tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21026865959036906602024-03-13T05:46:56.575-07:00Stephanie Grace WhitsonAuthor/Speaker/Historian Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-11754649854223580472022-05-08T18:32:00.001-07:002022-05-08T18:32:55.807-07:00Mothers and Success<p> When my mother graduated to heaven in 1996, she left behind a loose leaf notebook of favorite quotes, poems, etc., written in her own hand. I followed her example, and this past week as I leafed through my own favorites, I reread this article. It still resonates with me, and I hope it will encourage you. Remember: God doesn't define "success" the way the world does. </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><b>Success<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in; text-align: center;">Roger C. Palms, Editor of Decision
Magazine<o:p></o:p></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When we
feel obligated to measure our lives by the “success gospel,” we can too readily
close the door to the sovereignty of God and miss what our Christian lives are
meant to be.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The Apostle
Paul knew better. When he felt called to go out on his first missionary
journey, life was not all that good. In the malarial coastal regions of Perga
in Pamphylia, John Mark, his helper, left him and went home, and Paul may have
become ill. So he and Barnabas went north to the mountains and preached in
Antioch, where they were soon persecuted and expelled. They walked to Iconium,
where their preaching stirred up people who wanted to stone them, and they had
to flee, finding their way 18 miles farther down the road to Lystra. There the
people first thought they were embodiments of Greek gods. But then Paul was
stoned and ragged through the city gates, cast outside the walls and left for
dead.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Had
Paul missed his calling? Did he ever wonder why there was so little “success”?
Still, there was a teen-aged boy in Lystra who believed (perhaps he was even in
his early twenties). His name was Timothy. He was ready for the Gospel because
his mother and grandmother had taught him the Scriptures.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><b>When
I think about Mother’s Day</b>, I reflect on conversations I have had with
mothers who wonder if they have missed God’s calling because they aren’t out in
the marketplace being “successful.” They can’t point to great, immediate results
from their calling to stay home and care for their children. A lot of things go
wrong, or at least they don’t seem to go right. Are these mothers failures?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Paul
had the larger view and kept on. There proved to be some results from his
preaching in each of those cities on that first journey, and small churches
were started. Years later, just before he was martyred, when he wrote his last
letter to Timothy, he could see the results even though he was still reminded
of the terrible pain during those early years. He saw the work of God that
enabled him to keep on going.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We need
that perspective, allowing God to be the God of history, not just of the
immediate, as if he has to fit our make-it-to-the-top-now syndrome. If Paul had
accepted that kind of teaching, he could easily have seen himself as a failure,
and have seen someone like the Emperor, the man with the prestige, the power,
the expensive chariots and the big house, as an example of a man blessed by
God.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: 8.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: 0in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our
obedience to Jesus may not seem to pay off immediately. That’s when we do what
Paul did: keep on investing ourselves. It is faithfulness that God honors,
whether on a missionary journey or in teaching of the Christian faith to one
teenaged boy.<o:p></o:p></p> Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-86401072487205758532019-09-20T09:43:00.000-07:002019-09-20T09:49:39.692-07:00Josiah's Legacy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidLaGpB6-84XOcdeSo9O_1zTMVItiyjrdKKfxQUgwpqZPtc9HX96pp30dcqm3Vs5X-z9J4ZPFkm07r42uaxoBy1aNehJRUaEtJW2a7tKPdH8fgepPbt-JICCuCf5YuYWfceP-VBR9s8gSE/s1600/Selah+and+Josiah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="767" data-original-width="960" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidLaGpB6-84XOcdeSo9O_1zTMVItiyjrdKKfxQUgwpqZPtc9HX96pp30dcqm3Vs5X-z9J4ZPFkm07r42uaxoBy1aNehJRUaEtJW2a7tKPdH8fgepPbt-JICCuCf5YuYWfceP-VBR9s8gSE/s400/Selah+and+Josiah.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<i><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I recently attended the most amazing, moving, beautiful celebration of life for Josiah, a little peanut of a baby boy who accomplished much in his short life. Josiah's twin sister thrives here on earth while Josiah thrives in heaven. I was so moved by the words of his mother shared at that celebration, that I asked permission to share them. Be encouraged by the grace-filled words of this woman of God. I am humbled by her faith in the face of profound loss. </span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f1f0f0; color: #444950; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><br /></i></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As many of you know and have walked beside us through these last few months, it would seem that this year has been a year of loss for Ves and I. We lost Ves's Dad, we lost our house, we lost our dreams of teaching and living in West Virginia, we lost our money, and ultimately we lost our son, Josiah.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">While it has often seemed that everything that possibly could go wrong, has gone wrong, we have learned to see this year, not as a year of loss, but as a year of learning to hold things loosely, of learning to hold all that we own and love with an open hand out to God. We have learned that ultimately nothing that we have (our belongings, dreams, and even our children) belong to us, nor do we deserve these gifts. God graciously gives them, but sometimes in the wisdom of His purposes, He chooses to take them away. What can we say besides, "The Lord gives and the Lord takes away, blessed be the name of the Lord."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When we first found out that we were expecting twins, one of the first people that we called to tell were the Keisers. After the usual congratulations, I remember Jeff making the comment that we "had created two eternal beings that would never cease to exist." While I immediately felt the weight of that statement and the responsibility that we as parents had to raise up these two souls for the glory of God, I didn't realize how fitting and comforting this statement would be in the coming months.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A few months later when we found out that we would most likely lose Josiah, and in the days that followed, there were many things that went through my mind. There were many tears, many conversations had with God, and much pleading for Josiah's life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">On thing that I have learned through trials is that they test your faith, but often not in the way that you would think. As people prayed for us and encourage us after finding out about Josiah, many well meaning people would say things like, "I just know God will heal Josiah! There are so many people praying for you guys," or "Keep on praying, God will heal him!" While I appreciated the sentiment and understood where they were coming from, it always rubbed me the wrong way. What if God chose not to heal Him?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">You see, when we go through hard times and we are faced with the unimaginable, we tend to put God in a box. We tend to think that we know what is best and what God should do in a given situation. We try to help God out by reminding Him and even commanding Him to do what is obviously the right thing to do in our eyes. But the thing is that God's ways are not our ways and God, in His wisdom, chose to take our son. Where does that leave us? Does that mean God made a mistake, or isn't good, or somehow acted foolishly? No, it means that sometimes the greatest act of faith is to trust in God's goodness and plan even when it makes absolutely no sense in our circumstances.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">You see, Josiah's life went exactly like it was supposed to. It wasn't too short, as it is easy to think. The meaning of all our lives is to bring glory to God and to bless His name. In Josiah's short 6 months and 6 hours of life, God did exactly that. God's purpose for his life was fulfilled exactly as God had planned and God was glorified not only in his seemingly short life, but also in his death.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">While we may not ever know why God chose for Josiah's life to play out the way it did, we can rest in the fact that Josiah's life wasn't cut short, and the number of his days were ordained by God. We can also find joy in the fact that we know that Josiah is now whole and completely healed in the presence of our savior, which is better by far.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">While we will always carry with us regrets (regrets of not memorizing his face better, or taking more pictures, or remembering what it felt like to hold him in our arms) and struggle with the "what could have beens" of birthdays, milestones, and the day to day life with a twinless twin, we hold fast to the hope that his life was meaningful and that we will see him and hold him again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We are thankful for the way Josiah blessed our life, for the way that through his death God strengthened and upheld us, and for the ways that God used Josiah's life to bless other people and continues to do so. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">--Josiah's mom, September, 2019</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Reprinted by permission</span><br />
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<br /> Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-83659200172470960052018-12-25T17:35:00.002-08:002018-12-25T17:35:45.163-08:00Christmas Memories 2018<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Pondering ... remembering ... thanking God for the people represented by the things we used to celebrate this Christmas. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The soup pot</b> … was
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">my mother</b>’s. Always thrifty to the
extreme, Mother did not scrimp on her cookware, and that soup pot, which may be
fifty years old, serves me well. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The dishes I set the
table with</b> … were a gift from <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">my dad</b>
after mother passed away. Our family often vacationed at Lake of the Ozarks, taking
over every small cottage in a retired truck driver’s resort, and enjoying
blackberry cobbler at almost every meal … thanks to the wild blackberries that
grew along the roadside. The dishes reminded me of those happy times, and when
Daddy heard the story, he handed me a check. “You buy those dishes.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The water goblets</b>
… <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Mother</b> saw them in an antique
store and loved them, but “could not afford them.” My<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> siblings and I</b> went together and bought them for her. The stems
are tree trunks and oak leaves sprout upwards from the trunks. I don’t
particularly like them, but I love the attached memory. Documentation in Mother’s
papers claims these goblets were offered as store premiums back in the late
1800s. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The silver-plate
knives, forks, soup spoons, etc</b>. … my <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">husband’s
grandmother</b>s—a set with three different sizes of forks, three different
sizes of spoons, olive forks, sugar spoon, etc. Clearly created for a family far
more refined than mine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The crystal
candlesticks</b> … my <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">children’s
great-grandmother</b>’s. More than one of the grown children in the family
wanted them, but my mother-in-love gave them to her son and me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The napkins</b> … <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">my best friend</b>’s … who was also my
current husband’s first wife, and mother to my step-son. She’s been in heaven
since 1996, and remembering her is a joy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Christmas tree </b>…
my husband’s and his first wife’s. She was also <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">my best friend</b> and my step-son’s mother. The hand-made paper angel
ornaments were her creation<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The nativity set</b> …
a gift from <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">my children</b> and expanded
by my <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">step-son and his wife</b>, bless
them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The snow people</b> …
made by <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">my daughter</b>, each snowman represented
a beloved family member, including snow angels for those in heaven.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">miniature quilt</b>
beneath the porcelain nativity …<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> a dear
friend and sister-in-Christ</b>. We have quilted together, prayed for one
another, and served together in our local church for decades.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Christmas Day is drawing to a close. We’ve shared it “just the
two of us,” my husband and I … and as I ponder the “cloud of witnesses”
represented by soup pots and candlesticks, snow people and napkins … I am thankful.
