My daughter brings me tea from Korea. It is beautifully packaged and so good. My favorite is the cherry blossom blend.
Christmas is a time for gift giving. Some gifts are beautiful like the boxes the tea comes in. Some are good. Some are both. There are gifts that are practical like the much-appreciated new vacuum cleaner. Some–despite their crudeness–have a special place in our hearts–like the drawing done by a child. But no gift is as beautiful and rare as the gift of God’s Son. “For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.”
How hurtful it would be to turn down a gift. A gift given must be received. From the Bible: But as many as received Him, to them He gave the ]right to become children of God, to those who believe in His name.
May you this season enjoy the many gifts but especially the most costly gift of all, God’s Son.
Have a joyful Christmas.
Enjoying Christmas Memories
Christmas in our house was simple. I don’t remember having company as our extended family all lived too far away to face the winter weather and roads to visit us. Our gifts were simple. We had a tree with lights and decorations, many homemade. And Mother strung string around the living room to hang the many cards over. She was always pleased when she had to add another string and start a second row.
I recall a few gifts. There was the toddler-sized doll my mother made me one year. It had moveable limbs and was very life-like. It wore real baby clothes. I played endlessly with that doll. I wish I still had it but my mother had taught me to give away my toys to other children when I outgrew them so I can only hope some other little girl got as much enjoyment from it as did I.
One year my mother made for my two brothers a toy town on a four foot by four foot piece of lumber. It came complete with tiny houses, tiny trees, roadways, etc. This was long before you could buy play mats at the store. The boys got a collection of matchbox vehicles that fit perfectly in the toy town. I don’t know how much they played with it but I played with it by the hour.
I remember a tiny doll my uncle sent me. It was curled up like a newborn and wore a blue knit outfit complete with knit cap. The body and face were made out of some kind of material like kewpie dolls and disintegrated over the years but I still have the memories.
One Christmas does stick in my memory. The three of us kids had either chicken pox or measles and were confined to bed. We were sick but not too sick to want Christmas so Mom set up cots for us in the living room and we had Christmas from our beds. I don’t remember what I got. I just remember the fun of celebrating in bed.
I remember one visitor. I think it was at Christmas time. It was a second cousin. He was grown up. I was a shy little girl and in complete awe of this older cousin. I doubt I spoke a word to him. Before he left, he gave each of us three kids a silver dollar. Wow. Back in the dark ages of my youth, a dollar was a lot of money. Mom persuaded us all to start a bank account with our windfall. So we trooped downtown to Mr. Scoville’s office and opened an account. I never saw that dollar again. Now if I’d stuck it under my mattress and saved it, it would probably be worth more today than the savings account was. But who was to know?
Isn’t that what life is often like? We fail to see the true value of so many things—like the smile on a child’s face, the laugh of a grandparent, the beauty of sun sparkling on the snow, the rich glut of Christmas lights, the true meaning of the season that little baby in a manger—God’s gift of love to all mankind. My wish for myself and you is that this year we might see beyond the practical matters to the true value of life.
‘Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.’
I Wish I Could Picture It
I envy people who can look at a bare room and picture it painted and decorated. They can look at a swatch of paint and know how it will look on the wall. All I see are the bare walls.
I mean, how can someone look at this picture and know how it will look when it’s finished?
Unfortunately, it’s the same with my writing. I begin with the bare walls–a shell, basically. But it isn’t until I begin to add the color by writing scenes that the story takes shape. I have described it as the carpenter’s method of writing. I have the walls and the doorways and the house takes shape as I work on it. (Unlike most builders, I do not have the blueprint.)
It isn’t quite writing blind because I know what my characters need to learn, how they need to change and some of the challenges they face. The rest I discover as I write. It makes it fun and scary at the same time.
So it is with a sense of exhilaration and relief that I come to The End of my current work and sit back with a sigh. I did not know how it would end until I got to the end. I hope it proves to be a satisfying end for my readers. (You’ll have to wait until October next year to judge for yourself.)
Go and enjoy discovering the color and texture of your day.
Writing is Easy…or Is It?
Writing a story is easy. I mean, how had can it be to simply put words on a page. True–that part is easy. It’s making sure that each word had a reason for being there that is hard. Sometimes it’s like stabbing yourself in the eye over and over. It can be frustrating and exhausting.
On other times something unexpected and magical happens. For instance, this week I needed my hero to do something meaningful. (I always find it difficult to leave on point of view character in the middle of something and start to follow the other one.) I had him spot bear tracks and follow them until he was certain they went away from his ranch home and posed no danger to those living there.
A throw-away scene to keep the cowboy busy. Or so I thought until the bear appeared in the next scene threatening death and destruction to the heroine. I didn’t plan it. Didn’t even see it coming. So much for plotting.
