Sunday, December 16, 2018

A Look Back




I know what it's like. I know what it's like to grieve; to face the approaching holidays with trepidation. I know what it's like to have health issues, or to watch a loved one going through some of the toughest times of their lives. I, too, have been where you are; wondering if the next day would bring more of the same sadness or another hardship into my life. I've prayed over situations and not felt the answer at all. I've cried out to God in the deepest darkness of the night, and wondered where He's gone.

BUT: I also have known great joy. I've learned lessons along the way, and become a better person for it. Have things happened instantly? No. But in God's timing, His favor have become beautiful gifts for my soul.

Looking back over the last three years, losing my dad in 2016, and then Mom in 2017, watching my husband struggle in giving up his alcohol addiction, I realized that some of the moments of this year were like presents to savor and unwrap. God did reward faithfulness, He did send beautiful reminders of His love and presence.

I have family that are close, loving, and real. Not Hallmark movie cookie-cutter types, but flesh and blood, each of us with our own issues and good hearts. I know I can count on them.













I've had some amazing things happen this past year. I got to see Eagles flying above me with good friends:








I still have a beautiful cardinal that waits for me and comes right to my porch after two years:





I received an email about a small blurb I'd written about my mom's love of the actor Gregory Peck from his daughter and then got to meet her!



Dear Karen,

I’m Cecilia Peck, Gregory’s daughter, and I run the website http://www.gregorypeck.com. I got very behind on posting memories of my dad but I put aside time today to go through submissions and post. When I came across yours I had to stop and read it a few times. I just want to say how much it touched me that you would share this story, and that your mom’s relationship to my dad and his films brought her comfort in the last years of her life. I lost my mom six years ago and it’s been 15 years now since I had my dad, and every memory and every moment with them means so much to me. Thank you so much for sharing your touching, humorous, deeply moving story. It’s up on the site now in case you want to see it there, and I’m so sorry for the delay.
With kind regards to you and yours,

Cecilia







Several of my articles were picked up by different Guidepost magazines and published:



You see, to steal a line from a movie: "I really do have a wonderful life." And so do you, though it may not feel like it right at this moment. Take those little reminders of God's love and blessings and let them nourish your soul. Savor tiny moments, and the grander ones that come along and almost bowl you over in their awesomeness.

I found an old blurb I'd written last year and thought it would be appropriate here:

I walked up my stairs with the overnight bag clutched to my side. Not the type to leave it on the bed and wait to put things away, I started the task of filtering through dirty clothing, and travel-sized miscellaneous items. Each had their own little "home" and I quickly placed them where they belonged. As I picked up the bag and began placing it underneath the bed in the guestroom, a wonderful thought came to me: This is a happy moment. I've come back from a trip, of doing something fun. How many times last year was the old overnight bag hastily stuffed as I received yet another phone call about one of my parents? Another hospital visit, another emergency... The bag and I had been through many such trips. Some of those trips had been made with such panic and anxiety, with the unknown of so many health issues of elderly parents.

But today, when I came home from an enjoyable evening with my husband, the sun sparkled off the fresh, white snow. The vibrant red cardinal I've affectionately named Freddy flew to my porch railing making tsking sounds as if scolding me for missing his morning breakfast. Where were you earlier? he seemed to ask. I apologized, but brought him crusty bread. I thanked him for being with me during those harried visits last year, and the good one recently. For he is my welcome home most every time.

May you see your own moments often my friends.

Merry Christmas and a truly Happy New Year to you!



Monday, November 26, 2018

My New Friends






With trepidation, I made the hour-long drive to my favorite town of Ligonier by myself to do a reading for residents of a care home. The rain had been pouring earlier and my mood became as gray as the day. My husband is usually with me on this trip, and I am always excited and filled with warmth to visit this beautiful place. It felt daunting driving there alone though. Alone with my thoughts, and my lack of confidence. Alone with elderly folks in a place like the one that had housed my mom before she passed away a little over a year ago. How would it affect me? What would they be like?

 The further I went however, the more peace descended on me. I felt God as my passenger. I began praying for the residents, their caregivers, and families. I prayed that God would give me the right words, and that I would be a blessing to them.