So. Very. Thankful. For the simple things that call to mind beloved friends and
family members.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Merry Christmas, dear readers.</span></div>
<br /> Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-74093018195601438772018-12-10T10:59:00.002-08:002018-12-10T10:59:49.585-08:00Christmas Ornament Stories: The Eiffel Tower<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 19.5pt; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfKtxdrxe9ctBr31wZd7NIPhzirjiifb8gfGmqZYzin5wo3HvlmxkTOFth9LkSDEYc0Bq8P5CwMyMTDLd784C1zierTeVnCy0_KBeKflGywaBUwrAVRFXZB9lVeJ1TsRShniTBNEOVaTwd/s1600/IMG_6935%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfKtxdrxe9ctBr31wZd7NIPhzirjiifb8gfGmqZYzin5wo3HvlmxkTOFth9LkSDEYc0Bq8P5CwMyMTDLd784C1zierTeVnCy0_KBeKflGywaBUwrAVRFXZB9lVeJ1TsRShniTBNEOVaTwd/s320/IMG_6935%255B1%255D.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Christmas tree ornaments tell many stories. Repaired ornaments hint at toppled trees and toddlers. Others testify to admired artists or designers or beloved crafters. And some whisper meanings no one would ever guess--like the sparkly Eiffel Tower on my tree, which reminds me of a Christmas when we ran away from home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I recently promised to tell the story over on my Facebookpage </span></div>
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<a href="http://www.facebook.com/StephanieGraceWhitsonofficial/?ref=settings" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;" target="_blank">https://www.facebook.com/StephanieGraceWhitsonofficial</a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> And here it is ...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The First Christmas Without Dad</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> Bob and
I took care to establish traditions that would ensure that Christmas was the
best holiday of the year for our family, one of the more unusual of those
traditions being that someone in our family always got a box of dirt. Never
mind the significance. It was just part of what it meant to be a Whitson. But
as my four children (ages 21, 18, 15, and 12) and I
faced Christmas 2001, no one cared about the box of dirt. Dad had died of
cancer the previous February. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> Grief is
a strange journey. Sometimes it leads us straight at the thing we dread, and we
face it down. Sometimes we need to take a detour to avoid the dreaded thing
until we are stronger. As Christmas approached, I felt we all needed the
detour. A phone call provided it, but it took me a few days to embrace it.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> A dear
niece had been living in Geneva, Switzerland, for two years. Was there any way
the children and I could spend Christmas with her?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> No, I
didn’t think so.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> Maybe.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> I would
get back to her.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> At the
last minute, I asked something absurd. If we came to Geneva, did she think we
might also be able to spend a few days in Paris? I’d lived in France when I was
in college, and I had always longed to return.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> Laura
didn’t hesitate. Of course! It would be great fun. Just let her know. She’d see
what she could do about finding hotel deals.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> I hung
up and contemplated the obstacles. My two oldest children had jobs. They
wouldn’t be able to get away. They were both in love. They wouldn’t want to
leave for a week at Christmas.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> And the
money. Oh, the money.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> As it
turned out, the airfare was miraculously cheap. The two oldest children wanted
to go. Their bosses let them off. My financial advisor approved. Bob would
approve, he said. I thought he was probably right. And so, on Christmas Eve (2001),
instead of crying our way through the usual, we were on our way to Geneva. On
Christmas day, instead of stumbling into the Daddy-less living room and
pretending to enjoy opening presents, we were fighting jet lag, walking the
medieval streets of Geneva, eating dinner with an international group of
Laura’s friends from Switzerland, Sweden, and England. My Midwestern children
loved it.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> The day
after Christmas we boarded the TGV and sped to Paris. I speak French and I
adore Paris. This part of my life predated my falling in love with their
father. There were no sad memories to confront here. I couldn’t wait to share
Paris with my children. Would they “get it”?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> Standing
before Notre Dame Cathedral, my son asked, “When did you say they built that?”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> “In the
1200s.”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> He
stepped closer to the doors, staring up and up and up at the myriad stone
carvings.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Wow.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"><i> </i>One
night we rode the metro, emerging along the Seine, admiring a particularly </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">beautiful bridge and watching an excursion boat make its way up the river
before advancing beyond the row of trees shading the walkway. The Eiffel Tower
loomed above us in the night, its ironwork glowing bronze in the lights.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><i style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Wow.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"><i> </i>On another night we read the sign
mounted on a tall iron fence not too far from our hotel near the Sorbonne and
discovered we’d been casually walking past the third-century ruins of a Roman
bath. Roman. As in Julius Caesar and togas.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> Wow.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"><i> </i>We grabbed floor plans of the Louvre
one day just before it closed, and that evening in our hotel room I told the
children to look it over and mark the three things they most wanted to see. I
wanted them to see less and appreciate more—to remember more than a maze of
marbled halls.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> The next morning at the museum, I
watched my children watch. What would they really see? It turned out to be the
Greek/Roman/Italian sculpture. My children were in awe. Their mother was
delighted. They were getting it … they really were getting it.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> In those four days, we probably walked
five miles a day. We didn’t see the Musée d’Orsay or go up the Eiffel Tower or
ride on an excursion boat or eat at a fancy restaurant or do any number of a
zillion things tourists usually go to Paris to see and do. We did, however,
climb the towers of Notre Dame and see the gargoyles. We walked the streets of
Little Athens and marveled over the array of foods. We shopped at the century
old La Samaritaine department store. We ate mussels and crepes and lychees,
discovered Nutella, and marveled at the smallness of the cars and the beauty of
the roses at a flower market. We made mistakes and got lost.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I don’t imagine I’ll
ever spend Christmas in Paris again. But in 2001, traveling far, far away from
home helped one heartbroken family detour around a monster named Grief. We
spent our first Christmas without Dad in the City of Lights. Of course, Dad
spent the day with the One who said, “Let there be light.” But we did all
right, too, because we came home knowing that we were going to be all right. We
would return to the beloved traditions the next Christmas, and we would smile
through our tears when the lucky recipient opened that box of dirt.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">If this is your first Christmas without someone, take heart. Be kind to yourself. Say "no" to the things that will just be too hard this year. Say "yes" to something completely new that you can navigate without the memories. And remember that you are not alone. Even in the moments when it feels that way, Someone is there to listen, to love, and to help you carry the weight of grief.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">May He bless you with the knowledge of His presence in ways that speak comfort to your heart.</span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">[<i>"The First Christmas Without Dad" </i>was originally published in <i>God Rest Ye Grumpy Scroogeymen, New Traditions for Comfort and Joy at Christmas</i>, by Laura Jensen Walker and Michael K. Walker, 2003 </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Subsequently published in <i>Christmas Moments, 50 Inspirational Stories of the True Meaning of Christmas</i>, compiled and edited by Yvonne Lehman, 2014]</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></span></span> Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-62284360104512707172017-01-30T11:51:00.000-08:002017-01-30T11:51:19.297-08:00Amazing Grace and This Novelist<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
I'm reading Jonathan Aitken's biography of John Newton--a gift given me years ago by a woman I admire and respect. I came to this biography knowing very little about Newton beyond what everyone knows--he wrote "Amazing Grace," and he captained slave ships. Learning more has been a moving and encouraging personal experience. </div>
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<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This morning, learning about his hymn-writing spoke to me on a personal level about my writing. Why? Well. Because, over my 20 years as a published novelist, there have been times when I was painfully aware of the number of people who look down their noses at "popular fiction." </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Once, I attended a lecture on a favorite writer. Afterwards, I introduced myself to the English professor who had just given the lecture, offering to visit her class if she ever wanted to give her students a chance to talk to a "working writer." When the professor learned what I write, she actually turned her back on me to begin a different conversation with someone standing nearby. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now, that's an extreme version of the kind of thing novelists sometimes encounter. Still, though, it can be challenging to maintain a healthy appreciation for the ministry of popular fiction. After all, the Enemy of our Souls is really, really good at discouragement. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Below, I've excerpted what encouraged me most from the chapter about the "most sung, most recorded, and most loved hymn in the world," "Amazing Grace." (Here's a purchase link for the book: </span><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/John-Newton-Disgrace-Amazing-Grace/dp/1433541815">https://www.amazon.com/John-Newton-Disgrace-Amazing-Grace/dp/1433541815</a>)</span></span></div>
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<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
Newton's writing "People's Hymns" was highly unusual for his day. But his congregation were tradespeople, and he knew that the principal religious books of the established church (the King James Bible and the Book of Common Prayer) were replete with phrases uneducated people found difficult to understand. "Newton thought he could help them to understand the Scriptures if he amplified his sermons by writing simply worded hymns that illustrated the biblical passages on which he was preaching."</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
"Newton saw himself as a simple wordsmith who could hammer out verses that would appeal to the ordinary folk of Olney."</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
"This concept of serving God and his parishioners was Newton's primary objective in writing hymns. He had no interest in pleasing persons of superior social status or literary taste. He made this clear when he wrote in the preface to <i>Olney Hymns</i>:</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<i>'Though I would not offend readers of taste by willful coarseness and negligence, I do not write professedly for them. If the Lord whom I serve has been pleased to favor me with that mediocrity of talent that may qualify me for usefulness to the weak and the poor of his flock without quite disgusting [displeasing] persons of superior discernment I have reason to be satisfied.'</i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 1em;">
Newton was therefore consciously avoiding highfalutin language and poetic phrases in his hymnody. He was an unashamedly middlebrow lyricist writing for a lowbrow congregation. He wanted every line of his hymns to be easy for his parishioners to sing, understand and commit to memory. Clarity and simplicity were therefore the cornerstones of Newton's hymn-writing technique. On these foundations he built his rhyme, rhythm, syntax, and choice of words. 'Amazing Grace' passes these Newtonian requirements for hymnody with flying colors. The rhymes and rhythms of its verses are so clear and so well-known that they require no further comment, but a less well noticed strength of the hymns is that of the 146 words in 'Amazing Grace,' no fewer than 125 are words of one syllable."</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmyiKyhh4NQBJ0QumfB1yoPwy7ZzWr02e8H4ZbykFlJhTnF2h5FxvKO-L4l9lZobPZOBXtJOXWOmnn_yLfq7kGPwRMIecLjR-UpXEtdsuNDMY8e6XjiKILyYUQRTTVVLR4vY2YjHhzmRkW/s1600/Steph+cropped+jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmyiKyhh4NQBJ0QumfB1yoPwy7ZzWr02e8H4ZbykFlJhTnF2h5FxvKO-L4l9lZobPZOBXtJOXWOmnn_yLfq7kGPwRMIecLjR-UpXEtdsuNDMY8e6XjiKILyYUQRTTVVLR4vY2YjHhzmRkW/s200/Steph+cropped+jpg.jpg" width="189" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I share this with you, just in case you, too, have been tempted to feel "less than." While simplicity should never be a synonym for lazy writing, I find comfort in the notion that ministry to readers who are attracted to my simple stories is not something I need feel apologetic about---ever. Sign me Stephanie Grace Whitson, "unshamedly middlebrow." </span><br />
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Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-40868514016051718872016-12-17T13:34:00.002-08:002016-12-17T13:36:28.229-08:00The Christmas memory that became a novella<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">What follows is excerpted from a book of sod house memories published by the Sod House Society. Many years after I first read it, it inspired my novella titled "A Patchwork Love" for <i>A Patchwork Christmas</i>. I hope you enjoy reading "the rest of the story" (as Paul Harvey would say).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It was Christmas Eve! I was seven years old during World War I. My father was in Los Angeles. My mother worked as a satin lady in a big store in North Platte, Nebraska. On Christmas eve when the store closed, we took the seven o'clock train to go out to Ogallala way out in the sandhills of Nebraska where her brother lived on a farm with seven children.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We were the only passengers going to Ogallala as the train headed into a terrible snowstorm. The heavy snowstorm increased the depth of the snow until the train was forced to stop. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My mother hadn't brought any food because it was supposed to be only a two-hour journey. We were snowbound on the train. The drifts of snow were up to the tops of the windows. The only people on that train (five passenger cars and a mail car) were the engineer, the fireman, the conductor, the brakeman, and us. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My mother was very tired and emotional. She began to cry and sat quietly crying the whole evening--how terrible it was! But the conductor and brakeman were very good to me, giving me a nickel and some candy, and tried to cheer up my mother.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">About twelve o'clock midnight I was awakened, as we heard some jingling bells outside the train. The conductor came into our car and said, "You'd better put your coats and boots on, because a nearby farmer has come to get you in his sleigh." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We went to the door of the train with our suitcase and my doll and looked out. There were two great big black horses with bells all over the harness. They took us out and put us in the sleigh and covered us with fur lap robes. I recall how wonderful it was for me to ride behind the bells through a white world.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The man could not speak English and neither could his wife. They were Norwegian. She gave us hot coffee and some kind of wonderful bread. I can just remember that good bread because we were so hungry.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It was a two-story homestead house--two rooms downstairs and two rooms upstairs. We went upstairs and there was a featherbed. It was cold--oh, my land, but it was cold! It must have been 40 degrees below zero and no heat upstairs. We got into bed and the lady put another feather tick on top of us.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In the morning, I dressed by the big cookstove in the kitchen. The lady had made a Christmas tree for me. She had taken this beautiful handmade lace and wrapped it around and around a chair with ribbon bows, and right on the seat bottom of the chair was a dish with an apple, an orange, and some hard candy. Another plate had some beautiful cutout cookies. She didn't have anything else to give me but I thought it was wonderful. My mother had a sewing box for me. Inside was a blue satin lining with needles and thimbles, scissors, and some satin scraps. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I was happy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">--from "Pioneering--My Story" by Florence May Callihan Noble May</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Here is a link to the book of Sod House Memories in which Mrs. May's original ten-page memoir first appeared. The book is out of print, but used copies can occasionally be found. <a href="http://bit.ly/2hGCfy3">http://bit.ly/2hGCfy3</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Have a blessed Christmas.</span></div>
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Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-59692116102999463712016-06-19T14:35:00.000-07:002016-06-19T14:35:03.677-07:00My Dad<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cecil Grayson Irvin graduated to heaven in 1996. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I wrote this tribute as a Father's Day gift to him in about 1983.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Just before he died, he promised to meet me just inside the gate.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The older I get, the more I look forward to that day</span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I know he'll be there. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Daddy was a man of honor. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He always kept his word. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> My Dad is a tall, slender man (“Slim” the guys at work used to call him) with gentle blue eyes and slightly rounded shoulder caused, I am sure, by years of bending his 6’5” frame to catch the words of those shorter than he.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Of course I can’t remember it, but the family tells of Dad teaching me to walk by standing me on the toes of his shoes as he walked backwards.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> I remember as a child waiting excitedly for the car to pull up in the drive when he returned from his over-the-road trucking job. He would unfold his tall frame from the driver’s seat and put on the brown cap that matched his driver’s uniform. Dad took pride in his well-pressed uniforms with the company badge embroidered on the shoulder. We often laughed to see other motorists slow noticeably when we passed, thinking they were being monitored by a policeman in an unmarked car.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> When I was little, he was often “on the road.” But when he was home, I climbed onto his lap after meals, just for the feeling of being sheltered by his arms while he visited with Mother or read the evening paper. When I grew older, and Tuesday and Thursday nights were Dad’s nights home, Mother would cook corn bread with ham and beans or round steak with biscuits, and we would bask in his presence, just glad that he would be there to share our supper, coffee, and late night popcorn.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> On Sundays, Dad read me the comics and then entertained me by taking out pen and paper and drawing Dick Tracy and Brenda Starr. I still love to read the comic strips, enduring considerable chiding from my husband for the habit. I can’t copy the characters like Dad, but I occasionally clip one to slip into Bob’s lunch sack. He enjoys it in spite of himself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> When childhood terrors over starting school after the summer overtook me, Dad was there to help relax the wrenching knot in my stomach. With his quiet voice he reassured me that everything would be all right. I believed him, and the knot loosened, and it <i>was</i> all right.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> I don’t remember him ever spanking me. Mother says he didn’t. He never had to. There was just something in his quiet love for me that motivated me to obey.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> In the days before seat belts and car seats, Dad used to sit me on his lap and let me think I was guiding the car.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> On summer nights when I was in junior high, we went to baseball games, sitting high in stadium seats provided by the St. Louis Cardinals to students with the right grade point average. Dad bought me soda pop and peanuts and we cheered Orlando Cepeda, Bob Gibson, and Lou Brock. I knew every player’s batting average and skipped classes once to watch the World Series on T.V. Without Dad in the next seat, baseball just isn’t much fun anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> He taught me to drive defensively—and then trusted me with his car on a weekend away with other students. I would have done anything to keep from betraying his trust, and we all drove carefully that weekend. Dad must have spent a couple of sleepless nights wondering if his daughter would become another highway statistic. But he trusted me. He understood my need for independence.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> I remember my first car. Dad drove it home, parked it in the driveway, and ordered me to change an imaginary flat tire.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> He spoiled me. On snowy mornings I would go outside to find my car cleaned off, the driveway shoveled so that I could drive off to classes at the university.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> I remember tears in his eyes as he walked me down the aisle to become Mrs. Robert Whitson. Those tears still shine every time we have to say goodbye after a visit that spans the miles between Nebraska and Illinois.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> When my first child was born, the familiar knots returned to my stomach over the responsibility of motherhood. Dad reassured me. He drove me to the grocery store and patiently experimented until he found a way to fit the infant seat securely in a grocery cart while still leaving room for groceries. He couldn’t have known how much it meant to have him there, his frame towering over me, protecting his “little girl”—and a new granddaughter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Dad loves the Lord. He serves in quiet ways that people often don’t notice. For years, he and mother visited widows of fellow drivers killed on the road, providing help with business details, organizing a fund to provide cash in the early days of widowhood. He still chauffeurs “the elderly” around town and on trips to the airport.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Dad taught me how to walk. He taught me to love baseball and comic strip characters and molasses-and-butter on bread. He taught me to obey authority. He proved that things would be all right next year in school, and that I could be an efficient mother, after all. He taught me about my heavenly Father, too. Oh, not with many words, but by being there, by loving, by listening—by being so very much like Him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> I’m over thirty now, and much too old to call my Father “Daddy,” but he will always be “Daddy” in my heart … in my thoughts … in my prayers … because part of me will always be a little girl when he’s around.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> I love you, Daddy … Happy Father’s Day.</span></span></div>
Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-45524073895689658742016-03-15T15:37:00.000-07:002016-03-15T15:37:13.804-07:00Sermon Notes, Psalm 3<div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Does life seem to be just one huge trial after another? Are you tempted to think God isn't paying attention? That He doesn't care? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was so encouraged by my pastor's sermon this past Sunday morning, I want to share my notes. A few comments are mine (a result of my mind whirling as our pastor taught), but most are those of my pastor, Dr. Gil Rugh. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We studied Psalm 3, titled "Morning Prayer of Trust in God" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">with the ancient note added, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"A Psalm of David, when he fled from Absalom, his son."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">David fled ... <i>from his own son</i>. A son who had used his position as the king's son to foment rebellion. A son who managed to "steal away the hearts of the men of Israel" to such a degree that David had to run for his life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But Absalom's betrayal wasn't the only thing David had just experienced. His most trusted counselor, Ahithophel, had turned against him, too. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On David's way out of town, someone threw rocks at him, screaming that God now favored Absalom. He was essentially saying, "God has cursed you, David, and it's your own fault!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="chapter-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-align: start;"><span class="text Ps-3-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">O <span class="small-caps" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span>, how <span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NASB-13959A" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NASB-13959A" title="See cross-reference A">A</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 0.625em; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span>my adversaries have increased!</span></span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-align: start;" /><span class="text Ps-3-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; position: relative; text-align: start;">Many are rising up against me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Many are saying of my soul,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"There is no deliverance for him in God."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Have you ever felt like you can almost hear the Accuser of the Brethren saying things like that? "God's done with you. He doesn't really care about you. He won't rescue you. God has abandoned you. Why would God deliver you?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Certainly David had reason to think God might turn His back on him. After all, David had sinned. A lot. Remember Bathsheba? Remember David's arranging things so her husband was killed in battle? This is the man who writes:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But you, oh Lord, are a shield about me,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My Glory, and the One who lifts my head.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What can I learn from David? He failed. God doesn't. David could have wallowed in his mistakes and in his sins, but he didn't. He gloried in the God who does not change. The God who gives grace. The God whose mercies are new every morning. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was crying to the Lord with my voice</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">David had great faith in God, but that doesn't mean he didn't cry to the Lord with his voice. Where should I go first when things look really, really, bad? TO THE ONE WHO IS THE REFUGE FOR MY SOUL.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was crying the Lord with my voice</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And He answered me from His holy mountain. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I lay down and slept.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I awoke, for the Lord sustains me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />David is fully confident in God ... even though he still has to keep hiding. Even though he is running for his life. The Lord has cared for me to this point. He has brought me to this moment to hear His Word and to be reminded of His provision. Take heart. Lay down and sleep, for God is a shield about me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I will not be afraid of ten thousands of people </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Who have set themselves against me round about. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The magnitude of trouble shouldn't matter. The Lord will sustain me. He is the anchor for my soul. "Sometimes He brings His strength to me through others."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">NOTE: The fact that David is experiencing part of God's discipline (he was told after he sinned with Bathsheba that he would experience ongoing conflict see 2 Samuel 12) DOES NOT CHANGE DAVID'S RELATIONSHIP WITH GOD. God is still David's refuge and David's deliverer. God has NOT abandoned David. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Even in times of discipline, God is present. He is God <i>with us</i>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Arise, O Lord, save me, O my God!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For you have smitten my enemies on the cheek;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You have shattered the teeth of the wicked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Salvation belongs to the Lord;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Your blessing be upon Your people!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">David doesn't fall back on his past conquests (remember Goliath). He looks to God. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Applying Psalm 3 to 2016:</span></div>
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<li><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sometimes the problems in our lives can be overwhelming.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It may seem to some that God has abandoned me.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">First, I should go to GOD and TO HIS WORD (not to others)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">God meets us where we are. David doesn't wallow in his past mistakes and neither should we. We belong to Him and that will NEVER not be true.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In overwhelming trials, remember it is the Lord who protects us.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Earnestly seek the Lord. Cry to him with your voice in prayer. Claim his promises (like Romans 8:28). I may not see the "good" but He has promised good. His love is the same every day. His mercies are new every morning.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">WE DO KNOW HOW IT ALL TURNS OUT. Remember what Jesus said the night before his crucifixion? "Be of good cheer. I have overcome the world."</span></li>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If you would like to listen to the sermon yourself, here's the link:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.ihcc.org/Resources/Message/4011">https://www.ihcc.org/Resources/Message/4011</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">God give you peace</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> today. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He loves you. So much.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-2060827578348466422015-06-24T20:25:00.000-07:002015-06-24T20:25:13.972-07:00Daughter of the Regiment: A Cover Story<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Daughter of the Regiment: A Cover Story<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIIC84Itlg_2wdiLStMtgus9TGkyeOfwIiuWTLI5m1yyQSwYpltBe-PADa1mRCw72sE7Jcdpuz0bjXN9dqmyh53FVX-8tm2xnsREtqZOTSREOUvLWYBg15l3mCIKGdWZ_RieQcx_1GuBgF/s1600/Daughter+of+the+Regiment.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="http://bit.ly/1GDs9UC" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIIC84Itlg_2wdiLStMtgus9TGkyeOfwIiuWTLI5m1yyQSwYpltBe-PADa1mRCw72sE7Jcdpuz0bjXN9dqmyh53FVX-8tm2xnsREtqZOTSREOUvLWYBg15l3mCIKGdWZ_RieQcx_1GuBgF/s320/Daughter+of+the+Regiment.jpg" title="" width="206" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Order Daughter of the Regiment from<br />Christian Book Distributors at:<br /><a href="http://bit.ly/1GDs9UC">http://bit.ly/1GDs9UC</a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"><i>"He held up the blue blanket--which was not a blanket at all, but her blue wool cape, adorned with gold buttons and red braid ..." </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Lovers
of historical fiction tend to share a fascination with historic costume. We
spend time on Pinterest oohing and aahing over the gorgeous creations housed in
costume collections around the world. Some of us even attend Civil War
reenactments and Jane Austen balls in costumes we’ve made. While we do love our
“women in costume,” I suspect we’ve secretly thankful we aren’t expected to
lace up a corset and step into five petticoats every morning! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A great deal of thought and planning
goes into cover design for any novel, and when a publisher takes extra care
with selection and planning, it makes a writer’s heart sing. Sometimes
publishers have access to theatrical costume warehouses. That gives them a wide
range of options for a cover shoot. In the case of </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Daughter of the Regiment</i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, FaithWords went the extra mile. They
hired a designer to make a uniform inspired by an authentic Civil War
vivandière costume housed in the National Museum of American History. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(Vivandières were women who served the French army during the
Crimean War. Their service inspired Daughters of the Regiment in the American
Civil War.)</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_CHv_naAWznyh1ybHHt-oNWH_AxZbxvkpgZuXnSne3KBmYBqxPlUEM-Bx9SadhkvmRhZ5oAas-gKuN2k4mqV2q9jPMo5udVn60VWlBJle7_PLS2neCYx6GNyCSZKmkRvuaco3LwL0wLow/s1600/206_l.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_CHv_naAWznyh1ybHHt-oNWH_AxZbxvkpgZuXnSne3KBmYBqxPlUEM-Bx9SadhkvmRhZ5oAas-gKuN2k4mqV2q9jPMo5udVn60VWlBJle7_PLS2neCYx6GNyCSZKmkRvuaco3LwL0wLow/s1600/206_l.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, 'ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3', 'Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro', メイリオ, Meiryo, 'MS Pゴシック', arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; text-align: start;">Vivandière Uniform<br />Division of History of Technology, <br />National Museum of American History</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> That’s Maggie Malone on the cover of <i>Daughter of the Regiment</i>. Maggie is a 6-foot-tall Irish immigrant who farms alongside her two brothers
and her uncle. When the Civil War breaks out, she has very little interest in a
conflict “the Americans” should solve. But when Maggie’s two brothers volunteer
with the Irish Brigade, and when one of their names shows up on a list of
wounded soldiers, war becomes personal. Worried about her brother, Maggie
travels to where the Irish Brigade is encamped. Eventually, she begins to think
of the soldiers as “her boys.” As the story unfolds, Maggie grows and changes,
until she realizes that she doesn’t want to leave the regiment. In the end,
Maggie follows in the footsteps of 19<sup>th</sup> century women like Kady
Brownell of Rhode Island and Annie Etheridge of Michigan.<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5loLv9rJRuWhlhnG92LVeEMGMTu4oEkyrXaf5X_VIeVqfYBm3cDKvo8LymEuU2ZxVjDcwKaNGgpgRz6LpWYYBZw63BsqyjPfL7mogJrI4txws8Pdeui88iN2WcovqhDIhyphenhyphenRdevOAhr6Hm/s1600/ea5667446d661d84359b1c97b07103a9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5loLv9rJRuWhlhnG92LVeEMGMTu4oEkyrXaf5X_VIeVqfYBm3cDKvo8LymEuU2ZxVjDcwKaNGgpgRz6LpWYYBZw63BsqyjPfL7mogJrI4txws8Pdeui88iN2WcovqhDIhyphenhyphenRdevOAhr6Hm/s320/ea5667446d661d84359b1c97b07103a9.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Historic photographs of women who
served as Daughters of the Regiment show various versions of uniforms. Soldiers
who wrote about regimental“daughters” mention caps decorated with feathers,
bloomers, and all manner of braid. Inspired by the Smithsonian’s vivandiere’s
costume, designer Linda Coulter first sketched the design shown at left. Once FaithWords gave approval, she created this exquisite
uniform of soft blue wool, complete with authentic Civil War era reproduction buttons
and lace. The jacket is fully lined and boned. Maggie Malone would have
been proud to wear it, and I’ve been excited to share it with readers who
attend launch events this spring. If I could wear it, I would … but alas, it’s
a size 0, and I am not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> I hope you’ve enjoyed learning “the
inside story” of this cover shoot. You can see more historic background on my
Pinterest Board, </span><a href="https://www.pinterest.com/stephgwhitson/daughter-of-the-regiment/"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">https://www.pinterest.com/stephgwhitson/daughter-of-the-regiment/</span></a><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-83349115022018584152015-06-02T11:28:00.000-07:002015-06-02T11:28:08.237-07:00God's Promises in Trials<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxbYBHCi9yp6qAB5dxw5hzCKc88ICDULeyBLZYJrjiK7NBL0Ak-E5bivXHupPsqm5I9D-fgHusIH05bqKtBePkC0E6Dy2aT-SSyw3tNIkFQK_0mDobw-Efap8Y9HejEkWN-xowhyphenhyphenkE9Tz/s1600/Floral+post+card+for+verses+051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxbYBHCi9yp6qAB5dxw5hzCKc88ICDULeyBLZYJrjiK7NBL0Ak-E5bivXHupPsqm5I9D-fgHusIH05bqKtBePkC0E6Dy2aT-SSyw3tNIkFQK_0mDobw-Efap8Y9HejEkWN-xowhyphenhyphenkE9Tz/s400/Floral+post+card+for+verses+051.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6666669845581px;">It was the 1990s, and my husband had just been diagnosed with a non-curable (at the time) form of non-Hodgkins lymphoma. The children were 16, 14, 10, and 7. An envelop arrived in the mail ... and it did immeasurable good. (Well, <i>immeasurable</i> by me, anyway. I'm sure the angels are still keeping track.) A reader had sent me a copy of something her pastor gave to people facing tough times. A few pieces of paper stapled together. A promise from the Bible and Scripture illuminating the promise. The verses had been typed out. </span></span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14.6666669845581px;">No effort needed. Just read. Be comforted. Hang on. </i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6666669845581px;">I carried that gift with me for years and referenced it countless times. By God's grace, I hung on. All these years later, that gift still speaks to me personally. But it's gone further. When I speak on the subject "Got Hope?", I offer that hand-out ... with a slight change. I encourage others to select the verses that are most meaningful to them ... in the version they are most familiar with ... and then to <i>write those out </i>so that they, too, will have a lifeline ready when it's needed. <i>No effort. Just read. Be comforted. Hang on.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6666669845581px;">So today, I offer the content of that hand-out below, along with a few of my favorite verses. But you will find your own.</span></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14.6666669845581px;"> "</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">Now </span><span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NASB-29695A" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NASB-29695A" title="See cross-reference A">A</a>)" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 0.625em; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">may the Lord of peace </span><span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NASB-29695B" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NASB-29695B" title="See cross-reference B">B</a>)" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 0.625em; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">Himself </span></i><i style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">continually grant you peace </i><i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">in every </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">circumstance." </span></i><i style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">2 Thessalonians 3:16</i></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt;">God's
Promises in Trials<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">ALL THINGS WORK TOGETHER FOR GOOD<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Romans 8:28-39 2 Corinthians 4:16-18<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Philippians
4:19 Ephesians
1:22-23<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> 2
Corinthians 9:8 2 Timothy 4:18<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Ephesians
1:13-14 I Peter 5:6-7<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> John
1:16-17<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 8.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">OUR LIFE IS NOT OUR OWN<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Colossians 3:1-3 I John 5:4-5<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Ephesians
2:6 John 5:24<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Galatians
2:20 John 16:33<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> I
Corinthians 6:19-20<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">GOD HAS NOT GIVEN US A SPIRIT OF FEAR<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">2 Timothy 1:7 John 3:17-18<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> I
John 4:18 2 Corinthians
3:17<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Luke
12:25-26 Psalms 118:5-6<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Matthew
6:31-34 Hebrews 4:9-10<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Psalms
34:4 Matthew 6:25-26<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> John
14:27 Philippians 4:6-7<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Matthew
10:29-31<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">WHEN WE ARE FAITHLESS, HE IS FAITHFUL<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I Corinthians 1:9 Matthew 6:28-30<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> I
Corinthians 10:13 Hebrews 6:17-20<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Hebrews
10:23 James
1:5<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> 2
Timothy 2:13 Romans 5:3-5<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Hebrews
13:5-6 John
6:35<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> 2
Thessalonians 3:3 Psalms 68:19<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div style="border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt;">
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<b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">WHEN WE ARE WEAK, HE IS STRONG<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">2 Corinthians
12:9-10 Isaiah 30:21<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> 2
Corinthians 1:3-4 I Peter 1:6-7<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Hebrews 4:16 Ephesians 3:20-12<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Matthew
11:28-30 James 1:2-4<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">2 Thessalonians
2:16-17 </span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Jude 1:24-25 </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Ephesians 3:12</span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-68025007806839682862015-04-15T18:00:00.000-07:002015-04-19T23:33:32.552-07:00Christian Fiction Scavenger Hunt STOP #4 (Pink Team)<br />
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<span style="background-color: yellow;">I hope you enjoyed this spring's event! The contest has ended, but there's no reason not to enjoy author Beth White's post below about her new release, Creole Princess. Happy Monday!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Welcome to the Christian Fiction Scavenger Hunt! I am a part
of <b>TEAM PINK </b>and this is </span><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Stop #4. </span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">[If you’re just joining us, there are two
loops—pink and purple—and they begin at Lisa Bergren’s
site </span><a class="c_nobdr t_prs" href="http://wp.me/p4uHDG-Ne" style="background-color: white; color: #0068cf; cursor: pointer; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.2999992370605px; outline: none;" target="_blank">http://lisatawnbergren.com/2015/04/christian-fiction-scavenger-hunt-stop-1-purple-team/</a> <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">and <span style="background-color: white;">Robin Hatcher’s
site </span><a href="http://www.robinleehatcher.com/christian-fiction-scavenger-hunt-stop-1-pink-team%20for%20stop%20#1">http://www.robinleehatcher.com/christian-fiction-scavenger-hunt-stop-1-pink-team</a></span><a href="http://www.robinleehatcher.com/christian-fiction-scavenger-hunt-stop-1-pink-team%20for%20stop%20#1"> <span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">f</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.robinleehatcher.com/christian-fiction-scavenger-hunt-stop-1-pink-team%20for%20stop%20#1">http://www.robinleehatcher.com/christian-fiction-scavenger-hunt-stop-1-pink-team for stop #1</a> for either stream.] If you complete either the pink
loop or the purple loop, you can enter for a Kindle paperwhite and the 17
autographed books from that loop. If you complete BOTH loops, you can enter for
the Grand Prize of a Kindle Fire HDX and ALL 34 autographed books (by adding up all the Secret Numbers). So write everything down as you go--if you run out of time, you can return to it later.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The hunt <b>begins at NOON Mountain Time on April 16</b> and <b>ends at MIDNIGHT Mountain Time on April 19, 2015</b>. That means you have <b>3.5 days to complete all 34 stops</b>, to enter all individual, pink, purple, and Grand Prize contests, and to maximize your changes for a prize. Winners will be announced on April 20, 2015.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">ALSO, please don’t use
Internet Explorer to navigate through the loops. Some web sites won’t show up
using IE. Please use Chrome or Firefox—they’re better anyway!]</span></i></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhISl2O39plPFqKRSHiDr95oQ-5t0GJKwzS0TEB26H00bE3PhwLEYLjES7uzu9mpspiwL5L8j_5ia16m1Cr5fUgZiPGiXQzdwozdNjiWj33hafBfjGbCefV7DbFK6tAWEuIHs2vJ_opXNuU/s1600/Beth+White+Head+Shot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhISl2O39plPFqKRSHiDr95oQ-5t0GJKwzS0TEB26H00bE3PhwLEYLjES7uzu9mpspiwL5L8j_5ia16m1Cr5fUgZiPGiXQzdwozdNjiWj33hafBfjGbCefV7DbFK6tAWEuIHs2vJ_opXNuU/s1600/Beth+White+Head+Shot.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Beth White</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Without further ado, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to my
guest for the Scavenger Hunt, <b>Beth White</b>. It’s been my personal joy over the
years to cheer on Beth’s talented music students (her day job is teaching music
at an inner-city high school), and now it’s a blessing to introduce you to her
books.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Beth is the award-winning author of <i>The Pelican Bride</i>.
