Watch-And-Seek

"OK, I'm going to hide this green crayon and you see if you can find it," I instructed my two young students.
"Should we close our eyes?" eight-year-old Gracie asked.
"No, you can look," I responded.
I hid the crayon and then asked which one wanted to find it. Six-year-old Lainey's hand shot up. Off she ran to "find" the crayon that I had hidden. She ran straight to it and victoriously raised the crayon for us to see. Now it was her turn to hide the crayon.
"It's hard to hide it in this room," Lainey said. "Can I go in the other room?"
"Sure," I said and followed her into the other room.
Lainey giggled and tried to sneak the crayon under a table. Seeing me watching, she sneaked into the bathroom. I followed close behind.
"I can't hide it from you if you keep watching!" Lainey exclaimed.
And there was my opening. "Can God see everything?" I asked.
"Yes, He's everywhere."
"So is it possible to hide anything from Him?"
Light sparked in Lainey and Gracie's eyes. They grasped the lesson. You can't play Hide and Seek with God. You might as well lay it all out in the open. It's already there anyway!

Hot Summer Beach Read

Wondering what this summer's latest beach read is? Beowulf, of course! It has war, romance, conflict, and suspense. And even after all of these years, Beowulf still dies at the end. I tried reading it again to see if it changed, but nope, still dead.

So if I have already read it, and nothing new happens, why did I read it again? Well there is the little issue of refreshing my memory before I teach it in a couple of months, but really I am better for having read it again. Look at these great quotes:

What we did was what our hands helped our hearts to perform.

The help I gave him was nothing, but all I was able to give.

Sometimes people wonder why they should read the Bible again. It's an old book, one that you might be forced to read in some class, but certainly not an enjoyable read. And yet there are some great quotes in there, too.

Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable- if anything is excellent or praiseworthy- think about such things. Philippians 4:8

For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish, but have eternal life. John 3:16

This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers and sisters. 1 John 3:16

The Bible still ends the same: Jesus still dies and is raised to life again. We are still offered life-giving grace and mercy. BUT the last words of Revelation are not really how it ends. You get to write your own ending to this story. What will your's say?

"The grace of the Lord Jesus be with God's people. Amen." Revelation 22:21

 

 

Nature's Symphonic Abundance

Nary a ribbit is uttered, but the air is filled with the deep bass of a cello warming up, the plucking of rubberband guitars, squeaky dog toys, and lots of misses on the Operation surgery game. I never knew until we moved to East Carolina how many different frog languages there are.

Two week's worth of rain have left the land completely saturated: a frog's paradise. The locusts scream their song, while large, brown grasshoppers wing on the wind. Killdeer call from the edge of the cornfield. The hawk has returned to the pines and sends out its lonesome lyrics. The music is deafening to those who will hear.

"You crown the year with your bounty, and your carts overflow with abundance. The grasslands of the desert overflow; the hills are clothed with gladness. The meadows are covered with flocks and the valleys are mantled with grain; they shout for joy and sing." Psalm 65:11-13

Celebrate Good Times

Bare feet in green grass. Chilled watermelon dripping down chins. Cousins playing freeze tag. Aunts and uncles chatting under the shade tree. Grandma and Papaw on the front porch. Lightning bugs shimmering. Fireworks in the distance. Stars twinkling. Popsicle-sticky yawns. The Fourth of July.

"Let's have a feast and celebrate." Luke 15:23

Picture from commons.wikimedia.org

The Time You Are Given

Darkness surrounds the Fellowship as they wander through the underground passages of ancient evil. "I wish the ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened," Frodo anguishes.
Gandalf, the wise wizard, responds, "So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All you have to do is decide what to do with the time that is given to you."

Frustration surrounds, problems threaten, and life is joyless. It happens to everyone, to some people more than others. As the song goes, "I never promised you a rose garden."

As each generation of this world has passed through, they have had to decide what to do with the time that was given to them. Some chose well, others not so much. But it was theirs to decide to do with as they would.

