Tap., Apr., 2021, thru Nov., 2022

Welcome to my most personal collection!

Every time I look back over my life, I see the wonderful,

intricate patterns that God has woven out of the things

that have happened along the way. The images of those

memories stretch out behind me like a marvelous,

complex tapestry.

Come along with me as I take a trip down memory lane

and review the stories tied to those images.

If you would like to comment on one of the stories you

read here, there is an email form at the bottom of the

page for you to do so.

I look forward to hearing from you!

As with everything I write, I lift these stories up . . .

To His Glory . . . BJ

1st Thessalonians 5:18

Thanks - in Everything

1 Thessalonians 5:18

“In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God

in Christ Jesus concerning you."

As is often the case in Scripture, I find significance in phrasing, spacing,

Capitalization, and punctuation. This verse is no different. Note that

Paul doesn't use the word "everything". He emphasizes differently

than that . . . He says {emphasis added} "every thing". In other words,

give thanks --- in each and every thing in your life. In the process, you

may even discover some hidden treasure --- some precious gift --- tucked

inside some of the darkest moments you've ever encountered.

To His Glory . . . BJ

My First Crusade

MY FIRST CRUSADE

October 14, 2022

In September, my high school graduating class celebrated our 50th reunion. Although I wasn’t able to travel there to attend the festivities, memories have still flooded my mind. I thought I’d share them here, as I get them written out . . .

That was the year I discovered the ‘crusader’ side of my nature. Technically, it showed itself near the end of my junior year. Boys had been taking Home Economics classes since we began 10th grade, but girls had not yet been allowed to take any of the shop classes. Since many of us were learning to drive, I thought it would be great if we could take Auto Shop. If we were going to drive cars, shouldn’t we know how to care for them?

Determined to get this change implemented, I spoke to the Principal. He said the Vice Principal was in charge of such decisions. Although he could see the value of my idea, the Vice Principal said some aspects of curriculum had to be approved by the school Registrar. By the time I reached his office, a few days after my quest began, I had already garnered some encouragement for my idea.

However, the Registrar told me that the Auto Shop teacher would have to give his okay for girls to participate in his class. So, off to the Auto Shop I went. The instructor politely told me, “I don’t have an objection to it, but I need approval from the head of the Industrial Arts Department before I can make such a change.”

Encouraged by each step closer that I took, I went to talk to the Department Head at my next opportunity. He wanted confirmation from the Registrar that this change met with the school’s approval. He also wanted the instructor to confirm his approval. When I told the Registrar of my progress, he seemed encouraged. “Okay,” he said. Make sure the instructor approves. If he says ‘yes’, we’ll put it on the Fall class schedule.”

By this time, I had been on this self-imposed adventure for about two weeks. All of the meetings were taking place during the only free time I had in my schedule: lunch hour. Excited to have gotten so far in my mission, I nearly ran to the Auto Shop class for one more meeting with the instructor. Almost bursting at the seams with excitement, I told him the results of all the meetings I’d had with all the people I’d spoken to so far. It was now up to him.

Listening attentively, he smiled when I finally reached the end of my report. “Well, you certainly have covered all the bases,” he smiled. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You get at least five girls to sign up for Auto Shop – so I can put them all in one class – and I will put Girls’ Auto Shop on the Fall schedule.”

When I reported back to the Principal and the Registrar, they commended me for my efforts. Satisfied that I had met all requirements for adding a new class to the schedule, they agreed to help spread the word. A day or two later, school was adjourned for Spring Break. When we returned, it was announced that the school was taking sign-ups for Girls’ Auto Shop.

By the last day of school, six girls had signed up for that class. So, that Fall, for the first time in the school’s 63-year history, girls were allowed to take Auto Shop. Our Senior Yearbook has some wonderful photos from that class. It is my understanding that, during the next couple of years after we graduated, girls were also being allowed to enroll in all other Shop classes.

My first crusade had been a success, and I was thrilled!

Often, we are called by God to do something we don’t feel qualified for. Or something we’ve never done, and aren’t sure how to proceed. That’s okay. Whenever you feel the Lord urging you to do something new and different, trust Him! He knows what He’s doing, and He has a reason for asking you to do it. So . . . grab onto His hand and boldly forge ahead with whatever He’s asking you to do. He will help you succeed . . . and you won’t be sorry.

To His Glory . . . BJ

Psalm 62:8

Let the change happen.

Psalms 62:8

“Trust in him at all times; ye people, pour out your heart before him:

God is a refuge for us.”

As my spirit began undergoing a transformation last week, I felt the LORD

urging me to rest. This is often a challenge for me . . . but I can trust that

I am safe in His arms. My plans and dreams are safe with Him.

To His Glory . . . BJ

The Teacup

THE TEACUP

August 12, 2022

As I pull my favorite red mug from its special “hiding place”, I look at the guest who has joined me for tea today. “You see this cup? No one ever uses it but me, and I never put anything into it but tea . . .” As I prepare our tea and sit down, across from her, at the table, I share the story of its arrival into my home . . .

In the 1990’s, I was an avid tea drinker. Only occasionally did I have coffee. One year, it had been brought to my attention that tea came in a variety of flavors, and I told my husband of my desire to try some of them. When Mother’s Day came around that year, I was offered my chance.

My husband and sons went shopping together for my gift. He bought me an electric tea maker – similar to a drip-style coffee pot, but it poured the heated water into a white teapot. My boys chose a variety of flavored teas as their gift to me. My stepdaughter looked almost as surprised by these gifts as I did. I would discover why when I opened her gift to me.

