A Beautiful Mess

By Diane Stark

Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing.
~1 Thessalonians 5:11

"He left me," I whispered into the phone. "He said he didn't love me anymore."

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry," my stepfather, Doug, said. "Your mom and I are here for you. Whatever you need, you can count on us."

When my mother's husband made that promise, I'm sure he didn't realize how much it would involve. I'm sure he didn't plan on having his stepdaughter and her two young children move in with him. But it happened, and he was wonderful about it.

I should have been grateful, but I was too wrapped up in my own pain to notice the sacrifices others were making. I cried a lot and ate next to nothing. Sadly, I abdicated much of my parenting responsibilities to my mom and Doug.

Shortly after moving in, I began to find little notes on my dresser. But they weren't from my mom; they were from Doug. My favorite one read, "If you ever need a shoulder to cry on, the Lord gave me two of them. They're big and strong, and they're available anytime you need them."

I went downstairs and made good use of that shoulder. When I'd finally stopped crying, Doug said, "What's the hardest part of this for you?"

I shrugged. "My life is a mess."

"You may see a mess, but God sees it as an opportunity for growth. He's molding your heart and drawing you to Him. It may be a mess, but it's a beautiful one."

I was definitely a mess, but there was nothing beautiful about it.

In the silence, Doug added, "God isn't nearly as concerned with where we've come from as He is with where we're going. And you're heading in the right direction, honey."

I muttered a thank-you and went back upstairs.

Two days later, I found a small plaque in my room. It read, "God gave you 86,400 seconds today. Have you used one of them to say thank you?"

I wanted to ignore the little sign. I wanted to say, "Thank Him for what? My life is a mess, remember?" But I couldn't. I couldn't deny the evidence that God still loved me. I still had my children, and we had a roof over our heads and food to eat. Despite everything, we were okay. And God was there -- I could feel Him. He loved me. He'd never left me, and He never would.

Sobbing, I got down on my knees and thanked God for the beautiful mess my life had become. I thanked Him for His love and His faithfulness to my children and me. But most of all, I thanked Him for a man named Doug, who had become so much more than just my mother's husband. For all his patience and persistence, Doug was now my second dad.

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I'll be back for Christmas

By Brooke Linville

It takes hands to build a house, but only hearts can build a home.
~Author Unknown

I drove back toward our rental, our temporary location, listening to the radio. While I usually reserved Christmas music for the day after Thanksgiving, I needed the kind of joy only Jewel singing "Winter Wonderland" can bring.

"I'm dreaming of a place I love" came through the speakers of my white 2001 RX300. Tears started to fall as I kept my eyes on the road. It was a road I had driven nearly every day for the past three years. It was on this road three months ago that I had seen smoke coming from our neighborhood, making my heart quicken and my foot hit the accelerator pedal. We had left our dog, Shade, inside that night.

My husband, Dan, tried to reassure me that the fire wasn't near our house and that everything was fine. I was not easily persuaded.

"See, it's in the field below the house," Dan said as we drove past our neighborhood trying to find the fastest way back home.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "Okay."

I looked again.

"Are you sure?"

As we pulled into our neighborhood I nearly hit a fire engine with my car because the smoke was so thick. I sent Dan into the fire to get the animals and the photos, which he did.

Hours later we learned that was all we had left.

Our three-bedroom suburban house had been redone in custom tile and it had a kitchen that was made to feel like a diner. It had a pass-through bar and cabinets that seemed to float in the air, with several feet between them and the top of the vaulted ceiling. The previous owners had left plastic tube lighting, which seemed corny, but they gave the room a unique ambience, and so I kept them.

Dan and I had redone parts of the house, updating light fixtures, repainting walls, and building a custom 750-square foot deck in 100-degree heat. I had just finished our son Kellen's nursery, as he was due a month after the fire.

In the months since, I dreamed of that house. It was the only way to get back to the place I loved.

I had imagined our first Christmas with our new baby even before he was conceived. Even though Kellen would only be a couple of months old at Christmas, I knew he would have new pajamas under the tree and would play with the boxes. He would sit on my lap as we tore through the wrapping paper and uncovered Christmas treasures. The weekend prior to losing our house, I had finished making Dan's stocking while watching the closing ceremonies of the Beijing games. It was a crazy quilted rugged stocking and I was just starting on Kellen's which I had hoped he would keep his entire life the way that I had mine. I imagined that Kellen's stocking that first Christmas would have pacifiers, rattles, and a Christmas ornament in it. I had collected ornaments, one each year since I had been in elementary school and I had looked forward to starting the tradition with my son.

