Davalynn Spencer's Blog, page 36

Perfectly Complete

By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

My friend Lynne Schricker creates magnificent bronze horses, and her years of experience as a seasoned horsewoman bring a sense of life to her sculptures.

As a trainer, rider, and winning rodeo competitor, she knows the flick of an ear and a worthy eye, the strength of bunched muscle and willing heart, the companionable nudge of a life-long friend.

In the formation of her projects,  she doesn’t quit on the clay, but stays at the sculpting and crafting until it’s finished, ready for the molding and firing, sanding and mounting.

Her work begins with the very core of the figure and progresses from the inside out. 

Much like God’s work with us.

This Labor Day weekend, let’s remember that God will never quit on us either, not until we are perfectly complete.

Whether you celebrate today with a mini-vacation, family get-together, or read-a-thon on the sofa, hammock, or lawn chair, consider that God, “who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns” (Phil.1:6 NLT).

~

God will never quit on us.
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See Lynne’s work at Sculpted by Schrick.

Lady H grazed unhurriedly, her brassy coat a bold contrast to the pasture’s deep green. A week-old filly walked close by, all leg with a bottle-brush tail and enough spunk to toss its head and prance a few steps away. But not far. Not yet. She trotted back to nuzzle her mother’s flank and tell the world with a twitching tail that life was good.   ~The Miracle Tree

 

 

 

 

 

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Prepared for the Day of Battle

By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

These beautiful horses are from a string of bucking stock owned by Miller Rodeo Company out of Colorado. Believe me, they are well-prepared for the day of battle – once or twice a week all summer long for eight seconds at a time.

Their brawn and maneuverability far outshine that of their opponents, cowboys averaging between 130 and 200 pounds.

If the fight were always about size and strength, these equine athletes would win every time. But there’s more to bareback or saddle bronc riding than who’s the strongest.

Timing, finesse, and skill all figure into the contest. So do equipment and attitude.

Seems clear, yet we often miss the metaphor when looking at the bucking circumstances of our life. We fail to see what isn’t visible.

The odds may be against us, but the Lord isn’t.

We may feel alone in the battle, but we’re not.

We may see only the face of the enemy—

loss

pain

death.

But the Lord is there, conquering what we cannot.

Rodeo is not the only arena in which equipment and attitude make a difference. However, we have even more than that on our side, especially when all the timing, finesse, and skill in the world can’t prepare us for heart-wrenching surprises.

We have an invaluable promise we can sink our spurs into:

“Deliverance is of the Lord” (Proverbs 21:31).

~

The odds may be against us.
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The breeze kicked up and a hushed, breathy sound rasped against the mulberry leaves. Soon the whisper swelled and spread to the porch roof. Heaven opened and rain fell over the house like a veil, soaking the pastures and trees. the cattle stood unbothered in the downpour.

Setting her Bible aside, Laura rose and leaned against the railing, then stretched her hands beyond the eaves. Lightning struck across the valley and thunder quickly followed. Two miles away, at most.

She peered through the grainy dusk, finding the spot where the ancient tree stood anchoring that corner of her land. Anchoring her soul. And with a hint of hope, she walked to the end of the porch and down the steps into the rain.

“I think I get it, God.” Closing her eyes, she opened her arms wide like the hawk, lifted her face, and let her tears mingle with the rain. ~The Miracle Tree

 

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Come Away … and Rest

By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

Is there a place you go to escape the crush and commotion of life? A place where it’s quiet enough to hear yourself think? Hear God whisper to your heart.

For Laura Bell in The Miracle Tree, her quiet place was the front porch swing of her hilltop home:

Crickets trilled from the pond, and a bullfrog bellowed in the rushes along the banks. From somewhere to her right an owl offered a throaty call, answered moments later by another. No coyotes whined, no dogs barked, no cars traveled the county road skirting the ranch. All the world slept.

Relaxing, she burrowed deeper into the quilt folds and the movement caused the swing to sway. She could sleep like this, cuddled beneath the stars, in the shelter of her porch.

