her. If someone spoke a friendly word to her she was suspicious and wondered what they wanted. As I watched my sister I made myself a promise that I would never stop believing in the splendor of Christmas."

"Does Santa really have reindeer and a magic sack?" Emily asked.

"Well I really don't know, but I do know who Santa's boss is."

"Santa has a boss? Who?"

"God. He is the ruler of all things, big and small, real or imagined. And, I believe that if He wants Santa to miraculously appear with his reindeer He can. Or, if He wants to magically place gifts under the tree then that's what He will do."

"My believing in Christmas is not the fact that I believe there really is, or is not a Santa. It's the reality of what happened over two thousand years ago in Bethlehem. I believe that a tiny baby named Jesus was born to Mary and that He came into this world to save us from our sins and to bring us peace and joy. He came that all who believe will have everlasting life."

"Do I believe in the magic of Christmas? Oh, yes, one hundred percent. And not only the spell bound charm of Santa but the beauty and wonder of everyday. I never want to stop believing that God can do whatever He wants. Jesus is Christmas. And, if we stop believing then we have nothing. No joy, no love, no peace, no life. So my advice to you little lady is to always believe and look for the good in every thing."

The End

Author's note:

I hope you all believe in the wonder of Christmas and that you never lose your joy. For Jesus came to us as an innocent baby and died for us an innocent man; that we all might find peace in a turbulent world, and everlasting life in heaven. Yes, it's hard to believe in what we can't see or touch. But the best things in life are not the material stuff we hold in our hands. It's what we feel in our hearts. You just have to close your eyes and believe.

Hebrews 11:1

Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

Crazy Calm

There are so many emotions tugging at my heart this time of year. Of course there is stress: Visions of all that needs to be done dancing around in my head and the hustle and bustle of plain old everyday living. But for some reason there is a crazy calm surrounding me this year. I seem to be looking at things a bit differently. For instance, while putting up my Christmas tree with my granddaughter Emma, I realized that at least ninety percent of my ornaments are homemade/handmade.

In this picture of my tree you can't really see the red birds that my mama sewed with her fingers oh so many years ago, or the cross-stitched ornament that says, "Merry Christmas" that she made, but they're there.

I have red and white felt birds made by my dear neighbor, Thelma. Also crocheted stars and snowflakes crafted by my old Sunday school teacher Mary Lou. Close to thirty years ago she took out her hooked needle and made everyone in her class the handmade ornaments. Why do they shine so brightly for me this year? Maybe because I received news this weekend that Mary Lou is a very sick lady.

As I gaze into the branches of my skinny little fake tree I see a construction paper bell with my daughter Wendy's picture pasted on it when she was maybe five years old. I also have a handmade Christmas ball made by my long gone Aunt Dorothy. This ball has a picture of Wendy at one-year-old pasted on it.

There is a canning lid ornament with a little bell, tin punched out in it with a red bow tied to the top that Wendy made many, many, years ago. Then I look at the hand painted snowman and Christmas stocking that Emma painted this year and the pinecones that Emma and I picked up last year and fashioned into ornaments by simply tying a ribbon to the top.

As I look around my living room I see a ceramic old Kris Kringle on my hearth. A long ago gift from a co-worker named Renee. A log cabin ornament given to me by my editor, Jo to commemorate the publishing of our first work together, "Guardian Spirit." A tin punched angel made by Wendy, and Mary and Joseph painted onto miniature gourds by a special and talented friend of mine called Pam.

Memories of long ago float through my head as I gaze into the lighted tree. Like, hunting the woods for a perfect tree for our home. I have very few good remembrances of Christmas while growing up but searching for our Christmas tree is a memory I want to remember. Sometimes my sister and I would go together and look for the tree and somewhere way back in my memory is the year daddy went with us. For lots of reasons I can't have a real tree any more. One being I hate to cut down trees. But sometimes I long for the smell of a fresh cut tree. I miss the scent of cedar and the joy of the hunt.

Time changes everything. Real things are substituted by artificial. People we love are here one moment and gone the next. All around us are reminders of the past… the old timey. It may be something that was given to us by a loved one. Or it might just be a smell or sound that reminds us of way back when.

Yes, this year I am driven by a crazy calm. I see the many blessings that I have all around me. As I fill out Christmas cards I am reminded of all the friends I have. This morning when I prayed for a sick child I also thanked God for my healthy family. While watching a couple-hundred people being fed a good hot meal at my church last night, I was thankful to be a part of such a caring church family. Then while watching our Christmas play, "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" I felt all warm inside, like it was really an old fashioned Christmas and not WalMart's favorite time of the year.

As the minutes click nearer to Christmas Day, let us all open our eyes to the true wonders of Christmas. May our hearts cry for the cold and hungry, and our hands work to help the true needy. Take time to make memories with your family. Hunt the woods for holly and silver pine to decorate your mantle. Grab the shotgun and shoot down some mistletoe to hang overhead. Then find yourself a cozy spot, take out your Bible and read about the true meaning of Christmas, baby Jesus. I hope you find your crazy calm this year.