Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Day 12: 12 Pearls of Christmas | A Teenage Pregnancy | Robin Jones Gunn

12pearlsofxmas
Welcome to the 12 Pearls of Christmas blog series!

Merry Christmas from Pearl Girls™! We hope you enjoy these Christmas “Pearls of Wisdom” from the authors who were so kind to donate their time and talents! If you miss a few posts, you’ll be able go back through and read them on this blog throughout the next few days.

We’re giving away a pearl necklace in celebration of the holidays, as well as some items from the contributors! Enter now below. The winner will be announced on January 2, 2014, at the Pearl Girls blog.

If you are unfamiliar with Pearl Girls™, please visit www.pearlgirls.info and see what we’re all about. In short, we exist to support the work of charities that help women and children in the US and around the globe. Consider purchasing a copy of Mother of Pearl, Pearl Girls: Encountering Grit, Experiencing Grace, or one of the Pearl Girls products (all GREAT gifts!) to help support Pearl Girls.
***

A Teenage Pregnancy by Robin Jones Gunn

It was early, early morning, that delicate time of day just before sunrise when it seems as if all of creation is still asleep.

In the cold, gray light she gazed at the infant in her arms. He was less than an hour old and so, so small. Instinct prompted her to draw her newborn close that he might feel the rhythm of her heart. He curled his tiny hand around her finger and she smiled. His eyes closed, and with feathered breath he gave way to the blessed sleep that follows such a long journey.

In weary awe she studied his face, his ears, his nose. He was here. He had come at last.

A single tear fell from her eye and rolled across his cheek. She kissed the tear away but could not kiss away the memories that came with the tears; memories of the day she found out she was pregnant. How exhilarated she felt and yet how terrified. She was young, and there was much she didn’t understand.

Trying to justify her condition to her parents proved more difficult than she’d hoped. But the most excruciating memory was the moment she stood guileless before the man she hoped to one day marry. She had no words to make him understand the awful truth—the child she carried was not his.

Leaving seemed to be her only option. A gracious aunt took her in and welcomed her with open arms. From the moment she arrived she was showered with motherly words of hope and sisterly touches of love. Week by week, month by month, the child inside her grew.

Was it a miracle when she returned home, her belly round, her face flushed, and found him there?

What prompted this man to take her back and make her his bride? Did he now believe what she had tried to explain all along, that none of this was her own doing?

When the time was right they left their small town together, as husband and wife, with her due date rapidly approaching. The labor began—tightening her abdomen with a force she had never before imagined. Perspiration streamed from her forehead. The contractions multiplied with a frenzied urgency until the need to push overwhelmed her young body, and the baby was born.

Nothing of the past mattered anymore. He was here. Naked, perfect, quivering in her arms. With a thrill of hope, she believed that her life, her world, would never be the same.

Now as the first silver streaks of dawn pierced through the cracks in the stable, she tenderly wrapped her sleeping babe in swaddling clothes and laid him in the manger.

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Robin Promo Photo Close Up 2013Robin Jones Gunn, bestselling author of the much-loved Christy Miller Series and the award-winning Sisterchicks® series, has had more than 4.5 million copies of her books sold worldwide. Her frequent speaking engagements have taken her around the globe. Robin and her husband live in Hawaii and have a grown son and daughter. You can learn more at Robin's website. a Rafflecopter giveaway

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Day 11: 12 Pearls of Christmas | Do You Hear What I Hear? | Cynthia Ruchti

12pearlsofxmas
Welcome to the 12 Pearls of Christmas blog series!

Merry Christmas from Pearl Girls™! We hope you enjoy these Christmas “Pearls of Wisdom” from the authors who were so kind to donate their time and talents! If you miss a few posts, you’ll be able go back through and read them on this blog throughout the next few days.

We’re giving away a pearl necklace in celebration of the holidays, as well as some items from the contributors! Enter now below! The winner will be announced on January 2, 2014, at the Pearl Girls blog.

If you are unfamiliar with Pearl Girls™, please visit www.pearlgirls.info and see what we’re all about. In short, we exist to support the work of charities that help women and children in the US and around the globe. Consider purchasing a copy of Mother of Pearl, Pearl Girls: Encountering Grit, Experiencing Grace, or one of the Pearl Girls products (all GREAT gifts!) to help support Pearl Girls.
***

Do You Hear What I Hear? by Cynthia Ruchti

To shepherds? Really, God? You crafted a birth announcement that was delivered first to shepherds? The story’s become so familiar to us, so easy for us to visualize because of all the Christmas pageants we’ve witnessed over the years—all the fourth-grade boys in plaid robes with a homemade shepherd staff, carrying a cloth lamb from the toy department that plays “Jesus Loves Me” if you pull the ring where an umbilical cord should be.

Theologians speculate the reason for shepherds as the audience for the holy pronouncement could be as intricate as a genetic retracing of the Baby’s heritage back through history to King David, who started his career as a shepherd.

Or it could have been simpler than that. Maybe shepherds were the only ones listening that night.

“Nearby shepherds were living in the fields, guarding their sheep at night,” Luke 2:8, CEB. The biblical story tells us that the shepherds weren’t sleeping but were on guard, watching, when the news about Jesus came to them.

Distractions were few. Hills, sheep, other shepherds, a low fire, and a wide expanse of sky overhead—a dark sky that held the same stars night after night, until this one.

I wonder if any of the shepherds brought their families to the fields. I wonder if in the tent was a hardworking woman nearing the end of an exhausting day. She’d barely gotten the evening meal cleaned up when she had to start thinking about what her family and the other shepherds would need for breakfast. Soak the grains. Check the progress on the sheep’s milk cheese. And try to get those kids to settle down.

“Stop annoying your brother. Caleb! Last warning. Josh, get your fingers out of your sister’s ears. Turn down that video game. You can’t listen to the radio and watch TV at the same time. Turn one of them off. Better yet, both of them! Who’s singing? What’s that sound? Do you hear what I hear?”

What noise do I need to turn off in my life in order to hear the first notes of the angel’s song?

Another noisy Christmas party. Another trip to the department store for stocking stuffers. Another round of Christmas CDs. Another Christmas special on TV. Another Facebook post to share—the true meaning of Christmas. A text about the practice time for the Christmas program at church. Another phone call about travel plans. Brain waves clanking into each other, making a cacophony of noise.

Shutting down one layer at a time. Unplugging. Keeping even "Silent Night" low so I can silence my night and hear the downbeat of “Glory to God in the highest.”

