Flora Reigada's Blog, page 31

Helping Hands Press: Flora Reigada goes on a TREASURE QUEST, join her in her journey!

Helping Hands Press: Flora Reigada goes on a TREASURE QUEST, join her in her journey!

Stranger On A Train

At first, he was just a stranger on a train, but things soon got creepy.
Traveling from Florida to New York, we were seated together on the crowded train. The long trip was made longer still, by heavy rain pouring down the windows and flooding the tracks.
To pass the time, The Stranger and I began to talk. This was amid the drone of passengers talking and laughing, their chatter occasionally punctuated by the cries of restless children.
Everything seemed normal as The Stranger told me about his job at a large ministry. He also told me about a near-death experience that had changed his life and inspired his conversion to Christianity.
As a newspaper correspondent and freelance writer, I'm always on the alert for an interesting story. Sometimes this has gotten me into trouble. This would be one of those times.
The Stranger was pleased to hear I'm a writer and I took notes as he spoke. When I told him I would write his story and try to get it published in a magazine, he was thrilled. He would have nothing less than one of the most popular—Guideposts.
Mentioning I had a few stories published in Guideposts, I said I would give them a try. That's when things began to get weird.
With no warning, The Stranger began praying at the top of his lungs.
Not knowing what else to do, I bowed my head. But I realized the train, just seconds before filled with chatter, had become deathly silent. I glanced up to see questioning faces staring our way.
After that, the trip dragged on as The Stranger talked non-stop about himself and the story he was certain would be published in Guideposts.
As the train approached New York City, we exchanged business cards and I told him I'd be in touch if I had any questions or news about the story.
I breathed a sigh of relief when we finally parted ways at Pennsylvania Station. But that would not be the last of The Stranger. No sooner had I unpacked my suitcase, than he began emailing me.
"Did you get it written? Did you send it? Do you have a contract?"
It was obvious this guy thought my entire life revolved around writing his story. Forget about my husband, children, cooking, cleaning and newspaper deadlines.
I imagine he pictured editors at Guideposts on the edge of their seats, waiting for his article to arrive. In reality, it would take its place at the end of a long list of stories vying for attention. The process can drag on for months, even years and ultimately, most are rejected.
Such is the world of publishing.
I was relieved to finally send the story on its way and get it out of my hair—but not the Stranger. His endless messages took on an increasingly creepy tone.
I thought you were going to get my story published. What happened? Did you lie?
When Guideposts rejected it, the messages got creepier still. He began addressing me as "sweetheart, dear" and "darling."
I kept my responses business-like, telling him I would submit the story elsewhere.
During this time, my husband Dan and I attended services at our church. We had a guest speaker that day, a well-known Christian musician and artist, touring churches around the country, mentioning them throughout his talk.
 Hearing the name of the ministry where The Stranger worked, Dan and I looked at each other in surprise. I didn't know, but Dan had hatched a plan.
Following the message, we went up to greet Mr. Famous Guy.
We told him we enjoyed his message, then Dan asked if he knew "so-and-so" (The Stranger) who worked at such-and-such ministry.
A big smile spread over Famous Guy's face. "Oh yes, I often speak at that ministry and I know him very well."
"My wife's a writer," Dan explained. "She's writing about the near-death experience that changed his life."
Famous Guy was familiar with the story. "That's great. It needs to be told.
At home, Dan composed an email to The Stranger. He told him we'd met Mr. Famous Guy and discussed the story I had written.
"And by the way," Dan added. "From now on, I'll be handling my wife's correspondence, so send all your questions and comments to me."
When the message was sent, Dan explained that he was making The Stranger accountable to someone influential, who could make or break his career.
"He probably never expected the connection between his personal life and his work," Dan said.
After that, I never heard from The Stranger, although Dan contacted him when his story was published in a Christian newspaper distributed throughout the nation.
I was glad for that, but the incident left me more wary of strangers. Maybe that's not such a bad thing.
           

More Than A Kid

As a shy, overweight child growing up in a working class neighborhood on Staten Island, New York, I always felt like an outsider.  Even in my first-grade class, other children had friends, cliques and little "romances."  Few befriended the unpopular girl they called "fatso."
 
