JULY
Triptych of Joy
by
Laura Lynn Gatzow

Petting Zoos
I learned midlife that I just can’t grasp joy. She knows me as a child, who used to pull the wings off flies and watch daddy long legs wobble on the one or two limbs I might have left attached. For decades I would rend and atomize happiness with my own hands in the same grim ebullience and wind up unsated and bored. Then I watched a hummingbird hover in front of a tiger lily outside my kitchen window. She drank her fill then flitted off, and I realized joy moves in much the same way—my part is to remain open and still. If I flinch, she will scoot to a branch just out of reach, or, worse yet, vanish. Now I rarely ignore serendipity.
That’s why, several summers ago, when my husband and I went to a strip mall, looking to find stress relief in a few hours of frivolous spending, I kept my eye wide open. I knew shopping was one of those knock-off activities that only created an illusion of joy. At the moment we happened to arrive, two men were fencing off an area in the parking lot and unloading a trailer carrying llamas, sheep, a donkey, chickens, goats, and a goose. Petting zoo!
Since we are consummate animal lovers, my husband and I couldn’t resist the urge to play with the farm critters. This mini zoo had two llamas with very bad teeth, like tobacco chewers in need of some serious orthodontics. Their long bottom incisors flashed when they snickered for feed. I felt a little unnerved, holding out my pink padded hand, full of pellets, to these two beasts, but they were actually quite gentle, using those tea-colored teeth to gingerly scoop the food from my palm. I laughed—I hadn’t realized llamas don’t have top incisors, so I could feel their fuzzy muzzles wiggle to work the pellets into their mouths.
My husband and I tried tempting the sheep to come take a treat, but they could not be cajoled to the fence under any circumstance. We tried whistling, sweet-talking, even cupping our hands around our mouths and baahing like demented fools. They looked at us warily, as if to say, who are these lunatics? But they basically ignored us and contentedly munched on a fresh bail of hay. The chickens and goose were equally unenthralled with our presence. The chickens strutted around the fenced-in area, bobbing their heads and making their wattles wobble like little pendulums, keeping time to their high-stepping gait. The goose honked, flapped his wings, and thrust out his feathered chest at our overtures, then waddled off like a petulant three-year old. The goats, however, were insatiable. They stuck their noses and necks through the fence, trying to nibble the pellets right out of the machine before I could even get my hand filled, and nudged each other rudely as they vied for the two sappy mitts that seemed to have an endless supply of quarters.
The donkey was my favorite. I happen to like donkeys. I know one. His name is Corky, and I pass him as I drive on my back-country-road commute to school. I actually don’t know Corky’s real name, or if he’s male or female. I just thought he needed a name, despite my lack of ownership, since I see him in his corral every time I drive by. Just last week, Corky stood out in the fenced pasture, munching on grass and no doubt intellectualizing about the validity of Kierkegaard’s views on the existential nature of life. Of course, being a donkey may just spare him from the yo-yoing angst, unjust adversity, and psychological pain we humans must bear in this, at times, seemingly purposeless world, so much so that grass munching and rolling in the dirt derive for him as much pleasure as a high-tech exec’s six-figure salary.
We could learn a lot about joy from a donkey by observing his contented nosing in verdant blades of Kentucky blue, lolling under the sun with half-closed dreamy eyes, or scratching a swayed back on the dusty earth. I believe this Zen-like calm with which the donkey engages the world is founded upon his healthy self-image. For example, Corky’s pasturemates are three lithe-legged Arabians, who seem to shun his company. He takes this in stride, albeit a short stride. His low-slung body, corpulent beer belly, nappy coat, and rabbit-like ears belie any relation to his cover girl cousins. Corky may be the Al Bundy of the equid family, but what he lacks in social and physical grace, he makes up for in levelheaded self-acceptance. He doesn’t rue over his body’s comicality by trying to be something he’s not. Rather, Corky embraces his donkeyness as a God-given commission, one only he alone can fulfill.
