Dear Santa,

It’s been many years since I’ve written you a letter. I apologize for that, but you know how it is. You grow up and you get really busy raising children and working and generally just trying to survive that you never quite find the time to check in with old friends. This year has been no exception—and, in fact, has been busier and more hectic than ever—but something just starting niggling in the back of my mind telling me that I should drop you a line. Here goes.

“What do I want for Christmas?” you ask. I have everything I want this Christmas, thank you very much. I have my handsome husband Adrian who is every girl’s dream man beside me and things couldn’t be better. My oldest daughter is coming home for Christmas from her graduate studies abroad, and she’s staying with us for the month. I am very grateful for that, but after the month of sharing the same bathroom we might be singing a different tune.

My youngest daughter will be home soon from college, too. She can’t wait to see her sister, and I can’t wait to see her. She attends school only 120 miles away, but she rarely gets a ride into town. I’m praying for reconciliation and times of honest conversation with both her and her sister.

If there’s one thing I wish you could bring me, Santa, it’s another way to make a living. I really miss writing and promoting my books, but it doesn’t pay the rent (or even the groceries or the electric bill). My day job is now ten hours a day and they’re pressuring me to work overtime as well. I physically and mentally can’t take it much longer there. Could you please help me to find a more uplifting job closer to where I live that doesn’t drain me so much? With the extra time and flow of creative juices, I could get back into writing again. It would make me ever so happy. Thanks.

Also, if you could, can you tell those folks on your “naughty” list that pirating e-books (as well as song files and movies) is just plain wrong? I never really worried about e-book pirating until recently—the big sales of Kindles and Sony e-Readers has caused the plague of e-piracy to grow. I’ve even come across some of my books being pirated at various pirate sites. I suppose I should feel flattered, but instead I feel worse than ever. I have little energy to write lately with the long hours at the day job that I’m forced to take since writing pays so very little, and people are stealing royalties from me whenever they don’t purchase my e-books from legitimate sources. And it’s not just me who is hurting—I have hundred of writing acquaintances who are also being robbed of royalties by e-pirates. I know many of these new Kindle owners don’t understand how important it is to us small fry authors and how little money we make on our books. Could you please put a bug in their ear and ask them how they’d feel if someone stole something they created so callously and without regard to the income they’re denying their families? Thanks again.

I suppose it’s time I sign off now, Santa. You’ve got a busy night coming soon, and you need to save your energy to give to those who are truly in need. I’m looking forward to the time when everyone everywhere will receive what they truly need at Christmas—of peace on earth, goodwill to men. Then the need to spend massive sums of money we don’t have, on presents we don’t really need, will simply fade away…

Affectionately yours,
Cindy

Wherever you go...

God will be with you wherever you go. --from the book of Numbers

Some people have great and intricate plans for their lives. They work through these plans step by step, goal by goal, year by year. They cross off things on their to-do lists and ocassionally reward themselves for a job well done by taking a trip, buying a new car, or simply going out to eat or to see a movie. At the end of the day, week, month, year or lifetime these intelligent and well-organized folks sit down, setlle back, put their feet up, smile and say to themselves, "Well done!"

Then there are the rest of us.

I do believe the "rest of us" are in the majority. We may dabble with being organized from time to time, but we quickly revert to our inherently sloppy, live-by-the-seat-of-your-pants ways. We act spontaneously and rashly, then later chide ourselves over and over again for the mistakes we've made. We berate ourselves for choosing the wrong path in life. We curse and condemn ourselves for the sheer stupidity of our choices. We loathe our lack of decision-making abilities.

Frankly, we teach ourselves to hate ourselves.

"Why did I do that?" has been my mantra for most of my life. The apostle Paul in his letters to the early church repeatedly exclaimed, "I am the worst of all sinners!" If I had been there, I'd have chimed in with, "Me too!"

Beating myself up for my "crimes" against myself became a hobby.

It's not a pasttime I recommend. Unfortunately, it's an all too common one. Being human (as opposed to Vulcan, Galifreyan or your generic little green man from Mars) I fell prey to this epidemic of self-loathing early on, perhaps even earlier than I give myself credit. To be a citizen of Planet Earth means no one--no one can ever become fully immune from this "sin sickness".

What escape is ther from this dreaded disease? None. A person can't simply walk away from their troubles. A person cannot time travel (as much as I'd like to) and go back and fix mistakes and poor decisions from years past. "Emotional baggage" will be packed along with your winter sweaters or heirloom china or even your bobble-head baseball figurine colection and taken to wherever you go... No matter how far or how long or how fast you run your problems tag along for the ride.

