Davalynn Spencer's Blog, page 16

Words Matter

Davalynn Spencer  @davalynnspencer

I have a friend who often says, “Words matter.” I couldn’t agree more.

Words started this whole thing – divine words, when God said, “Let there be light.”

And there it was.

Words also perverted perfection when the tempter whispered to Eve, “Did God really say …?”

Doubt is the serpent’s venom.

Consider the words “helpless” and “hopeless.” These words do not mean the same thing, yet they are frequently interchanged. Their misuse can send people into a tailspin.

At times, we are helpless—we need help. But in God’s eyes, we are never hopeless.

Variations of the word “worth” are also abused.

“Worthless” is a word often wielded by hurtful, self-centered parents. It can set a child on a painful life course, and the greatest pain of that course is the lie itself.

No child is worthless.

No human is worthless.

Unworthy? Yes. We are unworthy of so many of the blessings in our lives, yet God went to great expense to redeem us with the blood of His son.

Were we worth it? In His eyes, yes, because He loved us. The one loved is worth the price paid by the one who loves.

How many of us have swallowed the serpent’s poison, believed the twisted vocabulary weaponized against the object of God’s affection?

Yes, we are helpless to save ourselves, but we are not hopeless.

Yes, we are unworthy of God’s great love, but we are not worthless. Our cost was the body and blood of Jesus Christ—the most priceless sacrifice of all time and eternity.

We are worth that because He loved us.

Never forget – burn it into your heart: You are not worthless, you are loved.

~

For you know that God paid a ransom to save you
from the empty life you inherited from your ancestors.
And it was not paid with mere gold or silver, which lose their value. 
It was the precious blood of Christ, the sinless, spotless Lamb of God.
1 Peter 1:18-19

The one loved is worth the price paid by the one who loves.
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Always Before Me – 90 Story Devotions for Women

 

We’ve all heard the old saying: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”

That’s a big fat lie. ~Always Before Me

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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At the Moment

Davalynn Spencer  @davalynnspencer

One morning several years ago, a dear family friend called, and we chatted about our respective families. The conversation quickly worked around to the Lord. It always does with Pat Day, Eclipse Award-winning jockey and proclaimer of the faith.

My husband, Mike, and Pat became close friends during Mike’s tenure as Chaplain on the backside of Oaklawn Park Racetrack in Hot Springs, Arkansas. They stayed in touch until Mike’s earthly suffering ended last year and Pat spoke at his Celebration of Life.

Since then, Pat has entered his own hard season, but the Lord continues to sustain him and be the object of his praise. He also holds to what he shared with me that day about “quiet time.” Something his pastor had said.

“The only time you can be with God is in the immediate moment,” he said. “You can’t be with him five minutes ago, or five minutes from now. Only now, this instant.” 

As occupants of this fast-paced, modern world, we get caught up in time and all its constraints. Though it is an intangible commodity, time drives our labor, priorities, and dreams. We have either too much of it or not enough. We spend it, save it, and measure it, but we cannot grasp it.

All of us have heard the witty clichés about past, present, and future, but God’s word says, “Now is the day of salvation.” This moment.

This weekend as we pause from our labors and busyness, and celebrate a day off, what could be more important than spending some time in the presence of the one who holds time in His hand?

A few minutes now can determine where you’ll spend eternity.

What are you doing at the moment?

For he says, “In the time of my favor I heard you,
and in the day of salvation I helped you.”
I tell you, now is the time of God’s favor,
now is the day of salvation.
2 Corinthians 6:2 (NIV)

~

What are you doing at the moment?
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Coming Soon!

For the first time in her life, Mary wished she had a gun.

She knelt at the edge of the window and waited for whatever was out there to move again. But the only movement came from the corral where Sassy was nosing a small pile of hay and another horse was doing the same. It looked like Shorty, Hugh’s gelding. Unsaddled.

At that moment, he stepped from the barn’s shadowed doorway and into the light. A small spotted dog followed him on a length of twine, not at all happy with the constraint.

She watched, enthralled, as big tough, blustering Hugh Hutton dropped to his haunches and rubbed the dog’s back and ears, then pushed on its little behind until it sat on the ground. It jumped up, but he repeated the gesture, then stood holding his hand out over the dog. After a moment he reached into his vest pocket and gave the dog something that set its stub tail to wagging.

