Whenever I hear “the balm of Gilead” I recall fond memories as a choir girl singing that old old spiritual. Little did I fully understand the meaning of the word Gilead, and what the balm of it was all about. Yet I knew there was something surely special about that balm for people to sing such a soulful song.

Was it a bit like the “Nestea Plunge”? For those of you not old enough to remember, imagine yourself standing on the edge of a large pool, wide goofy smile on your face, and free-falling backwards into cool, refreshing iced tea! Yes, it was a great TV ad, and very memorable to watch, for it still comes to mind at the most random times. Something told me, though, that the balm of Gilead was much more soothing than refreshing iced tea. Something that quenched much deeper, that addressed needs far beyond one’s physical thirsts.

Historical Gilead was located in a mountainous region of modern Northwest Jordan, east of the Jordan River and north of the Dead Sea. In ancient times the resins of specific flowering trees or shrubs were harvested to make rare perfumes and special ointments that were widely known for their healing properties. Yet even in Old Testament times, the precious balm made in Gilead could not heal the underlying cause of sickness in God’s people. They struggled, like a delirious patient unwilling to accept curative medicine, rebelliously turned against God’s ways, unwilling to yield to His solution, receive His prescription for wellness. So on humanity went, living in sickness and futility, becoming more and more gravely ill, until the Great Physician declared, “Enough!” Holy intervention was needed.

The spiritual reservoir of one’s life, oft overlooked as we scurry through our days, is where the true Balm of Gilead needs to be applied. This is where one in reality may marinate in the healing Balm. Marinating is to enhance flavor, tenderize. It’s purpose is to penetrate deep within to cause positive change. It is into one’s spiritual reservoir where all our soul-sickness dwells, that the Balm of Gilead does its work. One may be aware of the hurts of pain, pride, shame, lies, abuse, torturous thoughts or actions, ridicule, humiliation, embarrassment, fears, wrongdoings, and sins of all kinds that plague us as they rise into our conscious minds. Such thoughts taunt us, remind us of our depravity. No matter how hard we try, we are unable to save and heal ourselves, no more than could those people of long ago. No matter our heart-felt efforts, still we fall short.

But for God. In His infinite mercy and grace He has provided a solution for our terminal condition. This is what He has shown me: The Balm of Gilead – God Himself through the sacrificial love of Jesus Christ whose Holy Spirit actually lives within each believer- is offered freely to all who would accept. Only this Balm will heal all our diseases, all our hurts, heal our souls. And in His presence we are invited to marinate, every moment, every day of our lives here on earth and then on into life everlasting. He has come offering Himself. He has come with life poured out. He has come with healing assured. He is the Source of life and love Himself. Indeed, the Balm to heal our sin-sick souls.

I bid you to sing that timeless spiritual, and invite the Balm of Gilead to marinate deeply in your soul. (The chorus below is in bold type. The final verse is of the updated version.) May His healing Balm bring you peace.

There is a balm in Gilead,
To make the wounded whole;
There is a balm in Gilead,
To heal the sin-sick soul.

Sometimes I feel discouraged,
And think my work’s in vain,
But then the Holy Spirit
Revives my soul again.

(Chorus)

If you cannot preach like Peter,
If you cannot pray like Paul,
You can tell the love of Jesus,
And say He died for all.

(Chorus)

Don't ever feel discouraged,
‘Cause Jesus is your friend,
And if you lack for knowledge,
He'll not refuse to lend.

(See: Hymnary.org and Wikipedia )

She had stood tall, proclaimed her thoughts, and found herself cast out into a wilderness place. She had been brave voicing her opinions to her father, the unchallenged patriarch of the family. Her opinion defied his, valid though it was. Now here she was, in a valley of dry bones. Bones not literally that she could see, but a representation of how she felt. Void of water, void of life, void of the love of her father. She had never in all her years experienced such a thing. It was horrible; it was desolate. It was like a living death. She had an inkling that perhaps she knew a hint of what Jesus might have felt when, crucified, He cried, “My Father! Why hast Thou forsaken me?”

In her mind’s eye a vision arose, brief but poignantly clear. The desolation, the isolation; she felt bereft. A valley, arid and dead, parched with heat where nothing grew. Yet she held to her decision. She must. Did she have the right to her own opinion? Yes; yes, she did. And as an adult, married woman, it was high time she exercised her right.

