Friday--The Writers' Porch

Last week I told you a little bit about my love and passion for writing. As I pondered the subject, I remembered an old poem that I had written and kept. I found it and decided to “publish” it for you. :)

The City of Love

There is a secret place called love.
Where Heaven is not so far above.
To reach there your mind must be free.
Come… take a wonderful trip with me.

Light a candle and inhale the incense.
Now hold my hand and we shall commence.
To a city where you are floating in the air.
Come with me, let’s journey there.

When we get there, you will know.
Once you land in this city, you won’t go.
There are colors of smoke in curlicues.
Come with me, I promise… we won’t lose.

The city is called Love, but don’t tell.
It’s a secret place where there is no hell.
I’ve been to love and I’ve got the key.
Come with me, Come with me…
(circa 1970)

Now here's the craziest thing about this poem, I was not a Christ follower at the time. But as I reread this ancient adolescent rhyme I can recognize God imprinting me with my future purpose. His Holy Spirit inserted truth into my thoughts that I could not have fully comprehended.

So as you write this week, remember that everything doesn’t have to be profound or even at all meaningful. Allow your writing gift to take you places that only God may know where you will end up. And if you have some old prose, poems, or even journals, review them. Can you take scribbles and use them today in a new context?

One of my favorite Scriptures is from 2 Timothy 1:6-7. I quote it whenever I teach a writing/speaking class.

For this reason I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God, which is in you through the laying on of my hands. For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love and of self-discipline.

On this Friday before Easter I challenge you to read, memorize it and then act upon it. Write from your heart. Write--do not be timid in your calling. Be self-disciplined—stick yourself in a chair for 15 minutes and write.

Chicken Little to Mighty Warrior

Do you ever speculate if the work you do for the Kingdom of God ever makes a difference? I certainly wonder about it at times. Many things we won’t know until we get to heaven, but occasionally God allows us to see a glimpse of our fruit.

Fifteen years ago, I led a high school girls' small group. It consisted of about 20 girls. It was fun. I enjoyed it immensely and am still in contact with several of the girls. It’s been a joy to see them mature into women.

However, one girl, Kelli, remains especially dear to my heart. She was a tiny little thing, couldn’t have broken 90 pounds on the scale. She was introspective and somewhat timid about life in general. She was content to sit and watch the other girls express all their lively opinions on all sorts of issues and experiences. She didn’t feel the need to jump into the turmoil of adolescence. She was a watcher, not a participator.

However, now Kelli is on the mission field in a remote section of the world. I can’t reveal exactly where due to security issues, but let me tell you her life has changed. She dove head first into language studies and a new culture. What a blessing it has been to see her move into the will of God for her life.

Every so often, I email and ask her what she needs. Her last response was, “Deodorant and chewy granola bars.” I packed her a box and sent it off--of course with some Easter peeps. I smiled at the yellow marshmallow chicks as I stuffed them into the box. Yes, Chicken Little had become Mighty Warrior. Kelli went from a quiet, shy teenager to a missionary out to change the world. Here's a picture that she sent to me after she received the package.

"When the angel of the Lord appeared to Gideon, he said, "The Lord is with you, mighty warrior." Judges 6:12 (NIV)

Don’t give up your “little” ministry. You never know what it might produce someday.

Changed Life

Mission trips change lives. I went on a mission’s trip when I was 17 to Jamaica for six weeks. It was the first time I had been out of the United States. My eyes popped open with understanding of what a privileged life I had led. It changed my life.

In August, the heat blistered the team to sweat and tears—literally. The bugs ruled the bunkhouse. The food didn’t appeal to our tastes. It was a whole new experience for all eight of us teenage girls.

I stepped off my first flight, ate my first strange meal, and slept on a hard floor with strange creepy crawly creatures. The first day made six weeks seem like an eternity. I wanted to go home. By the Lord’s grace, I somehow stuck it out. (Besides, my parents said I couldn’t come home.)

Here’s an excerpt from my journal from all those years ago.

The time has gone by so fast. I know that when I get home it will feel like a dream. It has already seemed like that—the days past don’t seem to be real. Well, praise the Lord I stayed although at first I just about died. Now I don’t want to leave, maybe if it’s the Lord’s will I’ll be able to come back. I hope. Believe it or not I feel the Lord is directing me into evangelistic work. But I’ll have to see.

My life changed on that trip. It enabled me to move past my self-centered adolescence. The trip changed my view of the world. It was one of the best things that I have ever experienced.

Never been on a mission’s trip? Go—you’ll never be the same.

Spring Break Plans

It’s Spring Break, well at least in Nevada. And today we actually have great spring weather—finally. I am sitting with the windows open and thinking about my plans for the week.

· Monday—Spring pedicure. (Smiles!)
· Tuesday—Office work, etc.
· Wednesday—play day at the park with my grandson Michael. (Smiles!)
· Thursday—coffee with my writer friend Donna Savage & getting my hair done. (Smiles!)
· Good Friday—writing day and special worship service at my home church. (Smiles!)
· Saturday—Rest and writing, writing and rest.
· Easter Sunday—The Resurrection celebration—Easter dinner. (Double Smiles!)

Although my week sounds fun, there are hundreds people who are spending their week on short-term mission trips. I admire them. Several of my friends and relatives are making an eternal difference this week. They are celebrating Easter with a sacrifice of time and money. I believe the angels are smiling and the Father is saying “Well done, good and faithful servants.”