Hugh tugged on the rope and the dog resisted. Again he went through the previous routine, rewarding the animal for its choice, and Mary laughed aloud at the way it wiggled its whole behind. This time when Hugh tugged on the twine, the dog followed.

Amazing.

They were making their way to the house.

She jumped up and ran to the kitchen where she … ~Hope Is Built

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Change

Davalynn Spencer  @davalynnspencer

A doe and her spotted fawn make their rounds daily behind my house. They start out beneath the apple tree on the west side, skirt around my fenced backyard, jump over a low stack of firewood, and end up under the pear tree on the east side.

On Friday, a yearling approached them—bigger than the fawn, smaller than the doe. I’ve seen it before, always alone. 

In a flash, the doe turned on the yearling and chased it off into the sagebrush hedge at the back of my property. It stood there by itself for a while, forlorn, looking around. Once more it approached the doe, and again, she chased the yearling away. Sternly. Nothing soft or “doe-eyed” about it.

My guess is that yearling is the doe’s baby from last year. “Time to move on,” Mama insists. “You’re not hanging around with me.”

Heartless? Not at all. Forced emancipation is often the way of wild animals. They nurture, teach, and defend their young ones. But offspring old enough to fend for themselves are out of the nest. For good.

It is a difficult transition.

August is a transitional month, not only for wild animals but for people as well.

During August in the northern hemisphere, we:

Squeeze in last-minute vacations.

Jump from summer to fall as a new school year begins.

Lose an hour of daylight. Toward the end of the month, the sun rises roughly thirty minutes later than it did August 1 and sets about thirty minutes earlier. 

When September walks in the front door, we ask, “How’d you get here?”

A clever person once said, “The only people who like change are wet babies.” Sometimes change is slow and methodical. Predictable. Sometimes it happens so quickly we wonder why we didn’t see it coming.

Change isn’t easy unless we’re leaving discomfort and getting into a better situation, but that isn’t always the case. We’re often getting into more work.

August is nothing but change, and new things are coming. However, we can find security in the God who flung the stars into space and spins the earth through its seasons. He never changes.

And He’s right here with us, helping us every step of the way.

Jesus Christ
is the same
yesterday,
today, and
forever.
Hebrew 13:8

~

Change isn't easy.
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Coming Soon!

“I’m going to see Aunt Bertie and Uncle Ernest,” Mary said.

Lewis looked up with a tolerant expression, as if discussing the matter with a child. “And when are you planning to leave?”

“This morning.”

His fork clanked against Mama’s china when it fell. He stared at her, his mouth open like a Pennsylvania brook trout.

Building steam, Mary continued. “I’ve already made arrangements so you needn’t worry about a thing. My departure will not interfere in any way with the milking schedule. I’ll have dinner in the oven for you, so you shouldn’t have to cook for a few days. I’ve also made fresh bread.”

His face reddened, and he pushed his plate away. “Is Celia Griffith in on this?”

“No, she is not, so calm down. I made this decision on my own.”

He reclaimed his plate and went after his ham and eggs as if they were to blame. “I advise against this harebrained notion.”

“I knew you would.” Mary felt oddly at ease once the news was out. She sipped her coffee and then buttered her toast.

“Give me one good reason why you think this is a good idea.”

She had many, but she offered the first that came to mind. “I need a change of scenery.” 

He snorted.

Perhaps he loved her as a brother ought, but he was hard-pressed to show it, even now. He’d never gotten over their father’s untimely death—neither had she. But she didn’t take it out on him a bite at a time. ~ Hope Is Built (Coming soon to a book seller near you!)

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5 Reasons to Love Romance During Romance Awareness Month

Davalynn Spencer  @davalynnspencer

Did you know that August is Romance Awareness Month?

Sounds good to me since I write Western romance. However, it’s also been six months since flaming-heart February, and it doesn’t hurt to be hit with a reminder of happily-ever-after.

Literarily speaking, “romance” is a genre that guarantees a happy ending. It is not to be confused with “love story,” because there you run into tales like Romeo and Juliet and the 1970’s hit movie, Love Story.