Jesus encouraged His disciples to “get away from it all” and rest – even in those pre-technology days. How much more must we need such a break?

We can’t always go on vacation or take a cruise whenever we want. But we can find a place, perhaps early in the day or late in the evening, where we can be alone.

Leave a comment below about your quiet place or your intention to find one. Your comment will enter you in the random drawing for a chance to win an e-book copy of The Miracle Tree.

~

Come away and rest.
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“You’re not defined by your injuries, Eli Hawthorne.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Finding Truth in Fiction

By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

Some people wonder what goes into the making of a novel, and with good reason. There’s so much more to writing fiction than lining up words on a page.

For me, it’s about finding truth.

August 23 is the release date for the repackaged “director’s cut” version of my contemporary novel, The Miracle Tree (formerly The Rancher’s Second Chance).

The story germinated in my mind years ago, a tale of two childhood friends who grew up and apart, then back together again. A story of second chances and trust.

But for my fictional characters to develop fully, I needed outside help from real people. I needed truth.

The hero, Eli Hawthorne III, is a wounded veteran and rancher. His injuries came to life via information shared with me by two good friends, Vietnam veteran Bob Marshall of Boulder, Colorado, and the late Charlie Brown of Cañon City, Colorado.

Military-related details—specifics so important to painting an accurate picture—were provided by Kit Jones, COL (Ret), US Army, from Cañon City, Colorado.

Fence-building expertise came from the late Steven Fitton of Springville, California. His reputation as a fence-builder extraordinaire is rivaled by none, and his skills brought fresh insight.

Lupe Ramos, with whom I worked in the Strathmore (Calif.) Union Elementary School District, helped me with the Spanish language, so integral to my beloved secondary character and mentor, Garcia.

And Garcia’s talent for shoeing horses was the direct result of input from my husband, Mike, himself a farrier for many years.

Other bits and pieces of characters’ lives have come from people I’ve observed and listened to, and even from my own personal experiences.

Life with a novelist has its risks, as my daughter Amanda (also a part of this book) pointed out so cleverly with a recent coffee mug gift:

Aside from creating characters that bear the wonders and warts of real people, novelists also thread themes and messages through their fiction whether they realize it or not (as strange as that sounds). One reader will pick up on something that another doesn’t see because each reader comes to a book with the background of his or her own life story.

Goodreads early reviewer Diane listed the following character quotes as her favorites from The Miracle Tree:

“You’re not defined by your injuries, Eli Hawthorne.”

“We all bear scars of some type, but with God’s healing touch, we survive and grow. By His grace, we carry on.”

“The unknown is often frightening, but Jesus said He would never leave us. Our job is to move forward, into the future, trusting Him.”

Sometimes truth squeezes out through the cracks in our lives—or the lives of our characters.

There’s more to the story-behind-the-story of The Miracle Tree, but I don’t want to spoil the surprise that awaits readers at the end of the book.

I hope you’ll order a copy and that you’ll enjoy reading the tale of Eli Hawthorne and Laura Bell as much as I enjoyed discovering it.

~

Sometimes truth squeezes out through the cracks in our lives.
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Just as Laura remembered, thick bark lipped over the edges of a deep scar. The tree stood as if supported by only the outer skin. No core, no solid trunk like other trees, simply a stiff, crusty mantel that held it upright.

She still didn’t understand how anything could survive such damage and live wrapped around an empty space where once a heart had been.

But she knew what it felt like to try. ~The Miracle Tree 

 

 

 

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Don’t Wait Until You’re Thirsty

By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

In early June, I enjoyed a personal writer-research stay at Badger Creek Ranch, a working cattle ranch tucked into the high country of Colorado at 8,800 feet.

While there, I was often reminded to drink water.

“Don’t wait until you’re thirsty,” a staff member said. “When you’re thirsty, it’s too late.”

I live at about 5,500 feet, so I thought I was well-enough acclimated that extra water wouldn’t make that much difference at an altitude only a few thousand feet higher.

It did.

One afternoon, light-headedness from a waterless morning almost kept me from riding out across the high range as I considered the ramifications of doing a header off my horse.