The days wore on and the woman walked on, one foot in the busyness of her growing family’s life, and the other in the grief of separation from her father. She knew not if he would ever speak to her again. Yet to stand her ground she felt hesitant to approach him. It was a quandary for her, especially as both their personalities were strong and very much alike. What was a daughter to do? She prayed continually, sought her husband’s counsel, and after nearly two weeks, that of a counselor at their church. “Write your father a letter,” she was told. “Affirm to him how much you love him, and that you hope your relationship can be restored. Ask him to contact you by a certain date, and if he chooses not to, that you will know he has rejected you.”

With no little anxiety the woman penned and mailed that letter. Her heart ached with sadness, and hope, as she waited restlessly for his response. Then suddenly the very next day the phone rang. “Oh, my daughter! I love you so!” Oh, such words! A balm to her ears, to her heart, to her soul. Like the precious healing ointment of old, the balm of Gilead, the true healing balm that only comes from the love of the Heavenly Father had been poured over her through her earthly father, filling and nourishing those dry, barren places, filling the wastelands of her heart, and anointing joy to her spirit once again. She felt whole suddenly. For through her suffering she had learned this truth: we are created to live in the grace and blessings of the Father, the Source of all life, in Him, the very Balm of Gilead. Indeed, to marinate to the depths of our spirit and soul in His love. For without Him we cannot be whole.

She whirled around and around, ever faster and faster it seemed. Mesmerized by the grace of her movement one could not help but wonder how she could stay upright. Dizziness surely would be her prize, a sense of disorientation like children spinning, wobbling, staggering with laughter. And still she whirled on, missing not a step as the music soared.

“All right, I’m coming!” yelled Mica. Dragging backpack behind him, his bare feet testament he was still not ready to go, heralded another delay in getting out the door. It was kind of like herding cats, catching tadpoles by hand, scurrying after anything that was just out of reach. This scenario played out every single day, just one of many plates Allison juggled to keep life moving forward and balanced. More than once her limits were tested, still she kept her focus. She had to make this work. She could not lose this boy again.

Mica safely deposited at preschool, Allison hurried on to the dance studio. Living life on her own since the loss of their parents, she was determined she would raise her young brother. He would not be sent to live with strangers, and certainly not their distant cousin Felix and his shrewy wife. Sure, they were related, but something about the couple always gave Allison the creeps. “Nope, he’s not going there. Ever!” On she plodded, renewed in her resolve. She and Mica were a team. Brother and sister bound together by blood, and grief.

Allison had just finished college when their parents died. A car wreck on I-90. During early winter. A huge pile-up of semi’s, and vehicles of all sizes, drivers hurrying to somewhere. A freak ice storm had glazed the road and suddenly chaos claimed the lives of many. Allison and Mica were home waiting their parent’s return when the awful news came. And since then their worlds had been spinning.

Convincing the courts she could indeed care for her brother had been a hard won battle. Mica had been swept away by CPS until she could prove her ability to provide for him. It had taken months to work through the legal labyrinth of details. But, thankfully, with their parent’s forethought of wise investments, and a mortgage-free home, there was a financial cushion to start from. Her job with the studio provided just enough income to meet their needs, and finally Allison had been declared Mica’s legal guardian. Yet, she felt Big Brother was always watching, ready to snatch him away again if she did not stay on point.

On point. An exquisite place to be as a dancer. Only a few inches connecting one’s body to the earth, allowing whirling and spinning as a perfectly balanced top. It is glorious, that feeling of freedom. One could take flight. Allison had been practicing this maneuver of dance most of her life. She had learned early in her career the secret all ballerinas knew. How to stay upright, and secure in your position in space, while whiling around and around. A point of focus was paramount, With each revolution her eyes returning to a fixed position, a grounded spot, a point of reference. Without it the spinning dancer would lose their way, unraveling like a ball of yarn. Allison had an anchor sure, deep within her, and a point of focus that never wavered. And though she was spinning, or life was spinning around her, she knew she was steady, on point.

While life is spinning in my world I remember the need for a steady, focal point. Even the earth, spinning on its axis, has the sun as the focal point around which it travels. It is a built-in reality of our existence, so large and so small we might not realize it. Still it is there, and we are certainly aware of it when suddenly thrown off balance! I believe in my whirling dance I have found my secure point of reference. I hope you, too, have found yours!

“Hurry! Time’s awaistin’! Just get ’er done!” Ever had the dogs of impatience nipping at your heels, or worse yet, screaming in your head? Sure there are times when expedience is paramount, even life-saving. Yet much of life does not require such a high adrenaline response. Or the demand to chugga-chugga-chugga to produce-produce-produce when there’s really no gas in one’s tank.