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Cynthia Ruchti is an author and speaker who tells stories of Hope-that-glows-in-the-dark through her novels and novellas, devotions, nonfiction, and through speaking events for women and writers. Of seven books on the shelves currently, her latest releases are the novel When the Morning Glory Blooms (Abingdon Press Fiction), the nonfiction Ragged Hope: Surviving the Fallout of Other People’s Choices (Abingdon Press Christian Living), and several dozen of the devotions in Mornings With Jesus 2014 (Guideposts). Spring of 2014 will see the release of another novel—All My Belongings, also from Abingdon Press Fiction. You can connect with her at www.cynthiaruchti.com or on Facebook. a Rafflecopter giveaway

Monday, December 23, 2013

Tattler's Branch by Jan Watson, ©2013

   The rain didn’t amount to much—it was hardly worth the wait. Armina kicked off her shoes, careful to not disturb the kerosene-daubed rags she’d tied around her ankles to discourage chiggers.
   --Tattler's Branch, 1   
That's all I need? The chiggers keep me housebound. They wait at the edge of the lawn ~wait, wait, here she comes.
Jan Watson won the Jerry B. Jenkins Christian Writers Guild First Novel Contest in 2004 with Troublesome Creek. I have read every one of her treasures now. While shelving books at our community library, I came across her Troublesome Creek series: Troublesome Creek; Willow Springs;  and Torrent Falls, followed by Sweetwater Run. I ordered her next book, Still House Pond, and last year's Skip Rock Shallows. Jan was recently voted 2012 Best Kentucky Author by the readers of Kentucky Living Magazine.

Dr. Lilly Corbett Still is the medical doctor in Skip Rock, a small mining community in the Kentucky mountains. Her friend Armina's husband, Ned, is continuing his education in Boston to come back full-fledged as a registered nurse in Dr. Still's practice. Her younger sister, Mazy, has come to spend the summer at Skip Rock, as Lilly's husband, Tern, is away on mining business. These three women are changed by summer's end by responsibilities and concerns they never saw coming. As they are strengthened and a support in the community, nearby Tattler's Branch brings unexpected trials and blessings.

I liked how the villain in the story turns out to be responsible in the end. I would like to read a further story of the happenings in the lives of these families. I have enjoyed all of Jan Watson's novels and continue to look forward to her work. The people are genuine and likable. I was hoping there would be a berry recipe for the cobbler! Each morning opens with you ready to meet the day with them. Jan's writing style is not only a telling but bringing you right in with them.

***Thank you to author Jan Watson for this seventh book, and to Tyndale House Publishers for sending me a copy of Tattler's Branch to read and review. No other compensation was received.***

