Garden Pointers

 

When I get a chance to go outside with my grands, they'll often hear me say, 

"Use your looking eyes."

 Of course, the teacher part of me can't resist adding even more instruction-- 

"Listen! Did you hear that?" 

"Touch this," or 

"Smell these..." 

You know--just your everyday kind of interacting with nature. 

But for me, the visual trumps all the other senses. 

Small wonders in my own backyard remind me of who I am in 

the grand scheme of life. Ordinary sights like this datura bloom point the way 

to the One who longs to welcome us home. 

My dear husband gifted me a macro lens for my recent birthday. 

Now I can get an even closer view of nature's small miracles, 

markers on the path of life. 

 

If you'd like to read more about HOME, I'm writing a newsletter on 

Substack. Click the link to take a peek. Subscribe for free to help 

this writer girl out. 

The newsletter focuses on practical ways to build an authentic home while 

heading toward our true home.  

I hope you enjoy it. 

Story Pieces & Five Suggestions

Anything might happen when the box of story pieces 

comes out of the buffet drawer. 

Using these tiny plastic characters to act out 

spontaneous stories always results in shared laughter. 

Will the horse take the flamingo for a ride?

Will the alligator and the pig be friends or foes?

Will the bucket-carrying girl trip over the hedgehog?

Story-loving grandkids want to know.

FIVE SUGGESTIONS

 for using your own box of Story Pieces: 

* A timer can be handy when one of the storytellers is ... 

long-winded. 

* Storytellers who are waiting for their turn must listen 

quietly to the current storyteller. Ask questions at the end, 

but do not interrupt the flow of the story.

* Keep interest high by rotating the story pieces. Look for 

new ones in toy stores, craft shops, and at second-hand sales. 

* Licking, biting, and/or eating the story pieces is frowned upon.

* Use the concept of chapters for older storytellers. Each player 

can continue the story using the same core characters.

More on hopeful stories here. 

 

Seasonal Updates

I picked up this ornamental pepper plant

on the last business day at a local plant nursery. 

"Wow--last day! You must be so excited to have some time off."

But the nurseryman didn't seem thrilled. 

At least not as thrilled as I was for him. 

The tiny peppers were all purple, then turned 

a lovely, seasonal orange.

I got outside with my "real" camera on a foggy 

morning this week. Mist laced every spiderweb 

with delicate droplets. As the sun burned through 

the haze, it turned the drops to diamonds.

My heavenly blue morning glory vine is finally showing off. 

The vines have tangled themselves into a crown studded 

with sun-pointing buds. The base of the vine is as 

thick as a young tree--amazing.

A Long Line of Storytellers

Telling stories with words is what I do on a most-days basis. My writer's toolbox 

contains an overheating computer equipped with apps and programs, tattered and 

scattered notepads, and a certain kind of pencil. Words come to me—or I 

hop around on one foot, trying to catch a few out of thin air—and 

I string them together like pearls on a thin thread. It's a sweaty business. 

Some of the women in my line told stories in field-furrowed paragraphs, 

with seed-sown punctuation. Farm wives 

spun tales of glorious seasons of plenty, and grim ones of 

bootstraps and tightened belts. Their story endings depended 

on the crop, the weather, and the goodness of God. 
 
A few spread their tables with another kind of saga, offering

 mashed-potato mountains rising over fried-chicken foothills, neatly

 lapped by a river of gravy. Basket-weave piecrusts and hand-churned ice cream

 spoke welcome, confidence, and a certain sort of love too delicious to decline.

 
Other matriarchs stitched their memoirs with needle and thread. 

Cotton-cloth leftovers and flour-sack scraps pieced together

 and spread over a bed. Its maker read aloud her quilt creation

chapter by chapter, weaving tales prompted by bright-worn shapes:

"I wore this dress to your mother's wedding. 

What a rainy day that was ..."
"See here, your granddad's best church shirt. 

That was an Easter we'd never forget ..."
"Your brother had pajamas in this same pattern. 

