Eva Marie Everson's Blog, page 3

The Grace Jar #4

I was six when I graduated to a two-wheeler without training wheels. I cannot remember if my parents bought the rusted 1960 bicycle that had belonged to someone else before me for my birthday or for Christmas, but I believe it was for my birthday. Daddy took it apart, sanded it down, painted it pink and white, then put it back together. The tires were good, the seat just fine. All he needed do was add those fun streamers that came out of the padded handlebars. Mine were alternating colors of pink and white. If you didn't know that the bike was secondhand, you surely couldn't tell it. Daddy had an eye for perfection and detail. I remember being so proud of it, right down to the training wheels, which I used for a few months. Then came the Saturday--it had to be a Saturday--when Daddy decided I was experienced enough on two big wheels and two small ones that it was time to graduate to only two. I was both nervous and excited. Anxious as he grabbed his tools and wrenched those baby wheels off. He then took both me and the bike to the road that stretched like a taut ribbon in front of the house, held the bike upright, and told me to climb on. "Don't be scared," he said. "I'm going to hold on to you."And he did. For several turns--back and forth--Daddy held on to the seat and ran beside me as my feet pedaled as fast as they could. Then, during about the fifth or sixth turn, as I neared my friend Marguerite's house, I realized Daddy was no longer beside me. That he had let go. I panicked. The bike began to wobble until down I went. I righted myself and the bike, crying. When I turned to look toward our house, there stood Daddy, hands on his hips, a summer breeze blowing his cotton, shortsleeved shirt. "You're all right," he called out. "Get back on and ride back to me."And so I did. All the while, Daddy clapped in approval of my feat. Then, when I reached him, he grabbed the handlebars to stop my ride, gathered me into his arms, and hugged me, saying, "You did it! See? You can do these things!"Encouraged, I immediately jumped back on the bike and took off … This would be my mode of transportation for the next decade. I zoomed all over town, the wind in hair and, sometimes, bugs in my teeth. A bicycle took me to the homes of my friends, to the pool, to softball games ... to anywhere I wanted to go. But always--always--no matter where I went, I always returned home to where my parents and brother waited. The safety of my own home. My own family.As I've struggled recently with the contents of my grace jar, I have remembed those moments with tenderness. Whatever is out there--whatever pulls me away from the safety of home--home is still where I return. No matter how low the grace jar gets, even if it goes empty, I know where to find the grace I need. Home. Not the address where I live. No ... home. Within the safety of God's arms. God's words. His whispers to my heart. All I have to do is turn around and pedal.

The Grace Jar (#3)

I am my own worst enemy. My mind, specifically. It runs 100 miles an hour, even when I'm asleep. You may think this is because I'm a writer. An artist, if you will. And artists and writerly people have minds that simply never stop. After all, I can't go anywhere without seeing a story. And please don't let me overhear a conversation with so much as an inkling of intrigue. My mind whirls, taking what could be benign and turns it into something filled with twists and turns.I dream. Every night, I dream. Technicolor dreams with such details, you cannot imagine. Most mornings, I recall them all. Every nuance. Every word said. Every "and then, as if I passed through a veil ..." All day long, my mind races. Not only with things that need to be done, but with things I did and old conversations. Sometimes I laugh out loud for no apparent reason--I remembered something funny someone said. Other times my brow furrows and heat rises to my face. I have now remembered something negative. Something hurtful. Oh, and you should hear the way I respond to that hurtful person! Of course this is only in my mind. I never responded that way in real life. Only in my mind.Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, says Paul in Romans 12:2. I think Paul gets me. His "let me beat myself up" verses found in Romans 7 tells it all. He and I are so alike in that. And you know what? I bet Paul had a racing mind. He and I are alike in that, I'm willing to bet. When you read Romans 7, you have to wonder if Paul ever reached into his Grace Jar and found it empty, especially where he was concerned. I know, Paul. I understand. I rarely pull out a Grace Jar note for myself. Rarely, if ever.Maybe that's how my Grace Jar emptied out. RENEW your mind, the apostle pens later on ... after he has beat himself up. Bless Paul ... did he have the music at his fingertips--music that either blares praise or sorrow, magnificence or madness--at the touch of a button? Did he have television to draw him from the Truth of the Word? Did he have the internet filled with its goodness and its trash? Did he have social media ... that has become so filled with hate and disgust those of us who try to stay positive feel as if we are drowning in a vast, roaring ocean? Were his days filled to capacity with the noise of traffic and the voices that simply won't shut up?He did not. Wonder how he would fare today?Renew your mind, you say ... how, Paul? How? By not conforming ...All right. Give it to God. Your whole body. That includes your mind. Do whatever it takes. Turn off the music. Stay away from the TV and the computer and find a quiet place ... A quiet place. I do so love the quiet, but ... most days it's easier said than done, Paul.You said you wanted to fill your Grace Jar. What do you know of grace?Oh, sister ... sit down ... what do I know of grace?