It’s easy to take an everyday amenity for granted—something you’re so used to that you don’t even think about it.

Until you need it.

I don’t do that anymore with water, and I don’t want to do it with the Lord either. Meeting with Him on a regular basis, and keeping Him in view during the day helps me not run dry. Facing challenges and stressful situations is much easier when I’m well-hydrated on His word.

This link clearly explains the importance of water at high elevations.   

This link clearly explains the importance of filling up on Jesus.

~

Don't wait until you're thirsty.
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Elizabeth gave a courteous nod and stepped out onto the boardwalk, drinking in great gulps of semi-fresh air as she closed the door. Though muddled with dirt, horse manure, and axle grease, the street was a flowing brook compared to Mr. Rochester’s stagnant office.                                                                          ~An Unexpected Redemption

 

 

 

 

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In Fire and Flood – Unfailing Love

By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

Fires and floods have ravaged wilderness and communities alike this summer, and many of us know people who have suffered extreme loss.

For some, the fires and floods have been literal scourging flame and sweeping deluge. Others have experienced great emotional loss and pain that has swept into their lives leaving little behind but ashes and mud.

Let us weep with those who weep, lift them in our prayers, and give them aid, remembering with the Psalmist that God is with us in both extremes.

Now I am deeply discouraged,

but I will remember you…

I hear the tumult of the raging seas

as your waves and surging tides

sweep over me.

But each day the Lord pours

his unfailing love upon me,

and through each night

I sing his songs.

Psalm 42:6-8 NLT

~

But each day the Lord pours his unfailing love upon me.
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Don’t Let the Rigors of Rejection Turn to Rigor Mortis

By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

Rejection. We all know what it tastes like—bitter, regardless of how well-preserved our self-esteem.

As a child, I often played the piano for school talent shows, winning awards in some and going unnoticed in others. On those losing occasions, my mother would say, “You will always play better than some people, but not as well as others. Something else will come along.”

Her wise words lengthened my perspective and helped me bear the bite of childhood disappointment.

Later rejections involved a certain boy in my high school American History class and job applications for which I just knew I was the most qualified. Failure to land a coveted teaching position after college hurt deeply.

My most stinging rejection in recent years involved a novella manuscript turned down by an acquisitions editor for inclusion in a historical Christmas collection. The setback was a blow to my career as an author, or so I thought.

After licking my wounds for a few days, I set to work stretching that same storyline into a full-length novel. Another publishing house plucked it up as a stand-alone (a single book), and offered me a three-book contract for books 2 and 3 to follow.

I signed on the dotted line, quivering only slightly since I’d not yet written books 2 and 3.

Had I sold that first novella, the story would have been gone. If I’d given up and quit, that may have truly been the end of my career as a novelist. However, that so-called loss became the seed that grew into my three-book series, The Cañon City Chronicles, re-released last year under a single cover.

All because of an early rejection.

My recent multi-award-winning novel, An Improper Proposal, was also rejected early on. Published elsewhere, it has been my best-selling novel to date.

Mother was right. Her rendition of Romans 8:28 has carried me through many potholes of rejection over the years, and I expect it will see me through others yet to come.

May we remember that God has a way of working everything out for good in the lives of His children. Even the most bitter and painful of rejections and disappointments.

He’s the great recycler of human wreckage, and He encourages us to not give up, but to press on for the prize.

~

Don't Let the Rigors of Rejection Turn to Rigor Mortis
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He’s the great recycler of human wreckage.
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“Livvy—wait.”

She would rather die. Lifting her skirt with one hand, she gripped the bench seat with the other and climbed up the wheel spokes.

Whit ran to the horse and grabbed its bridle. “Livvy, that was nearly ten years ago. We were children. Can’t we start over?”

The only thing she wanted to start over was his foot. With a hard yank, she slapped the reins on the horse’s rump and nearly got her wish as the wagon lurched ahead. Whit jumped out of the way.

Expecting to see an impish grin plastered on his face, she frowned at the pain gripping his features. Maybe she had run over his foot. She pulled on the reins, but the barn-soured horse would not be deterred and continued forward.