The facility was charming and clean. I noticed plants, a beautiful fish tank, bird, and resident kitty. I couldn't help but smile. My set-up was in an airy room overlooking a moving stream. Ducks waddled about enjoying themselves below. Well, at least they're enjoying this wet weather, I thought.

Residents began arriving along with two of the workers. I felt instantly at ease in the presence of the elderly. It has always been a calling of mine to be around them. I immediately feel a kinship. I see the young girls and young boys they once were. I wonder about the lives they've led. Some of their eyes hold sadness, and others, mischief. Some of them are serious, and others, child-like and playful.


A few arrived in wheelchairs and with walkers. Others seemed spry and healthy. Every one of them had a most beautiful smile. I was charmed by their presence, and spoke heartily with them.

I'd chosen one silly cat story to read, a tender poem about my father's passing, and a short Christmas story. Tears were being wiped away at the end of my reading. They clapped and thanked me. I'd made little gift bags for them, and passed them out. Their gratitude as they received them, warmed my heart.

A gentleman invited me to stay longer and have lunch with them. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to chat with them. During my time in the dining room I met several others--people I will treasure in my heart.

One lady is a bird lady, and the resident parrot just loves her. She knows this woman and eagerly awaits for her to scratch behind the little feathered head. I was taken on a tour of the facility and learned that the bird lady also loves to crochet. Her work is impeccable and I would like to learn from her one day. She is ninety-years-old, and had lost a daughter in the late 1990's. She still choked up while speaking of her.

Another lady couldn't stop hugging me. She said, "I think you and I could be very good friends." She loved the little teddy bear from her gift bag, and I saw her walking around with it. My heart felt warm and full. My mind was completely at peace.

The best resident I met today was the gentleman who bought me lunch. He is a retired teacher, veteran, and very well-spoken. He held himself with dignity and charm. We had a lot to chat about. He was thrilled that an "author" came to visit them. That title didn't matter at all to me today. For today I was just me, but better. Today I learned, grew, and blossomed.

Today I did what I loved, and loved what I did. I didn't think back on any sadness from the past. And I made a few new friends in the process.


Sunday, November 18, 2018

Divine Appointment






Years ago when I shopped at a Giant Eagle store near my hometown, there was a wonderful African American man who used to bag groceries. He was a retired pastor, and it was a delight to be in his line. His careworn face filled with a roadmap of wrinkles held the clearest, soulful brown eyes I'd ever seen. A baseball cap was perched on his head with silver hair peeking underneath. He always had a big bright smile for the customers and would have something special to share.

"God's a blesser," he would tell me as I reached for my bags. "I praise Him every day." Or, "God bless you, daughter. Have a peace-filled day."

I miss seeing him when I return to my old stomping grounds, but I will never forget this man.

Today I was feeling a little melancholy. Thanksgiving is approaching, and it will be the second one without my parents. My husband has been working so much overtime it is affecting his personality and his negativity is overwhelming. Work has been stressful, television news has been awful. I began to let the blues overtake me.

Wow, it seems nobody cares anymore. People are so indifferent. There's never a good or kind word from anyone. I haven't met a person lately who isn't filled with anger. Everyone is at odds about something.

I wrote a few words this morning on Facebook:

What if? What if today we step out of our comfort zone for another person? What if we don't judge someone who is different? What if we give ourselves and others permission to make a mistake and forgive immediately? What if we treat others with respect and kindness? What if it lasts more than just for today?

After church I stopped in a dollar store. My stomach was rumbling with hunger, so I wanted the trip to be a quick one. I was looking at a few small teddy bears when I heard a voice behind me. "Aw, you like the furry little bears, do ya?"

I turned and looked into the face of someone so similar to the man I'd known all those years ago at Giant Eagle. His smile was radiant, a baseball cap perched on his head over silver hair peeking from underneath. I couldn't see his eyes, as he wore light brown sunglasses. We began a conversation.

It seems this man was a pastor. He, too, is retired and works on cars part-time. The kindness he showed, and the way he spoke, gave me fresh hope. He talked as if we were old friends. He gave me ideas of places to go and the beauty in nature waiting to be seen. He said that if we look, God is in the splendor all around us. I felt drawn to him, and asked his name. He told me it was Richard. And that in itself was special. It's my father's name. He handed me a little purple pin, an Alzheimer's remembrance pin. And I found that odd as well since Mom passed away from Alzheimer's complications only last year.

