My dear readers,
Today, I am supposed to address point two, Genre Identity, of our six points on The Reader-Navigator’s Map. Instead I’m going to ask for prayer. Yes, prayer is a genre, a category of communication both spoken and written. As a kind of literature, I can integrate it into our second point!
Prayer is a lifeline to the Lord. Like oxygen, we cannot live without it. Today, I want to ask you to pray for a 13 year old boy who is wasting away and will die without intervention — a miracle. This young man has dealt with neurological issues for years and has developed, probably from prescriptions, a disease called Akathisia, plus he has developed an eating disorder. Akathisia simply means” the inability to sit”; it is a movement disorder, an anxiety disorder. Combine this with an inability to eat or digest most foods, liquid or solid, and you can imagine the results. Continue reading
This week, we experienced the first monsoon rain of the season here in the highlands of Arizona. Drama in the sky. Billowing clouds a building, fluffy and white, turning gray and black, spreading. Nothing comes of them the first day. Maybe not the second day. We smell humidity in the air. Ahh, yes, the monsoons are a comin’. But not today. Continue reading
I’ve been sitting on my recliner, reading my father’s poetry and his grandfather’s poetry. My dad — Marion R. Thomas. My great-grandfather — Daniel Driver Thomas. I never met Daniel Driver, but I heard about him from my father. Dad loved and respected his family members. Dad loved and enjoyed God’s world. I even found a poem he wrote entitled, ” Come, Celebrate Grass” ( 40 lines about his lawn, written around 1987). Two posts ago, I gave you the beginning of Dad’s poem entitled, “Suppose.” Here is the entire poem, written in the 1940’s: Continue reading
Some of the best reads for any of us are the journals and writings of our ancestors. My father died ten years ago this July. Does that make Dad my ancestor? According to Webster’s, yes. I tend to think of ancestors as people who lived generations ago, not my own dad — the man whose expressive face is as clear as the sound of his hearty laughter saved in my mind, the man who picked me up and carried me to the house when I fell off my bike, the man on whom I leaned my head and rested as he drove us home after church on Sunday evenings. . . .
Dad’s now my ancestor, certainly my children’s and grandson’s ancestor. So, his writings are now more valuable. Here is one of his poems Continue reading
Grandson, Aiden, reading in his bed!
My daughter, Amanda, has been reading The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Woven into her full life, this dense volume has taken her many months to read. She has been reading it along with three other friends who’ve formed a small, reading circle, gathering periodically to discuss their progress through the book and their interpretations. Proud of them. For me, my mind is too weary for such mental demands from my “recreational” reading. Yet, reading of various sorts and genres is crucial to my life. Recently, I re-read a book in two sessions in two days: The Summer of the Swans, by Betsy Byars — winner of the the Newbery Award in 1971. A children’s book? You have it!
Hello!! No one took me up on addressing the question I threw out last time: Why do our minds, emotions, and wills want to fight each other? Maybe it’s too obvious to you. Maybe you are uncomfortable with responding to a blog. A number of people tell me they read the posts but don’t want to comment; they just like reading them. Pleased you read and enjoy. Well, where shall I go from here? When in doubt, it’s time for chocolate. Continue reading
Paul and I returned the other day from a mini-trip to southern Arizona. We live in central Arizona — in the middle of a huge valley a mile high, surrounded by the Bradshaw and Mingus Mountain ranges. We live in a planned community, a development that is less than ten years old at the edge of Prescott Valley. When we moved here almost six years ago from Ohio, we most certainly moved to cowboy country. The open valley behind us is largely untouched by humans, and we hope it remains that way. Some cattle and horses lazily meander the meadows. Of course, ten years ago, our development was part of that natural setting. Our development is named Quailwood Meadows, a very appropriate name. Continue reading
I had a post ready to publish last Friday, but then “the devil rolled into Newtown,” as I remember hearing the news anchor, Bill Hemmer, express. Most energy moves to the point of pain, so what I once had to say became unimportant. Language cannot express the suffering, so as the Scriptures explain, “We know that the whole creation groans and suffers the pains of childbirth together until now,” referring to the coming birth of “the glory that is to be revealed to us” in God’s eternal state when evil is banished (context of Romans 8: 18-30). “. . .We ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting eagerly. . . .” This passage also states that the Spirit of God groans for us because we are too weak to even know how to pray!
When you’re raising children, no matter their age, every week is a big week.
“How’re ya doing?”
“Oh, we’re hanging in there! We’re busy.”
You hear that a lot, don’t you? I can imagine Continue reading
Approaching the end of the school year, we look back over the year, remembering where we were at the beginning, considering highlights — both achievements and disappointments — that changed us. It is good to consider how we are different today in comparison to last August. Are we stronger in our faith? Are we better in character: kinder, wiser, more Christ-like? Are our changes energized not from a prideful “I can do whatever I dream” spirit, but from the Holy Spirit? Continue reading