by Victoria -

A Glorious Day

Day Two of my Arizona trip.  Resting and writing and walking.  What more could I want?

The entire day was glorious. The warmth, the mountains, the walks, the peaceful air of the town. Some of the cacti are blooming, and I got a fabulous picture of a prickly pear cactus covered in pink flowers. When the fruit matures, the globes are used in jellies and margaritas. I tried picking one once when I lived here years ago and quickly and painfully pulled my fingers away covered in almost invisible hair-like spines. Lesson learned. Use gloves next time.

I was able to get quite a bit of writing done, pulling out stories I’d written, some from years ago, from my saved files and re-reading them helped remind me again of just how faithful God is and how far I’ve come. That was the encouraging part, but I have so far still to go. And that’s ok, because I’m not alone.

The Bible, as we know, is full of stories. Happy stories and tragic stories, but each one with a lesson for us to learn. Even Jesus told stories, although we call them parables. The story of the Lost Sheep giving us hope that Jesus will find us no matter where we wander off to, and that he loves us even when we’ve messed up.

And the Good Samaritan, spotlighting God’s love for all, no matter your race or color or religion. We are to show compassion, no matter who needs it.

And then the story of the Prodigal Son. What a beautiful picture of God, our Father, standing out in the road watching, watching, watching, until his long-lost child returns home, and then throwing a huge party. How did the prodigal’s father know he was coming home? I don’t think he did. I picture him every day walking to the road, and as the months and years passed, walking more slowly, but still standing vigil until the day when his prayers were answered, and his child came back to him.  Now that is a glorious picture of hope and steadfastness.

I’ve often said that God has made our bodies so frail. Why did he do that? We can’t re-grow severed limbs or live without hearts or livers. We get cut and we bleed. We get infections and cancers and even with such huge strides in the medical field, we still wither and die. Our bodies betray us, and our minds forget those around us.

We depend on him for our very breath. With each beat of our heart we know to whom we belong.

In Arizona I’ve been able to truly experience that ‘knowing’ in a way I’ve not had anywhere else. That’s why this place holds my heart so tightly in its grip. I feel closer here to the one I love, and I don’t want to leave. Ah, well. We shall see what God has up his sleeve.

If someone were to ask me, “so, what did you do all day?” I’d reply, “walking, writing, resting.”

Did I mention it was glorious?

by Victoria -

Come Away and Rest

So begins my Arizona journey.  Well, not a beginning, actually, but a continuation after several divine interruptions of life.  I’ve grown and changed since my last glimpse of my mountains in 2012, and yet, some things are still the same.  Journey with me.

Day one. “Come away and rest.”

The early morning sun is in my eyes and the blue sky is heralding the day. I can see the mountains in the distance, blurred at the edges but coming into sharper focus as the rays from the sun rising higher in the sky, play over their faces.

The air, this April morning, is a little cool. The birds are singing in the palo verde and acacia trees, thanking their Creator for another beautiful day.

The air is still and the flowering oleander’s petals shimmer neon in the sunlight.

The acacia tree outside my rental condo is full of fuzzy fragrant yellow balls that smell like honey perfuming the air.

There is a peace here my soul hasn’t experienced anywhere else. It makes my eyes water in thankfulness.

When I made the decision to take a vacation in Arizona back in February, it was on a whim that became a certainty. But you can read about that in There and Back Again – all who wander are not lost.

I kept thinking of that line from Bilbo when he confided in Gandalf about his desire to leave the Shire. “Mountains, Gandalf! I want to see mountains again! And find a quiet place where I can finish my book.”

While waiting impatiently for the days and weeks to pass, I got ready and signed up for a writer’s conference. Then I signed up for an editor’s course. I wanted to arrive prepared to do the work God had placed on my heart to do.

All through this two-month process, Jesus has shown me that, yes, he wants me here.

When I booked my ticket, the best flights I could find in the price range I was willing to pay had me flying out from Panama City Beach at about 1pm and, after a 3-hour layover in Houston, arriving in Phoenix at 7:30ish.  The more I thought about the fact that it would be full dark by the time I arrived at the rental car desk, the more anxious I became. I don’t like trying to locate new places in the dark.

Ah, well, I thought. Deal with it. Well, about a week ago I received an email from Travelocity saying United had changed my flights. Now my PCB flight was at noon, with a short 30-minute layover in Houston, giving me an arrival time in Phoenix of 3:30pm. Middle of the day. Plenty of time to find my way in daylight.

Of course, instead of appreciating the change, I started stressing about the 30-minute layover. Would I have time to get to the connecting flight? Worry began gnawing at the edges of my mind. The Spirit whispered to me to just relax. It was covered.

