Diony George

Billy

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 00:03:00 +0000

It was one of the hottest days of the dry season. We had not seen rain in almost a month. The crops were dying. Cows had stopped giving milk. The creeks and streams were long gone back into the earth. It was a dry season that would bankrupt several farmers before it was through.

Every day, my husband and his brothers would go about the arduous process of trying to get water to the fields. Lately this process had involved taking a truck to the local water rendering plant and filling it up with water. But severe rationing had cut everyone off. If we didn’t see some rain soon...we would lose everything.

It was on this day that I learned the true lesson of sharing and witnessed the only miracle I have seen with my own eyes. I was in the kitchen making lunch for my husband and his brothers when I saw my six-year-old son, Billy, walking toward the woods. He wasn't walking with the usual carefree abandon of a youth but with a serious purpose. I could only see his back. He was obviously walking with a great effort ... trying to be as still as possible. Minutes after he disappeared into the woods, he came running out again, toward the house. I went back to making sandwiches; thinking that whatever task he had been doing was completed. Moments later, however, he was once again walking in that slow purposeful stride toward the woods. This activity went on for an hour: walking carefully to the woods, running back to the house.

Finally I couldn't take it any longer and I crept out of the house and followed him on his journey (being very careful not to be seen...as he was obviously doing important work and didn't need his Mommy checking up on him). He was cupping both hands in front of him as he walked, being very careful not to spill the water he held in them ... maybe two or three tablespoons were held in his tiny hands. I sneaked close as he went into the woods. Branches and thorns slapped his little face, but he did not try to avoid them. He had a much higher purpose. As I leaned in to spy on him, I saw the most amazing site.

Several large deer loomed in front of him. Billy walked right up to them. I almost screamed for him to get away. A huge buck with elaborate antlers was dangerously close. But the buck did not threaten him...he didn't even move as Billy knelt down. And I saw a tiny fawn lying on the ground; obviously suffering from dehydration and heat exhaustion, lift its head with great effort to lap up the water cupped in my beautiful boy's hand. When the water was gone, Billy jumped up to run back to the house and I hid behind a tree.

I followed him back to the house to a spigot to which we had shut off the water. Billy opened it all the way up and a small trickle began to creep out. He knelt there, letting the drip, drip slowly fill up his makeshift "cup," as the sun beat down on his little back. And it came clear to me: The trouble he had gotten into for playing with the hose the week before. The lecture he had received about the importance of not wasting water. The reason he didn't ask me to help him. It took almost twenty minutes for the drops to fill his hands. When he stood up and began the trek back, I was there in front of him.

His little eyes just filled with tears. "I'm not wasting," was all he said. As he began his walk, I joined him...with a small pot of water from the kitchen. I let him tend to the fawn. I stayed away. It was his job. I stood on the edge of the woods watching the most beautiful heart I have ever known working so hard to save another life. As the tears that rolled down my face began to hit the ground, other drops...and more drops...and more suddenly joined them. I looked up at the sky. It was as if God, himself, was weeping with pride.

Some will probably say that this was all just a huge coincidence. Those miracles don't really exist. That it was bound to rain sometime. And I can't argue with that... I'm not going to try. All I can say is that the rain that came that day saved our farm... just like the actions of one little boy saved another.

I don't know if anyone will read this... but I had to send it out. To honor the memory of my beautiful Billy, who was taken from me much too soon. But not before showing me the true face of God, in a little, sunburned body.

It's all about Love

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 14:35:00 +0000

How many times in your life have you been disappointed about the choices of someone you care deeply about?

What have you done?

How often is our first reaction, criticism? Maybe you feel better momentarily but if you damage the relationship by your words and push that person away, is it really worth it?

I have tried the criticism thing a lot, feeling justified, especially if it is one of my children. I'm the "Mom" I have to teach them, right?

Anger doesn't teach, it hurts.

All those times, more than I'd like to admit, getting upset did very little except raise my blood pressure and multiply the negative emotions.

Defensiveness is the first to respond and when one feels attacked and backed in a corner the focus, is on escape. They are not in a frame of mind to produce sincere and lasting change.

We are all created in the image of God and within us lies unlimited potential. His love is constant and unconditional, always.

Loving a person despite their weaknesses and choices is a powerful way to initiate change, if and when they are ready. Maybe they never will, but if you want them to be a part of your life - it's all about love.

And The Greatest of These Is Love

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 08:13:00 +0000

"When I was a little boy, we children traded paper hearts at school on Valentine’s Day. At night we dropped them at the doors of our friends, stamping on the porch and then running in the dark to hide.

Almost without exception those valentines had printed on their face, “I love you.” I have since come to know that love is more than a paper heart. Love is of the very essence of life. It is the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Yet it is more than the end of the rainbow. Love is at the beginning also, and from it springs the beauty that arches across the sky on a stormy day. Love is the security for which children weep, the yearning of youth, the adhesive that binds marriage, and the lubricant that prevents devastating friction in the home; it is the peace of old age, the sunlight of hope shining through death. How rich are those who enjoy it in their associations with family, friends, church, and neighbors.

I am one who believes that love, like faith, is a gift of God."