A small, pale-colored basket was decorated with a handmade wrapping paper bow, which rested at the top of the basket’s handle. Inside the basket was an assortment of flavored teas, a small box of my favorite shortbread cookies, and a beautiful red mug with a floral pattern on it. As I cooed over the gifts, I noticed the two white, antique lady’s handkerchiefs which lined the basket. When I commented on them, Melanie told me their story.

“Those belonged to my Grandma Ege – my mom’s mom.”

I was speechless as goosebumps formed on my arms and neck. I knew how very close Melanie had been to her grandmother, who had passed away a few years prior. I was completely stunned that she wanted me to have these treasured mementos of a women she loved so much! Melanie’s heartfelt gesture told me I was truly loved and accepted as part of her father’s life . . . and that made her gift all the more special. The biggest surprise of all? Melanie had not consulted her dad about what he was getting me. The coordination of that “theme” could only have been orchestrated by God.

To this day – some 26 years later, I still keep an assortment of teas in that little basket. The wrapping paper bow still adorns its handle. And Vina’s delicate white hankies still line the bottom of it. The story of where they came from is one of my favorite stories to share.

On the walls of our kitchen, coffee mugs hang on hooks or screws. Guests are invited to choose whichever cup they’d like when they join us for coffee or tea. Still, after all these years, that red flowered mug stays tucked away in a cupboard. I am still the only person who drinks from it; and the only thing I ever drink from it is tea.

It is a reminder of that long-ago Mother’s Day . . . and of a simple gift which filled my heart to overflowing. Melanie’s gift, and the way in which it was presented, told me of a love that was far greater than I could have ever imagined.

To His Glory . . . BJ

Proverbs 11:21

Happy Father's Day!!!

Proverbs 11:21b

“. . . but the seed of the righteous shall be delivered.”

To His Glory . . . BJ

A HOME OF MY OWN

May 1, 2022

May first marks the 20th anniversary of the day I moved into my house in Rapid City. As I celebrate this landmark, I am mindful of the miracle it is . . .

When I first moved to South Dakota, I found a house to rent. After two years, I decided I wanted to buy one, so my money could go into something of my own. Even though I would have been happy with a ‘fixer-upper’, the challenges to that dream were still daunting. I had filed bankruptcy just before moving here two years earlier. I didn’t have a job, and my monthly income was less than $1200 a month. Nevertheless, I was determined.

Every realtor I spoke to would run the numbers and tell me I might qualify for a $35,000 house. Finally, I contacted a friend who was a mortgage broker. Knowing my situation, Jack said he’d see what he could do. When he called me back a few days later, he said there was only one option available to me. It was called a Governor’s House. Puzzled, I asked for details.

This special program was developed for folks with low incomes. If you met the income requirements, you had to find a lot somewhere within the state. You also needed to have the foundation and utilities prepared. Then, they would deliver the house. You were expected to occupy the house, as your primary residence, for three years.

Yes, you are understanding correctly: this program would put me into a brand new house! Qualifying for it gave me access to a construction loan to cover expenses, which would be monitored by a title company. They would distribute the funds as they were needed. We broke ground in December, 2001 – just over two years after I had first arrived in South Dakota.

Contractors had everything ready by early Spring, 2002. After the house arrived, there were porches to build and utilities to hook up. The basement walls had to be sheet rocked before my son and I could occupy the house. Finally, we passed our final inspection, and, on May 1, 2002, I turned the key on our brand new house.

For as long as I live, I will consider this house to be a miraculous gift from God. I was able to buy it, in spite of:

Being told, several times, that it would be very difficult for me to qualify for a mortgage loan;
Being a recent widow with a monthly income of $1140, and no job;
A really low credit score, thanks to a recent bankruptcy; and
Being told I would never find a lot in town for under $25,000. In reality, I found FIVE of them, and the one I chose was listed at $8,000 – and I found it “by accident”.

From the very first time I stepped onto this lot, I have felt at home here. I have felt safe, and I have felt at peace. So, as I celebrate 20 years in this wonderful home, I leave you with a thought I would like you to ponder.

There are times when all logical thought seems to prove that your hopes and dreams are impossible. That there is no way they can ever happen. Do NOT listen to that logic! We serve a God of impossible dreams . . . a God of breathtaking miracles and realized hopes . . . a God of realities beyond our wildest imaginings. Believe Him!

Thank you, Father, for 20 blessed years in the “house I couldn’t (and wouldn’t) ever have”!

To His Glory . . . BJ

A Home of My Own

Easter Message

Happy Easter, Everyone!!!

Jeremiah 29:11 (NIV)

“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’”

To His Glory . . . BJ

Never Too Late

IT'S NEVER TOO LATE

March 1, 2022

Many people SAY, “It’s never too late,” but my mother LIVED it. She quit school in ninth grade and went to work, to help her parents during the Great Depression. Divorced shortly before the birth of her fourth child, she boldly raised her children on her own.

She bought her first home when she was 47. Just over four years later, she went back to school and studied retail sales. She bought a used typewriter and taught herself to type. By age 52, she had earned her high school diploma. That winter, she treated herself to something special: a brand new winter coat – the first new one she had EVER owned.

Then, after three decades as a homemaker and stay-at-home mom, she began a career – her first ever – as a teacher’s aide. She worked passionately at that career for over 12 years, leaving a powerful impression on hundreds of second and third-grade minds. Later, as high schoolers, some of her former students would pop in to say hi to her when they came to pick up younger siblings from the elementary school.

At the age of 68, Mama sold her house and made another major change. This time, she moved across the country to live with my family and me. At the age of 74, with the help of my 14-year-old son, she learned how to use an electric, word-processing typewriter. When she was 83, she endured another cross-country move – when we relocated from Pennsylvania to South Dakota.