A native Mississippian, she teaches music at an inner-city high school in
historic Mobile, Alabama. Her novels have won the American Christian Fiction
Writers’ Carol Award, the RT Book Club Reviewers’ Choice Award, and the
Inspirational Reader’s Choice Award.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Here’s the summary of her latest book, <i>The Creole Princess</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYSQIIogRCQywHwUdHug7YJlnkEsROuWzBO9LNrvpoZjpMjaXwtT35EZZnT7YCcUa054XtIOrpX_3ttSpVRGaRPYnK92WnAE9fsMlBYnScZvYzIqKaOd8FKknnMa_T6LJ2lncMfx6y3hSQ/s1600/White_Creole+Princess+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYSQIIogRCQywHwUdHug7YJlnkEsROuWzBO9LNrvpoZjpMjaXwtT35EZZnT7YCcUa054XtIOrpX_3ttSpVRGaRPYnK92WnAE9fsMlBYnScZvYzIqKaOd8FKknnMa_T6LJ2lncMfx6y3hSQ/s1600/White_Creole+Princess+Cover.jpg" height="320" width="204" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Torn
between loyalties to family and flag, one young woman is about to discover that
her most important allegiance is to her heart.</i></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-weight: bold;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> It
is 1776 and all along the eastern seaboard, the American struggle for
independence rages. But in the British-held southern port of Mobile, Alabama,
the conflict brewing is much quieter—though no less deadly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Lyse
Lanier may be French in heritage, but she spends most of her time in the
company of the ebullient daughter of the British commander of Mobile. When a
charming young Spanish merchant docks in town, Lyse is immediately struck by
his easy wit and flair for the dramatic. But is he truly who he makes himself
out to be? Spies abound, and Spain has yet to choose a side in the American
conflict. Is Lyse simply an easy mark for Rafael Gonzalez to exploit? Or are
his overtures of love as genuine as Spanish gold?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Beth
White invites you to step into a world of intrigue and espionage from a
little-known slice of the American Revolutionary War.</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And here’s her <b>EXCLUSIVE content</b>, that you’ll only find in
this hunt!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Five Fascinating People from the American Revolution You’ve Never Heard
Of</span><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> I
researched the Colonial period for the second book of The Gulf Coast
Chronicles, <i>The Creole Princess</i>, I
kept running across information that had me thinking, <i>That is amazing!—Why have I never heard of this person before!?</i>
Some of those amazing people became characters in my novel, some inspired mixed
versions of themselves, and some even triggered major plot twists. Even if
you’re not a history nerd like me, I thought it might be fun to introduce some
of those folks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglUn0sOV5jEQ1FrqbAPMKxX0s6WXBId1ToD6WZqkbKhCB_8gFJbOhDm_kr59KHai8eWtjo90pcrA_kUg7-qRzxthFTegkmtYDiUCPz_mQydvXjbE3htlMqSrTSrlhxF3OokwbAry2hV-n5/s1600/GalvezMapColonialSouth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglUn0sOV5jEQ1FrqbAPMKxX0s6WXBId1ToD6WZqkbKhCB_8gFJbOhDm_kr59KHai8eWtjo90pcrA_kUg7-qRzxthFTegkmtYDiUCPz_mQydvXjbE3htlMqSrTSrlhxF3OokwbAry2hV-n5/s1600/GalvezMapColonialSouth.jpg" height="276" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> At the
onset of hostilities, England actually possessed <i>fifteen</i> American colonies. We automatically think of the thirteen
rebellious colonies located in New England and along the eastern seaboard, but
East Florida and West Florida both remained loyal to the mother country until
they were invaded by Spain in 1780-1781. Recent release of documents held in
Spanish archives reveals the significance of Spanish colonial involvement in
the American struggle for independence.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> So
without further ado, meet my Top Five: Bernardo Gálvez, Feliciana Estrehan, Oliver
Pollock, Elias Durnford, and James Willing. Hopefully, these brief
introductions will whet your appetite for further study of this fascinating and
little-known slice of American history.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNCaiQEolB9ryMkaCd_5bxy0odq0QHVCuPR_0Mv10pClm8Xcj0X496ejaL2JXd88fTzCoCVtzFvKOtFawZd9hvDYtBbjQfvH1ow3pmcUmWpwkDD0zoWeq7D284_FIbtG3sJtRs72riQMGh/s1600/WestFloridaCampaign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZubRZeeOLCUAiNq1WM5oti5T0ZzlZdA3dQqzo-_lCu1Yjjkj6aEh4nfqzFkAMpWF4IPgyICli94PWmLwGPBMsjl4kgykK662yR-TyX4K0AxNOwBAQEPuBzj9J2CFMQGkLs2vSSrb1q9Z1/s1600/galvezportrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZubRZeeOLCUAiNq1WM5oti5T0ZzlZdA3dQqzo-_lCu1Yjjkj6aEh4nfqzFkAMpWF4IPgyICli94PWmLwGPBMsjl4kgykK662yR-TyX4K0AxNOwBAQEPuBzj9J2CFMQGkLs2vSSrb1q9Z1/s1600/galvezportrait.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Brigadier-General Don
Bernardo de Gálvez<i>—</i></b>Appointed
governor of the Spanish colony of Louisiana in 1777, Gálvez was son of one of King
Carlos III’s most trusted military advisors and nephew to respected minster of
the Indies José de Gálvez. A strong, charismatic leader, Bernardo demonstrated
a genius for secretly funneling funds, supplies, arms and ammunition to the
Americans. Via a well-developed network of spies, he gathered, absorbed and
disseminated vital intelligence. His strategy for invading the ports of Baton
Rouge, Mobile, and Pensacola succeeded despite catastrophic weather conditions
and miscommunication from the chain of command above him. Though he remained a
loyal Spanish administrator and military commander, Gálvez held a deep sympathy
for the American cause and maintained lifelong friendships with their leaders.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>María Feliciana de
Saint-Maxent Estrehan—</b>This beautiful New Orleans widow of French-Creole
extraction won the heart of the dashing young Governor Gálvez. They married in
December of 1777, and Feliciana proved to be a powerful influence in
Spanish-American politics during the Revolution.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Oliver Pollock—</b>A
merchant of Irish descent who early threw in his lot with the American
experiment, Pollock invested his entire significant fortune in the Cause—to the
point that he ended up bankrupt and in debtors prison. Only after his death
were his debts forgiven by Congress and his status as a major Revolutionary
financier recognized. Pollock, appointed as an official agent of the
Continental Congress, served as one of Gálvez’s most trusted aides-de-camp.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Colonel Elias
Durnford—</b>This cultured and educated<b> </b>British
officer and civil engineer laid out the city of Pensacola, Florida, after it
was ceded by the Spanish in the 1763 treaty of Versailles. Durnford spent a
short stint as acting governor of West Florida until the arrival of Governor
Peter Chester in 1770, when he became Lieutenant-Governor. Durnford was tapped
to command Fort Charlotte in Mobile during the Spanish invasion of 1780.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNCaiQEolB9ryMkaCd_5bxy0odq0QHVCuPR_0Mv10pClm8Xcj0X496ejaL2JXd88fTzCoCVtzFvKOtFawZd9hvDYtBbjQfvH1ow3pmcUmWpwkDD0zoWeq7D284_FIbtG3sJtRs72riQMGh/s1600/WestFloridaCampaign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNCaiQEolB9ryMkaCd_5bxy0odq0QHVCuPR_0Mv10pClm8Xcj0X496ejaL2JXd88fTzCoCVtzFvKOtFawZd9hvDYtBbjQfvH1ow3pmcUmWpwkDD0zoWeq7D284_FIbtG3sJtRs72riQMGh/s1600/WestFloridaCampaign.jpg" height="146" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Captain James Willing—</b>Willing’s
name rates many mentions in the annals of Gulf Coast history, and it appears
people either loved him or loathed him. A passionate American patriot, Willing
began his career as a merchant in the settlement of Natchez and ended as
commander of several lucrative American raids of English plantations along the
Mississippi River. He would swarm ashore with his troops, scoop up slaves and
anything else salable, and continue to New Orleans, where he would put the
merchandise up for auction and funnel the proceeds to the American cause. He
also took it upon himself to sail into the British port of Mobile and
distribute copies of the controversial Declaration of Independence among the
citizens, in an attempt to proselytize—which landed him in the Fort Charlotte
guardhouse for an extended period.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">* * *</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>THE SCAVENGER HUNT SKINNY:</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thanks for stopping by! Before you go, make sure
you WRITE DOWN THESE CLUES:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Secret Word(s): <span style="color: red;">dangerous.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Secret Number: <span style="color: red;">99</span><span style="color: blue;"> </span>(chosen because it feels like I rewrite every page of my work-in-progress at least that many times before I'm remotely satisfied with the story)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When you've finished the Pink Hunt, enter for the pink team grand prize here: </span><a class="c_nobdr t_prs" href="http://www.robinleehatcher.com/christian-fiction-scavenger-hunt-stop-18-pink-team-entry-form/" style="background-color: white; color: #0068cf; cursor: pointer; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17.0400009155273px; outline: none; text-align: start;" target="_blank">http://www.robinleehatcher.com/christian-fiction-scavenger-hunt-stop-18-pink-team-entry-form/</a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Got ‘em down?? Great! Your next stop is #5, Beth White’s
site. </span><a class="c_nobdr t_prs" href="https://bethsquill.wordpress.com/2015/04/15/christian-fiction-scavenger-hunt-stop-5/" style="background-color: white; color: #0068cf; cursor: pointer; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.2999992370605px; outline: none;" target="_blank">https://bethsquill.wordpress.com/2015/04/15/christian-fiction-scavenger-hunt-stop-5/</a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue;">. </span>Click on over
there now (or look below to also enter Stephanie's bonus give-away). If you get lost, a complete list of the loop with links can be
found at our mother host’s site <a href="http://www.robinleehatcher.com/christian-fiction-scavenger-hunt-pink-team-authors-stops">http://www.robinleehatcher.com/christian-fiction-scavenger-hunt-pink-team-authors-stops</a></span>.</div>
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<span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><i><u>BONUS GIVE-AWAY FROM STEPH:</u></i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Win</b> both of Stephanie’s FaithWords titles <b><i>A Captain for Laura Rose</i></b> and <b><i>Daughter of the Regiment</i></b>)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQMuApjQv5NUwYvYdPwC4kvYEi-eAcW2HlhH6VYzreca-_WvV_ge_kQi6PiS4SuyVKVq4jT9Pr2qkrX8rRo1LRa0pEPji7MbpltdFqfF1HJcF8JKZ5cv3b5kn0xkhtUAJzqUQZIfn3wWCT/s1600/Daughter+of+the+Regiment.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQMuApjQv5NUwYvYdPwC4kvYEi-eAcW2HlhH6VYzreca-_WvV_ge_kQi6PiS4SuyVKVq4jT9Pr2qkrX8rRo1LRa0pEPji7MbpltdFqfF1HJcF8JKZ5cv3b5kn0xkhtUAJzqUQZIfn3wWCT/s1600/Daughter+of+the+Regiment.jpg" height="200" width="128" /></a> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">PLUS </span><b style="font-size: 10pt;">be one of
the first</b><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> to read a copy of Stephanie’s fall novella in the Civil War
collection </span><b style="font-size: 10pt;"><i>A Basket Brigade Christmas
</i></b><span style="font-size: 10pt;">as soon as it’s available this September.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To be entered in the drawing to win, do two things:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><b>1)</b> Click on this link and “like” my Facebook page: </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/StephanieGraceWhitsonofficial?pnref=story">https://www.facebook.com/StephanieGraceWhitsonofficial</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><b>2)</b> Click on this link and subscribe to Stephanie’s
newsletter: </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://www.stephaniewhitson.com/">http://www.stephaniewhitson.com</a></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That’s