That old phrase, “I want patience – NOW!” resonates deeply within us when we run up against the wall that won’t move, the solution that just won’t come, and the ongoing waiting-waiting-waiting, forever it seems. Should I be surprised that the birth of a dream, or of any endeavor, might take awhile? Most births in the natural world take time: humans – about 9 months (274 days); African elephants – 600-750 days; mice – 20-23 days. If you are a Virginia opossum you might win the shortest mammalian gestation time of 12-13 days, only to take second place to the striped-face dunnart (an Australian marsupial mouse) delivering at 11 days. And in each of these created beings, can hurrying or impatience speed up the process of gestation? (No!) Of course even these may need defer to others with shorter gestation times in the various phylum of creation, all only to bow to the Creator who created man in less than a day, and the whole of the universe in 6 days! Imagine!

Impatience, like a whirly-gig, spins and spins. Sometimes it throws me out of kilter, churning up emotions that needed not be ruffled. It certainly does not further my hopes; it just gives me a headache, or ekes out in irksome ways. It might turn me onto a path of unforeseen consequences that I will regret. In all, no matter what, there seems to be a lesson waiting, if I would slow down to grasp it.

Happily, no matter how unwise I have been in my choices, there is still hope. Like a silly top spinning til it drops, I can rest in my paused position. And learn. See the reality of where I’ve landed; honestly embrace who I am and what my choices have birthed; and cling to hope as I lean into the truths of lessons awaiting me.

“You really screwed up this time! There’s no going back now! You’ve really let us down!” Our minds, invaded by whispers of the enemy of our souls, will pick away at our embarrassment and humiliation, whenever we think we have failed. It’s like double-speak. We were supposed to hurry it up, and now we’ve screwed up? No wonder God wants us to “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10a, NKJV). To take the time to slow down and listen to Him. To learn the sound of His voice so we are not confused when a plethora of other voices shout directions. It is here in God’s peace that we may overcome impatient’s folly, or any other reason we find for the mess we’re in. Standing before Him, whether for admonition or solace, the love of a good God never fails to comfort us.

The day promised to be warm. Still May, temperatures crept up only to plummet again without warning. Not unusual for Idaho, but much different than those very predictable four seasons I remember as a child. One thing certainly has not changed. The tenacity of grass invading the flower borders. “Be sure every white root is pulled out of the ground,” Mother instructed me long ago. “It will grow new grass if left there.” I hear her voice every time I go out to pull new weeds. They reproduce faster than rabbits; I wish I could chase them away as quickly!

It was cool yet this morning, in the mid-fifties. There were a few hours til the sun would invade my shaded place and heat me as well as the air. Grateful for that presumed “gleaning gene,” the one that gives the ability to work bent in half at the waist, I began, nearly standing on my head to pull the offending blades. Encircling the ornamental cherry tree in our yard, a lovely grouping of violas have overwintered two seasons and are thriving. Nice large clumps still beg for more plants to join their colorful parade, violas and pansies lifelong favorites for both my husband and me. And as I dug and hacked away at the clay soil, a bit of weedy inspiration popped into my mind: divide and conquer. Such a simple and time worn concept, yet interesting to see played out in the garden.

It was a battle. Invading grass versus violas. Five of the six clumps of violas were full and standing strong. The sixth, while healthy and robust, had obviously been fighting a battle against invading grasses into it’s core. No wonder it was a smaller clump and misshapen. The grasses had snuck their tendrils into the whole of the clump and set up camp. It was a chore rooting the offenders out without harming the viola. A delicate surgical procedure of divide and conquer, a counterattack to the kind the grasses had launched.

It was not long after standing upside down performing this act of mercy that my back demanded a different approach. Out came the collapsible garden stool, a green one, like the kind you see old folks using. One position cushions the legs for kneeling; flipped over it becomes a handy stool. With relief, and zero embarrassment, I sat on the stool and worked on. My disclaimer as the stool wobbled under me: “If this stool bucks me off, it’s because the ground is uneven” . . . I wondered then who or what was conquering whom in this “divide and conquer” scenario! Still in the end, about two hours later, I had won! I could still stand up and walk, the viola had been freed, and the flower bed looked grand!

Slowly I am becoming smarter. After the next visit to the market a squirt bottle, a jug of vinegar, liquid Dawn dish soap, and salt stand at the ready for my DIY weed/grass killer. I found the recipe online, my secret weapon to keep winning this game! My back already is thanking me!