Then I thought, I may have trouble, even in the daytime, finding my way out of downtown Phoenix to the 202 Expressway. I think sometimes God just shakes his head at my silliness.

When I arrived at the car rental counter and I inquired whether the car came with a GPS and how to get to the 202, the very nice gentleman there upgraded me to a luxury SUV with built-in GPS whose calm voice directed me all the way to my temporary home away from home.

And for the entire drive I was able to absorb the beauty and majesty of the mountains ringing the horizon. My mountains. I found myself laughing out loud with tears bunching up in the corners of my eyes as I drove ‘home’.

God gave me special grace just to tell me – “you know I’m crazy about you, right?”

I am humbled and feeling very loved. Which is not a new feeling. This is the exact way I felt the whole time I lived in Arizona back a decade ago. It seems like a lifetime.

And now I’m back. Back to the place where God met me in a unique and life-changing way proving to me over and over again just how much he cares.

May I get the much-needed rest and accomplish the work of love he has given me to do this week. Because, for me, when I stand before my King, the only words I want to hear are these:

“Well done, good and faithful servant.”

by Victoria -

Lace Doilies

So here’s post 13 of week 13.  Back on track, although to be perfectly honest, I didn’t just write this one – I wrote it last year but never published it.  I think its time has arrived.

The old fashioned crocheted doilies with their tiny stitches of finely spun cotton thread and delicate lace patterns had been tucked away in a drawer where they were rarely seen. They weren’t stylish anymore – hadn’t been for many decades. But they were still in good condition, and I admired the handiwork, so I brought them home with me. I folded them carefully and tucked them away in a new drawer.

My momma had been a collector, like many of us are. And like many older people who grew up with very little in the way of worldly possessions, her philosophy was – if it wasn’t completely broken or destroyed, it was kept. You never knew when it would come in handy.

After she died, all of her personal possessions became mine. I remember feeling a little like an intruder going through her things, but yet, at the same time, I could almost see her standing there in the doorway of her bedroom as I sorted through her treasures with that crooked smile, and her hands together, saying “go ahead, you can have those.” And meaning it. Because she had a very generous heart.

I still remember, as a little girl, watching her crochet doilies. It fascinated me. From a simple chain, a beautiful lace doily would emerge after many hours of slow and tedious work. My mom also had some doilies her mother had crocheted many years before. Passed down from one generation to the next. So, I brought them home with me and now that I have a place of my very own, I’ve started using them a little here and there to give my home a bit of an old fashioned and nostalgic feel.

Momma’s crocheted ivory tablecloth graces my dining table, and her colorful vases brighten my kitchen window sill. Her jewelry boxes are on display in my spare bedroom, and when I wear one of her shirts I feel her closeness, just like a warm hug. My mom is gone from this world, but yet her presence remains. I can see her walking through my rooms touching things, making sure they’re just so. Even though she was already gone when I bought my place. Even though she’s never been here before. She’s still here.

It’s a strange thing when someone you love dies. An emptiness in your heart craters open from the sudden vacancy in your life. The feeling of being in suspended animation observing everyone else moving on and there you are stuck in a sorrowful place and time, reliving the last time you saw them, the last time you heard their voice, not wanting to completely let go. And now, after almost two years, enough time has passed that many of my memories are pleasant ones, and I still sense her presence with me.

I can still hear her voice with that almost imperceptible southern lilt that never completely left even after she’d spent the vast majority of her life in the north. And I can still hear her laughter, and how she loved to tell jokes. When I look in the mirror I see that I’m looking more and more like her as the years fly by.   Part of me accepts this with grace, and another part tries to remain separate. It’s a very strange feeling indeed.

My mom’s life force is still here. Is it just our memories that cause these feelings? Or is it real? Our minds are very powerful, to be sure. And my imagination is strong. So maybe that’s all it is.

But it works for me.

I know my momma is the happiest she’s ever been, up there in heaven with Jesus and my sister, the two babies she lost in miscarriages, and her parents, and so many others. Maybe that’s why it feels like she’s still hanging around. Her joy at finally being with her Savior has permeated all the way through heaven to reach us down here on teeny tiny earth as we wait for our own deliverance. Is she beckoning us home?

Yeah, maybe that’s it. Until then, her quiet, unobtrusive presence graces my home, making it a peaceful place to return to after a long day at work.

Hold tightly to those good and happy memories of your loved ones who are gone, because those are the memories that will comfort your soul. Like salve applied on a wound, those pleasant memories aid in your healing.

They say time heals all wounds, but I think it’s the good memories. I really do.