The Grace Jar (#2): Be Kind

Kindness. Remember that? Unlike grace, it is one of the fruits of the Spirit. Kindness, I have discovered, is easy to give, but often forgotten. We get so busy, don't we? Too busy, in fact.Just the other day I watched an inspirational video in which Rick Warren said, "God did not create you and put you on this earth just to mark things off your 'to-do' list." Those few words--that one sentence--was like a bat swung at the back of my knees. They nearly toppled me. Why? Because I'm a list-maker.Nearly at all times, I keep with me a small journal in which, every day, I write down all I have to accomplish in that day. Not necessarily in order, but things that need to be done. And then I cross them out after I complete them.I write it ALL down ... right down to making the bed and taking a shower and putting on my makeup. Over the years that "to-do" has been shortened to "House/Self" but I know what it means. It means I have to straighten the house and get myself ready for the day.And getting myself ready for the day means getting a shower, getting dressed, and putting on my face. "The List" goes all the way back to 1976 when I read the book The Total Woman by Maribel Morgan--a book that was a huge hit and a slap in the face to all the women's libbers. It talked about house-wifery in terms of being the CEO of your own home. At least until the real president walked in the door ... I didn't agree with everything Morgan wrote about (no Saran Wrap for me!) but I did agree with her encouragement to make a list every morning to cut down on wandering aimlessly through my day asking, "Now what do I need to do next?" That list also lessens my chances of being frustrated by all that I have to accomplish.But then ... according to Warren ... God did not place me here to just accomplish stuff. God placed me here to be ... what? In relationship with Him? To be Him with skin? To show the world what a little kindness can do?And, if I am less frustrated, isn't showing kindness a little bit easier?One of the first mentions of kindness (if not the first) in the New Testament (and it is only mentioned roughly 11 times) is in the story of Peter and John who are standing before the rulers and elders of the people, called to make an account of how it was a lame man, having been touched by them, could now walk. Peter, filled with the Holy Spirit, replied, If we are being called to account today for an act of kindness shown to a man who was lame ... then know this ... it is by the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth ... that this man stands before you healed (Acts 4). An act of kindness ... in the name of Jesus ... healed.One small act.One simple touch.One act of kindness.Today ... today I will endeavor to do the same. One simple act of kindness. A small payment, I think, to help fill up my Grace Jar again. And who will be more blessed?

The Grace Jar (#1)