The spot was dark, bleeding over and around the other brilliant colors in the painting. Somehow the flaw had overcome the lighter shades, and ran like rivulets throughout the work. It was heart-wrenching for the painter to watch his ideal marred. The consequences were dire, yet even so he could not bear to throw this work away. There was still beauty and story to be found in it.

The overall damage was irreparable it seemed. All of his works were to be reviewed, including this one. Would he be judged for the flaw, or the incredible beauty still within this masterpiece, and in his other works? Only time would tell, for there seemed to be raging in the art world a thunderous tug-of-war for who would control the standards and values that would determine how all art would be taught, judged, displayed, allowed. It was a tense time. Still the artist held true to his values, and with honesty revealed his reflection and understanding of beauty as he saw it. Flaws and all.

It was an interesting fight really. One fought with a double-edged sword, or perhaps a double standard, for those who would judge him were themselves imperfect artists as well. And some not artists at all! But ones who focused on specific types of flaws that deemed another an enemy of sorts, the very root of all that was wrong in the world. It mattered not that people in their own camp had painted, or experienced, the exact same types of imperfections, yet his flaws were somehow more offensive. It seemed odd to him, and sad, as relationships were divided because of it. Focusing on flaws tended to narrow one’s vision, and dull one’s eyes to the great beauty and glorious good still being created in the world. It was a conundrum. Yes, a sad one at that.

Still the artist painted on. There was a spirit that drove him to find beauty and hope in the mundane, to bring it to life for others to see, in those hidden things that surrounded them, wonders so easily missed as they rushed on by. It brought him great joy, even in his own imperfection. He endeavored to improve, to learn from his mistakes, to rectify misrepresentations if his rendering did not give right tribute to his subject. He did his best, learned to live with his limitations, and to grow beyond them. He hoped the world would cast not away the foundational values of art, but would hold tightly to learning how to blend colors, correct and forgive one another’s failings and those unexpected flaws that randomly appeared, and encourage dialogue among all. It was a place to practice love in an oft unloving world. With a courage from beyond himself, he displayed his works; and walked away, to paint again.

Oh, the smell of rain washed air 
Cleansing waters everywhere 
Earth proudly wearing finery 
Birds chorusing in harmony 

Just stepping on the garden path
Brings solace to my weariness 
I think I’ve been inside too long 
I need to hear God’s nature song 

Sunlight shines on raindrops clear
Kissing flowers, leaves, all near
Drinking heaven’s cheer to fill
Bursting glories blooming still 

Pulling weeds, yes, has its place
To urge me from my quiet nest 
To work outside and dwell awhile 
In God’s majestic nature smile 

Even when rejected 
Love is hovering still 
Reaching, caring, giving 
Wounded hearts to fill 

It matters not the offense
Love still avails there
Like misty clouds surrounding
Diaphanous - like air  

Love waits in hidden places 
To shine and spread His light 
Consolation, uplift 
Hope in darkest night 

Fear not the invitation 
Of Love to join you in 
The trials of woe you’re walking 
As challenges begin 

For Love’s the best companion 
He’s been through every way 
He knows all complications 
And by your side He’ll stay

Take His hand in your hand 
His nail prints are the proof 
That Love will guide you always 
In righteousness and truth 

After forty-plus years I have finally figured it out. Sit down, please! This might be the revelation of forever – or not. But it does seem to apply to my husband and me, and the vast differences in our personalities. As much as we try, he forever is a Brussel sprout, and I am a broccoli.

Brussel sprouts remind me of compact cabbages. Layers upon layers of overlapping leaves creating a concentric ball, evenly or somewhat oddly shaped. All, however, share that distinctive Brussel sprout characteristic of being strongly and firmly formed. Impenetrable almost. A stalwart vegetable overall. And for many, an acquired taste. Even when slathered with butter.

Broccoli, on the other hand, is a bit more frothy. Spaces for air to flow around and between its stalks could lend it an “airhead” label, but that isn’t quite right. Broccoli is still compact, like a thousand tiny green pin heads bursting into clusters of nosegays. Place those on sturdy stalks and you have a green bouquet for a walk down the veggie aisle.

Oh, yum!” exclaimed three of our grandchildren. “Broccoli is so good with BUTTER on it!” “Yes. Yes, it is,” I would heartily agree. “And so are Brussel sprouts,” my husband would add. This silly conversation really was going no where, except around and around for fun, the children dramatically imparting this culinary news to us. Broccoli was definitely the veggie of choice this day, by majority tastebuds. But still Brussel sprouts were worth considering.