I remember wishing I could become invisible.  That way the teacher wouldn’t call on me and ask math questions I couldn’t answer.  Classmates would snicker as I struggled and stammered.
After I entered second grade, a new student joined the class.  Our teacher introduced the blond boy with a cherubic face and eyes mature beyond his years.
"This is Michael.  He moved here from California, near Disneyland."

 My classmates and I looked approvingly at each other. Michael seemed to come from some magical, faraway land and we all wanted to be his friend. But he would seek me out, whether in the lunchroom, the schoolyard, or walking me to and from school. 

Michael would also step between taunting classmates and me.  Although gentle, he spoke with authority.  
"Leave her alone!  She’s my girlfriend and she’s pretty and smart."
Pretty and smart—me?
My mother had said those words, but that's what moms are supposed to say.  Michael made me wonder if they might be true.  
I began inviting Michael to play at my apartment after school.  Each day, Mom greeted us with milk and cookies.  Despite the treats and good times, Michael would keep glancing at the clock, then suddenly run home. When I asked him why he did this, panic rushed into his voice.
"My daddy wants me home on time! If I'm not there, he'll spank me hard."  
One wintry day as Michael and I played outside, my mother made some shocking observations.  Michael wasn’t wearing a coat.  His shoes had holes. Rummaging through our closets, my mother pulled out an old jacket of mine and gave it to Michael.  She also gave him an old, but intact pair of my shoes that didn't look girlish.  I was glad to share what I had. 

The rest of that school year, Michael and I enjoyed each other's company.  And when he visited, my mother watched the time for him.  But when school closed for summer vacation, I lost track of Michael.  When classes resumed in autumn, he wasn't there.
"Where is he?"  I asked several classmates.  
"I think he moved back to California to be with his mom," one answered, treating me with new respect.  

This attitude extended to other classmates.  But I started treating myself with respect, too—talking with and befriending other children.  After school, we’d ride bikes, play stick ball and visit each other in our homes.  That year, lasting friendships were made.  No longer did I feel like an outsider.
  Even though I continued to struggle with math, I discovered I had other skills, such as reading and writing.  I wished Michael could have shared my joy, especially after I began losing weight.  Although I never saw him again, I knew that even if I remained forever awkward and overweight, Michael would still have been my friend.  He understood my pain, because he knew it so well.  I hoped he was finding a better life and being rewarded for his kindness.
"He was like a little angel," my mother said after he left.
Maybe she was right. Michael came to me just when I needed him and left when his job was done.

So, you wanna be a writer?

"I've been thinking of you," a woman I barely knew said when we crossed paths at the supermarket.Her radiant smile told me she had wonderful news.
"I've decided that you can help me write my book!" she exclaimed.
As a newspaper correspondent, I should have known. This has happened before.
My response was probably too abrupt, but it was truthful.
"I'm sorry. I don't have the time."I neglected to say that my fourteen-hour workdays are crammed with rushing to meet writing deadlines, as well as cooking and cleaning for my family.
Her smile now faded, my acquaintance reeled backwards as if she'd been struck. I tried to offer a few pointers, but all she heard was that I could not help her.
It was clear she had no idea about the time-consuming work involved in writing a book, even a short story or a newspaper article.
Ecclesiastes 12:12 says it well. "Of making many books there is no end, and much study wearies the body" (NIV).
Writing a book requires first drafts, second drafts, third drafts and more until we get it right. There is also research, re-writing and editing. The process can take years. Then, once the book is finished, there is no guarantee a publisher will pick it up.
But I can understand my acquaintance's dilemma because I was there myself.
When I asked an English professor to write my book, she offered sage advice.
"No one can put their passion and heart into your book like you can. Maybe it's your life's calling. Just take that first step; write that first word, then keep going, no matter how long it takes, or how many revisions it takes."
I took the good professor's advice, even though my journey to publication would take a dozenyears.
Here are some steps I took along that journey.


I attended writers' conferences. Yes, these can be expensive, but they are an investment. Knowledge is gained and valuable connections made.I joined critique groups in which we evaluated each other's work. These are valuable because it is important to get input from those who will tell us what we need to hear, not what we want to hear. Our spouses and mothers can do that. Information about local critique groups and writers groups can be found at most public libraries, or online. Naturally, there are also online groups. Each has its own flavor and if one does not fit, keep trying.You might want to enroll in a writing class. These are offered at many community colleges and online.                                                
And no matter what, never give up.As we read in the "Come Away My Beloved" perpetual calendar by Frances J. Roberts."Perseverance is to the human spirit what the rudder is to a ship. It will steer the ship dead ahead in spite of the contrary wind. You must have holy determination, pressing on in defiance of all odds."

