Robin E. Mason's Blog: Robin's Book Shelf, page 203
June 27, 2014
Identity: Why I Write What I Write
I’ve always been fascinated with
twins.
I always wished I had a twin.
I wanted to BE a twin.
But I’m not.
I’m just me.
[yeah, yeah, yeah,
the world don’t need
TWO of ME!]
Can you imagine!
I don’t know how old I was
the first time I watched
Sybil.
I was fascinated,
intrigued,
near entranced.
Something about her story
spoke to me.
Not the abuse,
but the people,
personalities,
identities
she had.
They spoke
loud and clear.
Identities.
Multiple identities.
Safe identities.
Having a bad day?
Be another person.
Be another you.
Hide in your
other persona.
Your other identity.
One of your identities.
Be someone new,
someone with confidence,
someone with sparkle,
with chutzpa.
As I recall,
Sybil had sixteen known personalities.
Victoria was the confident one,
the defiant one,
the one in charge.
Why did this intrigue me so?
And why have my stories
ended up with characters who have
multiple personalities?
Or a twin?
Or who take another identity?
I pondered this a while back,
and I was thunderstruck
with the answer.
I was so intrigued because
I didn’t like me.
I didn’t want to be me.
I wanted to be someone else.
Anyone else.
My affinity for acting is,
in fact,
acting out this very thing.
For all my lack of confidence off stage,
on stage,
I was utterly confident.
Not in my acting ability,
although that is pretty stellar,
if I do say so myself!
No,
my confidence onstage
was not confidence in myself,
but in the character I was portraying.
It wasn’t me.
I wasn’t me.
I was
Dr. Anne Armstrong,
Edith Frank, mother of Anne Frank,
Emilie Ducotel,
Aunt Eller.
Fast forward a few decades,
and step back a few weeks.
My blog entitled,
“Friendship,”
[2 May 2014]
“Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was invisible.
Or she thought she was invisible,
felt that way at least.
And when she felt people were staring at her,
she wished she was invisible.
That little girl was me.
Hello,
my name is Robin,
and I’m a recovering invisiblet.
I wasn't shy,
I was terrified.”
Well,
I’m happy to say,
I’m not anymore.
Not terrified,
not shy,
not an invisible.
But my characters,
apparently,
are.
Cassie wasn’t shy, really,
nor did she lack confidence,
nor was she terrified.
But she was invisible.
Lizzie is shy,
painfully so,
and terrified.
And she is
an invisiblet.
I have many stories in my head,
and as I look across the landscape
of my imagination,
I see many such characters.
Cassie’s story,
Tessa,
has come to its end.
[can’t say more than that,
t’would give it away –
you’ll have to buy it and read it yourself!]
Lizzie,
poor thing,
I’m not sure yet how her end will be.
And by ‘end’
I mean the end of her story,
and I fear, the end of her.
There’s Rachel York,
and Rosalie Muir,
Daisy and Caroline and Lucinda.
I don’t know their stories yet,
not fully.
But I know they’re there,
waiting their turn.
And I know there are personalities,
identities,
to answer to.
Of course,
I’ll have some fun with twin antics, too.
E and M might just be my next tale…
So to answer my question,
posed at the beginning,
the title of the post,
Why do I Write What I Write?
To best answer that
I shall go back to the first story I told.
Mine.
Entitled,
Under the Shadow,
it chronicles not only my story,
but sagas through
two preceding generations.
“Under the Shadow”
is two-fold in meaning:
under the shadow of depression,
which I was for many years.
But also
under the shadow
of His wing,
which I have been
and will be
always.
[it may or may not ever see publication]
I started writing as self-proscribed therapy.
And discovered that
a) I liked it
and b) I was good,
am good,
at it.
Storytelling,
writing,
noveling.
As I wrote my story,
I chronicled many of my childhood recollections and anecdotes.
And horror stories.
(and no, nothing like Sybil)
But the outcome,
the resolution,
the silver lining,
was all fiction.
(At that time, it was yet fiction.)
And what I wrote was,
the insipid little invisiblet
gained her confidence,
her identity,
her life.
And all my stories,
it seems,
fit this standard.
All of my stories reveal the untold story
of an invisiblet.
All of my stories
tell of the struggle and agony
of being lost and unidentified.
Fingerprints do not identity make.
Not all my stories have pretty endings,
their resolutions happy and neat and tidy.
Some end darkly,
and sad,
and horrific.
But all of my stories tell the tale of identity,
of conflict,
of discovery.
And that’s
Why I Write What I Write.
In a recent blog interview I read,
the question was posed,
“If you had to come up with a book title to describe your life,
what would it be?”
I thought about that for myself.
What would I title a book that told my story.
Thought I’d have to spend time pondering,
perfecting just the right turn of catchy phrase,
when,
BAM,
there it was.
The title.
My title.
It is,
of course,
Invisible No More.
I’ll write it some day,
of course.
twins.
I always wished I had a twin.
I wanted to BE a twin.
But I’m not.
I’m just me.
[yeah, yeah, yeah,
the world don’t need
TWO of ME!]
Can you imagine!
I don’t know how old I was
the first time I watched
Sybil.
I was fascinated,
intrigued,
near entranced.
Something about her story
spoke to me.
Not the abuse,
but the people,
personalities,
identities
she had.
They spoke
loud and clear.
Identities.
Multiple identities.
Safe identities.
Having a bad day?
Be another person.
Be another you.
Hide in your
other persona.
Your other identity.
One of your identities.
Be someone new,
someone with confidence,
someone with sparkle,
with chutzpa.
As I recall,
Sybil had sixteen known personalities.
Victoria was the confident one,
the defiant one,
the one in charge.
Why did this intrigue me so?
And why have my stories
ended up with characters who have
multiple personalities?
Or a twin?
Or who take another identity?
I pondered this a while back,
and I was thunderstruck
with the answer.
I was so intrigued because
I didn’t like me.
I didn’t want to be me.
I wanted to be someone else.
Anyone else.
My affinity for acting is,
in fact,
acting out this very thing.
For all my lack of confidence off stage,
on stage,
I was utterly confident.
Not in my acting ability,
although that is pretty stellar,
if I do say so myself!
No,
my confidence onstage
was not confidence in myself,
but in the character I was portraying.
It wasn’t me.
I wasn’t me.
I was
Dr. Anne Armstrong,
Edith Frank, mother of Anne Frank,
Emilie Ducotel,
Aunt Eller.
Fast forward a few decades,
and step back a few weeks.
My blog entitled,
“Friendship,”
[2 May 2014]
“Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was invisible.
Or she thought she was invisible,
felt that way at least.
And when she felt people were staring at her,
she wished she was invisible.
That little girl was me.
Hello,
my name is Robin,
and I’m a recovering invisiblet.
I wasn't shy,
I was terrified.”
Well,
I’m happy to say,
I’m not anymore.
Not terrified,
not shy,
not an invisible.
But my characters,
apparently,
are.
Cassie wasn’t shy, really,
nor did she lack confidence,
nor was she terrified.
But she was invisible.
Lizzie is shy,
painfully so,
and terrified.
And she is
an invisiblet.
I have many stories in my head,
and as I look across the landscape
of my imagination,
I see many such characters.
Cassie’s story,
Tessa,
has come to its end.
[can’t say more than that,
t’would give it away –
you’ll have to buy it and read it yourself!]
Lizzie,
poor thing,
I’m not sure yet how her end will be.
And by ‘end’
I mean the end of her story,
and I fear, the end of her.
There’s Rachel York,
and Rosalie Muir,
Daisy and Caroline and Lucinda.
I don’t know their stories yet,
not fully.
But I know they’re there,
waiting their turn.
And I know there are personalities,
identities,
to answer to.
Of course,
I’ll have some fun with twin antics, too.
E and M might just be my next tale…
So to answer my question,
posed at the beginning,
the title of the post,
Why do I Write What I Write?
To best answer that
I shall go back to the first story I told.
Mine.
Entitled,
Under the Shadow,
it chronicles not only my story,
but sagas through
two preceding generations.
“Under the Shadow”
is two-fold in meaning:
under the shadow of depression,
which I was for many years.
But also
under the shadow
of His wing,
which I have been
and will be
always.
[it may or may not ever see publication]
I started writing as self-proscribed therapy.
And discovered that
a) I liked it
and b) I was good,
am good,
at it.
Storytelling,
writing,
noveling.
As I wrote my story,
I chronicled many of my childhood recollections and anecdotes.
And horror stories.
(and no, nothing like Sybil)
But the outcome,
the resolution,
the silver lining,
was all fiction.
(At that time, it was yet fiction.)
And what I wrote was,
the insipid little invisiblet
gained her confidence,
her identity,
her life.
And all my stories,
it seems,
fit this standard.
All of my stories reveal the untold story
of an invisiblet.
All of my stories
tell of the struggle and agony
of being lost and unidentified.
Fingerprints do not identity make.
Not all my stories have pretty endings,
their resolutions happy and neat and tidy.
Some end darkly,
and sad,
and horrific.
But all of my stories tell the tale of identity,
of conflict,
of discovery.
And that’s
Why I Write What I Write.
In a recent blog interview I read,
the question was posed,
“If you had to come up with a book title to describe your life,
what would it be?”
I thought about that for myself.
What would I title a book that told my story.
Thought I’d have to spend time pondering,
perfecting just the right turn of catchy phrase,
when,
BAM,
there it was.
The title.
My title.
It is,
of course,
Invisible No More.
I’ll write it some day,
of course.
June 19, 2014
The Moldau
I was telling my friend
about this
amazing
musical composition
the other day.
It’s my
all-time favorite classical composition.
The Moldau.
“Moldau”
is the German name
for the Czech name
“Vltava.”
It’s a river in the Bohemia region
of the Czech Republic,
and runs through the city of Prague.
Both words are derived from
old Germanic words
that mean
wild water.
As a river will be
sometimes.
Like life.
New jargon,
slang,
it all starts somewhere,
at some point in time.
Groovy
was never heard until a few decades ago.
Except,
of course,
referring to actual grooves.
And a web?
Well,
there was no internet,
so there was no
world wide web.
A web
was where spiders lived
and captured their prey.
And ate it.
Or, what about
contumelious?
It means scornful or arrogantly rude.
Or
excogitate,
which means
to plan, plot, or devise,
and gallimaufry,
a jumble or confused medley of things
[source: listverse.com]
Words we don’t use.
Which brings me to
fads.
Seasons.
Life lessons.
How many times
have we gone ‘round
the same mountain?
When I was talking with my friend last week,
about this very thing,
about seasons,
this music came to mind.