We chatted at least a half hour, and I didn't regret one moment. Everything I had felt earlier vanished in the presence of this good old soul. Even my hunger. For I now hungered for his words; words that gave me a fresh outlook and something to believe.

His parting words to me were, "God sets up appointments, doesn't He? We just have to look for them."

I'm glad this appointment was right on time.

Sunday, November 11, 2018

Moments That Define





How can it be that some of the darkest times of our lives later become the very moments that shaped us and defined who we are?

As a little girl of eleven-and-a-half, I began struggling greatly with self-esteem issues. Where I saw other girls that age, beginning to blossom, I looked into my bedroom mirror and saw distortion. Something was very wrong. One side of my body was straight and normal. But the other was unimaginably misshapen. I feared telling my mother, because we had recently come through an extremely bleak time. My mother had had a nervous breakdown and was finally well. We'd moved from the only house I'd ever known into a beautiful, wooded area to begin a new life. How could I ruin everything? And I was frightened also. What if this was something really bad?

Putting it out of my mind, I innocently sat on my mother's bed one day while she scratched my back. She stopped. I held my breath. She's noticed something. Mom said to me, "Kar, something's wrong with your back." I went into panic mode. Screaming and crying, I could not be consoled. But my parents made an appointment with a Pittsburgh doctor, a specialist, to find out about this mystery.

It turned out that I had scoliosis, curvature of the spine. Surgery was immediately scheduled.

My parents and I faced the unknown together when we arrived at Children's Hospital. Questions were asked, the answers of some which I didn't want to hear. For I'd found out about plaster body cast, wires, tubes, strange scary things I'd never dealt with before.

Mom was brave through it all. She never let me see how fearful she was. And she treated all the other little girls in the ward with kindness. I began to see in her, the woman I would someday become.

Dad handled this time with his best defense mechanism: humor. With silly words and funny phrases, he kept me laughing through it all. He had make-believe names for some of the doctors and nurses; names he only shared with me. This way of my father would be something that stayed with him all of his life--diffusing tough situations with his humor.

One day in particular comes to mind. We'd heard that Fred Rogers, of "Mr. Rogers Neighborhood" was visiting. I loved his show but wondered what were the chances he would visit my ward. But there, before me, stood the sweet, iconic man. He took time to say something special, as only he could. I, who had felt disgusting, and abnormal, who now lay in a huge body cast, heard words that meant the world to me. "What a pretty girl," he said, smiling that charming smile. It gave me hope--hope that someday, this nightmare would be over, and I had a chance at being normal once again.

Though it was a scary time for all of us, I saw courage that I'd never thought possible. And it changed me. A newfound sense of compassion became a big part of who I was. Just like my mother, I was able to reach out to others who were suffering, thinking beyond my own circumstances. My eyes were opened to them in a major way.

I would use the lessons learned from one of my darkest times, to mold me into a better person. Not only in body, but in spirit.

I know we each have our own cross to bear, nightmare moments that seemed so bleak we thought we would certainly lose our minds, or not make it through. But if we look for the good in others who surrounded us during these times, take a little of their strengths and let it become our own, we will not only survive, but thrive. We will give back to others when it is our turn to be the courageous one.


These photos are from my time in my body cast:







Saturday, September 29, 2018

I Miss You Cousin





How is it that we lose touch with some of the people who most impacted our lives in profound ways when we were children? Do we "grow up?" Move away? Have lives so different we no longer recognize the little girl we once were? Can we dare try to find that innocence once again?

She was intelligent even at a very young age. Pretty, clever, funny, and imaginative. She was world-traveled and an army brat. She could be bossy, demanding, and opinionated. She was my cousin Anna, and there was nobody I adored more when I was a child.

When you are the daughter of mental illness, life throws harsh reality your way. You need to find ways to cope; to deal with the anxiety that has overtaken life. Every day is an adventure. Sometimes a most fearful one. But when you are fortunate to have imagination, and someone to share the journey, the road can be smoother, even easier. My cousin was that someone.

Anna and I could find adventure in the simplest places. Our Italian Nonna had a button box. You know the type. Little round tin with assorted bits of brick-a-brack, buttons of all shapes and sizes, old zippers, and sewing implements. We turned those buttons into pint-sized people. They were our family and had trials that were easily overcome. Our Nonna was the "Queen" button; the biggest, prettiest one with a faux diamond in the center. She ruled over our little world much like she did in our real lives. For Nonna was a constant. A soothing presence in the storms surrounding us.