Not even God's chosen ones were issued a life of ease. Noah faced the loss of all civilization, Abraham faced battles, bandits, and childlessness. Moses had to deal with facing off the leader of the world and then leading a thankless people. David faced giants, conspiracy, and a coups de tat. Of course there is the very Son of God, who faced mocking disbelief, torture, and death. Jesus even promised that we will have a difficult time: "In this world you will have trouble." John 16:33

As the fighting continues, part of the Fellowship is lost, killed, destroyed. They certainly face trouble in their world. Frodo holds the ring that must be returned to the fire from whence it came. Tears flow down his cheeks as Frodo makes his decision: he will return the ring to Moldor.

Climbing into the rowboat, Frodo sets his face toward certain hardship and most likely death. He is alone, but determined to make the right decision.

Suddenly, Sam bursts onto the shore and follows Frodo into the water. Though he cannot swim, Sam trudges through the deepening water to be with Frodo. Frodo keeps Sam from drowning, and Sam assures Frodo that he does not make this journey alone.

Jesus gives us the same assurance, "And surely I will be with you always, to the very end of the age." Matthew 28:20

Have you decided what to do with the time that you have been given?

Do You "Speed" Even If You Go the Speed Limit?

Route 50 is an old, major highway that winds east-west across West Virginia. I used to travel home on Interstates to Morgantown and then take the main road to my parents' home in Grafton. But last year I thought I would try the scenic route, and I have been hooked ever since.
In today's fast-paced world it doesn't make much sense to drive the curvy, hilly, death-gripping road, but the scenic vistas of tree drenched hills and mist covered mountains make the slow speeds worth it. And actually, when I have timed it, I seem to make better time than on the Interstate.
Last week's return on Route 50 made me notice something else. The posted speed limit is 55, but within a mile the yellow "dangerous curve" speed limits were marked at 25, 35, 50, and then 40. So why is the speed posted at 55?
The law is that you must go no more than 55. That is the fastest you can legally go on Route 50. But the lawmakers also know that it isn't smart to go 55 all the time on Route 50. It is wise to slow down a little, or even a lot, in order to keep yourself and others safe.
It struck me that that is what Paul is talking about when he tells the Corinthians (ch 8-10) that they (we) are free to do as we wish, but that sometimes our freedom should be curtailed for the benefit of others.
1 Corinthians 10:23-24: "Everything is permissible"- but not everything is beneficial. "Everything is permissible"- but not everything is constructive. Nobody should seek his own good, but the good of others.
So you can go around the dog-leg curves at 55, but more than likely you will not live to tell about it. You can attempt to race around "kiss your butt coming and going" curves, but someone will kiss this world goodbye.
Slowing down in the dangerous curves of life can actually get you where you want to go a little faster. And you will enjoy the view along the way.

Happy Father's Day

The following is a partial post from years ago.

My boys want to be like their Daddy. They want to try preaching and leading church services. They want to dress like him. They even talk about going to college for 14 years like Dad. Heaven forbid! They adore their dad.
My husband has a weight problem that results in a liver disorder, so he tries to watch his weight. One way that he does that is to order diet sodas when we are out at restaurants. The boys have noticed that and for a very long time have asked for diet as well. I wouldn't let them because I don't think the artificial sweeteners are good for them. This year I finally gave in and allowed them to order diet soda.
I was surprised that after the first time they still wanted diet sodas. Ugh! After a while though, I noticed that when they ordered it, they sat up a little taller and had a proud look as they peeked over at Dad. It wasn't the soda they were wanting, but to be like their father.
Last week, while ice skating, the younger one ordered a diet because he "needs to lose some weight". He is extremely skinny and wiry. I came home and told my husband what he had said. Without another word from me, my husband called the boy in the room and talked to him about why it is important for Dad to watch his weight, but not for the child. Health was the important factor, not weight loss.
I was so proud to see the father not only set the example, but explain the example as well. They play ball with their dad, watch his movies, and his every move. Oh that every child could have an earthly father like my children's. Loving, involved, interested, proud of his children.

Some things have changed; the boys don't order diet sodas. But some things have not changed; my boys still have the best dad ever!