And I thought about
how a river is much like
all the other analogies
and metaphors.
A river traverses many miles,
many different terrains,
some even go through
different climates.
Aren't our lives like that?
We cover many miles,
sometimes literally,
always figuratively.
We traverse varied climates
and terrain.
We pass through smooth waters,
easy currents,
and we relax.
We tumble over
rapids,
or waterfalls,
and wonder if we’ll survive.
We skim over shallows,
with rocks,
large and small,
protruding,
scraping our bottoms.
And we lick our wounds,
run ashore for first aid
and sustenance
and rest.
We set out again,
on our rafts,
or in our motorboats,
to catch the current
of our lives.
We wonder,
will it never end?
The turbulence,
the rapids,
the swirling eddies.
Then,
we’re thrust into gentle currents,
and we sigh.
Ahhh,
this is what we’ve waited for.
The current hastens,
and we sleep,
our craft rocks and tilts.
We awaken with fear
and consternation.
What happened to our calm?
It’s life.
In life we have
calm,
and storm,
ease
and turbulence.
We have crises,
and we have calamity.
And yet,
we can have
peace.
We can look at the waves that would destroy us,
indeed,
the very waves
that were sent for the purpose
to destroy us.
Yet we can have peace.
We can look at those waves,
and tell them to be still.
We have that authority.
We have been given that authority.
Not as a pebble on the shore,
to be found randomly,
but as a treasure,
a right and benefit and privilege
of relationship
with God the Father,
with His Son,
with the Holy Spirit.
It always comes back
to relationship.
He knows us by name,
and when we are
have a relationship
with Him,
we know His voice
we know His heart.
It’s not enough to know
about
Him,
we must know Him.
Walk and talk with Him,
(there’s that theme again)
as good friends
should and do.
It’s not about rules
so much as it is about
our heart.
Do
we
know
Him?
That’s the question.
Do you know
your friends?
Not just
about them?
What about
your spouse?
Your siblings?
Your parents,
your children?
The river of my life
has gone through many twists and turns,
over many rapids,
and plenty of deeps,
with silky waters on which to waft.
I’ve let my mind
be tossed to and fro,
abiding in the serenity,
and panicked in agitation,
wondering,
“When will it end?”
Over time,
I’ve come to understand
life is a river,
ever ebbing,
ever flowing,
ever changing current.
And that’s okay,
my watercraft,
my lifecraft,
is secure.
For the river that my life
is sailing upon is none other than
The River of Life,
The River of God.
There is no surprising Him,
He sees all,
knows all,
is all powerful.
And all protective.
So,
rapids and waterfalls,
come what may,
I’m safe in my boat
with my heavenly Father.
My friend posted on Facebook today,
“People change.
Seasons change.
Even circumstances change.
But the Word of God
remains faithful & true
through it all. #faithandfaithful”
There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
about this
amazing
musical composition
the other day.
It’s my
all-time favorite classical composition.
The Moldau.
“Moldau”
is the German name
for the Czech name
“Vltava.”
It’s a river in the Bohemia region
of the Czech Republic,
and runs through the city of Prague.
Both words are derived from
old Germanic words
that mean
wild water.
As a river will be
sometimes.
Like life.
New jargon,
slang,
it all starts somewhere,
at some point in time.
Groovy
was never heard until a few decades ago.
Except,
of course,
referring to actual grooves.
And a web?
Well,
there was no internet,
so there was no
world wide web.
A web
was where spiders lived
and captured their prey.
And ate it.
Or, what about
contumelious?
It means scornful or arrogantly rude.
Or
excogitate,
which means
to plan, plot, or devise,
and gallimaufry,
a jumble or confused medley of things
[source: listverse.com]
Words we don’t use.
Which brings me to
fads.
Seasons.
Life lessons.
How many times
have we gone ‘round
the same mountain?
When I was talking with my friend last week,
about this very thing,
about seasons,
this music came to mind.
And I thought about
how a river is much like
all the other analogies
and metaphors.
A river traverses many miles,
many different terrains,
some even go through
different climates.
Aren't our lives like that?
We cover many miles,
sometimes literally,
always figuratively.
We traverse varied climates
and terrain.
We pass through smooth waters,
easy currents,
and we relax.
We tumble over
rapids,
or waterfalls,
and wonder if we’ll survive.
We skim over shallows,
with rocks,
large and small,
protruding,
scraping our bottoms.
And we lick our wounds,
run ashore for first aid
and sustenance
and rest.
We set out again,
on our rafts,
or in our motorboats,
to catch the current
of our lives.
We wonder,
will it never end?
The turbulence,
the rapids,
the swirling eddies.
Then,
we’re thrust into gentle currents,
and we sigh.
Ahhh,
this is what we’ve waited for.
The current hastens,
and we sleep,
our craft rocks and tilts.
We awaken with fear
and consternation.
What happened to our calm?
It’s life.
In life we have
calm,
and storm,
ease
and turbulence.
We have crises,
and we have calamity.
And yet,
we can have
peace.
We can look at the waves that would destroy us,
indeed,
the very waves
that were sent for the purpose
to destroy us.
Yet we can have peace.
We can look at those waves,
and tell them to be still.
We have that authority.
We have been given that authority.
Not as a pebble on the shore,
to be found randomly,
but as a treasure,
a right and benefit and privilege
of relationship
with God the Father,
with His Son,
with the Holy Spirit.
It always comes back
to relationship.
He knows us by name,
and when we are
have a relationship
with Him,
we know His voice
we know His heart.
It’s not enough to know
about
Him,
we must know Him.
Walk and talk with Him,
(there’s that theme again)
as good friends
should and do.
It’s not about rules
so much as it is about
our heart.
Do
we
know
Him?
That’s the question.
Do you know
your friends?
Not just
about them?
What about
your spouse?
Your siblings?
Your parents,
your children?
The river of my life
has gone through many twists and turns,
over many rapids,
and plenty of deeps,
with silky waters on which to waft.
I’ve let my mind
be tossed to and fro,
abiding in the serenity,
and panicked in agitation,
wondering,
“When will it end?”
Over time,
I’ve come to understand
life is a river,
ever ebbing,
ever flowing,
ever changing current.
And that’s okay,
my watercraft,
my lifecraft,
is secure.
For the river that my life
is sailing upon is none other than
The River of Life,
The River of God.
There is no surprising Him,
He sees all,
knows all,
is all powerful.
And all protective.
So,
rapids and waterfalls,
come what may,
I’m safe in my boat
with my heavenly Father.
My friend posted on Facebook today,
“People change.
Seasons change.
Even circumstances change.
But the Word of God
remains faithful & true
through it all. #faithandfaithful”
There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
June 14, 2014
Randomness of Life
A few years ago,
in my second semester of college,
I took,
as part of my curriculum
for Interior Design -
for Art Majors in general -
2-D Design.
Although not part of the course,
it also piqued my interest
in painting.
So I purchased a standard rainbow
of acrylics.
And with those standard colors,
I set to paint
my masterpiece.
I don’t know if it is
a true masterpiece,
but to me,
it is.
It is my first ever painting,
and that sets it apart from all efforts
that have and will follow.
This lovely work is entitled,
The Breath of God on the Randomness of Life.
Long, I know.
Let me explain how I arrived at that.
First of all, let me explain
how it came to appear as it does.
I had,
and still have,
an idea in my head
of a certain image I want to convey.
This is not it.
For one thing,
the aforementioned image
[yet in my head]
is in black and white.
Not sure why I veered from my intention.
Sometimes it's the way of an artist.
I’m happy with my results, though,
quite pleased in fact.
I got done with it,
stepped back to admire my work.
I liked it,
it was nice,
it spoke to me.
Then,
I took a brush,
recently dipped in water,
and swooshed it across the canvas.
I didn’t like it.
I cried.
I had ruined my
beautiful painting.
I was heartbroken.
I stepped away,
to lick my wounds,
artistically speaking,
and scolded myself.
Rather harshly.
But
when I stepped back to assess the damage,
something happened.
Viewing with fresh eyes,
I saw what it had become,
what my dire,
and “stupid” mistake,
my careless whim,
had created.
I saw
The Masterpiece.
And I saw what Papa God
had stirred in me
all along.
I just hadn’t fully seen it.
Till my grave error,
my impulsive whim.
For that whim
gave my painting a whole new meaning.
And gave me its name.
That whim,
that last minute flourish of the brush
became the Breath of God.
And my swirly,
twirly colors,
the Randomness of Life.
For truly,
the breath of God doth blow
on the randomness
of our lives,
daily,
in curious ways,
unexpected ways.
Small ways,
grand gestures,
angels unaware,
kind word spoken.
A smile,
an ice cream treat.
But beyond these,
as intricate as they are to us,
are the orchestrations,
the symphonies,
the “just happened” arrangements.
You know what I’m talking about,
“… the toe bone connected
to the foot bone,
the foot bone connected
to the ankle bone,
the ankle bone connected
to the leg bone … “
how one random moment leads to
some other random event
that leads to
another random occurrence,
and suddenly,
you “just happen”
to have a connection,
an answer.
A miracle.
Something you’ve been waiting for,
a solution you never saw,
never thought about.
Something that is a delight and a blessing to you.
Papa knows our heart,
He made us,
formed us in the womb,
knit us together.
He has plans for us,
plans to prosper us
and not to harm us.
There’s this clever little verse,
Psalm 37:4,
“Delight in the Lord
and He will give you
the desires of your heart.”
Now,
He showed me,
years ago,
what He means by that.
First of all,
when He did all that forming in the womb,
and knitting together,
He threw in some desires,
passions,
talents,
abilities,
giftings.
He designed our personalities,
our calling,
our strengths,
our weaknesses even.
[In our weakness, He is strong.]
What we are,
who we are,
He made that.
So when I say I love to paint,
that pleases Him,
because
He gave me the desire and ability
to paint.
And sing,
and write.
And when I express my desires,
my favorite this,
or favorite that,
of course He wants to give it to me,
He gave me the desire,
the longing,
the passion for it,
whatever it might be.
“Which of you fathers,
if your son asks for a fish,
will give him a snake instead?
Or if he asks for an egg,
will give him a scorpion?
If you … know how to
give good gifts to your children,
how much more will your
Father in heaven give the
Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”
Papa God is in every moment
of our lives,
whether we realize it
or not.
Whether we acknowledge Him,
or not.
Whether we want Him there,
or not.
He is faithful,
when we are not.
He is peace,
when we are in strife and strain.
He is joy,
and strength,
in the most horrific trials of life.
He is patient with us,
when we aren’t even
patient with ourselves.