This donkey at the petting zoo was no different. He loved to be petted, and I suddenly realized I had never touched a donkey before. The coat was shaggy and coarse and dusty, like a deep-napped welcome mat. His velvety nose, with its prickly long whiskers, tickled my palm when I fed him, making me giggle with delight like any awe-struck child experiencing her many firsts. His ears surprised me. Although as long as a rabbit’s, his ears were much wider and sturdier. I was rapt with his brown eyes, which I fell through like an oubliette, forgetting all my worries and the outer world for the moment.
When I finally snapped out of my reverie, I noticed a middle-aged man taking our picture. I think he thought we looked silly amongst the other three- and four-year olds and parents who had a legitimate reason to be there. Personally, I fail to see why an overweight woman and a balding man feeding goats and petting donkeys would make an incongruous picture. Two women in clown attire walked by and mocked us. “Okay, kids. Are we having fun?” I just smiled and plugged more quarters into the feed machine.
There’s something to be said about believing oh, to hell with what other people think. I’m having fun. There’s something therapeutic about petting zoos. They should prescribe them for the clinically depressed and mandate them for corporate execs so that the first is buoyed in spirit and the latter is humbled in bearing. It’s just my take, but I think it would make the world a better place. Perhaps the man with the camera saw this too. Perhaps he merely saw joy, naked but unashamed, reflected on the lens of his soul . . .
Seeing Humor in Senectitude
Working with the elderly as a CNA at an assisted living facility is not all hard work. There are moments of sheer hilarity. Take last Thursday, for instance. I punched in at 10:52 PM, traipsed upstairs, plunked down my book bag loaded with the night’s homework (one of the perks of working the wee hours of the morning), and plodded into the nurse’s office to get report from Char. She filled me in on the highlights of her evening, and then mentioned she could smell something like burnt toast down in the garden level, but couldn’t figure out where it came from.
I started my rounds down on the garden level, and as soon as I got off the elevator, my nose was indeed greeted by a distinct burnt toast odor. I skipped looking in Anna’s apartment, as I couldn’t imagine her causing a big stink. I focused on the next apartment, Ernie’s. He has a history with us that was growing, grounding my suspicion in a proven track record. As soon as I opened his door, the stench became more intense. I scanned the almost non-existent counter. No toaster. But from the hall light, I could see a faint outline of something dark in the microwave. “Aha!” I murmured, thinking I’d find an overdone dinner or burnt popcorn when I opened the small nine by fourteen door. But no. I discovered a dishcloth and a navy nylon sock, of all things, placed, quite innocently, on the glass cooking tray. Upon further inspection of the remains, I observed that the dishcloth was basically char-broiled, and the sock, well . . . the toe looked like a pool of blue lava, at one point cooked to al dente, but now a hardened circle of melted nylon fibers.
Ernie was awake, so I asked him why he put the dishcloth and the doomed sock in the microwave.
“I was trying to separate the two.”
“What do you mean, Ernie?”
“There are rodents in my apartment. Six mice in my bed. I caught one between my finger and thumb. They’re tricky little devils.”
“Now, Ernie, I know they seem real, but you know they’re a hallucination. You know your medication for your Parkinson’s has this side effect. Right?”
“Ya, ya. They sure seem real though.”
“I know, Ernie. Why did you put your sock in the microwave? You could start a fire doing that.”
“W—w—well . . . I only put it in there for ten minutes.”
“Oh my goodness. Is that all.”
“Ya, ya. Ten minutes.”
“Okay, Ernie. But don’t do that again.”
“No, no, I won’t.”
I bagged the charred and crispy remains of Ernie’s dishcloth and sock, and placed them with an explanatory note in my manager’s office. When I bumped into her on the elevator in the morning, I informed Donna a present waited for her on her desk. As I passed her later in the morning, I teased, “Did you like your gift? Bet you’ve never seen a cooked sock before.” She laughed. I filled her in on Ernie’s vivid hallucinations, and suggested in a more serious tone that it was probably time to remove his microwave from the apartment. Although I’m well aware of the potential seriousness of the event, I can’t help but remember “the sock incident” with a smile.