If you’re not so sure about romance, let me give you five reasons to love it:

Happy endings.Dreams come true.Overcoming.Hopefulness.Endings that are happy.

Okay, I admit it, all five reasons sound nearly alike, especially 1 and 5. Consider them matching facets of the same gem stone.

Romances may differ from love stories due to their happy endings, but good romance promises a not-so-easy trip along the way. No one wants to read about perfect Paul and Polly with their perfect lives. A good story runs on the fuel of conflict, heartache, and obstacles.

Why?

Because people want characters with wounds and scars. They want to see characters who struggle with disappointments and setbacks similar to real, everyday life. They want characters who fight the good fight and win.

It’s all about the win.

People need victory in the face of discouragement—even if that victory is not their own.

To me that sounds a lot like God’s story. It’s definitely a romance because it’s all about how much He loves us and how He will love us forever. It includes obstacles, human disappointments, and a diabolical bad guy. But God wins. Jesus defeated death through the cross, grave, and resurrection.

It was His victory, but we get to appropriate it. I’d call that a happy ending—or beginning, whichever way you want to look at it.

Life is full of enough unhappiness, so I choose to read (and write) stories that deal with struggles but also leave characters winning and readers (including me) feeling good.

What’s your favorite romance? Is it a book, a movie, or your own marriage? Comment below and I’ll enter your name in a drawing for a signed print copy of A Change of Scenery, Book 4 of the Cañon City Chronicles. (US address only for print copy. An e-copy will be sent elsewhere.)

I’d love to hear which romance got your attention and made you smile. But remember, you can’t pick Romeo and Juliet. No happy ending there.

But God is so rich in mercy, and he loved us so much,
that even though we were dead because of our sins,
he gave us life when he raised Christ from the dead.
It is only by God’s grace that you have been saved!
Ephesians 2:4-5 NLT

~

5 Reasons to Love Romance
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     Riding Barlow without benefit of a saddle had terrified Ella—and taken her back to her childhood. Once she found her center on the old mare’s broad back, a sense of control overpowered her fear of falling. How quickly old memories overwhelmed her—cantering bareback across the paddocks, loose hair flying, and her father’s groom grinning at the
rail, faithfully keeping her secret. Her family would have been horrified to learn she rode like a “plains Indian” from one of the Wild West shows.
     But she could not bring herself to thank Cale Hutton for his heavy-handed ways. She could have fallen. She could have broken her neck. She could have re-injured her leg. But she hadn’t. And she’d enjoyed a brief reprise of her lifelong love of riding. If she gained nothing else from this time at the ranch, she’d gained that. And for that she was grateful.
     Someday you will love again. Nana’s words worked to the surface. Why hadn’t she said Ella would ride again? Had she viewed that as more of an impossibility than marriage? But to be fair, Nana hadn’t said marriage either. She’d said love. ~A Change of Scenery

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Why Doesn’t God Do Something?

Davalynn Spencer  @davalynnspencer

“Why doesn’t God do something!”

Have you ever heard (or asked) that question?

I have, and most of the time it’s related to what I can see, which is a very limited perception.

For example, when it comes to critters, if I don’t see evidence of activity, I often doubt the presence of life.

Some people have unwisely made this assumption about teenagers.

However, just because we don’t see activity doesn’t mean life isn’t present, especially where God and teenagers are concerned.

I raised (survived) three teenagers, so I’m qualified to make that joke.

But I didn’t raise God, nor have I counseled Him. He doesn’t do chores for me, nor is He on my payroll.

He is God. Sovereign. Almighty. Eternal.

Many of the things He does I can’t see. I’m not talking about the things He’s done – like cover the sea with water and the heavens with clouds. Breathe into a clay figure and create a living human.

No, I mean what He’s doing in our earthly “now.” Right this minute.

A couple of verses from Psalm 146 grabbed my attention the other day because they were filled with action verbs about what God is doing. The Lord … 

Opens               (the eyes of the blind)

Raises               (those who are bowed down)

Loves                (the righteous)

Watches            (over the strangers)

Relieves            (the fatherless and widow)

Turns upside down     (the way of the wicked)

Apparently, God is doing plenty. But He’s not too busy to hear our cry for help and answer us.