it! If you win, Stephanie will contact you by e-mail for a shipping address. Winners will be selected and announced the afternoon of April 20. <span style="background-color: yellow;">The drawing has been made. I am awaiting confirmation and will post the winner's name as promised this afternoon.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-exXLfsio-qQ%2FVRxnCci_DyI%2FAAAAAAAABkY%2FyiO67kEHmL0%2Fs1600%2FWestFloridaCampaign.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNCaiQEolB9ryMkaCd_5bxy0odq0QHVCuPR_0Mv10pClm8Xcj0X496ejaL2JXd88fTzCoCVtzFvKOtFawZd9hvDYtBbjQfvH1ow3pmcUmWpwkDD0zoWeq7D284_FIbtG3sJtRs72riQMGh/s1600/WestFloridaCampaign.jpg" --> Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com129tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-51201206870011455142015-01-31T19:14:00.000-08:002015-01-31T19:14:26.173-08:00The Thomas P. Kennard House in Lincoln, Nebraska<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWd-3FRVAJB1Tq3afHlkDfILLrxqjDbrF8IBckLgBbAOqG73vCGn8t_MlrKAz996qhbACxnVtTJbXPcJy74u10KuVYmB6oP8iHN8itdbFH9TPH0CZriwDUBC0gkIWb12p4glsi3Vt0qZ22/s1600/Untitled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWd-3FRVAJB1Tq3afHlkDfILLrxqjDbrF8IBckLgBbAOqG73vCGn8t_MlrKAz996qhbACxnVtTJbXPcJy74u10KuVYmB6oP8iHN8itdbFH9TPH0CZriwDUBC0gkIWb12p4glsi3Vt0qZ22/s1600/Untitled.jpg" height="207" width="320" /></a>Thomas P. Kennard was Nebraska's first Secretary of State, and his1869 Italianate home is the oldest structure still standing on the capitol city's original plat. The house was open to the public last December, and I loved revisiting. Stepping through the front door was an exercise in time travel to this historical novelist. To get an idea of the "buzz" that this house would have created when it was going up, take a look at the photo to the right, which shows a view of the house from the new state capitol building. Would you say that locating a state capitol in this place was an exercise in faith in good things to come? Can you imagine moving to this treeless plain from Indiana? I wonder at <i>Mrs.</i> Kennard's reaction. I wonder if she ever climbed the winding stair (or ladder) to that cupola and looked East and longed for home. And trees. I wonder if I'd been<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixnbqj35IrWCYjLEELUTcmfXEVNUHKVMGCimWDpQzPDAwuzD580S7Yja0Tj2lgCRlabo4MWpTVkLAKu0g7EjfeVw4Y2kPlZSnsZRvQB1kWaq-ucRPKDgeQTnGWuztTkUlEQ2l7l1r-yOBH/s1600/Kennard+House+Exterior+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixnbqj35IrWCYjLEELUTcmfXEVNUHKVMGCimWDpQzPDAwuzD580S7Yja0Tj2lgCRlabo4MWpTVkLAKu0g7EjfeVw4Y2kPlZSnsZRvQB1kWaq-ucRPKDgeQTnGWuztTkUlEQ2l7l1r-yOBH/s1600/Kennard+House+Exterior+-+Copy.JPG" height="200" width="200" /></a><br />
I love taking advantage of the opportunity to see this lovely old homes and to imagine the lives of those who lived in them. That's my granddauhter heading up to the front door.<br />
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The corbels and other architectural elements on the exterior are lovely ... but I'm glad it isn't my job to keep them painted!<br />
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The first thing I noticed stepping inside was how very dim the lighting was compared to what I'm accustomed to in 2015.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEievCIilDkJgYqUqxeqtjIPkbI4iPlA0ac9L89UETnfEi8MgcKndCFtL-TnIu7ynW-NKkvKqDru3xH0vALWPddRiO20qpGYUjwv01dO5UgeHPVrp9NAuVMEqJJGzR6p5Z3JTMOVlt57Ya5q/s1600/Kennard+House+Bedroom+with+Redwork+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEievCIilDkJgYqUqxeqtjIPkbI4iPlA0ac9L89UETnfEi8MgcKndCFtL-TnIu7ynW-NKkvKqDru3xH0vALWPddRiO20qpGYUjwv01dO5UgeHPVrp9NAuVMEqJJGzR6p5Z3JTMOVlt57Ya5q/s1600/Kennard+House+Bedroom+with+Redwork+-+Copy.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a>Isn't that walnut bed gorgeous? I love everything about this room ... the burled walnut headboard, the hair wreath in the oval frame on the opposite wall ... and the very early treadle sewing machine that is just out of sight at the lower left of the photograph. The needlepoint upholstered chair is sitting at that machine. I have a needlepoint chair from that era that belonged to Jennie Venetress Kingsbury, my husband's grandmother. I did the needlepoint on the chair, and I can see it just over the top of my laptop screen as I type this blog post.<br />
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I have a pair of redwork pillow covers like those on the bed as well that I enjoy sharing with folks when I give a quilt history program. Mine are dated 1869.<br />
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And here's something that makes me want to go back to this house ... do you see the date on the drop of the bedcover? I didn't even see that when I was standing in the doorway taking this photograph. Is that date stuffed work? I don't know ... but if my eyes aren't fooling me, that date is 1869. Who made it? For what special occasion? Inevitably, a visit to a house like this fills my mind with questions.<br />
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Do you love visiting historic homes? Do you have a favorite memory? <br />
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As promised in my December 12 blog post over at www.HHHistory.com ... a recipe I honestly cannot imagine taking on. If "beat thirty minutes" didn't ward me off .... "boil seven hours" would! My hat's off to the cooks of old!<br />
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Plum Pudding, No. 1</div>
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from Manual for Army Cooks, 1896</div>
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Note: The above recipe is enough for thirty men.The ingredients of this pudding, with the exception of the eggs and milk, should be prepared the day before the pudding is to be made.</div>
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2 qts. sifted flour</div>
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2 qts. bread crumbsa</div>
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four pounds suet, freed from fiber and chopped moderately fine</div>
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four pounds raisins, picked, seeded, chopped, and dredged with flour</div>
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sixteen eggs, whites and yolks beaten separately</div>
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two qts. sweet milk (or equivalent of condensed milk)</div>
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1/4 lb. citron, cut fine and dredged with flour</div>
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grated rind of one lemon</div>
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1 Tbsp. ground ginger</div>
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1 Tbsp. ground cinnamon</div>
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1 tsp. ground cloves</div>
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Into a deep pan or dish put the ingredients in the following order, incorporating them thoroughly: First, the beaten yolks of the eggs; then one-half the milk; then the flour, bread crumbs, suet, spices, and lemon rind; then the remainder of the milk, or as much of it as will make a thick batter; then the beaten whites or the eggs; and last the dredged fruit.</div>
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Beat the mixture for thirty minutes, put it into the prepared bag or bags, and boil seven hours. Serve hot with sauce. </div>
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Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-60109890092764083322014-12-08T18:35:00.003-08:002014-12-08T18:37:53.508-08:00The Historic Ferguson House in Lincoln, NebraskaLocated just across the street from the Nebraska State Capitol Building, the Ferguson House was built between 1909 and 1911. William Henry Ferguson came to Nebraska from Illinois in 1879 by covered wagon. He helped introduce winter wheat and alfalfa to Nebraska. He owned grain elevators and farms, a creamery, a brick company, and an amusement park (Capital Beach). At a time when an average two-story, three bedroom house cost $3,000-$4,000, the Fergusons' mansion cost about $38,000. It would be the family home until Mrs. Ferguson passed away at the age of 103. Today, the home is a working office for the Nebraska Environmental Trust. I visited this past Sunday for a Christmas Open House and was totally entranced by the grandeur that is still evident in every room. Here are a few photographs.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welcome to the Fergusons!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNyCkDapb8Uq0mhRC4AebAEMtzEi4afiFrotNrb_aJPMGeF7659M74Y7wrFnVS_Thar_p0g1tftiyK0dqS6wieWDm4wYTEnR_tilsnvlbR0pw7gcI_sl7KUwRxV2px1ABNE-hwh4hPUyAK/s1600/Ferguson+Stairway.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNyCkDapb8Uq0mhRC4AebAEMtzEi4afiFrotNrb_aJPMGeF7659M74Y7wrFnVS_Thar_p0g1tftiyK0dqS6wieWDm4wYTEnR_tilsnvlbR0pw7gcI_sl7KUwRxV2px1ABNE-hwh4hPUyAK/s1600/Ferguson+Stairway.JPG" height="320" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The stairs that lead up from the foyer just inside that lovely front door.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifKI0Szz1YPTpAhrWlRA63nUmlfWw8Ap9H2tBGLnhtM5JuZL-CigD2bsQwKiK3d3XJNjUllM361uz0dyuxS5qUOTIFDJwpbiXLrZgwkngiLN7iMkFk28RPB7N-lTTVsTSDwVyMLpFLfuRF/s1600/Stained+Glass+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifKI0Szz1YPTpAhrWlRA63nUmlfWw8Ap9H2tBGLnhtM5JuZL-CigD2bsQwKiK3d3XJNjUllM361uz0dyuxS5qUOTIFDJwpbiXLrZgwkngiLN7iMkFk28RPB7N-lTTVsTSDwVyMLpFLfuRF/s1600/Stained+Glass+1.JPG" height="320" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stained and leaded glass windows frame the fireplace in the large formal living room.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1FLGtmPkE-jXdWuwnP6vw2LImrAKgwK4odGA5T7utylB-ipSTFz9sOE3CgZF50v2QjPV3CxEMPVzBctsy0WPrNpYaLty0ir9PYuMcQoF-PD8Z7wui3lCkqTRR-s4rdJWIN8gu6G19vib-/s1600/the+dining+room.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1FLGtmPkE-jXdWuwnP6vw2LImrAKgwK4odGA5T7utylB-ipSTFz9sOE3CgZF50v2QjPV3CxEMPVzBctsy0WPrNpYaLty0ir9PYuMcQoF-PD8Z7wui3lCkqTRR-s4rdJWIN8gu6G19vib-/s1600/the+dining+room.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mahogany in the formal dining room.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgghsjwbaLqFINKGuUwlWvnccoqvGotdMlX9X6OPYHmWuZVgE-fjhDPSGRa53UIJe_KdorudN8dpM0l3GtVKPH3ltO6v_jlwc3w8MNHQpAptKIGEusmmk4VyoCeDtVCecwrvj-FhhVtiOAo/s1600/The+Mission+style+bedroom.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgghsjwbaLqFINKGuUwlWvnccoqvGotdMlX9X6OPYHmWuZVgE-fjhDPSGRa53UIJe_KdorudN8dpM0l3GtVKPH3ltO6v_jlwc3w8MNHQpAptKIGEusmmk4VyoCeDtVCecwrvj-FhhVtiOAo/s1600/The+Mission+style+bedroom.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of two Mission (or Craftsman?) style bedrooms</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7x9P6XYKoMSjDI4Q3Bfa8CDEBayQNJ7kD6gA5LlUgBO5YJE-uVnjzEAe8Won6NiTntTBrdbHJGnooqSUZqWnebtYKM2rAf19dKBkb6lkoOfcrTcgNb5xXtDDoNq2CCjbWRNwyYJ2pnfDd/s1600/Master+bedroom+trim.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7x9P6XYKoMSjDI4Q3Bfa8CDEBayQNJ7kD6gA5LlUgBO5YJE-uVnjzEAe8Won6NiTntTBrdbHJGnooqSUZqWnebtYKM2rAf19dKBkb6lkoOfcrTcgNb5xXtDDoNq2CCjbWRNwyYJ2pnfDd/s1600/Master+bedroom+trim.JPG" height="320" width="235" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Architectural details fascinate me.<br />
This is in the master bedroom.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt3_6zAS70LbsjNycXcU5NvJ9Hjhgw85pFfgdzrEGPgRdQIiJl3Fbz6zE-MhyphenhyphenbXQGGcojvGfsg51G256DORqFlD9Tjf4qlAxzPu8zLbVmZ0PnXL5ykkhDztJuNTK7l_TXebUDVva7MyUyF/s1600/Stained+Glass+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMwlYoT3n5nhruwCD5zW-cPRIxi1adD8iAnZLgEWqr7qFvjX5nhT2sphGaUDyJUbsguyzSxm_dizhofeCjrLOGFwdV87_fl_QM68GI6VqE63BS3r7NRO12k8LNUjooLl5T3jPOXr_VaPdc/s1600/the+ball+room.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMwlYoT3n5nhruwCD5zW-cPRIxi1adD8iAnZLgEWqr7qFvjX5nhT2sphGaUDyJUbsguyzSxm_dizhofeCjrLOGFwdV87_fl_QM68GI6VqE63BS3r7NRO12k8LNUjooLl5T3jPOXr_VaPdc/s1600/the+ball+room.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Up and Up and Up to the third floor ball room.<br />
What secrets might have been shared between couples<br />
having a little tete-a-tete in those cozy little niches?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2HkePEzRwpFf_96a5yfWu-D53qioz2-YzhsEEJwopxK6vzFO0XE2cpPdOLplCRB1Nv3Sowt9zKUnZz_mNj8zBBXXSf3-RVi_l2wSuWQTEG7pdTDRRFewpVey6ZFbMkb1DAyych3qKVBl8/s1600/the+servants'%2Bstairs.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2HkePEzRwpFf_96a5yfWu-D53qioz2-YzhsEEJwopxK6vzFO0XE2cpPdOLplCRB1Nv3Sowt9zKUnZz_mNj8zBBXXSf3-RVi_l2wSuWQTEG7pdTDRRFewpVey6ZFbMkb1DAyych3qKVBl8/s1600/the+servants'%2Bstairs.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mother was a maid, so I'm always<br />
interested in the servants' areas of<br />
a grand home. This is the servants'<br />
staircase. Two maids had rooms up on the<br />
third floor. A docent said that the butler<br />
had quarters over the carriage house.<br />
I didn't get a photo of the carriage house,<br />
but it's still there--and beautiful.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVaBnst8ccIgDB0Z0dhiteQbWriH2Okz7_TA_AYKbpFEmq9AmwZYvS61og_j0m0X3cG12l29JL_3hLnN2X140E0W28lFUf5bIjImdd6VZn98XVfFaMyJJz26LY24pH0TVrkSb5_bAxygiX/s1600/the+inner+front+door.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVaBnst8ccIgDB0Z0dhiteQbWriH2Okz7_TA_AYKbpFEmq9AmwZYvS61og_j0m0X3cG12l29JL_3hLnN2X140E0W28lFUf5bIjImdd6VZn98XVfFaMyJJz26LY24pH0TVrkSb5_bAxygiX/s1600/the+inner+front+door.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And the inner front door. Look at that "bent" wood framing the<br />