My Purpose and The Big Reveal

I evidently don't think like everyone else. Not that I am the only person who thinks my way, but my husband assures me I am a bit different. So while I imagine that the little blurbs I write on this blog are common, everyday thoughts, perhaps they are not.
I have gone back to review some of my first posts, and I realize that the reason for my writing has morphed just a bit. I believe my purpose is to point toward God. God has created quite a world for us to work in, rush in, and consume ourselves in. But that wasn't the reason that He created; He created so that we could see Him.
And therein lies my purpose. I do see God, every single day. I encounter Him in nature, in His word, in people, and in myself. But, I have friends who don't get these daily glimpses of God. So God has directed me to show Him to the world.
I told you a week ago that this terrifies me. I do not want to screw it up and make God look bad. Then I came across Psalm 69 in which David says:

Lord, the Lord Almighty,
may those who hope in you
not be disgraced because of me.

And now I ask the same.

My name is Traci Stead. I have blogged anonymously for close to nine years. I have to the best of my ability protected myself and my family from those who would harm us. I now place our care in the arms of God. I am ready to fully enter His service.

Look soon for this blog to change to a website under my name.
Look for a book, out at Christmas or in the Spring called Devotions Of a Gerbil, authored by my name.
Look for my name and opportunities to interact with me on FaceBook and Twitter.
But as you look for my name, remember that my full name is Traci Stead Pointing To God and look up to the Father of us all.

Smack In The Face!

This year I am using Jesus Calling by Sarah Young as part of my morning worship routine. I can not tell you how very often what is written on the page is in direct relation to what I am going through or praying. For instance, on Saturday, June 8, I was going through my prayers and apologizing to God for being so concerned about everyone else in the family. The boys were taking the ACT test, Hubby was stressed with all that needed doing, family members were sick, and on it went. "It's just as Paul said," I told Him, "when you have a family you have other concerns and not just God's. So you'll have to forgive me for not being able to give you all of my attention."

Then I read, "I want you to be all MINE, filled with the Light of my Presence. I gave everything for you by living as a man, then dying for your sins and living again. Hold back nothing from me."

Yeah, I felt the shovel hit me square in the face. How dare I try to make excuses to God for not making Him the first priority ALWAYS. He knows I have other commitments. He can deal with that. My ultimate goal must be to always and forever stand in His Presence.

I am Thine, O Lord.

Sheltering Shadows

While I was on retreat a couple weeks ago, I daily enjoyed walking. My final walk for the day would be back over the hill to stop at my log and look over the hills and sunset. Not surprisingly, that was often the first walk of the day as well.

But one of the other walks would be down the main road toward the center of the little village where I grew up. The center is a nursing home. It used to be my school. It still looks like my school from, oh let's say 30 years ago and leave it at that, but now it has old ladies rocking on the covered porch.

During one of these walks, I enjoyed the clouds that were piling up in the sky. They seemed especially low and puffy, and I just had to take a few pictures.

But when I stood back to look beyond the clouds and noticed the entire surroundings, I realized that the countryside was darkened because of the clouds.

I thought about what a tiny bug must be thinking buried deep in the grass shaded by those clouds. A terrible storm is brewing. This might be the end of me. Too much rain and I will surely drown.I didn't think anything about a storm myself, because I could see beyond the shadows.
 And then I started to wonder. How often do I worry about an approaching storm in my life when there is really only sunshine and warmth headed my way?

Does God look over the countryside of my life and say what a beautiful day, what perfect clouds, when I say, Why have you forsaken me, Lord!?
If only I could step out of the shadows and see the big picture.

Shadows are two-fold personalities. A shadow can be menacing and cold. You wish you could escape into the sun. The other shadow offers shelter from the burning heat, a place of refreshment and relief.

 "He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, "He is my refuge and my fortress, my God in whom I trust." Psalm 91:1-2

A Broken Mower

The bumblies and flutterbies are very happy. It seems last week while I was gone, #1 went out to mow the grass only to discover that the mower was broken. He was able to make one swipe around the yard before he had to head in to get his father.

"It's blowing white smoke and looks like it's on fire!"

Hubby took it around one more time, agreed with the son that this was out of his range of knowledge, and called the mower repair company.

They came to get the mower the day I was driving back home. The idea was that the service would call if the repair was too expensive and we should just buy a new one.
 So for a week now we have been walking through high weeds and wondering if we need to take out a loan for a mower. Today the mower was returned to us in working condition. No more smoke. No need for a loan. Whew!

Now the boys are out mowing the grass, which has grown abundantly in this moist, warm climate, with the blade on high. #2, mostly growing up in NASCAR country, has to be reminded to slow down as he mows. He likes to take the turns a bit too quickly and leaves behind a patch of high grass and weeds every few swipes.