For all the years I knew her, Mama told me, “You can do anything you set your mind to.” I believe that statement with all my heart. The unspoken message that accompanied it was, "It's never too late." You see, in my family they weren’t just words. Mama lived them every single day of her life.

To His Glory . . . BJ

Marsha

MARSHA

February 1, 2022

In an episode of the TV series “The Brady Bunch”, Jan complains about Marsha’s easy popularity, “Marsha, Marsha, MARSHA!” There was a time when my mother could have uttered those words, with the same level of frustration. However, she would not have been griping about her sibling.

Mama’s frustration would have been with their milk cow, whose name just happened to be . . . Marsha. Mama used to tell of Marsha’s playful antics at milking time. Heading out to the pasture to bring Marsh in, Mom would get almost up to her, and Marsha would take off.

Up and down the sloped, fenced-in space they would go, over and over again, until Marsh would, eventually, tire of the game. Then, Mama could finally get a lead around her neck. Marsha may have found the whole thing very amusing, but Mama sure didn’t.

When the family moved into town, Marsha was left behind. Shortly after, the family dog disappeared. After much urging from my grandmother, they headed out to the old farm to look for him. “I’ll bet he’s there!” Grandma insisted. The new owner’s wife met them at the door.

“Am I glad to see you!” she exclaimed. “That dog showed up yesterday, and he won’t let my husband NEAR that poor cow! She hasn’t been milked since the dog got here.”

As the family gathered Spike to take him home, they understood why he had behaved that way. My mother had been the only person to ever milk Marsha. Trying to protect her, Spike wouldn’t allow a man to touch her.

Mama spoke often about the time in her life when Marsha was a part of the family. Whenever she did, a warm, soft smile would fill her face as she recalled all of those memories. Despite Marsha's frustrating antics - and the trouble caused by their well-meaning family dog - I could tell . . . this was a treasured collection of memories.

To His Glory . . . BJ

Great George

GREAT GEORGE

January 1, 2022

Throughout my childhood, my siblings and I knew my mom’s favorite breed of dog – a Saint Bernard. She loved their size and cuddly, long-haired appearance. I think she was, probably, also drawn to their reputation as rescuers. She often dreamed of owning one.

However, her tender heart would not allow her to get one of the gentle giants. We lived inside the city limits and had a fenced yard, but she said that wasn’t enough. “A dog that big needs lots of room to run,” she said. The year I was entering eighth grade, I found what I believed to be the perfect solution.

My friend Cindy and I had gone downtown one Saturday, to go to the library and wander through some stores. Strolling aimlessly through Penney’s Toyland, we spotted him. Standing on a high, angled shelf along one wall was a large, stuffed St. Bernard. Accurately colored to match the real thing, he even had a barrel around his neck – just like the avalanche-rescue dogs have. Perfect!

We checked the price and it was clear I couldn’t get him that day. Speaking to a clerk, we learned about layaway. I could pay a little at a time, while the store held onto my purchase. I could handle that! I could raise the money mowing lawns and babysitting, and get him out in time for Christmas. When the clerk finished totalling the cost, I owed $19.67. Cindy and I left the store, thrilled with our special discovery.

People are often astounded that I can recall the little details of this story, especially when I’m so sure of when it happened. For me, that’s always been the easiest part . . . for Christmas, 1967, the gift I bought my mother cost $19.67.

Christmas morning, I could barely contain my excitement, and was up at 4:30. I couldn’t wait to see Mama’s reaction when she got that box opened. When she did, she noticed a tag around his neck: “Hi! My name is Great George.” Mama loved George, and he had a place of honor in her room until her death 32 Christmases later.

To His Glory . . . BJ

Shipboard Shenanigns

SHIPBOARD SHENANIGANS

December 1, 2021

It isn’t hard to imagine how bored sailors must get during a long sea voyage. For the duration of the journey, their entire world is limited to the confines of the ship. Therefore, it’s not a big surprise that they often find - shall we say - unique ways to amuse themselves. As a sailor’s wife, I had the opportunity to hear some of those stories.

The way I understand it, one of the toughest times is when they are standing watch during the night . . . with mid-watch being the worst. Aboard ship, someone must be on duty, at key posts, 24 hours a day. Mid-watch is the time period between midnight and 4:00 a.m. As you might guess, that watch can be REALLY boring. To break the monotony, the men would think up pranks to play on one another.

Often, those pranks would involve the radio-phones that connect the various departments onboard. The rule is, those phones are to be used ONLY for ship’s business. For example: the engine room can relay a problem to the bridge; the electrical shop can coordinate a repair task with damage control, and so forth. The phones are NEVER to be used for personal conversations.

One particularly quiet night, boredom got the best of the crew. Electrical began making nuisance calls to the engine room. After several of these playful, hang-up calls, engineering had had enough. The next time the engine room phone rang, they answered, “Speak freak! It’s your nickel!”

The voice on the other end was stern and serious. “This is Commander Ives.” Shocked at hearing the Executive Officer’s voice, and knowing he could be in serious trouble, the young Petty Officer thought quickly. “Do you know who this is, Commander?” he asked tentatively.

“No,” came the Commander’s apprehensive response.

“Good!” With that, the young man hung up the phone.

On another long night, the boredom led to a wild-goose chase, aimed at an inexperienced sailor on his first voyage. Again, it is mid-watch. The chief engineer of the watch is performing maintenance on some of the equipment. Suddenly, he looks at the young, green sailor who’s assisting him. “Darn! I forgot I loaned the Fallopian Tube Puller to the Electrical shop yesterday. Will you go get it for me, please?”

