The North vs. the South

It's the North versus the South again. Ixnay to the West and East. I can't speak for them. But since I was raised in the South and now live in the North I can definitely say with some degree of confidence that the experience of Snow Days are quite different and almost hilarious in its difference.

In Mississippi we were lucky if we saw at least a dusting of snow or maybe even 2 inches, depending if the snow landed in a hole in the yard. Well, at least I thought we were lucky to get that much since I was always hoping for more. There was a year where I spent a full day frolicking in the snow with my family. It was more than a dusting. It was a good 2 to 3 feet, again depending on if you were standing in a dip in the yard or not. But did I ever panic when the snow came? Of course not, but there were people who did. 

One snowflake and there was a run on the grocery store. Piggly Wiggly sold out of bread and milk. Kroger's shelves were bare. Wal-Mart fended off hordes of milk and bread buying zombies. Two snowflakes and the schools shut down. Three snowflakes and the town rolled up its sidewalks.

It was exciting to see the snow. And it was cold...or so I thought.

I moved to Iowa and our first winter was met with SNOW! And we played in it. We walked in it. We even drove in it. We even walked to a nearby store and bought some groceries. Our Hy-vee grocery store still had bread and milk. Our Wal-Mart didn't fight off the hordes. The snowflakes fell hard and fast. They slammed into our faces, into our eyes, and into our mouths. And it was cold. Colder than freezing cold. But it was amazing. Our first real snow.

Then this year (2015 to now) we were met with the subzero cold. Our front door was looking like a scene from The Day After Tomorrow. The snow was heavy. The ice came. The snow fell even more. The temperature fell further. And we walked in it. Milk and bread was still there on the shelves. The schools may have been delayed, but they didn't close. We froze a little until I learned that the gas bill was so low that I could actually turn up the heat, which is what we do up here in the North I found out. 


Blizzards are not fun. They are dangerous. Don't get me wrong, but snow is absolutely beautiful. The light that reflects across the yards sparkle like hidden diamonds. The silence at night is more hushed with the snow that layers the ground. 

And learning about the difference in how the North handles the snow compared to how the South handles the snow is quite enlightening. 

Living in both regions have given me an unique perspective on how scary Snow Days seem to us. Here in the North the only Snow Day that makes us hunker down is a subzero, as in pass the negative 30 mark, and a blinding blizzard that even snow plows can't handle. In the South it is the thought of 9 inches of snow that makes the roads impassable and the store shelves empty. (Still don't know why milk and bread are the first to go.)

It's all in the perspective. And what we know. The South doesn't receive a lot of that white stuff. But they can handle the rain! The North sees it as another day in winter paradise. 

I see it as one more season of beauty that God blessed us with.

A December Winter

I've sat here staring at my computer for many minutes, long moments of time where my mind was utterly blank. I watched the people across the apartment complex leave the apartments, hop into cars, walk dogs, and yet I am still left blank. My mind has become a dormant thing within my skull. Much like the winter, somehow my life is covered in snow, cold...buried...asleep.

Why, you ask. There are lots of explanations. From the biological standpoint: depression, loss of ambition, still recovering from shock. From a spiritual standpoint: waiting, silent in prayer, being still. 

It is quiet moments in these kind of days that I find myself truly confronting what I've been avoiding for a month. My December held some happiness, but it gave me a great sadness beyond what I can explain.

I know the loss of a child. In 1998 my daughter was stillborn. At 26 weeks of gestation, she died within me: complications of hyperemesis and the medication used to control it. That grief was clouded by the pain medication I was on; yet on December 2nd I experienced this pain again, this time full force.

For 3 years my husband and I have been trying to conceive. Not even the admonitions of some family members deterred us. We wanted another child. 

That night I had severe abdominal pains. I thought: complications from my old gall bladder surgery. The pains were horrendous, beyond any pain I had ever physically felt. My husband rushed from work and then rushed me to the ER. After what felt like hours and hours of waiting and of the harshest pain roiling through me, I was heading back to radiology for a CT scan. Before the scan, my test results were checked. Congratulations! I was pregnant.

I felt such joy, but in the back of my mind was an ominous thought: something was wrong though. Ten minutes later, after a transvaginal ultrasound we received the news: I had miscarried and it was an ectopic pregnancy. 

