Her Dormant season

Reaching the waters edge, she looked out upon the frozen surface. In the still frigid air this pristine world seemed lifeless. But she knew it only appeared that way. Under the ice, life carried on. A frozen, almost motionless shell that actually protects the vigor beneath. She knew life was never truly gone. Frozen, preserved, pressed down beneath, it was hidden for a season.
She breathed in the cold air and looked around. Frozen can actually be beautiful. The crystalline encasement of every minute detail. Leaves and branches, every grass blade magnified, like a thousand jewels sparkling beneath her feet. Hanging from every tree, crystal chandeliers. More rare than swavorsky crystals, theses jewels would soon be gone. Precious, delicate and then, a memory.
Looking down again to the lake, there stands a leaf upon the glassy surface, caught in a moment of vertical movement. Take warning, for the leaf scarcely knew this action would be the one preserved.
But what of the life below? Some dormant, some vigorous, no reproduction, but still life survives. Do they curse the cold or accept this season as part of life?
How much light passed through to remind them of a warmer season to come? At places on the pond seems almost translucent. Does the life below gather and jockey for a place to peer out the window? Do they even care what goes on above?
Delores laughs at herself, pondering such foolish things. But this did give her hope. Maybe her cold dormant season would soon be over. Only four more years and she would be old enough to marry without her parents permission.

Grace and Peace to you

Grace
I have known just of few women if my life who have been the true essence of grace to me. Woman who carry and express themselves in such a way that you are drawn to them in a mysterious nonsexual attraction. I have truly desired to exude this grace. I have prayed for it, looked for it, even studied it. Soon turning 40 and still believing it has eluded me, I have all but given up the pursuit. When, out of the blue, I was surprised my a compliment that totally stunned me.
"Well, you just have that kind of grace." was her comment.
"What?" I replied in shock, "I have prayed for grace, but I’ve decide it wasn’t a gift God wanted to give me."
"Well you have it." was her simple reply.
In my word study on Grace, the Old Testament word Strong # 2580 represents the classical Christian concept of the unmerited favor of God but also the concept from an objective point of view of beauty, pleasant and precious. It comes from the root word Strong’s #2306 -"to bend or stoop in kindness to an inferior or a gracious act to someone in need" That is the kind of grace I want to exude, and encourage in my daughter.
Many times in the bible God changed the names of the people He moved in. My character I have been blogging about, Delores (a.k.a. brought forth in pain) Will be changed to Grace.

Christian Writer's Guild

The convention at the Broadmoore in Colorado Springs was great. I learned a lot, met some really nice people, got a break from work and got some article assignments from Christian magazine editors. More to come on that last one as soon as I move forward on this writer's journey. Liz Curtis Higgs, the keynote speaker was very funny, real and inspiring. She is definately the kind of speaker I aspire to be like. Blessings to you all. Here is Jerry B Jenkins, the head of the guild and co-author of The Left Behind books. Click on the title and you can check out the guild. Definately a good route to follow writing dreams.

Curmudgeon

There is an old story my dad used to tell me about a cantankerous old coot who was never pleased. Every morning he woke up complaining. The sky was too bright, the sun too sunny. There was too much to do, not enough time. But mostly the industrious efforts of his jolly wife that seem to inspire the curmudgeon comments. She must have been sincerely convinced that if she truly gave him nothing to complain about, he would eventually praise her. She daily went about her work, with a song on her lips and chewing gum in her mouth.
The day early in their marriage when she felt she had come the closest was a morning when the coffee smelled exceptionally good. The day promised to be a beautiful one. All the hard preparation of planting had been done, the garden was in full bloom from the recent quenching spring rains and there were only a few chores to be done around the house that day. She was hoping that later they may even be able to take a drive.
As her man sat down at the breakfast table, she joyfully place in front of him his favorite breakfast, two eggs- one pouched and one fried. She stood and waited beside him after she poured his coffee, added sugar and stirred in the fresh cream. Would he smile?
He took a drink of the fresh squeezed home grown orange juice she so painstakingly had strained to make sure there were no seeds or large chunks of pulp which he hated. He began to eat his eggs with a grunt, glancing over his shoulder annoyed at her hovering. She scurried back to the stove to replace the coffee and looked on expectantly from a distance. As he mopped up the last of the perfectly cooked over medium egg yokes with the freshly baked biscuits she rose early to bake. There was a pause as she moved slowly closer to hear his report...
“Well, how was it?” She asked
While pushing back from the table, all he could think to say was,
“You poached the wrong damn egg!"