We cut out super hero pictures from comic books and had daring rescues as Wonder Woman and Super Man escaped the evil clutches of whatever rogue assailed them.

We took old grape crates that our grandfather received his stock of fruit- of -the -vine for wine making. We jumped into them and imagined that we were visiting "The Old Country," the place that our grandparents spoke of often as if it was magical.

We pretended to be other people in other places, always with an outcome where good triumphed over evil.

As we grew into teenagers, we spoke of love and boys. And we were in love with every one of them. We made silly, clever questionnaires with all sorts of scenarios, and dared one another to answer truthfully. And we talked late on sleepover nights, sharing our future plans, hopes, and dreams.

How is it that we haven't spoken in years?

I miss Anna. I remember missing her like this when she and her family would move away for the Army. I would pine for her and write letters awaiting the day she would return once again. And she always did. Though as we grew older, it would take a little time to feel comfortable with each other. But once we did, we began to reminisce about the childhood we shared, and started laughing hysterically over long-forgotten memories.

I hope life has been exceptionally good to my cousin. I pray she has been blessed. I may even gather the courage to locate her in the upcoming weeks. She couldn't have gone far. After all, a bond from such wonderful days long past, can never be broken.


Monday, August 27, 2018

My Father's Special Language








        My father was shy, a man of few words, yet he fabricated a make-believe language, one he invented himself. Nonsensical, silly and fun, it was a constant in our lives—a way that he expressed himself and the emotions that seemed difficult for him to show.
       Dad wasn’t completely comfortable in crowds; he didn’t have any friends that he met on a regular basis. He chose mostly to immerse himself in a special world of his outdoor flowerbeds, working with his hands, and being with family. He began to restore antique furniture and build miniature dollhouses when he retired. When I visited my parent’s home, Dad would walk me around his little gardens. We would admire the glory of nature together—roses, pansies, petunias, butterflies and birds. He would share his latest projects in a truly humble fashion, lovingly showing me the smallest details, reserving this special time we had together using the silly words of his made up vocabulary to name everything.
       None of us were called by our real names, even the family pets, for Dad even had his special code words for each family member, friends, and cousins. My son Matt was known as Ray, my brother, as Boy, Mom was always Barnett, my husband Jim was Peppy, and I was little Tenya. It was as if a secret society—one that Dad was the founder--permitted entrance as his way of letting you know you were welcome in his world. Friends knew that Dad liked them if they were given an unusual name.
       Dad had a particular saying, however, when faced with a barrage of unexpected health bills, or when a particular project he worked on, wasn’t turning out as expected: “What a nightmare!” he’d say, though he said it with a chuckle, as if trying to diffuse the situation. ‘Nightmare’ became the code word in our family for anything we weren’t happy about.
       A robust, healthy man, Dad learned that he had congestive heart failure in his late sixties. Several blockages were found, and Dad had to undergo serious surgery to correct them. A sac of fluid encased his heart due to his heavy smoking. The outlook was a bit grim—not the usual type of bypass surgery.  Yet Dad came through that particular nightmare and subsequent rehabilitation better than expected.
       Years later, another nightmare crept up in the form of my mother’s dementia. Our family began to notice the small changes at first. She began to repeat stories, she forgot simple tasks. Then as time went on, Mom’s whole world changed. She experienced health issues and lost a part of who she was. My father’s words became more powerful than ever to me. He began an early morning ritual of calling before Mom would awaken. It was during those precious moments that we could commiserate about my mother’s failing mind. We made lighthearted conversation and solved some of the serious issues if only for a short time.
        For me, the dementia brought back frightening moments from my childhood—my mother’s mental illness. Her hospital visits had been long, and there were days when I wasn’t sure she would return to us. It was in those moments that my father’s soft-spoken words had soothed and given me hope as a little girl. And it was in our new journey with my mother that Dad would once again step into the role of protector and hero with quiet words of faith and goodness.
       He patiently watched the same movies over and over with my mother. He bought her favorite foods and took her for long drives to nearby places she enjoyed. I never saw him lose his temper with her, and much like the time in my youth, this quiet, good man handled our situation with grace and courage.