After all, He’s God.

“Faith is the substance of things hoped for,
the evidence of things not seen.”
Hebrews 11:1 

~

Why doesn't God do something?
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Without invitation, Cale Hutton’s bold challenge in the pasture rose up, his daring grin and overwhelming presence that assured her he would have carried her back to the ranch house had she refused to ride the mare.

Ella sank lower in the tub and puffed out an irritated breath, rippling the water’s surface. He had crossed the line of propriety. Pushed her in spite of her insistence. And done exactly the opposite of everyone else. Perhaps it was his rancher’s wisdom that looked past her shortcomings and into her soul.

Dipping her head beneath the water, she rubbed her scalp, ridding her hair of the last reminder of ranch life—a life entirely different from hers. Cale lived here and she did not. He would stay behind when she left. Their lives were as different as . . .

Lard and butter. She rose from the water, his phrase pulling a smile from her lips. His acceptance of her, in spite of their differences, was like sweet butter on one of Clara’s perfect biscuits. If only Ella could look forward to such a life with such a man.

Stepping carefully from the tub, she toweled her hair and tied on her wrapper, acknowledging God’s full acceptance of her, His perfect care in spite of any turn of events. He was the one constant in her life, and that realization loosed her tears again. But this time they were not tears of despair, but of gratitude. ~A Change of Scenery

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Those Who Wait

Davalynn Spencer  @davalynnspencer

Isaiah 40:31 is a familiar verse to me, beautifully poetic about soaring on wings like eagles. It was an underlying theme in one of my novels, The Miracle Tree, and I’ve also written about it for Guideposts publications.

But last week I saw the verse with fresh eyes. I love how that happens—seeing something familiar from a new perspective.

The words that jumped into my heart and wiggled their toes into the mud were the first ten:

Those who wait upon the Lord will renew their strength.

Stop right there.

Forget about flying like an eagle, running a marathon, or walking a mile or four.

I rarely need adrenaline, but I often need strength to take the next breath and press on in the mundane.

God is telling me through this verse that I’ll find that strength when I wait on Him. However, wait is a four-letter word I’d rather not have in my vocabulary.

Can’t I pop an energy pill or guzzle a caffeine-laced beverage? I could eat energy-packed fruit like berries or pound protein-rich drinks. Surely there’s a quicker way to be renewed, rejuvenated, and revitalized.

Not really. Most of the approaches mentioned above wear off and leave us needing more. We can land in a slump, worse off than we were to begin with.

I am not knocking healthy eating. It is definitely a boost we can use. But when it comes to emotional and spiritual strength, food and drink can’t give me what I need.

So I have to take Him at His word. Wait on/for Him. Not drumming my fingers, bouncing my foot, or checking the time every thirty seconds. But waiting, as in looking to the Lord, expecting Him to answer

He says my strength will be renewed.

I’m going to trust Him.

~

He says my strength will be renewed.
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A hawk screed above them in a spiraling rise. Once it reached its flight point, it tilted off toward higher ground, its broad wings spread wide against a blue backdrop.

Laura relaxed, her head back as she watched the bird. “They ride the thermals, you know.”

“Hmm.” Eli ran his hand over her shoulder, enjoying the softness of her, breathing in her sweet scent. They’d never sat like this as kids. They’d never touched, other than him giving her a hand up or her slugging his arm.

“The heat carries them as it rises.” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

“All they do is spread their wings,” he said.

She stiffened and sat up, wonder washing her face. “That’s it!”

“That’s what?” He was quickly losing track of the conversation.

“That’s what I couldn’t figure out.”

“You couldn’t figure out that they spread their wings?”

Something in her retreated, and the mood between them shifted. What had he said? “Tell me what you mean.”

“It’s nothing.” She tugged her ponytail over her shoulder and combed through it with her fingers. “Something I’ve been thinking about for a few days, that’s all.”

“I’ll listen.”

