Two-Zero-One-Three

The year has passed
And opportunities have been
Seized, or missed.

What will 2013 bring?
Will chances be missed
Or taken?

We may try
But we really can't predict
What will happen.

But we do have choices
And they affect our future
For good, or for bad.

Make them with care;
Make them wisely; then hope,
And pray, for the best.

The Unfathomable

A twisted mind has torn
Our nation apart.
Innocent children have been
Sent to their graves
Way before their times.

The ones left behind
Are heartbroken and bewildered
By this senseless crime,
Leaving loved ones
Without their greatest treasure--their children.

This unthinkable tragedy
Tests the survivors ability to survive,
Perhaps their faith.
Making them wonder
How such a thing could happen.

But God is always in his heaven,
In charge of all,
Even when the WHY of such events
Is unfathomable.

MSP
12/16/12

The Christmas Visitor

There are times in our lives
When we must take chances
On people and on things.

A man came to my house
On Christmas Eve
Asking to rake the leaves
For money to buy gifts
For his children.

I offered a donation,
Handing him a ten-dollar bill.
"I'd rather work," he said,
Taking up his rake and
Moving sycamore leaves
To the center of the yard.

Who is this man, I wondered?
The beggar of the Bible
Came to mind and I dismissed it.

When he was done,
I handed him half of my homemade fruitcake.
Eyes focused on the floor, he said,
"I hope the work I've done for you
Equals the love you've shown to me."

My "Merry Christmas" was a greeting
To the Jesus in all men.

MSP

Giftless Christmas

The year I was six years-old, I'd waited what seemed like forever for Christmas day to come. Since I had two siblings and money was tight, getting the bicycle I'd asked for was a big deal.  At least I halfway still believed in Santa Claus and he was going to bring my bike. When I heard my parents discussing Christmas in the dining room when they thought I was asleep in the next room, the other half of my brain told me they'd have to come up with the money for gifts.

"My salary has almost been cut in half," my dad said. "In this economy, I'm lucky to have a job at all."

"I know, Roy," my mom told my father, "but we have to do something for our kids this Christmas. They're only young once."

And I knew my parents. They would do "something." Somehow, I still expected to get that bike.

Two days before the big day, I had a bad cold and a fever. I stayed in bed. Even on Christmas morning, my mother said, "You're still sick, but you can come to the table for breakfast and into the living room while we open presents. Then it's back to bed with you."

We had our traditional Christmas breakfast of juice, bacon, eggs and grits. We three children ate as fast as we could, and then lined up by the closed dining room door waiting for our father to ceremoniously open it.
When he did, I first saw the box of presents my favorite aunt, my mother's sister, always brought. Since she had no children, she doted on us. Then I looked around. No bicycle. Where was it? Outside? Nope. It wasn't by the front door. My heart sank.

My dad played Santa. He called out names one by one. I opened practical gifts of socks and pajamas, but I quickly cast them aside. Then my mother handed me a card. It read:

"I couldn't make it down the chimney with your bike, but I'll have it delivered to you next Tuesday.
Love,
Santa"

I stuck out my bottom lip. Then I started wondering how many children had a letter from Santa Claus. And I began to believe in him again. What did it matter if I didn't get my bike on Christmas Day? I was sick. I couldn't ride it now anyhow. I pressed the letter to my chest. It was a treasure greater than any bicycle.

I did get the bicycle the next week, but I wasn't home when it arrived. My parents made sure of that. I rode that bike for several years, but I kept the letter longer. Longer than my belief in the man in the red suit. When it got away from me somehow, I spent lots of time looking for it. But I never found it.  I guess that's part of life. Things getting away from you. Still, I treasure that memory of that giftless Christmas--it wasn't really giftless at all.

Musa News

 Check this out for great news for Musa Publishing Co. http://beyondthebookcast.com/roger-rabbit-returns/

I'm excited. My new book, BAITING THE HOOK, coauthored with David Wilton, will be released tomorrow, November 30.

In this sequel to TO CATCH A FISH, Davey Simpson and Pokey Merrill overcame lies that kept them apart and are engaged to be married. They're fighting to stay together and to stay alive.

Davey secretly infiltrates the KKK to protect his best friend, Ben, a black man running for governor of Alabama. Pokey secretly has experimental surgery to regain the use of her legs. Both secretly doubt if they are good enough to deserve the other's love. Amidst murder and politics, Davey baits the hook to reel in the bad guys.

Can Pokey and Davey survive the rough seas of insecurity, hatred and deceit. Can their love?

I guess you'll have to read the book to find out!

Gobbling It Up

     All of her adult life, Gramma LaBeau had the entire extended family for Thanksgiving dinner. It started the first year of her marriage and a total of ten sat at her table. Even though she didn't know how to cook, she told her in-laws, "I can read and I can follow directions." It was years, though, before she admitted she had to bake a second turkey that first Thanksgiving because no recipe told her to take the wrapping off of the turkey and remove the package of giblets inside before cooking it.

     Three years later, her sister had moved away and so had some in-laws, but her own two children replaced them. By the time she and her husband Don celebrated their tenth anniversary, the family and guests swelled to fifteen. The youngest child always said the blessing. After the noon meal, the kids would toss Frisbees, sometimes having to retrieve one from the roof.

     "Be careful climbing up there," Gramma would warn, "I don't want to have to visit you in the hospital." Then she'd rejoin the parents and siblings drinking coffee and munching on pumpkin pie and watch football games. Many stayed till late in the evening.

     The tradition continued and when the LaBeaus celebrated their thirtieth anniversary, a new generation of that family was well underway and the numbers increased. However, that was offset by people moving away or passing away. The ones still present continued to enjoy the turkey dinner and the camaraderie that followed.

     As Gramma got older and slowed down a bit, by the fiftieth celebration, family members started bringing side dishes and desserts. They also spent less and less time at her house after dinner.

     Sad-eyed, she'd say, "I wish they wouldn't gobble down their food and eat and run, but I guess I'm lucky they come around at all. Everybody's so busy."

     When Grandpa didn't make it through a heart attack and others offered to take over the task, Gramma refused. She continued to host the celebration and wearily washed her Haviland china and sterling silver every year after everyone had gone home.

     "Once a year," she'd say. "It's the only time we get together nowadays. I can manage to do this once a year."

     Then came the time she couldn't. The year Gramma died all of the family gathered in her kitchen and cooked the turkey the night before. The next morning, they set the dining room table with fine china, crystal goblets and Wallace sterling silver. It took all six of them to accomplish the task she'd done alone.

     The youngest child, age six, read the blessing she'd written herself: Thank you, Lord, for all those years we had with Gramma and her great food. I'm sure she's up there in heaven with you now and I bet she wouldn't even let you cook the turkey. We're going to eat the last pumpkin pie she ever made; we found it in the freezer.

     She swallowed a sob. Bye, Gramma, I love you.