Christmas for me had always brought immense joy. I loved the smell of fresh pine. I loved the emotions of the music, which even in the sadness of songs like "Christmas Shoes" could bring joy in believing in the goodness of humanity. That, for me, was the true spirit of the season. I loved the ornaments, especially those that had been handmade by my mom and grandmother and great-grandmother. I loved wrapping gifts, maybe even more than giving them. I loved the feel of crisp paper and straight lines. I loved the whooshing sound of scissors shearing the colored paper into rectangles. I loved folding the paper down and creating edges that showed I had put effort into the beauty of the present. I made bows and tags. It was my holiday. And I loved it.

Instead of joy, however, this year brought sadness. I would have no tree in my living room, no generational ornaments, no scraps of wrapping paper from years past. Our stockings were gone. Our first house, the one I envisioned spending my first Christmas in as a family of three, was in ashes. And all I had now were floorboards and the outline of a new home.

"I'll be home for Christmas" continued over the car's speakers. Only in my dreams.

I knew that the house wouldn't be finished. Even though Dan was working as the general contractor and pushing sub-contractors through at a nearly record-setting pace, construction was expected to last until at least January. I had cried to them about this date, but I knew it was the most realistic. I didn't want to be home only in my dreams though. It wasn't enough.

When I got back to the rental, a place I refused to call my house much less home, I told Dan my plan.

"I want to spend Christmas at the new house," I said.

We talked about the logistics, like heat, and decided we could make it happen.

I started making plans for our Christmas at home. We bought a tree in the middle of December. They were being offered free to the ten families who lost their homes in our neighborhood's fire. While I had thought about not getting one, knowing that I could put it in my new, unfinished house made it okay. Boxes of gifts from friends, family, and strangers continued to arrive. Old family ornaments were graciously given to me by my mom and sister even though we had already divided them a few years ago. My mom's book club in Virginia shipped ornaments across the country. Though simple, one of my favorites said "Joy" in white, covered lightly with glitter. I may not have felt it fully in my heart yet, but I knew that joy would come.


I prepared stuffed French toast Christmas Eve to take to the house in the morning. We bought a hot pot for coffee and a few other snack items. We had invited friends, family, and some of the community to the house Christmas morning. We packed up the gifts and stockings and drove up the hill from our rental to our house.

There was heat and there were walls but not much else. We hung garland from the unfinished banister on the stairs. We set up a folding table where the kitchen would soon be, and I unfolded my reindeer table cloth from Pottery Barn. We placed folding chairs in the living room which had no carpet or paint.

Friends and family came through the house throughout the day, and we showed them around, pointing out where I envisioned our Christmas tree would go in subsequent years. We listened to Christmas songs and found solace in the sound of laughter throughout our house.

It wasn't the Christmas at home I had expected but we were home. And there was peace and joy that Christmas day.

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No Greater Compliment

By Linda C. Defew

Grandchildren are God's way of compensating us for growing old.
~Mary H. Waldrip

Like nothing I had ever done before, writing my stories worked like magic, touching hearts along the way. And, it felt good to know I was leaving my memories behind, my individual fingerprint, for future generations. But, I never dreamed that the imprint was already taking place.

When I mailed the first envelope, a sense of doubt filled my head. "You're actually sending in your personal life story for all the world to see?" Maybe I was being a bit presumptuous, but this was a whole new venture for me. I was so excited, yet it was hard to explain why I was doing it. I wasn't getting paid and it was hard for me to type like I used to. With crippling rheumatoid arthritis hitting in my early thirties, I learned to swallow my pride and find alternative ways of doing things. Over the years, surgeries to correct deformities in my hands had been temporary. So, in order to get back to the keyboard, I resorted to typing with one hand, using the eraser end of a fat pencil like I used in first grade. It wasn't easy, but my brain adapted quickly, letting me know there were no more excuses. I had always wanted to be a writer and the time had come. Now, with thoughts of my disease getting progressively worse, I had a good reason to make it happen.