Our spirits were crushed. To know that we were to have a baby and then to learn it was not to be was more than devastating. Everything flew by in a strange blur of memory. I was crying because I didn't want to abort. The doctor assured me the baby had not survived and this wasn't an abortion. Surgery was scheduled. Because of my pain, rupture was suspected of the Fallopian tube. 

How many tears passed? I don't know. I was crying. I was praying. I was wanting to be held by my husband. Instead, I was on the surgery bed to have my ruptured tube removed.

When I awoke, it still seemed unreal. My husband was there. Soon I was released to go home. The doctors and nurses were so sympathetic and caring, but still I thought of nothing. The world no longer seemed real.

Days and weeks followed. I healed physically. I broke down one morning in my husband's arms. But yet, I am still empty.

The loss of a child, no matter how far along in a pregnancy, is soul ripping. Coupled with the longing of a child, the joy being ripped away from horrible news, and then seeing where ever you look children in the arms of parents make you numb with grief.

Tears are dry. The heart clenches painfully over a hurt that I still cannot understand fully. The joy for what I once did: write, paint, and read no longer have any appeal. The pretending that everything is okay has sapped my strength.

All I can do is stand still and wait for the Lord. And sometimes that is all we can do. He knows our grief, our pain, our hurts. He knows our hearts, even if we don't or can't put into words. Every silent plea, every unspoken prayer, every mangled thought He hears. And He comforts. Part of life is to experience the pain of loss which in turn draws us closer to Him. 

Even though I still face days where I can't think or do, where I stare outside at the snow and watch people, I know that the day will come where my heart will be healed. 

We all have our winters to bear.

Two by Two

For the last of the holiday giveaways, I want to include two pairs of books: Mississippi Nights & 30 Days: A Devotional Memoir.

Only two winners this time, but don't worry; for those who comment, you will also win a small prize.

To be entered for the contest, read the small excerpt of 30 Days (a tribute to my Aunt Puddin (Mary Jane McGregory) who died in April 2010. This is a Christmas memory of my mother's that I wish to share. After reading, comment below and tell me a favorite memory of yours.

The Christmas I will Never Forget as told by Betty Sue Tutor (p.109)

"At some point in everybody's life, they get a gift that will last a lifetime--if not the gift, at least the memory. I received such a gift from my older sister, Puddin, when I was about fifteen years old.

Puddin and I fought over her dresses, shirts, skirts, pants, and shorts, but never shoes--I didn't care for shoes. 

I wore her clothes every chance I got, not because I didn't have any of my own, but simply because I could, because they fit, and because it was my way of showing the world that I did it. I finally caught up with her; now I was as big as she was.

There was one item of clothing that I knew she would never rip off of me, and that was a yellow dress. It was a golden yellow dress with a pleat down the front. Even though I didn't like the color yellow, I loved that dress. I liked they way it fit, liked the way it felt, and loved the way it made me feel when I wore it.

And wear it I did, every time it was washed. I would volunteer to iron it. Afterwards, I'd hang it in the closet behind everything else so I could find it first. I'd get up early the next morning, before Puddin did, and I'd put on that dress. She would get mad. She would call me names. She did everything she could to get me to leave her dress alone.

Then one December day I couldn't find the yellow dress. It didn't matter that it was short-sleeved. I would wear it spring, summer, fall or winter if it was clean. I wanted to wear it on the last day of school before Christmas break. I wanted to wear it on Christmas Day, but I couldn't find it anywhere. I even looked in Mama's closet.

I gave up. The last day of school came and went. Then Christmas Eve came, and I still couldn't find that dress. So on Christmas morning, instead of the dress that made me feel so good, I put on regular clothes.

We opened our gifts. We oohed and aahed over our presents and our surprises, over one another's presents and surprises, but there was one present left under the tree.

I wondered why I hadn't seen that rectangular box before, like the day before Christmas when I had shaken or squeezed every gift under the tree to see if I could figure out what they were. My first thought was that if I had known that present was under the tree I could have cut the tape and opened it, and no one would have known. I shrugged and waited for someone to open the present.

Then Puddin picked up the gift, handed it to me, and said, "Merry Christmas". I never figured she would give me a Christmas present unless she drew my name--I was that much of a brat.

Nervously, I unwrapped the box, not knowing what was going on. Was this her way of getting revenge? Was this her way of embarrassing me after all those years? I opened the box with everyone watching.