Enjoy the first chapter of Tattler's Branch by Jan Watson

Chapter 1

1911
Armina Tippen’s muscles twitched like frog legs in a hot skillet. She leaned against the deeply furrowed trunk of a tulip poplar to wait out an unexpected change in the weather and to gather her strength. The spreading branches of the tree made the perfect umbrella. Gray clouds tumbled across the sky as quarter-size raindrops churned up the thick red dust of the road she’d just left.
   The rain didn’t amount to much—it was hardly worth the wait. Armina kicked off her shoes, careful to not disturb the kerosene-daubed rags she’d tied around her ankles to discourage chiggers. She didn’t have to fool with stockings because she wasn’t wearing any.
   Back on the road, she ran her toes through the damp dirt. It was silky and cool against her skin. The only thing better would have been a barefoot splash in a mud puddle. There should be a law against wearing shoes between the last frost of spring and the first one of fall. Folks were getting soft, wearing shoes year-round. Whoever would have thought she’d be one of them? Knotting the leather strings, she hung the shoes around her neck and walked on.
   Clouds blown away, the full force of the summer sun bore down, soothing her. She poked around with the walking stick she carried in case she got the wobbles and to warn blacksnakes and blue racers from the path. Snakes did love to sun their cold-blooded selves.
   She hadn’t been up Tattler’s Branch Road for the longest time. For some reason she’d woken up thinking of the berries she used to pick here when she was a girl and living with her aunt Orie. Probably somebody else had already stripped the blackberry bushes of their fruit, but it didn’t hurt to look. There weren’t any blackberries like the ones that grew up here.
   After she crossed the narrow footbridge that spanned this branch of the creek, she spied one bramble and then another mingling together thick as a hedge. Her mouth watered at the sight. Mayhaps she should have brought a larger tin than the gallon-size can hanging from her wrist. Or maybe two buckets . . . but then she couldn’t have managed her walking stick. Life was just one puzzle piece after another.
   Armina stopped to put her shoes back on. It wouldn’t do to step on something unawares, although the sting from a honeybee sometimes eased her aches and pains. You’d think she was an old lady. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt like her twenty-year-old self. But if she stopped to figure on it, it seemed like her health had started going south in the early spring while she was up at the family farm helping her sister plant a garden. She’d caught the quinsy from one of the kids, more than likely her nephew Bubby. He was the lovingest child, always kissing on her and exchanging slobbers. When her throat swelled up inside, her sister had put her to bed with a poultice made up of oats boiled in vinegar and stuffed in a sock that draped across her neck to sweat out the poison. It was two days before she could swallow again.
   The rusty call of pharaoh bugs waxed and waned as she pushed through the tall weeds and grasses growing along the bank. She’d loved playing with the locusts’ cast-off hulls when she was little. She would stick them on the front of her dress like play-pretty jewels. Not that she liked adornments—she mostly agreed with St. Paul on that particular argument. But she did like something pretty to fasten the braid of her hair into a bun at the nape of her neck. At the moment, her hairpin was a brilliant blue-jay’s feather.
   The blackberry vines tumbled willy-nilly over a wire fence. She disremembered the fence; it seemed like there’d been easy access to the fruit. To her right was a gate free of creepers, but she wouldn’t trespass. There was more than enough fruit this side of the hindrance for the cobbler she aimed to make for supper. Doc Lilly loved her blackberry cobbler, especially with a splash of nutmeg cream. Ned did too, but he wasn’t at home. Just like Doc Lilly’s husband, Ned was off doing whatever it was men had to do to make their precarious way in this old world. Armina missed her husband and his sweet ways.
   She walked down the line of bushes to the most promising ones and let her stick rest against the branches. With one hand she lifted a briar and with the other she plucked the fruit, filling the bucket in less than five minutes. The berries were big as double thumbs and bursting with juice, so heavy they nearly picked themselves. She didn’t have to twist the stems at all. In another day they’d be overripe, fermenting; then the blackbirds would finish them off, flying drunkenly from one heavily laden bush to another.
   Her mind was already on the crust she’d make with a little lard and flour and just a pinch of salt. Maybe she’d make a lattice crust, although a good blackberry cobbler didn’t need prettying up.
   Armina slid the container off her wrist and bent to set it down. When she raised her head, specks like tiny black gnats darted in and out of her vision. Lights flashed and she lost her balance, falling backward through the prickly scrub. She landed against the fence with her legs stuck straight out like a lock-kneed china doll.
   “For pity’s sake,” she said with a little tee-hee. “I hope I didn’t kick the bucket.” A scratch down her cheek stung like fire, and one sleeve of the long-tailed shirt she wore open over her dress was torn, but otherwise she reckoned she was all of a piece. There was nothing to do but wait a few minutes for her head to stop swimming. Then, if she could get her knees to work, she could crawl out.
   It was cool here behind the bushes—and peaceful. A few feet away, a rabbit hopped silently along. A miniature version of itself followed closely behind. Their twitching whiskers were stained purple. Brer Rabbit and his son, Armina fancied as she watched their cotton-ball tails bob.
   Suddenly the gate slammed against the bushes. Blackberry fronds waved frantically as if warning her of a coming storm. Startled, Armina parted the brambles and peered out. A couple wrestled silently toward the creek. A man with long yellow hair slicked back in a tail had a woman clamped around the neck with his forearm. He pulled her along like a gunnysack full of potatoes. The woman bucked and struggled to no avail as they splashed into the water this side of the footbridge.
   The woman broke free, gasping for air. She was going to make it, Armina saw; she was going to escape. But instead of running away while she had the chance, the woman charged back toward the man, swinging on him. The man’s hand shot out and seized a hank of her disheveled hair. He reeled her in like a fish on the line and they both went under. When they came up, the man held a large round rock that glinted wetly in the sun.
   Armina opened her mouth, but the rock smashing down and the water arcing up in a spray of red stilled her voice, which had no more power than the raspy call of the molting locusts.
   The man bent over with one hand holding the rock and the other resting on his thigh. His chest heaved in and out like a bellows. The rabbit zigzagged out of the bushes, leaving the little one cowering behind. The man straightened, looking all around out of stunned eyes.
   The world had gone still as a churchyard greeting a funeral procession. Armina didn’t dare to breathe. If he saw her feet sticking out from under the bushes, she was dead. She felt sick to her stomach, and her brain spun like a top. She willed the spinning to stop, but it paid her no mind as everything faded to black.
   When Armina awoke, it was like nothing untoward had happened. Birds chirped and water burbled in the creek. The little rabbit’s whiskers twitched nervously as it munched on white clover.
   Armina was ravenously hungry and bone-dry thirsty. She could never get enough to drink anymore. She picked a handful of the berries and ate them. If she wanted water, she’d have to get it from the creek. No way could she do that after what had happened. She’d been more than foolish not to bring a fruit jar full.
   She felt like she’d wakened from a nightmare. Lately she’d been having strange dark spells and bright-colored auras. Doc Lilly would be mad that she hadn’t told her, but Armina didn’t much like sharing. Besides, if she told, Doc would list a bunch of preventatives that Armina wouldn’t pay any mind to. She liked being in charge of her own self.
   Pulling her knees up to her chest, she tested the strength in her legs—looked like she was good to go. She crawled out from under the brambles.
   She wasn’t one bit wobbly as she marched to the footbridge and went straight across, looking neither to the right nor to the left. The bridge felt good and solid under her feet, just like it should. The sun shone brightly, as it would on any normal July day. Her legs were sturdy tools carrying her along toward home just like legs were made to do. It was fine. Every little thing was fine—except she was missing her red berry bucket and her strong white sycamore walking stick. She’d have to go back.
   A trill of fear crept up her spine. From under the bridge, the rushing water called for her to look—look there, just on the other side. Look where the smooth round rock waited in judgment. She swallowed hard and heeded the water’s call.
   Armina felt faint with relief. There was no body in the branch. Her mind had played a trick on her just as she thought.
   It was going to be a trick of another sort to find her stick, which had surely fallen among the brambles. She nearly laughed aloud. It was so good to have such a simple problem.
   If she hadn’t stopped at the water’s edge—if she’d gone on home—she would never have seen the trail of dark-red splotches. If she’d gone on home, she would not have followed them up and beyond the garden gate. It was blood; she knew it was. It smelled metallic, like your palm smelled if you ran it over the frame of an iron bedstead. She wished she’d never stopped. Now she was compelled to follow that ominous trail.
   Armina heard the baby’s cry before she saw the cabin. It was a mewling, pitiful cry, nothing like the lusty bawls her niece and nephew had made when they were newborns, but still she knew that sound.
   The house sat nestled in a grove of trees, as cozy as a bird’s nest in thick cedar branches. The place was neat, the yard free of weeds and the porch swept clean. Merry flowers blossomed in a small garden beside the porch steps. Armina could make out zinnias and marigolds from where she lurked behind a tree. A zinc watering can lay overturned on the top step. In the side yard, a wire clothesline sagged beneath the weight of a dozen sun-bleached diapers. She didn’t see a body but there had to be one somewhere close. That woman from the creek just didn’t up and walk away—not after losing all that blood.
   The man with the yellow hair came out the open door and hurried down the steps. He picked up some tools that leaned against the porch railing—a shovel and a pickax— then paused for a moment in the yard and rubbed his chin, keeping his back to the door. The baby’s cry persisted. He turned like he might go back inside, but he didn’t.
   Armina hunched her shoulders and pressed up against the tree, praying he wouldn’t come her way. After a while, she could hear the distant sound of the pick or the shovel grating against rock. When she peeled herself away from the tree, she could feel the print of black walnut bark on her cheeks.
   As quick as Brer Rabbit, she ran to the near side of the cabin and stooped down under an open window until she dared to look inside. Just under the window sat a Moses basket holding an infant with dandelion-yellow hair and a strange foreign face. A nearly full baby bottle rested on a rolled towel, the rubber nipple just shy of the baby’s mouth.
   What sort of mother would try to feed a baby this young from a prop? No wonder it cried so piteously.
   Armina listened for the sound of digging. If the man was grubbing a grave out of this unforgiving earth, it would take a while. She figured she was safe as long as she could hear the scrape of metal against stone.
   “Legs, don’t fail me now,” she pleaded under her breath. Taking hold of the window ledge with both hands, she clambered over the sill. She didn’t hesitate, just grabbed the handles of the woven basket and with one swoop set it in the thin grass outside the window. She climbed out and went to the clothesline in the side yard. With quick jerks that popped the clothespins off, she helped herself to the dozen diapers. If she was going to steal a baby, she might just as well steal its diapers.
   Clutching the basket to her chest, she ran back the way she had come. Even over the sound of her feet pounding across the bridge, she fancied she could hear the swing of a pickax rending the air, bearing down on rock.

Day 10: 12 Pearls of Christmas | Wrapping Paper and Fancy Bows Not Required | Jodi Murphy

12pearlsofxmas
Welcome to the 12 Pearls of Christmas blog series!

Merry Christmas from Pearl Girls™! We hope you enjoy these Christmas “Pearls of Wisdom” from the authors who were so kind to donate their time and talents! If you miss a few posts, you’ll be able go back through and read them on this blog throughout the next few days.

We’re giving away a pearl necklace in celebration of the holidays, as well as some items from the contributors! Enter now below! The winner will be announced on January 2, 2014, at the Pearl Girls blog.

If you are unfamiliar with Pearl Girls™, please visit www.pearlgirls.info and see what we’re all about. In short, we exist to support the work of charities that help women and children in the US and around the globe. Consider purchasing a copy of Mother of Pearl, Pearl Girls: Encountering Grit, Experiencing Grace, or one of the Pearl Girls products (all GREAT gifts!) to help support Pearl Girls.
***

Wrapping Paper and Fancy Bows Not Required by Jodi Murphy

For more than a decade I worked in the luxury design field, and every year around Christmas time there were holiday show houses and charity events where the designers would hold nothing back to create the most beautiful displays for the Christmas season—trees with baubles and sparkles, swags of fresh greenery festooned with handmade bows, every room dressed to the nines, dining and breakfast tables set for imaginary entertaining, and hundreds of perfectly wrapped packages that would make Santa’s elves go green with envy.

The sights, sounds and smells were magical! And though I enjoyed the "eye candy" and appreciated all of the creativity, I often left these events on a "sugar high" of the season’s pufferies and feeling disconnected to the spiritual significance of Christmas.