The boys understand that they will be mowing again in a few more days with the blade a bit lower. That's the way it has to be done in order to get through all of the grass.


The problem with a lawn mower is that you don't know it is broken until you already need to use it. The grass needed mowing a week ago- maybe even earlier but the weather wasn't cooperative. Now, at least a week past mowing time, the grass is full of weeds, ant hills, and problems.

Paul told Timothy to be prepared in season and out of season to correct, rebuke, and encourage- with great patience and careful instruction. (2 Tim 4:2) He was saying check your mower before it's time to mow. Raise the blade, go easy around the curves, and spray some ant killer. But always, always be sure your mower is ready.

Home Again, Home Again

Jiggety Jig and here I am again: trying to get everything done. It hardly seems possible that less than a week ago I was on retreat enjoying a quiet holiday all alone. I am surrounded by lists of things to accomplish and only one way to get it all done: ignore everything else!
Soon there will be some changes here on the old blog. For instance, you are soon going to discover my real name! I have struggled greatly with that. I began using a pseudonym in order to protect my privacy and that of my family, but to go to the next step of my writing career- which feels like step 1- I have to tell you who I am.
The issue now is not so much about privacy as it is a great responsibility to let you know who this sinner is. I don't want to screw up and have you think less of God because of my deficiencies. I was thinking about that this morning as I read Psalm 69. Then I came across this verse:

Lord, the Lord Almighty,
may those who hope in you
not be disgraced because of me.

I guess David had the same concerns. Putting that in perspective, I am not king, ruler of God's nation, or even in the running for such a position. If David, with all that was riding on his shoulders, still felt that he had to put himself out there for God, then I can do no less.
But for a few more days I will enjoy anonymity. Angel

The Perfect Walk

My last evening on the family farm I took a very long walk. It was such a perfect Spring evening with the air lightly scented of fresh grass and new life. I startled several deer, and they ran away from me so close that I could have grabbed hold and ridden them. Chipmunks played on the edge of my path. Rabbits scurried in front of me, even running down the road begging me to play. Beautiful songbirds flitted over my head.
Walking back through the field, I passed through floating air pockets. As I descended into the hollow near the pond, the air suddenly cooled and chilled me, then entering the rise on the hill, the air was warmed and pleasant. The cows bellowed to one another, more deer ran away, and the dog jogged at my side.
I returned to the back porch and had a seat in the rocker. Using the binoculars I watched for deer and birds. I rested and relaxed knowing this was the end of my time alone. One thing would make it perfect, I thought, lightning bugs. But it has been a cold spring here and lightning bugs have not yet shown their lights.
Thanking God for such a wonderful week, I began contemplating what I had learned: Watch my motives, Stay peaceful by finding time to be alone. I should write about this walk, I thought. I started to get up and head into the computer, but something held me back. I told myself that the walk was meant for me to share with God. Not everything that happens has to be something to write about. Enjoy what is given and embrace the blessing.
Suddenly, I spotted a small light in the distance. Then, blinking over the tall, grassy hayfield, other feeble lights blinked on and off. They didn't last long, but my walk was made completely perfect.
Thank you God for the Light.

The Chainsaws Have Ended. . . Briefly

My retreat seems to have been a success. I wanted to look for publishers, magazines, and write, but mostly I wanted to listen to God. I was able to accomplish all of these!
I sent my book off to five new publishers, submitted two manuscripts to two magazines and ruled out about twenty other magazines, and spent one entire day writing on Communion. So what did God have to say to me while I listened?
Well, He took His good old time saying anything, that's for sure. It seems those chainsaws were buzzing pretty loudly, and all I could hear was the roar of all of the things I needed to do. As the days passed, though, they became quieter, and I began to decompress, becoming quieter myself.
Sunday I spent the morning in worship alone with my God. It was a perfect day to be outside, so I sat in the sun, listened to Christain music, read my Bible, and waited. I was not disappointed. I felt the distinct impression that God wants me to watch my motives carefully. I believe He intends to bless my writing, but my mission must be His and not my own.
That is a hard line to walk since I have to contact agencies and represent myself as well as Jesus. It will take practice, but I think I can accomplish it if I continue to embrace the second thing He told me.
Pace and Place = Peace
Whatever does that mean, you ask. Well, here is what I am getting out of it. It took me so long to decompress because I am always so busy. Yet, I don't see any way to not be as busy as I am and still accomplish what needs to be done. So God sent me to the book of Mark.
I have always recognized the urgency of Mark's gospel. Jesus is on the go constantly. He leads, heals, teaches, preaches, guides, and chides. But what I noticed this time was the number of times that in the midst of all of his activity- and all of it surely good activity!- he suddenly disappears. He goes alone to a garden at dark or early in the morning, scoots off in a boat to a secluded place, climbs a hill to seek solitude, and sometimes he seems to withdraw into his own thoughts while in the midst of a crowd.
Jesus has a hectic PACE, but he always finds a PLACE to be alone, and then he is at PEACE to continue his work. So that is my goal now: to ignore the pace of my hectic life and find places where I can be alone and recharge. Then I can use my peace to serve the Lord in whatever way He motivates.
It has been a great retreat!