He is kind,
He is good,
He is gentle.
His breath blows
across our lives,
as a gentle breeze,
sometimes
a gale force wind.
He speaks to us
through the wind of His Spirit,
He arranges
patterns in our lives,
on the wind of His breath.
That random act of kindness?
That was Him,
that was God.
That connection
that got you that new job
or that promotion,
that was Him.
That friendship,
that anonymous gift,
that “No.”
Sometimes that’s Him, too.
That’s His heart for us,
in every moment,
of every day,
since the beginning of time,
I saw a couple of gems
on Facebook this morning
that speak to this,
that rather sum up my point.
“When we set our hearts
to stay on God’s plan
through the leading of His Holy Spirit
who lives in us,
even if we “miss it” here or there,
the Spirit is committed
to getting us to our destination.”
- Gloria Copeland.
Random acts?
Coincidence?
Just suddenly?
But God.
And when we
wait and wait and wait.
And wait some more.
And see no results,
how many times
do we feel as though
nothing is happening?
God forgot.
He’s too busy.
He’s not interested.
Lies,
all lies.
God does not forget us,
ever.
Ever.
He’s never too busy,
He’s the ultimate,
quintessential
multi-tasker.
And He’s more interested
in our lives
than we are ourselves.
“Not seeing results
from the seeds you've sown?
Relax.
God might be waiting
for the perfect moment.
Remember,
in his book,
there's no such thing as a coincidence.”
- Elizabeth Mitchell
Exactly, Elizabeth,
exactly.
in my second semester of college,
I took,
as part of my curriculum
for Interior Design -
for Art Majors in general -
2-D Design.
Although not part of the course,
it also piqued my interest
in painting.
So I purchased a standard rainbow
of acrylics.
And with those standard colors,
I set to paint
my masterpiece.
I don’t know if it is
a true masterpiece,
but to me,
it is.
It is my first ever painting,
and that sets it apart from all efforts
that have and will follow.
This lovely work is entitled,
The Breath of God on the Randomness of Life.
Long, I know.
Let me explain how I arrived at that.
First of all, let me explain
how it came to appear as it does.
I had,
and still have,
an idea in my head
of a certain image I want to convey.
This is not it.
For one thing,
the aforementioned image
[yet in my head]
is in black and white.
Not sure why I veered from my intention.
Sometimes it's the way of an artist.
I’m happy with my results, though,
quite pleased in fact.
I got done with it,
stepped back to admire my work.
I liked it,
it was nice,
it spoke to me.
Then,
I took a brush,
recently dipped in water,
and swooshed it across the canvas.
I didn’t like it.
I cried.
I had ruined my
beautiful painting.
I was heartbroken.
I stepped away,
to lick my wounds,
artistically speaking,
and scolded myself.
Rather harshly.
But
when I stepped back to assess the damage,
something happened.
Viewing with fresh eyes,
I saw what it had become,
what my dire,
and “stupid” mistake,
my careless whim,
had created.
I saw
The Masterpiece.
And I saw what Papa God
had stirred in me
all along.
I just hadn’t fully seen it.
Till my grave error,
my impulsive whim.
For that whim
gave my painting a whole new meaning.
And gave me its name.
That whim,
that last minute flourish of the brush
became the Breath of God.
And my swirly,
twirly colors,
the Randomness of Life.
For truly,
the breath of God doth blow
on the randomness
of our lives,
daily,
in curious ways,
unexpected ways.
Small ways,
grand gestures,
angels unaware,
kind word spoken.
A smile,
an ice cream treat.
But beyond these,
as intricate as they are to us,
are the orchestrations,
the symphonies,
the “just happened” arrangements.
You know what I’m talking about,
“… the toe bone connected
to the foot bone,
the foot bone connected
to the ankle bone,
the ankle bone connected
to the leg bone … “
how one random moment leads to
some other random event
that leads to
another random occurrence,
and suddenly,
you “just happen”
to have a connection,
an answer.
A miracle.
Something you’ve been waiting for,
a solution you never saw,
never thought about.
Something that is a delight and a blessing to you.
Papa knows our heart,
He made us,
formed us in the womb,
knit us together.
He has plans for us,
plans to prosper us
and not to harm us.
There’s this clever little verse,
Psalm 37:4,
“Delight in the Lord
and He will give you
the desires of your heart.”
Now,
He showed me,
years ago,
what He means by that.
First of all,
when He did all that forming in the womb,
and knitting together,
He threw in some desires,
passions,
talents,
abilities,
giftings.
He designed our personalities,
our calling,
our strengths,
our weaknesses even.
[In our weakness, He is strong.]
What we are,
who we are,
He made that.
So when I say I love to paint,
that pleases Him,
because
He gave me the desire and ability
to paint.
And sing,
and write.
And when I express my desires,
my favorite this,
or favorite that,
of course He wants to give it to me,
He gave me the desire,
the longing,
the passion for it,
whatever it might be.
“Which of you fathers,
if your son asks for a fish,
will give him a snake instead?
Or if he asks for an egg,
will give him a scorpion?
If you … know how to
give good gifts to your children,
how much more will your
Father in heaven give the
Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”
Papa God is in every moment
of our lives,
whether we realize it
or not.
Whether we acknowledge Him,
or not.
Whether we want Him there,
or not.
He is faithful,
when we are not.
He is peace,
when we are in strife and strain.
He is joy,
and strength,
in the most horrific trials of life.
He is patient with us,
when we aren’t even
patient with ourselves.
He is kind,
He is good,
He is gentle.
His breath blows
across our lives,
as a gentle breeze,
sometimes
a gale force wind.
He speaks to us
through the wind of His Spirit,
He arranges
patterns in our lives,
on the wind of His breath.
That random act of kindness?
That was Him,
that was God.
That connection
that got you that new job
or that promotion,
that was Him.
That friendship,
that anonymous gift,
that “No.”
Sometimes that’s Him, too.
That’s His heart for us,
in every moment,
of every day,
since the beginning of time,
I saw a couple of gems
on Facebook this morning
that speak to this,
that rather sum up my point.
“When we set our hearts
to stay on God’s plan
through the leading of His Holy Spirit
who lives in us,
even if we “miss it” here or there,
the Spirit is committed
to getting us to our destination.”
- Gloria Copeland.
Random acts?
Coincidence?
Just suddenly?
But God.
And when we
wait and wait and wait.
And wait some more.
And see no results,
how many times
do we feel as though
nothing is happening?
God forgot.
He’s too busy.
He’s not interested.
Lies,
all lies.
God does not forget us,
ever.
Ever.
He’s never too busy,
He’s the ultimate,
quintessential
multi-tasker.
And He’s more interested
in our lives
than we are ourselves.
“Not seeing results
from the seeds you've sown?
Relax.
God might be waiting
for the perfect moment.
Remember,
in his book,
there's no such thing as a coincidence.”
- Elizabeth Mitchell
Exactly, Elizabeth,
exactly.
May 23, 2014
Why now?
Why
after more than half a century have I finally discovered I’m an artist? And am practicing my art? And yes, I’m more than half-a-century old, five years more than half-a-century, to be exact.
Maybe the question should be phrased the other way ‘round, “Why did it take me so long to discover I’m an artist?” Rather, “Why did it take so many years to release my inner artist?” Rather, “… to accept myself as an artist?”)
Artists don’t fit into the holes that the pegs go into. You know, square peg, square hole. It’s not even a matter of a triangle peg in a round hole, we artists just aren’t peg-n-hole material. We’re free-form, and there’s no hole or peg for that. Yet, I spent waaaaaaaaayyyyyyyy too many years trying to fit into a hole that I’m not designed for. I’m not a peg.
Still, why so long?
Well, besides being an artist, I’m a people pleaser. (It’s ok, it’s how Papa God made me.) Not, I repeat, NOT to be confused with being a doormat. That said, I was a doormat.
I tried to please everyone. And by everyone, I mean literally, EVERYONE. Which, I now know, is impossible.
Oh!
There was one person I failed to, neglected to, try to please.
Me.
Yeah. I didn’t think I should please me, didn’t think I was worth anybody trying to make me happy. Not even God…..
So, I did my best to fit in some hole, or box, or human mold. And I managed, I functioned. But I did not flourish. I did not thrive. I did not grow or blossom or bloom. My art was stifled. I was stifled.
And, stifled, I was dying inside. My soul was dying, my heart was dying. My identity was dying.
But I’m tenacious.
Sometimes we ask, “Why me, God?” when disaster strikes. I ask, “Why me?” when I think about the grace He’s poured on me, in me, through me. “Why me?” when I realize I didn’t give up [I wanted to, a million times, tried to, a million times] but I can’t. It’s not in me to quit. “Why me?” when it’s all falling apart and yet I hang on. It’s simple really, I have a purpose, a destiny, we all do. And to discover that, to discover and embrace my purpose and my destiny, my identity, that’s the journey. That’s the discovery.
I struggled, nay, fought, through the depression, the angst, the dissatisfaction of trying to be something I’m not. Fought against it, tried to squelch it, hide my artistic skills. Was embarrassed to share my talent, thought I was being vain.
Not true, Papa has placed the gift in me, in each of us, for the very purpose of sharing it! A treasure cannot stay buried. And my artist has risen, rather like a Phoenix, from the ashes of the disaster of trying to conform to a peg-hole, of trying to remain confined to a box. I’m not made to conform, I’m made to transform, to BE transformed, by the Word of God. And the more His Word is established in me, the more of what He created me to be is also established.
I knew I was a musician always. Piano lessons as a little girl (taught by my Mom,) voice lessons at age 12, [intended] vocal music major in college. Didn’t happen, life happened, and I got married instead. And had babies. And got divorced. I couldn’t settle, my artist was trying, trying to get out, but I wouldn’t let her. No job assignment satisfied, and no job lasted. (many were temp assignments, anyway)
My first speaking role in a theatre production was Dr. Armstrong in Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Indians. I was a sophomore in high school. My British accent got me that role. And no, I’ve never been there, and yes, now I’m thinking en accent as I type. My favorite thing to say en accent is, “I’m born in Mississippi.” Not sure how, or why, but it’s there, this ability with accents, and with words. (something about being a writer…) It’s just there, God just popped it in me head, and this accent anyway, the British one, I can turn on and off like a spigot.
I dance. I play the piano. I sing. I act. And, of course, I write. I said for years I couldn’t draw, though. I was wrong. Had to take Drawing as part of my college curriculum and discovered that a) I can, in fact, draw, and b) I’m pretty darn good – and c) I like it!
