The Ten Percent

 I grew up in a family where money was sometimes an issue. As a young girl, attending business school in downtown Pittsburgh, during lunchtime while all the other girls had their crisp dollar bills ready at our local McDonald's and other fast food establishments, I shamefully brought along my brown bagged lunch. My parents didn't have daily money to hand me. I was fortunate I had enough to ride the bus to and from school. My brother and I never wanted for anything, but frivolity wasn't a part of our lives.

 Years later when my father retired, he took a drastic cut in his monthly wages. He even got a part-time job at a convenience store to make ends meet. Because of many health bills and re-financing through the years, my parent's home wasn't paid off and I saw them struggling financially as they grew older.

It was about this time, I became separated from my husband of twelve years. At first, my son and I lived with my family, helping with monthly bills, until we found a small house to rent. I had a full time job, but as a single mom, new challenges were presented to me. Clothes for my son, food, whatever he'd need for school projects and such. Yet through this whole time, I kept hearing about "the ten percent."  I had strong Christian friends who spoke about "tithing", the giving of ten percent of your wages to your church. For years I questioned it. Brought up in a traditional church, we gave an envelope, sometimes lucky to put 10.00 on a good week. Yet here were my friends, all who seemed financially stable telling me about the biblical principle.

I read my bible about it, looking up any passages I could find. I prayed about it: Lord, is this something I could be doing? Is this something I should be doing?

Finally, after feeling deep down inside that this was something I needed to do, I made a decision to tithe to my traditional church. I truly began to believe that my son and I would be taken care of financially. I noticed almost immediately while writing out my weekly bills, as long as my first check was the ten percent, all the rest of the bills were able to be paid as well, with money left over. This was amazing.

About that time, my father came to me with a problem: his little old car was on its last leg and Dad wasn't sure what to do. There was no extra money to buy a used car, and his credit was poor at the time. After prayerful consideration and many, many tears, I decided to help him out. I took a small loan at a local credit union with tears streaming down my face. How would I do this? I'd promised God I'd tithe, and here was a new burden laid upon me. Month after month went by, and somehow, some way, I always had enough. I still gave my ten percent, paid my own monthly bills and took care of my father's bill as well. The principle overwhelmed me.

Years have gone by since that time. I've remarried and taught my husband about the ten percent. It's almost miraculous because not only are we able to take care of our bills, but I see the blessing being passed down to the next generation, our children. I see each one of them with amazing blessings in their jobs and their lives. It's true, the principle of God throwing open the floodgates of heaven. It may not mean picking the winning numbers for the lottery, but I can tell you this: It is God's promise, a promise of stability in our finances and lives. Of generosity toward our church and others. And a lifetime of financial peace and blessings.

Happy birthday, Dad

Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Daddy! Happy birthday to you!!!

My goodness. Time does fly! I can remember the fun, silly man, the one who always tried to make everyone laugh. The time my father dressed up like Fred Rodgers, complete with zip- up sweater singing "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood...."

Another time, with a large tin can upon his head breathing heavily like Darth Vader stating, "Luke, I am your father."

Or once, in J. C. Penney's, a fedora cocked sideways on his head while we walked through the men's department, pretending to be Hannibal Lector in the final scenes of "Silence of the Lambs."

This soft-spoken, good-hearted man, who walked through life seemingly without a care in the world. But there were cares. When I was 13 years old, laying in a hospital bed in Children's Hospital, my parents stood by stoically, trying to make light of the seriousness of spinal surgery. Dad would invent some crazy song or antic to make me laugh. He'd poke fun at the nurses and doctors, calling them all sorts of humorous names behind their backs. Day after day, he'd drive himself and Mom to visit me, though driving to Pittsburgh wasn't something he liked to do.

My rock, my strength. A man who was there in times when my mother was hospitalized when I was a little girl. A man who took the time to build crystal radios with me, paint little football men in an old game, explain word problems in math one more time. Walk me back to bed, when upon waking in the night, I'd need the reassurance that everything was alright. Explain the plays yet again to the tiring questions I asked while watching Steeler games with him. A man who never put himself before anyone. Humble, simple, loving and kind. These words don't do my Dad justice.