The Grace Jar is not an actual jar. The Grace Jar, I have come to learn, is a metaphor for the grace that naturally dwells within me. I hear it a lot, that notion that I have been infused somehow with a lot of grace. Grace to give. Grace to share. Grace to dole out at just the right time, typically to a person undeserving. Sometimes to those who do deserve it. "You handled that with such grace," I hear ... That's when I stop long enough to think why yes ... yes I did. Wonder where that came from?Because let me be honest with you--grace does not come naturally to me. I live, daily, with a short fuse that has been--over time--elongated. It's still there, it just takes more to light it.Now, I don't mean to make excuses, I'm just saying ... I got that short fuse from my father. Daddy was quick to blow but just as swift to apologize. It's our Irish blood, he'd say. But Daddy was also the first to say, "You have to learn to tame it." Over the years, I saw him do this almost to the point of the opposite--Daddy could subdue fury until it purred and gave off a calming effect. I've tried to do the same. It's like a life-goal.So, in my mind I created a Grace Jar filled with tiny slips of paper folded in two on which God has written all the right things to say when what I really want to spout are all the wrong things. The things that will lead to breakups. Or dissention so thick one can cut it with the proverbial knife. Or arguments that cannot be forgotten complete with words that cannot be unsaid. When the situation calls for it, I simply reach into the jar, pull out one piece of paper, unfold it, read from it, and ... voila! Grace abounds. Grace heals. Grace keeps us all together and on the same page.Grace, says Merriam-Webster, is "unmerited divine assistance given to humans for their regeneration or sanctification." It is also "a virtue coming from God."For it is by grace that you have been saved, wrote the apostle Paul to the church in Ephesus. Yes, it saves us. Grace brings us to a place we could never reach otherwise. Not on our own, at least. It is by God's grace that I enter into relationship with Him. It is by God's grace (and mercy) that His Son died for me. It is by God's grace that I get up in the morning, make it through my day, go to bed every night. It is by God's grace ...Do you find it interesting (I do) that grace is not one of those desirable fruits of the Spirit? Self-control ... yes. Kindness ... yes. Gentleness and forbearance ... oh, yes. But grace? Maybe if you mix them all together...So, you may be asking, where does one find a Grace Jar and how does one fill it? Does one go to a Grace Jar store to purchase one for yourself (and perhaps another as a gift for a friend or loved one)? Like a Pandora, can you buy a Grace Jar like a necklace or bracelet, but the pieces of paper filled with God-inspired words come separately? Do they come in those sold-separately bins, marked with "silver" and "gold" and "gemstones"? "New arrivals"?And what happens if the moment comes when you need to reach into the Grace Jar for the right thing to say (and feel and believe) only to discover that it's empty? You pick it up, you peer inside, you juggle it a little and turn it upside down, but ... no. It. Is. Empty. Yes, yes ... you meant to purchase more of the little pieces of paper folded in two and written on by God when you noticed--was it a week ago? A month?--that the Grace Jar had become only half-filled. Which makes it half-empty, by the way--for all you pessimists. You even went to Amazon to see if you could purchase them for less there because, let's face it, Christians can be many things and bargain-shoppers is one of them.And, wouldn't you know it, they were on sale for less there and so you put them in your shopping cart but then the phone rang or someone came to the door or a favorite song came on Pandora and you found yourself looking up the artist on Wikipedia--didn't he die last year?--and ...You forgot.So you jump back on Amazon and (again, wouldn't you know it) they're now sold outof the item you were looking for. And, no, they don't know when they'll be back in stock. So now you're forced to get in the car and drive to the nearest Grace Jar store. Only it's a half-hour away. And that's without traffic. So, you wonder if they have an online store ... with a shopping cart ... that you will not neglect this time. Nothing but nothing will keep you from the purchase. By golly, you have your credit card in hand this time! Alas, no. The website says they want you to come in person--in person--just as you are. Which is good, because you're a mess right now.I know you understand what I'm saying. Even if no one ever told you that you are a person filled with grace, you know exactly what I'm talking about. And I'll tell ya ... just recently, I reached into my Grace Jar, pulled out a piece of paper and, when the words didn't do their job, reached in for another and ... the jar was empty. I picked it up, I peered inside, I turned it upside down and jiggled it. I ran to Amazon, I went online to see if I could find an online store and ... nada.That's when I knew ... it was time for me to go to the One who writes on the little pieces of paper folded in two. I was going to have to "come as I are," which was a mess. An absolute mess. So, journey with me as I go to the Grace Jar store. See if you can find for yourself the right Jar ... and the proper pieces of paper, folded in two, and written on by God.**Copyright Eva Marie Everson