-Gordon B. Hinckley

God Scent

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 11:22:00 +0000

Smell the Rain.......
A cold March wind danced around the dead of night in Dallas as the doctor walked into the small hospital room of Diana Blessing. Still groggy from surgery, her husband David held her hand as they braced themselves for the latest news.
That afternoon of March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24-weeks pregnant, to undergo an emergency cesarean to deliver the couple's new daughter, Danae Lu Blessing. At 12 inches long and weighing only one pound and nine ounces, they already knew she was perilously premature. Still, the doctor's soft words dropped like bombs.
"I don't think she's going to make it," he said, as kindly as he could. "There's only a 10-percent chance she will live through the night, and even then, if by some slim chance she does make it, her future could be a very cruel one."
Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating problems Danae would likely face if she survived. She would never walk. She would never talk. She would probably be blind. She would certainly be prone to other catastrophic conditions from cerebral palsy to complete mental retardation. And on and on.
"No! No!" was all Diana could say. She and David, with their 5-year-old son Dustin, had long dreamed of the day they would have a daughter to become a family of four. Now, within a matter of hours, that dream was slipping away.
Through the dark hours of morning as Danae held onto life by the thinnest thread, Diana slipped in and out of drugged sleep, growing more and more determined that their tiny daughter would live and live to be a healthy, happy young girl. But David, fully awake and listening to additional dire details of their daughter's chances of ever leaving the hospital alive, much less healthy, knew he must confront his wife with the inevitable.
"David walked in and said that we needed to talk about making funeral arrangements," Diana remembers "I felt so bad for him because he was doing everything, trying to include me in what was going on, but I just wouldn't listen, I couldn't listen. I said, "No, that is not going to happen, no way! I don't care what the doctors say Danae is not going to die!
One day she will be just fine, and she will be coming home with us!"
As if willed to live by Diana's determination, Danae clung to life hour after hour, with the help of every medical machine and marvel her miniature body could endure But as those first days passed, a new agony set in for David and Diana. Because Danae's underdeveloped nervous system was sentially "raw," every lightest kiss or caress only intensified her discomfort- so they couldn't even cradle their tiny baby girl against
their chests to offer the strength of their love. All they could do, as Danae struggled alone beneath the ultra-violet light in the tangle of tubes and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl.
There was never a moment when Danae suddenly grew stronger. But as weeks went by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength there.
At last, when Danae turned two months old, her parents were able to hold her in their arms for the very first time. And two months later-though doctors continued to gently but grimly warn that her chances of surviving,much less living any kind of normal life, were next to zero - Danae went home from the hospital, just as her mother had predicted.
Today, five years later, Danae is a petite but feisty young girl with glittering gray eyes and an unquenchable zest for life. She shows no signs, whatsoever, of any mental or physical impairments. Simply, she is everything a little girl can be and more-but that happy ending is far from the end of her story.
One blistering afternoon in the summer of 1996 near her home in Irving, Texas, Danae was sitting in her mother's lap in the bleachers of a local ball park where her brother Dustin's baseball team was practicing. As always, Danae was chattering non-stop with her mother and several other adults sitting nearby when she suddenly fell silent.
Hugging her arms across her chest, Danae asked, "Do you smell that?". Smelling the air and detecting the approach of a thunderstorm, Diana replied, "Yes, it smells like rain." Danae closed her eyes and again asked, "Do you smell that?" Once again, her mother replied, "Yes, I think we're about to get wet. It smells like rain."
Still caught in the moment, Danae shook her head, patted her thin shoulders with her small hands and loudly announced, "No, it smells like Him. It smells like God when you lay your head on His chest."
Tears blurred Diana's eyes as Danae then happily hopped down to play with the other children. Before the rains came her daughter's words confirmed what Diana and all the members of the extended Blessing family had known, at least in their hearts, all along.
During those long days and nights of her first two months of her life when her nerves were too sensitive for them to touch her, God was holding Danaeon His chest- and it is His loving scent that she remembers so well.

Lift and Bless Another

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 03:28:00 +0000

Often small acts of service are all that is required to lift and bless another: a question concerning a person’s family, quick words of encouragement, a sincere compliment, a small note of thanks, a brief telephone call. If we are observant and aware, and if we act on the promptings which come to us, we can accomplish much good.
-Thomas S. Monson

The Pretty One

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 22:48:00 +0000

How often do we look at others who have an obvious physical difference and think they don't look as good as the rest of us? This story gives a new perspective. Enjoy!

It had been a very long night. Our black cocker spaniel 'Precious' was having a difficult delivery. I lay on the floor beside her large four-foot square cage, watching her every movement. Watching and waiting, just in case I had to rush her to the veterinarian.

After six hours the puppies started to appear. The first-born was black and white. The second and third puppies were tan and brown in color. The fourth and fifth were also spotted black and white. "One, two, three, four, five," I counted to myself as I walked down the hallway to wake my wife, Judy, and tell her that everything was fine.

As we walked back down the hallway and into the spare bedroom, I noticed a sixth puppy had been born and was now laying all by itself over to the side of the cage. I picked up the small puppy and laid it on top of the large pile of puppies, who were whining and trying to nurse on the mother. Precious immediately pushed the small puppy away from rest of the group. She refused to recognize it as a member of her family.

"Something's wrong," said Judy.

I reached over and picked up the puppy. My heart sank inside my chest when I saw the little puppy had a cleft lip and palate and could not close its little mouth. I decided right there and then that if there was any way to save this animal I was going to give it my best shot.

