8
October
2006
by Meredith Efken
One Sunday a month, I’m supposed to blog on FaithChicks. It’s a hit-or-miss proposition for me, but this month I hit it. So in honor of that achievement, I’m posting the link here. It’s sort of a follow up to my post here last week about the school shootings, as well as another plug for my friend Dream’s blog about praying for our enemies. Read it and then let me know what you think!
Written By: Meredith Efken
Posted under: Women's Voices . 
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6
October
2006
By Barbara
I received it several years ago, but I haven’t opened the box my uncle sent to me before his death in 1993 in a long time. “I want you to have it,” he had told me. And, while I felt honored that he should think so, I didn’t appreciate it as much then as I do tonight.
When I received the box I was in my ‘running away from God’ phase. I knew I was His child, yet I was arrogant and insistent that my way was the only way. I struggled with giving myself over to Him totally. Finally, I gave up the struggle - turned my back on “religion” and walked away into a long, dark night without His light.
During a rough ten-year period of time, I played hard, convinced that I was having a great time. I ran with a rough crowd and began to drink, even though I knew that was the cause of my father’s demise.
And then I made a couple of visits to Arizona to see an aging uncle - brother to my deceased mother. He and their “baby” sister were my last ties to Mom. We shared a love of the written word - both of us were poets of sorts, and we wrote volumes for letters. He encouraged me to keep searching for the barbara I had buried inside of me.
Shortly before he died, he sent me his grandfather’s Bible. I thought of it as a nice gift, precious because it had been the family Bible for over a hundred years at that point. But I set it aside and pretty much forgot about it.
This week my aunt called me and we chatted about some family history. I wondered if the answers to some of her questions were in that box. When I arrived home from work I dug it out.
In doing so - I discovered something. Raised catholic to satisfy my father, I had never known the rich heritage I had in my ancestors. In this well-worn book I found that heritage. A rich family history lies within those pages - births, deaths, marriages have been written in, first, my great-grandfather’s hand, and then in my grandmother’s.
But more than that . . .
LIFE was found in those pages. On a flyleaf is penned: Matt. 1:21 followed by a paragraph hard to read because of badly faded ink and a loopy script. I can make out the words, though: “Jesus saves me every day. Jesus saves me every night. Jesus saves me all the day. In the darkness and the light. Jesus saves! O bless His name. Jesus saves me all the time.”
Dated July 9, 1870 the words are followed by an underlined phrase: “Praise the Lord!”
My heritage is a family that loved Jesus. I am blessed to follow in their footsteps now as I serve that same risen Lord and echo their thoughts . . . O bless His name. Jesus saves me all the time.
Written By: barbara
Posted under: Women's Voices . Email This Post
5
October
2006
by Barbara
I struggle with my loyalties at times. I have an innate loyalty deep in my soul for those in authority above me. I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that I spent twelve years in parochial schools - under the rule of the women in black dresses - and the men in equally black dresses. I was taught to respect authority, to pretty much believe unswervingly whatever I was taught. If it came from the people in those black dresses it must be TRUTH - spelled all in caps, of course.
Now here I sit as a 56-year-old mother of two grown daughters, Gramma to the brightest, most perfect grandchildren that I could have, wife of 37 years - and I’m questioning those loyalties.
I hear people daily who have NO problem lambasting our governing bodies, the very people for whom I was taught abject obeisance. It bothers me greatly that I cannot do the same thing. What is in me that shudders at being disrespectful to the office if not to the man sitting in the office? Why do I find it difficult to speak out against the atrocities of war - or poverty - or the fact that many don’t have enough money this week to purchase groceries OR gasoline?
Why am I unable to rant and rave at the government because of these things?
Do I like war? A hundred times NO! I grew up the daughter of a man who fought the Japanese - in “THE” war itself, and every night in his bed where he was “safe” from them. He fought them by beating my mother.