And that brings me to my writing. Like my accent, it’s just there. I don’t “conversate,” I tell stories. A journalist I’m not. Short n sweet n to the point, nope, not me. I’m descriptive, perhaps (just perhaps) too much….. nah…..
I live my characters.
I’m there, in the story, I feel every emotion, walk every path, climb every mountain… I’m in the story. It’s a phenomenon I can’t explain, the story tells itself to me. I am lucid, I am quite aware that there are not little people in my head, talking to me. I fully grasp that it’s my imagination that is producing, generating my stories. But within the theatre of my mind, my characters tell the story to me. I sometimes don’t know what’s going to happen until I write it. Can’t explain it, it’s just there.
Another thing about imagination. Creativity. Artistic streak. It doesn’t stop. There’s no shut off valve. It’s going, twenty-four / seven. It’s like a gajillion browser tabs open all at once. Yeah, it’s noisy in my head!!
Still, why now? Why today? Why 2014? Why not 2012, or 2000? Why not 1990, or 1984 (the year I was divorced.) Why not 1977, the year I graduated high school? Why not 2013, the year I graduated from college? You know, with the pretty pretty degree, the BFA in Interior Design? Why now?
Only Papa God knows.
He has a time and a season, and yes, I believe we all miss it sometimes. Truly, most of the time, we miss it. But it doesn’t take Him by surprise. He’s there, He’s ready. He’s prepared.
So, maybe, it’s not really a foible in some Divine time continuum,
perhaps it’s all His timing after all.
Do I believe He needs the horrors, the tragedies that befall us to implement His plan? No. Utterly and absolutely no. You’ve seen it on Facebook, we all have, “God won’t give us more than we can handle.” or “He only give His strongest battles to the strongest warriors.” Hogwash. I have a problem with that, and my problem with it is that most of the mess we have in our lives we bring on ourselves. He’s the One Who gets us out of the mess, He’s the One Who keeps it from being messier than it already is. Maybe that’s why I’m so tenacious after all, why I never give up.
But I do know He uses all the messes and horrors and tragedies for our good, He tells us that. When the worst of the worst happens, He is there, think footprints in the sand, guiding us, carrying us through. And there is joy on the ‘other side,’ there is always joy on the other side. He is that joy.
So now?
Because it’s His time and His purpose. He’s brought me along some kind of journey to get here. And now, I embrace the artist in me, the artist that I am. Now I embrace what that will mean and look like. Remember the “recovering inviblet?” She didn’t even recognize herself as an artist, couldn’t embrace herself at all. But I’m not her anymore. I’m not invisible, I’m shining and I’m good and it’s okay to say that. I’ve got stories to tell, and pictures to paint and draw, dances to dance, and a piano [to retrieve] so I can practice. I’ve songs to sing, and plays to play.
Now?
Because now is as good a time as any. Because today is the day the Lord has made, and I will rejoice and be glad in it. Because there’s no time like the present. Because now won’t come again.
Because – For such a time as this. Esther 4:14
after more than half a century have I finally discovered I’m an artist? And am practicing my art? And yes, I’m more than half-a-century old, five years more than half-a-century, to be exact.
Maybe the question should be phrased the other way ‘round, “Why did it take me so long to discover I’m an artist?” Rather, “Why did it take so many years to release my inner artist?” Rather, “… to accept myself as an artist?”)
Artists don’t fit into the holes that the pegs go into. You know, square peg, square hole. It’s not even a matter of a triangle peg in a round hole, we artists just aren’t peg-n-hole material. We’re free-form, and there’s no hole or peg for that. Yet, I spent waaaaaaaaayyyyyyyy too many years trying to fit into a hole that I’m not designed for. I’m not a peg.
Still, why so long?
Well, besides being an artist, I’m a people pleaser. (It’s ok, it’s how Papa God made me.) Not, I repeat, NOT to be confused with being a doormat. That said, I was a doormat.
I tried to please everyone. And by everyone, I mean literally, EVERYONE. Which, I now know, is impossible.
Oh!
There was one person I failed to, neglected to, try to please.
Me.
Yeah. I didn’t think I should please me, didn’t think I was worth anybody trying to make me happy. Not even God…..
So, I did my best to fit in some hole, or box, or human mold. And I managed, I functioned. But I did not flourish. I did not thrive. I did not grow or blossom or bloom. My art was stifled. I was stifled.
And, stifled, I was dying inside. My soul was dying, my heart was dying. My identity was dying.
But I’m tenacious.
Sometimes we ask, “Why me, God?” when disaster strikes. I ask, “Why me?” when I think about the grace He’s poured on me, in me, through me. “Why me?” when I realize I didn’t give up [I wanted to, a million times, tried to, a million times] but I can’t. It’s not in me to quit. “Why me?” when it’s all falling apart and yet I hang on. It’s simple really, I have a purpose, a destiny, we all do. And to discover that, to discover and embrace my purpose and my destiny, my identity, that’s the journey. That’s the discovery.
I struggled, nay, fought, through the depression, the angst, the dissatisfaction of trying to be something I’m not. Fought against it, tried to squelch it, hide my artistic skills. Was embarrassed to share my talent, thought I was being vain.
Not true, Papa has placed the gift in me, in each of us, for the very purpose of sharing it! A treasure cannot stay buried. And my artist has risen, rather like a Phoenix, from the ashes of the disaster of trying to conform to a peg-hole, of trying to remain confined to a box. I’m not made to conform, I’m made to transform, to BE transformed, by the Word of God. And the more His Word is established in me, the more of what He created me to be is also established.
I knew I was a musician always. Piano lessons as a little girl (taught by my Mom,) voice lessons at age 12, [intended] vocal music major in college. Didn’t happen, life happened, and I got married instead. And had babies. And got divorced. I couldn’t settle, my artist was trying, trying to get out, but I wouldn’t let her. No job assignment satisfied, and no job lasted. (many were temp assignments, anyway)
My first speaking role in a theatre production was Dr. Armstrong in Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Indians. I was a sophomore in high school. My British accent got me that role. And no, I’ve never been there, and yes, now I’m thinking en accent as I type. My favorite thing to say en accent is, “I’m born in Mississippi.” Not sure how, or why, but it’s there, this ability with accents, and with words. (something about being a writer…) It’s just there, God just popped it in me head, and this accent anyway, the British one, I can turn on and off like a spigot.
I dance. I play the piano. I sing. I act. And, of course, I write. I said for years I couldn’t draw, though. I was wrong. Had to take Drawing as part of my college curriculum and discovered that a) I can, in fact, draw, and b) I’m pretty darn good – and c) I like it!
And that brings me to my writing. Like my accent, it’s just there. I don’t “conversate,” I tell stories. A journalist I’m not. Short n sweet n to the point, nope, not me. I’m descriptive, perhaps (just perhaps) too much….. nah…..
I live my characters.
I’m there, in the story, I feel every emotion, walk every path, climb every mountain… I’m in the story. It’s a phenomenon I can’t explain, the story tells itself to me. I am lucid, I am quite aware that there are not little people in my head, talking to me. I fully grasp that it’s my imagination that is producing, generating my stories. But within the theatre of my mind, my characters tell the story to me. I sometimes don’t know what’s going to happen until I write it. Can’t explain it, it’s just there.
Another thing about imagination. Creativity. Artistic streak. It doesn’t stop. There’s no shut off valve. It’s going, twenty-four / seven. It’s like a gajillion browser tabs open all at once. Yeah, it’s noisy in my head!!
Still, why now? Why today? Why 2014? Why not 2012, or 2000? Why not 1990, or 1984 (the year I was divorced.) Why not 1977, the year I graduated high school? Why not 2013, the year I graduated from college? You know, with the pretty pretty degree, the BFA in Interior Design? Why now?
Only Papa God knows.
He has a time and a season, and yes, I believe we all miss it sometimes. Truly, most of the time, we miss it. But it doesn’t take Him by surprise. He’s there, He’s ready. He’s prepared.
So, maybe, it’s not really a foible in some Divine time continuum,
perhaps it’s all His timing after all.
Do I believe He needs the horrors, the tragedies that befall us to implement His plan? No. Utterly and absolutely no. You’ve seen it on Facebook, we all have, “God won’t give us more than we can handle.” or “He only give His strongest battles to the strongest warriors.” Hogwash. I have a problem with that, and my problem with it is that most of the mess we have in our lives we bring on ourselves. He’s the One Who gets us out of the mess, He’s the One Who keeps it from being messier than it already is. Maybe that’s why I’m so tenacious after all, why I never give up.
But I do know He uses all the messes and horrors and tragedies for our good, He tells us that. When the worst of the worst happens, He is there, think footprints in the sand, guiding us, carrying us through. And there is joy on the ‘other side,’ there is always joy on the other side. He is that joy.
So now?
Because it’s His time and His purpose. He’s brought me along some kind of journey to get here. And now, I embrace the artist in me, the artist that I am. Now I embrace what that will mean and look like. Remember the “recovering inviblet?” She didn’t even recognize herself as an artist, couldn’t embrace herself at all. But I’m not her anymore. I’m not invisible, I’m shining and I’m good and it’s okay to say that. I’ve got stories to tell, and pictures to paint and draw, dances to dance, and a piano [to retrieve] so I can practice. I’ve songs to sing, and plays to play.
Now?
Because now is as good a time as any. Because today is the day the Lord has made, and I will rejoice and be glad in it. Because there’s no time like the present. Because now won’t come again.
Because – For such a time as this. Esther 4:14
May 16, 2014
On being a Granny
Once again, my topic picks itself for me, this week: my granddaughters, on being a grandmother.
There’s a delight that wasn’t there when my kids were growing up, an added dimension, it enriches the depth of being a Mom. [all the more timely, on this Friday after Mother’s Day]
And the topic is at hand because, well, my granddaughters are spending the weekend with me! HAPPY GRANNY!!! I’ve long had “honorary” kids (mostly daughters), friends of my own kids. And their kids are, by default, honorary grandkids. But MY own grandkids are only two. Two precious beautiful little girls who stole my heart from the beginning. Violet* is my daughter’s little girl and she is eight, and Rose* is my son’s daughter and she is four. Violet lived with me, she and her mom, for four years, and we’re pretty tight. Rose lives about an hour away, and my heart was torn for a long time that I wasn’t as close to her. And I don’t mean physical distance.
But recently, Rose’s Momma has called on me to have Rose for the week-end. Of course I said yes! Of course I jumped at it. And of course, I’m all about having fun and making the most of it. And of course, Violet comes to stay too so double the fun!