I took the puppy to the vet and was told nothing could be done unless we were willing to spend about a thousand dollars to try and correct the defect. He told us that the puppy would die mainly because it could not suckle. After returning home, Judy and I decided that we could not afford to spend that kind of money without getting some type of assurance from the vet that the puppy had a chance to live. However, that did not stop me from purchasing a syringe and feeding the puppy by hand. Which I did every day and night, every two hours, for more than ten days. The little puppy survived and learned to eat on his own as long as it was soft canned food.

The fifth week I placed an ad in the newspaper, and within a week we had people interested in all of the pups, except the one with the deformity. Late one afternoon I went to the store to pick up a few groceries. Upon returning I happened to see the old retired schoolteacher, who lived across the street from us, waving at me. She had read in the paper that we had puppies and was wondering if she might get one from us for her grandson and his family. I told her all the puppies had found homes, but I would keep my eyes open for anyone else who might have an available cocker spaniel. I also mentioned that if someone should change their mind, I would let her know. Within days, all but one of the puppies had been picked up by their new families. This left me with one brown and tan cocker as well as the smaller puppy with the cleft lip and palate.

Two days passed without me hearing anything from the gentleman who had been promised the tan and brown pup. I telephoned the schoolteacher and told her I had one puppy left and that she was welcome to come and look at it. She advised me that she was going to pick up her grandson and would come over at about eight o'clock that evening.

That night at around seven-thirty, Judy and I were eating supper when we heard a knock on the front door. When I opened the door, the man who had wanted the tan and brown pup was standing there. We walked inside, took care of the adoption details and I handed him the puppy. Judy and I did not know what we would do or say when the teacher showed up with her grandson. At exactly eight o'clock the doorbell rang. I opened the door, and there was the schoolteacher with her grandson standing behind her. I explained to her the man had come for the puppy after all, and there were no puppies left. "I'm sorry, Jeffery. They found homes for all the puppies," she told her grandson.

Just at that moment, the small puppy left in the bedroom began to yelp.

"My puppy! My puppy!" yelled the little boy as he ran out from behind his grandmother.

I just about fell over when I saw that the small child also had a cleft lip and palate. The boy ran past me as fast as he could, down the hallway to where the puppy was still yelping. When the three of us made it to the bedroom, the small boy was holding the puppy in his arms. He looked up at his grandmother and said, "Look, Grandma. They found homes for all the puppies except the pretty one, and he looks just like me.”

The schoolteacher turned to us, "Is this puppy available?"

“Yes,” I answered. “That puppy is available.”

The little boy, who was now hugging the puppy, chimed in, "My grandma told me these kind of puppies are real expensive and that I have to take real good care of it."

The lady opened her purse, but I reached over and pushed her hand back down into her purse so that she would not pull her wallet out. "How much do you think this puppy is worth?" I asked the boy. "About a dollar?" "No. This puppy is very, very expensive," he replied.

"More than a dollar?" I asked.

"I'm afraid so," said his grandmother.

The boy stood there pressing the small puppy against his cheek. "We could not possibly take less than two dollars for this puppy," Judy said, squeezing my hand. "Like you said, it's the pretty one."

The schoolteacher took out two dollars and handed it to the young boy.

"It's your dog now, Jeffery. You pay the man."

Still holding the puppy tightly, the boy proudly handed me the money. Any worries I’d had about the puppy’s future were gone.

The image of the little boy and his matching pup stays with me still. I think it must be a wonderful feeling for any young person to look at themselves in the mirror and see nothing, except "the pretty one."

by Roger Kiser

Do you ask?

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 16:22:00 +0000

"Mom," my seven-year-old daughter calls in frustration from her bedroom. “This is too hard, I can’t do it. Can you help me?” She is supposed to be cleaning her room before she can go to a friend’s house to play.

I am in my home office down the hall, typing at the computer, the next sentence forming perfectly in my mind, suddenly it vanishes. What is it now? I sigh in frustration and click save.

I find her sitting on the floor in front of her bed, staring miserably at a pile of disarrayed blankets, and sheets. Her face is red and a few fallen tears are on her cheeks. I look at her dresser with two of her drawers only partially closed, a pair of jeans hanging over the side a sweater squished in the top of another. Her homework is spread out on her small table, the top sheet of math crumpled.

As soon as she sees me, I catch a glimmer of relief in her blue eyes. We start with the bed.

“Hand me the bottom sheet, please. I stretch it out over the mattress fitting the corners in place. “Let’s smooth it out, you can do this part.”

She does.

We do the same with the rest of the bedding. “You can put the pillows and your dolls on.” She nods. I move to her dresser, and open the first drawer that is stuck. I have to give it a good tug before comes out. It has way too many clothes in it. I get some hangers from the closet and hang them up with my daughter; I also show her how to fold the ones left in the drawer so they will fit better. After we are finished, my daughter gives me a big hug.

“Thanks for helping me, Mom. I love you. Now can I play with my friend?”

How often do you ask God to help you?

When you are discouraged do you ask: “Can You help me?”
When you are sad do you ask: “Can You help me?”
When you are lonely do you ask: “Can You help me?”
When you are afraid do you ask: “Can You help me?”
When you are angry do you ask: “Can You help me?”
When you are having a hard time forgiving do you ask: “Can you help me?”

God never sighs in frustration and says, “What is it now.” He waits patiently for us to turn to him, and always knows what to do.