A couple months ago, when I worked the day shift, I was pouring a second round of coffee for lunch in the dining room. The cook had made apple pie for dessert. One of our residents, Emma, who complains about anything and everything, picked apart her pie, dissecting the pastry crust with the tines of her fork. Emma will, if given the slightest opportunity, offer up her negative opinion without the least hint of remorse, and in fact, does so as if it is her duty in old age—a destiny she has been denied all her life, and from now on, one she must fulfill. She must, she must, she must, unless she bust. As I walked past her table, I overheard Emma say, in her best Edith Bunker voice, “There are too many apples in this pie.”
Fran, one of our less inhibited residents, is fond of bawdy irreverence. One time, when I sat out front, smoking a cigarette, she relaxed in a patio chair, soaking up the sun, along with four other residents. I noticed a bandage peeking out from the cuff of her pants, and asked her if she had hurt her leg. She couldn’t raise the bottom of the pant leg past her calf, so she slipped her pants down in front of everyone to reveal the bandaged leg. Coaxed by everyone’s reaction, she turned around and shook her butt, her flowered underwear shaking with her dimpled bottom. I think it would have been a full moon, had I not intervened and said, “Fran, don’t you dare!” She is incorrigible. Just the other week at supper, when the cook made her way through the dining room with the snack cart, Fran asked for two apples. She proceeded to put them in her bra. She walked up to Jeff, one of the young boys that works busing tables, and said, “What do you think of my new bazooms?” and proceeded to shake her chest like a hoochy girl.
Margie, one of our residents whom I would personally like to adopt as my own grandmother, because she always tells me, “Drive home safe. I love you,” whenever I’m almost done with my shift, sits at table five in our dining room. This spring, the floral centerpiece that adorned each table was markedly absent from hers, because she had complained that the arrangement bothered her sinuses. Whenever I set this table for breakfast, and saw the absent flowers, I smiled. They were silk.
So, you see, CNA work has its perks. I have an insider’s view to the innate humor that shadows each of us wherever we go, making light of life with its feathery brush against cheeks plumped, not with Botox, but smiles and joy . . .
Giving
Our Christmases at my mother-in-law’s condo border on the sacrilegious. At any given moment, off-color jokes are cracked, beer, wine, and cigarettes are consumed, enough food is proffered to outrank a medieval king’s feast, and pranks are played on our unsuspecting nieces and nephews. Our rank materialism is enshrined in mounds of boxes and bags under the tree. Christmas glee is sung in odes like: “Joy to the world, Barney's dead. We barbecued his head! What happened to his body? We flushed it down the potty. And round and round it goes, and round and round it goes . . . !”
This religious anti-establishment air is not devoid of spirituality, of real joy. It is infused with it. While I am party to many of the crimes being committed, I also like to step back and just observe. I become a human Nikon D-80, digitizing memories for the scrapbook of my mind. My favorite time is the unwrapping of the gifts. Not the ones I get, but the ones my husband and I give. I am almost voyeuristic in watching delight take shape in the face of a loved one. It’s a lot like watching a flame pop up on a candle, but in slow motion.
I love watching Miranda, our youngest niece, the best. When “Santa” passed one of our presents to her, Miranda’s face already had the ember of anticipation. She knew her Uncle Randy and Aunt Laura are generous patrons. Miranda inspected the wrapped gift, shook it, trying to guess at its precious cargo. After she fiddled with the tape and found a neat unwrapping impossible, Miranda resigned herself to ripping the pretty package apart. Then her eyes lit up at the jewelry box, her hands trembled with excitement. The sapphire-chipped pierced earrings sparkled under the Christmas tree lights and tinsel, and a smile, stretched from jeweled ear to jeweled ear, beamed from her upturned face. And then Miranda’s arms were around me, and her flamed face warmed my cheek, making the transfer complete: Heat and light, touched to the wick of my soul . . .