Thrilled to be entrusted with an important task, the naive young man headed off on his quest (this story makes it obvious that everyone aboard has seen this stunt before). Electrical tells the young man that, once they had finished with it, they had loaned it to Damage Control (you see the trend here, right?).

For the next 45 minutes or so, this young man was sent all over the ship in search of the elusive “tool”. Harmless fun. Until . . . One department told him that the last time they had seen it, they had loaned it to Captain Hensley, who happened to be the Commanding Officer of the ship. This was where the plan went wrong!

The entire crew was aware that the C.O. suffered from insomnia at sea. There was a brief window, between 2:00 and 4:00 a.m., when he could actully get a little bit of sleep. When the young, uninformed sailor headed for the Captain’s quarters, it was 2:30 a.m. Yes, he did, indeed, awaken the Captain. To his credit, the now-wide-awake C.O. played along.

“I finished with it this afternoon, and sent it back to the engine room,” he told the young man calmly. While the tired, clueless petty officer made his way back to engineering, the Captain called the Engine Room. He told them what had happened, and what he had told the young man. He also made it clear that he would tolerate no more such interruptions. What else could they say? "Yes sir!" was enough.

I’m sure I heard other stories, but these two stand out in my mind. With them, I share a word of advice . . . Enjoy your life. Notice the little things that make every day special and worth remembering. Make the most out of each and every moment. You just might discover some cherished, favorite stories hiding within those moments.

To His Glory . . . BJ

The Upholstery Uprising

THE UPHOLSTERY UPRISING

November 1, 2021

When I was a little girl, I practically idolized my older brother, Jim. At nine years older, he seemed so grown up to me. Whenever I could, I would follow him around and watch his exploits. Jim was almost always tinkering with a car. I never really understood what he was doing, but I loved to watch.

One time, he had an old, green car up on cement blocks near the garage. He was rebuilding the engine. One day, my younger brother, Ed and I were playing with two neighbor kids when we had an idea. Looking at that old car, we decided it would be fun to pretend it was a taxicab. We could take turns being the driver, while the others rode in the back. All we needed was Jim’s permission.

Excitedly, we scampered into the house to find Jim. After listening to our animated description of what we wanted to do, he drew in a long, slow breath. Thoughtfully, he began, “Well . . . I suppose it’ll be all right. BUT, you be careful not to get that upholstery dirty!” he finished sternly.

"Oh, we won’t. We promise! Thanks, Jim!” and off we went.

We scurried out to the car and opened the door. This was gonna be GREAT! Both seats were intact, carefully covered with white Naugahyde upholstery. James had bought it recently and had covered the whole interior of the car. Door panels, seats, even the headliner. All in this luxurious looking white Naugahyde. He had meticulously done all the work himself. It was beautiful!

As we peered into the car, our hearts fell. The headliner was unattached, from the rear window to just behind the front seat. The loose portion hung straight down, almost to the floor. In order to climb in and out of the back seat, we would have to pull the loosened material aside. We were certain that, in the act of getting in and out of the back seat repeatedly, we would definitely get that beautiful white headliner dirty.

“What’re we gonna do?” someone asked. “If we get it dirty, Jim will kill us!” As we stood there puzzling over our problem, an idea struck me . . . one that would only make sense to a 10-year-old. “What’s your idea?” Ricky asked.

“Let’s cut it off – right at the spot where it hangs down. That way, it won’t be in our way, and we can’t get it dirty. Then, we won’t get in trouble!” Proud of our ingenuity, we all agreed that it was a terrific idea. I went after the scissors, and we executed my plan. Carefully, we folded the precious material and placed it in the back window-deck, where we wouldn’t be touching it. No way we would get it dirty back there!

Happily, we began using the old car as our make-believe taxicab. What fun! When we finally became bored with that game, we moved on to something else. Before closing the doors, we checked the seats and door panels thoroughly. Satisfied that we hadn’t gotten dirt anywhere, we closed the door and went on to something else.

Later, Jim approached Ed and me with fiery anger in his 19-year-old eyes. “What did you DO to my car!?!” he raged. “I told you to be CAREFUL!” Stammering and crying, I explained what we had done and why. When I had finished explaining, I was surprised to find that he wasn’t consoled by that.

“I can’t believe this!” he yelled. “350 dollars’ worth of Naugahyde, ruined! Don’t EVER ask to play in that car again!”

With that, we were dismissed. We didn’t really understand, at the time, why Jim was so angry. After all, we were just kids. What did we know about expensive upholstery? However, we did realize we were wrong – even if we didn’t understand why. When the opportunity arose, we apologized to Jim. Eventually, he forgave us, but the damage was done. There was no way to restore his headliner to its original form.

Over the years, of course, we did begin to understand what the big deal was. The incident became a favorite story of childhood mishaps . . . a standing joke between us and Jim. To his dying day, he never let us forget what we had done . . . and teased us about it whenever the subject came up.

To His Glory . . . BJ

Critter Capers

CRITTER CAPERS

October 1, 2021

The old farmhouse where we raised our boys was tucked into a rural area of Pennsylvania’s Northern Pocono Mountains. The seven-acre property, upon which it stood, nestled up to the State Game Lands. With lots of trees, and a creek winding through it, the property attracted a wide variety of wildlife.

Flocks of turkeys and families of deer were frequent visitors to our spacious yard. Assorted small creatures took up residence in various locations near the house. Among them were several grey squirrels and some chipmunks.

My mother – who lived there with us – discovered one chipmunk near the creek across from our back door. Every day, she would go over there at around 3:00 p.m. with a treat for him. If she showed up a few minutes after 3:00, he was already there, waiting for her. She would put the treat in the palm of her left hand and place her right hand perpendicular to it and slightly below. Chipper – as she called him – would climb into her empty right hand. There, he would sit and eat the treat she was holding in her left hand.