A door closed in her beautiful brown eyes, and the stoicism returned. “Maybe when I understand it better myself.” ~The Miracle Tree

 

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Grief: The Healing Place – Part 3 of 3

Davalynn Spencer  @davalynnspencer

Grief breaks into our lives whether we are ready or not. Usually, we are not. But with God’s help, the broken pieces can be fit back together and made stronger. For Part 1 and Part 2 of this series on grief, see July 17, 2022, and July 24, 2022.

Part 3

I love the fact that mourning and morning sound just alike. One expresses sorrow and the other represents a new beginning. Together, they pretty much sum up my condition as I face the future.

Before my husband’s funeral, my pastor told me that mourning is one of the ways we show our love.

I liked that. It gave me permission to let go of my grief.

“Blessed are those who mourn,” Jesus said, “for they will be comforted.”

He was right.

That doesn’t mean I don’t miss or love my husband; it means I am comforted.

Over the years, I’ve been asked countless times, “How are you doing?”

What does one say to that?

“Fine.”

“Okay.”

“So-so.”

“All right.”

“Wretched.”

“Wonderful.”

“Dying on the inside.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Do you truly want to know?”

The real answer came to me one … morning:

“I’m in His hands.”

My reply set some people on their heels. A few agreed, and several looked puzzled. But everyone heard me.

There was nothing better to say and there is no place I’d rather be.

When I’m in His hands, I don’t have to be fine. I don’t have to understand. I don’t have to have answers. I can, like a child, lean back against Him and let go. “Your will be done, not mine.”

“Your will.” Two very powerful words. They ring with surrender.

I’ve thought about writing a book called The Willow God. It’s the story of a little girl who grows up wondering about the Willow God because she hears her mother praying to him in the night. She doesn’t realize until she is much older that Mama was saying, “Your will, O God.”

The first night I was alone, eight winters ago, I curled up on the floor in front of the woodstove. Six inches of snow skirted my house and temperatures hid beneath a 20-degree blanket.

The woodstove was a safe and quiet place.

Fire danced behind the glass of the door and, in time, became a companion of sorts—something warm and alive that I could sit near and watch each evening. Something from which I drew comfort.

I slept and ate and prayed and wrote before that fire.

I also sang and played my guitar.

One evening I sensed the Lord there, listening. I moved my chair over to make room for Him to join me.

Sound silly?

I didn’t see Him, didn’t hear Him, but I knew He was there.

How many times in my life have I moved something out of the way to make room for Jesus?

How many times in my life should I have done so when I didn’t?

That night in front of the woodstove with the fire glowing through the glass, I sang to Him. Old songs, new songs, most of them quiet and gentle because that was how I felt. It seemed I’d spent only a little while in His presence, yet when I looked at the clock, two hours had passed.

Is that what eternity will be like?

The space in front of the woodstove became a healing place, and I think that matters to God.

Long before my life was a possibility, He told Moses, “Here is a place by Me” (Exodus 33:21). 

He went on to say that He would cover Moses there with His hand. So Moses waited in that place.

No substitute can be found for waiting on the Lord, but it requires trust.

Trust is often just doing the next thing – like the dishes. The laundry. Mowing the yard or stacking firewood. The next thing can be my salvation, taking a step forward, trusting He will sweep up the pieces if I fall.

There are triggers. Pain sneaks up on me when I’m not looking. But God is the Great Recycler of human wreckage. He knows how to fit the pieces together and make them stronger.

Life goes on, they say, and it does. It just goes on differently.

Jesus goes on with us as we move ahead.

He is beside us each day—if we allow Him to get that close—walking with us through the triggers and the pain, whispering His peace as we lie down at night.

And He is there in the morning, waiting for us.

Just like He was in the valley.

~

Life goes on...it just goes on differently.
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Grief: Sorrow Shared – Part 2 of 3

Davalynn Spencer  @davalynnspencer

We all meet grief at some point in our lives. There is no right, better, or perfect way to grieve, but sharing our experiences with others can help us in our own journey. For Part 1 of this 3-part series, click here.

Part 2 

During the years of my husband’s paralysis and traumatic-brain-injury issues, it became more and more difficult for me to attend funerals, so I stopped.

I stopped because I knew if I fell apart I wouldn’t be able to carry all of me to the car without dropping something.