. . . It’s in moments like these that joy comes to me, unasked, when my eye is fully dilated, when I feel like I’ve just gotten this big, wet, sloppy, cosmic kiss.
Bio: Laura Lynn Gatzow is nearing completion of her English degree at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater, where she has earned many writing awards. She is currently devoting her time to intensive writing experiences at Gotham Writer’s Workshop.
My Asperger's Syndrome Hurdle - My Travel Successes
by
Roy A. Barnes
(This version first published by Lifeglow and Connected in 2008, both publications within the same publisher)
London, England, Late April 1998: My first full day in a foreign country. It was the the first of many Western European countries I’d visit as the result of a group tour I signed up for…
I ventured out a few blocks from my hotel during the cloudy day that was chased with intermittent periods of rain. I quickly came upon an Underground (subway) station that could take me virtually anywhere in the metropolitan area. How I wanted to go to Parliament to watch the House of Commons debate! I approached the Underground entrance, but then I suddenly froze: the steps that most others would apply in order to get from Point A to Point B were for me synonymous with being confronted with a million things to juggle simultaneously.
A condition that I live with everyday made it almost impossible for me to satisfy my desire. It’s a neurobiological disorder called Asperger's Syndrome. Those who have this condition experience a wide range of symptoms and behaviors, like taking in every little bit of stimuli that their surroundings emanate. So when an environment isn't familiar, it can be too overwhelming to handle, which is what I was experiencing at that moment.
I want to share my struggles with a couple aspects of my condition and how I have learned to overcome them in order to pursue my passion of trotting the globe.
I went on that group tour thinking the itinerary itself would adequately fill my time with all the sightseeing and exploring I could ever hope for within the security of traveling with others. I quickly discovered this wasn't the case. Free time for exploring on our own was often scheduled for the group As a result of my condition, I restricted myself to explore only those areas that were within walking distance of my hotel, which made me feel very cheated: London was beckoning to me to relish in it, and here I was clinging to sites around Hyde Park!
My first trip abroad progressed southward over the next few weeks all the way to Athens, Greece. My lack of spatial direction, also inherent in my condition, almost got me into dire straits on more than one occasion. As with London, I was only blocks away from my hotels in the cities of Brussels, Belgium, and Innsbruck, Austria. Yet I found myself wondering aimlessly through the night in those two cities, asking myself how I would find my way back to the hotels where my tour group was staying. Only with the help of the police and/or very conspicuous landmarks, did I manage to return to the hotels…eventually. On rare occasions, I would hang out with one or two people in the tour group during our free time to do some off the beaten path exploring. I relied on them to get us where we needed to be; and thus, my sense of inadequacy was only heightened.
When I got back to the USA, I knew that something was going to have to change. I knew deep down that my love for traveling and exploring was stronger than the handicaps of my condition. For almost a year and a half, the debacles of my first foreign trip would haunt me. By the autumn of 1999, I felt compelled to go back to London, vowing to travel independently on the subways and buses to all the parts of the great city no matter how scary that seemed, no matter how lost I would get.
I knew that for me to become the independent traveler that I wished in my soul to be, I would have to compensate for my natural shortcomings with two things. First, I would have to study extra hard the detailed maps provided by tourism departments and the internet before embarking overseas, using positive visualization of finding my way around. Second, once abroad, I needed to acquire the gumption to go up to complete strangers to ask them if I was on the right path to one of London's icons even if that meant doing so every other block along the way. This would keep my sense of direction in check. For many people with Asperger's Syndrome, going up to the locals to interact with is also a challenge, as we are not generally the most sociable folks in the population. The bottom line was that in order for my aspirations to be realized, I had to take my Asperger's Syndrome by the horns.
My friend from Virginia would accompany me for the first part of the trip. We'd be together, but I'd act like I was alone while trying to figure out how to get to a certain destination. He'd only interject if I began to take the wrong turn. This technique proved to be very effective. He headed back to the States a few days before me, but I survived being totally alone in the metropolis. Consequentially, I developed a new confidence in trekking the world independently.