glass panels. So graceful.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAld1TtRif9bCjkwPg4UFobmuDVI2Gsu8v2nbT5YOlt9xN6dDPaVyzR9YWqQwUBa-pDFjFtBMNBFo1npFX4lPbaEVd_uO7XDkegO9aQe6Y_zPA3d-dNPbsj3Jb-H0aDYctwh_HdAnD_3ih/s1600/The+north+side+of+the+house.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAld1TtRif9bCjkwPg4UFobmuDVI2Gsu8v2nbT5YOlt9xN6dDPaVyzR9YWqQwUBa-pDFjFtBMNBFo1npFX4lPbaEVd_uO7XDkegO9aQe6Y_zPA3d-dNPbsj3Jb-H0aDYctwh_HdAnD_3ih/s1600/The+north+side+of+the+house.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The north side of the house. The door opens into the formal parlor.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Next door to the Ferguson House is the Kennard House, an Italianate style mansion built in 1869 for the first Secretary of State in Nebraska. Photos forthcoming! </div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-37874161728063594172014-11-24T15:14:00.000-08:002014-11-24T15:14:30.316-08:00A Tribute to My Brother, Larry Marvin Irvin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27Ccwzx9Q1s5JS3Jz6C9KEt4PaBXnV1BWlPChH1dhqeDnc_Qh4X70s7qGd4JB60LBN5zS0h8T677vU_-7Y23wND4xsSbfP2TABxW5jt3DC6MYknWhLM7xYkH6fdrg9EBzYdfjTnW5lRg5/s1600/five+generations029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27Ccwzx9Q1s5JS3Jz6C9KEt4PaBXnV1BWlPChH1dhqeDnc_Qh4X70s7qGd4JB60LBN5zS0h8T677vU_-7Y23wND4xsSbfP2TABxW5jt3DC6MYknWhLM7xYkH6fdrg9EBzYdfjTnW5lRg5/s1600/five+generations029.jpg" height="320" width="222" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Left to right Joseph Albert Irvin, Cecil Irvin,<br />infant Larry Irvin, his father Grayson Irvin<br />(seated) Willis Irvin ... Five Generations</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="text-align: center;">My Brother,
Larry Marvin Irvin</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-align: center;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
February 21, 1941–November 24, 2014<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
(a tribute by
the spoiled brat little sister, </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
born when he was ten years old)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
My earliest memory of my brother, Larry, involves
two incidents at 1426 Lake Avenue in E. St. Louis, Illinois, the house we lived
in when I (the “caboose”) arrived. First, the aftermath of falling off the
crossbar when he was giving me a ride on his bike and my throwing up something
red (concussion?) and everyone freaking out until they realized I’d had red soda (we called
it “soda”) to drink ; the other, his bringing home a banana spider from the
grocery store where he worked and releasing it in our back yard. The critter
was little more than a curiosity to a teenage boy. To this little sister who
had a fear of spiders broaching on arachnophobia, it meant being <i>very</i> careful whenever I went out to play
on the swing set near the propane tank in the back yard. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfSRusfzXwnY8uX3mpvG9zLWXyhtmA8qwKw-JCXeLCb_XOIe0rpwjMcHq9xrKSw6kzRvAoEuX4G_-03w4P-12uM3slv0Sj0NE4BXJk15lcYiwl3JuxyB1QNitP8TILorNPi6TEfuv7uHLm/s1600/Larry,+David,+baby+me028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfSRusfzXwnY8uX3mpvG9zLWXyhtmA8qwKw-JCXeLCb_XOIe0rpwjMcHq9xrKSw6kzRvAoEuX4G_-03w4P-12uM3slv0Sj0NE4BXJk15lcYiwl3JuxyB1QNitP8TILorNPi6TEfuv7uHLm/s1600/Larry,+David,+baby+me028.jpg" height="200" width="135" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big brothers Larry & David<br /> Mother looking on<br />Stephanie trying to escape</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I
remember visiting him when he was working for a funeral home in the Chicago
area. They had aquariums built in the wall of the visitation room and two identical
doors … one leading to Larry’s apartment and the other into the “business part”
of the funeral home. I couldn’t remember which was which. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I
remember his kindness when I got sick right before his 1963 wedding. I thought
I was better, but I couldn’t even make it through the service and felt <i>so</i> humiliated when I had to be helped
off the altar. Both he and his bride were more worried about me than about a
“ruined” wedding. Such unselfish love. Which pretty much characterizes my
memories of my brother. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
In
all the adventures and misadventures of my life, I always knew that if I ever
needed him, Larry would come running, no matter what it took. In 2001, when my
first husband was dying, Larry drove ten hours to my home town, first to spend
time with the brother-in-law he loved, and second to accompany me to interview
several funeral homes about the impending services. He was a silent encourager
and a knowledgeable presence, giving of his life’s work in a time when I needed
guidance. When my husband died, Larry came at a moment’s notice, quietly and
confidently assisting the local funeral director as both a consummate professional and a beloved brother
and brother-in-law. Again, he modeled unselfish love. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
When
I re-married, Larry took the time to drive to Kansas City, pick up our brother,
David, and come to the wedding. They both gave a big chunk of their lives to
that special day for me. Again, putting me first.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
When
I wrote a book about “how to help a grieving friend,” Larry endorsed it. He
never failed to be a cheerleader for my writing life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
He
never once forgot a birthday. He wrote personal message in the cards that he
sent, and I cherish them to this day. He wrote a tender letter to my children
and me on the first anniversary of my husband and their father’s death. Another
cherished testimony to his loving concern. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNbx3LuzgJ2iwAfZw2XH8TuUR_TRS5r0edAQJDQdYklkmagskSp1lNDt1Y1LLiRu-gaTMF3o4oA1QOYklry8EYLZ9KWCkQeglwsGKsZyHNQyU_MUdXU3zq1VfEZDuWo9j_GX-WRY0mz3Xl/s1600/Larry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNbx3LuzgJ2iwAfZw2XH8TuUR_TRS5r0edAQJDQdYklkmagskSp1lNDt1Y1LLiRu-gaTMF3o4oA1QOYklry8EYLZ9KWCkQeglwsGKsZyHNQyU_MUdXU3zq1VfEZDuWo9j_GX-WRY0mz3Xl/s1600/Larry.jpg" /></a> Just
today, I pulled out and re-read some of those sweet wishes. One ends with a
rhyme I will co-opt for this day, as Larry has entered eternity and I remain on
earth:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Lucida Handwriting";">… and even though we have to be apart,
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Lucida Handwriting";">please understand that you mean more
than ever, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Lucida Handwriting";">And I’ll be right beside you in my
heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /> Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-62073152640019303632014-09-14T14:40:00.000-07:002014-09-14T14:52:27.820-07:00He Maketh No MistakeWe have been dealing with some less-than-happy family news in recent days, and I've returned to my personal "Book of Comforts" for precious reminders. Since I know that trials are common to all humans, I just thought I'd share this one in a more public way. Whatever you are facing, I hope it brings comfort. It came to me via a beloved aunt who graduated to heaven (because of breast cancer) long, long, ago. She had lost a teenage child (my cousin) and knew great sorrow. The poem still comforts me, as does her memory. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
He Maketh No Mistake</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">by A.M. Overton</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My Father's way may twist and turn,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My heart may throb and ache,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But in my soul I'm glad I know,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
He maketh no mistake.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My cherished plans may go astray,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My hopes may fade away,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But still I'll trust my Lord to lead</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
For He doth know the way.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Tho' night be dark and it may seem</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
That day will never break;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'll pin my faith, my all in Him,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
He maketh no mistake.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
There's so much now I cannot see,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My eyesight's far too dim;</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But come what may, I'll simply trust</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And leave it all to Him.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
For by and by the mist will lift</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And plain it all He'll make.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Through all the way, tho' dark to me,</div>
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He made not one mistake.</div>
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Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-75546536331683402492014-06-14T13:56:00.000-07:002014-06-14T13:56:22.101-07:00My Dad<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Cecil Grayson Irvin graduated to heaven in 1996. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I wrote this tribute as a Father's Day gift to him in about 1983.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Just before he died, he promised to meet me just inside the gate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The older I get, the more I look forward to that day</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I know he'll be there. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Daddy was a man of honor. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">He always kept his word. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTTG9xd-oTcbeoBTynwtala9onTLICVaxq_V6M2_cf2nrXQ9db3pBBzkJcZZuD3ssX2BfjOVCvptix_hgLLGGtfifKL9E8SYI1XbynFBiDYe9yaHHp-U78_b8bjJ7Ji4Qf4iENw6Hi51H1/s1600/Daddy+&+me+ca+1956.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTTG9xd-oTcbeoBTynwtala9onTLICVaxq_V6M2_cf2nrXQ9db3pBBzkJcZZuD3ssX2BfjOVCvptix_hgLLGGtfifKL9E8SYI1XbynFBiDYe9yaHHp-U78_b8bjJ7Ji4Qf4iENw6Hi51H1/s1600/Daddy+&+me+ca+1956.jpg" height="320" width="228" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> My
Dad is a tall, slender man (“Slim” the guys at work used to call him) with
gentle blue eyes and slightly rounded shoulder caused, I am sure, by years of
bending his 6’5” frame to catch the words of those shorter than he.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Of
course I can’t remember it, but the family tells of Dad teaching me to walk by
standing me on the toes of his shoes as he walked backwards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
remember as a child waiting excitedly for the car to pull up in the drive when
he returned from his over-the-road trucking job. He would unfold his tall frame
from the driver’s seat and put on the brown cap that matched his driver’s
uniform. Dad took pride in his well-pressed uniforms with the company badge embroidered
on the shoulder. We often laughed to see other motorists slow noticeably when
we passed, thinking they were being monitored by a policeman in an unmarked
car.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> When
I was little, he was often “on the road.” But when he was home, I climbed onto
his lap after meals, just for the feeling of being sheltered by his arms while
he visited with Mother or read the evening paper. When I grew older, and
Tuesday and Thursday nights were Dad’s nights home, Mother would cook corn bread
with ham and beans or round steak with biscuits, and we would bask in his
presence, just glad that he would be there to share our supper, coffee, and
late night popcorn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> On
Sundays, Dad read me the comics and then entertained me by taking out pen and
paper and drawing Dick Tracy and Brenda Starr. I still love to read the comic
strips, enduring considerable chiding from my husband for the habit. I can’t
copy the characters like Dad, but I occasionally clip one to slip into Bob’s
lunch sack. He enjoys it in spite of himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> When
childhood terrors over starting school after the summer overtook me, Dad was
there to help relax the wrenching knot in my stomach. With his quiet voice he
reassured me that everything would be all right. I believed him, and the knot
loosened, and it <i>was</i> all right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
don’t remember him ever spanking me. Mother says he didn’t. He never had to.