Now, because Violet and her mom live close enough, I get her off the bus after school while her mom is still at work. Half of her birthday parties have been at my house, and I’ve made and decorated four or five of her birthday cakes. We’ve had all but one Christmas together, and she has stayed with me over spring break and part of her summer vacation. My house is a second home to her.
But my connection with Rose has been more tenuous, less bonded. So when her Mommie tells me how excited she is to come see me, my heart thrills!
The first time Rose came down was last fall. It was several weeks before her birthday so she was still three. And although she knew me, she had never been away from her Momma, not out of town, for two nights in a row before. In my exuberance to have fun, I pushed too hard. We went to a festival in the park, in Spartanburg, which is about 25 miles from my house. And it was unusually warm, and by unusually warm, I mean hot, for September. I dragged those poor girls through that festival, determined that they would have fun! It wasn’t epic, but it wasn’t a total failure either.
Next time they were both here, we stayed closer to home and spent the afternoon at the park, playing on the playground. Much more successful afternoon.
This weekend, it’s supposed to rain (per the Weather Channel, remember my obsession with the weather) so I’m planning – subject to change of course – to help them make artist books for their mommies, kind of a Post-Mother’s Day present. I’ve stickers, and all manner of pretties to decorate them with. I wanna build a blanket fort, and make popcorn, and of course, we have to watch “our” movie, Brave. We watched that together last fall, so it has to be our tradition to watch it together.
The first time, I let them make their own mini-pizzas, too. You know, with canned biscuits for crust, and jar-sauce, loaded with cheese and a topping or two. Maybe we can make some slice-n-bakes this weekend.
Dress-up is a classic, always a favorite. Was one of my favorites as a little girl. Palying princess, doing hair and nails and make-up. Playing school, or hospital, putting puzzles together, the big floor puzzles. I bought several for Violet when they lived with me, and still have them. I guess they’re Granny puzzles now, for all the grand kiddoes when they come. Rose love them. I also have Old Maid, Go Fish and Crazy Eights card games. (I can manage sitting on the floor for a little while!!!)
Of course, I love to read stories. (I do, of course, have stories to write for them. Need to get on that….. ) Violet can help me read now, too. The best part of it, though, is the cuddling while we read. Really, though, the best-best part of the whole weekend, is the cuddling, whether we’re reading or not. That and the giggling. And the hugging.
They’re my grandgirls. And they’re coming to see me. Ain’t nothing better’n that.
There’s a delight that wasn’t there when my kids were growing up, an added dimension, it enriches the depth of being a Mom. [all the more timely, on this Friday after Mother’s Day]
And the topic is at hand because, well, my granddaughters are spending the weekend with me! HAPPY GRANNY!!! I’ve long had “honorary” kids (mostly daughters), friends of my own kids. And their kids are, by default, honorary grandkids. But MY own grandkids are only two. Two precious beautiful little girls who stole my heart from the beginning. Violet* is my daughter’s little girl and she is eight, and Rose* is my son’s daughter and she is four. Violet lived with me, she and her mom, for four years, and we’re pretty tight. Rose lives about an hour away, and my heart was torn for a long time that I wasn’t as close to her. And I don’t mean physical distance.
But recently, Rose’s Momma has called on me to have Rose for the week-end. Of course I said yes! Of course I jumped at it. And of course, I’m all about having fun and making the most of it. And of course, Violet comes to stay too so double the fun!
Now, because Violet and her mom live close enough, I get her off the bus after school while her mom is still at work. Half of her birthday parties have been at my house, and I’ve made and decorated four or five of her birthday cakes. We’ve had all but one Christmas together, and she has stayed with me over spring break and part of her summer vacation. My house is a second home to her.
But my connection with Rose has been more tenuous, less bonded. So when her Mommie tells me how excited she is to come see me, my heart thrills!
The first time Rose came down was last fall. It was several weeks before her birthday so she was still three. And although she knew me, she had never been away from her Momma, not out of town, for two nights in a row before. In my exuberance to have fun, I pushed too hard. We went to a festival in the park, in Spartanburg, which is about 25 miles from my house. And it was unusually warm, and by unusually warm, I mean hot, for September. I dragged those poor girls through that festival, determined that they would have fun! It wasn’t epic, but it wasn’t a total failure either.
Next time they were both here, we stayed closer to home and spent the afternoon at the park, playing on the playground. Much more successful afternoon.
This weekend, it’s supposed to rain (per the Weather Channel, remember my obsession with the weather) so I’m planning – subject to change of course – to help them make artist books for their mommies, kind of a Post-Mother’s Day present. I’ve stickers, and all manner of pretties to decorate them with. I wanna build a blanket fort, and make popcorn, and of course, we have to watch “our” movie, Brave. We watched that together last fall, so it has to be our tradition to watch it together.
The first time, I let them make their own mini-pizzas, too. You know, with canned biscuits for crust, and jar-sauce, loaded with cheese and a topping or two. Maybe we can make some slice-n-bakes this weekend.
Dress-up is a classic, always a favorite. Was one of my favorites as a little girl. Palying princess, doing hair and nails and make-up. Playing school, or hospital, putting puzzles together, the big floor puzzles. I bought several for Violet when they lived with me, and still have them. I guess they’re Granny puzzles now, for all the grand kiddoes when they come. Rose love them. I also have Old Maid, Go Fish and Crazy Eights card games. (I can manage sitting on the floor for a little while!!!)
Of course, I love to read stories. (I do, of course, have stories to write for them. Need to get on that….. ) Violet can help me read now, too. The best part of it, though, is the cuddling while we read. Really, though, the best-best part of the whole weekend, is the cuddling, whether we’re reading or not. That and the giggling. And the hugging.
They’re my grandgirls. And they’re coming to see me. Ain’t nothing better’n that.
May 11, 2014
Hello Darkness, my old friend
Only it’s not a friend at all. Depression is no friend. And it’s hounding me again. After many years. Apparently it doesn’t like the glory that’s been taking place in my life, the breakthrough I’ve stepped into. This new level of faith and life and purpose.
Faith is an interesting journey. Not some smooth sailing glide into heaven, no not at all. It’s a joyous journey to be sure. That would be the joy of the Lord. It’s pretty amazing, too. To be in the midst of the worst possible scenario or circumstance imaginable – and have peace! It’s indescribable.
The thing is, the more we seek to follow God, to honor His Word, to live in His Truth, the more hell sets out to keep us from it. The thing of it is, hell has no power. Zero, Zip. Nada.
Yup. You read that right. Hell truly has no power. Satan is a liar, that’s it. That’s his “super power.” Pretty lame. He lied right there in the Garden of Eden, “Did God really say that?”
And Adam and Eve fell for it. Don’t be too hasty to point fingers at them, though. If they hadn’t screwed it up, somebody else would have. Something to do with being human and not perfect.
Remember my post from two weeks ago? “Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was invisible. Or she thought she was invisible, felt that way at least. And when she felt people were staring at her, she wished she was invisible. That little girl was me. Hello, my name is Robin, and I’m a recovering invisiblet. I wasn't shy, I was terrified.” He lied to me. He told me I was worthless, not good enough. He said I didn’t deserve anything Papa God promised me. He used those closest to me to perpetrate the lie. Candy coated to look like a good thing, like it was encouragement.
Well guess what! The promises of God are “Yes and amen!” The gifts of God are without repentance. See that little word? Gifts? That’s not payment for services rendered, as in a wage earned. It’s a gift. A present. Like you give to someone you love for a special occasion. Or for no reason at all. Just ‘cause you love ‘em. To show ‘em you love ‘em. God does that.
He has promised to never leave us or forsake us. Even when we tell Him to. Or when we walk away from Him, He’s there, just a whisper away. Countless times He meddles. And by meddle I mean He runs interference on the schemes of the enemy, you know, the one who lies and wants us dead. And sometimes, Papa God just overwhelms us with His goodness. He’s pretty amazing like that. Remember my pork chop story last week? Yeah, like that.
So why is my “old friend” hanging around? Better question: why in the name of all that is good and holy am I entertaining it? Dunno. Don’t have a good answer. The easy answer: I’m tired. Not just tired-I-need-a-nap tired. But weary-tired-of-fighting tired. This is a battle I’ve faced my whole life. This depression. This lack. I don’t just mean money. That’s true enough. [reality vs truth for another writing] I’m talking about utter lack. The aforementioned self-esteem? Lack. Utterly. Formerly. Identity? As in knowing who I am? Lack. Utterly. Formerly.
There is another lack, this one especially painful. Relationships. Lack. Utterly. Formerly. God is relational. He’s all about the relationship. That same lack of confidence crippled me in relationships. Past tense. I’ve solid friendships now, my core friendships. Still, I am painfully excruciatingly alone. And lonely. Yes, Jesus is the Friend Who never leaves us. Yes, He is with me in every moment whether I acknowledge Him or not. Yes, I can talk to Him 24/7. But ya know what? He also manifests His presence through others. And while I cherish and appreciate all who are there for me and disparage no one [no one can “be there” all the time] the fact remains that most of my time I spend painfully alone. Yes, I get lost in my books, both reading and writing. Yes, I’ve my art and my kitties to keep me company. Sometimes, though, we need to hear a human voice and feel a human touch. Apostle said it this morning, don’t neglect those around you. Don’t neglect the relationships Papa has blessed you with. Don’t neglect the happenstance connection, the neighbor, in the aisle at the store, on the job or in the classroom. Truly, they are not coincidental, rather they are Divine assignments.
Still, there’s fall out from years of lack. The mountain is gone – see Mark 11:23, “For assuredly, I say to you, whoever says to this mountain, ‘Be removed and cast into the sea,’ and does not doubt in his heart, but believes that those things he says will be done, he will have whatever he says.” So the mountain of lack is gone. I’m embracing my identity, my daughter-of-the-King status – I’m a Princess. For realz!!! I’m an artist. I make art. And it’s good. And an author. I write. Good stuff. I communicate….. getting there. And money. I’m blessed to be a blessing. Also getting there. And relationships. Growing.
But the lack-monster [aka Goliath] doesn’t let go so easy. He’s dead, but he’s still trying to fight me. And the waves are huge. Waves, as in walking on the water and keep my eyes on Jesus not on the waves. And I listen to lies, lies that I’m not doing it right. That I can’t really expect God to help me, to rescue me. I’ve gotta do this, I’ve gotta do that. I gotta do it better, I didn’t do it right. Man, is that ever old news, on incessant replay. SILENCE!! I speak the Word of God, the Word of Truth to those lies. To that lie. To every lie. I speak the Word.
That’s the answer to every issue, every lack, every lie, every mountain we ever face. The Truth of the Word of God, spoken over our lives, ourselves, our battles. That’s the power we hold over the enemy.