As we begin to count down the days toward December 25th, I will do my share of simplified decorating as a way to mark such an important day, and I will be celebrating Christ’s birth with a sense of gratitude and appreciation for the gifts God has given to me . . .

My Parents
I was blessed with parents who loved and respected me. I was always important, seen and heard. They gave me the confidence and strength to go out into the world because I knew they were standing right behind me in case I stumbled. They modeled generosity, loyalty and commitment.

My Sister
Tenacious, strong-willed, and determined balanced by a friendly, supportive, “I’m there for you” spirit—that’s my amazing younger sister. She’ll step out on the front line to stand up and defend you or throw on some work clothes and volunteer to help with whatever dirty work needs to be done. No questions asked . . . you need her, she’s there.

My Husband
My husband is so comfortable in his own skin. He doesn’t compare himself to others or secretly long for what they have. He doesn’t get embroiled in other’s gossip or petty arguments. His loving influence has made me happier and more at peace. Every day I wake up to the joyful realization that I am his friend, wife, and life partner.

My Son
My firstborn. My son with Aspergers Syndrome. Raising him is the most extraordinary journey. He has made me more accepting, patient, and understanding. He has helped me find my passion to support and advocate for him and those just like him. He doesn’t filter or concern himself with being anything but who he is. I admire his strength to put himself out into a world he doesn’t fully understand.

My Daughter
She was born with grace and an "old" soul. From a very young age, she had an understanding and compassion for others well beyond her years. And when she was excluded for not following the crowd, she never compromised her values in order to fit in. She personifies all that is good and right in our world.

So I’m taking a pause from the hustle and bustle of the designers’ holiday season. This Christmas, and every Christmas henceforth, you’ll find me singing praises of “Gloria!” to God for the walking, breathing beautiful gifts of my family.

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jodi_murphy-Headshot 1Jodi Murphy has been a freelance marketing specialist for the last 25+ years working for clients in a variety of industries, a journalist in the design/luxury lifestyle industry, and co-founder of Nesting Newbies, one of the first independent lifestyle digital magazines. But her most important role and her life’s passion is being a mom! She founded Geek Club Books to share her son’s life on the spectrum in a positive and entertaining way. Her focus is on building a community of spectrum and neurotypicals who are engaged with and inspired by the Geek Club Books’ message of self-acceptance—“I’m unique. I’m a geek.” Jodi writes original content on the blog, and, with the help of her talented kids and top-notch creative team, she produces audio stories, e-books, and interactive storybook APPs.
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Sunday, December 22, 2013

Day 9: 12 Pearls of Christmas | My Gift for the King | Sheryl Giesbrecht

12pearlsofxmas
Welcome to the 12 Pearls of Christmas blog series!

Merry Christmas from Pearl Girls™! We hope you enjoy these Christmas “Pearls of Wisdom” from the authors who were so kind to donate their time and talents! If you miss a few posts, you’ll be able go back through and read them on this blog throughout the next few days.

We’re giving away a pearl necklace in celebration of the holidays, as well as some items from the contributors! Enter now below! The winner will be announced on January 2, 2014, at the Pearl Girls blog.

If you are unfamiliar with Pearl Girls™, please visit www.pearlgirls.info and see what we’re all about. In short, we exist to support the work of charities that help women and children in the US and around the globe. Consider purchasing a copy of Mother of Pearl, Pearl Girls: Encountering Grit, Experiencing Grace, or one of the Pearl Girls products (all GREAT gifts!) to help support Pearl Girls.
***

My Gift to the King by Sheryl Giesbrecht

It was a week before Christmas; a woman in the rush of her last-minute shopping bought a box of fifty identical greeting cards. Without bothering to read what the card said, she quickly signed and addressed all but one of them. A few days after they had been mailed she came across the one card that hadn’t been sent. She was horrified to read, “This card is just to say, a little gift is on the way!”

Gift-giving is just one of our many Christmas traditions. John 3:16 says, “For God so loved the world, that He gave His only son, Jesus, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have eternal life.” Truly Jesus is the best gift we would ever want to receive.

One year a friend gave me a Christmas devotional book that turned my holiday traditions upside down. Anne Graham Lotz shared her custom of asking King Jesus what gift he would like for his birthday. God wants us to give freely out of our love for him as an act of worship. This process of intentionally and sacrificially giving a "love gift to my King" is something I have added to my personal Christmas traditions. I wonder, have you ever thought about giving Jesus a gift? Maybe this year you might ask Him what He would like you to give Him.

Each year, as the Christmas holidays approach, I ask the King what he would like for his birthday. I remember Anne Graham Lotz’s criteria: “Something I would not do except the King requested it. And it is something I could not do except the King enabled me,” (Christmas Memories by Terri Meeusen pg. 159).

One year the King began asking me for His gift in September when a local high school contacted me to develop a truant program. I didn’t feel qualified. Lotz’ words rang in my mind: “Something I would not do except the king requested it. And it is something I could not do except the king enabled me.” “God, not me," I argued. I remembered what God brought me out of; I was a rebellious and promiscuous teenager, chain-smoker, alcoholic, drug addict, and drug dealer who cut class all but five days my junior year of high school. At age seventeen, I went to work at a Christian camp and there I was shown the love of God through the experience of working transformed believers. I was shown God’s love could cover a multitude of sins. Now He asked me to share this same love with those who are looking for love in all the wrong places. I committed to doing the King’s bidding.

What gift will you give your King this year? Maybe God is asking you to serve in your child’s classroom at school or teach a Sunday school class. Or maybe God is calling you to prayer or to spend more time with Him? Maybe Your King is asking you to give Him control over a situation?

"Something I would not do except the King requested it. And it is something I could not do except the King enabled me." Ask the King for His gift suggestion. When He impresses on your heart the gift He desires, offer it to Him as your gift of thanks for His indescribable gift, His Son, Jesus.

“Thanks be to God for His indescribable gift.” (I Cor 9:15)

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"Exchanging hurt for hope" is Sheryl Giesbrecht's focus. She loves to share how God rearranges loss, bitterness, and mistakes, and turns them into something remarkably beautiful. Learn more about Sheryl and her book, Get Back Up, at her website.
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Saturday, December 21, 2013

Day 8: 12 Pearls of Christmas | New Beginnings | Sharron Cosby

12pearlsofxmas
Welcome to the 12 Pearls of Christmas blog series!

Merry Christmas from Pearl Girls™! We hope you enjoy these Christmas “Pearls of Wisdom” from the authors who were so kind to donate their time and talents! If you miss a few posts, you’ll be able go back through and read them on this blog throughout the next few days.

We’re giving away a pearl necklace in celebration of the holidays, as well as some items from the contributors! Enter now below. The winner will be announced on January 2, 2014, at the Pearl Girls blog.

If you are unfamiliar with Pearl Girls™, please visit www.pearlgirls.info and see what we’re all about. In short, we exist to support the work of charities that help women and children in the US and around the globe. Consider purchasing a copy of Mother of Pearl, Pearl Girls: Encountering Grit, Experiencing Grace, or one of the Pearl Girls products (all GREAT gifts!) to help support Pearl Girls.
***

New Beginnings by Sharron Cosby

Christmas. The mere mention of the word sends thoughts and memories skittering like a box of spilled ornaments. Some roll toward sweet remembrances of times shared with family. Others bounce to the let’s-not-go-there corner of our minds.