Feeding the pigs

The cold brittle cracking sound below her feet echoed the feeling in her heart. The twice daily treks out to break the ice in the feeding trough is a necessary nuisance on the in cold winter months on a cotton farm in the Panhandle of Texas. There seems to be a lot of those nuisances. Much of a farm wife’s life was filled with them. It’s not the stupid livestock’s fault that the weather is so cold. They don’t seem to mind that much anyway, guess they are used to it. She feels like that often, a nuisance that must be taken care of, basic needs met. She wont stay and pet them, even pigs like to be engaged, but they do need to eat and drink. Starving them would be unconscionable but hurling a few curse words and a whack on the back did help her get out the annoyance their upkeep causes her.
Once outside and accustomed to the cold, she used this alone time as she did much of her time, to slip off into her fantasy world. Her dreams of world travel often involved missionary work with possibly a whisper of lost or neglected love. They would long for and desire her but she would always be drawn away, like a romantic young characters in classic novels. Her devotion to the work of the Lord would always take her away. Morning and night and increasingly more in the day she would slip off into this world. Books were her loyal companions She was the stoic heroine , such as Jane Eyre.. Admired for her intelligent and strong character. Practicing her melancholy sighs and far away stares, wherever she imagined to be, it was far more interesting than being the unloved daughter of a dirt farmer in West Texas.
The cold had long since quit affecting her limbs, for once numb she found it much easier to stay that way, at leaste that is what she has convinced herself. That is the way she has lived her emotional life ever since the night she let herself believe the truth. She is the "not" in her family..."not his favorite daughter, not even close" She is not open, not loving and not affectionate. And definitely not her father’s idea of what a woman should be like. All words she had heard from his own lips. She did not let him know that it hurt her but if her own father felt that way about her, there would be no need to knock on that door for any sort of approval any more.
SLAM!! The door of the barn banged shut, and Sophia spun around to she what had caused it. Just the wind. She went over and bolted it closed. If it was left flapping in the high wind for long, the hinges would break off. Disturbed from her muse she remembers it is time to catch the bus to school. She could resume her fantasies there. But now she must grab her books and run out to the farm to market road that ran in front of their drive way, about 100 yards away.

For those disturbed by my blog

Just want to let anyone concerned know that the last blog "Secrets and Lies" and some others past, and many future writings are fictional musings in preparation for my next literary work, possibly "Historical Fiction" I am meeting with editors next week to test for marketability with various publishers. Sorry if this caused any stress.

Secrets and lies

Secrets and lies, they grow upon each other, even after years, lifetimes and even generations, the curse of incest held all in it’s lair. The wretched truth was something she believed mothers and grand-mothers must had known all along. Accomplices to this unspeakable crime, they were afraid of acknowledging the truth for it would make them part of the sin, the rape of their daughter’s innocense. Brought bluntly to their attention, shocked they would deny and turn away choosing only to protect the thin veil of dignity they used to cover their shame for the lack of bravery they had in their youth to confront their aggressors and put and end to the abusive cycle.

Be sure your sins will find you out. And what about the moments when he was alone? Was it self-righteousness or shame that led him to stare blankly into nothingness and wonder why he lingered here? For 20 years past his desire to depart he hovered between a living and passing on. Was he just reaping what he sowed? He never showed me any signs of regret or repentance. There were not death bed confessions, tears of remorse, just blank stares or steely glares. His wide-eyed quavering gaze had a fearful feel to it, as if he was about to blurt out, “You know my deep secret. You will be the one who brings down my gingerbread house of self righteousness.
Sympathetic visitors were bluntly confronted with the request to help him end his suffering. Their pity and well wishes meant nothing if they would not help him die. It was never about anyone else, not even his hardworking spouse of 60 some odd years. She had labored to please him, enduring countless indignities at his hand and now she has nothing left, not even her mind, only a frozen sardonic expression of shock and defiance.
Back to the secret, it, of course was the sexual abuse I endured at my father, grand-father and even uncles hands. But the lies were more hurtful. The primary one being that women must choose. They cannot embody strength and beauty, feminine grace and wisdom. They must either be desirable or smart, not both. I chose smart, not realizing that before I had a chance to choose beauty chose me.