I looked down and there it was--the yellow dress; the yellow dress I searched the house for; the yellow dress that made me feel so good. I thanked her. I even hugged her neck. I hung it up in the closet and couldn't wait until school started again so I could wear that yellow dress.

She was as surprised as me. She thought I would get mad at her for giving me a "used" gift. I told her no. That was the best Christmas gift she could have given me.

I will always remember that yellow dress. I wore that dress in one of my school pictures. It was never passed down. I didn't outgrow it like the other dresses. I literally wore it out. Even though I haven't kept that dress, I have kept that memory.

It's a memory I've shared with my kids, and now I share with their kids. To Puddin it was a "used gift", but to me it was the best Christmas gift I got that year. To me it was the gift I will never forget."
 

For My Followers & Friends!

For my followers and friends, a surprise gift for you.

Rules:

#1 Quite simple: Pick either the ornament, snowman, tree, present, snowflake, or star; let me know in the comment section below, and leave your email address so I contact you where I should send the surprise gift. That simple!

#2  If you happen to not be one of the six commenters who chose a surprise gift, don't worry! Leave  a comment and your email and I'll contact you about something you may choose. :) 

It's the season of giving and I'm taking December off. :) So I'm giving away presents right now...so Happy Thanksgiving and Merry Christmas rolled in one. 

Thank you to those who commented. 
The giveaway is now over, but please stay connected for future giveaway posts. :)

Say no to The Box!

Timothy 6:12

Fight the good fight of faith, lay hold on eternal life, to which you were also called and have confessed the good confession in the presence of many witnesses.

I only post a blog on this site whenever I find something worthy to talk about. When it comes to posting about myself or my life, I hesitate because my life isn't that important nor interesting. Plus, I really don't like talking about me. Now books! I like to talk about books. Or movies! Especially the new Star Wars movie coming in December. Maybe even a few classics such as Hatari or The Scarlet Pimpernel. But when it comes to me: I don't like to talk about me. 

When I wrote my devotional 30 Days: A Devotional Memoir, it was actually very hard to impart with a portion of my life. There is nothing special about me. I haven't underwent anything new that other people have not endured. But I was led to write about it. But this post isn't about my book. For once, it will be about me.

Most importantly it will be about that "box"! The dreaded little box that people seem to want to put me in. And I say no to The Box!

I like to think outside the box. I like to be outside the box. Just the other day I did my own writing prompt, telling myself to "get outside the box", "go deeper, go further". And what did I discover?

I'm not the boxable person. 

I write because I love to write. And because I read all genres and many books in all genres, I find myself writing in different genres. Contemporary. Romance. Mystery. Fantasy. Science Fiction. Children's. Young Adult. Nonfiction. Even a thriller. Some are only ideas with notes attached. Some have a few chapters. And others I am working on as I speak (yes, my mind doesn't quit).

When asked who is my target audience, especially concerning the books I have printed and about to finish, I have to answer with: anyone who loves to read. Why? Because my readers span the slotted groups. They range in age, in race, in demographic, and in genre preference. Pretty cool I think. But then maybe these readers are readers who also said no to The Box. 

So when it comes to The Box, I fight the good fight and keep on, never giving up. There's a whole world to discover and I have only just begun my adventure. (Even hobbits can change the world.)

Too Much on the Brain

I have this overflow valve in my brain, but sometimes it becomes clogged and a stockpile of ideas logjam the valve. When that happens it really does gum up the works and cause a stagnant production of words. 

For that reason, I have learned that trying to write 3 or 4 books at a time is counter-productive. Sluicing the words from the stockpile is not working. It slows my writing down to a basic sludge flow. No matter how much I love the stories I am writing and want to finish them, I must concentrate on one story at a time. Hence the Idea Journal (not only on Pinterest:Idea Board) that keeps track of what I'm thinking about writing and what I'm writing and what may be written and what genre to write.

I have three books complete with titles and characters newly recorded in my Idea Journal (Idea Board). [There are 20 story ideas recorded and I need to add more that are listed in a notebook.]

The story lines are still a small mystery. Like seeing through a hazy dawn, I can see the path to go down, but until I am ready to truly travel it the nuances are hidden from me. BUT, I have titles (to reiterate)!
Book 1: Diamonds That Shine
Book 2: In the Valley Low
Book 3: Rise with a Shout

Can anyone guess what sparked the birth of these titles?

As for what I am working on right now, sadly I couldn't stay with just one book. I do only work on one per day and at least, though, these two go hand-in-hand, so to speak. The smaller story is a follow-up to Mississippi Nights.