In 1999 my father was rushed to the hospital. A quadruple heart bypass would follow. My brother and I thought we might lose him at that time. Dad not only pulled through, but today, March 6, he turns Eighty-three.

God has been good to our family. I'm blessed to have both my parents and consider every day a gift with them. Though we've seen hard times through the years, our deep love and humor carries us through life's journey.

Happy birthday, Dad. When I grow up, I want to be just like you. All my love. . .

Reflections From My Mother's Kitchen

Do you know your worth in the eyes of God?

We meet Kate Anderson, a forty-year-old woman sitting on a porch swing on a sunny day, writing in her journal and reflecting on her life. Though she tries to keep the voices at bay, the ones that tell her what a failure she's been, she learns it isn't easy when the past creeps up with ill-timing.

When Kate finds an old photograph and discovers her great-grandfather, an Italian immigrant who came to this country penniless in the early 1900's, she learns the stories that molded her family and begins to find herself in the process.

But when adversity returns, and Kate finds herself reliving the moments from her life that almost pushed her to the edge, will she ever truly become the woman she's meant to be?

This story is very dear to my heart, for it is my own story for the most part, you see. Bits and pieces of a memoir woven into a fiction story. Some of my life hasn't been easy. Mistakes I've made, and yet other events which I had no control over.

I challenge you to find parts of this story which may remind you of yourself. Perhaps you too suffer from insecurity, as Kate and I do. Perhaps you've been hurt by a failed marriage or the cruelty of children in your youth.Maybe, like Kate's mother, Ellen, you grew up in an abusive home.

May you find healing along your own journey, as you travel with Kate into the stories she and her mom share in the warmth of a mother's kitchen.

E book available on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Reflections-Mothers-Kitchen-Journey-Healing-ebook/dp/B00IP4EY78/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1393636763&sr=8-2&keywords=karen+malena

Paperback coming soon.

The Child Within

     I chose this silly picture of me dressing up as a kitty for Halloween to share my feelings about having fun. You see, when I was younger, it was all about the house. Making sure every item was in place. Every dish washed, every bed made, every crumb picked up. It was so bad, when my boys were small, and they'd touch my glass table tops with their chubby little hands, immediately the Windex would pop out, and the indelible smear of their youth would forever be wiped away.
     Oh, how I wish I'd have treasured those times more. The chaos of the boys' toys strewn all over a room, piles of matchbox cars, scads of plastic superhero figurines. A half-eaten candy bar, a can of pop with most of its contents still sloshing around.
     I was a cleaning fanatic, you see. Not because I loved it, or wanted to be that way. Something happened in my youth that forever imprinted my brain with the picture of a perfectly clean house.
     My friend Diane and I were watching cartoons on a Saturday morning, sharing our stories of boys we liked, sharing our dreams of the future. We were only nine years old, a time when kids should be thinking of fun and silliness. It was a serious time for me though, as my mother had been hospitalized. My dear Nonna, my grandma, lived next door, and was caring for me then. When through the front door, burst Aunt Hilda, my mom's elderly, cranky aunt, who always carried such an air of meanness about her.
     Aunt Hilda proceeded to pick apart everything that was wrong with my parents house. Dishes were unwashed, so she said. The beds, unmade, and get upstairs and clean that bathroom! I couldn't understand why she was so angry. Shutting off the cartoons, and bidding my friend, Diane, goodbye, I trudged with a heavy heart to see what the fuss was about. Aunt Hilda belittled me to a point I'd never forget. Clean, clean, clean! Grow up! With the threat that she'd return to check on my progress, I'd had my first lesson in housekeeping. But with it, came a price. Ever after, I'd clean to the point of obsessiveness.
     When my mom first came home from the hospital, I didn't tell her. It would be years before I revealed this story to her.
     I think that's why, at this point in my life, as an older woman, I've learned to have fun. Let my hair down so to speak. I don't feel guilty any longer about a few dishes in the sink, a crumb on the counter. I'm a great housekeeper, don't get me wrong, but on a day off, I'd rather continue writing my stories, reading a good book, watching an awesome movie, and crocheting for comfort. And on the occasion of Halloween, Christmas and Easter, yes, you'll see my acting like a child, behaving like a silly young girl just for the fun of it. I still love parades, I love playing pretend with my little nieces. I can kick back without any television or noise and be still. To know what it is truly like to enjoy blissful moments of relaxation.