So the intensity of this attack? Tells me the grandeur and opulence of what Papa’s doing. The intensity of this attack? Tells me I’m ON target with Papa, not off base. If I was off base, the enemy, the darkness would leave me be. He wants me off base. Guess I must be pretty spot on target. Based on this attack.
So. I think I’ve written myself right out of the Darkness. Good-bye Darkness, my old friend. Don’t come to talk to me again. I’ve nothing to say to you.
Faith is an interesting journey. Not some smooth sailing glide into heaven, no not at all. It’s a joyous journey to be sure. That would be the joy of the Lord. It’s pretty amazing, too. To be in the midst of the worst possible scenario or circumstance imaginable – and have peace! It’s indescribable.
The thing is, the more we seek to follow God, to honor His Word, to live in His Truth, the more hell sets out to keep us from it. The thing of it is, hell has no power. Zero, Zip. Nada.
Yup. You read that right. Hell truly has no power. Satan is a liar, that’s it. That’s his “super power.” Pretty lame. He lied right there in the Garden of Eden, “Did God really say that?”
And Adam and Eve fell for it. Don’t be too hasty to point fingers at them, though. If they hadn’t screwed it up, somebody else would have. Something to do with being human and not perfect.
Remember my post from two weeks ago? “Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was invisible. Or she thought she was invisible, felt that way at least. And when she felt people were staring at her, she wished she was invisible. That little girl was me. Hello, my name is Robin, and I’m a recovering invisiblet. I wasn't shy, I was terrified.” He lied to me. He told me I was worthless, not good enough. He said I didn’t deserve anything Papa God promised me. He used those closest to me to perpetrate the lie. Candy coated to look like a good thing, like it was encouragement.
Well guess what! The promises of God are “Yes and amen!” The gifts of God are without repentance. See that little word? Gifts? That’s not payment for services rendered, as in a wage earned. It’s a gift. A present. Like you give to someone you love for a special occasion. Or for no reason at all. Just ‘cause you love ‘em. To show ‘em you love ‘em. God does that.
He has promised to never leave us or forsake us. Even when we tell Him to. Or when we walk away from Him, He’s there, just a whisper away. Countless times He meddles. And by meddle I mean He runs interference on the schemes of the enemy, you know, the one who lies and wants us dead. And sometimes, Papa God just overwhelms us with His goodness. He’s pretty amazing like that. Remember my pork chop story last week? Yeah, like that.
So why is my “old friend” hanging around? Better question: why in the name of all that is good and holy am I entertaining it? Dunno. Don’t have a good answer. The easy answer: I’m tired. Not just tired-I-need-a-nap tired. But weary-tired-of-fighting tired. This is a battle I’ve faced my whole life. This depression. This lack. I don’t just mean money. That’s true enough. [reality vs truth for another writing] I’m talking about utter lack. The aforementioned self-esteem? Lack. Utterly. Formerly. Identity? As in knowing who I am? Lack. Utterly. Formerly.
There is another lack, this one especially painful. Relationships. Lack. Utterly. Formerly. God is relational. He’s all about the relationship. That same lack of confidence crippled me in relationships. Past tense. I’ve solid friendships now, my core friendships. Still, I am painfully excruciatingly alone. And lonely. Yes, Jesus is the Friend Who never leaves us. Yes, He is with me in every moment whether I acknowledge Him or not. Yes, I can talk to Him 24/7. But ya know what? He also manifests His presence through others. And while I cherish and appreciate all who are there for me and disparage no one [no one can “be there” all the time] the fact remains that most of my time I spend painfully alone. Yes, I get lost in my books, both reading and writing. Yes, I’ve my art and my kitties to keep me company. Sometimes, though, we need to hear a human voice and feel a human touch. Apostle said it this morning, don’t neglect those around you. Don’t neglect the relationships Papa has blessed you with. Don’t neglect the happenstance connection, the neighbor, in the aisle at the store, on the job or in the classroom. Truly, they are not coincidental, rather they are Divine assignments.
Still, there’s fall out from years of lack. The mountain is gone – see Mark 11:23, “For assuredly, I say to you, whoever says to this mountain, ‘Be removed and cast into the sea,’ and does not doubt in his heart, but believes that those things he says will be done, he will have whatever he says.” So the mountain of lack is gone. I’m embracing my identity, my daughter-of-the-King status – I’m a Princess. For realz!!! I’m an artist. I make art. And it’s good. And an author. I write. Good stuff. I communicate….. getting there. And money. I’m blessed to be a blessing. Also getting there. And relationships. Growing.
But the lack-monster [aka Goliath] doesn’t let go so easy. He’s dead, but he’s still trying to fight me. And the waves are huge. Waves, as in walking on the water and keep my eyes on Jesus not on the waves. And I listen to lies, lies that I’m not doing it right. That I can’t really expect God to help me, to rescue me. I’ve gotta do this, I’ve gotta do that. I gotta do it better, I didn’t do it right. Man, is that ever old news, on incessant replay. SILENCE!! I speak the Word of God, the Word of Truth to those lies. To that lie. To every lie. I speak the Word.
That’s the answer to every issue, every lack, every lie, every mountain we ever face. The Truth of the Word of God, spoken over our lives, ourselves, our battles. That’s the power we hold over the enemy.
So the intensity of this attack? Tells me the grandeur and opulence of what Papa’s doing. The intensity of this attack? Tells me I’m ON target with Papa, not off base. If I was off base, the enemy, the darkness would leave me be. He wants me off base. Guess I must be pretty spot on target. Based on this attack.
So. I think I’ve written myself right out of the Darkness. Good-bye Darkness, my old friend. Don’t come to talk to me again. I’ve nothing to say to you.
May 9, 2014
Disconnected, life in the dark ages.
At least that’s how I feel. I grew up in the 60’s, you know, the Dark Ages. Before cell phones and internet. Before call waiting or answering machines. Before cable TV or even remotes.
Well, I do have lights on in the house and the AC is running at the moment, and I did cook breakfast this morning and brew coffee, and not over an open flame, so not really “dark ages.” I did grow up without computers, or cell phones, or cordless phones for that matter. We had one phone in the house, and that was in the kitchen. My grandmother’s house still has the phone in the hallway! I grew up when there was no call waiting or “leave a message at the beep” and no called ID. I grew up when we went outside to play [see meme’s about growing up in the 60’s.] Oh, wait, “meme” is an internet phenomenon….. Do I feel like I’ve been thrown back in time? Yeah, a little bit. Do I mind? Not so much. Does that surprise me? You betcha!
See, my phone service is currently suspended. And because my phone was also my internet connection, well, it’s temporarily suspended too. Sigh…
Life without the cell phone. The constant companion. The electronic growth.
It’s quiet.
Quiet can be a good thing or a bad thing. Depends on how you look at it. And what you do with your time. I choose to view it as a good thing. Now, I have the luxury of this because I know this is temporary. I know that at some point in time [sooner than later I hope, I hope] my service will be restored and I’ll plug back in. My companion will be more than my alarm clock.
You’d think it would be no big deal, though. Having lived before all this technology was around. You’d think it would be like a stroll down memory lane, reminiscent of innocent times. Or something ridiculous like that. It is no such thing. Although I am choosing the positive, it is a handicap. Did I mention I’m a Weather Channel junkie? I constantly check the forecast, and the current temperature. It’s one of my tabs on my home page.
Tabs on my home page. I currently have a dozen. Facebook [who doesn’t???] two emails, two blogs, the aforementioned Weather Channel, Twitter, my Amazon author account and of course, the Amazon page with my novel. [Tessa, in case you’ve missed it. While you’re at it, go get a copy, and leave a review! <--- unabashed plug!]
On Facebook, I’ve my personal page and my professional page, Robin E. Mason, Author & Artist. [while you’re at it, go “like” my page, be my fan!!] And I “follow” two different pages for writers. See all the good stuff I’m missing???
See all the time I’ve got that I’m NOT online? [ooohh, that smarts!] I can easily spend two hours trolling Facebook, email and my other connections. And that’s before breakfast! Not the wisest use of my time, says I.
So what am I doing with ALLLLL this “free time?” I’m reading, spending time with my writing, proofreading a manuscript for my writer-friend. [not something I want to do full time, by the way!] I’m an artist, there’s never not something to do!
I’m also a teacher. Started out last fall as “something to do until” I landed that great design job. That great design job still hasn’t found me, and teaching is no longer something to do “until.” It is something to do. I love it! And, I’m told, I’m good at it. [yay me!] [go figure!] So there’s that that keeps me busy. And gives me human interaction.
See, I’m on Disability for Rheumatoid Arthritis. [yeah it sucks] Limits what I can do it two ways: first is the dreaded fatigue. More so than any pain associated with RA, the weakness haunts me constantly. And second, is financial. Disability doesn’t give me much to go on. Thank God for, well, for Him. He meets more needs in the most surprising ways. And I’m talking the big stuff – like rent – all way “down” to little things, like pork chops. Yes, pork chops. This is what happened: I was craving pork chops. Didn’t mention it to Him [i.e. prayer] or anyone else for that matter, just a craving. Next thing I know, my neighbor has fixed pork chops for dinner – and sent a plate over for me!! How’s THAT for answered un-prayer!! He did say when we delight in Him, He’ll give us the desire of our heart. And my heart [well my belly] was wanting a pork chop. Pretty cool, huh? So, see, I know my phone AND my internet will be back on. Papa God will see to that!
All this “down time” has allowed me greater “up time” though. “Up time” being prayer / meditation time. I learned / discovered a few years ago that sometimes, those moments spent not verbalizing some great and magnificent prayer, are, in fact, greater and more magnificent by virtue of their simplicity, their innocence. Looking up at the sky or the trees, as my mind wanders, and I connect with Him, seeming random thoughts occur to me. A name drops in my mind, a need, a blessing. And I pray, I interact with Papa God, we talk, as good friends should and do. [this theme and phrase just keeps coming up.....]
Methinks the constant companion is here to stay. Methinks we shall never go back to the proverbial “simpler times” when there was but a single phone in the house, and it was in the kitchen, or the hallway. Methinks we won’t chuck our laptops and flat screens for – well, I don’t even know what we’d put in their place. TV with rabbit ears? Methinks we can make the best use of the technology we’ve been given, make the wise choice, and log off once in a while. Said by a true FB junkie! Put the phone down, let that text go, belay that response. Spend face time with real faces, live voices. Spend heart time with His heart, His voice. Methinks He is the Constant Companion.