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 04:46:00 +0000

Here's a thought for 2012 I liked:

Don't constantly be worrying about everything that goes on around you. That's my job.
Love, Jesus

On Eagle's Wings

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 17:21:00 +0000

My children ran up the steep path, unaware mom was left behind. Their shouts of "I'll beat you to the top!" filtered down. I sat on the large rock, my head on my arms, tears running down my face.

The park, rich with multi-colored azalea bushes and dignified shade trees, was our favorite place to picnic and explore. My children and I hadn't visited in a long time because chemotherapy, radiation and two surgeries filled my calendar.

Treatment had finally ended and I wanted nothing more than normal life again. Except I was exhausted. Things that once came easy seemed impossible. Like climbing the steep, rocky path to the top of the hill. I used to run up those rocks, laughing with my children. But now I could only walk part of the way up. My stamina dipped below zero.

As I sat on the rocks, I asked God: Will life ever be the same? Will I ever be the same?

This week I celebrate 20 years as a cancer survivor. It hardly seems possible! My young children are grown and I'm a grandma to three beautiful grandbabies!

Looking back, advanced-stage breast cancer had robbed me of much. Certainty of my future. My children's security. For a time, my health.

But it didn't rob me of my faith. When I picture that moment I don't see a young mom sitting alone on the rocks; I see God holding her tight.

There are times when our strength isn't enough, when our wings feel molten and heavy. Those are the times God reminds us to rely on Him. Maybe I couldn't walk up the steep path, but I could find renewed emotional strength as I trusted God.

God's promise through Isaiah in our verse above was that when we are weary, we'll soar like eagles. How is that even possible? The underlying promise is that our wings will be lifted and the wind will catch underneath. It's not our strength that causes us to soar, but He lifts you and me up and out of our weary places—in His might.

It took months before I recovered fully and could run up the trail. But the path I learned to follow most closely during that time was into the pages of His Word where encouragement filled this embattled mom with hope. After two major surgeries, chemotherapy, and radiation, I wasn't strong enough physically to do anything on my own, but I found spiritual strength in the pages of God's promises. I journaled my thoughts. I depended on God to give me energy when I felt weak. And I celebrated the smallest of victories even when they didn't seem like much.

When I look back on the pages of that journal, I don't see a young mom with cancer, but a woman of faith putting her trust in God during a difficult time.

Are you exhausted today? Do you feel faint? You aren't alone. You can trust Him to lift your wings, to give you new strength and power, as you depend on Him each day.

T. Suzanne Eller

Christmas Day in the Morning

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 19:04:00 +0000

He woke suddenly and completely. It was four o'clock, the hour at which his father had always called him to get up and help with the milking. Strange how the habits of his youth clung to him still! Fifty years ago, and his father had been dead for thirty years, and yet he waked at four o'clock in the morning. He had trained himself to turn over and go to sleep, but this morning it was Christmas, he did not try to sleep.

Why did he feel so awake tonight? He slipped back in time, as he did so easily nowadays. He was fifteen years old and still on his father's farm. He loved his father. He had not known it until one day a few days before Christmas, when he had overheard what his father was saying to his mother.

"Mary, I hate to call Rob in the mornings. He's growing so fast and he needs his sleep. If you could see how he sleeps when I go in to wake him up! I wish I could manage alone."

"Well, you can't, Adam." His mother's voice was brisk. "Besides, he isn't a child anymore. It's time he tok his turn."

"Yes," his father said slowly. "But I sure do hate to wake him."

When he heard these words, something in him spoke: his father loved him! He had never thought of that before, taking for granted the tie of their blood. Neither his father nor his mother talked about loving their children--they had no time for such things. There was always so much to do on the farm.

Now that he knew his father loved him, there would be no loitering in the mornings and having to be called again. He got up after that, stumbling blindly in his sleep, and pulled on his clothes, his eyes shut, but he got up.

And then on the night before Christmas, that year when he was fifteen, he lay for a few minutes thinking about the next day. They were poor, and most of the excitement was in the turkey they had raised themselves and mince pies his mother made. His sisters sewed presents and his mother and father always bought him something he needed, not only a warm jacket, maybe, but something more, such as a book. And he saved and bought them each something, too.

He wished, that Christmas when he was fifteen, he had a better present for his father. As usual he had gone to the ten-cent store and bought a tie. It had semed nice enough until he lay thinking the night before Christmas. He looked out of his attic window, the stars were bright.

"Dad," he had once asked when he was a little boy, "What is a stable?"

"It's just a barn," his father had replied, "like ours."

Then Jesus had been born in a barn, and to a barn the shepherds had come...

The thought struck him like a silver dagger. Why should he not give his father a special gift too, out there in the barn? He could get up early, earlier than four o'clock, and he could creep into the barn and get all the milking done. He'd do it alone, milk and clean up, and then when his father went in to start the milking he'd see it all done. And he would know who had done it. He laughed to himself as he gazed at the stars. It was what he would do, and he musn't sleep too sound.

He must have waked twenty times, scratching a match to look each time to look at his old watch -- midnight, and half past one, and then two o'clock.

At a quarter to three he got up and put on his clothes. He crept downstairs, careful of the creaky boards, and let himself out. The cows looked at him, sleepy and surprised. It was early for them, too.