My life experiences gave me a lot to write about -- scoliosis at age twelve, living with RA, going through a traumatic divorce, raising two children on my own, remarriage in my forties -- and, now, being a grandmother. The more stories I put into the computer, the more stories formed in my head. Writing became such a huge part of my life I couldn't see myself ever not writing.

As time went on, some of my stories and articles were published in magazines, newspapers, online, and in newsletters. I found the market was there if I did my part right and didn't give up. A few of them even paid me, but the greatest reward for me was seeing my work in print. I didn't think it could get any better. I was wrong.

One day while my eight-year-old granddaughter, Taylor, was visiting, she asked if she could play games on my computer. I didn't have many games, so I showed her my Word file and told her how I write and save my stories on it. She was already my number one fan. I always called her when I got something published. Being a devoted animal lover, she especially liked the ones about my dogs. "Okay," she said. "Do you think I could write a story?"

Thrilled at the prospect, I said, "Sure you can!" I opened up a new page for her. "Think of a story you would like to tell and type it like you're talking to a friend." I left her alone to concentrate. Before long, she called for me and asked me to read what she had written. It was just a short paragraph about her dog, Maggie, but she was heading in the right direction. Then, I showed her how to name it and save it and told her to keep thinking of things to add to it. "You can add another paragraph on your next visit," I said. Seeing the sparkle in her eyes, I wondered where I would be today if I had starting writing at her age.

In a few weeks, Taylor was back and made a beeline for my computer room. I could see it in her eyes. She had something to add to her story. I waited a while before going back to check on her. When I did, she was in deep concentration, so I didn't dare disturb her. Instead, I watched from the doorway as tears filled my eyes. She was typing with my big pencil, eraser down, slowly pecking out every word.

I motioned for my husband in the other room. "Come and see what she's doing," I whispered.

He shook his head and smiled. "She's copying you, Linda. That's a real compliment."


I nodded, but couldn't say a word. My technique was different, but it didn't matter to her. That simple act showed me it wasn't how I typed, but that she wanted to do it like me. I had inspired her; now, she was inspiring me.

Sometimes I wish Taylor had known me when I played piano, crocheted, embroidered and typed eighty words per minute. But, she never knew that person and still believes in me. In the eyes of a child, she sees past my crippled hands and unorthodox attempts to get the job done. And because of that, I'll try harder not to let her down.

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Close Encounter

By Carolyn T. Johnson

Last year I came face to face with a polar bear and while I was scared, I also felt a deep respect for the fact that I was in this bear's territory...
~Lonnie Dupre

The Polar Rover bounced along the frozen Arctic tundra as the driver slowly made his way to the icy banks of the Hudson Bay just outside Churchill, Canada. We'd flown for six hours, changed planes twice and ridden a shuttle bus, all to experience a firsthand encounter with the largest land carnivore in existence... the polar bear.

My mind drifted back to the beginning of my love affair with bears. At a very tender age, a fuzzy, brown "Teddy" bear, with golden-orange eyes, was my constant companion. Teddy absorbed my tiny tears without hesitation, protected me from the bogeyman at night, listened to all my make-believe stories with a placid grin pasted on his face, and held me close when I was scared. I loved my Teddy and could never quite part with him, even though most of his fur was worn off. Crude, white thread held his seams together and his nose was permanently crooked.

I came out of my reverie, though, when the Polar Rover rolled to a stop and the engine hushed. Everyone scurried to the right side of the vehicle and lowered the windows for our first glimpse of a real, live polar bear.

Our guide pointed at the furry, potato-chip-coloured bear ambling out of the willows in a swaggering, pigeon-toed gait. She said bears were very curious by nature and might come right up to the Rover if we kept quiet. My pulse quickened. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears.

The polar bear's long, black snout twitched back and forth, nosing the air. He came closer, checking out the smells on the door. His jaw dropped open slightly.

sauntered alongside the bus, then, without warning, jumped up on his hind legs and put his front paws against the Rover, his sharp, black claws clicking on the white metal siding.

His massive head was now only four feet from the open windows. He gazed up at the faces staring back at him. His thick fur and gentle demeanour made him look almost cuddly for a thousand-pound carnivore.

I jockeyed for position to take a photo, then remembered there was an outside balcony on the Rover.

I carefully closed the balcony door behind me and leaned over the wall. The bear had moved towards my end of the Rover, but his head was under the balcony, leaving only his rump exposed.