My ship came into port and yours can too.   Meanwhile, please enjoy a scene from my favorite writing class as seen in "Throw Mama From the Train," with Billy Crystal and Danny Devito.



See February 27 entry.                                         

A PICTURE OF HEAVEN

 In a car with no heater, I shivered all the way to the hospital that cold January day.  But I was also trembling with fear.  Suspicious lumps had been discovered and I was scheduled for tests that would determine if they were malignant.

If you let me have my life, God . . . I bargained
God did let me have my life, as the lumps were benign.  However, being confronted with my own mortality made me yearn to know more about immortality—and heaven.  Does the Bible paint a picture of heaven that I can understand?  I believe it does.  For me, it paints a picture of home.
"A happy family is but an earlier heaven," said the late Sir John Bowring.
Warm memories of growing up in a secure Victorian home with my mother, grandparents and aunt, help me to appreciate Sir Bowring's words.  Even though my family members were not believers, they treated me with great kindness.
Recently, my eighty-year-old mother and I cracked open an old family photo album, to recall those bygone days.  Most of the black and white photos were taken in that elegant home, which my grandfather had restored from ruin. 

In rural Staten Island, New York, it was sheltered by trees and across the street from peaceful woods.  With a grand stairway, polished hardwood floors, spacious rooms with beamed ceilings and crackling fireplaces, the house was like a mansion to me.
But when my grandparents died and the house was sold, the door to that "mansion" forever closed. The sorrow these losses etched into my heart makes me grateful for the promise of a heavenly home—beyond the reach of death or time.
"In my Father's house are many mansions" Jesus assures his disciples and all who believe (John 14:2, KJV).  "I go to prepare a place for you."
Although my finite mind could never capture the wonders of such a place, my family photo album offers hints. My mother pointed out an old snapshot.  It showed me at two years of age, beneath the boughs of our family's majestic Christmas tree.  Just as he did every year, my grandfather had purchased the large spruce, then set it up beside our grand stairway.  Antique ornaments would shimmer while the fragrance of evergreen mingled with home-cooked food wafted through our home.  I looked overjoyed among toys that my folks had lovingly chosen. 
Only after my grandparents were departed, did I realize how blessed I was to have experienced such personalized attention.  But God lavishes His personal love on each Christian--as if there were no other.  Every one is "the apple of his eye" (Deuteronomy 32:10, NIV).  That is but one reason why I believe our mansions will be tailor made. 
"I go to prepare a place for you" (emphasis mine) Jesus reassures His own in John 14:2. Those words tell us that heaven's mansions aren't cookie-cutter sprawl.  He, who created humanity in such a beautiful tapestry of sizes, shapes and colors, has to enjoy variety.  Our Creator, who worked as a carpenter, must be preparing mansions as unique as our DNA—each according to a personalized blueprint.  Because Jesus cares about our every heartache, individual touches might involve situations and desires that earth left unfulfilled. 
What disappointments have we suffered?  What prayers have gone unanswered?  In heaven's glittering mansions, I believe we will find the fulfillment of lost dreams and desires.  We will also find earth's heartaches understood in heaven's light.
My grandparents might have spent a month preparing the Christmas gifts.  Compare this to the 2000 years Jesus has so far spent preparing our heavenly homes.  Imagine the wonderful surprises He is tenderly tucking away in heaven's mansions.  "More than all we ask or imagine" (Ephesians 3:20, NIV) awaits God's dear children.
Another picture my mother pointed out was taken in my grandparents’ dining room, during the 1940's.  Beneath the beamed ceiling and crystal chandelier, the Chippendale, "claw foot" table was spread with silver platters of sumptuous food.  The juicy roast beef, buttery vegetables and fresh bread were for a wedding reception, held in the home.  Surrounding the table, were the happy bride and groom, along with other family members.  All wore the glamorous styles of the day—women in dresses of silk, satin and velvet, men in military uniforms or tweed suits.
Looking at that picture, I could almost smell the food.  The laughter of my loved ones seemed to echo down the corridors of time.  And God will not let that laughter forever fade away.  I look forward to joining my heavenly family of believers, at the "wedding supper" of heaven's King (see Revelation 19:9).  Even now, I get a preview of this great day by gathering with fellow Christians for communion.
I was reminded of this by yet another picture in the old album.  Also at the wedding reception, my entire family had assembled in the massive entrance hall.  Almost everyone I knew and loved still smiles at me from that photo.  Without any of those dear ones, the picture would have been incomplete.