I never knew a boy to work so hard at play…" 

One of these needle-and-thread masterpieces blankets my worktable. 

Its stories cushion my elbows as I search for the next word, the sturdiest sentence, 

the perfect turn-of-phrase. 

So you see, I come from a long line of storytellers ... and you do, too.

What sort of tales did your forebearers tell before you began to spin your own?

Settling into Garnet

The Japanese maples on our acre are always among the first to 

celebrate spring. Trunk and branches store and 

stoke their calling-card color all winter, and in the spring ... 

... it bursts from every stem tip—scarlet flags against a

new-blue, spring canopy.

Now the fanfare is over, and they've settled into a more sedate 

summer color, something along the lines of garnet. 

As many of you know, I signed a contract to publish a children's book with Familius Publishing. I'm thrilled to join this company and add "Debut Author" to my list of life titles. I'd like to give updates here on what the journey to publication has been like for me, and let you know what's coming up next. 

Here's a question I've answered before:

How did you make connections in the writing industry?

In fall, 2013, my youngest son finished eighth grade at the Simpson Home Academy and entered public high school. I cautiously tiptoed into the writing world, staying safely on the edges. My investigations led me to Word Weavers International. Through this organization and its generous leaders, I began to step out of the shadows, meet other writers, and learn about the #writinglife. 

I'd love to answer questions about what's involved in a publication journey, which is unique to every writer. Ask your question or share your own experience in the comments.

A few facts for now: 

* The working title of my book is "Family Dog." It's highly unlikely that the title will stay the same. 

* The book will be in the Spring 2021 Familius catalog but will be available a few months sooner than that. 

* I haven't met the illustrator or the editor of the book yet. 

* I paid for high-resolution photos (headshots) at Portrait Innovations. It was a painfully awkward experience, but the talented young photographer managed to get a few photos that I'm happy to have for a back-cover blurb. 

More details soon! 

Susan

Treasure Hunting

Most Saturdays my husband and I peruse other people's stuff looking for treasures. 

Both terms are loosely used here. 

Occasionally, something seems to say, "I'm yours..." and wins a place in our nest. 

More often, though, I sell the treasures on Etsy to finance my writing adventures. 

Either way, we have fun rehashing the week, sipping coffee, and laughing at people-antics.

A few weeks ago, a local estate sale yielded a bunch of sellable treasures, including 

a 1967 Super 8 camera. A ball-capped sale attendant told us his father bought

 and used the camera while stationed in Vietnam. 

"Dad used it to bring home all the sights he wanted to share with us." 

He removed his cap, swiped a hand through his hair, and replaced it. 

"Things sure went hard for us while he was away."

A single home movie frame turned up in the bottom of the bag. 

I'm not sure who's who, but it's easy to make up a good story. 

What do you think is going on here? 

Let's hear your best story-starting line.

If you provide the starters, I'll pick one and finish it.

The Right Time

Sometimes my life feels like this old watch with no hands. 

TIme tick-tick-ticks away and I have absolutely no way to measure or control it. 

Time presses in on my thoughts constantly, and I give my own voice to its shrill demands.

When will it be time? 

Are we almost there? 

How long will this take? 

Publishing is one of the slowest processes in the career world, falling just behind Bonsai tree farming. 

I'm impatient and often plan an escape to something faster and better paying, albeit less fulfilling. 

The scriptures show my experience is nothing new.  

The people of Israel paddled the same boat—waiting, with no sign of encouragement, for their hope to be fulfilled. They cried out for Messiah—the One who would rescue them from oppression, restoring freedom and prosperity. 

When will it be time? 

Are we almost there? 

How long will this take? 

As we enter the Advent season of reflection, please know that our struggle with time is nothing new. Go ahead and let the questions fly before God's throne. But don't get up from your knees yet (or the bed, park bench, bus seat—wherever you pray). Instead, take time to ponder Galatians 4:4-7. 

Don't miss this opportunity to express faith. 