Using Your Feet

I use my feet every day. I stand, walk, jump, tiptoe, and climb. I walk the dog daily for about an hour. I use my feet walking in stores, driving the car, standing to wash dishes, and getting the mail from the box. From the moment I rise in the morning, to the moment I lie down at night, I use my feet.
With all of that use I imagined my feet were in pretty good shape. They were toned, flexible, and ready to go at a moment's notice. Then I spent a week traversing the hills of WV.
Walking steep inclines evidently uses different muscles in the feet. Suddenly my fit feet were sorely out of shape. Even my toes hurt!
It isn't the ache of overused feet; it is the pain of unused muscles suddenly being put to work, like your back muscles after the first yard work of Spring.
We had a student in TX who told us he didn't need to read the Bible because he already read it once. He knew what was in there. Besides, he went to church and sometimes Sunday school or devotionals, and there was plenty of Bible offered in those settings. He felt like his Bible knowledge was pretty well under control.
I can only imagine what happened when he suddenly found himself in different terrain. When the environment suddenly changed from happy and homey to dangerous and deathly did he know what encouragement the Bible offered? When terror struck and prayers were offered did he know which Psalms would calm his soul?
I was very able to acclimate to the mountains because I use my feet daily in the coastal plains, but if I didn't use them so often I never would have been able to enjoy the scenery, fresh air, and lofty heights offered to me this week.
Make sure you don't forget to walk through God's Word every day so that you can enjoy, or live through, whatever comes your way.

Thirtieth Day Parade

Thirtieth Day Parade. That's what I knew Memorial Day as when I was a kid. There was a time when Memorial Day was always held on May 30th. It wasn't rearranged in the calendar just so we could have a three day weekend. At home it is still called the Thirtieth Day Parade.
For several weeks before Memorial Day, we practiced marching at school. Yes, it was a public school not a military school. Every classroom would line up by grade. Kindergarteners in the front, then first grade, second, all the way up to the big sixth graders. In straight lines five wide, we practiced marching on the playground. After a few days of that we moved our march to the road in front of the school. We learned that the kids on the outside of a curve had to walk faster than the kids on the inside of the curve. We practiced cradling a flag in our left arm and flowers in our right. This was important, patriotic, and respectful.
The morning of the Thirtieth Day Parade white and pink peonies and purple irises would be cut from the yard and placed in a wet paper towel then wrapped in aluminum foil. Dressed in all white, girls in dresses and sunbonnets boys in slacks and dress shoes, school children from all over the county would meet in town clutching variations of freshly picked flowers and small American flags.
Bands and floats would lead the way through the streets of Grafton. Everyone and their mother was lined up on the sidewalks to watch. Then came the school children. We were told not to look at anyone, but keep our eyes straight ahead. This was important, solemn, reverent.
We were marching to the National Cemetery in the middle of town. Here lay the first casualty of the Civil War. Here gathered the Veterans of WW1 and WW2. Walled in by ancient, thick stones, the bright white headstones lined perfectly with each other no matter which way you looked. And it was here that hundreds of school children would quietly end their march, gingerly walk through the rows of graves, and silently select a headstone to adorn with flowers and flag. This was important, dutiful, appreciative.
Leaving the cemetery, we would be ushered a couple of blocks over to the local Garden Fresh grocery store. The owner would reward us with a treat, some years frozen fudge bars and other years Nutty Buddies. Once or twice we even had ice cream cups with little wooden "spoons". Then parents would gather their youngsters up and try to see the end of the parade, more bands, floats, even clowns and Shriners in crazy, little toy cars. This was important, rewarding, valuable.
The lesson learned by this yearly community tradition was that life is serious business and deserves serious respect, but doing your duty also brings privileges and rewards. Memorial Day was not a day off of school, time for a picnic, sales at the stores, although it was all of those, too. Memorial Day was important, consecrated, and valuable.