A year later, in October of 2000, it was me who would play tour guide, so to speak, as I took another friend of mine all over London and its surrounding areas. Sometimes, my sense of direction resulted in some minor inconveniences for us, but I persevered. The end result was a trip full of sightseeing successes!
Since that first fateful trip abroad in '98, where I let my disability oppress my sense of adventure, I have taken even more trips to Western Europe, China, South Africa, and Panama, mostly on my own. I've secured hotel reservations, train and bus tickets, etc., all over the world. I've challenged myself even further via my journeys to Spain, Panama, and Italy. I had to be even more resourceful while visiting these countries, given that I am not fluent in Spanish or Italian. I got around fine with the aid of really detailed and user-friendly phrase books. The locals in those countries appreciated my attempts at using their language to communicate with them.
By 2004, I had enough travel experiences to where I felt confident in submitting travel articles to various publications. I’ve now had many of them published in various magazines and online sites for pay. Globe-trotting inspired me to confront my Asperger’s Syndrome in a way that I wouldn’t have done so otherwise, and ultimately led me to a new career as a travel writer.
When I look back at my initial reactions on that 1998 London trip, I am amazed at the changes and the consistencies. The difficulties remain, but now I know I can deal with them and I now have a backlog of memories and techniques for dealing with my disability. I may still feel hesitant about putting myself into a situation where I’m unfamiliar with the environment and feeling overwhelmed with the sensory overload, but I also know I can control my reaction and draw on my past experiences to get through the moment in order to fulfill my desires.
The key to overcoming obstacles is having a desire which is stronger than the reality of the obstacles. It is that inner quest which will lead one to find ways of overcoming!
Bio: Roy A. Barnes writes from the windy plains of southeastern Wyoming. His travel-related works have been published by Transitions Abroad, Travel Thru History, In Flight USA, Northwest Prime Time, Live Life Travel, C/Oasis, Bootsnall.com, and others. His works of poetry and prose have been published by such mediums as Poesia, Skatefic.com, Literary Liftoff, The Goblin Reader, Conceit Magazine and others.
JUNE
"Shyness" the Disguised Word for "Fear."
by
Nadine Hawthorne
Many are classified as society's introverts. Not first to make a move in negotiations, in making friends or starting conversations. Which is ok. God made some more forward than others. Some are communicators, some are observers, some are intuitive and some have a knack for being the life of a party. Those are not the ideas I seek to argue in this note. For we are all created uniquely and our personalities compliment one another in making this world as diverse and as colorful as it is.
I am more concerned about the way "shyness" has become a way to classify someone who is "fearful " of doing things and taking chances. I was once placed in that category for a long time until I was able to break free from the stigma that that title caused. Many inadvertently classify people as being this way without realizing what accepting this as "ok" can do.
As simple as it may seem, "shy" folks are the ones that don't speak up when they have an idea, they don't share their thoughts and mind with others because of fear of rejection. They don't stand in front of crowds, not because they don't want to, but because something (hint hint* fear) is deterring them from making a move. Shy people only have dreams of doing great things but they never actualize because they've embraced the fact that it could never happen because "I'm shy."
I was used to hearing people even defend my shyness when I was asked to do anything when inside I really wanted to and wished I could, but was actually bound by the spirit of fear. And I played into it and accepted it.
Many times shy folks are some of the most gifted people you can find. So why are those giftings hidden? Were the God-Given talents and giftings given to be withheld from the world that can be benefited by its effects?
You can be quiet, soft spoken, you can be an introvert and not like attention without being bound by fear. Shyness is the socially acceptable disguise for fear. As Christians we cannot buy into the idea that being shy is ok. The definition of shyness according to dictionary.com is...
1. bashful; retiring
2. easily frightened away; timid.
3. suspicious; distrustful:
4. reluctant; wary.
5. deficient
and the list goes on and on...
Is that the ideal description of a victorious child of God?
As we've seen in the lives of various bible characters and even people that attend our churches, when the Spirit of God is within you, he gives you power to overcome every and any obstacle or task. Even the "shyest" or most reserved of individuals move under the anointing and are fearless to tackle the tasks God has set before them.