       Two years ago I noticed that Dad’s morning phone calls were becoming infrequent. When we did talk, he seemed agitated and spoke of more ‘nightmarish’ incidents as if truly complaining about them for the first time. He seemed to lose his smile, his sense of humor. Even the silly vocabulary that had been such a big part of our world fell by the wayside. None of us knew it at the time, but my father had gallbladder issues that would eventually land him in the hospital.
       In August of 2016, my father was told that he needed emergency surgery. We weren’t sure if he had ignored the symptoms in his care for Mom, or if it happened quickly. His body became septic. The outlook was grim. Dad was now eighty-five years old and his heart had become weakened.
I sat with him alone the morning while the doctor had a serious conversation with us. They weren’t sure he would be able to survive the surgery. Dad looked at me when the doctor left the room and said, “What a nightmare, huh?”
        My brave father chose to give the surgery a try. That night as he was being wheeled away he had something to say to each family member in turn. His last words to me were, “Thanks for everything.” But later I would find out that these weren’t truly the last words I would ever hear from my father.
Though he made it through surgery, Dad couldn’t breathe on his own. He was placed on a ventilator and given medication to keep him comfortable. Weeks passed with no change until I arrived at the hospital early one morning.
       Something had been nagging at me. We had all noticed that Dad’s health was failing, that there hadn’t been any improvement. I knew that I should say something important to my father on that day. Dad had always been there for all of us and he had spent his life dedicated to others. I knew he deserved to be at peace. Though he hadn’t been conscious, I felt that he would be able to hear me as I talked with him that morning. I wanted to be able to let him go. To tell him it was okay to leave us.     With tears streaming down my face, I arrived at the hospital. He actually was much worse. The nurses told me that it would be a day of decisions. Nothing else could be done. His kidneys and organs were failing. I called for my brother and Mom to be there. Friends came to support us on a most difficult day.
       Each of us took our time to say goodbye to him. I had been prepared, but now I wasn’t quite ready to let go. This was truly it. The end of Dad’s life. I glanced around the room at the faces of friends and family, so glad for their comforting presence when I sensed a presence of another kind.      Surrounding my father’s bed, almost like an out-of-focus camera lens, were four tall stately beings: One at the head, one at the foot, and one on either side. I realized they weren’t clearly visible, it was as if I could feel, more than see them. A sense of awe overcame me. They were beautiful, majestic. I wanted to cry out and share the moment with everyone else in the room. Were they angels sent to guide my father home?  Visitors sent from Heaven to greet Dad on the journey he would soon take? This incredible glimpse I was given had to be a true gift that only could have come from my Heavenly Father. I kept the moment to myself. Peace enveloped me then; a sense of well-being, knowledge that Dad would be in good hands—the best hands. I was able to leave the room, able to let go.
        Though others stayed behind as they took Dad off life support, I could not. I went downstairs to a small chapel in the hospital but it was too dark, too quiet for me there. The sun had been shining brightly outside and I decided that I would spend Dad’s last moments walking outdoors.
       A friend who stayed in the room told me she would call me when my father passed. I found a bench and sat upon it, lifting my face to the warming rays of the sun. Birds chirped happily in the surrounding trees. All was quiet, until . . .
I heard my father’s voice, clear as a bell. No mistaking the slight chuckle, the tone of what was said. “The nightmare’s over.
       Exactly at that moment my friend texted me. Where are you? She asked. Why, I asked, is he gone? Yes, she said, very peacefully. I knew that God had allowed another miracle! For me to hear my father’s words as he went off to glory. To let me know with our special phrase that he was leaving, but for me to be happy for him.
       A few months later I had a very powerful dream. In it, my father came to me. He looked young and handsome. He said to me, “Kar, here in Heaven, everything glows, even the people.” I remember feeling as if my heart would burst from happiness at seeing him. During the dream, I confessed how worried I was about Mom. He simply said, “Don’t worry.” When he wanted to tell me a secret about Heaven, I awoke, for I felt it wasn’t time for me to know.
       Throughout my life I’d always dreaded saying goodbye to my parents. Our family was so close. I was sure I would never be able to handle it. Though he left us, Dad’s words remained with me and got me through; the ones that were silly and made me laugh, the comforting ones which had always given me hope, and the parting words spoken secretly to me.
       We lost Mom only nine months later. Though it wasn’t easy saying goodbye so soon after losing Dad, it helped to know he was waiting for her on the other side. 