Let’s pray for them. As God brings them to mind, let’s lift up their safety and their efforts to be fruitful. With the chaos and turmoil happening in our world, all missionaries need our prayers. Whether they are short-term in Mexico or long-term in remote places on the globe, they need us to support them with prayer.

For the rest of spring break I am going to blog about one of my own mission trips. Also, I want to share about how a friend of mine who went from “chicken little” to “mighty warrior.” Stay tuned. . .

The Writer's Porch

My career, ministry, hobby and passion can all be summed up in one word—writing. It all began when I was a child. Somewhere around the age of 11, I discovered reading. No, I learned to read in 1st grade, but in 5th grade I found delight in reading. Stories carried me away—away from my life in a dysfunctional home. Books taught me tidbits of information that teachers droned on about during stuffy classroom time. The powers of words transformed my life.

At age 15 my stepmother insisted that I take “typing” in school. She said I would need the skill later in life so that I could be a great executive secretary. (She was correct in that assessment. I was my husband’s secretary for 17 years.) However, as I learned to type, words flowed into my head. Thoughts pounded their way onto paper. At fifteen, I asked for a typewriter for Christmas. After receiving the prized gift, I would lock myself away in my room to write. Story lines leapt from my fingers. I punched out poems.

Were my words profound? NO, but my writing passion had begun. I dreamed of authoring a book. But then life happened: marriage, children, and career. However, the burning ember of my dream to write resided in my soul. Eventually, it flamed into an intense passion again. I knew it was time for me to write—write for my ministry, my career and as my hobby because writing was a calling of God on my life—my purpose. When I think of A Purpose Driven Life, I equate that with my purpose to write.

I know that many of you reading this blog feel exactly the same way about writing, so every Friday we’ll chat about our passion—writing. Will you join me on The Writer’s Porch each Friday?

So we keep on praying for you, asking our God to enable you to live a life worthy of his call. May he give you the power to accomplish all the good things your faith prompts you to do. (2 Thessalonians 1:11-12 NLT)

Hog Tales and Dog Tails

It’s been a fun few days blogging about my husband and our adventures on the Harley-Davidson motorcycle. It’s been a little teasing on my part about my husband’s new hobby. But I have to be fair and say he tolerates my “hobby” with outstanding love and encouragement. No—it’s not my writing. It’s my fanatical love for animals.

My kids tell me that I am going to be one of those crazy cat ladies when I am old. They bought me a sleep shirt for Christmas that said, “Crazy Cat Woman” -- it has cats running all over it. Now, I currently don’t even own a cat, however, the truth is I would like to own lots of dogs and cats. Right now I have Jasmine and Taffy. (See photo).

But give me a pet of any type, and I am as happy as can be. I especially like the rescue type of animals. I guess I enjoy the nurturing of them. Anyway, my husband loves hog tales and I love dog tails.

My dad used to say a phrase, “Mouw found Crauw.” I am not sure of the spelling or where the term came from, but it meant “a match made in heaven.” Yup, that’s me and my guy—mouw found crauw. He's nuts about hogs and I am crazy about dogs.

Tomorrow, watch for my new Friday's blog—Susanne's Writer’s Porch. Every Friday there will be a post on writing techniques, questions and answers, and just about everything you ever wanted to know about writing and how to get published. See you tomorrow on Susanne's Writer Porch!

Hogwash

I used to have a negative view of people who rode Harley’s. Of course, that’s changed since I am a “participant” in the Harley phase of my husband’s life. Being an insider on a subculture certainly provides a different point of view.

I always considered motorcyclists as “Hell’s Angels” types. I stereotyped them all into one big group. When my husband first wanted the bike I was appalled at what people would think. Wait! I am in ministry. I do not want people thinking I am like “them.” Here’s how our conversation went.

“Why in the world would you want to be associated with people like that?” I asked.

“Sweetie, they're just regular people. Most bikers are dentists, lawyers, insurance agents and doctors. Lots of the guys at church have bikes,” he said with a tolerant smile.

“Oh, and Indian chiefs?” I shot back as I recalled my favorite jump rope rhyme.

“Sweetie . . .”

“Yeah, well, I’ll just tell you now not one of my gynecologists ever looked like a biker!”

So now I guess I would be considered a biker. My perspective has changed, but it’s true that people still prejudge hog riders by appearance. Here’s my story as being perceived as a riffraff biker babe.

It was a sunny Saturday. My husband and I were riding around Southern Utah enjoying the spectacular scenery. It was warming up, so we decided to stop at a local market. We took off our helmets but went inside in our full biker attire. (It’s not pretty, by the way.) As we strolled through the store looking for a snack and a cold Pepsi, people glanced at us and frowned. Disapproval hovered around us like a rain cloud.

We grabbed our stuff and headed to the checkout counter. A hand-painted sign read, “We no longer accept checks.” Unfortunately for us, the person in front of us wanted to pay by check. The cashier said politely to the customer, “I am sorry, but we just can’t accept checks any more. It’s the result of all the riffraff that now comes through town.” Then she looked directly at us and nodded her head in our direction—with a very knowing look.

“Uh? Wait! I am in ministry. I love Jesus. I would never stiff you with a bad check—really!” I didn’t say it—but I wish I had. We paid cash and scurried ourselves out the door and down the road.

Jesus told us not to judge others in Matthew 7:1. Now I certainly understand why, because our judgment is skewed. It is hogwash.

I pray I learn this lesson. I want the Lord to wash me clean of my judgmental attitudes, just like Mark washes the mud off of his Harley motorcycle.

But I must say I hope I never have a gynecologist that is a biker—that would still be too weird for me. Is that judgment? Hmmm. . . most likely.