I recall Christmas 2009. The one I wanted to cancel. My only son is an addict, and this was his worst year ever. I had convinced myself it would be his last, assuming he would be in prison or dead by the next Christmas. I told my daughters we would exchange gifts and have our usual holiday dinner, but no tree or decorations. I couldn’t dredge up the emotional energy to plaster contrived cheer around the house.

I’m usually the decorator, gift purchaser, food preparer, and mess cleaner-upper. Executing the necessary holiday tasks takes time and effort. Worrying about my son had left me drained of the required get-up-and-go. I couldn’t do it. Thank goodness for online shopping; at least there would be presents to hand out.

My pastor’s message four days before Christmas cut straight through my Scrooge-like attitude. His sermon points were: The holidays are too much trouble, count your blessings, and forgive someone.

Considering Christmas too much trouble reflects a selfish attitude, according to my pastor. What if Jesus had thought that way? My icy heart began to thaw.

The second point, count your blessings, stopped me dead in my tracks. Count blessings with a broken heart? I considered my husband’s love and my two daughters who have stood by their brother. I smiled as I pictured the faces of my four grandsons and the joy they brought our family. Yes, I had many blessings to number.

The third was the hardest: forgiveness. Forgive my son for the pain and suffering he had caused? “God, you can’t be serious,” I protested. “We’ve spent thousands of dollars on him, he’s broken our hearts, and he’s in worse shape than ever before.”

“Forgive him,” the Spirit whispered.

Tears slid down my face as I chose to forgive my son. No strings attached.

After church I headed home with a changed attitude. When my husband left for work, I retrieved the ornaments, dragged the Christmas tree from the garage, and set it up, my gift to the family. Decorating our tree with the children’s handmade ornaments is always a joint project, but that day I worked alone. I held the clothespin reindeers, popsicle stick picture frames, and monogramed angels and remembered the good times.

With tear-filled eyes, I watched as amazement etched the faces of my daughters when they came to our home Christmas morning and saw the decorated tree. “Mom! You put up the tree after all,” they said.

The biggest surprise of the day came when our daughter’s boyfriend knelt in front of her and asked, “Will you marry me?”

The discouragement of addiction was replaced with the joy of new beginnings, which is, after all, the message of the Christ Child.

12pearls-cosby
***

Sharron Cosby has been married to Dan for thirty-nine years, is Mom to three adult children and “Mimi” to five grandchildren. Her family was rocked by her son’s drug addiction for fifteen years until he laid it down on February 18, 2010. She uses her life experiences to offer hope and encouragement to families caught in the chaos of addiction. Sharron is available to speak to groups on addiction related topics. Sharron recently published her first book, Praying for Your Addicted Loved One: 90 in 90, a ninety day devotional for families in recovery or those wanting to be. Receive weekly encouragement at her blog, www.efamilyrecovery.com, and Twitter @sharroncosby or contact her at moc.liamg@ybsocnorrahs. a Rafflecopter giveaway

Friday, December 20, 2013

Grace's Pictures ~ an Ellis Island novel by Cindy Thomson, ©2013



Officer Owen McNulty is new to his ward. Originally from high-society, he is not so well received as the Irish officers who have come up in the ranks. He remembers the day he knew his mission. It was the day Officer Dan O'Toole died while running to save a little russet-haired immigrant girl out of the path of a fast approaching streetcar at the curve ~ Dead Man's Curve ~ at Broadway. Owen's life calling became clear. If only he had been quicker to react that day. Caught between two worlds, among those he served or those he had left behind? He now knew in his heart he was where he was supposed to be.
Deadman's Curve ~ Manhattan southwest corner of Union Square at Fourteenth Street and Broadway
   She squeezed her eyes tight. The pencil sketch of Ma pinned to the wall in her room had brought Grace comfort, but Grace had not captured what she'd hoped to see. A camera could do that. Cameras froze a moment and forever captured the truth without bias. Photography was different from paintings, where the artist interpreted what he saw for others.
   --Grace's Pictures, 57
It was the little things she noticed about people, the facets a photograph could capture long after memories fade.
   --Ibid., 66
Grace sketched angles she wanted to photograph so as not to waste her film. She had a nanny day job but needed an additional source of earning money to be able to bring her mother from Ireland. She is leery of policemen because of their dour treatment on the street she had seen before coming to New York. It seems every time she turns around, she is running into Officer McNulty.

The harbored thoughts from her past keep Grace captive until she realizes there is One who knows her better than all that has come before. Separation from her mother in the workhouse, being sent to America when her mother married, with Grace believing it was a sacrifice when instead it was a rescue. Love releases to be found. As Grace gives from her heart she realizes she is loved in return. She sees herself as worthy rather than the haunting echoes of past words of discouragement. She has indeed found true freedom.

Seek his face evermore.
   --Psalm 105:4
Be Thou my Wisdom, and Thou my true Word;
I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord;
Thou my great Father, I Thy true son;
Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.

   --Be Thou My Vision,
Words: Dallan Forgail (8th Century)
***
Grace McCaffery hopes that the bustling streets of New York hold all the promise that the lush hills of Ireland did not. As her efforts to earn enough money to bring her mother to America fail, she wonders if her new Brownie camera could be the answer. But a casual stroll through a beautiful New York City park turns into a hostile run-in with local gangsters, who are convinced her camera holds the first and only photos of their elusive leader. A policeman with a personal commitment to help those less fortunate finds Grace attractive and longs to help her, but Grace believes such men cannot be trusted. Spread thin between her quest to rescue her mother, do well in a new nanny job, and avoid the gang intent on intimidating her, Grace must put her faith in unlikely sources to learn the true meaning of courage and forgiveness.

Cindy Thomson
Grace's Pictures will be followed by Annie's Stories in the summer of 2014 by Cindy Thomson

My brother sent me a Christmas gift of a Brownie Hawkeye camera that used 620 film. I mainly took photos of our dog, Taffy, and her pups, so I didn't get into as much trouble as Grace innocently did!

***Thank you to Tyndale House for sending me a copy of Grace's Pictures to read and review. This review was written in my own words. No other compensation was received.***