My heart was banging now. If he would only back up, I could get the perfect photograph. I waited, not making a sound. Snowflakes drifted by in the air.

Then I heard a loud, snorting noise, but it wasn't coming from my side of the balcony. It was coming from underneath my feet. I looked down. In my haste, I had failed to notice the floor was a see-through metal grid. The polar bear was sniffing me.


I froze, not in fear, but in amazement. His wet nose almost touched my feet. He wanted my scent. He gazed up at me with chocolate-brown eyes, ears pointed forward, as if he wanted to say something. But he didn't have to. Instinctively, I knew.

I waited in the chill Arctic breeze, watching him lumber away. Just before he disappeared behind the snowdrift, he paused and looked back at me for one final farewell.

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Just Desserts

By Jackie Fleming

Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein.
~Proverb

It was a smaller version of a Ferris wheel, but instead of an open seat, it was an enclosed, cage-type thing designed for children, with two seats facing each other. A large lever between the seats could be pulled toward or away from the rider, causing the cage to rock back and forth. If you held the lever back long enough, the cage would go upside down and make a complete turnover.

The summer I was nine I was considered responsible enough to accompany my little brother, who was three, on various rides and my mother decided this one would be safe enough.

It was also the summer I not only learned a valuable lesson in physics, but also that what goes around actually does come around, and that one must live with the consequences of bad decisions.

We had gone around a couple of times when I decided to add a little variation to the ride by operating the lever. We began to rock as the cage went up and down in its big circle, and my brother began screaming for me to stop.

The more frightened he became, the more I enjoyed the ride. Finally I made the cage turn completely over, much to the terror of my little passenger. My mother was shouting from below for me to stop, but I was having so much fun I didn't hear her.

Then it happened. My brother was so terrified he had an accident. I'm not talking a little water here, I'm talking heavy-duty stuff that escaped from his loose-fitting sun suit, and went flying every which way inside the enclosure.

The lever was stuck in the hold position so we kept turning over and over. I was so busy shielding my eyes, I couldn't free it. The stuff just kept ricocheting from side to side, top to bottom, around and around in the little cage. I wanted to scream for the operator to stop the ride, but I didn't dare open my mouth!

Finally it was over. The cage came to a standstill, and I had the option of remaining in it or facing my furious mother. But she decided that I had been sufficiently punished for the evil treatment of my brother, and all she said was, "It serves you right."

Then she said something about "just desserts" -- but I sure didn't feel like eating anything.

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Treasures in the Attic, Treasures in Heaven

By Phyllis Cochran

"Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing!"
~Isaiah 43:18-19a

Five-year-old Jessica burst through the living room door. "What are you doing, Granny?" she asked, leaning over my arm.

"I forgot you were coming today," I said. How would I explain to Jessica that I was sorting through an old box of cards sent to our daughter, Susan, from her second-grade classmates years ago? Susan had fallen seriously ill at age seven and died two years later from a brain tumor. Jessica had heard about her mom's older sister over the years.

Purposefully, I had hidden Susan's mementoes in the attic where they would be protected -- untouched by others. I thought of the cards as "my box of love." Several times I had attempted to throw away the get-well greetings, but ended up mourning for what could never be.

"What are you doing?" Jessica asked again. "Where did you get all these?"

"The cards were sent to your Aunt Susan when she was sick. I'm sorting them. You can help, Jess. I'll pass you the ones for the trash."

"Look at the yellow daisy. You can't throw this one away. It's too pretty," she insisted after I handed her the first.

"Set some aside for yourself," I said.

A few hundred cards later, Jess's sack was overflowing. The one for disposal remained empty. Jess latched onto an orange block in the bottom of the box. It bore the words SUSAN'S BLOCK in black lettering.

"Can I keep this?" Her brown eyes sparkled as she admired the bits of colorful fabric and buttons glued in a collage-like manner.

"Take this," I said, handing her another purple-painted craft.

"No, I want the orange one," she insisted, tugging on the wooden object.

"But, Jessica, orange was Susan's favorite color, and her name is on it," I said, grasping the chunky object. "What would you want it for?"

"I'll take it to show-and-tell. Then I'll put it on my desk."

I loved my grandchildren and would give them almost anything. But this? This was Susan's last creation. Carefully, I set the block aside.