My prayer is that our convictions will surpass the labeling that "shyness" has placed on us.
It's human to be nervous from time to time when we're about to do something, because in our frailty as finite beings we understand our limitations. But when we turn down opportunities because of fear, we turn down God's opportunity to do something awesome through us.
Can you say that you're all right where you are? At the place of imploding due to housing unfulfilled dreams and passions?
Calling all "shy" folks everywhere; walk in the path God has called you! Don't allow any inferiority complex to drown out your purpose or capture the time that can be used going after the dreams God has placed within you!
Fear causes anxiety, and distrust and stifles God given desires. Shyness infringes on your rights as a child of God to walk in the authority we've been given thanks to the death of Jesus Christ.
"Shyness" is used as an excuse to escape our responsibility of sharing our gifts with the body of Christ.
Those that are here, on "Shyness Blvd" are not at a place of complete surrender because you are depending on your own strength, or capabilities. There's fear of embarrassment, fear of man's perception over God's desire of wanting to use you.
Why would God tease you, with dreams and passions that are unattainable? In reality, they can come to pass! That's why you have them.
Have you been struggling with fear? God can restore that confidence-lacking deficiency. Ask him. Don't miss out on what God wants to do through you, and in your life. You never know the salvation of someone may be hinged on what you will say or do. By faith, believe that God will be with you as you make strides towards boldness. It's not by might or by power but by the Spirit of God.
A step of faith is paramount to succeeding in your efforts to overcome fear. Who cares what everyone thinks? Let God blow your mind; having you do things greater than you can even fathom. He's ready, are you?
Be Blessed,
~Just a Humble Servant
I am currently a graduate student with a love for writing inspirational pieces. I am involved in various ministries at my church where I have the opportunity to express my creativity through the arts, which I enjoy!
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day Mom ran into an old friend of hers who let us spend a few nights in his near-empty apartment. He had a few vinyl chairs around a pea green Formica table, a broken recliner in the sitting room, and a mattress on the floor in the bedroom. My brother and I slept in the broken recliner; Mom felt obligated to sleep on the mattress.
I know who you are That is what you said. And then: someone in the congregation came to me months ago to tell me you had a baby. She spoke from a pure heart. Gossip wasn’t her intent. She was scared and didn’t know what to do. So she thought I should know.
When the Audience is Ready
by
Brian Charles

Grace happens. So the bumper stickers promise us.
It’s not something you can quest for — the closer you get to what seems like grace, the further it appears to recede. Grace comes to you. You have to be patient, you have to be present, and you have to be willing to witness its existence. Grace in music is found between the notes. It is not the sounds themselves, but the place between the previous note and the next note. Each little gap offers a magical little cubby hole into which you can peer for a brief moment. Most people don’t even notice that it’s there.
I often tell my students to “play between the notes,” which they know to mean that when you intentionally leave one note and strive to arrive at the next, you can fill the in-between space with meaning and intention. That’s what gives the groove its juice and deepens a piece of music to its core. The journey between two notes offers spectacular promise: adventurous diversion from what you think is your goal to a path you never imagined, but now can’t imagine living without. All the while, remember that you cannot fill this space. It’s already full. What you can do is try to witness the content and be willing to be changed by what you find.
The moment comes when the silence becomes the destination and you disappear into the gap between two notes. Entry to that rarified and magical space is not reserved for the few. It’s what music making offers to every player and listener. At everyachievement level, you have the opportunity to examine and live in and be changed by the space between the sounds.
Ultimately, I guess that grace is whatever you decide it is. You decide if you want to bother with it. To you maybe it’s God, or luck, or the Buddha, or a can of tomato soup. I don’t think grace cares. It just is.
I have this talent for making music that’s interesting to listen to. The truth is that while you’re listening to me play, I am trying to be as open as possible to the magic that lies in the grace space between the notes. When I’m open, when the audience is ready — grace happens.