Because at just the right time ... He will come through. 

"But when the fullness of time had come ... God sent his Son."

And it will be better than you dreamed.

"... you are no longer a slave, but a son, 

and if a son, then an heir through God."

Backyard Days and a Story Snapshot

It was my last year as a homeschool mom.

The sweetgum showered red-gold leaves, the bees buzzed lazy tunes,

 and my youngest teenager read aloud from Tolkien.

It was a memory moment—the kind meant for savoring.

Today was the same kind of day, but I didn't get to read in the backyard. 

I hope you did, though.

 

I took this photo of a pair of glasses I found at a sale. 

Purchased for a few quarters, they sold again for much more. 

My writing fund appreciated the small contribution. 

So, here's a bit of flash fiction inspired by these seen-better-days specs. 

     Missing

     "Where are my glasses?" Craig ran his hand up his forehead then back down, mashing his nose flat. "Every time I lay them down, they go missing." He flopped into his armchair and a slight veil of dust puffed into the afternoon sun and floated toward thick window panes. 

     Janice handed him the newspaper. "You had them in the church this morning, didn't you? Then you stopped at the Danaher's on the way home ..." She glanced up at him from her own reading, hoping for a clue. Craig had gone still at the mention of the Danaher home, the crazed epicenter of the once-quiet village. "Did you have a chance to talk with—" 

     "No." Craig shot up from his chair and the newspaper fell to the floor, unnoticed. "I remember now. They are at the church." At the door, he grabbed his hat from the hook and pulled it low on his forehead. "You're right, Janice," he said. "You're always right." 

     

Mimosa Tree Life

The mimosa tree is one of the last to send out its leaves in the spring.

It's fair to say that every year I think, "Well, the mimosa's dead."

But then suddenly, there they are—sensitive, green leaf fronds. 

Then soon, the tiny balled clusters that almost look like berries.

And when you least expect it ... 

pow.

You look over your shoulder to see a tree covered with silky-pink blooms.

Do you find that pattern repeated in life? I do. 

Something I'm looking forward to is delayed, so I decide it's never going to happen. 

I buy into the idea that hope is dead, the blessing is removed, and I should move on.

Then ... 

pow. 

God does one of His best works.

Consider the story of Joseph. 

Sitting in a pit and then in a jail, he must have thought his dreams 

were dead, swept away, maybe even a mistake. 

Except they weren't—the story has its own pow. 

Read more about the deeper meaning of Joseph's story here. 

I'd love to hear about your mimosa tree experiences. 

Comment below or email me soon.

A Thankful Tribute

This photo of Bruce and I was taken at a writer's conference in May 2016. 

I'd just won an award for work that this gentleman, among others, encouraged me to produce. 

I was amazed and more than a little thrilled ... and Bruce was just as excited.

His unselfish character allowed him to genuinely rejoice over the success of his friends.

He passed away this weekend after a courageous battle with cancer.

During his last weeks, many friends and colleagues joined in a card and 

letter-writing campaign to send words of encouragement. 

But I procrastinated—a writer who couldn't come up with the right words when it 

mattered most—and my message didn't reach him in time.

I truly regret that mistake and pray it will leave an eternal mark that will 

press me to speak my heart words in a more timely manner. 

If you're reading this today and you've held important words inside for what 

might be too long ... don't.

Included below is the message I finally penned for Bruce in 

the hope that it will be an appropriate tribute. 

Dear Bruce,

    I know it’s almost Halloween, so if this Thanksgiving card makes you laugh—good! I don’t much like Halloween anyway. A Thanksgiving card is so much more appropriate because you, my friend, are one of the blessings its verse mentions.

  Before I joined Word Weavers, the idea of writing was wriggling around in my heart, often pushed aside by doubt and fear. One Sunday morning, our pastor invited us to ask God any question and wait for an answer. With everyone else, I transcribed a question on a tiny slip of paper. “Am I a writer?” I folded it six or seven times, put it in the basket, and wondered how God would answer; and yes, I wondered if He would answer.

