I met with a friend recently who was suffering from a crushed spirit. The reason? He was alone. There were few people in his life who were willing to help carry his particular heartfelt burden. My soul ached for him. When we got together to discuss his dilemma, my plan was to offer what I had: compassion and hope. To my disappointment however, he wasn’t interested in either. Instead, he commenced in telling me how his knowledge of the facts around his quandary should be enough to get him through.
Relying on knowledge was his ruin. Continue reading
If you’ve followed my blog for any time at all, you’ve seen shared posts from people I highly respect for one reason or another. Today I’m sharing a post from Michelle Munt, a brain trauma survivor. She’s battled back and continues to gain momentum in her journey of healing–and we’re all on a journey of healing, right?
Like most authors, my goal as a writer is to weave words into a beautiful tapestry; thoughts that take the reader’s breath away. To do this, I grab time when I can. While doing laundry or cooking dinner … or instead of doing laundry or cooking dinner.
But when I see it happen–when I read a piece that tightens my chest and stays with me for days–I know I’m in the presence of brilliance and need to share it with the world. That happens many times when I read Lori Roeleveld’s work.
Check out her latest piece. Find out why writers write.
This may help those who live with writers understand why their clothes may still be in the hamper or their dinners periodically get burnt.
Thank you Lori.
J. G. Gilbert & Robin Gilbert Luftig at Lake Lavine, MI, Summer 1958
Even though my family of origin was pretty dysfunctional, one of my favorite pastimes, when I’m feeling a bit low, is to remember stories about my dad and how he honored my feelings and held them close to his heart.
I always jumped at the chance to be with Dad in his room—the Gun Room. It was a treat to steal away with him when he went upstairs to his room. He kept guns, cameras, family photos and film equipment, and special sentimental pieces from his childhood there. I am certain he kept us out for our own protection when it came to the guns. We were all told the only time we were allowed to go in there by ourselves was if the house was on fire and we could safely get the family’s 8mm films out and save them from being destroyed. Other than that, the Gun Room was strictly off limits. Whenever I saw him in there, I would beg to join him. And he always obliged. While he worked away on whatever project he was concentrating on, I looked around his private sanctuary with marvel. I would fold my arms behind my back holding tightly on to my wrists, just to make sure I did not touch anything. I did not want to run the risk of inadvertently grabbing for something and causing harm.
I ‘ve seen several rumblings over the newly released movie, The Shack. I’ve read posts from those who sob because of the brilliance in addressing forgiveness after staggering intense pain and I’ve seen comments about how these slices of information are wrapped in the devil’s web.
I saw a post on social media to all those who say they don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day. He charged that it was a cop-out when they say, “We celebrate Valentine’s Day every day. This is just a commercial holiday!”
I know some folks believe that, but this was my reply.
“Sorry, but I’m one of those gals who isn’t moved by Valentine’s Day cards. I watch guys stand in front of the card section at the grocery store, looking at each other, trying to figure out what would cost the least amount of money and effort to check off the list that they put effort into the holiday. These attitudes don’t do anything for me.
“Instead, this is what moves me to tears …