So, I can't get away from my dysfunctional hobby of beating myself up. I feel hopeless in my helplessness, a horrible feeling for a control freak like myself. I want to take charge of the situation and fix things all by myself, but the more I try to fix things, the worse things become. It's a vicious cycle. What can I do?

Then God enters the picture.

No matter how far I've gone (all the way to the wilds of West Texas) or how much I've tried to hide from the Creator of the Universe (pretending to be someone I'm not), God has been there. Like the passage from the book of Numbers says, there is no place I have visited or will visit that God isn't already there. Even more intriguing, God recognizes me in all my false disguises.

I can't ellude him in the chase. He's after me--I sense his pursuit in the drive he has given me to share my story with others. It is my hope it will help you see how God has a plan for your life as well, even when you're living by the seat of your pants.

Prayer: You are with me wherever I go, God. Thanks for all the help and protection you have afforded me thus far. Continue to watch over me and guide my steps in this journey called life. Amen.

April Showers Bring May Flowers

Another month has come and gone—and I didn’t get hardly anything I wanted to get done in March, done. For some reason, I just can’t give up sleeping, eating or taking daily showers. Those sorts of things really cut into your free time, you know—especially the sleeping.

I’m not getting any creative writing projects I’ve started finished. I’d had hoped to do so during my week off, but I just didn’t have the will to write more than a few pages on my work-in-progress. I’ll admit it, too—my heart simply isn’t into writing fiction lately. E-publishers are folding right and left it seems, taking some of my books along with them. I can’t afford to go to writing conferences and schmooze with the agents and editors from the big houses, so I can’t get a foot in the door by making a personal connection. And having a foot in the door seems to be the only way to gain the big guys’ attention these days.

Everyone with a computer seems to have written a book this past year. The submissions are flooding the slushpiles. You have to do something outrageous or illegal—or both—to get an editor’s attention. Just look at former governor Rod Blagojevich. He’s done both—and now he’s got his own radio talk show. You really wonder if becoming a criminal is where it’s at for becoming a best-selling author.

Oh, well. I can sit around and mope and groan, or I can crawl back into the saddle and get going again. Since I like horses, I’ll go the saddle route.

I think I’ll put the novel writing on hiatus until I’m unemployed at the end of May. Between trying to find another job and keeping the work I have currently, I don’t have energy to write creatively. I can write a short piece here or there (like my blogs), but the stamina to keep my concentration focused for 50,000 words or more isn’t there. I have to spend my free time sending out resumes and dealing with the rejection emails/snail mails. You think an editor’s rejection of your manuscript is bad? “Sorry, but we don’t want you to work for us,” is a lot worse, especially when your bills are due.

Lots of writers tell me this phase will pass, but I’m not so sure. It just feels like that if I give up writing fiction for a short while I’ll never return to it, and that’s tantamount to cutting out my heart. The good news is that my heart is in good hands. April may bring showers, but I’m hoping to have plenty of flowers by May when my fiancé arrives in the US. Then I’ll have another excuse for not writing—but it will be a much happier one!

LIfe goes on... God provides

I'm sorry I've let this blog sit idle for so long. I hope to do better in 2009, God willing. I'll be in touch with y'all again soon.

In the meantime, you can read my other blog at http://momsday.blogspot.com to see what all I've been up to lately.

God's blessings to you and your loved ones during these difficult times.

The Sparrow

I sing because I'm happy; I sing because I'm free--
For His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
--C. D. Martin, "His Eye is on the Sparrow"

Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of
them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your
Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all
numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many
sparrows.
--Matthew 10:29-31 (NIV)

I don't consider myself much of a "bird person," but on
occasion I have tried to help a poor feathered friend or two
in trouble. Our former home in West Texas was surrounded by
four large trees, a rarity and a blessing in that dusty part
of the world. Hundreds of birds made their nests in our
trees, and we were lucky to observe many species over the
years--from the comical red-headed woodpecker and the flashy
male cardinal on down to the lowly sparrow and the common
house wren. The birds were our pets in a way, and we
looked after them the best we could. Several times we
brought injured birds to others for mending, and it gave us
a good feeling to know we had given them a new lease on
life.

We found our share of dead birds, of course, particularly
after wind and hail storms. One sunny day, however, I heard
a loud whack at the front picture window. As I
stepped out onto the porch, I immediately surmised what had
happened: A large, strikingly beautiful yellow-breasted
bird which hadn't seen the glass had attempted to swoop
through what he thought was an open window into our house.
Apart from his oddly twisted neck, there wasn't a scratch on
the magnificent creature. My daughters and I gently placed
his body in a shoe box and buried him in our side yard
alongside some other birds we had interred previously. We said a short prayer and marked his grave with a plastic heart decoration that had once topped a Valentine
cupcake.