Sunday, August 12, 2018

A Promise




I spoke with a good friend the other day about unfairness. They had mentioned the fact that a much younger person was making way more money than they did for doing much less. I felt the urge to commiserate at first, but something hit me powerfully. You can call it a Holy Spirit moment. One of those times when words pop into our head or heart that we couldn't possibly have thought on our own.

"Wait a minute," I said. "You are a tither, right?" She said that yes, she was. "Has God ever failed you, really failed you? Has He ever not shown up when you needed Him the most? Have you ever truly been in a bad way and not had the means to get through it?"

My friend's face lit up. She was beginning to get the picture. Clearly.

I continued. "Don't you think that God can take meager wages and quadruple them if He chooses? No matter what amount we are making at our job, He can multiply it. Our wages are His anyway. Everything is His. When we put our complete trust in Him, He shows Himself faithful to our situations. Therefore no matter what amount of money is in our hand, we are blessed and favored. Nothing can take that from us."

She looked down and then back up at me. "You're completely right," she said. "He's never failed me. No matter what I've been through, somehow things always worked out."

This reminded me of my own trust in the Lord where my finances were concerned. The Bible says, "Test me in this," says the Lord, "and see if I do not throw open the floodgates of Heaven." I had been a single mother at the time. And I decided that I would begin to tithe, to give ten percent of my earnings to the church. Many people scoffed at this. Some said that I was crazy. All I knew was God had been nudging at me to begin doing this. I had to. The first week I began, my car had problems and a family member needed help with a loan they had recently taken out. They were unable to make their payment and had come to me a little desperate.

"Lord, seriously," I said. "I began tithing and everything appears to be going wrong. Maybe it isn't for me after all." I struggled and thought about giving up. But something kept telling me to keep at it. Week after week, I gave ten percent to the Lord. And I know some people don't understand this at all. No, we are not handing money directly to Him. But we are taking what we make, and trustingly putting it into the hands of God's stewards. Other people would say hurtful things like "The church has enough money. How do you know where your money will really go?" All I can tell you is what worked for me, and what I felt peace with.

I not only was able to pay for the fixing of my car, but I was able to help the family member, and during Christmas, which was only a few weeks away that year, extra money came in many different forms for me and my son. God showed Himself faithful and His word, true. I have never looked back, and have spoken often of the ten percent. 

If you are in a time of lack, if you are feeling that others are passing you by on the ladder of success and that life is truly unfair; If you are struggling with your bills and debt, may I suggest putting aside ten percent of your what you make and give it to a church that you are comfortable with. Especially if your church, like mine, is the type that has many different ministries and you know it is going to good use. The faithfulness and trust alone is something our Heavenly Father sees and will bless. I feel very strongly about this. So much that I am speaking a prayer over anyone reading this right now. I pray that the Lord will bless you abundantly, dear reader. I pray that you will find peace, healing, grace, and the beginning of restoration in your life. In Jesus name.

Amen







Tuesday, August 7, 2018

The Power of Positive Dreaming


(Photo of The Memory Blanket. One of my stories that was chosen.)


I'm old. I can't do this. I will never be chosen. Nobody will like it. I don't have talent. Can I think of any other negative things to say about myself?

                                                             #

When I was a little girl, my mother used to watch a soft-spoken pastor on t.v. or listen to him on the radio. His name was Norman Vincent Peale. He also had written a "controversial" book that my mother loved called 'The Power of Positive Thinking.' My goodness! Such scandal! How dare a man, and a preacher at that, try to combine prayer with thinking positively. Unheard of back in the day.

But combine them he did, and Dr. Peale and his wife Ruth went on to create the inspirational little magazine called "Guidepost" in the late 1940's. I came upon a stack of these small gems in my teenage years. Someone in our neighborhood had a house sale and had gotten rid of them. Dad brought them home to us. Every article, every little story was another diamond, another glorious tale of people just like us who experienced the extraordinary in their prayer lives, or had a wonderful experience that changed them in a powerful way.