Chainsaws Continued

My retreat began in earnest yesterday as my first full day of retreat dawned with cold, blowing mist. I didn't pack for winter weather, so I decided this was perfect for staying in and contemplating the view from the picture windows. Then the phone rang.
Son #1 is looking for a job and the updates, though exceedingly encouraging, were interrupting my solitude. Trucks drove by to the new coal mine excavation over the hill. Company showed up to visit. Others called to see if I had food, was comfortable, warm and dry.
And the blaring of chainsaws buzzing around me was still unable to deter me from my goal: Listen to God.
Jesus needed times of quiet, too. He escaped in the darkness to pray in a garden. He hiked up a hillside to listen to his father. He put out in a boat to enjoy some solitude. But every time he tried to be alone, there was also a willingness to grab hold of the chainsaw that rang out next to him.
So I answered the phone, talked to the company, and was still able to pray, to listen, to think.
Today has been quieter, the weather a bit improved, and my goal still the same: Listen to God. Honestly, I'm not sure if the chainsaws make it harder to listen or if they might be part of the music God wants me to dance to. All the same I'm willing to go at a few trees if need be.

Home Is Where Your Heart Grew Up

My friend, Denise, grew up in the desert of Arizona. The red cliffs, sandy hills, and sparseness sing to her soul. She posts pictures of her home and expounds on the beauty of the area. I see sand and dirt. Sometimes I see a spark of something, but mostly it looks awful to me. I did not grow up in the desert.

 I left Eastern Carolina yesterday morning. It was pouring rain, and great puddles were amassing in the flat streets. I like where we live. I do see beauty in the spring azaleas and daffodils. I think our piece of property is calming and satisfying.

 But as I drove north through North Carolina and then into Virginia, calm satisfaction was not what I longed for. I wanted greatness, lushness, and largeness. Passing over the James River the terrain began to change. Once I turned onto Route 17 heading west toward the hills, my riding companion perked up. "We're getting closer to WV," he said. Yes, I thought, my heart beginning to water like a mouthful of warm, homemade bread.

 Houses hanging on hillsides, rhododendrons with large pink blooms, mists rising from hidden valleys as if dwarves were blowing rings of smoke from under the mountains. My friend probably looks at these things as pretty, but she wouldn't want to live here. I, on the other hand, took a walk as soon as I arrived. I had to assure myself that all was still well at home.

The sun was sinking on one side of the hill, and the full moon shone brightly on the other side. It was as if the world was telling me that light would fill me no matter what. I look forward to this week of refreshment, of light, of calm beauty and peace. My heart has come back home, and my soul has begun to sing.

Chainsaw Retreat

A few weeks ago, maybe it was only a couple weeks ago, our church took a retreat for a weekend. The day before it was to begin, Preacherman got a call that a chainsaw party had also been planned at the same camp the same weekend. The theme of our retreat? Sabbath Rest.
The thought of chainsaws blaring in the background as congregants prayed and reflected on higher things just seemed ludicrous. How in the world would anyone really enjoy the peace of a restful retreat?
I was unable to attend the retreat, but I heard it turned out better than expected. The chainsaws weren't too loud, they were scheduled around our church schedule, and it started raining and ended the chainsaw party early.
School pretty much ended for me two weeks ago. Co-op classes with its nearly thirty writing students was over. My last private student ended the next week. Rest was surely in sight. My chainsaws were leaving the party.
Then. . . The in-laws came for a visit (NOT complaining here, L&C!). Prom decorations and plans had to be attended to. A cleaning day at the church we used for co-op was scheduled. Our church needed some all-day maintenance. Other commitments, other events, other noise.
It seems no matter how I try, I can't get away from the chainsaws of life. So Thursday I am leaving for a retreat where chainsaws are, hopefully, outlawed. My parents have graciously offered me a quiet room in the hills of West Virginia.
I plan to write. I hope to find magazines and publishers. I expect to rest. But most of all I will meet God and be renewed. I always am when I sit in the quiet country and listen to the silence.

