Dusty Roads to the Heart

This is Memorial Weekend.   This weekend we remember our loved ones and those special men and women who fought so bravely for our freedom.  We place a mum, a rose, a wreath upon the stone of a loved one and stand there for a little while remembering. This Memorial Weekend I have a letter I must write. A letter that is very overdue. A letter to someone very dear to my heart. I want to write this letter before it is to late for her too read it. So I write with every word coming from deep within my heart. My dear special Mother, I was one and a half years old when dad brought you home to me. You walked into my heart and I onto yours.  Sometimes a mother does things because she has a special kind of heart beating inside her chest. A heart that reaches out. A heart that is tender. A heart that understands the pain of another. A heart that is selfless. A heart that does a deed just because she loves and she cares. A heart that never seeks attention. But someon...

We sat side by side on the picnic bench as the sun slipped silently toward the western skies. We sat there hardly daring to whisper. Silence was all around us. It was as if the earth dare not to breath. Not a blade of grass moved. Not a leaf stirred. In the distance a turtle dove softly cooed her good night and overhead the cardinal called to us from the tree branch. We just sat there, taking in the beauty of the clear skies, the little star, the stillness, as the sun disappeared and darkness, like a huge curtain, fell slowly down and engulfed us in total peace. We jolted out of a deep sleep. Lightening flashed in through the windows, followed by a load clap of thunder. The wind blew, driving the rain against the pane. and our little world of peace was gone. In its place was a raging storm. All happened within a period of 12 hours. Our perfect world turned from perfect and peaceful to raging. But we just laid there in the bed listening. We were not scared. We did not fear. ...

It is 5:00 in the morning and sleep will not come. Inside her head the thunder roars and the lighting flashes. There is a storm. Life has brought on a storm. She can not talk to anyone. She will just make life harder for them. She felt so alone. So she got up quietly, so not to disturb her husband, pull the door shut, and went to the couch and grab up her computer and wrote. She wrote and wrote, trying to calm the storm raging inside her head. The sadness filling her soul. The sadness not for herself but for someone dear to her heart. Someone who is bravely facing their own storm. They think they are alone, but they are not. In the silence of the night she is fighting beside them. They don't know this. They don't know that her light is on and she is fighting beside them in her heart. They can't know this because they live in separate homes.  They live in separate homes, but their hearts a...

"A miracle is an event not explicable by natural or scientific laws." I didn't know how to spell miracle so I asked my phone. I was glad I didn't know how to spell it because the above meaning came up and I loved it. "A miracle is an event not explicable by natural or scientific laws."  I love this. Yes we people think we have a lot of things figured out but I love to behold a miracle. Something that just happens. Something that brings, well I don't know what words to use. So I will tell my story. As most of you have noticed, I have not been writing in my blog for sometime. I will just be honest. My heart has not been singing.  My pen cannot write. My world seemed to be crumpling. BUT you know what I have learned?  My heart has not sung, my pen has not wrote, my world was crumpling, because I was allowing it to happen. I was not seeing the little "miracles" happening around me every day, every minute.  This morning for some reason my heart ...

"Let the lower lights be burning Send the gleam across the wave Some poor fainting struggling seaman You may rescue...you may save." I don't know how well I can put my thoughts down on paper this morning but I will try. I have been thinking about three different things for a long time. When we visit a grave site of a dear one or even a stranger to us, we see four things on that tombstone.  We see our friends, or strangers name. We see his or hers birthdate. We see their date of death. And then there is something else that we see. This something else is what has made me have lots of thoughts. We see between the birth date and the death date a dash.  What am I doing during that dash of my life? Am I keeping that time of my life to myself? Am I sharing that little short span of life with others?  Am I giving that dash of time to God? What am I doing with that small short span of time that is so valuable. So important. I have always been amazed with the lighthou...

Helen....why don't you get it?  I'm not running myself down by saying these words. It's just that I cannot understand something. Since I have started to work very close to the public, people that once were strangers to me but now we share in some of the hardest experiences of their lives, I have noticed my actions and words toward my husband, the one who loves me the most.  Why do I speck unkind to him, but I can say loving and caring words to the stranger? Why do I complain when he asks me to help him, but I can sit for hours beside someone who I hardly know? I don't know if you have ever been pricked by your conscience. But I have. I want to share something that happened just yesterday that helped me to see that I need to watch my words toward the one who loves me the most. The morning was buzzing with activity.  My head was going in a hundred different directions. I had to be at work at 11:00, so therefore I had to have the chores done and back in here by 10 at l...

Some of us are born a female, but that sure doesn't mean we can cook! No sir!  Thank goodness it is arranged that we become the bride of a cook! Otherwise, I don't know, it could be bad. Last night I waddled out to the kitchen around 8:00, opened the refrigerator door and started to dig through the jars, milk jugs, apples, oranges, dressings, and whatever else was in there, to find something that would met my appetite.  My hubby was sitting quietly at the table, reading the Kansas Farmer, enjoying his perfectly made supper of scrambled eggs, two perfectly cooked pieces of bacon, and a beautiful golden toasted piece of homemade bread. Finally I spotted three baby pieces of sausages that had gotten shoved back behind the celery and carrots.  "Now these look good" I thought to myself, taking them out of their zip lock bag and taking a bit out of one. "Don't you think you should warm them up a bit in the microwave first," came the words from hubby as h...