I grew up a teenager whose high school friends fought in Vietnam and either came home so changed I couldn’t be with them any longer or who didn’t come home at all - outside of a box.
I grew up as an aunt whose nephew went to Desert Storm. Young men and women from my own town went off to the same war. Some came back - thank God my nephew is one of those.
I grew up as a mother - awakened by a phone call from a son-in-law on 9-11 telling me to watch the TV - we were under attack - “make sure the guns are loaded, Mom, we’re next.” I listened for days afterward to the silence in the skies above my house - eerie, total, absolute silence.
I don’t like war - I grew up with it - and I am growing old with it. I long for peace - and yet I know that there can be no peace. That is what we are told by our God. There will be wars and rumors of wars. Men will rise up against their brothers, their fathers, their sons.
And, still I am loyal to the office of the President and pray for him and those around him. And trust in the God of the ages (not the god of the black dresses) and pray that He will hold us safe from harm.
Written By: barbara
Posted under: Women's Voices . Email This Post
4
October
2006
By Vasthi Acosta
Cleaning out the coat closet I found a box. In the box I found old journals. Mine. I’ve been keeeping a journal since high school, now decades ago. I slipped the box to a corner and kept cleaning the closet. But the box called to me.
What had I written?
What were my thoughts, so long ago?
Who was I then?
Had I changed, as I believed, or was I still the same?
Would I recognize myself?
You know I had to find out. You know, I sat with the box, pulled out the notebooks and opened randomly to different entries.
Faced with my past self, I was pleased, embarrassed, amused, stirred and moved.
Pleased that I’d kept this record of my life, even if only, to experience that moment, right then, when I revisited myself.
Embarrassed that I’d had such silly worries, as, did this young man like me or not. I married him.
Amused at some incidents I recounted, ice skating mishaps, extravagant gifts from admirers.
Stirred that I’d often written prayers. Prayers to a God I still love, seek to please and serve.
Moved when I relived painful times, the death of a friend, the failed attempts to conceive, the misunderstandings, fights, even deep hurts.
These entries were a gift from my young self to my older self. A gift I never anticipated, or planned, but received nonetheless.
What I couldn’t even suppose, so many years ago, my loving God knew. He knew this moment would arrive. he knew I’d learn from my younger self. For he knows the end from the beginning. After all, he is the Alpha and Omega.
So today, as you go about your daily routine, remember, every choice you make has an impact on your future. Let God lead. He won’t steer you wrong.
Written By: Vasthi Acosta
Posted under: Women's Voices . Email This Post
3
October
2006
by Meredith Efken
I don’t think this will be a very coherent post. How can I write rationally and calmly about what sort of perverse rage propels two school shootings in one week? Two shootings targeted at female students. Hugo Schwyzer has a summary and reflections on this, including links to a news article for each.
It’s a violent spill-over of a female-targeted rage that expresses itself in our country in rape, abuse, and other mistreatment of women.
Every. Single. Day.
But this time, in one week, five high school girls paid for this rage with their lives. And several others are still hospitalized. You can’t even play the “blame the victim” game. These girls had nothing to do with their killers. They were innocent. The ones in Colorado were sexually assaulted. The ones in Pennsylvania were bound and executed.
Oh GOD! Can you hear my heart screaming? The Image of God…so divided. So broken. Brothers killing their sisters.
So much hate. So much violence.
Jesus, help us. Show us the way out. Show us how to heal. How to unite. Put the pieces of Your Image back together and make us whole.
Somehow, these tragedies MUST stop.
Written By: Meredith Efken
Posted under: Women's Voices . Email This Post
2
October
2006
by Barbara
“Rogue” stripes are what my daughter calls the gray/white strands at my temples. (Rogue is a character from the X Men comic books.)