I am continually amazed at the myriad variations of this incredible creation we find ourselves in. It matters not one’s preferences, there is something beautifully intriguing to be found in, well, everything! Slowing down some (or a lot) in my “more mature” years (what does “old” mean anyway?) has afforded these fun times of contemplation on the sense of things. Each new day is bursting with possibilities! It’s like a treasure chest at our fingertips, waiting to be opened if we could but see. What hidden surprises will you find today? Anything in those normal or unusual occurrences of your day? And where do they lead you? Hopefully into a greater, richer life towards the everlasting kind. The kind that nourishes your soul and spirit like good veggies do the body.

Then Abraham fell on his face and laughed, and said in his heart, “Shall a child be born to a man who is one hundred years old? And shall Sarah, who is ninety years old, bear a child?”

Genesis 17:17 (NKJV) reveals a delightful, and unbelievable scene. Old people astonished with the thought of bearing a child! Could it be? Can it be that though their parts were withered and past their prime that a child could yet be born from them? And even more poignantly, that this child would be born from a barren womb to a couple whose longing for a child had yet to be fulfilled? They were old! How could it be? And yet, but God . . .

While building this blog site I feel much like Sarah. Though a few years from ninety I am definitely a senior citizen. And for a long while have dreamed of somehow sharing thoughts with the world. It makes me laugh with joy to think in my old age such a thing could be accomplished! And to realize what form it should take. All I know is that it is a longed for kind of baby that seems now to be becoming real. Certainly challenged in the doing, I am barren when it comes to such things. I have not built a site before, truly do not know how to navigate and manipulate through all the computer stuff to make it happen, and am mighty grateful for the tech support folks at WordPress who help me along. This has taken me to a place way beyond myself for the bearing of the fruit. And so, like a long awaited pregnancy, the journey begins.

So many times in my life, like on a precipice waiting to fly, I am stuck in my nest, have not wings, or my confidence and strength is lacking. The wind is blowing, the lift to carry me is there, whenever I am fully formed and ready. But what about my track record, past failed attempts, all the negative reasons or fearsome excuses to not believe in astounding possibilities? Do I dare think positively? Thankfully Sarah and Abraham did try, laughing even at the wonder of the possibility. And in their glee one sees a beautiful testament to belief. Trusting God to fulfill what He says will happen, even when all evidence screams otherwise. So they tried. And with the son who was born, Isaac, God made an everlasting covenant that continues beyond today. Through that lineage came our LORD Jesus, the fulfilling of the old covenant and the glorious Life of the new.

From old people! God’s plan for us is never used up, worn out, or finished! It is truly amazing the endless possibilities that may be worked through us. If only we would try. If only we would believe beyond ourselves.

LORD, may I hear Your voice, listen to You that I might know and believe Your promises and plans for me. And laugh with You for the sheer joy of it!

“Proud flesh,” is a term frequently associated with equine wounds, especially those occurring in joint areas, or other places where lots of movement interferes with complete healing. Granulation tissue, usually growing from the outside inward, overgrows its edges leaving a wound not fully healed, and prone to easy reinjury. I wonder at the proud flesh that may be lingering deep inside of me, places that I cannot see, yet that are poorly healed, easily reopened, hopefully not abcessing. Sure, these things are more easily addressed in one’s physical body, but what of one’s soul and spirit? Am I paying attention to wounds unhealed?

“Clang! Clang!” goes the trolley, as the masses rush in, grab hold, and stand like sardines stacked just so. In each breathing, rushing soul lies woundedness that is pushed deep into the recesses of hope-to-forget. All have learned early on that production is what is expected. For that you are paid; then you can eat; then you can afford shelter, clothing, transportation, meet your needs. Like automatons we rise, go, do, repeat, day in and day out, repeat, repeat, repeat. And yet, there is that something deep inside that just won’t go away. Proud flesh keeps growing. Our woundedness remains. And each time similar hurts poke at that spot, the wound is lanced again.

My father was a surgeon. He knew the intricacies of the physical body, fascinated with the incredible workings of all the systems together. He could go deep within a person’s frame to find, cut out, repair, and set towards restoration those wounding things that ail us. Still the healing went beyond his hands. Each person healed in their body’s miraculous way, and, in most, satisfactorily. Still some required additional help when their wounds refused to heal. The physician was needed again.