It was just as well, for stinging regret watered her eyes and blurred her vision, and she would not let Whit Hutton see her cry.                                                                                                                                                    ~Straight to My Heart – Book 2 of The Canon City Chronicles

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The Grass is Always Greener Under the Grandstands

By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

Ike was my husband’s rodeo clown mule.

Yes, we had Mike and Ike. In the picture above, you can see the former treating the latter to a cowboy pedicure.

A few years earlier, Mike’s uncle Charlie Booth saved Ike from the killer-pen because he knew good horse+ flesh when he saw it. The little mule turned out to be a great rodeo-parade and grand-entry mount.

Narrow and neat, he was a nice looking fella who once won the Delta County Mule Race in Hotchkiss, Colo., because he didn’t weigh 1,200 pounds and wasn’t carrying a heavy roping saddle like all the other entrants. Our 14-year-old son, Chad, rode him with a bareback pad and his ball cap turned around backwards which made some of the locals think we’d hired a jockey.

Those Delta County mule men weren’t happy about the clown’s mule (bell-cut tail and all) riding off with the coveted hand-carved trophy.

Ike may have had some thoroughbred in his blood, but he was good at other things besides running. Like getting stuck under the bleachers.

That’s a trap you have to work at to get into.

And your owner has to work at getting you out.

I think most of us can relate to Ike. Sometimes we go out of our way to get into a fix. We should be smarter, but we’re not because the grass is always greener under the grandstands.

Unlike Ike, I can usually read the warnings, yet I plow ahead anyway thinking it just might be worth it.

It never is.

Ike wasn’t thrilled about being hog tied and dragged out beneath the cross struts and supports of the rodeo bleachers, and I’m usually a little worse for wear after God gets me out of a storm.

But He loves me, and that’s why He cares enough to drag me out of the messes I get myself into. Not only am I redeemed, I’m repeatedly rescued.

And I’m awfully grateful that He doesn’t just leave me behind to starve to death under the bleachers.

You are my help and my deliverer; O my God, do not delay. (Psalm 40:17)

~

The grass is always greener under the grandstands.
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Redeemed and repeatedly rescued.
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A cloud scuttled across her face.

He read the signs, and another maverick thought circled his good sense. This time he followed it. “Forgiveness is hardest when it’s ourselves that need forgiving.” ~An Unexpected Redemption

 

 

 

 

 

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“…become like little children…”

By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

Recently, I spent time with my youngest granddaughter watching a hummingbird through my office window.

To her, the tiny bird was a marvelous, magical creature.

She was fascinated by the movement of it’s tail. I understood how it worked, knew it functioned as a rudder for aerial acrobatics.

Unlike me, she watched the flitting hummer, captivated by its quick movement because she didn’t understand how it worked.

Observing the common, everyday bird through her inexperienced, 4-year-old eyes let me see the winged wonder more clearly and experience again the fresh joy of discovery.

Could such an undertone have colored the words of Jesus when he said, “… unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven”? (Matthew 18:3 NIV). 

I’ve had to give Jesus’ conditional phrasing serious thought, for he wasted no words.

I suspect that changing and becoming like a child has to do with unhurried observation, unfaltering faith, and unquestioning trust. Children excel in such innocence. At least until they spend enough time around us hurried, flustered, short-tempered grownups and eventually learn to emulate our behavior.

Maybe we need to slow down to wonder-speed, take a closer look, and marvel at God’s handiwork around us.

Maybe we should take him at his word when he says he loves us unconditionally.

And maybe we should trust him to lift us on the wings of majestic eagles – and tiny, insignificant hummingbirds.

~

Slow down to wonder-speed.
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Elizabeth had been enjoying the outing, feeding her hungry soul on the scenes of her childhood, and marveling at the graceful ease with which that otherwise gangly dog loped across the grassland. She’d let her guard down again, in spite of her resolve, and Sheriff Garrett Wilson had picked it up and run off with it, the opportunistic lout.