He had never milked all alone before, but it seemed almost easy. He kept thinking about his father's surprise. His father would come in and get him, saying that he would get things started while Rob was getting dressed. He'd go to the barn, open the door, and then he'd go get the two big empty milk cans. But they wouldn't be waiting or empty, they'd be standing in the milk-house, filled.

"What the--," he could hear his father exclaiming.

He smiled and milked steadily, two strong streams rushing into the pail, frothing and fragrant.

The task went more easily than he had ever known it to go before. Milking for once was not a chore. It was something else, a gift to his father who loved him. He finished, the two milk cans were full, and he covered them and closed the milk-house door carefully, making sure of the latch.

Back in his room he had only a minute to pull off his clothes in the darkness and jump into bed, for he heard his father up. He put the covers over his head to silence his quick breathing. The door opened.

"Rob!" His father called. "We have to get up, son, even if it is Christmas."

"Aw-right," he said sleepily.

The door closed and he lay still, laughing to himself. In just a few minutes his father would know. His dancing heart was ready to jump from his body.

The minutes were endless -- ten, fifteen, he did not know how many -- and he heard his father's footsteps again. The door opened and he lay still.

"Rob!"

"Yes, Dad--"

His father was laughing, a queer sobbing sort of laugh.

"Thought you'd fool me, did you?" His father was standing by his bed, feeling for him, pulling away the cover.

"It's for Christmas, Dad!"

He found his father and clutched him in a great hug. He felt his father's arms go around him. It was dark and they could not see each other's faces.

"Son, I thank you. Nobody ever did a nicer thing--"

"Oh, Dad, I want you to know -- I do want to be good!" The words broke from him of their own will. He did not know what to say. His heart was bursting with love.

He got up and pulled on his clothes again and they went down to the Christmas tree. Oh what a Christmas, and how his heart had nearly burst again with shyness and pride as his father told his mother and made the younger children listen about how he, Rob, had got up all by himself.

"The best Christmas gift I ever had, and I'll remember it, son every year on Christmas morning, so long as I live."

They had both remembered it, and now that his father was dead, he remembered it alone: that blessed Christmas dawn when, alone with the cows in the barn, he had made his first gift of true love.

This Christmas he wanted to write a card to his wife and tell her how much he loved her, it had been a long time since he had really told her, although he loved her in a very special way, much more than he ever had when they were young. He had been fortunate that she had loved him. Ah, that was the true joy of life, the ability to love. Love was still alive in him, it still was.

It occured to him suddenly that it was alive because long ago it had been born in him when he knew his father loved him. That was it: Love alone could awaken love. And he could give the gift again and again. This morning, this blessed Christmas morning, he would give it to his beloved wife. He could write it down in a letter for her to read and keep forever. He went to his desk and began his love letter to his wife: My dearest love...

Such a happy, happy Christmas!

THE END
...By Pearl S. Buck

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 05:01:00 +0000

Congratulations, Tabathia is the winner of my Amazon gift card giveaway! Merry Christmas!!!

Being Rich

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 17:44:00 +0000

We prowled through the second hand bookstore, the day after Christmas, just my husband, Louie, our daughters, Jenny and Helen, and me. This was a precious time for us, because we would be splitting up as a family, again, in just a couple of days.

It had been a tough eight months since my husband had retired from the Navy. As plotters and planners, we had manipulated the "military system," while on active duty, as much as we could, trying to prevent a long, dreaded absence from one another. Now, here we were, retired, and we were eight months into our longest separation.

When my husband retired, we discovered that the only job available for him was in the city of Norfolk, Virginia. Our dream was to live out the rest of our lives in the mountains of southwestern Virginia, six and a half hours away. My health had gotten so bad, that it was impossible for me to stay with Louie in the city. We had settled for a separation, praying that a job would become available in the beautiful region that we love.

So, there we were, delaying the inevitable, passing time in a second hand bookstore, before the girls and I headed back to southwest Virginia. We were as broke as we'd ever been, supporting two households; yet we were grateful to be together, and we seized every opportunity for extra hugs, shared daydreams and laughter.

There was only one other person in the bookstore, besides the proprietor, a lovely, well-dressed, woman, about my age. I noticed her clothes, her shoes, and her expensive handbag, and I wondered what it would be like, to be rich enough to walk into a bookstore and have the money to buy any book my heart desired. But we were having so much fun, that I quickly forgot the woman.

We joked as we continued our treasure hunt, clutching our spending money of five dollars apiece, all hoping to be the first to find the oldest, least expensive book. It was a bittersweet excursion. Frequently Louie and I would brush past one another, finding excuses to touch or to give on another's hand an extra squeeze.

Jenny remembered, that there was an ATM machine, not far from the bookstore, and she decided that she needed another twenty dollars that she had squirreled away.

"No fair!" I cried, laughing. "The rest of us can only spend five dollars, and here you're going to have twenty-five dollars?!"

We all laughed, and we began to tease Jenny, mercilessly, but she was able to convince her Dad that she must have the $20, in order to get that irresistible book.

"Come on, Jenny," Louie laughed. "I'll drive you to the ATM."

Then we did another round of hugging and kissing, none of us wanting to be apart for even a few minutes.

Soon Louie and I would be saying "good-bye." We couldn't resist the opportunity to assure one another of our love, and our faith that our separation would soon come to an end. It must have been a curious ballet, this demonstrative family scene, but we were oblivious to what others might think.

