Penny J. Johnson's Blog, page 141

I am thankful…

…my sons are not old enough to vote in this shades-of-gray election. Although while I agonized over my own vote, my oldest son expressed well-contructed reasons for his views on the presidential election and the amendment votes. Depending on the election results, I may wish he could have voted. Even so, I am thankful he is researching the issues and preparing for the next election.

I am thankful for…

…living in this time and place, not in the time of Caligula, one of the Julio-Claudian emperors, who appointed his favorite horse to his counsul.

I am thankful for…

my feet. Their crusty callousness reminds me I can never add enough balm to completely smooth my journey. They reflect my victories and defeats even as they hold my body in tenuous balance. I hide them in colorful socks, but they snag the fibers causing holes. My worn-down soles attest to my soul’s burdens.

This week in Max Lucado’s book Grace, I read about Jesus washing the disciples’ feet. When I put myself in the disciples’ shoes, I recoil. Jesus kneeling at my feet makes me shudder. I pull my feet away and sit on them until He has to sit on me and wrestle them toward Him. Then, under His firm gentle grasp, I feel Him wash my soiled, cracked skin. He massages each callous, knowing how each one formed. His hands are the balm smoothing them baby-soft. Every defeat reveals the victory of His presence in every race. My child-like faith dances barefoot in the streets, showing off His pedicure of grace. When I lose my balance and fall on my worn-down soles, He lifts me up again, soul’s burdens, feet, and all.

I am thankful for…

my dad. Today I celebrate the man who inspired me with bedtime stories about a poor boy in the 1950s. The boy’s determination became a learned man’s wisdom as he listened to God every morning on his knees. I saw that boy’s determination with every job change, every out-of-state move, every decision made as a family at the kitchen table. That man’s wisdom revealed itself when he listened to his five-year-old’s counsel, when he took to heart the Scripture verses his wife left open on his desk. To those who know him little, his success may seem imposing. To this little girl who loves him flaws and all, his significance rests just under his chin where her adult head still finds comfort.

I love you, Daddy! Happy Birthday!

I am thankful for…

…the pounding overhead, the shingles scattered on our lawn. When I see their deteriorated tabs, I am thankful only a warning drip, only a small fading stain on our kitchen ceiling prompted us to call a contractor. Even though the insurance company denied our claims due to faulty materials and no hail damage, I am thankful for the means to pay for this replacement. When one of my sons expressed concern a new roof meant he would see the sky over his bed, I was thankful I could assure him it only means this pounding, these scattered shingles.

Because I know not far from here someone is looking at the sky while standing on a foundation slab, wondering how to explain to a son or daughter why their shingles are scattered on their lawn, their neighbor’s lawn and, most likely, a lawn several blocks away. With soberness, I hope prayer shelters them tonight.

Who, Who Gives a Hoot?

An owl woke me before my alarm this morning. I lay in bed listening to his “hoo, hoo, hoo,” imagining his ear tufts forming a permanent scowl over his yellow eyes. His hooting began lower than the trees, below my window. Then he moved to the boughs near my roof or perhaps the roof itself. “Hoo, hoo, hoo,” he continued. I found myself lulled my his song as though my pillow were his wings. When he was silent, I stiffened and strained to hear him again. I would have slipped outside if I could have caught a glimpse of his regal plumage without his swiveling head turning in my direction. His continued call convinced me of some triumph.

We found the gray furry remnants of his victory in the front corner of the yard, probably the same hare my dogs pursued the previous night. No wonder they slept through the owl’s chant. All was well in their dreamy minds with one less rascally rabbit in the world.

I chose not to study the display and acknowledged it from afar. Though natural instinct and prowess puffed up the owl’s pride, I knew I would fail to see the beauty of his accomplishment. Even so, he would remain a keynote for my day. Because even in our best, most natural moments, our accomplishments–perhaps our very acts of survival–may be misunderstood. But, it does not mean we are not heard, even appreciated, for the single note we sing.

Excuses, there is no excuse for you!

Excuses are quite rude. They do not sidle by in a crowded room with a cojoling, “Excuse me.” No, they barrel through the room, pointing out overflowing laundry bins, dirty breakfast dishes, mildewy bathrooms, and dusty corners. They come bearing lists.

Peering over my shoulder, they whisper, “Shouldn’t you be doing something else?”

As I nurture my creativity, they treat me as if I have grabbed one too many cookies.

“Isn’t it about time you took a walk?” they beckon.

“How can you write with the kids making so much noise?”

“How can you write when the house is so quiet?”

“Aren’t you tired at this hour of the morning?”

“Aren’t you tired at this hour of the night?”

“What are you making for dinner?”

“What are you making for dinner tomorrow?”

On and on and on…Excuses!

Excuses, I expose you for what you are. Now, if you will excuse me, I must ask you to leave and never come back. Unless you bring a cup of coffee, then maybe we can talk over a cookie.

Q&A on Goodreads

Please join me for a discussion about my new collection of Christmas poetry, While Bethlehem Sleeps. In addition to answering your questions, I will post topics for us to discuss throughout the holiday season. Members are not required to read the book prior to the discussion. Simply join and read along the way. I hope this journey will be a blessing to all!

http://www.goodreads.com/group/show/82338-q-a-with-penny-j-johnson

 

Behind the Words

As a reader and an author, I appreciate insights from other writers. Where do they get their ideas? When are their best times to write? What inspires them? How do they deal with writer’s block and rejection? Why do they write?

That last question bears the most weight because it is one I ask myself. In the midst of every day life, why do I write?

Blank pages beckon me. Pencils lean comfortably against my writing callous. My fingers fidget, longing to type. In short, I am compelled to write.

Deadlines demand it. Many of the poems in While Bethlehem Sleeps are the result of assignments for my mother’s annual Christmas card or for Advent readings at churches. Therefore, I am commissioned to write.

God grants me time, tenacity, and topics. Because of His grace, I desire to bring Him glory through words. In a way, I am commanded to write.

On those days I wonder where, when, how, and what, knowing the why gives me the confidence to continue my calling to write.

While Bethlehem Sleeps

Here is my new collection of poetry!