Light at the End of The Broken Road

Sitting outside in our new living space is the perfect place to reflect. I need days like this–days of catching up on minor chores, crossing off long-needed repairs on my to-do list, and time for pondering. Most of my inspiration for writing comes when there’s time for my mind to wander. The flutter of a bird or the rhythm of wind chimes triggers a memory and down the rabbit hole I fall. Next thing I know I’m searching for a photo or date on a calendar trying to piece together the details of my story.

 

It's all good though. I’m not triggered by bad images any longer and memories aren’t as painful as they once were. I’ve worked through mountains of grief and trauma and come out the other side a different person.

 

I’m thankful for every bump in the road, every detour, but especially the broken road I’ve traveled to get to where I am today. 

 

I’m in the final phase of my book, The Broken Road, and I can’t wait to share how God healed me of childhood trauma. It’s really His story of redeeming the broken child inside a grown woman.

 

You may be thinking, “Oh great, another memoir about somebody’s abuse and all the people she blames.”

 

That’s not the goal for this writer or this book. I believe there’s power in telling our stories so it can help someone else find healing. As an introvert who protects her privacy, I have no desire to just be another voice saying, “Me too.” I want to point people to the only true source of genuine healing—and that’s Jesus Christ. If not for Him, and the people He placed in my life, I would be six feet under.

 

For now, I am going to treasure these days of pondering and listen for the sweet nuggets of inspiration. Writing from a healed heart and mind gives me so much joy, but I had to travel the broken road to get here. And because of that, it’s all worth it.

Finding My Place to Be Still

I’m sitting in front of the fire at one of my favorite places on earth. The Cove is a unique place, filled with the best people, and the coziest spaces. 

My writing friends and I come every year in February for a writing conference. This is our place to retreat from the world and focus on the written word. We share our hopes, plans, struggles, successes, and of course good food and conversation. The Cove is known for their delicious meals, and this year is no exception.

This place has a spiritual presence that I haven’t found anywhere else. God’s word is spoken here daily, His name is lifted high in praise as well. It’s as if this is but a glimpse of what awaits us in heaven. It’s a place to meet like-minded believers with a common goal of sharing the gospel through books, devotionals, music, articles, and social media posts.

 

I come to this mountain expecting to hear from God, and He never disappoints. His word says, “Be still and know that I am God…” and this place is the soil where I plant my vision for future words. When I’m finally still, I feel His presence and know He is with me, and has given me a message to share, whether through a book, poetry, devotionals, or blog posts.

 

I pray you have a place where you can be still and know that He is God. You will be filled with such joy and peace that your soul will want you to return year after year. And that, my friends, is something money can’t buy.

When One Phone Call Changed My Life

I woke up very early this morning in a hotel about thirty minutes from my hometown, thinking about the life-changing event that took place fifty years ago today. 

Have you had a before and after event in your life that changed everything? Of course you have, we all have if we’re human. My event occurred on Saturday, December 14, 1974 when I picked up the phone beside my bed. It was a doctor in Morgantown at the WV University Medical Center. Here is an excerpt from the book I’m writing:

     “I was sleeping soundly when the phone beside my bed rang. Assuming it was the doctor calling to say my mom could come home that day, I answered the call, only to hear my dad on the other phone. I hung up and went back to sleep. My brother came into my room, shaking me awake said, “Sissy, Daddy is crying.”

     I moved quickly down the hall to my parent’s bedroom. Dad told us to sit down so we could talk. He said, “Your mommy isn’t coming home, she went to be with Jesus.”

     Shock and disbelief washed over me like a tidal wave. This couldn’t be true, she was coming home today after a two week stay at the West Virginia University Medical Center in Morgantown. The surgery she’d had to deaden the nerves connected to her hip was a success. The excruciating pain she’d endured over the last couple of years was over and now she could come home and get better. These were my thoughts as I tried to process the devastating news that my beautiful mother was gone. Gone, as in never coming home. Gone, as in I would never see her again this side of heaven. Gone.”

The purpose of my trip is to visit the graves of my parents and decorate them for Christmas. I’ve never been able to be here at this time of year because of church commitments as well as the Christmas season in general. This year is different though. I felt pulled here as if by an unseen hand. I felt a need to return on this anniversary to honor her and remember her. She was an incredible woman who loved God first and then her family. I felt a need to return to the place where I suffered so much pain. I want to sit with my fifteen-year-old self, hold her, comfort her, and tell her that everything will truly be okay. She was young and naïve and didn’t deserve all the bad things that happened after that phone call.

My before and after has a happy ending after decades. God stepped in and miraculously healed every broken place, and today I needed to return to the place where my parents' bodies lie side by side waiting for the glorious resurrection when Jesus returns. One day I’ll join them beyond the veil, but until then, I’ll place flowers in the vase and remember. 