Well, I do have lights on in the house and the AC is running at the moment, and I did cook breakfast this morning and brew coffee, and not over an open flame, so not really “dark ages.” I did grow up without computers, or cell phones, or cordless phones for that matter. We had one phone in the house, and that was in the kitchen. My grandmother’s house still has the phone in the hallway! I grew up when there was no call waiting or “leave a message at the beep” and no called ID. I grew up when we went outside to play [see meme’s about growing up in the 60’s.] Oh, wait, “meme” is an internet phenomenon….. Do I feel like I’ve been thrown back in time? Yeah, a little bit. Do I mind? Not so much. Does that surprise me? You betcha!
See, my phone service is currently suspended. And because my phone was also my internet connection, well, it’s temporarily suspended too. Sigh…
Life without the cell phone. The constant companion. The electronic growth.
It’s quiet.
Quiet can be a good thing or a bad thing. Depends on how you look at it. And what you do with your time. I choose to view it as a good thing. Now, I have the luxury of this because I know this is temporary. I know that at some point in time [sooner than later I hope, I hope] my service will be restored and I’ll plug back in. My companion will be more than my alarm clock.
You’d think it would be no big deal, though. Having lived before all this technology was around. You’d think it would be like a stroll down memory lane, reminiscent of innocent times. Or something ridiculous like that. It is no such thing. Although I am choosing the positive, it is a handicap. Did I mention I’m a Weather Channel junkie? I constantly check the forecast, and the current temperature. It’s one of my tabs on my home page.
Tabs on my home page. I currently have a dozen. Facebook [who doesn’t???] two emails, two blogs, the aforementioned Weather Channel, Twitter, my Amazon author account and of course, the Amazon page with my novel. [Tessa, in case you’ve missed it. While you’re at it, go get a copy, and leave a review! <--- unabashed plug!]
On Facebook, I’ve my personal page and my professional page, Robin E. Mason, Author & Artist. [while you’re at it, go “like” my page, be my fan!!] And I “follow” two different pages for writers. See all the good stuff I’m missing???
See all the time I’ve got that I’m NOT online? [ooohh, that smarts!] I can easily spend two hours trolling Facebook, email and my other connections. And that’s before breakfast! Not the wisest use of my time, says I.
So what am I doing with ALLLLL this “free time?” I’m reading, spending time with my writing, proofreading a manuscript for my writer-friend. [not something I want to do full time, by the way!] I’m an artist, there’s never not something to do!
I’m also a teacher. Started out last fall as “something to do until” I landed that great design job. That great design job still hasn’t found me, and teaching is no longer something to do “until.” It is something to do. I love it! And, I’m told, I’m good at it. [yay me!] [go figure!] So there’s that that keeps me busy. And gives me human interaction.
See, I’m on Disability for Rheumatoid Arthritis. [yeah it sucks] Limits what I can do it two ways: first is the dreaded fatigue. More so than any pain associated with RA, the weakness haunts me constantly. And second, is financial. Disability doesn’t give me much to go on. Thank God for, well, for Him. He meets more needs in the most surprising ways. And I’m talking the big stuff – like rent – all way “down” to little things, like pork chops. Yes, pork chops. This is what happened: I was craving pork chops. Didn’t mention it to Him [i.e. prayer] or anyone else for that matter, just a craving. Next thing I know, my neighbor has fixed pork chops for dinner – and sent a plate over for me!! How’s THAT for answered un-prayer!! He did say when we delight in Him, He’ll give us the desire of our heart. And my heart [well my belly] was wanting a pork chop. Pretty cool, huh? So, see, I know my phone AND my internet will be back on. Papa God will see to that!
All this “down time” has allowed me greater “up time” though. “Up time” being prayer / meditation time. I learned / discovered a few years ago that sometimes, those moments spent not verbalizing some great and magnificent prayer, are, in fact, greater and more magnificent by virtue of their simplicity, their innocence. Looking up at the sky or the trees, as my mind wanders, and I connect with Him, seeming random thoughts occur to me. A name drops in my mind, a need, a blessing. And I pray, I interact with Papa God, we talk, as good friends should and do. [this theme and phrase just keeps coming up.....]
Methinks the constant companion is here to stay. Methinks we shall never go back to the proverbial “simpler times” when there was but a single phone in the house, and it was in the kitchen, or the hallway. Methinks we won’t chuck our laptops and flat screens for – well, I don’t even know what we’d put in their place. TV with rabbit ears? Methinks we can make the best use of the technology we’ve been given, make the wise choice, and log off once in a while. Said by a true FB junkie! Put the phone down, let that text go, belay that response. Spend face time with real faces, live voices. Spend heart time with His heart, His voice. Methinks He is the Constant Companion.
May 2, 2014
Friendship
It’s been a week, that’s for sure. Still reeling from the loss of my friend, focus had been hard to come by.
I guess that’s where I’ll start. With friendship.
I vest myself deeply in my family and friends. If I’ve got it to give, if I’ve the time or capacity to do or go, I will. And sometimes, even when I really don’t have. And, sometimes, when I probably shouldn’t. [sometimes “helping” isn’t really helping]
Then again, sometimes helping is a great risk. To express love, to venture past tacit boundaries, offer advice, er, I mean, counsel. Sometimes it’s a hug or a smile, or a word of encouragement, “thinking of you today.” I know what that means to me when I get those random words and smiles. A candy bar, or a favorite treat. It’s what friendships are made of, it’s what relationships are made of.
I’ve so many circles of friends, so wide-spread, I’ve a very full heart. I’ve my “inner core” friends, I guess they’re my “besties.” They know me better and longer than anyone else, have been through hell and high water with me, watched me grow, watched me struggle and hurt, watched me learn, watched me fly – flown with me. They’ve encouraged me in ways that defy definition, the little things - like candy bars, or a butterfly window catcher (purple of course) - and the big things – standing in prayer, giving an ear [or IM chat box] when I need someone, a hug when I’m broken. We laugh, at the silliest things – more importantly, we laugh at the same things. Which I guess is part of what defines friendship. Because of distance, we don’t “hang out” often – and when we do it’s the more cherished for it.
There are those who comprise my “outer core,” nearly as bonded as the “besties” but perhaps a little less vested. I’m blessed to have many in this outer core, those who lift me and encourage me, laugh with me and talk with me. I know I can count on them, turn to them when I’m hurting or lonely or sad. They are prayer partners, but they are more than that. We are sisters – a few brothers, too - bonded in love, and in laughter.
“Mantle” friends, the most vast category. Those who I count as friends but don’t interact with often or frequently, or on the regular. There is connection but not the same bond. Laughter, maybe a cup of coffee, a helping hand. Perhaps a shoulder when there are tears. Co-workers, classmates, the random person that makes “the connect.” I count them friends, I like having friends, and I like having lots.
Of course, there’s the “crust.” And because I would place a miserly few in the category of enemy, there are those who are on the fringe of friendship, and they are indeed, “crusty.” You know how it goes, you greet, ask politely what’s up, nod, smile. But there’s no genuine interest, no real concern, lacks the “connect.” And maybe this isn’t really a “friend” category. Maybe “meh” is a more apt classification. “Meh,” I’ll stick with my “crust.” All good pies have to have a crust.
Family all fall into one of the divisions. You know, some are barely a crust, while some are infinitely a core bestie. There’s the black sheep – and they could be core or crust – there’s always the family clown, and the family melodramatist, the matriarch or patriarch, the rock-solid cousin who’s always there.
I count friendship a privilege, and open easily, sometimes too easily, readily, to friendship. I am open, transparent, honest. I’m alone much of the time, and lonely, and that’s hard. I’m an enigma: I cherish my alone time [my Holy time, my creativity time] yet I relish social time.
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was invisible. Or she thought she was invisible, felt that way at least. And when she felt people were staring at her, she wished she was invisible. That little girl was me. Hello, my name is Robin, and I’m a recovering invisiblet. I wasn't shy, I was terrified. And that made it quite difficult to make friends. Or to be a friend.
So now, I’m making up for lost time, in a sense. Truly, I’m gaining the maturity and the gift Papa has placed in me all along. That of having friends. That of being a friend.
And of course, I would be remiss if I neglected the greatest Friend of all, Jesus. He’s the Friend Who is always with me [sheesh, do I ever need that reminder!!!] He’s the Friend Who knows me best, and yet never turns His back on me. Never turns me away, or denies me a moment of His time. Of course, He has saved me from my sins and all that “religious” stuff, but He’s my Friend, He’s the Friend Who never leaves my side, Who always has my back. He knows my secrets – and tells me His. And yes, He laughs with me, and cries with me. He feels my pain, and shares my joy. As all good friends should and do. He walks with me, and talks with me – as all good friends should and do.
I’ve friends in all avenues, at every turn. I tend to make friends easily, and stay true. Even when it becomes a memory.
I guess that’s where I’ll start. With friendship.
I vest myself deeply in my family and friends. If I’ve got it to give, if I’ve the time or capacity to do or go, I will. And sometimes, even when I really don’t have. And, sometimes, when I probably shouldn’t. [sometimes “helping” isn’t really helping]
Then again, sometimes helping is a great risk. To express love, to venture past tacit boundaries, offer advice, er, I mean, counsel. Sometimes it’s a hug or a smile, or a word of encouragement, “thinking of you today.” I know what that means to me when I get those random words and smiles. A candy bar, or a favorite treat. It’s what friendships are made of, it’s what relationships are made of.
I’ve so many circles of friends, so wide-spread, I’ve a very full heart. I’ve my “inner core” friends, I guess they’re my “besties.” They know me better and longer than anyone else, have been through hell and high water with me, watched me grow, watched me struggle and hurt, watched me learn, watched me fly – flown with me. They’ve encouraged me in ways that defy definition, the little things - like candy bars, or a butterfly window catcher (purple of course) - and the big things – standing in prayer, giving an ear [or IM chat box] when I need someone, a hug when I’m broken. We laugh, at the silliest things – more importantly, we laugh at the same things. Which I guess is part of what defines friendship. Because of distance, we don’t “hang out” often – and when we do it’s the more cherished for it.
There are those who comprise my “outer core,” nearly as bonded as the “besties” but perhaps a little less vested. I’m blessed to have many in this outer core, those who lift me and encourage me, laugh with me and talk with me. I know I can count on them, turn to them when I’m hurting or lonely or sad. They are prayer partners, but they are more than that. We are sisters – a few brothers, too - bonded in love, and in laughter.
“Mantle” friends, the most vast category. Those who I count as friends but don’t interact with often or frequently, or on the regular. There is connection but not the same bond. Laughter, maybe a cup of coffee, a helping hand. Perhaps a shoulder when there are tears. Co-workers, classmates, the random person that makes “the connect.” I count them friends, I like having friends, and I like having lots.