The Path of ... Rest

“Even God rested, Eva Marie,” a fellow writer exclaimed to me.True, I reckoned. But is God a Type-A personality, I mused …You know … constantly driven with a sense of urgency, always up against the clock with a tendency to overbook or overlap in the booking, able to leap tall buildings at a single bound, unable to do only one thing at a time?Wait … yes. God is a Type-A. Which means He gets me.Looking BackI entered the world of publishing in 1997 (although I really didn’t know it at the time). I signed my first contract in 1999 and saw my first book published that very same year. Since then, I have written more articles and blog posts (some my own, others as a guest) than I ever thought to keep count of. I have seen published nearly 40 books. I have edited dozens of published and unpublished works and articles for other writers. I’ve taught across the country and in Canada at both writers and women’s conferences. I have spoken in school auditoriums and in church sanctuaries and on various other stages. I have spoken to as many as thousands and as few as five … and one of those included my mother, so … four. I helped launch a writers group with only five people and have presided over it in one form or another ever since (more than 20 years), now serving as the president of its nearly 900 world-wide members (Word Weavers International). I have directed a writers conference (Florida Christian Writers Conference) for several years, recently launched the North Georgia CWC and led or helped lead writers retreats. I have directed the Selah Awards and the Foundation Awards (for Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference) since 2011. I have traveled to Israel three times as a journalist and/or writer and sojourner. I have met with hundreds of wannabe and nearly-be writers, encouraging them along their path. I have cried and beat my fist against the floor and then stood in awe and wonder at what God has done with the words He placed in my head, in my heart, and then on my computer screen.I’ve conquered social media. Sort of. Okay, I’ve shown up when I didn’t want to and managed to develop a “following” and “friends” … some I actually know.I have won awards. Been on the bestseller list. It’s nice.I’ve buried too many loved ones. Spoken at their funerals. Presided over one whose death I couldn’t understand and still don’t understand.And in the midst of all this I’ve moved twice, fought a legal system (won, then lost), raised children, and welcomed grandchildren (the best part of what comes first). I’ve loved a houseful of animals, buried them, and adored and fought with a husband (known as the huggy hubby).No wonder I’m tired.And NowTwo years ago I turned in a manuscript (a bio about Eric Liddell) and saw a novel release that I’m sooooo proud of (The One True Love of Alice-Ann) … all within days of each other. And then I lamented to my friend that “I’m tired … and I’m not sure where I’m going next with all this.” (Two years later and I’m still unsure. I guess we always are.)To which she said, “Why don’t you give yourself permission to rest?”No comment.Even God rested … said another friend.And He gets me, said I. So, it’s okay.What is Wrong with Us?Why do we think we cannot rest, we writers? Why do we think we must stay one step ahead of what publishing wants and demands of us? Why can’t we just write our words and see them published and then collect the accolades, which we follow with a good night’s rest? Why is there all this other stuff to take care of? Blogs to post, social media to attack (and then to be sucked in by), articles on craft to read?Or write …Why can’t we just stop?And if we do stop, what will we do with the time?Read a book … just because? Watch a movie—the one we wanted to see on the big screen, then said we’d get at Red Box … and now we can only hope to catch before Netflix removes it from the lineup? Call a friend? Have coffee with a loved one? Go shopping … not to purchase, but to browse?Fall into The Word and in love with God all over again?What will we do?Try This: Take five minutes. Only five. Sit in the quiet (you may have to go to the bathroom and lock the door to accomplish this but try …). No TV. No music (not even the classical/nature stuff). No books, no journals or pens. Just sit.Close your eyes.Breathe in. Breathe out. (Repeat.)Whisper a little prayer of love and praise and adoration to God. You don’t have to be verbose.I dare you.Just. Be. Quiet. This is the path of silence.Then—maybe after a week or a month or two months of doing this—graduate to fifteen minutes. Or, take a whole afternoon. Heck, take a whole day!Go ahead. I give you permission. So does God. In fact, He insists upon it.For whoever enters God's rest also rests from his own work, just as God did from His.Hebrews 4:10

The Mystery of Barbara B.

I met Barbara B. when we were twelve years old and both attended the same church camp. You know the kind. Set out in the middle of the woods. Unpainted plank cabins with row upon row of cots separated by tiny end tables stretch from screened walls of windows to screened walls of windows. These were the camps run by adults we never saw and overseen by young adults only slightly older than the campers. Boys slept on one side of the camp, girls on the other. We began our mornings raising the flag and pledging allegiance to all it represented. We had prayers and sang songs. Between meals we participated in crafts and other activities—swimming and boating and archery to name a few. At night we built campfires and roasted marshmallows, then placed them between graham crackers and a slab of chocolate. We performed scenes from plays that made us giggle until exhaustion sent us scrambling to bed.Most of all, we made friends. Some would be friends for life, some we’d know only for that particular week in the summer. Some would become friends for a season.Barbara B. was one of those friends. The latter. Our cots lay next to each other, separated only by that small end table meant for holding cups of water, our Bibles (or other reading material), a tall kerosene lantern (there was no electricity), and (in my case) a pair of cat-eye glasses. We bonded the moment we met. Throughout the week, if you saw one, you saw the other. At night we sat or lay on our cots with their white cotton sheets and thin blankets kept folded at the foot, our faces turned toward each other, our whispered conversations running until a counselor commanded lights out or we simply grew too tired to continue. It was during one such conversation that we realized that we had something unique in common. During an address exchange (for letter writing after our week came to an end), we discovered that Barbara lived two doors down from my aunt, uncle, and two cousins in nearby Savannah. We were thrilled! My family often visited my father’s brother and his family, which meant Barbara and I would be able to continue our friendship beyond the boundaries of letter writing.As soon as camp ended, we threw our arms around each other, promising through tear-streaked words to write as soon as we got home. And we did. Our weekly letters crisscrossed the miles and, on weekends when long distance rates went down, we were allowed a few minutes on the telephone. When my father and mother planned a trip to Savannah for a few days, I let Barbara know I’d soon be in that great coastal city and that, finally, we could see each other again. True to plan, within minutes of arriving, my cousin and I ran down to Barbara’s where we hung out the rest of the day. The following day we darted back and forth … playing at one house, then the other. On Sunday we said another tearful goodbye, but reminded each other that we could still write until our next family visit.The letter writing continued as did the phone calls, until one Saturday afternoon when I called and Barbara’s older sister answered. I asked to speak to Barbara, she asked who was calling, and I gave my name. A few moments later I heard her tell Barbara she had a phone call. “Who is it?” Barbara asked. Her sister replied that it was her friend from camp. “Tell her I’m busy,” I heard her muffled voice say. Which, of course, could have been true. Her sister relayed the message and I said I’d call back … and I did. Still, Barbara was “busy.” I decided to write a letter. It went unanswered. I wrote again. Nothing. I tried calling. “Busy …” The next time we went to Savannah, I hurried to her house and knocked on the door where I was turned away by her mother.I never knew what happened … what I did wrong, if indeed I did. And I would never find out because I never saw or heard from Barbara again. But, I’ve thought of her over the years, most especially during those times when relationships I believe will never end … do. When a friendship turns sour and I am left to wonder “what happened?”The story of Barbara B. and me will most likely remain one of my life’s great mysteries, difficult to swallow the unknown of it because friendships have always mattered so much to me.Who was behind the killing of JFK … how did Marilyn really die … did man actually land and walk on the moon … and what became of Barbara B …

