I am exploring the art of writing. I imagine myself sequestered in a shed overlooking a wild river and gushing thousands of words into my laptop crafting essays, memoirs, and journals. Writing is difficult and takes discipline and tenacity.

Folks are vulnerable when they come inside looking for God, hoping He will pull them in for a hug. They want a place among other believers, the comfort of being among friends. I stand tall to do what I was created to do.

Steve and I were off again on another legendary adventure. We arrived at the airport at 4:30 a.m. for a 5:20 flight. We were headed to a tennis club, but we didn’t have any tennis racquets. We did not bring paper boarding passes because we had the American Airlines App newly installed on our smartphones. We hoped we were smart enough to use them.

Our friend, Diks, was here recently for a visit from Latvia. My husband, Steve, and I picked him up in Seattle and made our way back to Bend where Diks was due to preach. Diks is the Director of a youth camp in Eastern Europe. We have known him for just over twenty years.

Days after Christmas my husband, Steve, and I were walking a trail that follows the Deschutes River. Most of the trail is single file, but some stretches are open fields and we can walk side by side and talk. Our conversation was spirited and covered unfamiliar terrain.

Suddenly there was the sense of coming up from the bottom of a pool. Daylight shone through the water’s surface and ripples from the push of water from below radiated outward. It was not yet the moment to break the plane out of the water and into the air.

In the Shirley Temple years of my faith – young, curly, and cute – I was invited to participate in a “Cell” group in my church. The group my husband and I became a part of was coveted by other church attendees because we had some heavy lifters in the fold. The leader was the Senior Pastor and we had a “deep bench” in the sense that other people in our party of twelve had extensive Biblical training.

The women at Camp Morrow scurried towards the Chapel building at 8:45 a.m. It was a crisp and clear morning, 23 degrees. Acorns, pine needles, and dry leaves littered the ground. The oak and maple trees were nearly bare. We had been summoned by the camp bell all weekend for meals and Chapel time. The large room bowed in a curtsy to invite us in for the final session of the ladies’ retreat.

It is Autumn here in Central Oregon. The ornamental trees around our house are in varying shades of pale green, yellow, and orange. In the next several weeks their colors will intensify. Some leaves will drop, some will be tugged away by the wind and rain, but most of them will stay until they are in their full color.

In some circles it is said, “Expectations are pre-resentments.” I expect you to behave in a particular manner and when you do not conform to my expectation, I resent it. It is all within my own control–planning the outcome for something over which I have no control. This is a game I cannot win most times. I try to be careful not to play it, but sometimes I slip.

Consistency is one of the golden keys to success. It is a super power, and my friend, Al Hulbert, has it. On Tuesday morning I know I will see his name in my email inbox with a fresh installment of his coveted pearls of wisdom. I am so habituated to Al’s weekly email that I say to myself “oh, it is Tuesday” when I see an email from him.

It has been our custom to take our grandchildren to Foundry Church Family Camp in August the last several years. My husband, Steve, and I have always camped in tents resisting the bourgeoisie recreation trailers with cushy chairs and beds. The grandkids were invited to join us as soon as they were potty trained.

A very long time ago, Lent was known as the time that separated Winter from Summer until the reliable English folks found a respectable name for the season and labeled it “Spring.” Lent, as I know it, is the observation that has been practiced in various forms for hundreds of years by all kinds of Jesus followers. The Lent season lasts for 40 days, excluding Sundays, and marches the participant toward Resurrection Sunday.

My inner critic, never at a loss for words, says “leave the place better than you found it.” Where she gets her information, and when she chooses to spring it on me is a mystery, but I listen up because sometimes she is simply right.

John may have smelled like smoke when he boarded the plane to Central Oregon in November 2016. He agreed to fly up from Colorado to consult on a potential camp purchase by a gentleman he had worked for when he was a young man. John was just the guy for the job.

They meet in Room W21 upstairs and in Fellowship Hall. They met before COVID, during COVID and they are still meeting. Some come on Tuesday, some on Thursday. Some are recovering alcoholics and some are still trying to deal with the everlasting effects of alcoholism in their lives. This is recovery in action.

Show, don’t tell. This advice is great to follow if you want to engage a reader into the emotion and actions of a character rather than bore them to tears with a toast dry point-by-point narrative of how the character feels. Put the reader right in the story.