A Recipe and a Memory

I was planning my Thanksgiving meal on this quiet Friday morning, after Thanksgiving. While most people are shopping on “Black Friday,” I’m strolling down memory lane by way of my old recipe box. Does anyone still keep a box of handwritten recipes? Probably not, but mine is full of treasures.

 

We're having our traditional meal on Saturday after Thanksgiving due to traveling. I’m feeling very festive and nostalgic at the same time. There are many things to do to prepare for Christmas, but I decided to focus on our meal and add a few extra touches. One recipe led to another, and before I knew it I was searching for a cheese ball recipe with a precious memory attached. 

 

When I was a young bride, I went back home to visit my other mother, Wilma. The local grocery store was a fixture in our community for as long as I can remember. The ladies who bought it from the original Ball family were usually behind the counter making something delicious for their lunch. This particular day, we walked to the store to get a couple of things, and when we arrived, they had made a cheese ball and wanted us to try it. They hadn’t even shaped it into a ball yet, because it was so delicious they were spreading it on crackers right out of the bowl. So, of course we had to have some for ourselves. And let me tell you, it was absolutely heavenly. This was in the early 80’s when cheese balls were generally made with cheddar cheese. This one was different, made with cream cheese, and we were hooked. They gave us the recipe, and we went home and made it that day. Wilma scribbled it out on a card for me, and that’s what I was searching for in my box. I still haven’t found it, but I found many others. That brings me to the point of this blog post. 

 

Do we write things that stand the test of time? Is our handwriting on record for future generations to read and enjoy? As I flipped through dozens of recipes, I see more than a recipe’s ingredients–I see love and attention. I see the care my loved ones took to record delicious food to nourish a family, feed a sweet tooth, or take to a covered dish gathering. When I see the handwriting of Wilma or my mother, it brings back images of how they imprinted my life. Wilma and I sent hundreds of letters and cards to each other, filled with the everydayness of life. She always recorded the date of every recipe, letter, or card. She never missed a birthday of mine from the time I was born until she no longer remembered who I was because of illness. Her letters kept me in her daily life and I will forever be thankful for that, and her.

 

Looking for that recipe caused me to stop this morning and remember someone who had an eternal impact on my life. What words will you leave behind to remind your family and friends of your love? 

 

I’m a word person. I take it seriously because I know the joy of reading something from those I can no longer touch, or talk to this side of heaven. So, on this Thanksgiving 2024, I celebrate and honor the simple words recorded on a recipe card, and thank God for the legacy left to me to continue with my family. 

 

For all the ways she loved me, this post is in memory of Wilma Summers. If there’s food in heaven, I will be first in line at her table.

Barefoot in the Garden

 I spent my childhood in the late sixties playing outside until dark, catching lightning bugs, riding my bike, playing tag and whiffle ball. Television was reserved for the evening, or cartoons on Saturday morning, and we had three channels to choose from. There were no electronics, no Chick-Fil-A playgrounds, no trampoline or water parks. We had the city pool where everyone was welcome. Our family didn’t take major vacations every year, maybe every five years, and those were usually connected to visiting relatives.

There were no “healthy snacks,” unless you count homemade popcorn or cookies, although watermelon and cantaloupe were in abundance during the summer. We drank Kool-Aid, and our source of water while playing outside came from the water hose. 

 

I feel blessed to have lived in this generation. My life was full and contented during these years of early childhood.

 

I helped my mom with cleaning and laundry chores, and anything else she needed me to do. She battled cancer most of those years and my help was necessary. I’m thankful for all she taught me. I knew how to manage a household before I could legally drive a car.

 

As I watched my grandchildren play outside over the weekend, these memories surfaced. There’s something about bare feet in the dirt that stirs heartfelt longings for them to experience a simple childhood.

 

They trudged through Pop Pop’s garden, following close behind him as he dug hills of potatoes. They held their produce up in the air like discovered treasure. They inspected the progress of other veggies, gathering cucumbers and squash as they meandered down the rows. Bare feet squished through the fertile soil leaving prints of ten toes. Their smiles and laughter sprang from the freedom to be in the moment, the joy of being with family while harvesting the bounty of God’s provision.

 

As they wandered out of the garden, little hands picked flowers for Gigi. Dirt-stained hands offered stems of pink and purple, happy to share the beauty of their fun evening.

 

The best memories come from experiencing the simple things. I hope they always remember meals around Gigi and Pop Pop’s table, Mule rides and the silly things we say, counting hay bales in the field, and eating popsicles until they drip red, purple, and orange goodness down their bellies. I hope they remember the prayers we pray, and the songs we sing. I hope one day when they’re grown, they will remember all the love we shared living in the country. I hope the bonds of love made with their cousins bring laughter when they reminisce about their childhood days at Pop Pop and Gigi’s house. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll feel as blessed and happy as I feel writing these words.