My hair doesn’t like to lie in the neat bangs my hairdresser trims them into. It starts out that way, but things can change quickly on any given day. Days filled with personal summers - power surges - hot flashes will soon see me pushing my hair back from my forehead. That’s when the brightest of my Rogue stripes makes its appearance. Normally hidden underneath those neat bangs, they “pop” out in all their white glory when my hair is pushed back.
Gray hair and I go back a ways. I was 31, teaching 2 and 3 year olds in a pre-school. There was that one little kid. You know the one. Won’t/can’t sit still; won’t/can’t listen; won’t/can’t follow directions; that child can challenge a teacher or drive her to distraction. That child can cause a teacher to tear at her hair - or cause her first gray hair.
One gray hair - PLUCK! BOINGGGG! 3 gray hairs replace it - 5 gray hairs - 10 - too many to count.
My first response (after plucking) was a visit to my hairdresser. Every 4-6 weeks I was faithful and my hair went through shades of brown, blonde, and red. I did nothing too radical - being pretty conservative. This was prior to the wild and anything but conservative dye jobs of today.
My hair coloring days ended when I realized just how much of my hair was turning gray. I’d seen people let their hair grow out after coloring it for several years and I didn’t want the same thing to happen with me. There are few things less attractive than seeing all that white hair growing down over top of dark hair.
I decided to cut my losses while I could. I would stop while I still had more natural color than gray. Since then I have gotten a lot grayer, but you still have to look for the hiding Rogue stripes. They’ve been joined by stripes at my temples running the length of my hair. Whenever I pull my hair back behind my ears - or push my bangs back - the white shines.
Having the stripes - and even showing them off to the world - doesn’t bother me much any longer. You see, I’m at the high end of my 50’s now, and that one little kid is long ago grown up. He probably has his own little gray hair maker by now.
Me? I’ve seen my two daughters grow up and become mothers themselves. We traveled the road of pre and post adolescence together and I’ve watched as they’ve begun to raise their own children. We’ve come this far together - I’ve gotten my stripes the best way - I’ve EARNED them.
Written By: barbara
Posted under: Women's Voices . Email This Post
1
October
2006
by Vasthi Acosta
My husband and I arrived home late, last Thursday. We returned from a committee meeting of the Marriage Ministry, which we lead. Splashed across our apartment door was a huge sign, clearly made by our teenage children, that read:
CONGRATULATIONS
MOM
Surprised and intrigued I rummaged through my brain, for anything that could possibly merit such a salutation. Then I did what every wife would do. I turned to my husband and accused, “Are you in on this?”
Maybe I was being “punked” ala Ashton Kutcher; or for those of you from my era, “Am I on candid camera?”
My husband quickly denied all charges and looked as surprised as me. We unlocked the door, stepped into the apartment, and we’re greeted by the thumping of running feet. My children coming to greet us. The last time that happened I believe they were four and seven years old, respectively.
“Mom. Mom. Carrie called. Carrie called.”
Carrie, who?
“She says you got a book contract. I wrote it down. Here look.” My son waved the yellow post it note.
My heart skipped a beat. Could it be true? My mind didn’t want to embrace the possibility. To climb into the hot air balloon and zoom above the trees, houses, and clouds, fueled by the the fulfillment of a heart’s desire. What if the balloon had no air and deflated right along with all my dreams and hopes?
“Mom, Mom– you’re going to be a published author!” My son hugged me, pride gleaming in his eyes. My daughter stood behind him bouncing up and down in excitement. They believed. Maybe I could too.
And so, I stepped into the hot air balloon and not only did it have air, but it soared!
My novella is one of four novellas to be included in an anthology, published by Barbour, titled, A Big Apple Christmas. It’s due out September 2007. The other three novellas will be written by Gail Sattler, Lynn Sowell, and my own personal angel, Carrie Turansky.
It is true. God does give us the desires of our heart.
Delight yourself in the Lord and he will give you the desires of your heart. Psalm 37:4.
Amen!
Written By: Vasthi Acosta
Posted under: On Being a Parent, Women's Voices . Email This Post