The squirrels had also figured out that Mama was key in seeing that they were fed. We had mounted a bird feeder just outside the window near her favorite chair. If the feeder was empty, there was one squirrel who had it all figured out. He would jump from the bird feeder to the windowsill and look into the house. He would stay there until Mama sent someone to refill the bird feeder.

There was one squirrel caper, however, that was – by far – the most amusing. We kept a five-gallon bucket of bird food on the screened-in porch. We rarely snapped the lid down tight because it was too hard to pry open again. The squirrels had figured out the food was there and would, occasionally, crawl in through the gap at the bottom of the porch wall. Once inside, they would help themselves to the contents of that bucket.

One day, we were all enjoying a movie in the living room when we began hearing a strange noise outside the window. A steady, persistent slapping noise kept repeating every few seconds. Slap . . . slap . . . slap . . . like something being dropped flat onto a hard, smooth surface. Finally, curiosity got the better of me and I went to investigate.

A dining room window offered a clear view of the screen porch. In a few seconds, the mystery was solved. The half-askew lid to the bucket of bird food lifted up a few inches, then suddenly plopped back down onto the bucket. I watched intently as this happened several more times. Each time it lifted, I caught sight of the squirrel’s head.

Helplessly, I began to giggle. The squirrel had – as usual – jumped into the bucket to help himself to a feast. This time, however, the bucket was nearly empty. That meant the level of bird food was too low to allow for him to climb back out. He was jumping for all he was worth, trying to get enough height to clear the top edge of the bucket. But the half-askew lid kept blocking his trajectory. Hitting his head on it, he was forced back into the bucket . . . over and over again.

Cautiously, I went out to the screen porch to release him from his unintentional, self-imposed prison. I slowly tipped the bucket onto its side, so our furry visitor could escape. His mishap reminded us of old cartoons about squirrels and various treats. We all had a good laugh over his latest adventure.

Living in such a secluded area may sound boring to a lot of people. To us, though, there was never a dull moment. The wild critters who lived nearby were always up to some new caper. For 15 years, they never failed to keep us entertained.

To His Glory . . . BJ

Dance With Me

DANCE WITH ME

September 1, 2021

For those of us who are mothers of adult sons, our minds are often riddled with questions (I specify ‘sons’ because daughters tend to tell us what they’ve learned). Did any of it matter? Were they really listening? Did this mean as much to him as it did to me? I’m certain I can’t possibly be the only mom who has pondered such questions from time to time.

The Lord has blessed me with many chances to witness evidence that there were, indeed, times that my sons were listening. With each one of them, I have been gifted with a very personal moment. A moment which shows me that he heard, or remembered, something that really mattered to me.

What sort of moment could possibly accomplish that with EACH of my sons? The mother-son wedding dance. As far as I know, the groom gets some sort of say-so about which song to play for that special turn on the dance floor. That each groom probably chooses a song that means something to him. Imagine my surprise when EACH of my three sons chose a song that also held a treasured memory for me.

(These are presented in the order in which they married, rather than according to their ages.)

When Michael escorted me to the dance floor and took me in his arms, his face was beaming. It held that “I know something you don’t know” look in his sparkling eyes. I gasped – breathlessly – as the gentle strains of Garth Brooks’ haunting melody, “The Dance” began to play.

Since the day their dad died, in 1999, that song has been a sort of anthem for me. To me, its lyrics echo my personal attitude toward life. Despite the pain and heartaches that life has sometimes carried, I wouldn’t change a thing. I said that many times when the boys were growing up, but I was never sure they understood.

Just weeks after their dad died, I was taking Kevin to baseball practice. I did my best to fill in anywhere I could. Baseball had been the world Kevin shared with his dad. I felt it was my job to show him it was important to me, too.

On our way to practice, we listened to the team’s favorite tape on the car’s cassette player – a tape by the Back Street Boys. This had become a ritual before each practice . . . before each game. When “The Perfect Fan” began to play, I noticed tears rolling down Kevin’s cheeks. I pulled over, waiting for the song to end, figuring he must be missing his dad at that moment.

When the song was over, I looked curiously at my youngest son. “What’s the matter, kiddo?”

Wiping his face, he turned to me. “Thank you . . .” he sobbed, “for being MY perfect fan.” Now, I was crying!

Ever since that moment, I recall that breathtaking day with goosebumps every time I hear that song. Twenty years later, when Kevin escorted me to the dance floor at his wedding, that was the song he had chosen. My breath once again caught in my throat, and the two of us shared a look that said, “I still remember . . .”

Then came the day of Tony’s wedding. As my oldest, he is the furthest from being the little boy I parented. There was no way I could guess which moment – of all those we had shared – would be the one which had stuck out in his mind. I wasn’t even sure which of those moments stuck out in my mind! I could not have ventured a guess, even if someone had asked.

But, apparently, Tony had zeroed in on one. As we walked onto the dance floor, he smiled as I turned to face him. The music started, and I was caught completely off-guard! The lyrical, wishful phrases of Lee Ann Womack’s “I Hope You Dance” began to play. I gasped as I looked into my son’s eyes with tears rolling down my face.

I couldn’t remember ever telling any of the boys how I felt about that song. How it had been my private prayer for every one of them, since the very first time I ever heard it play. My mind remembers that day with a grateful,

joy-filled smile as it wonders, “How did he know?”