Military families seem to fall into two categories: those who look for affectionate opportunities, and those who avoid close contact, because "good-byes" are painful. I have to admit that we're a pretty "huggy-kissy" family, so unmindful of anyone else, we continued to give kisses and hugs all around. In our military career, we had become painfully aware, that anything can happen during even the briefest separation. But now, as I look back, I realize how odd me must have looked.

Finally, in between another hug and kiss, I saw the perfect book for me! It was one hundred years old, and it was on my favorite time period, the Middle Ages. Oh, how I wanted that book! I quickly checked the inside cover for the price, and my heart fell. It was twenty-five dollars! We just didn't have it. I looked up at Louie, already knowing the answer.

He must have wanted me to have that book. I could see the pain in his eyes. Louie reached out and gave me an extra hug. I understood his "honey, we just can't afford it" message. I leaned into his sheltering arms, and I saw that the well-dressed lady was also touching the book that I wanted. Ah well, let her have it. I gave Louie and extra hug, and half serious, I murmured, as my eyes locked with hers.

"Oooohh, I wish I were rich!"

"It looks to me, as though you already are," she said with a smile.

There was a pause that stretched through eternity, and my heart filled with comprehension. I looked up at my husband, and I gazed at my daughters, wrapped as we were in the arms of love, and I knew it. I was rich. Very rich. I quickly turned to thank the woman for her gentle reminder, but she was gone!

Who was she? I'll never know. But what she did for my outlook, was nothing short of miraculous. I will never forget her. Where did she disappear to? I can't say.

Strangely enough, within days, my husband received a job offer in southwestern Virginia. In less than two weeks, he was hired and we moved to the place that is now our home. The job notice had been sent out two days before Christmas, even as we hugged and kissed and wished in that bookstore. Even as I heard the words, "It looks to me, as though you already are," events were already in motion to unite our family.

I am quite certain that it was all part of God's plan, to remind me of what being "rich" is all about... faith, love, family, and friends. And when I get to heaven, I will not be at all surprised to discover that God sent an angel to a second hand bookstore, in Norfolk, Virginia, to give me his richest message, the day after Christmas, many years ago.

© Jaye Lewis, 2003 -- Used with permission from auth

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 07:01:00 +0000

This Gift Card Giveaway Hop is just in time to help with last minute holiday shopping, and it runs from Friday, December 9th to Tuesday, December 13th!

Over 100 Blogs are each hosting a giveaway for a gift card.

MY GIVEAWAY!
One lucky winner will be emailed a gift card for a surprise $ at Amazon.com

To Enter:

Follow me via GFC - Google Friends Connect or Networked blogs on Facebook

For up to 2 additional entries:

Share this Giveaway on Twitter, Facebook, with a friend, on your blog, etc.
Leave me a comment about a favorite Christmas gift you've received

Hop to another blog on the list and enter their giveaway! Good luck!

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 07:53:00 +0000

Faithful, Fit and Fabulous by Connie E. Sokol

According to Connie, when we're unhappy, we've likely looked in the wrong direction--sideways rather then upward. In this competitive world, she says, we women can be our own worst enemies.

In her new inspiring book, she encourages you to get Back to Basics, and transform your life in just eight weeks by focusing on creating a personal life plan, setting goals and rewarding your efforts along the way.

Faithful, Fit and Fabulous is filled with humor and "I can relate" life experiences. It's the ideal life boost--no guilt, no feeling overwhelmed and no reaching for that pan of brownies. She shares gospel principles from scriptures, priceless gems from general conference addresses and much more along with ways to readily apply them in your busy daily life and shows us how to focus on priorities while enjoying the process.

So many of us reach for the moon and two days later fail and are shoveling down cake. Instead she says, be a B+ girl. Shoot for 80-85% to start then work towards refining it higher. Be realistic, be wise...don't be overwhelmed. Build "line upon line, precept upon precept" and you will create a joyful and purposeful life.

Visit her website, 8basics.com to learn more or ask her questions. Find her book here, you'll be glad you did!

Christmas is Christ

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 15:08:00 +0000

Karen reminds us how important it is as a mother to teach our children what Christmas is really about:

"Tell me about the shepherds again Mommy. It is my favoritist part!" three-year-old Mitch pleaded. It was the week after Thanksgiving and we had started our nightly December ritual: reading the Christmas tale chosen from a basket perched beneath our twinkling tree.

We'd collected dozens of colorful storybooks that illustrated the account of the nativity story. Mitch's favorite part was always the shepherds. Ever since his chubby little fingers could grasp the pasteboard pages, he'd pause and stare at the portraits of rough and tumble men wandering in the wilderness, watching over their flocks by night.

My son's fascination prompted me to dig further into the lessons I could learn from the shepherds.

That first Christmas night these humble guys, often looked down on by society, were busy going about their daily tasks: feeding and watering; prodding and protecting; nursing the injured and encouraging the timid. They were also watching out for hungry predators that might harm their precious lambs.

When the shepherds heard the heavenly chorus, their lives changed forever. Yet the sudden interruption may have been a strange inconvenience at first. After all, sheep need constant supervision. Taking their eyes off them for even a moment might have been detrimental.

Little did these shepherds know they were about to encounter the Great Shepherd, secretly wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.

I think women, especially those with children in our lives, can sometimes feel like modern-day shepherds. We certainly do our fair share of feeding, watering, prodding, protecting, nursing, encouraging and watching out for anything that might harm our lambs. At times our job is also dirty, and sometimes unpleasant, with very few "atta girls" or social recognition. Yet it is also significant.