I'm on a humorous roll

     Okay, for some reason I've been thinking about funny stories that really happened. I know this is supposed to be inspirational stories from the heart and all, but doesn't humor apply to inspiring us as well? Don't you find that a good belly laugh is sometimes more of a cure for what ails you than medicine?

     Years ago, our post office was having its local food drive. Always one to be of help, plus my father and husband were postal workers, I wanted to oblige. Into a brown paper bag, I placed many well-planned items. Cans of soups, bags of rice and pasta, boxes of cereal. I smiled, thinking warmly of the families I'd be helping. Lord, bless those who will receive these items. . .

     I was running a bit late that morning, so I rushed around my house, finished dressing, fed the cats and hastily scooped cat litter into a plastic grocery bag as was my usual habit. I threw the bag onto my front porch, but forgot to place it into the garbage container near my garage and flew off to work as quickly as possible.

     Several hours later my husband called me at work. I panicked for a moment, as the sounds he emitted sounded strangely like hysterics. Did something bad happen? Was he okay? It turned out, he was laughing. Catching his breath, he explained. Our postman, when delivering our mail that day, had picked up the bag of "groceries" on our front porch. He'd driven around that afternoon with items for the food drive from many of the wonderful people in our area wondering what that awful smell was emitting from the back of his postal truck. I almost fell off my chair, realizing I'd never placed my own food drive items out that day. It seemed the postman picked up the quite heavy bag of cat litter, thinking it was our contribution.

     I'd like to think my two cats stood snickering at the front window as they watched him drive away. Right after they dug into the bag of groceries on the kitchen floor.

Sometimes you just gotta laugh

     Not too long ago, Mom told our family her partial denture was lost. She swore she put it in the same place as always as she went off to bed. Yet the next day, my father and brother searched high and low without the pink of acrylic gums or white of acrylic tooth to be seen. Dad emptied trash cans, spilling contents out and sifting through to see if perhaps Mom might have accidentally thrown it out.
     They searched under couches, pillows and rugs. They sat back exhausted, their efforts in vain as I made another dental appointment for Mom to take impressions for a new partial.
     Mom jokingly said, "I think it was Kitty or Mya, the dog. I think they took it and were playing with it." We all shook our heads snickering a bit, wondering just what would a dog or cat do with teeth? Wear them perhaps?
     Time passed, Mom got her new teeth and all was well with the world, Until about a week ago when she announced they were missing once again. This time I was visiting as well. The search was on. We overturned every item in the house. We retraced steps like Jack Bauer in "24." Nothing. Not until Dad picked up a favorite sweater of Mom's and announced, "Here they are." Ahhh, the pocket. The source of many a shriveled kleenex and other assorted brick- a- brack.. This time it housed the partial, still intact. I think Dad felt a bit smug that day, as he heralded himself as champion.
     Hold on. You may be thinking, oh, it's just one of those things. Parents getting forgetful, etc, etc. Until today when I visited them once again. Dad met me at the door, putting a finger to his lips. "Shhhh," he said. "I have a story to tell you, but don't tell anyone else."
     I wondered what on earth he did.What secret would I have to uphold now? Dad proceeded to tell me he laid his denture in its usual spot last evening. At least that's what he thought he did. When he awoke this morning, no denture was to be found. Hmmm, maybe he left them in another convenient spot. He retraced his steps, a bit embarrassed at doing the same thing he'd teased my mother about not so long ago. Checking this place and that, he came up empty when at last, he spotted them on the living room floor.
     We chuckled together, he and I, as he realized Mya, the dog, indeed must have snatched them from an unusual spot. They were no worse for wear, no pun intended, and after cleaning them as thoroughly as possible, he proceeded to smile a huge smile at me, showing me his full compliment of teeth once again.
     I've worked in the dental field for over thirty years. We warn partial and denture patients all the time not to leave their prosthetics anywhere a dog can get to them. For a plastic item with the scent of food is a most awesome doggy toy.
     As I left my parents house today, I pictured Mya with a set of dentures in her mouth. I could swear she winked at me when I said goodbye.