Enjoy this Excerpt from Grace's Pictures
1

DECEMBER 1900
“May I take your photograph, miss?”
   Grace McCaffery spun around. She had passed through the inspections without a problem and was on her way downstairs, where she would meet the aid society worker. What now?
   “A photograph?” A man stood smiling at her, next to a large camera. She’d only seen one of these machines before, and that was on the ship.
   “Why?” She bit her lip. Was everything about to fall apart now?
   “For prosperity. It’s your first day in America.” He handed her a small piece of paper. “My name and address, should you later wish to see it. It will only take a moment of your time, and then you are free to continue on.”
   Free sounded good. “What do I do?”
   “Stand under that window—” he pointed toward one of the massive windows—“and look this way.” Streams of late-afternoon sun shone in through the ornamental ironwork, tracing odd shapes on the tiled floor.
   She did as he asked.
   “Now look up, miss.” He snapped his fingers. “Look toward the camera.”
   Her eyelids were iron weights, but she forced herself to look his way, wanting to get it over with.
   After she heard a slight pop coming from the camera, he dismissed her. “Welcome to America!”
   America! Ma should see Ellis Island and all the people milling about. Grace sat down on a bench just to the right of the stairs to collect the thoughts rambling around in her head like loose marbles. Imagine, a girl like her, now free in America. She would not have envisioned it herself a few weeks ago. Exhausted, she dropped her face to her hands as she relived what had led her here.
~*~
“Must go to the workhouse.” Huge hands snatched wee Grace from her bed. “Your da is dead. Behind in your rent and got no means.”
   Grace kicked with all her might. “Ma!”
   An elbow to her belly. Burning. She heaved.
   “Blasted kid!” The policeman tossed her onto a wagon like garbage.
   “Ma!”
   “I’m here, Grace. Don’t cry.” Her mother cradled her as the wagon jolted forward. “Oh, my heart. You are special, wee one. So special to God.”
   Heat emanated from the burning cottage, the temperature torturing Grace’s face. She hid against her mother’s shoulder.
   Later, they were pulled apart and herded into a building.
   A dark hallway. The sound of water dripping.
   Stairs. Up the stairs. Following other children. So many children. Was her mother dead?
~*~
The sound of heels clacking down steps brought Grace back to the present. She sat up straight and watched hordes of people march down the stairs. They were divided into three groups according to destination.
   She knew her mother had loved her, but God? Her mother had been wrong about that. God loved good people like Ma. Not Grace. Grace knew she was not good enough for God.
   So many of the people passing in front of her were mere children, most with parents but some without. Grace wondered if they were as afraid as she had been when she was separated from her mother in the workhouse, the place Irish folks were taken to when they had nowhere else to go. All these people now seemed to have a destination, though. A new start. Like her. In America she hoped she could mend her fumbling ways and merit favor.
   A wee lass approached the stairs with her hand over her mouth, the registration card pinned to her coat wrinkled and stained with tears. Grace was about to go to her and tell her everything would be fine. After all, this great hall, this massive building, was not in Ireland. They were in the land of the free. They’d just seen Lady Liberty’s glowing copper figure in the harbor, hadn’t they?
   But the lass, obviously having mustered her courage, scrambled down the steps and into the mass of people. Would the child be all right? No mother. No parents at all. It had happened to Grace. Free one day, sentenced by poverty the next.
   She pulled her hand away from her own mouth. In the workhouse she’d had this nightmare and cried out. She’d been whipped.
   Not now.
   Not ever again.
   She struggled to remember the song her mother sang to her at bedtime. “Thou my best thought by day or by night . . .” She couldn’t remember any more of it. She’d forgotten. The truth was, she didn’t know if everything would be all right.
   She rose and followed the orders she’d been given right before the photographer had approached her. Down the steps to the large room where the lady from the charity would meet her.
   She rubbed her free hand along the handrail as she walked, barely able to believe she was in another country now, far across the Atlantic Ocean. If it hadn’t been for the miserable voyage in steerage, the stench from sweaty, sick passengers that remained even now, and wobbling knees weak from too little food, she might believe she was dreaming. Had it really been just a few weeks ago when she’d sat opposite the workhouse master’s desk and twisted the edge of her apron between the fingers of her right hand as he spoke to her?
   “Eight years you’ve been here, Grace,” he’d said.
   “Aye.” She’d stopped counting.
   “You are a young woman now, with some potential to be productive. Yet there is no employment in this country of yours. Nothing you can do.” He was British and had little patience for the Irish.
   She’d held her head low.
   “And so, Grace, you’ve been sponsored to leave the workhouse and go to America.” He dipped the nib of his pen in an inkwell and scribbled, not looking up.
   “What do you mean, sir?”
   “America. You leave from Dublin in two days. I’ve got your papers in order. And this.” He pushed an envelope toward her.
   She remembered that at the time she’d worried about her fingernails when she’d held out her hand. She looked at them now. Grime on the ship had taken its toll. The master would not like that.
   He is not here.
   She touched that very same envelope now, crinkled in her apron pocket. It contained the name of the ship, the destination, and at the bottom, Sponsored by S. P. Feeny.
   She mumbled under her breath. “Ma married him for this.” To provide a future for Grace.
   The line of people moved slowly. Grace sucked in her breath. Not long now.
   “Mama!”
   She turned and watched a red-faced lad scurry down the steps and into the open arms of his mother, who reprimanded him for wandering away.
   Grace had begged to speak to her own mother the day the workhouse master told her she was going to America. He hadn’t sent for her because her mother was no longer an inmate, but a free woman married to that lawman, that peeler named Sean Patrick Feeny.
   But Grace’s mother had come anyway, not to the workhouse but to the docks.
   “Hurry along,” the immigration worker urged her now.
   Grace thought about S. P. Feeny’s note again as she entered a room packed with people. Not knowing whether the charity lady would need to see it, she reached into her pocket and pulled it out. She glanced around and found a vacant spot on a bench.
   “Wait until you hear your name called,” a man in a brown suit said to the crowd.
   There were more workers in that place than she expected. In Ireland only a handful of employees kept the inmates in line. She reminded herself again that she was in America. People care about folks here, now, don’t they?
   She opened the note and reread the part at the end, the words her mother’s husband had scrawled there.
Your mother wants you out of the workhouse. With no other options, I have arranged for you to go to America, where you will find work and no doubt prosper. Pin this to your dress for the journey. It is the name of a man my connections say will take good care of you in New York and arrange a job. I have written him to let him know when you will arrive.
S. P.
   The immigration official upstairs had told her not to expect this man to meet her, but rather someone who worked for him, mostly likely a woman from an immigrant aide society. “Don’t worry,” he’d told her. “They’ll have your name.”
   As much as Grace wanted to crumple up the paper and toss it away, she dared not. Following directions had been essential to getting along in the workhouse, and she had no reason to abandon that thinking now. She had managed to survive back there, even though she was apart from her mother, who had worked out of Grace’s sight until she got married and left the workhouse altogether. Surviving was a victory and perhaps the best she could have hoped for then.
   She glanced down at the writing again. S. P. Feeny was a peeler, a policeman, like those who tore Grace and her mother from their home when Grace was but ten years old. Grace had thought her life was as good as over when she heard about the marriage. But now she was in America.
   She blinked back tears as she thought about her unknown future. What if her father had been right when, so long ago, he’d told her she needed him to survive, could not do it alone? His death had forced them into the workhouse, and she had survived without him then, hadn’t she? But now? Now she really was alone and she was not sure she could endure. And yet, she must.
   She mentally rehearsed her instructions, the ones Feeny had written down. She’d done what she’d been told so far.
   Now she was supposed to wait. But how long?
   Running her fingers down her skirt to wipe away perspiration, she hoped she would not say the wrong thing when this stranger claimed her. Would they understand her in America? Did she speak proper English well enough? As much as her stomach churned, she mustn’t appear sick, even though the doctor had already hurriedly examined her along with her fellow passengers. She’d heard stories. They sent sick people to a hospital and often they were never heard from again. Perhaps they executed the ones who didn’t die. Or they put them back on the ship to return to Ireland. As bad as it was facing an unknown future in America, at least there was hope here that could not be found in the workhouse. So long as they let her stay.
   She glanced over at a family. Mother, father, son, and daughter clung to each other. They would make it. Together they had strength. Grace had no one.
   Soon a crowd of tall men jabbering in a language she didn’t understand entered the room. Grace squeezed the note in her hand. As much as she didn’t want S. P. Feeny’s help, she’d needed a sponsor to start this new life. She had no choice but to trust his instruction. If there is one thing a policeman like Feeny knows, it’s the rules. Whether or not they abide by them is another matter.
   “Where you from?” a tawny-haired lass sitting next to her asked.
   “County Louth.” She thought it best not to mention the workhouse.
   The girl nodded.
   Good. She didn’t seem to want to ask anything else.
   After a few moments, sensing the girl’s nervousness, not unlike her own, Grace gave in. “And you? Where are you from?”
   The girl sat up straight. “County Down.”
   “Oh. Not far.” Grace swallowed hard. They were both far from home.
   An attendant stood on a box and raised his voice. “Mary Montgomery? Miss Mary Montgomery, please.”
   The girl next to Grace stood and went to him.
   “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake, miss.”
   A brief moment later the lass was gone from the room. Escorted off somewhere. Grace turned to the men seated behind her. “Where are they taking her?”
   They shrugged. Only one of them met her gaze. “Don’t be worrying, lass. Could be she’s in the wrong place. Could be her family didn’t come to claim her. Could be ’bout anything, don’t you know?”
   Grace tried to breathe, but the room felt hot and noisy. “You can do this,” she heard her mother say from the recesses of her mind.
   In the workhouse, everyone was the same—wore matching gray uniforms, used identical spoons, slurped the same watery stirabout, marched together from dining hall to dormitory at the same exact time day after day, month after month, year after year. It was a routine she could count on.
   She glanced around at the faces near her. Square jaws, rounded chins. Black hair, locks the color of spun flax. Brightly colored clothing, suits the color of mud. So many differences. And so many tongues. Where she’d come from, there had been no question of how to act, what to say, who to look at. But here?
   She turned and kept her eyes on her feet and the trim of the red petticoat her mother had given her to travel in when she’d met her at the docks.
   Oh, Ma! When Grace had been able to look into her mother’s green-gray eyes, she found assurance. On the ship, Grace had tried to emblazon her mother’s face on her memory so it would always be there when she needed to see it. She’d even sketched her mother on some paper with a charcoal pencil another passenger gave her. She had the sketch in her bag with her meager belongings. Not much, but all she had now.
   “Thanks be to God.” “God have mercy.” “God bless our souls.” “The grace of God on all who enter.” . . . Her mother never failed to acknowledge God. She was a good woman. The best. Grace was so far away now from that umbrella of assurance.
   She focused on the immigration official calling out names. Survival was human instinct, and humans adapted. She’d learned to do it once before. Perhaps she could manage to exorcise her father’s voice from her head, the one that told her she was incapable, and actually make a life, a good life, for herself in America.
   Grace’s mother had held her at arm’s length when they said good-bye on the docks in Dublin. She’d rubbed Grace’s cheeks with her thumbs. “The best thing for you is to go to America. You are not a child anymore. I could not let you stay in the workhouse. Don’t I know how hard it is for a grown woman to keep her dignity there.”
   Grace had tried pleading with her. “Take me home with you. I’ll be polite to S. P. . . . I promise.”
   But her mother wouldn’t hear of it. “There’s no life here for you, Grace. Fly free, Daughter. Find your way. ’Tis a blessing you can go.”
   Grace had told her mother she couldn’t do it. Not alone. Not without her.
   “Listen to me,” her mother had said, tugging Grace’s chin upward with her finger. “I don’t care what lies your father once spoke to you, darlin’. To us both. Pity his departed soul that he left us with no choice but the workhouse. But promise me you will not think of the things he said to you. Remember instead this: You are smart. You are important. You are able.”
   If she could prosper as her mother had asked her to, then perhaps her mother might choose to come to America too, a place where she would not need S. P. Feeny. Grace would make it happen. Somehow. She had to. Her hands trembled as she held tight to her traveling bag.
~*~
Grace’s face grew hot. She lifted a shoulder to her chin, hoping her embarrassment didn’t show. She didn’t want to speak to a peeler— or whatever they called them in America. But she was stuck, shoved into a hot electric-powered car with more people than she thought it should safely hold. The man had addressed her and asked her a question. She had to respond. She spoke toward her feet. “I am well. I come from County Louth.”
   The large man leaned down toward her. “You say you are from County Louth, miss?”
   “I am.”
   “Is that so?” He let loose a low whistle. “My people come from Tullamore. We might be neighbors or cousins or something.”
   The woman with Grace, who’d introduced herself as Mrs. Hawkins, chuckled. “You’re all cousins, love, all of you from ole Erin.”
   Grace was no kin to men like that, and if she were, she would disown them straight away. These are the men who force poor families from their homes and send them to workhouses the minute they can’t pay rent.
   There was a lull in the conversation as the car pulled them through an intersection. She heard the peeler’s breath catch. She dared to look at him. He was staring out at the street. He did not seem formidable at all and perhaps was even a little uneasy riding on the streetcar. Odd, that.
   Grace glanced back down, studying the shoes surrounding her, trying to focus on the future instead of dwelling on the past. She was in the “Land of Opportunity,” after all. She hoped not to associate with folks she didn’t care to.
   She clutched the bag containing her treasured drawing pencil, wee pad of paper, and a small card bearing the address of that Ellis Island photographer, Mr. Sherman, who had taken her photograph.