I purchased another book by Dr. Peale called 'The Power of Positive Imaging' in my early twenties and read it so many times that it is worn out and dog-eared, but extremely well-loved.

A patient in my dental office recently brought a stack of Guidepost magazines for us to enjoy. I hadn't thought of them in a while, and began reading them once again. As I checked their website, I noticed that they accept inspirational stories from everyday people. Why not? I thought. I had several self-published, or small publishing house published books. Maybe I have a story to share with them that will bless others as I've been blessed.

As I write this today, I received my third call from Guidepost for one of my articles. It is truly a dream come true for me. You see, I never believed in myself, well, not much at times. I thought perhaps I'm too old, or not educated enough. But to be chosen! I am still floating! Someone likes how I write. Someone believes in me. Someone feels what I am trying to convey as I paint pictures with my words.

Yes, it has been a dream since about fourth grade to become a writer. Become. I like that word. For it evokes the fact that I've had to work for it. It shows that I am ever changing, learning more about the craft. It conveys that there is still more inside of me to share with you, dear readers and with the world that God is alive. He is real. He has never failed me. He is never changing. And He will use me through my writing for His purpose. Oh the mighty power of prayer, believing, and dreaming in a positive way.

Monday, July 30, 2018

Let's All Have a Meet and Greet





I'm prompted today by a small stirring in my heart to write about something I witnessed yesterday at my son's Matt3756 meet and greet at the Replay FX event in Pittsburgh.

What is a meet and greet you may ask? Well, at conventions, they are celebrities of some sort sitting behind a table with their manager signing random autographs or taking photographs with fans. Most of the time if you are fortunate, some of the celebs are very kind and engaging, spending a little more time with you especially if you are the "fan girl" type like myself upon meeting Sean Astin from the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy. Yes, sadly this fifty-something-year-old lady made a fool of herself but Mr. Astin took it all in stride and even told me how adorable I was. (I can live on that forever!)

My son, Matt is a YouTuber for those of you who don't know him. YouTube is the new television for young people these days. They watch hours upon hours of this, and Matt is very popular to the point that he has done meet and greet events nearby and out of state as well. Children and their families have come from several hours away to meet with him. When I am with him, it always makes a mom smile. For I see him spend quality time with each child and their family, as if they are the only people who matter in that moment.

Yesterday at the event, I was playing a skee ball type of game, when I saw a mother and son who had already visited Matt's booth for autographs. She told me that the only reason they had come to the event was to meet Matt and how much her son loves him. Her son is a special needs child. I wasn't sure she knew that they could go back and "hang out" with Matt at his booth. He encourages his fans to stick around, chat, and play games. She hadn't known that, and was very glad I told her. So I noticed that they came back to his booth eventually, almost in a shy way as if they were bothering Matt.

Not only did Matt engage the little boy in more conversation, he cheered him on when he played Matt's table top claw machine. He encouraged him and made him feel special. I secretly watched as Matt talked with others, his loud and crazy voice and zany ways, that the little boy was grinning from ear to ear watching his favorite YouTuber acting silly.

At the end of the day, the mother thanked Matt so much for his time and making her son's day. There was a glow in my heart for God giving me such a good son; for letting me help mold him into a wonderful human being even though he doesn't realize it sometimes.

You see Matt wondered when he was a young child what he was good at. And I honestly didn't know at the time when he posed this question to me. I told him "wait and see." A pastor friend of mine from several years ago spoke words of prophecy when Matt was in a particularly depressed time, "Hold on for the ride!" he said. We had no idea those words would come true in a major way. We had no idea that what Matt would be good at, was to be a light in the darkness for many children. Yes, it's wonderful that he's able to make a living with his YouTube channel. But for me, it's the fact that he is doing God's will in this crazy world, meeting and greeting kids all over, and helping them to feel special.

I'm reminded a little of Fred Rogers. I've often told my son this. That he is a cross between Mr. Rogers and Jim Carey. Zany and crazy fun, with a heart attached. I can only hope that I touch lives like he does someday.

May we all be a "meet and greet" type of person. May we help the friend sitting near us telling us their troubles to feel like they are the only person on earth as we listen, truly listen to them. May we meet others with a cheerful greeting and enthusiasm. May we greet each day with the opportunity to be a blessing in a world that sometimes seems a little darker every day.

God, please use us to be your light.