It wasn’t the grief of other families that bothered me at funerals. It was the freedom of their loved one who had passed into the presence of Jesus. It was the liberation that person had finally experienced. The severing of painful and unbearable earthly shackles that I …

resented.

That’s hard to confess. It took me a long time to even realize what it was.

I grieved because the husband I’d known was gone, yet wasn’t. I grieved when I visited his facility and he didn’t know me. I grieved anew when COVID quarantines took even the visits away.

Isolation dominated my grief, because there were only certain people I wanted to share it with, and G. Public was not one of them.

Fellow members of a small-group Bible study had come to the out-of-town hospital on the (very late) night of my husband’s accident. They were there, and that was what I needed—their presence.

They knew I didn’t need answers, explanations, or platitudes.

Those who were close to me carried my pain. They didn’t give me advice, try to explain why, or tell me what I should do … though a retired nurse and mother of many told me to rest because I was going to need it. She was right.

As days rolled into months and years, another friend often called from out-of-state, let me cry the ugly cry, and then prayed for me over the phone.

One of the most comforting things spoken to me was, “I understand.” I rarely needed more than that. It somehow helped redistribute the burden without requiring me to respond graciously.

I merely wanted to melt into the floor unnoticed. Disappear into a pew at church and not talk. Not share. Not have to smile and nod. I wanted the music to carry me on the voices of other worshippers as I offered my own sacrifice. A broken heart.

But everyone is not like me. Grief is too personal for generalities.

For some people, it is easier to share with strangers. They find help in grief counseling or in groups at Hospice, nursing homes, or churches.

As time passed, I discovered the double edge of a familiar scripture. “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ,” says Galatians 6:2. It cuts both ways. 

That mandate also applies to those who are suffering. Even as we grieve, we can look outside ourselves and find others we can help. People all around us are in need and in pain, but we may never know it unless we ask God to show us.

We don’t have to bombard them (please don’t). Be sensitive. Find out what they need by asking someone else if necessary. Pour into their lives anonymously. Pray for them.

That is sorrow shared.

One message I received from a friend was signed, “Lifting you up.” She had no idea what those words meant to me.

It turned out that I was not forgotten after all. Even in spite of my self-inflicted solitude.

~

If you are someone who finds healing in groups, check with your local church, hospital, Hospice, and nursing homes. You may also find comfort through the following links:

https://www.griefrecoverymethod.com/our-programs/support-groups

https://www.griefshare.org/

https://hospicefoundation.org/Grief-(1)/Support-Groups

Always Before Me – 90 Story Devotions for Women

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Grief: The Intimacy of Suffering – Part 1 of 3

Davalynn Spencer  @davalynnspencer

Everyone faces grief at some point in their life. There is no right, better, or perfect way to deal with it. We just deal with it. In our own way.

But there are many little broken bits we have in common with others, and we often find comfort in sharing those fragments.

In this past year since my husband’s lingering disability and death, I have been asked about grieving. Starting with today’s blog, I will share in a three-part series what I have learned along the way. Much of it may be familiar to you. Some of it you may find unusual or unbelievable. But hopefully, in the fragments—the pieces of brokenness—you’ll find comfort.

Part 1 

I wanted it to be over.

Let me rephrase that:

I REALLY wanted it to be OVER!

I was tired of hurting and just plain tired.

But –  (Don’t you love the buts in life?) –

the painful, lonely days were days I had to go through. Part of the process.

I remember falling to my knees in my living room one evening, my heart bleeding from my eyes and dripping into my hands.

And in that surreal moment of knowing Jesus was near – so near, I felt His breath on my hair.

“Really?” someone asked me later. “Did you really feel His breath on your hair?”

Yes.

Which is more real – the physical, limited world in which I exist or the realm of His soul-peace in which I live?

During those earliest days of suffering, I experienced His nearness in ways I had not known before I was alone.

It is the aloneness we kick against, that valley I didn’t want to walk—no, wait—I didn’t walk it. I crawled.

There is no shortcut. I had to go through the valley of shadow without the flesh-and-blood companion I’d once had.

I know, I know—I wasn’t really alone, you say. But in the valley, I felt alone … except for that staff of the Shepherd I kept bumping up against in the dark, that breath on my hair.