Our beloved mentors

   We all have them. Teachers who've touched our lives, siblings, parents, aunts, uncles, perhaps a grandparent, or coach. One thing is certain, we wouldn't be who we are without them and their guidance.
     One of the first inspirational mentors in my life was a teacher in fourth grade. Her name was Kathy Clark. She was a quiet, simple young woman, soft-spoken and kind. She took me under her wing when she knew I had some difficult issues going on at home. Her compassion in that crucial year of life stuck with me all my life.
     I've had others who touched me in important ways. A tough English teacher in high school. She pushed us hard, and it was difficult to get an 'A' from her. But her drive and determination made us all better students, better writers.
     My own dear Nonna was another who taught me so many things in life. Resilient, kind, full of laughter, always a song in her heart. A woman who had lived through the depression and came out on the other side. I would learn virtues from her which still are a big part of who I am.
     A counselor I spoke with several years ago would be another who'd guide me in good ways. It was his belief in me and the advice he gave, coupled with his faith in God which moved me to better myself.
     And my own beloved parents. Through my father, I'd learn patience, strength, a sense of humor, goodness and kindness. Through Mom, I'd learn compassion, deep-thinking, laughter, a love of people and morals. I owe so much to these two people who gave my brother and I so many good qualities, who helped mold us into the people we are today.
    Where would I be without them?  And yet I have so many others to learn from as well. A pastor friend whose spirit soars. Who's taught me to remember to pray before everything and anything. A co-worker who continues to help me better myself. And my amazing children, each one with special talents and so much to offer. It is through their eyes at times, where I learn the most. For it's in their lives where we've once been the mentors, the ones who've guided them that I can now see new things opening to me and my life. Things which would never have been possible without taking a step back to learn something new.

The Christmas Phone Call ( A short love story)

I have a tale for you today. A true love story. . .

Once there was a fun-loving young man in his early twenties; a man with a smile like a ray of sunshine who could charm anyone with his wit and humor and a laugh that could warm the chilliest heart. There wasn't anyone who disliked him. People took notice of his humorous antics, good looks and charming ways. His heart was big, his kindness evident, and sense of compassion, great. He fell in love with a very good, simple girl from a small town. Her family was extremely close and he adored them and the way they made him feel: welcomed and loved, a true part of them.

This young couple courted quickly and married within a year. Their apartment was tiny, but well-kept, clean and cozy. They didn't have much furniture, no rich lavish decorations, but they had each other. Laughter, compassion and goodness continued to be a part of their world, and when they looked into each others eyes every night, true love could be seen in their gaze. Their lives were a testimony to people around them.

As time went on, the young man yearned for more. His small world became a prison to him. He wanted a better job, grander things to please him. The simple, good girl wasn't enough for him. She wondered what she could do to keep him happy. Should she change? Would he be more content if she was prettier, skinnier?

Then the day she never dreamed of arrived. The young man told her he was done. He wanted out of the marriage, out of their small world. He had big places to go and many important things to do. She wouldn't be welcome in this new life he'd chosen.

Though her heart was broken for a very long time, she managed to put the pieces of her world back together.

Many years went by, and the woman who'd grown and matured into a loving, caring adult found herself face to face with the man who'd betrayed her those many years ago. He told her he needed to relieve himself of a heavy burden, and would she give him just a few moments of her time.

Years of grief poured from the man. Red-faced and sobbing, he apologized for leaving her behind, for hurting her so cruelly. He'd gotten everything he wanted in life: fancy job, huge home, gorgeous women and mountains of money, yet he'd lost his soul in the process. Would she please forgive him from her heart? Would she absolve him of this most grievous sin?

With a trembling hand, she brushed away the tears which coursed down his face. She smiled a sad, tired smile at him. She thought back to the years of happiness, the simple life they'd once shared. The fact he'd been the first love of her life. She remembered the ache, the loneliness she'd gone through when he abandoned her. Everything in her screamed how wrong it would be to forgive him, yet she offered mercy to him that day. In a quavering voice, she absolved him. The release flooded through him and a burden was lifted. They parted ways and years separated them once again.