Even moms raising kids who are almost ready to leave the fold still have important work to do.

Our children are never too old to be reminded of Christmas's core message: Christ came to earth to offer hope and new life for all who turn their hearts to Him. Perhaps we begin with storybook illustrations and later transition to opportunities to live the message.

As our own kids have grown, it's been a thrill to join them in reaching out at Christmas with the good news of Christ. Helping in soup kitchens or homeless shelters. Adopting a Christmastime family we serve with food or gifts. Shoveling driveways or assisting a widow with the tasks of the season.

What else could we do to live out the timeless message; the one my little lamb enjoyed hearing year after year?

In the midst of this busy month, let's stop. Put down the tinsel; discontinue the decorating. Turn down the Christmas carols and get alone to be silent.

Let's allow God to interrupt our daily routine to introduce us once again to our Good Shepherd. Let's pause, ponder, and like the shepherds, tell those in our family about this remarkable Christ-child. Then together we can help echo to others this enduring hope...

Karen Ehman

"Praying it Forward"

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 00:17:00 +0000

I could relate to this article by Dick Staub. I believe sometimes praying is all we can do for someone else, but prayer changes things. I've repeatedly felt the prayers of others in my life and it is powerful.

"...I have a confession to make. I love to pray... for strangers.

I don't know when my praying for strangers started. Perhaps it was when an ambulance left our neighborhood and I realized that some hapless soul trapped in a failing body needed medical assistance that I was incapable of offering. So I offered what I could: a prayer.

During visits to Disneyland, I've seen families erupt into anger and frustration and I've prayed for relief from whatever pressures they brought into the happiest place on earth.

On a flight, I spotted another passenger just ahead of me wiping a tear from an eye, and I've asked God to help them remember that some day "God will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away."

I've watched the news and seen a fiancé whose partner was washed away in a tsunami, or a mother whose child is waiting for a kidney transplant, or an elderly person about to lose their home. I've prayed for them as if they are my own family.

People often feel alone in this world, as if God is absent or silent or both. Maybe it's because we are failing to love as we should by being with people and praying for them.

The idea of "paying it forward" has become practically a cliché, but in a world so filled with suffering and pain, there still seems to be more than enough room for the idea of "praying it forward."

Prayer, of course, should never replace hands-on help and assistance for friends or stranger in need. But think about it: what would happen if every person on our planet said one heartfelt prayer for one stranger they encountered each day?

I can't know for sure if praying for strangers is good for them, but I can tell you that it's been good for me. Once you take seriously Jesus' commandment to love one another, you find yourself connected to the whole of humanity. And when I do something to relieve someone else's suffering, I relieve some of my own."

Dick Staub is author of the just-released About You: Fully Human and Fully Alive and the host of The Kindlings Muse (www.thekindlings.com). His blog can be read at www.dickstaub.com.

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 19:28:00 +0000

I believe in miracles

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 04:33:00 +0000

I believe in miracles! When life is the darkest, the light is closer than we think.

When we are in the midst of a crisis and are praying hard for help, why are the Heavens sometimes silent? Where is God? Should we feel sorry for ourselves? Or get angry and think God has abandoned us?

What we do is critical.

God loves us and he's always listening. Sometimes he pulls back to test our faith. Will we believe in him and still stand strong no matter what? Will we continue to trust him?

When we don't give up, the miracles happen and the blessings start to come.

"O God, where art thou? And where is the pavilion that covereth thy hiding place?

How long shall they hand be stayed, and thine eye...behold from the eternal heavens the wrongs of thy people and of thy servants, and thine ear be penetrated with their cries?

My son, [daughter] peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment; And then if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high:" D&C 121

We all have so much to be thankful for...

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 05:16:00 +0000

Be Happy (A True Story)

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 13:24:00 +0000

Around twenty years ago I was living in Seattle and going through hard times. I could not find satisfying work and I found this especially difficult as I had a lot of experience and a Masters degree.

To my shame I was driving a school bus to make ends meet and living with friends. I had lost my apartment. I had been through five interviews with a company and one day between bus runs they called to say I did not get the job. I went to the bus barn like a zombie of disappointment.

Later that afternoon, while doing my rounds through a quiet suburban neighborhood I had an inner wave - like a primal scream - arise from deep inside me and I thought "Why has my life become so hard?" "Give me a sign, I asked... a physical sign - not some inner voice type of thing."

Immediately after this internal scream I pulled the bus over to drop off a little girl and as she passed she handed me an earring saying I should keep it in case somebody claimed it. The earring was stamped metal, painted black and said 'BE HAPPY'.

At first I got angry - yeah, yeah, I thought. Then it hit me. I had been putting all of my energies into what was wrong with my life rather than what was right! I decided then and there to make a list of 50 things I was grateful for.

At first it was hard, then it got easier. One day I decided to up it to 75. That night there was a phone call for me at my friend's house from a lady who was a manager at a large hospital. About a year earlier I had submitted a syllabus to a community college to teach a course on stress management. (Yup, you heard me. ;-) She asked me if I would do a one-day seminar for 200 hospital workers. I said yes and got the job.

My day with the hospital workers went very well. I got a standing ovation and many more days of work. To this day I KNOW that it was because I changed my attitude to gratitude.