Of course, there’s the “crust.” And because I would place a miserly few in the category of enemy, there are those who are on the fringe of friendship, and they are indeed, “crusty.” You know how it goes, you greet, ask politely what’s up, nod, smile. But there’s no genuine interest, no real concern, lacks the “connect.” And maybe this isn’t really a “friend” category. Maybe “meh” is a more apt classification. “Meh,” I’ll stick with my “crust.” All good pies have to have a crust.
Family all fall into one of the divisions. You know, some are barely a crust, while some are infinitely a core bestie. There’s the black sheep – and they could be core or crust – there’s always the family clown, and the family melodramatist, the matriarch or patriarch, the rock-solid cousin who’s always there.
I count friendship a privilege, and open easily, sometimes too easily, readily, to friendship. I am open, transparent, honest. I’m alone much of the time, and lonely, and that’s hard. I’m an enigma: I cherish my alone time [my Holy time, my creativity time] yet I relish social time.
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was invisible. Or she thought she was invisible, felt that way at least. And when she felt people were staring at her, she wished she was invisible. That little girl was me. Hello, my name is Robin, and I’m a recovering invisiblet. I wasn't shy, I was terrified. And that made it quite difficult to make friends. Or to be a friend.
So now, I’m making up for lost time, in a sense. Truly, I’m gaining the maturity and the gift Papa has placed in me all along. That of having friends. That of being a friend.
And of course, I would be remiss if I neglected the greatest Friend of all, Jesus. He’s the Friend Who is always with me [sheesh, do I ever need that reminder!!!] He’s the Friend Who knows me best, and yet never turns His back on me. Never turns me away, or denies me a moment of His time. Of course, He has saved me from my sins and all that “religious” stuff, but He’s my Friend, He’s the Friend Who never leaves my side, Who always has my back. He knows my secrets – and tells me His. And yes, He laughs with me, and cries with me. He feels my pain, and shares my joy. As all good friends should and do. He walks with me, and talks with me – as all good friends should and do.
I’ve friends in all avenues, at every turn. I tend to make friends easily, and stay true. Even when it becomes a memory.
April 25, 2014
on the death of a friend
Death of a Friend – Tribute to Sam
We invest words moments
Laughter tears
Friendship created.
Connection, common bond
Banter sparring jest and fears
Friendship elevated.
Time establishes reveals, challenges dares
We stretch and reach and grow
Friendship substance.
Battle scars, woes to tell
Ears to hear, burdens bear.
Friendship is.
Tragic end, sudden moments
Grieve and ache and cry.
But Friendship doesn’t end.
Farewell my friend.
© Robin E. Mason
24 April 2014
Not at all what I had thought I’d write about. I had thought more along the lines of getting acquainted with me, your blogger. By way of introduction, quasi-bio, to develop and establish our blogosphere friendship.
The death of a cherished friend this week decided for me. It’s not easy to quantify any friendship, sometimes there’s just a connection, and this friend was that to me. And, I pray, I to him. We shared some deep commonalities, writing among them.
Death, whether sudden or anticipated, is never an easy companion. Aged grandparents who go in their sleep or after long-term health issues is a painful loss, and no matter how we “prepare” we are never ready. Sudden and wretched tragedies we certainly are unprepared for, and perhaps it’s more difficult to process, accept. Traffic accidents, war, suicide, physical violence, abuse, both physical and substance – how do we justify? How do we cope? I know I have a Savior Who holds me in the palm of His hand, Who gives peace when there is none. I have that peace, as I write, I am at peace.
And yet I struggle, did I convey adequately my love, my friendship? Did my friend die with at least the knowledge of my devotion? In his final moments, probably he would not think of me – how selfish am I??? In his final moments, I pray he was thinking of Jesus, ready for His embrace. There is my peace, there is my hope, for the day I will see my friend again.
~ Sorrow’s End ~
Death comes as a thief
And we don’t understand
Yet in this dark hour of grief
Still we know
the touch of the Master’s hand.
He knows the number of our days
To walk upon this land
We seek Him and his ways
And rest in
the touch of the Master’s hand.
He works all things for our good
According to his plan
We walk along his righteous road
Holding fast to
the touch of the Master’s hand.
So take your comfort in this night
And know He sees your pain
Sorrow’s end, eternity’s light
And ne’er dismiss
the touch of the Master’s hand.
© Robin E. Mason
3 March 2004
I woke up yesterday, and again today, and couldn’t believe my friend was gone. I can’t call him, can’t instant message him, can’t pop into his office to playfully harass him anymore. And I can’t process. Not yet. We, all who knew him, there’s a hole in our collective hearts. We are numb. While we struggle through the days ahead, and the months to come, with our friend gone, we also have something the rest of the world doesn’t. We knew him, we counted him as a friend, brother, father. We had the privilege of knowing him. That is now an elite privilege.
What I can do is dedicate this blog to him. What I can do, as his friend, is honor his memory, to continue to live as his friend. A part of me died with my friend – and a part of my friend lives on in me. In all who were friend and family to him. In friendship’s take and give, like dye in water, we take on part of one another. Sam colored my life with kindness, an enigmatic (and very cute) smile, gentleness, with intellect, encouragement, laughter. These I keep, these I treasure, and for these I am truly blessed to be counted as his friend. And that’s forever.
We invest words moments
Laughter tears
Friendship created.
Connection, common bond
Banter sparring jest and fears
Friendship elevated.
Time establishes reveals, challenges dares
We stretch and reach and grow
Friendship substance.
Battle scars, woes to tell
Ears to hear, burdens bear.
Friendship is.
Tragic end, sudden moments
Grieve and ache and cry.
But Friendship doesn’t end.
Farewell my friend.
© Robin E. Mason
24 April 2014
Not at all what I had thought I’d write about. I had thought more along the lines of getting acquainted with me, your blogger. By way of introduction, quasi-bio, to develop and establish our blogosphere friendship.
The death of a cherished friend this week decided for me. It’s not easy to quantify any friendship, sometimes there’s just a connection, and this friend was that to me. And, I pray, I to him. We shared some deep commonalities, writing among them.
Death, whether sudden or anticipated, is never an easy companion. Aged grandparents who go in their sleep or after long-term health issues is a painful loss, and no matter how we “prepare” we are never ready. Sudden and wretched tragedies we certainly are unprepared for, and perhaps it’s more difficult to process, accept. Traffic accidents, war, suicide, physical violence, abuse, both physical and substance – how do we justify? How do we cope? I know I have a Savior Who holds me in the palm of His hand, Who gives peace when there is none. I have that peace, as I write, I am at peace.
And yet I struggle, did I convey adequately my love, my friendship? Did my friend die with at least the knowledge of my devotion? In his final moments, probably he would not think of me – how selfish am I??? In his final moments, I pray he was thinking of Jesus, ready for His embrace. There is my peace, there is my hope, for the day I will see my friend again.
~ Sorrow’s End ~
Death comes as a thief
And we don’t understand
Yet in this dark hour of grief
Still we know
the touch of the Master’s hand.
He knows the number of our days
To walk upon this land
We seek Him and his ways
And rest in
the touch of the Master’s hand.
He works all things for our good
According to his plan
We walk along his righteous road
Holding fast to
the touch of the Master’s hand.
So take your comfort in this night
And know He sees your pain
Sorrow’s end, eternity’s light
And ne’er dismiss
the touch of the Master’s hand.
© Robin E. Mason
3 March 2004
I woke up yesterday, and again today, and couldn’t believe my friend was gone. I can’t call him, can’t instant message him, can’t pop into his office to playfully harass him anymore. And I can’t process. Not yet. We, all who knew him, there’s a hole in our collective hearts. We are numb. While we struggle through the days ahead, and the months to come, with our friend gone, we also have something the rest of the world doesn’t. We knew him, we counted him as a friend, brother, father. We had the privilege of knowing him. That is now an elite privilege.
What I can do is dedicate this blog to him. What I can do, as his friend, is honor his memory, to continue to live as his friend. A part of me died with my friend – and a part of my friend lives on in me. In all who were friend and family to him. In friendship’s take and give, like dye in water, we take on part of one another. Sam colored my life with kindness, an enigmatic (and very cute) smile, gentleness, with intellect, encouragement, laughter. These I keep, these I treasure, and for these I am truly blessed to be counted as his friend. And that’s forever.
April 20, 2014
Born of Persuasion by Jessica Dotta – book review
Could not put it down!
No, really, I had to make myself stop reading. And only because I had to sleep.
Ms. Dotta’s writing is reminiscent of Jane Austen. Set as contemporaries of the likes of Elizabeth Bennet and Elinor Dashwood the reader is immersed in the throes of Julia’s plight, that she is a woman in a time when women were property. Julia’s fight for happiness runs through the whole of the story, as she faces first one opposition and hurdle, then another. The twists and intrigue to this story will keep the reader on the edge of his or her seat.
Mrs. Windham could be the sister of Jane Austen’s Mrs. Bennet. Elizabeth is quite the proper young woman, at least when she’s around her mother. Edward and enigma, Mr. Macy more so. Deeply scarred by her father, and wounded by tragic events, Julia struggles to gain footing and confidence – at least, as much as a lady in her era can know – and to find love and happiness.
I am enamored of Ms. Dotta’s writing, and will be sure to read the second and third books in this trilogy, Mark of Distinction and Price of Privilege. I look forward to reading many more by this author.
No, really, I had to make myself stop reading. And only because I had to sleep.
Ms. Dotta’s writing is reminiscent of Jane Austen. Set as contemporaries of the likes of Elizabeth Bennet and Elinor Dashwood the reader is immersed in the throes of Julia’s plight, that she is a woman in a time when women were property. Julia’s fight for happiness runs through the whole of the story, as she faces first one opposition and hurdle, then another. The twists and intrigue to this story will keep the reader on the edge of his or her seat.
Mrs. Windham could be the sister of Jane Austen’s Mrs. Bennet. Elizabeth is quite the proper young woman, at least when she’s around her mother. Edward and enigma, Mr. Macy more so. Deeply scarred by her father, and wounded by tragic events, Julia struggles to gain footing and confidence – at least, as much as a lady in her era can know – and to find love and happiness.
I am enamored of Ms. Dotta’s writing, and will be sure to read the second and third books in this trilogy, Mark of Distinction and Price of Privilege. I look forward to reading many more by this author.
Robin's Book Shelf
The people I meet, the worlds I get lost in and long to return to. And the authors who create these worlds and the people who inhabit them.
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