Fear and Rogue Wave

construction destruction power steel

Do you think God wants us to be afraid?

I don’t think He has a problem with the respect kind of fear that I had for my dad, and have for God. That fear is synonymous with respect, and doesn’t want to displease them,  so it cleans up my act. I think God’s OK with that. There’s the fear that happens when someone walks suddenly in front of my moving car, and I hit the brakes. I think God sees the need for that fear. There may be others in this camp. If you think of some, chime in please.

On the other hand, there’s another kind of fear that keeps me from living life to the fullest. That fear comes from the experience of consequences.

For example, a loved one expects that I read between the lines of what they say. I don’t, or I misinterpret, and the outcome is that I experience their rage. Now my relationship with that person is one of fear, especially if it is a power down relationship, like a boss/employee or parent/child.

Or I make the mistake of taking my eyes off my child, and in that instant an abductor makes off with my baby. How do I deal with the fear born in that moment? Does God have anything to do with it? This is the question I’ve addressed in my recently complete novel, Rogue Wave. If this line of thought intrigues you, please comment.

Wait, if this line of thought intrigues you, and you’ll leave your email address, I’ll send you the first three chapters of Rogue Wave. If you’d start a conversation with me, I promise to hold up my end.

 

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Autumn

nature red forest leaves

The winds come up and the air cools. Little puffy clouds skip across the sky. Leaves fade from green to yellow to orange to red. Daylight shrinks.

My thoughts turn to pumpkins on the front porch, Indian corn on the coffee table and crunching leaves down the sidewalk. The action of summer slows to the last harvest. Apples are crisp and juicy. And my heart inhales.

If winter is dead, autumn is the sadness before the death. Why are it’s colors so happy, so warm? Is it because our Heavenly Father knew we would need the gold, amber and crimson to warm our chilly fingers and toes? Or is it His promise that spring will come again? Or maybe it’s His promise that death isn’t sad, but a new beginning.

 

Grace and Truth

I like the concept of blending grace and truth. Favour you can’t do anything to receive, it just is — and the reality at the bottom of everything. I like it, but I’m not sure I’m very good at it, or maybe I should say I’m not sure I even understand how to keep them both at work. I think I may lean hard toward grace, and let truth go begging. That’s probably because I shrink back from assuming I know the truth sometimes, and I shrink back from the possibility of it hurting someone’s feelings other times.

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Sooo, I also suspect that my novels may be developing a pattern of exploring concepts I’m not quite sure about when I start them. The last one played around with fear. Whew! That sounded like an oxymoron if I ever heard one. The next one is going to dabble in grace and truth.

Now, if you’ve read this far, I’d like to ask a favor. What do you think about grace and truth? Do you have insights or experiences that have clarified the whole thing for you? If so, please share them in the comments.  I’d love to hear them, and thank you very much.

Planning

I love planning things–trips, parties, what I’m going to say. The other day, I said to Bake (my hubs) that I hope I don’t die suddenly, because I’d rather have a chance to plan it well. OK, you get the picture.

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So — our 50th anniversary is coming up in January. Let me digress momentarily. That fact is a miracle all on its own. I’m from a divorced couple, Bake grew up with beatings that kept him from going to school some days–broken folks. I never expected, ever, to make it past our 14th year, but God. So, here we are, anticipating our Golden Wedding Anniversary.

The kids did us a bang up party for our 40th, so I’m thinking I can plan this one. Hipdewoops. We’re going to dance. And dance some more, to songs that put the lyrics to our life. We’re going to renew our vows. (Over that I am sweating blood because Bake can say some of the sweetest things to me, and I so want to do the same for him.) And we’re going to eat cake, and toast every good thing we can think of in life and marriage. People we love have already agreed to help us put this shindig together and now I am purusing (incredibly expensive) invitations.

Back in the day, 1969 to be exact, I planned my wedding on a shoestring. Bake was headed for Vietnam, so we had two weeks to get ready. I used the leftover of what my dad had paid for my dorm room to fund the wedding, since we would be moving into our $75 a month apartment, the second floor of these old people’s house (criminy, they must have been about our age now). Their only stipulation was that we take our shoes off when we came in at night.

Back then, we had a dorm friend who agreed to take photos. Tuesday, my buddy Leslee, graphic artist turned prize-winning photographer, will take our anniversary photo.

My mom made my dress, knee length. The dress I wear to our 50th will be floor length. I made my cake. Our pastor’s wife, Heather, is going to make us a cake on the theme of a rose garden, and it will be a doozy because she’s talented beyond belief.

At our wedding, sisters who sang well rendered One Hand One Heart. At our 50th party, my buddy of years will sing a beautiful song about soul mates, and her voice is honey.

My grandmother played the piano at our wedding, and my dad flipped the lights off because he thought candlelight would be nice. Good thing my grandmother could play by ear. At our 50th, there’ll be a sound guy.

Bake’s dad, pastor and heroic POW, officated at our wedding. He’s gone on to live with Jesus. Our pastor, Jim, who explains the Gospel better than anyone in the world, will introduce our vows at our 50th.

There were no written invitations to our wedding. The guy who ran the dorm cafeteria stood on a chair and invited everyone, and the little mission where I first understood the Gospel overflowed with folks. They were even looking in the windows on a snowy day. There may be no invitations to our 50th if I don’t find some that don’t cost an arm and a leg.

We decorated my wedding with pine trees, silk ribbon and a set of candlelabras. My family lived in the Sierras then. My bff, Georgia, who can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, will head the decorating team for our 50th.

The love Bake and I shared back in the day has blossomed and deepened, and I sure didn’t plan that. But I’m glad God did.

Depression

Depression is weird because sometimes you know you feel depressed and sometimes you don’t.  When you don’t, you wonder whether you really are and just don’t realize it. When you do, you don’t give a big rip, about that or much of anything else, like brushing your teeth or combing your hair. Why did I pick such a joyful subject?To remember, I guess.

There are a lot of definitions of depression. I’ve heard that it’s the time when you feel like you have no control. I’ve heard that if you take a step in any direction  you can relieve it. I believe that could be crap because depressed people are not likely to take steps without help, chemical or counseling, or both. If the help is chemical, get ready, you’re on it for at least six months. You may not want to be, but you may find when all is said and done, that you needed to be.

Once a depressed person accepts help, they’re back towondering whether their depression is over, or just masked. It’s a bit of a Catch 22. However, it isn’t insurmountable. Prayer and the Psalms are as important as chemistry and counseling, maybe more. Writing a psalm in your own words allowsyou and God to think over your circumstances. Prayer before that may not even happen, but after the writing the depressed person has an inkling of what the issues are, and therefore what to talk to God about. Once God directs, you can begin to crawl out of the pit however He indicates. That is what I know so far. Sorry about the words that run together. My computer is nuts. It’s not me, honest.

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