Day 7: 12 Pearls of Christmas | Let Every Heart Prepare Him Room | Ginger Ciminello

12pearlsofxmas
Welcome to the 12 Pearls of Christmas blog series!

Merry Christmas from Pearl Girls™! We hope you enjoy these Christmas “Pearls of Wisdom” from the authors who were so kind to donate their time and talents! If you miss a few posts, you’ll be able go back through and read them on this blog throughout the next few days.

We’re giving away a pearl necklace in celebration of the holidays, as well as some items from the contributors! Enter now below. The winner will be announced on January 2, 2014, at the Pearl Girls blog.

If you are unfamiliar with Pearl Girls™, please visit www.pearlgirls.info and see what we’re all about. In short, we exist to support the work of charities that help women and children in the US and around the globe. Consider purchasing a copy of Mother of Pearl, Pearl Girls: Encountering Grit, Experiencing Grace, or one of the Pearl Girls products (all GREAT gifts!) to help support Pearl Girls.
***

Let Every Heart Prepare Him Room by Ginger Ciminello

I have high expectations for the Christmas season. Sure the decorations, presents, and general merry-making contribute to those specific expectations, but that’s not what I’m alluding to. I have a huge fear that I will get to the candlelight service on December 24th and realize I haven’t prepared my heart for Emmanuel. While I shouldn’t allow fear to creep in, I do believe those worries are grounded in a pathetic track record.

I know my heart. No matter how much I say this season of Advent isn’t about parties and presents, I still seem to get swept away by things that don’t really matter. No part of me wants to live consumed by worry and anxiety. I don’t want to finish this season exhausted and dejected.