Incidentally, the day after I found the earring the girl asked me if anyone had claimed it. I told her no and she said "I guess it was meant for you then."

I spent the next year conducting training workshops all around the Seattle area and then decided to risk everything and go back to Scotland where I had lived previously. I closed my one man business, bought a plane ticket and got a six month visa from immigration. One month later I met my wonderful English wife and best friend of 15 years now. We live in a small beautiful cottage, two miles from a paved road in the highlands of Scotland.

'THE ONLY ATTITUDE IS GRATITUDE' has been my motto for years now and yes, it completely changed my life.--Davy Jones

A Divine Interruption

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 01:52:00 +0000

Author and motivational Christian speaker, Wendy Blight, shared some thoughts that inspired me to look at the biblical story of Jonah differently and understand how it applied to me personally, today. I hope her words help you, too.

"I couldn't wait to spend the whole afternoon alone. My husband was mountain biking and both of our children had plans for the day. All I could think of was the fact I would spend hours by myself...no one asking for anything...no one needing me. It was going to be a glorious day!

But then it happened. My daughter came bursting through the door saying she forgot she had a project due the next day. She needed me to take her here and rush there to purchase items she needed to complete it. Soon it became our project.

Frustration rose up within me with every step of the way. My words were few and short. I was clearly irritated and did not hesitate showing it. She was interrupting my plans.

Jonah experienced an unwelcome interruption, too. Jonah was a prophet to the Northern Kingdom of Israel. He was popular, successful, and highly respected. Then one day it happened.God interrupted his life of comfort with a command to leave his beloved country and people to preach—not to God's people—but to one of their most hated enemies.

God's call would take Jonah's life down a completely different path than the life he currently enjoyed. Jonah felt angry and frustrated...the same way I did when my daughter came bursting into the house...the same way we all do when an interruption disrupts our lives whether it be an adult child coming back home to live, an unexpected pregnancy, a job loss, a startling diagnosis or an unforeseen move.

Jonah was frustrated to such an extreme that he not only disobeyed God's instruction, he ran in the opposite direction to get as far away from God as he could.

If only Jonah could have seen the end of the story. He would have seen that this "divine" interruption was an invitation to participate in one of the more miraculous events in history, an opportunity to be part of God's eternal plan for His Kingdom.

Eventually Jonah obeyed, and God used him to bring about the revival of an entire nation of people. Jonah spoke only eight words, "Forty days from now Nineveh will be destroyed" (Jonah 3:4 NLT), and within 24 hours the people of Nineveh repented and turned from their wickedness! Some scholars believe this to be the greatest revival in human history.

Jonah's story helps me redefine "interruptions." In fact, it has made me examine every interruption to see if God's hand is in it...if there is something divine in which He is inviting me to partake.

Just a few weeks ago, we took our daughter to college. I would give anything to have that divine interruption back...to have an entire afternoon to shop with her and spend time working on a project together."

How might Jonah's story help you see the interruptions in your life differently?

Wendy is a survivor of a violent crime. She has endured unimaginable heartache and pain. Although fear held her captive for over a decade, her story is now an amazing testimony of God’s strength in our weakness, His hope in our hopelessness,and His healing in our brokenness.

Hidden Joy in a Dark Corner: The Transforming Power of God’s Story

One week after Wendy’s college graduation, she walked into her apartment to find a masked man holding a knife and waiting for her at the top of the stairs. The man spent the afternoon physically and sexually assaulting Wendy, leaving her changed forever. After this terrifying experience, she lived for years cocooned in a prison of fear, despair, and hopelessness. Finally, after years of searching and believing she had nowhere else to turn, she fell on her knees before God and poured out her tears, anger, and questions to Him. Wendy’s story is one of transformation from trauma to rebirth through the power of the Word of God.

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 13:23:00 +0000

Who can we help today by taking our eyes off ourselves and putting them on someone else?

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 13:15:00 +0000

Tall Tale from Vienna Graveyard

Chris Cross, a tourist in Vienna, is going passed Vienna's Zentralfriedhof graveyard on October 31st. All of a sudden he hears some music. No one is around, so he starts searching for the source. Chris finally locates the origin and finds it is coming from a grave with a headstone that reads: Ludwig van Beethoven, 1770-1827. Then he realizes that the music is the Ninth Symphony and it is being played backward! Puzzled, he leaves the graveyard and persuades Tim Burr, a friend, to return with him.

By the time they arrive back at the grave, the music has changed. This time it is the Seventh Symphony, but like the previous piece, it is being played backward. Curious, the men agree to consult a music scholar. When they return with the expert, the Fifth Symphony is playing, again backward. The expert notices that the symphonies are being played in the reverse order in which they were composed, the 9th, then the 7th, then the 5th. By the next day the word has spread and a throng has gathered around the grave. They are all listening to the Second Symphony being played backward.

Just then the graveyard's caretaker ambles up to the group. Someone in the crowd asks him if he has an explanation for the music.

"Oh, it's nothing to worry about" says the caretaker. "He's just decomposing!"

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 09:47:00 +0000

Tune in to my interview with Candace Salima, livestream on her show "Turning the Tide" as I talk about my experiences in overcoming the heartache of pornography and its effects on a marriage and family

noreply@blogger.com (Diony) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 12:49:00 +0000

I'm not a very good writer, but I'm an excellent rewriter. ~ James Michener