Everything was so different, and I didn’t like it. But still the Shepherd set a place for me at the table. He fed me when I didn’t want to eat. Especially not with my enemies lurking nearby—

Fear
Longing
Depression
Craving for human touch
The ugly cry that wrecks your voice 

Yet the valley was where I discovered the intimacy of suffering—that precious gift found only there.

So I waited.

I wait for the Lord,
My soul waits,
And in His word do I hope.
My soul waits for the Lord
More than those who watch for the morning –
Psalm 130:5 

Grief isn’t something you get over; it’s something you get through.

Like a valley.

~

Grief isn’t something we get over; it’s something we get through.
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Always Before Me – 90 Story        Devotions for Women

 

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The post Grief: The Intimacy of Suffering – Part 1 of 3 appeared first on Davalynn Spencer.

It’s Easy to Get Sidetracked

Davalynn Spencer  @davalynnspencer

Life speaks to us metaphorically all the time. Consider the word “sidetracked.”

The Online Etymology Dictionary (not the bug book) says the word is from the old railroad days (1874) when a “side-track” or railway siding allowed train cars to move onto a sidetrack.

The figurative sense as in “to divert from the main purpose” is referenced from around 1881, says OED.

I know for a fact that it’s easy to get sidetracked. No engineers or switches required.

The Bible tells us to carefully choose the path or road we take in life.

I’ve often wondered about different paths and have been diverted by interesting looking frontage roads. Sometimes I’ve looked to the horizon when what I needed was right in front of me.

My pastor says if we’re looking for direction or some place to serve, check out what is “right here.” Then he waves his hand in front of his face.

Yes, that’s a pretty good way of putting it.

God doesn’t hide His will for us in a deep dark cave and dare us to find it. I believe he makes it clear—if we’re paying attention.

A group of my favorite verses is found in Proverbs 4:25-27, NLT – “Look straight ahead, and fix your eyes on what lies before you. Mark out a straight path for your feet; stay on the safe path. Don’t get sidetracked; keep your feet from following evil.”

So why is it that I’m sometimes tempted to jump onto one of those “side-tracks?”

It may be the human condition which is why I was so encouraged last week when I read Psalm 25:4-5 in the New Living Translation:

Show me the right path, O LORD;
Point out the road for me to follow.
Lead me by your truth and teach me,
For you are the God who saves me.
All day long I put my hope in you.

I typed this verse out and taped copies in key places around the house. Like on the bathroom mirror where I’ll see it first thing in the morning. It’s a great reminder.

Do you have a favorite verse that speaks to your heart? Try printing it out (or writing it if you have legible handwriting) and taping it in places you’ll see it.

Life is full of diversions. We need all the reminders we can get.

~

It’s easy to get sidetracked.
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Turning away from the barn, Cale struck out on a southerly trail that led up to the ridge. Ella followed close behind. He’d prefer to have her beside him, where he could look at her, see her smart little chin and dark eyes. But unfamiliar with the country, she belonged behind him in the dark.

Reflexively, he reassured himself by touching the rifle sheathed beneath his right leg. His revolver rested against his thigh. Not that he expected trouble, but neither would he be unprepared.

Doc took to the loose shale like a big horn sheep, Barlow just as sure-footed behind him. The night slid by degree toward the western mountain peaks, stars winking out to gray in its wake.

At the top, he reined in and Ella came up beside him. Doc blew a triumphant snort and bobbed his head. Barlow pricked her ears to the east as if listening for the sun’s footsteps.

Ella remained silent, her face trained toward the horizon where a russet thread pulled along its edge.

A wren sang out. Its cousins joined, and soon a chorus filled the cedars and pines around them.

A slow, fiery orange split the seam between earth and sky, and Ella’s breathy oh cinched him again. A hot stain burned into his chest, and grateful that she couldn’t see him clearly, he slid his right hand beneath his vest and rubbed the spot.

The fire bled to gold that bled to pink, and light broke through a low band of clouds throwing spires into the sky.

“If I take the wings of the morning …” ~A Change of Scenery, Book 5 of The Cañon City Chronicles

 

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