A Mississippi Summer will tell Poppy's coming-of-age story. Here's a blurb of sorts:

There's a reason why some flowers grow strong and wild.

Three years after her adoption, 15 year old Poppy has questions. Number one question: does life really have a purpose?

A new tragedy, an old addiction, and fledgling promise bring Poppy to the edge of a bitter storm. Her family is unraveling and faith is falling away.

Her only hope in surviving is trusting in a love, following a bold promise, and finding a lost faith. Somewhere along the way she will have to find the strength in order to save all she loves.

The second book is one that I've been sporadically working on for the last two years. I'm looking forward to sharing Scott and Angela's story with you. Here's a tentative blurb for Alabama Days:

Paramedic Scott Wilson believes he can chase death away, but when a young death shatters his spirit, he hides behind his work and his addiction.

Reporter Angela Mabry knows death can lurk behind many doors, proof from the suicide of her husband, Mike. 

When a prominent city official dies in a car wreck, Scott and Angela find themselves tangled in intrigue and deception. Together they find the Truth and that not all is what it seems.

Tell me what you think. And if you haven't already, follow this blog so that you won't miss any updates.

Prayer, Jabez, & My Dad

This post is more meaningful for me than any other that I wrote since I started blogging five years ago; but, this is one post that must be shared...even if in my fragmented telling.

In 2006 I lost my father, watched him died, and since then I placed the facade of healing and strength around me. I had to be there for my mother. I had to be there for my sister, for my brother, even for my sons who had just lost their father barely two months prior. But there was no one for me, and I didn't turn to God for that shoulder to lean upon, or to be held in His arms against his bosom, holding me and protecting me. I didn't do that. I pretended and eventually believed my own lie.

How could I believe my own lie? I didn't look back. I ignored the pain. But pain has a way of festering, unknown deep down in the heart and soul. Eventually it will rise no matter how deep I buried it.

Last night I had a dream about my dad. Right now, once again financial situations have hit us and burdened my heart. Hunger, stress, illness, and all things that come with hardships are lurking near. And in my dream, I remember asking my dad if I could grab some from the treasure chest to help us. He smiled, his dimples deep in his cheeks, "Sure. Go ahead and grab what you want. That's what it's there for." I grinned and my husband and I raced up the hill to open the treasure chest. Although we had to make our way through some difficult obstacles and help a few little creatures (that part of the dream is a bit fuzzy), we eventually made it to the chest that was in the back of the room.

Then today I came across a post that mentioned Jabez. Years ago when the Prayer of Jabez was the rage, I ignored it. I don't do fads, in fact they irritate me. But I looked up the prayer that Jabez spoke: 
"Oh, that You would bless me indeed, and enlarge my territory, that Your hand would be with me, and that You would keep me from evil, that I may not cause pain!" So God granted him what he requested.

I read that and all I can think is that I'm not worthy of asking for anything. Why should I ask for money? Or a house? Or enough to keep us healthy and safe? 

And as soon as those words entered my head, I remembered my dad. I remembered his hand upon my head when I learned my husband died. I remembered his smile and the smell of automobile grease, sawdust, and drywall--smells that I associated with him, a carpenter. I remembered his laugh and his beautiful golden flecked green eyes. I remembered how much I loved him and still do. I remembered how much I miss him and wish for him to be here with me. I want and need my father.

That is when I realize (even as I type this) that I long for my father's love. He is not here anymore, but if I feel like this about my earthly father, then how do I feel about my heavenly Father?

I want His love! I want His hand upon my head and to tell me it will be okay. I want his arms to hold me and squeeze so tight that I have no doubt that I am loved, wanted, and protected. I want Him to show me that I am His precious daughter and what I wish, I will receive.

And what do I wish for? I wish for a home. I wish for a comfortable savings in the case of trouble. I wish for another child. I wish for a resurgence of faith and love within my heart.

If I add my requests in the same format of Jabez's, it would probably look like this:
"Oh, that You would bless me indeed, and enlarge my home, that Your hand would be with me, and that You would keep me from evil, that I may not cause pain." It wouldn't be much different from Jabez's. 

It took remembering my father and dreaming of him for me to realize that I need to remember my Father and look to Him. He has a treasure chest for me and it's for me to open, all I need to do is ask.

Please, Lord, may I open your treasure chest?