This young man recently interviewed Matt. His name is Colton DeBiase and he has begun a movement that encourages people to "Live Like Fred." (Rogers, that is.) I love the idea.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K2PzUYBOrjU&t=47s

Matt's YouTube channel:

 https://www.youtube.com/user/matt3756

Thursday, July 26, 2018

The Eighth Street Dairy


Newspaper clipping of when my parents took over the store. It says: An old fashioned store with a new old fashioned look.


A tiny corner Mom and Pop grocery store seemed like a magical place to my brother and I in the early 1980's. Especially since it was so out of character that our parents would decide to purchase the little business. Dad thought it would be a good venture for our mom to run. And even though he had a full time job at the local post office, he seemed happy to help her out during any time he had off from work.

First glance inside the old place, our family realized that it was in dire need of fresh new paint and many upgrades. Also, the flooring was bad and the look overall was outdated. Our parents put their creative thinking caps on, and purchased multi-color remnants of carpeting from a rug store in town. The end result was an adorable patchwork-type splash of color for the floor. Shelves were painted, plumbing restored, new fun items were purchased to add to the theme of a fun place to visit and set a spell.

With the help of several others, the new look of the store came together in an old-fashioned way. A glass case sat off to the left when you walked through the door; an old-fashioned tinkling bell announcing your presence. Within the case was an assortment of the magic of childhood. Penny candy sat in colorful cardboard boxes. Gum, candy cigarettes, chewy taffy, and those flying saucers that had an outer shell which reminded us of communion wafers and tiny little candy beads on the inside. Red Swedish fish, gummy bears (Mom swore we were the first to get them in the area!).

Because the store was situated across the street from our town high school, we pre-counted bags of one hundred with the most popular penny candy. After the last bell rang, the kids would flock to the store, and we tried to keep up with them as their fingers pointed out what they wanted as they clutched a wrinkled dollar bill in their hands.

We had the usual staples: bread, milk, pop, a few canned goods and cereals. Mom made fresh daily coffee behind the counter where a few stools stood sentinel. An antique game called "Kicker/Catcher" sat at the edge of the counter where we amused ourselves for long periods of time.

Nothing was as wonderful as the video games near the back of the store. One game in particular stands out in my mind. This was the time of the big standing arcade games. It was called "Super Astro Fighter" and it quickly became the major competition for me and my brother and all the kids who lived nearby. We would try to beat one another's scores. We would proudly place our initials at the end of each game, hoping to 'one up' the previous person's score.

The aroma of simmering sloppy joe greeted everyone who walked through the door. For Mom cooked the meat at home, and then placed it into a crock pot which she brought to the store daily. In a crude handmade sign, she cartoonishly drew a picture of a bun with meat inside, steam rising from the top. For some reason, this drew truckers and many others into the store for a quick lunch of one of her tasty sandwiches, a small bag of potato chips, and a pop.

The memory that is most vivid to me though, is the outpouring of good conversation with the folks that walked through the door. My mother loved people, was a good listener, and a great one to give advice. She had several friends that would stop daily for laughter and a good cup of coffee. Some of the warmest memories are of seeing my mother's beautiful face light up when a favorite friend or special young person walked through the door. She knew when they were having a bad day. She knew the right words to say, or promises of prayers for some of their situations.

I feel for the young people of today. For this bygone era of old-fashioned values is headed by the wayside. With the fast-paced world, electronic devices in front of our faces, we are losing something very precious. We are losing the ability to be kind to one another, to listen, learn and be in the moment. My mother had the right idea. She made everyone feel as if they were the only person that mattered in the time she had with them.

I miss the dairy. I miss the people we all grew so close with at that time. My brother and I were fortunate to make lasting friendships with some of them. And yet there are others that we know we will never see again. Perhaps they've moved on with their lives. Perhaps they, too, knew there was once a place where everyone truly did know your name.

On a corner of Duss Avenue and Eighth street in the small steel town of Ambridge, there once was a place of magic. A place that many could come and share their cares, dreams, hopes and troubles. And there once was a woman and man who made the magic happen. Eighth Street Dairy, I will always remember our time. Thank you for being more than just a building, an establishment. Thank you for being a home, a safe haven for many.








One of the only photos we have of the inside of the dairy during our time there. Our dear old friend, Albert Jones.