It is the baby birds, fallen out of the nest too soon to
survive on their own, which have always given me the most
heartache. Whenever something like this happened,
we would frantically call the headmistress of the local Episcopal school, the town's resident bird expert. She is a kind yet practical person who always seemed to give us the same advice: "Place the baby back up in the closest tree which it probably fell from. If the mother can find it and feed it, it will survive. If she can't, then it's going to be eaten by the cats. Either way, it's what God and nature intended."

How many times our hearts were broken as we tried to rescue
some poor fallen chick who just wouldn't cooperate. I remember one day my daughters and I constantly placed one ornery fledgling, who was big enough to hop but not fly quite yet, back up in the crook of a tree only to see it leap to the ground moments later.

"Look, you stupid bird, we're trying to save you from our
neighbors' cats! Trust me!" I yelled at it, but it was hopeless. Soon dusk fell and we were forced to give up our rescue attempt. The next morning, we could find neither hide nor feather of it.

This morning on my walking route I found myself once again
in a similar situation. Two newborn birds had fallen out of their nest. I found them in the middle of the sidewalk, and I could hear the mother bird singing frantically for them to come home. They must have been there all night, as they were both too weak to peep. I scooped up the first frail chick and placed it in the tree where I gathered their nest was located, then turned to rescue its sibling.

This bird would have none of it. It had just enough strength to flutter off in the direction of a garbage can placed at the curb for trash collection, where it decided to hide itself underneath. The can was heavy and I tried to move it carefully, but I must have crushed the little sparrow underneath. I knew it was dead as I retrieved its still body and placed it at the foot of the tree. Breakfast for the cats. "What God and nature intended," I sighed.

This morning the baby bird's death really struck home. I couldn't help but shed tears over the hopelessness of it all--how its poor mother would never understand what had become of her child. I thought about how only the day before a dear friend of mine back in West Texas had buried her own firstborn child. He was a young man on the cusp of adulthood, blessed with a loving mom and step-dad and two little sisters who idolized him. He "fell out of the nest" two days before while playing around with a handgun.

Accidents like this happen all the time. You read about them in the newspaper, hear about them on the TV and radio and sigh, "Oh, dear, not again. When will people ever learn to keep their firearms away from children." These words offer little comfort to the grieving. I can only imagine how my friends must feel. Like the wind blowing a bird down from the tree, there just wasn't enough
time for them to place their beloved son back up in the protection of the branches. I know they would have kept on trying, even after the darkness came.

Questions remain. Are we not worth more than the sparrows? Is this tragedy what God intended? Is He watching over us? Why do little birds have to fall out of the nest? Are we ever truly safe in this "veil of tears?" The Psalmist sings:

Even the sparrow has found a home,
and the swallow a nest for herself,
where she may have her young--
a place near your altar,
O Lord Almighty, my King and my God.
Blessed are those who dwell in you house;
they are forever praising you.
--Psalm 84:3-4

Perhaps the only way to find the answers we seek and to reach our ultimate dwelling place is to fall--fall into His arms, gathering strength from the branches of the cross itself.

"Trust me!" says the Father through His only begotten Son who died on a tree to give eternal life. Then no longer are we sparrows without a nest but sons and daughters with a heavenly home.

Children of the heavenly Father,
Safely in His bosom gathered,
Nestling bird nor star in heaven
Such a refuge e'er was given.
--Caroline V. Sandell Berg, tr. Ernest W. Olson, "Children
of the Heavenly Father"

Thanksgiving while living on the streets

The latest from the Extreme Faith Ministry, Saint Louis...

Wednesday night – November 21 11:30 PM. Homeless ministry notes

My feet are still frozen. Tonight was cold and windy with light sleet. My hands ached with the cold. I thought I dressed for the weather. I layered a long sleeve tee shirt, windbreaker, sweatshirt and a winter coat. I wore a pair of tights under my jeans; good socks and athletic shoes. A scarf, hat and knit gloves topped off the Alaska style ensemble. My body was warm enough, but the cold penetrated my feet and hands. I truly appreciate the warm air currently blowing from my furnace.



We served seventy-six meals at three stops. Some of the regulars obviously found a place to burrow. Even a hot Thanksgiving style meal did not entice them to brave the 34 degree night. Spirits for the most part, is surprisingly high. Laughter and prayer are the two most common sounds. We were even entertained with a little spontaneous street rap and dance. But the desperate need is revealed in the anxious request for socks, sweatshirts, coats and blankets. They clutch the blankets around their shoulders. No warm furnace will greet them tonight. The only heat they will have is their own body heat.