The Pottery Shop

The plain, weather-aged sign above the arbor read, “Pottery Shop”. Tucked back on a dirt road, surrounded by wildflowers and overgrown bougainvillea, the shop was easily passed by.

            I was suffering from exhaustion, mental and physical, and my aunts outside Atlanta suggested a respite with them. It was about a ninety minute drive to their country home. Rolling down the windows, I let the wind roar in my ears and blow the dust from my mind. Yes, I need rest. This will be a great weekend, I thought as I rolled my neck from side to side.

            Spotting a road advertisement a few miles back, I decided to check out the pottery shop. A nice present for Aunt Marie and Aunt Nell to show my appreciation: that was just the way to begin my decompression.

            Slamming the car door, I turned down the pathway to the wood framed shop. I wasn’t sure what I might find; what kind of potter would be found out in the middle of nowhere in a ramshackle hut? A bell tinkled as I pushed open the door, and a cheery middle-aged woman greeted me. Her Southern smile was as genuine as her drawl, “Welcome, Honey. Can I help you?”

            “Just looking,” I replied and wandered down an aisle of blue and purple glazed vases. Large, elegant, fluted pots were filled with display flowers. Small pots were overflowing the shelves. Like shells on the beach, each pot I picked up was more beautiful than the one before. Practical earthenware plates and bowls were decorated with orange blossoms; just right for Aunt Marie, I decided.

            Aunt Nell, always stylish in her flowing silks and scarves, would want the fluted vase with dark blue grooves. They created a cascading design that landed in a cool, refreshing pool of blue. Carefully picking up the ceramic, I turned toward the check-out counter.

            “Find everything?” the cashier asked.

            “Yes. I must admit I am surprised to find such fine craftmanship out here in the boonies.”

            “Mr. John has customers all over the globe. Some of his work has even been in the Metropolitan,” she gushed. “He’s working in his studio now. Would you like to meet him?”

            “Oh, I wouldn’t want to disturb him,” I stammered.

            “Nonsense,” she drawled, “Mr. John loves customers to watch him at work. Come on back.” And with that she walked over to the back door and beckoned me into a courtyard garden.

            The air here was steamy, and the high-pitched whir of a kiln motor reminded me of cicadas on a sticky, hot Georgia night. Suddenly I heard an onerous thud, as if someone had been flung against a barroom wall. The cheery cashier opened the door to a small studio and told me to go on in.

            Unsure if I should enter quietly or announce myself, I muffled a cough and waited on the potter to notice me. “Come,” Mr. John said, and I hesitantly walked over to the wheel where the older gentleman was working.

            The fresh dampness of earth and its underground mysteries livened my senses, and I breathed deeply of refreshment and peace. The clay had just been thrown on the wheel and the potter was centering it. Concentrating deeply, Mr. John seemed unaware, or unconcerned, of my presence. His hands firmly slid around the moist lump of clay, forcing the gob to cling to the wheel in just the right way.

            Slowly the sides of the clay grew as the potter placed his thumb into the lifeless clay and began to throw it. A vase appeared before me as the artisan shaped the clay into a vessel of beauty. I stood watching, lost between reality and an ethereal veil of timelessness. Wetting the clay with a discolored sponge, the twisting wheel turning beneath his arms, Mr. John wiped sweat from his upper lip with the shoulder of his shirt.

            “Amazing,” I murmured as he grabbed a wooden tool and began slicing grooves into the vase. It was the same design as the vase I chose for Aunt Nell.

            “This one will be shades of red instead of the blue you chose,” Mr. John surprised me. “I saw your purchase as I was heading to the studio,” he explained.

            Slowing the wheel until it stopped, Mr. John pulled a long wire from under his bench and cut the clay free. Gingerly placing the new vase on a fabric covered shelf, Mr. John invited me to look around.

            The studio was filled with ceramics in different stages of preparation. He showed me some leather-hard pieces that he would work on in a bit. They were serving dishes that needed feet and pedestals attached. Several shelves near the popping kiln held freshly bisque-fired cups and plates waiting to be glazed.