One Christmas, the woman received a phone call from the man. He was at the end of his rope. All the money in the world couldn't buy him happiness, or the simplicity he so longed for. The lavish lifestyle and grueling hours at work to keep him wealthy and comfortable was killing him. He'd lost touch with everyone that mattered: his family and friends. He felt lost, lonely and insignificant. He wanted to end it all. He had called to say goodbye to her, to hear her voice one last time, this good, simple woman who'd loved him once and forgiven him greatly.

It had been much too long since the woman had cared for him or felt emotions stirring within herself toward him. Yet she prayed a simple prayer as they spoke. "God, be with him. Show him there's so much more to life than what he's been pursuing. Give him your peace and simplicity."

It wasn't a very dramatic or elegant prayer, but a prayer offered in the quietness of a humble heart. They said their goodbyes and as she hung up the phone, she realized it wasn't her power to change him. She'd done all she could, forgiven and moved on. And that was enough. The rest would be up to God.

A Most Quaint, Cozy Place

     I chuckled to myself today while walking through the quaint town of Ligonier, Pennsylvania. The movie "Funny Farm" came to mind, but not in a bad or irreverent way. If you've seen the movie, you'll remember near the end when Chevy Chase and his wife are going to be divorcing, and they needed to sell their lovely country home. They called upon the citizens of Redbud, the quaint town nearby, to dress and act like something out of a Norman Rockwell Christmas magazine to help them push the house to prospective buyers. The town was aglow with lights, carolers and such coziness, you wish you lived there yourself.
     Today, I found myself in such a town. Snowflakes flitted upon the air, lacy and delicate. Lovely Christmas music was playing, piped through the gazebo in the town square. Shopkeepers smiled warm greetings at my husband and I as we walked by. Everywhere we went, a bit of Christmas cheer was tucked into a cozy corner.
     Nothing compared to the lovely place we stayed. A newer establishment in town, Thistledown at the Seger House is a journey back in time. With its lovely woodwork, homey, old-fashioned Christmas decor, and some of the sweetest people running it, my husband and I felt as if we were a part of a Norman Rockwell painting, book, or magazine.
     I've yet to find out the history of the building itself. Someone told me it was once an old hospital. I plan on speaking with the owners tomorrow morning to hear more about it. For tonight, my writers imagination will run wild with it. I believe my husband and I are the only ones here this evening. And though that may seem a bit creepy to some, we find it romantic and alluring. The perfect writing retreat for me and well-deserved getaway for my hard-working husband.
     We've stayed in many places on our weekend trips. This impeccable inn will certainly be somewhere we will journey to many times in the future.

http://www.thistledownligonier.com/

A Very Piggy Christmas

Merry Christmas everyone from Piggy the Cat, my alter ego. Today I've decided to post an excerpt from the final chapter of Piggy's book which would have been the Christmas volume. Although all her stories will be told in an upcoming paperback book, I want to share with her special fans just a little of the fun that awaits. You guys are amazing and Piggy wouldn't be who she is without all of you. Thanks so much for following her on Facebook and reading her books! You all rock!

Chapter 4

A Very Piggy Christmas

     I opened my eyes and blinked lazily at the bright light of a new day, shivering in the chill of the early winter morning. The wind howled, making the glass window panes rattle. Matt was already up and gone, his spot on the bed already cooled. He must have left much earlier.

     Settling in, making myself presentable for the day, I licked my paw scrubbing it over my face and ears, nibbling between my toes in the way that all cats do, careful to clean every crevice, my hind leg poised in the air. Out of the corner of my eye I spied Melvin my mousy companion in the hallway, sneaking along the baseboard.

     “Psst,” I called out. “Matt’s not here, Mel. Come on in.” I put my leg down and patted the top of the bed with my paw. Melvin scampered into Matt’s bedroom and climbed the quilted comforter with a few small scrambles of his hind legs. Once he was up, he stood on his back feet, nose pointing into the air, agog with curiosity.

     “Nice room,” he said. “Ooh, look.” He pointed near Matt’s computer where an old bowl of ice cream sat, melted. “Good thing your master isn’t a neat freak,” Melvin said. We both investigated and found vanilla ice cream with a smattering of rainbow sprinkles. One lone candy gummy worm sat off to the side of the dish looking a bit forlorn. Melvin scooped the candy into his clutches and set off nibbling the wormy head first. I lapped up the delectable vanilla flavor carefully crunching the sprinkles with my back teeth.