I think of God in this way when I consider those areas of proud flesh, unhealed emotional or spiritual wounds in me, especially those that have dogged me for years. He is my Physician who knows exactly where I need healing. Still, I must participate and yield to Him if I desire to become fully well. Otherwise, my poorly healed wounds remains just that – partially healed, but reopening again and again, seeping hurt into my being. Consider Psalms 51:6 (NKJV):

Behold, You desire truth in the inward parts,
And in the hidden part You will make me to know wisdom.

The more I submit to learning who God is, grow in relationship with Him, and yield to His ways, the more that proud flesh in me is healed. Isn’t it interesting that it is called “proud” flesh? For inevitably my problem is my pride. Am I willing to face the truth of what is really there? The parts that reveal where I have been wrong? Even way down deep in me a festering hurt may not be healed because I have refused to humble myself to forgive or seek forgiveness, to admit I do not have all the answers, to be willing to listen to God’s wisdom rather than the “wisdom” of a broken, hurting world. I know when the time is taken to think on these things with my Great Physician, much healing and relief can be achieved. It is worth the process, for His truth always sets me free! For some reason when the words “proud flesh” pop into my mind . . . methinks surgery is about to begin.

Pop! Pop! Pop! The ideas randomly burst upon my mind exploding with intrigue and delicious aroma! There is momentum in them, enough to get me out of bed to write when tradition says I should be falling asleep. But how can I suppress the opportunity to indulge myself in this treat? When an idea pops forth, I must grab it, pay attention and see where it leads. It is fun! It is entertaining! It is a grand brain game to keep my little grey cells exercising! Inevitably for me it is a lesson. And, like butter poured over, the writing of those unbidden thoughts are a balm to my soul; an outpouring that ends up filling me up.

As random thoughts pop you can find me furiously typing away on the small screen of my phone. Less cumbersome than lugging a laptop or iPad around, I am at the ready when inspiration strikes. Like opening a thousand favorite books in no particular order, and at different speeds, writing in this “style” (coined by my writing friend) is an adventure. I know not where the words will go, but must trust the flow and see. Without an agenda when the writing begins, or not much of one, all kinds of possibilities surface. Whether it is story in prose or poem, the process is the same. The words seem to take on a life of their own. I’m just here to scribe them down, try to ensure the meaning of what I write is evident when I read it out loud to myself; and hopefully it makes sense to others, too.

May I suggest you try it sometime? Any random word or phrase that pops into your mind, write it down. Then take the time to see where thinking about it takes you. Perhaps it will be like journaling. Maybe you will be moved to look up the meaning of words, or use a thesaurus to find just the right intent for your expression. You might meet some issues inside yourself that need tending. No matter what, it has been my experience that good will come as you honestly consider this experience.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Happy writing!

There seems to be a little writing in my genes. Since my young years of the locked “Dear Diary” to the flow of words that just seemed to pour forth when writing letters, words have always been special tools to find expression, capture wonder, ponder and explore. I see now in my older years that those who have gone before me also enjoyed this thing about words. There is something delicious about them, especially when they form something beautiful, encourage, bring clarity.

March 3, 1899. My paternal grandfather entered the United States, “the country of freedom” through Ellis Island, followed a few months later by my grandmother. I have his original diary, written primarily in Bohemian, the Czech language, and happily the English translation. Grandfather recorded the near-three month ocean crossing, and much poetry. A big man who died in my infancy, I see him in my brother, who looks much like him. A locksmith and sheet-metal worker, Grandpa definitely had strong hands; yet possessed a gentleness and heart for words to beautifully express them.

My mother also was a writer. Published prose and poetry reflect her keen wit and hilarious sense of humor, but also her depth of insight into the ills of the world. We were very close, and I believe she inspired me to tap into the wellspring of joy that writing brings. Writing has always been a comfortable mode of expression for me. Perhaps the solitude of quiet contemplation, the opportunity to listen as I seek answers to challenges and dilemmas that fill my day, allow me to dwell in a place of peace. Now retired from a career as a Registered Nurse, I am still a wife, a mother and grandmother. And an explorer as writing is always an adventure. In my early seventies I find that my spirit is still young, though my body occasionally objects. Yet, I am living at “high noon,” certain that there is no “over the hill” in my future, unless it is to view another amazing vista!

In 2018, at the cheering on of a small group of writing friends, I “jumped off the cliff” and published Sherry’s first attempt at writing and art. Little Bit in the Great Wide Forest was written for our grade-school grandchildren, and illustrated in watercolor. A tiny squirrel, his sister and forest friends navigate through growing relationships and conflicts. It is available through WestBow Press, Amazon and other online retailers in Kindle and soft cover.