Last Christmas our church walked through the prophecy of the Messiah in Isaiah 9:6, exploring what it means for Jesus to be Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, and the Prince of Peace.

“For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. 
And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”

What I’ve come to realize is that this verse isn’t just a list of titles for me to memorize or print on an ornament. This verse contains truth about my Savior and God, truth that should radically shape my day-to-day life.

Either Jesus is more powerful than my worries, fears, and frustrations . . . or He isn’t. The way I live my day proves what I believe about His power.

I talked through this concept with my husband on our way to finish up some shopping. I was frustrated: frustrated that I spend time in the Word, read my Advent devotional, pray for friends, and still end up so completely frazzled year after year.

My husband was quick to remind me that God desires my heart more than anything else and that I can’t tackle each day with the hope of perfection, only the hope of dependence upon our loving Father.

I'm focusing on 1 Corinthians 13 this Advent, one word per day. Yesterday the focus was love is PATIENT. (How perfect for spending the afternoon at a crowded mall!) I was amazed at my response to the long lines and ordinary scenarios that would have ordinarily left me completely frustrated.

Living and believing in the Mighty God just by being patient sounds like a really small thing—but can I tell you that I made friends with the cashier at Bed, Bath & Beyond? (A cashier who ordinarily tests my patience.)

Today the word is KIND. I'm working in a coffee shop and am trying to remember to give smiles readily and open doors for others as I prepare my heart for the coming of the King.

"Lo this is our God; we have waited for him, so that he might save us. This is the Lord for whom we have waited; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation." Isaiah 25:9

Following,
Ginger

12pearls-ginger
***
Ginger-CiminelloGinger Ciminello may sound like an Italian dessert, but she's actually a speaker, author and blogger from Phoenix, Arizona. She has spent the last decade encouraging young people to live up to their God-given potential and unique design. Her first book, Forget the Corsage, was just released. When she's not embarrassing herself by telling stories of her years in middle school, she can be found rollerblading, making grilled cheese, and hanging out with her daughter and husband. Learn more at gingerciminello.com. a Rafflecopter giveaway

Thursday, December 19, 2013

Day 6: 12 Pearls of Christmas | Perfectionism | Steven Estes

12pearlsofxmas
Welcome to the 12 Pearls of Christmas blog series!

Merry Christmas from Pearl Girls™! We hope you enjoy these Christmas “Pearls of Wisdom” from the authors who were so kind to donate their time and talents! If you miss a few posts, you’ll be able go back through and read them on this blog throughout the next few days.

We’re giving away a pearl necklace in celebration of the holidays, as well as some items from the contributors! Enter now below. The winner will be announced on January 2, 2014, at the Pearl Girls blog.

If you are unfamiliar with Pearl Girls™, please visit www.pearlgirls.info and see what we’re all about. In short, we exist to support the work of charities that help women and children in the US and around the globe. Consider purchasing a copy of Mother of Pearl, Pearl Girls: Encountering Grit, Experiencing Grace, or one of the Pearl Girls products (all GREAT gifts!) to help support Pearl Girls.
***

Perfectionism by Steven Estes

(Excerpt from A Better December***) 
When my wife was little, her family was Amish. Barn raisings, buggies, high-stepping horses, shoofly pies—the whole postcard. Later, they left that life and became mainstream farmers. The suspenders and bonnets were gone, but they remained hard-working, no-nonsense, sweep-the-porch folks. As good-natured a family as homemade jam and bread.

I grew up taking in the city. Mom and I would hop the streetcar into downtown Baltimore. Lights, crowds, noise, action—the busier, the better. Birthdays were a big thing, Christmas, bigger yet. Whoop it up. Break some eggs, make an omelet.

My wife and I met in college. I first saw Verna from across the cafeteria. Popular as a lemonade stand in summer. Prettier than an evening meadow blinking with fireflies. I was hooked. Proposed on the beach. We walked the aisle, started life together.

Verna kept everything worthwhile from her childhood and folded the rest into a drawer. Worked circles around any woman you’d know. Line dried the wash, taught the kids, pinched the pennies. Joined me in whatever hoopla I wanted, but—in her mother’s meat-and-potatoes tradition—NEVER got exotic in the kitchen . . .

. . . until one December.

Wishing to please—wanting some memories for the kids—she found a recipe book. Brimming with color photos. Promises of the perfect Christmas. The kind, no doubt, her husband recalled from urban days of yore.

Sugar plums in her head, practical impulses stuffed away in an apron pocket, she purchased the ingredients to yuletide bliss. A concoction to bless the family forever.

The evening has arrived. The fortunate are assembled about the table. There is to be a holiday surprise:

“Festive Yule Log.”

Candles aglow, faces upturned. The platter of glory is borne to the table. Mother seated. Nod given.

Trembling forks sink into the first sampling mouthful. Eyes closed for concentration. The pregnant pause. . . . A searching for words. The furtive glances. The first stifled chortle. Then,

Oh, the hooting and howling.
The slappings on the table.
The witticisms.
The criticisms.

Centered on the table, the Yule Log sulks—rolled in a fine gravel posing as crushed nuts. A taste akin to cream cheese blended with toothpaste—perhaps Crest, no, Colgate. As if sautéed in soy sauce, glued into shape by an application of Crisco. The look of a food item suspected of disease, held in quarantine at Customs.

Verna smiles weakly. Rises. Whisks the mistake into exile. All the while carols from the record player begin straying off-key . . . and Misters Currier & Ives are ushered to the backyard, blindfolded, and shot.

Solomon foresaw that many designs for Christmas Eve would go awry. Why else would he write:

“Do not boast about tomorrow,
for you do not know
what a day may bring forth”?
Proverbs 27:1

Or . . .

“You can make many plans,
but the Lord’s purpose
will prevail”?
Proverbs 19:21 NLT

God has bigger plans for you than the perfect dinner. That’s why he lets things go wrong. He’s saving your appetite for the perfect eternity. He notices you smitten with this short life,

feeling it slip through your fingers,
trying to shake a snow-globe Christmas
out of every December.

The true holiday magic is reserved for heaven. Every delight down here is a mere taste and teaser.

Knowing that, doesn’t it ease the pressure just a bit as you flip through recipes on the 24th—biting your lip . . . pondering a go at that Festive Yule Log?

(By the way, Verna recovered nicely.)
12pearls-estes
**This excerpt is reproduced from A Better December Copyright © 2013 by Steven Estes. Used by permission of New Growth Press and may not be downloaded, reproduced, and/or distributed without prior written permission of New Growth Press.
***

Steven Estes is a pastor who has known “better Decembers with my family than either Currier or Ives,” but also understands a gray Christmas. A Better December draws on Estes’ twenty-three years of counseling church members through the holiday season as well his other writings on the topic of human suffering. He teaches a preaching class at Westminster Theological Seminary (Philadelphia) where he completed his M.Div and Th.M. degrees. Estes is a conference speaker and on the board of the Christian Counseling & Educational Foundation (CCEF). Estes is the author of Called to Die (the story of slain missionary Chet Bitterman), and co- author (with friend Joni Eareckson Tada) of When God Weeps and A Step Further. He and his wife, Verna, have eight children. Learn more about Estes and his books at www.steveestes.net.
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