These sort of discoveries are the joy of writing.
This is one of the stories that will be released next year as the Glory Montana series.
The Story Behind the Story
Have you ever wondered what triggers a story?
It could be a bit of research, a careless remark made by someone or seeing a movie that sets my mind wandering in a different direction than the writer of that work took. For Wagon Train Christmas it was far less romantic. I had three Wagon Train stories done. In the third story, a child dreams of a forever home and a big Christmas celebration. She got the first in that story–Wagon Train Matchmaker. But not the latter. But rather than make that book longer, I decided to do a novella that featured two other characters and Christmas.
I knew Christmas back then was much different than it is today. It wasn’t yet commercialized. It was a simple celebration and mostly religious.
So I began to research. I learned a lot and did my best to incorporate what I had learned.
I hope you enjoy the results in the story.
You can find it here.
https://tinyurl.com/y97n9veu
The Joy of Harvest
After an early snow and despair that the crops would ever be harvested, it is nice to see that the crops are now safely in the bin.
Harvest is a time of joy, anticipation and frustration. It’s awful to see your income for a year still in the field as the days turn cold and wet. It’s hard on the nerves when the weather is good but the equipment is broken and you’re waiting for repairs.
But ahh, to see the swaths rolling into the combine, the grain filling the hopper…it’s a wonderful feeling.
Recently I have been going through some old photo albums and found a harvest picture.
Other types of work have the same range of emotions. I often say about writing, the only thing worse than writing is not writing.
Romance is Everywhere
No trip would be complete without a trip to a museum so, while visiting my sister, we went to the North Peace Museum (in Fort St. John, northern British Columbia, Canada). It’s a very nice museum. but what struck me was the evidence of romance in so many places.
Here we have a replica of a trapper’s cabin. Many were about this size, or even smaller. (shudder). Usually the trapper was alone and mostly outdoors, but there were those who took wives with them. One presumes there were babies born while spending time together. Living in such tiny quarters with little in the way of company must have surely tested the occupants in many ways. I looked at it, thought of sharing the area with another human and thought ‘that is love.’ I hope the wife spent much time outdoors as well.
To the right is a log cabin. Quite an improvement over the trapper’s cabin but still with it’s challenges. A honeymoon couple spent the first hours of their time here catching rats.The place became known as “Shack with Class.”
Somehow, I think it would find that less than romantic. I guess I’m not made of the same stern stuff some of those women were.
There is a different kind of romance…the love of coffee. Getting coffee to northern BC in the early years required a great deal of commitment. This is the kind of barrel the coffee beans came in. Read the info on how the barrel reached the store.
Romance is everywhere. Devotion and dedication is evidenced by the journey and the living conditions. True love endures every challenge.
Sister Act
I have a sister. She is eight years older than I am. As children, it was a big difference. While I was interested in dolls, she was interested in boys. So my memories of those early years are sketchy. I do remember how she saved foil wrappers from candy (of which we had very little) for months so that at Easter she wrapped our Easter candy in gold and silver foil and hid it outside. It was a year that was sunny, warm, and dry and it was such fun to find the little treasures.
As we became adults, the age difference meant less and less. We found we had much in common, not the least is shared family memories. She was the one who helped me move my parents into a seniors facility. We went through their belongings and dealt with a lifetime of stuff. It was like a trip into our childhood. She helped with their care as well, even to living with my dad for a period of time after my mom was placed in a nursing home.
We also did a number of trips together–Paris, London and research trips to Montana and the Dakotas. Such fun we had. So many memories.
My sister lives a 12-hour drive away. A long way. I see her so seldom and often in busy family situations. But I am about to change that. I am going to visit her. I’m not driving but taking an airplane.
We won’t be wrapping candy, taking care of parents, or traveling for either pleasure or research. But we will be making more memories and rehashing the old ones. It will be our own sister act.
A Thanksgiving Thought
There are so many things to be thankful for.
Family, friends, good health, food, clothing and a warm house. So many things than we don’t acknowledge until they are taken away. Let’s remember them this weekend.
I am especially grateful for the freedom we have, the good land we live in and God’s eternal, unfailing, unchanging love.
Blessings to each of you.
I’ve been robbed.
I work hard all summer anticipating fall when I can relax and enjoy the beautiful colors and moderate temperatures. Instead, I get this.
The leaves are still on the trees which means if the snow gets heavy there could be some serious damage.
Not that there isn’t a certain beauty about it.
Yes, I feel like I’ve been robbed of my favorite season.
But for the farmers, they are seeing their annual income in the fields under snow.
I hope there is good weather in store.
In the meantime, I am busy working on a new series of stories. More about that later.