The menu was a very traditional Thanksgiving feast. Turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, gravy, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, a roll, a slice of Pumpkin pie with a dollop of Cool Whip. Quite a feat considering it is served from the rear of a van. The food is kept hot in Styrofoam coolers (12" x 12" x 18" tall). The kind used to store fishing bait. These are lined with oven bags for better clean up. The only time my hands felt warmth was when I scooped food into a plate. Those we serve do not sit at a table to eat, but are grateful for what they have received and that someone came to see them on Thanksgiving Eve.

Joy and blessings,

Linda

Come Ye Thankful People Come...

This is an open invitation. Y'all are invited to my cyber-establishment for Thanksgiving cyber-dinner. We're going to have cyber-turkey (both cyber-white and cyber-dark meat) and cyber-mashed potatoes (fresh--not out of a cyber-packet) and, of course, the traditional cyber-pumpkin pie. Yum, yum! The best thing about a cyber-banquet is the that cyber-calories do not go to your hips, midriff or thighs--in fact, they go nowhere at all. So feel free to pig out at my cyber-party. You can never feel guilty--even when taking that last slice of cyber-pie since your cyber-hostess can easily click on "edit" and hit "copy" at any time...

Well, by now I'm sure you've guess I'm being plain silly here. What else is new? You haven't taken my dinner offer seriously I suspect, but I am serious--Why not throw a cyber-Thanksgiving celebration?

All right let's start with who's bringing what... How about you in the Fort Worth/Dallas Metroplex bring the potatoes and the rolls, you guys up in the northern section of the country can bring the stuffing--make it cornbread for me if you can, but if you can't, we'll ask our neighbors from Dixie to do the honors. I figured my Southern guests could bring the sweet potato pie and that my Western guests could bring some rattlesnake meat for a little variety. Cranberries? Oh, sure--some of my Massachusetts readers can provides those--right, guys? Pumpkin pie... who's going to bring that? How about we give that particular honor to the Midwesterners. The St. Louisans can bring toasted raviolis and Ted Drewes' frozen custard so others can sample some of the regional cuisine.

The best thing about a cyber-celebration is that there's simply no need for advance preparation. Can you tell that my home isn't completely spotless online? Of course not! Can you tell I'm passing out cheap paper plates and not the good china? Not really! Can I tell that you just spilled your iced tea and cranberry sauce onto the light beige carpeting? No way! Entertainment? Heck, the Internet is entertainment enough already, so who needs charades and sing-alongs? You don't even have to worry about us pulling out our family photo albums and boring you for hours with our girls' baby pictures. It's a totally stress-free party. I don't even have to worry about kicking you out before midnight--I'll simply "switch off" and let you wander the worldwide web by yourselves...

Stop and think here a minute about how fortunate we are even to be considering throwing a party, cyber or otherwise. Think about how many individuals are eating a warmed-over turkey dinner courtesy of their local Salvation Army or other non-profit organization. We worry about getting our holiday shopping done--others worry about having a roof over their heads come winter. We worry over whether or not to buy a bigger, faster hard drive for our computer--others worry whether or not they should eat or pay on their mounting medical bills. We citizens of cyberspace have a great deal to be thankful for.

Let's be honest: As Americans, the idea of giving thanks to our Heavenly Father for the blessings He has bestowed upon us this past year is usually the last thing on our "to-do list." Whenever we hear the phrase "Happy Thanksgiving" we drool thinking about the succulent turkey and spicy dressing we're about to consume. We crave the sheer joy of being able to sleep in on a weekday. We make big plans to head out to the mall to walk off those extra pounds we gained in our gluttony and start our Christmas shopping in earnest. Prayer and thankfulness are the furthermost things from our minds the last weekend in November.

The modern manifestation of the holiday really wasn't what George Washington had in mind when he declared the first official Thanksgiving Day celebration in 1789. Neither was it for the Pilgrims. William Bradford and the survivors of the Plymouth Colony were just plain grateful to be standing after a harsh first year which killed half of them off. I doubt there were any slugs snoozing late at that original Thanksgiving celebration. Our ancestors may have not known what a "Butterball" was in the 17th or 18th century, but one thing they did know: They knew whom to thank for the blessings of liberty, home and family.

Don't let the glitter and gloss of the Brave New CyberWorld and the new millennium blind you to whom your prayers should be directed to on this national day of giving thanks. God isn't "virtual reality"--He's the real thing. And you don't need a modem to "chat" with Him, either.