You Have Only to Listen ...

God has sent the Spirit of truth, he dwells in your heart. You have only to listen, to follow, and he will lead you to the complete truth. He leads through all the events, all the circumstances of your life. Nothing in your life is so insignificant, so small, that God cannot be found at its centre ...… There is no limit to the ways in which God may make himself known. At every turn of our lives there can be a meeting place with God. How our hearts should sing with joy and thanksgiving! ~~Mother Frances DominicaWho is Mother Frances Dominica? She was born on the 21st day of December, 1942 in Inverness, Scotland … reared in Edinburgh. David, her younger brother, was born with only one lung. She visited him often at the hospital, which may have led to her decision to become a pediatric nurse. Although her grandfather was a Presbyterian elder, by the age of 35, Frances had joined the All Saints Sisters of the Poor, become novice mistress, and then mother superior. She founded two hospices for the seriously ill--Helen House (a children's hospice) and Douglas House (for those ages 16-40 with life-shortening conditions). You will find the living God in the pages of the Bible, she wrote. You will also find him exactly where you are.

Coming Home

What is it about coming home? For most of us--okay, for me, anyway--there's nothing like driving into my childhood hometown, which is what I did yesterday. Even though my car is relatively new, I get the feeling it automatically knows where to go ... how to take the turns ... how to stay between the lines on the straight and narrow roads ... how to watch for logging trucks (this time of year) and farmers driving large tractors (any time of the year). What is it about walking into your childhood home? The feelings that wash over you as you step through the door--the "back" door because no one goes to the front door. The house has held on to its scents and the scents hold all my young memories. I grew up in this house, this house my parents built when I was only a year old. This house where, a year or so later, they walked in with my baby brother, who now--smack in the throes of middle age--owns the old place. When I'm here I can still hear the voices of my parents, the childish laughter of my brother and me, the sounds of a middle-class life lived out in Small Town, America. In the midst of a world in crisis (the 60s) and a world of change (the 70s), we were a family, complete with a Heinz 57 dog named Tippie. Great memories reside here while those we'd rather forget have packed their bags and left. And, each time I sit here alone in the mornings, sipping my coffee while curled in an overstuffed chair with a book I'm currently reading, I wonder why I packed my bags with them. I wonder why the wanderlust bug always buzzed inside of me. My whole life, even now living so far away and traveling as much as I do, there is the craving to know what's out there, the desire to walk on parts of the earth where my feet have yet to explore ...... and the need, always, to come home.

Spontaneous Creativity #2

Peering out, she waited. He would come, she said. He would come. Her toes strained against the wide floorboards, her stomach pressed against the sill. Salt air and seagulls kept watch with her. He would come, she said. He would come.

Spontaneous Creativity 2018/#1

In the cool of the day, she waited. Beneath the haint ceiling of the wide front porch, she read. All day she'd counted the hours. Now, she counted the minutes. Her eyes on the book, the words not quite catching, and her ears tuned for the car that would come down the road. (C) Eva Marie Everson, Author #IAmWriting #YourTurn (How would you continue this?)