Jess looked down in disbelief.

Inwardly, I struggled. I knew Susan had gone on before us to heaven. She no longer needed attic treasures. Letting go of this craft could never bring Susan back. I would never forget her. I was now storing up special memories with our grandchildren. The future and renewed happiness stood before me. I released the chunky wooden object into my granddaughter's hands.

The next day, Jessica showed Susan's block to her kindergarten class. For years, the orange block sat on Jessica's desk.

Each time I walked into Jessica's room and saw the wooden craft, I felt a renewed sense of joy. I had made the right decision.

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The Source

By Evie Mack

Faith is building on what you know is here, so you can reach what you know is there.
~Cullen Hightower

I was having a hard time getting the cold lump of fear out of my throat.

I deserved this hour of relaxation. I lay on the bed trying to read an inspirational magazine. But I couldn't stop worrying about the rent and bills due in only three days.

My husband, Wayne, and I were both good at sales. But lately it seemed everything we tried ranged from barely getting by to unsuccessful. The recession wasn't helping. Although we had worked hard and prayed hard, it had been a discouraging week. Sales already made were slow in paying, some had fallen through, and it seemed everyone else had conspired to "wait until after the first of the month to decide." Our little cash was disappearing with terrifying speed no matter how careful we were.

"Lord, help. I'm trying to trust you, but I know You don't usually rain down money from heaven. I know where money comes from. And if our hard work doesn't pay off, what are we going to do?" The lump in my throat tried to push its way out into full-blown panic.

Wayne headed for the garage to finish some repairs on our car, another unplanned expense. "I put a scoop of food in the dogs' dishes and closed the door," he informed me. "You can open the door when it's time for them to eat." He knew I was strict about their mealtime.

What Wayne hadn't counted on was that Tavis, our sheltie boy, turned frantic when he knew there was food he couldn't reach. Always food motivated, he pushed at the door with his nose, then his paw, but it was latched tightly. He stared at the door as though he could will it to open. "He's watching the supply instead of the source," I realized with a sudden flash of inspiration. "Why doesn't he come 'ask' me? I could easily open the door for him. I could feed him from the bucket of dog food in the garage, from the kitchen, or from McDonald's or some other place he doesn't even know about! I'm a never-ending source for him, and he's concentrating on one scoop of dog food he can't get to."

"Am I doing that, Lord? Am I looking at all the ways to make money, not at the Owner and Source of all things? I say I trust You, but then I count my resources as I see them and forget you have ways and means I can't even imagine."

I watched another few minutes quietly as Tavis continued to stare at the door, whined softly, and tried again to push it open with his paw. When would he realize he couldn't do it by himself? Would he come to me? How long would it take?

Finally I whispered softly, "Tav, tell me what you want." His ear twitched back in acknowledgment of my voice but he had important business to attend to. He lay down patiently but his eyes never left the door. "Tavis, come tell me." Another twitch but no attention.

God was whispering to my heart too. "Tavis is looking at the problem, not the solution." It all seemed so clear. I was doing the same thing. How long had God been whispering my name? "Look at Me, not the problem...."

Louder, I asked, "Tavis, what do you want?" He looked at me, then the door, ran halfway across the room toward me, but then returned to stare at his unattainable goal.

"That's my problem, too, God," I whispered. "I want to look to You. But I'm so consumed with my problems, I can't tear loose long enough to trust You."

"Tavis, come tell me." My firm tone finally broke through his concern. With a sudden look of doggy inspiration, he galloped to my side, wagging, whining, trying his best to "talk." He had remembered his source. And with his inspiration, I found my own.

Picking up my wiggly friend, I whispered to him, "I know how to open that door. Why didn't you come to me before?" As he showered my face with kisses, I added, "And you know how to open doors for us, Father. I don't know exactly how we'll pay all the bills next week or next month. But I know You're our Source, and You know the way."

The next morning, Wayne answered the phone. "The software we advertised last week? Yes, we have some left. Ten? Yes, we have them in stock. Yes, this afternoon would be fine. We'll see you then." We did a little victory dance around the kitchen, laughing and praising God. Why should we have been surprised? The money was exactly what we needed to cover the rent and bills.

Many times since then God has supplied our needs in surprising ways. We never know just what He will do, but we know now without a doubt where our Source is!

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