            In a back corner of the room was an old trash can with a few discarded pieces of clay. “These pieces couldn’t form right for me, so I put them here to dry and recycle later,” the potter explained. “Most days I throw pottery all day without a hitch, but sometimes the clay won’t relax for me. It fights against me and refuses to center. I have to recycle that clay and try again later.”

            Mr. John accompanied me back into the small, wooden shop. I was surprised at how much time had gone by and started to excuse myself to hurry along to Aunt Marie and Aunt Nell. A young man, perhaps twenty-five with shoulder-length brown hair pulled into a low ponytail, was walking through the back of the store near the door to the courtyard. He looked like the young, artsy, college kids I often see in the Atlanta shops.

            Mr. John gave him a curt nod and then told me he hoped I enjoyed my tour of the studio. “I love sharing my work with an appreciative audience,” he said. Then he hurried back to the studio to continue working.

            I paid for my ceramics and then thought I would like to have them signed for my aunts. I asked the cashier if that would be possible. “Sure, Sweetie! Just head on out back and Mr. John would be glad to scribble on them. Hurry though or he’ll be in the middle of throwing another pot.”

            Walking back into the studio I inhaled again of the sweet, earthy aroma. I noticed the young man was also in the studio, back near the shelf of leather-hard pots. Mr. John had already flung a new lump of clay onto the wheel, and I went over to ask if I could get his signature on my ceramics when he finished.

            “Yes, just wait,” he grunted as the force of centering a new pot took all of his energy and concentration.

            I walked around the studio again admiring the earthenware in its many stages and styles. Then I noticed the bisque was strewn on the countertop, chipped and cracked. The young man had walked down this way, surely he wouldn’t have ruined Mr. John’s work?! Then I saw the leather-hard pieces also were defaced and marred, and the new grooved vessel that I had just watched Mr. John complete, was smashed into the fabric covered shelf.

            I turned to see the young man standing next to Mr. John. He seemed as intent as Mr. John, watching the wheel turn the clay as it began to center on the wheel. Reaching slowly forward, the denigrator held out his finger and poked it into the forming clay. The clay lump flew from the wheel and crashed into poor Mr. John’s apron, knocking the wind from the old gentleman.

            “What are you doing?” I screamed at the jerk. Running to Mr. John, I helped him up from the stool by the wheel.

            “Get out of my studio,” Mr. John stated, barely controlling his anger.

            The young man sauntered out of the room. “What was that all about?” I gasped.

            “My competition. These young guys come in from the big city to destroy my work. They want to make mass produced goods, but they can’t compete with the beauty of my unique pieces. So they come out here every few days and destroy the pieces before they can be fired and finished.”

            “Why don’t you do something about it?” I asked.

            “I do,” he answered. “I keep making more one-of-a-kind pieces.”

            “How does that help?” I questioned.

            “I hope that someday they will see the perfection of my unique creations and come to learn from me, instead of trying to destroy me. Until then, they’ll keep making pieces that people re-gift or put in yard sales.”

            I helped Mr. John clear the ruined pieces and place them in the recycle can to dry and be remade later into new, pliable clay. Then I walked out to my car, well-past the time I had told my aunts I would arrive.

            Sitting at a late dinner with the two women, I recounted my afternoon’s events. Aunt Nell was infuriated and threatened to call the police, but Aunt Marie, the practical one, said Mr. John was right. The young men couldn’t appreciate the beauty of the artist’s work; their only concern was the reason to destroy it.

            “Perhaps, someday, potters who destroy the new vessels will recognize the cracks in their own abilities, and they will come to Mr. John to learn how to create beauty instead of destroying it,” Aunt Marie sighed.

            I slowly shook my head. Perhaps exhaustion was behind my negative thoughts, perhaps some rest would make me see it Marie’s way, but I didn’t think it would ever happen.

            The weekend flew past too quickly, and Sunday evening I loaded my luggage into the car for the drive back to Atlanta. Slowing on the road near the “Pottery Shop” sign, I heard the faint sound of cicadas on a hot, Georgia night. Mr. John was still hard at work.

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This is my response to Dr. Grosnell and all others who try to destroy God's handiwork. May they all return to the Master to learn the true art of creation.