  Not long after that, I contacted Word Weavers and met their tech specialist, Bruce Brady. Through you, He answered my question—YES. Since then, He’s spoken through you (over and over) as you’ve partnered with me in a laughter-laced writing friendship. “Keep writing, girl,” you say, and I hear echoes of His voice.

  Thank you, Bruce, for speaking life to my frail dream and throwing in a great friendship to boot. We have SO many reasons to give thanks. 

Susan 

Uncommon

An odd thing happens to me, pretty frequently—

people mistake me for someone else.

I know it's probably happening when I get that first "double-take" glance. 

 But when a perfect stranger sends a probing gaze directly into my face

and takes hesitant steps in my direction,

it's for sure—another false reunion is about to go down:

Excuse me, but did you deal cards in Vegas?

Have you ever lived in Tennessee?

Aunt Kay ... is that you?

And my favorite: 

Were you a judge, because you look exactly like the one who sent me to jail. 

I'd love to answer, "Well, yes!" just to see what would happen.

Instead, I've always tried to ease the flustered embarrassment that results from my no—

"Don't worry, it happens all the time. I'm common looking." 

It happened again at a recent writer's conference, 

but this time, the words stuck in my throat.

 We truly are unique in the Father's eyes—

created, loved, and valued.

I may be one among many that look crazily similar, 

but He knows my name.

* Photos of my Black-Eyed Susans, which really do seem 

to look exactly the same.

Brick-Wall Window

"Hey, Suzy." 

"Yeah, Buddy?"

"What's this window for?"

"Well ... I guess it's sort of a ... decoration."

"Right, because you can't see anything through it."

"Right ..."

The conversation happened at a recent family gathering, but I wasn't bothered.

My capacity for imagination has been with me as long as I can remember. I'm drawn to:

closed doors, latched boxes,

keyholes, pathways, 

abandoned doors, misplaced ladders,

and yes, old windows with a view to nothing.

I've come to realize that my fondness for such things is a Creator-given trait, 

an invaluable gift which empowers me to write. 

And with a little bit of imagination, my friend just might realize that this

brick-wall window does indeed have a view, of sorts. 

Ready and Willing

A friend gave me this heavy, wooden door, taken from her grandparents' empty home.

Only a few days before bulldozers did their work of subdivision development, 

we walked through mostly-empty rooms searching for 

useful bits of an old life that could fit in the back of her truck.

Last summer, it made the perfect backdrop for my butterfly bush. 

This year it brings sunshiny-yellow charm to my shade garden.

And a bat lives behind it. 

Do you pray for open and closed doors? It's a recurring theme over here.

Every time I pass it, my friend's door reminds me of these powerful prayer verses. 

"A huge door of opportunity for good work has opened ..."

" ... a door was opened for me in the Lord ..."

"... opening doors no one can lock, locking doors no one can open ..."

I don't know about you, but I've tried to break down a few doors and walked 

away pretty bruised from the effort.

By the same token, I've tried to slam a few that keep creaking open again.

It's good news that a loving Father is in charge of opening and closing the 

right doors for me. So ... if He holds the keys, then what's my job?

I've got to be ready to walk through open doors 

and 

willing to walk away from closed doors. 

I can't be obsessed with a locked door, peeking through the keyhole, 

testing an endless series of secret knocks and creative passwords. 

And walking away from a closed door is just as challenging as working up the nerve 

to cross the threshold of an open one. The cool breeze of the unknown in my face 

isn't always exhilarating—sometimes it's downright terrifying! 

Walking through and walking away both require one thing: 

TRUST

Confidence that what's behind a locked door is really, really not good for me and 

certainty that whatever waits beyond an empty threshold is His very best.

What doors are you dealing with today? 

Lord, thank you for holding the keys to every door in my life. Help me recognize and walk away from the doors You close. Give me Your courage to walk  through the doors You open, into the future planned for me. My trust is always and only in You.