There was just something in his quiet love for me that motivated me to obey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> In
the days before seat belts and car seats, Dad used to sit me on his lap and let
me think I was guiding the car. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> On
summer nights when I was in junior high, we went to baseball games, sitting high
in stadium seats provided by the St. Louis Cardinals to students with the right
grade point average. Dad bought me soda pop and peanuts and we cheered Orlando
Cepeda, Bob Gibson, and Lou Brock. I knew every player’s batting average and
skipped classes once to watch the World Series on T.V. Without Dad in the next
seat, baseball just isn’t much fun anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> He
taught me to drive defensively—and then trusted me with his car on a weekend
away with other students. I would have done anything to keep from betraying his
trust, and we all drove carefully that weekend. Dad must have spent a couple of
sleepless nights wondering if his daughter would become another highway
statistic. But he trusted me. He understood my need for independence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
remember my first car. Dad drove it home, parked it in the driveway, and
ordered me to change an imaginary flat tire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> He
spoiled me. On snowy mornings I would go outside to find my car cleaned off, the
driveway shoveled so that I could drive off to classes at the university.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
remember tears in his eyes as he walked me down the aisle to become Mrs. Robert
Whitson. Those tears still shine every time we have to say goodbye after a visit
that spans the miles between Nebraska and Illinois.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> When
my first child was born, the familiar knots returned to my stomach over the
responsibility of motherhood. Dad reassured me. He drove me to the grocery
store and patiently experimented until he found a way to fit the infant seat
securely in a grocery cart while still leaving room for groceries. He couldn’t
have known how much it meant to have him there, his frame towering over me,
protecting his “little girl”—and a new granddaughter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Dad
loves the Lord. He serves in quiet ways that people often don’t notice. For
years, he and mother visited widows of fellow drivers killed on the road,
providing help with business details, organizing a fund to provide cash in the
early days of widowhood. He still chauffeurs “the elderly” around town and on
trips to the airport.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Dad
taught me how to walk. He taught me to love baseball and comic strip characters
and molasses-and-butter on bread. He taught me to obey authority. He proved
that things would be all right next year in school, and that I could be an
efficient mother, after all. He taught me about my heavenly Father, too. Oh,
not with many words, but by being there, by loving, by listening—by being so
very much like Him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I’m
over thirty now, and much too old to call my Father “Daddy,” but he will always
be “Daddy” in my heart … in my thoughts … in my prayers … because part of me
will always be a little girl when he’s around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I
love you, Daddy … Happy Father’s Day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-49736067455033772092014-05-07T17:39:00.000-07:002014-05-07T17:39:13.882-07:00MotherThe last time I saw my mother, she didn't know who I was. And yet, I can smile through my tears at the memory of the little old white-haired lady sitting on her bed at the nursing home waving good-bye to me, as I turned to look back before stepping into the hall. She was happy. At peace. She knew I was someone nice, and she seemed pleased that I had come to visit. I managed to control the tears until I got to the car in the parking lot, and then I lost it. <div>
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My mother--and it was Mother, never "Mom," which she proclaimed disrespectful, was not an easy woman. She bore scars I didn't know about until I had grown up and left home; scars from an unspeakably difficult childhood endured in the days when abuse was hidden and mental illness was something to be ashamed of. You didn't seek help. You just made do. You did the best you could and sometimes the best you could do was to cling to the fringe of sanity while your panicked family called for the pastor to come. </div>
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In honor of Mother's Day, I sing her praises, because in spite of the deep wounds and the regrettable moments and the profound sadness she carried with her, my mother was amazing. She and my Daddy were married for nearly sixty years. They modeled commitment, and one thing I know beyond a shadow of a doubt is that I was loved. What a gift. </div>
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Mother loved Jesus. Most of the Bible verses I can recite were learned when Mother was the head of the Primary Department or Vacation Bible School or Girl's Auxiliary. Most of the hymns I can sing from memory resonate from a childhood spent sitting next to Mother on a hard pew at a poor Baptist Church. We were there for every service. Sunday School and morning church. Training Union and evening church. Wednesday night, too. If the doors were open ... we were there. It's a rich heritage. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8w8sLF56n1T4-HtR6wWifbiV-fyhLAjHIZyGXSSpupJiBLysko-lerqJiQYsp2JOG4tizrYvdqww2AVZgD2aMR97qty-n225R3x_FK5Q7STEXJZcyAeSyAJUUUBARM9aPBP1YtafMipJ6/s1600/450px-Iris_'Wabash'_04.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8w8sLF56n1T4-HtR6wWifbiV-fyhLAjHIZyGXSSpupJiBLysko-lerqJiQYsp2JOG4tizrYvdqww2AVZgD2aMR97qty-n225R3x_FK5Q7STEXJZcyAeSyAJUUUBARM9aPBP1YtafMipJ6/s1600/450px-Iris_'Wabash'_04.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a>Mother loved flowers. To this day I sometimes amaze my husband because I know the name of this blooming bush or that tree or those perennials. "That's a flowering quince," I said just last week. "Mother loved them because of those bright blossoms right next to the stem." I don't know if she had a favorite flower, but irises probably ranked right up there. We had several varieties, and I still remember "Wabash," with it's dark blue drops and white crown. </div>
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Mother was not a good cook, mostly because she grew up very poor and had to learn to make do. <i>It was food. Eat it and be thankful.</i> But she could make a blackberry cobbler like no other, and she always made one for me when I was home to visit. And the fudge she made -- only at Christmas -- oh, my. Still makes my mouth water to think of it. </div>
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She loved books. One of my earliest memories of Mother is of her reading aloud to me when I was sick. <i>Pinnochio</i>, I think it was. And while I may doubt the name of the book, I don't doubt that one of the reasons I love words is because of Mother, who was never allowed to go beyond the 8th grade, but who found a way to educate herself by reading ... and who passed on the joy of words to me. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdJA3s6z8N8OuBNO94f4TVS1O_neSjEyNjN4WAdAyxQLDamwCwX3H79YgVB5wu9JbYMUf__SqTJ9YO8ZYbLICMEjrFMuVb8JH7Bg47e7GpP7PwEXFuQpSiipg_hd92Sl53ijYC08DtH4L6/s1600/Mother+and+Daddy+BW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdJA3s6z8N8OuBNO94f4TVS1O_neSjEyNjN4WAdAyxQLDamwCwX3H79YgVB5wu9JbYMUf__SqTJ9YO8ZYbLICMEjrFMuVb8JH7Bg47e7GpP7PwEXFuQpSiipg_hd92Sl53ijYC08DtH4L6/s1600/Mother+and+Daddy+BW.jpg" height="320" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nora Odell Combs Irvin 1913-1996<br />Cecil Grayson Irvin 1915-1996</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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And so, on Mother's Day ... I remember Mother, and look forward to the day when I'll see her again. She graduated to heaven in 1996. Since then, she's been joined by my Daddy, my first husband, the grandson I never met, and an entire host of extended family. </div>
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Thank you, Father, for the blessing of Mother.</div>
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Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-7673069140129945422014-03-05T12:12:00.004-08:002014-03-05T12:12:50.121-08:00Grief and That Thing We Call "Closure"<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">What follows is the epilogue from my book <i>How to Help a Grieving Friend, A Candid Guide for Those Who Care</i>. The book was written to provide help to friends who are wondering how to give meaningful comfort to hurting hearts. It is a result of my personal experience with profound loss--and my personal experience apologizing to people for the stupid things I said and did when they were hurting and before I'd personally experienced profound loss.The working title of the book was "Lifestyles of the Well Meaning But Clueless." It really was. </span><div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> The older I get, the more I realize that the subject of grief is much bigger than the subject of death and dying. We humans grieve many kinds of losses in our lives--the loss of lifelong dreams, the loss of youth, the loss of a marriage ... experiencing loss and grief is part of life. I've become more tenderhearted as the years have rolled on, but I still have a lot to learn about how to help my grieving friends. </span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In Closing ... A Word About Closure</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My oldest son's best friend was killed when the boys were four years old. His mother cried when my son graduated from high school over a dozen years later. She has two healthy, wonderful children and a good life. But grief for the loss of her firstborn son returns with the milestones she will never share with him. It would not surprise me at all if she sheds a tear when my first son's son is born--grief for the grandchildren she will not have from that beloved son, no less beloved because he left us when he was only four years old. No other child can fill the Thomas-sized hole in that mother's heart.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My best friend died in 1996. In 2003, when I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the toilet in what used to be her bathroom (and was now my bathroom because I had married her widowed husband), I cried. The last time I scrubbed this toilet, my best friend was dying in the other room. I wish she were here. I wish she hadn't died. I wish ...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> My new husband found me crying and understood. We laughed, then, about how convoluted life can be and how, if I still had my best friend Celest, there would be more than just a a slight problem with my having this new husband. I have a new best friend. But she is not Celest. The Celest-sized hole in my life remains.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I am remarried. Life is good. But my love for my new husband has neither replaced nor diminished my love for Robert Thomas Whitson. I wish he could be here to talk late at night with his sons, to teach Sunday School classes, to give the elders' reports that always included humor and made the congregation laugh, to cheer on the Huskers football team. When our first grandchild is born, I know I will cry because I am crying even now as I write this. God has given me new love for a new mate. But it is new love. The old love remains. No one will ever fill the Robert-sized hole in my life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Jesus promises His followers that His burdens are light, and I have been in grief long enough to experience His lightening of my load. But it is a <i>lightening</i>, not a removal.The emotions of loss are still there just on the other side of today. Sometimes those emotions punch open the door between the past and the present, march into my life, and remind me of what I have lost.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> We do not close the door on people who have changed our lives forever. We celebrate what they have meant to us, and we look forward to seeing them again. And sometimes, even decades later, we cry.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> So in the closing of this book on grief, I want to say that closure, in the way most people mean it, does not exist. We gain new friends, we have more children, we remarry. The pain of loss becomes less, and we learn to live around it. But we still carry it. Sometimes it returns in full force, and we find ourselves crying, years after everyone around us assumes we have accomplished what our culture calls <i>closure</i>. This is painful, but it is not necessarily a bad thing. I think it is part of being human. It is part of loving and being loved. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> And yes, it is worth it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">--Stephanie Grace Whitson</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">to read the rest of How to Help a Grieving Friend: <a href="http://tinyurl.com/l4trqpo">http://tinyurl.com/l4trqpo</a></span></div>
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Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-60996866506779899142014-02-22T17:53:00.005-08:002014-02-22T17:53:53.785-08:00Christian Fiction with Native American Characters<div style="text-align: left;">
A reader who had just discovered my Dakota Moons series (pictured at right), </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY5o7hdWHiJQL3cp0zLsK3hPLPrTKLwAI3dXRC2Y9Xydkr-UwOd-xWHebUmT1sgWaYSuVsUJ_i6EIZdl0zzmZHJUkfLybBic78k4e8BqTcz7METkggffwK3qZThFKKfxWZEY1Rde4oDXqf/s1600/Valley+of+the+Shadow+NEW.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY5o7hdWHiJQL3cp0zLsK3hPLPrTKLwAI3dXRC2Y9Xydkr-UwOd-xWHebUmT1sgWaYSuVsUJ_i6EIZdl0zzmZHJUkfLybBic78k4e8BqTcz7METkggffwK3qZThFKKfxWZEY1Rde4oDXqf/s1600/Valley+of+the+Shadow+NEW.JPG" height="200" width="130" /></a></div>
asked me about other Christian fiction with Native American characters, and so I asked some of my<br />
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writing friends for titles. Here's what I've compiled:</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Burning Sky by Lori Benton</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Walks Alone by Sandi Rog</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Beneath a Navajo Moon by Lisa Carter</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A Whisper of Peace by Kim Vogel Sawyer</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Abraham's Well by Sharon Foster</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Series by Marol Schalesky:</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHewmYuhlMH0IRcwpREOCkXXFyZcO9JlmyFk8XZ7EoHURIe2GBUtt3hPevVIDyZ-TopLGcCxPg8rYCHKhnWy33_IipGZlpJMk7SP6rQfp7iHyTmJKdA40LoLJWOcV_uVURqR_tye9eYodq/s1600/Edge+of+the+Wilderness+New.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHewmYuhlMH0IRcwpREOCkXXFyZcO9JlmyFk8XZ7EoHURIe2GBUtt3hPevVIDyZ-TopLGcCxPg8rYCHKhnWy33_IipGZlpJMk7SP6rQfp7iHyTmJKdA40LoLJWOcV_uVURqR_tye9eYodq/s1600/Edge+of+the+Wilderness+New.JPG" height="200" width="130" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Only the Wind Remembers</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Cry Freedom</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Freedom's Shadow</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Series by Laura Frantz:</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> The Frontiersman's Daughter</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Courting Morrow Little</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> The Colonel's Lady</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Tender Ties Series by Jane Kirkpatrick</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> A Name of Her Own</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Every Fixed Star</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwoukLupSvTKHiGE1bul-Efa72PTPpSgIJgWjKIajANqgGDLR9r0sZt-pFpf9rUp8pJA6ErsVZymMfQoGllxwXRW8k6G-Wkfns2Bj0b2WhponuJlGDzlgcDYqvi7bztJeoT3m80n8YqoVX/s1600/Heart+of+the+Sandhills+New.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwoukLupSvTKHiGE1bul-Efa72PTPpSgIJgWjKIajANqgGDLR9r0sZt-pFpf9rUp8pJA6ErsVZymMfQoGllxwXRW8k6G-Wkfns2Bj0b2WhponuJlGDzlgcDYqvi7bztJeoT3m80n8YqoVX/s1600/Heart+of+the+Sandhills+New.JPG" height="200" width="130" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Hold Tight the Thread</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Also by Jane Kirkpatrick</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Love to Water My Soul</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Sweetness to the Soul</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Prairie Winds Series by Stephanie Grace Whitson</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Walks the Fire</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Soaring Eagle</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Red Bird</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dakota Moons Series by Stephanie Grace Whitson</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIU9CmABJ4wZxxehPKVQD3H2oT4wPrDJqcKuRMFecUoHexIIcOBoqNkf41ZT_oJXqA07LJUNqoBA4_JGW9H6aVdihB1ge4VrTn9B2uMGXDbRRNIyJibc0AT5NxvzluaCcSsS00-uxemkQ3/s1600/Walks+the+Fire+Greenbrier+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIU9CmABJ4wZxxehPKVQD3H2oT4wPrDJqcKuRMFecUoHexIIcOBoqNkf41ZT_oJXqA07LJUNqoBA4_JGW9H6aVdihB1ge4VrTn9B2uMGXDbRRNIyJibc0AT5NxvzluaCcSsS00-uxemkQ3/s1600/Walks+the+Fire+Greenbrier+Cover.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Valley of the Shadow</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Edge of the Wilderness</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Heart of the Sandhills</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">ENJOY!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKBs99NyCWYi87axE-T1y5pf3CQoO5PeMH37mDEG9tiYU5n-55nm-uEMTLmMnxX9IUuNgi8hhUvE25ZOWfjoqi838PQ99KNwmdULvHDj6Qse1-lwbe2NYQH4io0zELo2M-J1K67ks_-6YX/s1600/Soaring+Eagle+Greenbrier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKBs99NyCWYi87axE-T1y5pf3CQoO5PeMH37mDEG9tiYU5n-55nm-uEMTLmMnxX9IUuNgi8hhUvE25ZOWfjoqi838PQ99KNwmdULvHDj6Qse1-lwbe2NYQH4io0zELo2M-J1K67ks_-6YX/s1600/Soaring+Eagle+Greenbrier.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4aHniCTMnDjmIKqOYNaGgXyPor_tNomMgfUfQyqdQ1Hhu7O45lyqd1WUxDC5WZybMNUkVNdSvtpPoeqKz0Vi41VEATYgTFPU1K24NPHlkMWFIQNU_WYzjNthl87j7OrJJX70Ya0AhbTXJ/s1600/Red+Bird+Greenbrier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4aHniCTMnDjmIKqOYNaGgXyPor_tNomMgfUfQyqdQ1Hhu7O45lyqd1WUxDC5WZybMNUkVNdSvtpPoeqKz0Vi41VEATYgTFPU1K24NPHlkMWFIQNU_WYzjNthl87j7OrJJX70Ya0AhbTXJ/s1600/Red+Bird+Greenbrier.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-57209142040970818462014-02-07T08:52:00.001-08:002014-02-07T08:52:51.588-08:00A Promise Kept<div>