Through the beautiful world of music, each one of my sons had found a special way to tell me, “Don’t worry, Mom. I heard you. I remember. I love you.” Perhaps your sons will find a different way to tell you. Whatever the circumstance, be sure you’re listening . . . when his thoughts invite your thoughts to dance with them.

To His Glory . . . BJ

Mama's Journey Home

MAMA'S JOURNEY HOME

August 1, 2021

My mother was my best friend for all the 46 years she was in my life. Because of how close we were, I was able to learn a lot about her beliefs. I grew up knowing she believed in God, and in the whole story of Jesus’ life. In spite of all that, Mama had intense doubts and fears about the end of her own life. Whenever the subject of the afterlife arose, she made those doubts crystal clear. When she talked about what she expected death to be like, she said she figured everything just stops.

“It goes dark, and that’s it!” she’d say. A dark cloud of pure terror would overcome her, and she couldn’t say any more.

In 1999, I had the opportunity to probe a little deeper during a conversation Mama and I were having. I found the courage to address my curiosity and confusion over her beliefs. “Mama, . . . How can you believe in God, and Christ, . . . and NOT believe in an afterlife?!?”

Her answer was honest – and baffling. “Oh, I believe there IS one,” she said emphatically, “just not for ME!”

“Why?”

“There just isn’t,” she said simply. With that, the subject was changed. Whatever there was in my mother’s past that I didn’t know about, she was absolutely certain that it was going to prevent her from any sort of an afterlife with her God.

Later that summer, we completed an 8-year plan and moved from Pennsylvania to South Dakota. Mama got sick just before Thanksgiving and had to be hospitalized. During her stay, she had the hospital chaplain visit her twice. I have no clue what they talked about, but it was significant that she had requested the visit. I DO know that those visits seemed to relax her some about the end of her life.

By early December, Mama was strong enough to be moved to a nursing home. There, she would get Physical and Occupational Therapy to help her get strong enough to come home. By the week before Christmas, she was doing so well that we were able to arrange for her to get a day pass for Christmas. She would spend Christmas day with her family – at home. We were all excited, and wanted everything to be perfect. My younger brother, his fiancé and his best friend would all be there, along with my son and me. We bought gifts for Mama from all of us. We bought gifts for each of us from Mama. We were ready.

Despite her physical progress, mama was often emotionally detached whenever we visited her. Usually, she seemed tired . . . our visits rarely lasted more than an hour. During those visits, she wasn’t very responsive. I had told her of our plans for Christmas, but she didn’t seem at all interested.

Then, on December 22nd, we went to see Mama during the afternoon. For the first half hour or so, Mama was as quiet and unresponsive as we had been used to seeing lately. She knew we were there; she acknowledged us and said hello. But she didn’t have much else to say. Suddenly, she perked up and became very animated and excited – for no apparent reason. Lit up like a child with a million dollars in a toy store, she looked right at me. With her face twinkling like a Christmas tree, she said, “I get to go HOME for Christmas!!!”

It was obvious that she could barely contain herself over that thought. “That’s right, Mama. We’re all so excited! We’ll pick you up early and take you to the house and . . .”

As soon as I began to speak, there it was. That disinterested, deadpan response I had seen all month. The smile faded and the sparkle was gone. The excitement vanished. I didn’t understand why. Shortly after, we kissed Mama goodbye and left. We promised we would see her tomorrow. But that was not to be. The nurse called me at 8:30 the next morning. Mama had passed away quietly at breakfast, right after they brought her a cup of coffee.

It took me nearly three years to realize what had happened during that last visit. Mama had been trying to tell me something important, and I had missed the cue. She knew she was going Home for Christmas. Not to our

house . . . but Home – to the Home Jesus had prepared for her (John 14:1-3). Where she would see her siblings, her parents, her deceased fiancé, and the daughter who had died 55 years earlier.

That, alone, would have been reason enough for her excitement. But her statement also meant she KNEW there was a place for her in God’s Kingdom! That she would not be excluded, after all. I was devastated that I had missed the significance of her statement; that I didn’t get to share in the joy of it with her.

Over the years that have passed since that day, my attitude about it all has changed. Several people have helped me to see that last day differently. They have pointed out how special it is that I now recognize what Mama really meant. It is like she left me one last Christmas gift: at long last, Mama knew she was saved! I still miss her, every day . . . but I know she’s Home, waiting for me.

To His Glory . . . BJ

A TAPESTRY OF WORDS

July 1, 2021

My journey as a writer began early in my childhood, when I first learned about words. It was almost like discovering some magical secret: these sounds I had been making since I’d learned to talk could be constructed! They weren’t simply noises to make or to hear . . . they were formed from these wonderful tools called letters. And when you arranged those letters in the right order, they made a tangible image of this word you knew.

Cat. I no longer needed to find a neighborhood feline in order to provide an image to go with the word. I didn’t have to wish I could draw a picture that Mama would recognize as a cat. I could make a word picture: c-a-t. Three of those alphabet letters I had learned "drew" a word picture. The word represented the neighborhood feline. If I wrote that word, mama knew I was talking about THAT creature. Magical!

Soon, we were putting those words together into sentences. As we did, we learned MORE magic. The teacher called it punctuation. She said it was like traffic signals for our sentences. Use them correctly, and people could READ the sentences you had written in the way you had THOUGHT them! Wow!

To me, this was beyond magic. It was absolutely amazing. And the wonder continued. By 4th grade, I’d become fascinated with short poems – like the ones in greeting cards. Money was tight in our house, but I longed to give my mom beautiful cards like the ones in the stores. Through the magic of words – and the simple drawings I made – I could MAKE cards! All I needed was some construction paper and my crayons. I know my mother cherished them, because now – over 50 years later – some of them are still lovingly tucked away in her trunk.