 I'm amazed to think Jesus feels the same about each of us.  Our individual faces make up His portrait of family and home.  From time immemorial, He has carried us in the locket of His heart.  I don't doubt He "opened" that locket while He purchased our salvation on Calvary.  For just one of us He would have left heaven's mansions for a manger and a cross.
And there is always room in God's family picture (and in His heart) for one more.  Empty seats remain at His banquet table.  The good news is that reservations can still be made.  Christ asks those who believe, to carry this invitation to others through the presentation of the gospel.  In Luke 14:23 we are instructed to, "Go out to the roads and country lanes and make them come in, so that my house will be full" (NIV).
However, as my mother looked up from our family album I saw tears in her eyes. "They're all gone," she wept of the loved ones to whom we had bid sad farewells, "all gone."
A trip my mother and I took to our old neighborhood was likewise disheartening.  Abandoned and deteriorating, the house had again fallen into ruin.  Gone were the peaceful woods across the street.  In their place were tall buildings that overshadowed my former home.  My mother and I walked into the yard, now overgrown and strewn with trash.  Peeking through the faded windows, we saw only decaying clutter. 
The old house was just a shell without my family members.  I regret that most of them were gone before I knew Christ, and I had nothing eternal to offer them.  However, a solitary, purple iris poking out from the weeds in the yard, rekindled my hope. Like that flower, my maiden aunt remained after the others had passed away.  I told her of my new found faith, which she accepted as her own. "I'll see you in heaven!" I exclaimed, overjoyed with her decision.

Not long after, a shocking phone call came.  My beloved aunt had suffered a heart attack and died.  Today, I still see her in those old pictures.  And I know we will meet again.  She waits with our heavenly family of believers, who will die no more.  Because Christ conquered death and the grave (see 1 Corinthians 15: 54-57) death casts no pall in heaven's light.  Therefore, sad farewells have no place in a picture of heaven.  Nor do aging bodies, decaying buildings or altered landscapes.
But, what does belong in a picture of heaven?  One more photo in my family album helps bring this into focus.  The picture is of my maiden aunt, smiling from the front steps of our home.  Her hand is on the knob, as if she is about to open the door and bid me welcome. 
If  I could re-enter those secure, old doors I would be greeted by the waiting embraces of loved ones.  I would be enveloped by the beauty of elegant rooms, warm with firelight and the glow of love.  I would also find a place at the dining room table, prepared just for me.

So much more awaits the Christian, when Heaven's gates of pearl (see Revelation 21:21) open to welcome us home.  Earth's dearest delights are but fleeting shadows compared to the wonders God is preparing for those who love Him.
As Robert Browning wrote in his poem, Rabbi Ben Ezra; "The best is yet to be."


Flora is a novelist and journalist. She invites you to check out her devotional book, that explores the many ways God whispers our name. https://www.amazon.com/Where-Your-Heart-Meets-Gods/dp/1622085868
Devotional also available in "sample" kindle edition, just 99 cents. https://www.amazon.com/Where-Your-Heart-Meets-Gods-ebook/dp/B00X1LCFXK
Flora also invites you to fly away on a dream Florida vacation in her "Castle in the Sun" romance/suspense series. Book I is "Love's Sweetest Revenge."
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01BLKMLRC/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1
The saga continues in Book II, "Love and Obsession."
https://www.amazon.com/Love-Obsession-Castle-Sun-Book-ebook/dp/B01M1O6HC4
Meet WWII's "Greatest Generation" and explore the secrets of the mysterious birth veil in Flora's historical novel, "The Face Behind the Veil."
http://bookstore.authorhouse.com/Products/SKU-000386300/The-Face-Behind-the-Veil.aspx