<br /></div>
I don't often review a book on a blog, but I've just finished Robin Lee Hatcher's newest, and I can't just move on through my day without doing everything I can to tell others about it. Yes. I'm that enthusiastic about it. The book captured me from the first page. Of course it has all the elements that would draw a reader in--a flawed heroine in a difficult place, a glimpse at past lives through discoveries in an attic, a gorgeous setting, and a darling dog. What's not to like?<br />
<br />
The thing is, this story begins with broken threads and weaves them into one of those tapestries that shows God doing some of His best work--taking brokenness and making it whole--but doing it in a way that no one would expect. Hatcher's characters know heartbreak. They know what it's like to pray and feel like the words got no further than the ceiling. They know what it's like to just go through the motions of everyday life ... waiting for something--anything--to happen. In other words, they know real life. Hatcher doesn't dodge the tough questions, but in the end she gives a message we all need, which is that God is sometimes doing His very best work when we think He's stopped paying attention.<br />
<br />
Read it. You won't be disappointed. In fact, you'll probably put it on the "to be re-read" pile.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-p4eLfb3sL8eOYZSVTFE8gbwjweB4AYURZLnQ5MyiqOp6fhO46d81osMMTT90dclzsPPpG7hxtYxnwNtKiQv2KhqMIykzYbZxHDkNTkdDz3I4Z8zIjcxrW8z-u0_r1vp1NCPvGExaMhcL/s1600/A+Promise+Kept.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-p4eLfb3sL8eOYZSVTFE8gbwjweB4AYURZLnQ5MyiqOp6fhO46d81osMMTT90dclzsPPpG7hxtYxnwNtKiQv2KhqMIykzYbZxHDkNTkdDz3I4Z8zIjcxrW8z-u0_r1vp1NCPvGExaMhcL/s1600/A+Promise+Kept.jpg" height="320" width="210" /></a></div>
<a href="http://www.christianbook.com/a-promise-kept/9781401687656/pd/687656?item_code=WW&netp_id=1156338&event=ESRCG&view=details">http://www.christianbook.com/a-promise-kept/9781401687656/pd/687656?item_code=WW&netp_id=1156338&event=ESRCG&view=details</a> Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-52940475105889773342013-09-18T14:00:00.001-07:002013-09-18T14:00:15.159-07:00For Young Mothers Everywhere<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgutnn2BqTtZ15tBtRpT3L7w3NFw2i9JwqR1zVVAkDVfNOP9SNO-43aoesoLkVV1tr35fggrOws7io1GvqYiwT8PPeSSAWo63xe6l1ocy9Wwn2vv0XCnfwIYAOY3fAJTlK8UwM4yBkTJlWR/s1600/I+Took+His+Hand+and+Followed.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgutnn2BqTtZ15tBtRpT3L7w3NFw2i9JwqR1zVVAkDVfNOP9SNO-43aoesoLkVV1tr35fggrOws7io1GvqYiwT8PPeSSAWo63xe6l1ocy9Wwn2vv0XCnfwIYAOY3fAJTlK8UwM4yBkTJlWR/s320/I+Took+His+Hand+and+Followed.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">I remember being a young Mom who felt like she wasn't accomplishing enough when "all" she did was hang out with her children. When the house was a mess and supper was sandwiches and the laundry wasn't folded and and and ... I remember. On those days, I would sometimes go back my "Favorite Quotes" binder to remind myself that what the world called success and how I had prayerfully decided to define that term would always be at odds with one another. <br />Here's one of those reminders (a gift from my mother-in-law).</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b>I Took His Hand and Followed<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Author unknown<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
My dishes went unwashed today,</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
I didn’t
make the bed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
I took his
hand and followed<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
Where his
eager footsteps led.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
Oh, yes,
we went adventuring,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
My little
son and I …<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
Exploring
all the great outdoors<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
Beneath
the summer sky.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
We waded
in a crystal stream,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
We
wandered through a wood.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
My kitchen
wasn’t swept today,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
But life
was gay and good.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
We found a
cool, sun-dappled glade<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
And now my
small son knows<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
How Mother
Bunny hides her nest,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
Where
jack-in-the-pulpit grows.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
We watched
a robin feed her young,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
We climbed
a sunlit hill …<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
Saw
cloud-sheep scamper through the sky,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
We plucked
a daffodil.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
That my
house was neglected,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
That I
didn’t brush the stairs,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
In twenty
years, no one on earth<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
Will know,
or even care.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
But that I’ve
helped my little boy<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
To noble
manhood grow,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
In twenty
years, the whole wide world<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
May look
and see and know.<o:p></o:p></div>
Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-17047092658924810192013-09-12T19:40:00.001-07:002013-09-12T19:40:24.842-07:00A Poem for those who Grieve<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7tH3Caqmc-DA5JC64qyONMOejbAimsfa-mI2lFYKdheHvS2bTCrCEq_yzCYJrVOAQcd5I-ilHghs6usTeMkb72hUO3IO97Q75s5el8lEy6rKlgB-yXLayscA8Fe3vzR0PoTFGfu-CD5wF/s1600/butterflies-hd-picture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7tH3Caqmc-DA5JC64qyONMOejbAimsfa-mI2lFYKdheHvS2bTCrCEq_yzCYJrVOAQcd5I-ilHghs6usTeMkb72hUO3IO97Q75s5el8lEy6rKlgB-yXLayscA8Fe3vzR0PoTFGfu-CD5wF/s200/butterflies-hd-picture.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Cocoons<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif"; font-size: 8.0pt;">by
Stephanie Grace Whitson<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">A lifeless
shell (to earthly eyes)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">Can
open, freeing its surprise<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">To
dance on a garden leaf.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">Gossamer
wings gently hesitate<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">To
fly. And then, as wind abates,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">It
flutters toward the sky.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">Out
of sight, it yet exists,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">And,
dancing on, its wings persist<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">To
unseen garden leaves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">No less
alive, though out of sight,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">It
testifies to each man’s plight;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">A
common destiny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">For
each of us must leave behind<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">A
lifeless shell. And earthly-minded <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">Men
can think, “Life’s done.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">It
isn’t true. Although unseen,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">We
flutter on to gardens green<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">With
joy, alive in Christ.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">Alive
in Christ, whose dead cocoon,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">Though
buried in a garden tomb<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">Arose
to give new life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">Here’s
hope for all in facing death:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">A
lifeless shell (to earthly eyes)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 2in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Gothic","sans-serif";">Precedes
the birth of butterflies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-20882591763125482982013-09-11T14:24:00.002-07:002013-09-11T14:24:29.975-07:009/11<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTCaHESsQJPeORU6BnRHbS5KiDtXV8fw-QkpZeIgvbWDH7knDUL6fG0z-fm8AYzDmCXGdceimWvJs8dE7puwube_h9sA3J8Zwjqd3nISKRqmHZ-ZPvWiY2-NBAf0FCPZF_OOLOezGsMDr_/s1600/911.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTCaHESsQJPeORU6BnRHbS5KiDtXV8fw-QkpZeIgvbWDH7knDUL6fG0z-fm8AYzDmCXGdceimWvJs8dE7puwube_h9sA3J8Zwjqd3nISKRqmHZ-ZPvWiY2-NBAf0FCPZF_OOLOezGsMDr_/s320/911.jpg" width="320" /></a>I was at home alone. My husband had died the previous February, and so learning to be alone was part of my new job description. Not one to watch much television, I had gotten in the habit of having it on "in the background" ... just so there'd be noise in the house. So now I share the collective memory. Those images live alongside my memory of the day JFK died.<br />
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But I have one more personal memory that lingers of 9/11. My daughter crying for all those people "who have to feel like we do ... because they lost their Daddy."<br />
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Contemplating and remembering today has turned my thoughts toward heaven, thanks in part to author friend Randy Alcorn's morning e-mail, which shared a list of quotes on heaven.<br />
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My husband once told someone who was expressing sympathy at the concept of his "terminal" condition, "You're terminal too, you know. It's just that I'm more aware of it than you." He'd already turned his heart toward heaven.<br />
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So today, in remembrance, I thought I'd do the same. The verse below was one of my mother's favorites. She died in 1996, and when my husband entered hospice care early in 2001, our nurse shared it with me. Both versions said "author unknown." <br />
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If you are grieving a loss, today, I hope it brings you comfort.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>I am standing on the shore. A ship at my side spreads her sail to the breeze and starts for the ocean. She is an object of beauty and I stand and watch until she hangs like a speck of cloud where the sea and sky meet. Then, someone at my side says, "There! She's gone."</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Gone where? Gone from my sight is all. She is still as large in mast, hull, and spar as she was when she left my side. Just as able to bear her load to the place of destination. Her diminished size is in me, not in her.</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Just at the moment when someone at my side says, "There! She's gone!" there are other eyes watching her coming and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, "Here she comes!"</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>... And that is dying.</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'll post another poem tomorrow, one I wrote back in the 1980s.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102686595903690660.post-72087622551090409962013-07-31T09:41:00.001-07:002013-07-31T10:16:48.503-07:00Proverbs 31 and a Perpetual Sense of Failure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 16px; text-align: center;">If you are like me, there are days when you read Proverbs 31 with a sinking</span><br />
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sensation. "I don't do that." "I need to do better at that." "I don't do that." "I've never done that." "Okay ... I try that, but I'm not very good at it." </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 16px; text-align: center;">Isn't it just like the Enemy of our Souls to take one of the most beautiful tributes ever written and use it to create a perpetual sense of failure?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 16px; text-align: center;">Some friends and I have been discussing the woman who inspired Proverbs 31 (you can read about her here: <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Proverbs%2031&version=AMP">http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Proverbs%2031&version=AMP</a></span></div>
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To be quite honest, there are days when we are tempted not to like her very much. She's just too perfect.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5vDJJ8ZVSmcLMCET2AF6YzLfTCgbnNobY7KRe5ZvsAtEN5Ypl2DpQ3eAg6kzVaCSzmGcHkOYlOpqjp4SL0r3nBVPGygy6S33ItxxpWxEkGJiSdBXBf4Pa3j_p0GvsovDjUaD2pxr_LvXy/s1600/sunrise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5vDJJ8ZVSmcLMCET2AF6YzLfTCgbnNobY7KRe5ZvsAtEN5Ypl2DpQ3eAg6kzVaCSzmGcHkOYlOpqjp4SL0r3nBVPGygy6S33ItxxpWxEkGJiSdBXBf4Pa3j_p0GvsovDjUaD2pxr_LvXy/s320/sunrise.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 16px;">The phrase that always gets me first is "rising before dawn." I've never been able to establish that supposedly perfect and ideal routine. I cannot count the number of times I have promised myself that I will get up at 5:00 a.m., read the Bible, pray, work out, and have a piping hot breakfast ready for the family when they awaken.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 16px;">I fail. Failed. Have failed. Will fail. Failure. That's me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">It seems to me that the Enemy too often takes my honest belief that the Bible is literal truth and twists it into something that, instead of producing good fruit, produces an unholy sense of abject failure ... a temptation to "just give up, already, you're never going to get a gold star."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 16px;"><i>I've spent the last few years trying to find a balance in my faith walk that doesn't leave me feeling like a perpetual failure God is about to whack over the head. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 16px;">I think this passage provided a lyrical way of saying a good woman works hard. If I don't "rise before dawn," it doesn't necessarily mean I'm doomed to be a failure in God's eyes (and honestly I have felt that way). </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzhTYmXSldptHxuBCRYYUe9_kga_SR_Cq8GdBkPQ4VakZi_qma_p3vypxSD5L8GiZzPBsgkRzAVdIv9nBWEEJ7wqYRQjsaLp5ybg6kmPBPo8-0uROX7UVK_IM4Hb1GHtBQ2oMEdtYQyYQ6/s1600/Bleeding+Heart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzhTYmXSldptHxuBCRYYUe9_kga_SR_Cq8GdBkPQ4VakZi_qma_p3vypxSD5L8GiZzPBsgkRzAVdIv9nBWEEJ7wqYRQjsaLp5ybg6kmPBPo8-0uROX7UVK_IM4Hb1GHtBQ2oMEdtYQyYQ6/s320/Bleeding+Heart.jpg" width="215" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana;">I think it's okay to envision the actual woman who inspired Proverbs 31 being just as amazed as I am when I read about her today. I</span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 16px;"> envision tears rolling down her cheeks as she looks at her son, the author, and says ... "Really? You see me that way?" Sort of the ancient version of me when I read one of "those" Mother's Day cards. You know the ones I mean.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Now ... don't take this too far. I'm NOT saying I give up and I won't even strive for the mark. God's Word is powerful and it accomplishes what it was meant to accomplish. Proverbs 31 is the ideal. I should strive for the mark. But sometimes I should also give myself a break, already. A perpetual sense of failure isn't what it's about. </span></div>
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Stephanie Grace Whitsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02442621477644235666noreply@blogger.com1