By junior high school, we were learning to write short stories and essays. What fun! Now, instead of reading a story in a book, I could create one of my own – simply by putting the right words together in the right order. By the time I started high school, poetry had become my favorite way to express myself in writing. I had come to realize that I wasn’t very good at short stories. Mine always seemed to be lacking something. But poetry, to me, was the purest form of word magic there was. With only a few words, you could express even complicated thoughts and evoke intricate images. I also loved the essays we had to write for English class. In the space of a few pages, I was allowed a forum to express my opinion on some topic. And the teacher wanted to READ that opinion. Not only that, he would give me a grade based on how I had expressed it! What wondrous tools these words were!

Despite my passion for writing, I once faced a time when the magic of words failed me. During my twenties, a journey into the dark, terrifying world of abuse and alcoholism had a profound effect on my writing. My mind went numb, and my pen fell silent. In place of the wondrous words . . . were sorrow and fear. It made me feel empty – and dead inside. When I finally escaped that abusive first marriage, the words returned with renewed passion. There were days when poetry flowed from my soul like water from a flood-swollen stream. I couldn’t write fast enough to keep up with the words tumbling out of my mind.

By that time, journaling had joined poetry as a format I was comfortable with. The direction of all of my writing was gradually changing. With the encouragement and support of a wise friend, I was about to venture into new territory: the autobiographical novel. When I protested to her that I couldn’t because I was a poet, she said, “Sure you can! You have your journals, and you were there! You know what happened. Tell the story.” From then on, my writing has branched out in many directions – some of them unexpected. Through it all, the wonder and amazement at what can be done with words has stayed with me.

In 1999, I was given a marvelous gift. God placed a clear understanding on my heart of what my calling in life was. “You are a writer. Write!” were the exact words He placed there. In fact, He placed them so vividly, I swore I heard an audible Voice speak them to me! A year later, when I was whining to a friend about not finding a market for my book, another seed of wisdom was planted. Gently, my friend said, “God didn’t tell you to sell them. He told you to write them.” After that, I chose to leave it up to God what would happen to the things I wrote. Their destiny was in His hands.

Since then, I’ve written books, press releases, newsletter articles, and business letters – many of which were written for other people. Events of the year my older brother died led me to write down stories about little things that happened in the midst of chaos and sorrow. Eventually, those stories were used by the Hospice staff who had cared for him during his last months: they wanted them for volunteer training.

Recently, the seed planted in the year 2000 bore new fruit: an enhanced understanding of the calling I had been given. A revelation, if you will. Writing is my ministry. It is how God has asked me to serve Him. What joy and peace that knowledge has brought me! In 2018, that new knowledge led me here, to this web site. The stories I shared with the Hospice staff have appeared right here, on this page (see Archives).

All my life, I’ve been fascinated by the magical world of words. For me, they have always painted pictures. They weave themselves into these amazingly intricate, beautiful tapestries of life. Today, I stand in absolute awe . . . that the thing I have always loved the most could be used by God to serve His Purpose. I am at a total loss for words to describe how that feels, or the image it has created in my mind’s eye. I can only praise Him, for this gift.

To His Glory . . . BJ

Tapestry of Words

Always There

ALWAYS THERE

June 1, 2021

Every now and then, everyone has one of those days that starts out like pond scum and only gets worse from there. No matter how strong your faith, it is hard to hang onto your joy during such a day. I remember one specific time that I encountered exactly that kind of a day . . .

That Monday started out well enough. I woke up in a good mood, and started my day with joy. I had some errands to run and was even looking forward to that. Realizing I had a load of laundry to dry, I headed downstairs to tend to it. While transferring the load of towels to the dryer, I noticed that the floor looked damp. Grabbing a flashlight, I investigated further. Sure enough, there was water on the floor behind, and beside, the dryer. The water heater was leaking. BOOM!

One simple discovery and the joy was gone. I knew that by the telltale knot that had formed in my stomach. Disappointed by that reaction, I cried to God about it. I told Him I was sad and disappointed, and that I didn’t want to stay that way. I pleaded for His help in finding a way to hang onto my joy despite this new development. Finally deciding that I couldn’t abandon the whole day for a temperamental water heater, I left. The errands still had to be done. Only now, I had another one on the list: buy a new water heater.

I struggled with my mood the rest of that day, but remained determined to carry on. Throughout the day, I was reminded of the ‘blessings in disguise’ that were hidden in this situation. Rich and I had enough money set aside to pay for the new water heater and installation. This could have, just as easily, happened when there was no emergency fund available. It happened while I was home – not while I was away on the truck. I was right

here . . . able to shut off the water heater and prevent a major leak.

I acknowledged these blessings, though I’m sure God noticed how half-hearted the effort was. When the technician called that afternoon, to set up an install appointment, I asked him to bring new washer hoses. I knew there’d be an extra cost, but they hadn’t been replaced in years. Better to be safe than sorry, Richard always says.

Tuesday afternoon, the technician arrived – on schedule. After looking over the basement utility room, he came up to talk to me. There was a problem: the store had sold me the wrong water heater. This one was too tall for the space it was to occupy. He called the store to straighten things out, and said he’d be back Wednesday with the right unit. He also told me that, because of the mix-up, he wasn’t going to charge me for the new hoses I’d ordered. As he was walking out the door, the phone rang.

It was the general manager at Sears, calling to apologize for the mix-up with my new water heater. She seemed genuinely upset about it, and assured me that the sales clerk would be spoken to (he had asked me NOTHING about dimensions). She thanked me for filling out the online survey – she had already read my responses! Then, she told me they wanted to make this right, so she was refunding $100.00 of the money I’d already paid!