 

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Wild ‘n Woolly

By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

When my husband, Mike, was rodeoing fulltime as a clown and bullfighter, the Red Lodge Home of Champions Rodeo over the Fourth of July was my all-time favorite.

Red Lodge, Montana, lies at the base of the Bear Tooth Mountains and is known as the gateway to Yellowstone National Park. But it also harkens back to the early West when more than just the horses were “wild ’n woolly ’n full of fleas.”

Every July we’d park our rig at the rodeo grounds a few days early and set up camp with other contract personnel, specifically the Linger Rodeo Company. Bess Linger, stock-contractor Sonny’s wife, always invited everyone to join in on the potluck-style meals she called “fall-out.”

“Open your refrigerator,” she’d say. “Whatever falls out is what’s for supper.”

The rodeo grounds shared a fence with the local airport and its bacon strip-sized runway. Rough-stock riders were known to charter small planes and fly into Red Lodge in their attempt to make as many performances as possible during “Cowboy Christmas”—code for rodeos everywhere and within shooting distance.

These cowboys didn’t haul a horse, so they’d fly in, jump out, toss their bronc saddle, bareback rigging, or bull rope  and themselves over the chain-link fence, then head for the chutes and clock their eight seconds.

Then they’d roll up their gear, hop the fence, and climb back into the plane for the next performance on their Cowboy Christmas-in-July circuit.

Wild ’n woolly indeed.

One July after we made camp for the three-day stay, I felt urgently compelled to pray.

Prayer is a big part of rodeo—even for nonbelievers. But for me as a bullfighter’s wife, prayer was my life’s calling.

However, the urgency I felt that particular day was unlike anything I’d felt before, and it prompted me to do something I’d never done before: walk the perimeter of the rodeo grounds praying.

I set out along the chain-link fence, asking for safety and the Lord’s protection over the competitors, livestock, contract personnel, attendees, facility, and everything else I could think of.

It wasn’t any big deal. Nobody knew what I was doing. I just walked and prayed – along the fence, behind the aluminum bleachers, down the other side past old wooden grandstands hugging one side of the arena, then back around to the holding pens and a grassy spot where cattle trucks, trailers, and personnel families parked.

Then I went to our rig and started lunch.

A couple of days later, Red Lodge held their annual Fourth of July Parade. (In the photo above, you can see Mike leading the crew and our 7-year-old son, Jake, (standing) on Rodeo Rose.

Before the parade was over, I took our 3-year-old daughter, Amanda, back “home” so I could get things ready for lunch and start preparing for the performance.

A small airplane attempted to land at the tiny airport next door, but the pilot pulled up and came in from the opposite direction for another run at it. Not a good idea, considering wind direction.

The plane tipped and swept in low, skimming over the livestock and trailers. It barely cleared the old grandstands, then crashed in an irrigation ditch on the other side, just outside the perimeter of the rodeo grounds.

Mike, Jake, and trick-and-Roman-rider, Max Reynolds, loped in from the parade. They’d seen the crash. Mike grabbed a bucket, and he and Max ran to the site where they helped the pilot out and then his wife who was trapped in the wreckage. Fuel was leaking down the wing, and Mike used the bucket and irrigation-ditch water to wash the fuel away.

Someone got into the rodeo office (no cell phones then) and called for an ambulance.

Safe, and more stunned than anything, the pilot (not a cowboy) and his wife said they were a little surprised by the pair that came to their rescue, seemingly out of nowhere: a guy wearing baggy pants, clown makeup and a wig, and another one wearing a one-piece sparkly lamé jumpsuit and a cowboy hat.

Wild ’n sparkly?

But most stunned of all was the clown’s wife, awed by the timing, placement, and circumstances of what could have been a horrific ball-of-fire, loss-of-life tragedy.

I’m not saying I stopped or prevented anything. But I will say God knows things we don’t. There are angels among us doing the Lord’s bidding and listening when one of His children starts calling.

Some of those angels we can’t see.

And some may wear clown paint and lamé

~

I just walked and prayed.
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God knows things we don’t.
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