     Melvin looked funny with his cheeks puffed out, the last of the gummy worm dangling from his mouth. He slurped the rest of the body in, and then began licking his paws careful to remove the stickiness.

     “How’s your new room?” I asked, jumping down from the computer desk onto the hardwood floor. My nails always made a ticking sound which I found amusing.

     “Well, I’m pretty much done with the decorating. Maybe you can come see it later. If you can squeeze through the door.” Melvin added quietly as an afterthought.

     “I heard that,” I said. “Thanks for the insult.” I walked away from my pal with my tail indignantly in the air. “Humph!”

     I ran down the stairs to the first floor, Melvin close behind. “Sorry Piggy. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

     “No, of course you didn’t,” I said rolling my eyes and trying to keep some distance between us. I jumped on the back of the couch, sharpening my claws on the cushion. A bit of fluff poked from a small hole I’d created and I batted at it for a while. I pulled at it a bit harder and out popped a wad. Woops.  I tried stuffing it back into the hole and gave up a moment later, swatting it behind the couch.

     Next, I busied myself with a blanket thrown over the arm of the sofa. Using my delicate sense of touch with the pads of my paws, I kneaded the soft afghan over and over, purring as I did. The scent of my master lay embedded in the fabric as well making it especially cozy.

     All the while, Melvin kept trying to get my attention. He didn’t speak but kept running to and fro, annoying me.

      “Mel, would you give up already? I’m not in the mood today.”

     Melvin slunk away, wiry brown tail between his legs. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him mount the staircase, head hung low as he trudged to the second floor.

     Humph. Serves him right. I’m tired of the snide remarks, I thought to myself. I’ll show him a thing or two. I won’t speak to him for a few days. Then when he misses me, he’ll come running back, apologizing for the comments and beg me for forgiveness.

     Contented, I curled around and around on the fuzzy blanket laying my head onto my paws; my whipcord tail curled around me and fell into blissful slumber.

     Awakening much later, it felt as if the light had been sucked right out of the day. It was dim in the living room, though the sheer curtains were opened. Fat, lazy snowflakes began falling. Feathery, lacey, they cascaded through the air, lighting on bushes and grass. I jumped from the couch onto the window sill, my breath making frosty fog on the glass. Brrr. The day had grown even chillier. No wonder, I thought, it is December.

      Thanksgiving had just passed and Christmas was still a few weeks away. I’d always enjoyed Christmas in the old house; watching Matt’s uncle decorate, watching him and Matt pile colorful, wrapped presents under the tree. Most of all, I enjoyed guessing which ones were for me.

     Matt had a small artificial Christmas tree stuck in the corner of our living room. I liked the fake bark, and enjoyed raking my claws down the length of the trunk when Matt wasn’t looking. He’d put it up a day or so ago. Colorful twinkle lights covered every branch. Homemade ornaments from my master’s youth hung from tiny hooks.

     I liked everything about this season. The silly cartoons Matt watched, the same ones over and over through the years. I’d grown accustomed to waiting for them: the Grinch, Frosty and Rudolph. The festive songs were so cheerful and light. The many different kinds of foods and cookies Matt’s mom and grandmother made. Christmas Eve was best of all since they prepared fish as many ways as possible. Tuna spaghetti, some type of small fish called smelts, shrimp and haddock. My mouth drooled just thinking about it.

     I loved basking in the attention and warmth as Matt’s family gathered together. Humans are very fortunate to have such a wonderful time of the year.

     The snow fell harder outside, blanketing everything as I continued watching and daydreaming.  The wind raged and blew the sparkling diamonds of white all around. An extremely large burst of wind gusted, and the front door to my house flew open.

     What on earth? I crouched low and my ears flattened to my head, a ball of fear in my stomach. I’d never seen such a thing happen before. Hadn’t Matt locked up well behind himself this morning?

To Be Continued. . .

Follow Piggy on Facebook:
 https://www.facebook.com/pages/Piggy/118352481653800?ref=hl