When the technician arrived Wednesday morning, he handed me an envelope from the store manager. In it was my cash refund. Wow! That was quick. The water heater installation went off without a hitch. The technician brought top-of-the-line metal hoses for my washer, rather than the standard, rubber ones. By the time he left that day, I had learned a valuable lesson.

No matter how bad something looks, I need to strive to choose joy and gratitude. Even if I cry and complain to God about the disappointment, He’s reading my heart. If I really WANT to feel joyful, He will acknowledge that effort – even if I haven’t achieved joyful yet.

That particular episode had ripped my joy right out of my heart. I’d gone to God and shared my feelings with Him. I had begged Him to help me be joyful, despite the circumstances. I saw His approval of my desire to be joyful in many aspects of this situation. The technician upgraded the hoses to a more durable type, and didn’t charge me for them. The store not only replaced the errant water heater . . . they refunded a substantial amount of the purchase price.

In addition to all of that, there was the evidence that He was watching when this problem happened. I was home, so I could take care of it immediately, and avoid flooding in my basement. We had the money to pay for it. Scripture tells us, in Hebrew 13, verse 5: “. . .I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.” This promise has been evident many times over the course of my life. Whenever I’ve been at my wit’s end, something happens to show me that God is there with me. I can’t remember one single time when I had to go through a difficult situation without God’s help . . . He is always there.

To His Glory . . . BJ

H.O.M.E.

May 1, 2021

Home. The word evokes all sorts of emotional responses for everyone. Each person may respond differently from the person next to him, but each person WILL have a reaction. Say the word to yourself, closing your eyes as you do. Stop there, just long enough to notice how you feel as you say this simple word.

Have you ever tried to describe that feeling? Being one of the most overly-analytical people I know, I have. For years, I’ve tried to identify that feeling. Safe. Warm. “Fuzzy”. Happy. Loved. Comfortable. No definition was satisfying. Nothing came close to adequately capturing, and relaying, that unique feeling I experience when I contemplate the word ‘home’. Every word I tried fell short, and left me feeling hollow. As a communicator, I found this extremely frustrating.

Since I love to analyze things and figure them out, I began spending some time pondering this issue. How could such a simple term be so maddeningly hard to explain? In early 2016, part of the reason finally came into clear focus. My concept of ‘home’ has changed many times over the course of my life. In fact, everyone’s probably has.

As infants, we have no concept of words . . . only feelings. We know what feels like home: our mother’s arms. In that small world, we feel all those things I mentioned before. Safe, warm, comfortable, loved, happy. We feel secure and protected.

When we get a little older, our definition of ‘home’ changes. It is the house we live in. The place we share with Mommy and Daddy and our siblings. As teenagers, that understanding is modified again. “Home" becomes that place where we feel the most loved and understood. Sometimes, that’s with our family; sometimes, it’s among our friends.

After we grow up and leave the house we grew up in, our definition becomes a bit confused. There’s ‘home’ as in Mom and Dad’s house. That’s the place we go visit on weekends or holidays. It’s where our birth family lives. But now, we also have our own ‘home’: the place we share with room mates or our new spouse.

Later, we begin to raise a family, and our definition continues to evolve. There’s the ‘home’ where your parents live, the one where your spouse’s parents live, and the one which you share with your spouse and children. Try though we might, that last one never feels quite the same as the others, and we never really figure out why.

When I struck out on my own at age 19, I experienced all of these confusing phases. My first husband and I made our home 3,000 miles from the homes of our childhood. During the next eight years, we had two sons, and lived in three different apartments. We did our best to make each one feel like ‘home’. Still, ‘home’ remained that place where our parents and siblings lived. Only now, it was referred to as ‘our hometown’. No amount of nesting or fixing seemed to change that.

After my divorce, I went ‘home’ to my mother’s house. After a few months, I rented a place of my own and it became ‘home’ for my sons and me. Later, my second husband and I lived in a high-rise in New York for a couple years and that was ‘home’. Finally, we bought an old farm house in Northeast Pennsylvania and made our ‘home’ there. We moved my mother in with us. In that place, we raised our children and made a happy life for our family. For 15 years, that farm house was our ‘home’, but it never really felt the same as we’d felt as children. Something seemed to be missing.

A series of events in 1999 brought me to South Dakota. Rather than being the six of us who had shared our Pennsylvania house, it was just my son, my mother, and me. Standing at the base of Mt. Rushmore my first Sunday here, I realized that I felt more "at-home" than I ever had in my life. I breathed an enormous sigh of relief. Tears ran down my cheeks as I spoke out-loud to my deceased husband: “We made it, Lovey. We’re home!”

That day was over 21 years ago. Here, in South Dakota, I have found that one special place that makes me feel all those things I had named so many years ago. Safe. Warm. Secure. “Fuzzy”. Happy. Loved. Comfortable. Protected. Here, in this place, life feels like what I remember from my childhood, only more so than ever before. It feels like ‘home’.

Proverbs 29, verse 25, tells us, “. . . but whoso putteth his trust in the Lord shall be safe.” I have learned the Truth in those words. When I came to South Dakota, I did so on pure faith. The Lord was the only thing in my world that I trusted at the time. I marvel at His faithfulness every single day.

For years I’ve told people that, when I stand at Mt. Rushmore, I feel as though my soul has come home. After several years of contemplating that statement, my understanding is more clear than ever. I finally know why I was never able to adequately define ‘home’ with a single word. I’ve decided that it’s because ‘home’ is actually an acronym: “Here, Our Minds Exhale.” To my analytical mind, THAT makes sense!

To His Glory . . . BJ