February
Maybe Real
by
Mel Lees
Maybe Nostradamus and the Mayan math geniuses were not as wrong as we think. I am a non-believer but strange events are happening all around us. I am an old man who walks with a cane and I go slowly enough to observe things that I used to ignore.
Lately, when I go to cross an intersection, I see a new reaction. Now, the cars all around stop and the drivers wave me across. When I smile, they wave back and I mouth a `thank you` I receive a warm smile in return. Instead of becoming angry at the driver for not waiting, I proceed with a warm feeling for my fellow humans.
Today, I went to Sierra Vista Hospital for a blood draw. Diane, who checked me in, realized that I had been losing blood and that I had walked the mile plus to the out- patient department. “I get off soon. And I’ll give you a lift home.” Even after her hectic day, she was friendly and warm. I stopped at the cafeteria for a cold drink, and the lady who was closing, offered and gave me a plate of onions and went about her business.
On the walk home from the hospital, four people passed me, walking or running, and each of them gave me a smile and a `hello`. I passed a couple of neighbors who stopped to chat with me. What a wonderful neighborhood in which to live. Even in the gloom of autumn something has happened.
The constellation alignment that believers are raving about must be affecting us all. With each warm smile, and “you”, my blood pressure reduces and my weariness departs.
I don’t care if the Mayans were wrong or right, I know that this is a fine time to be alive and enjoying life. Come join me and smile at everyone.
Motherly Love Touches a Songwriter
by
Rachel Unkovic
Washington, DC---Some of us think of baptisms as a quiet, onetime event with a few family and friends. Most of the time, those ceremonies are quickly forgotten until photographs are pulled out of storage during family gatherings. In the case of Kim Cameron, lead singer and songwriter for the band Side FX based out of Washington, DC, these experiences should never be forgotten.
Attending a baptism for one of her friends in one of DC’s 200 year old Catholic Church, Kim recalls, “You can hear the history echoing throughout the halls as we walked into a small room across from the chapel. Covered with splashes of sunlight from the five small windows, the gray bricks began to warm the room.”
As Kim and her friends hovered over the small pale faced infant, they listened as the preacher spoke the traditional sacraments. Kim said, “In just an instant, a stroke of sunshine beamed across the room and onto just two faces: the mother and the child. Even though the child was being held by his aunt, I couldn’t help but notice where his attention was really focused. This small room had this unbelievable, almost surreal glow and warmth
during that moment. And, for those few minutes, I saw something remarkable. “
A sight she said struck her to a point in which she needed to write it down. This was only Kim’s third attempt at writing a song, but for her it was a compelling story that had to be told. Kim went further with the song, ‘The Way You Look at Me’ and produced a music video with the infant as the starring role. “My goal was to have the entire family in the video, but the mother had to work, so I only had the opportunity to shoot the husband and child,” Kim said.
The Way You Look at Me has had air play for the past year on several stations – including American Airlines and jazz stations across the US and France.
“I cannot pretend to understand motherhood having no children of my own. I do, however, love seeing the dedication and sacrifices parents make for their children – so this song was really written for all the mothers in the world who might think that their kids forget about them – but really, they never do,” Kim said.
Author note:You can hear ‘The Way You Look at Me’ online at www.ilike.com/artist/Side+FX+Band/track/The+Way+You+Look+At+Me , or purchase the song on itunes or amazon.com under ‘Side FX’.
Kim Cameron and her band will be touring this winter in the US and in Asia. To find out more about Side FX, their upcoming releases and the Turning Point: It’s your Turn tour you can visit www.sidefxband.net and www.kimcameronmusic.com. To see Kim’s video diaries visit the bands youtube channel at www.youtube.com/sidefxband. Kim Cameron and the Side FX band offer an eclectic blend of pop, rock and jazz into a smooth, groovy listening experience.
STRESS AND STRUGGLES, TO LOVE AND SNUGGLES
By
Rebecca T. Besser

Yesterday my four-year-old was really cranky. He wanted to have what he wanted, when he wanted it. Nothing could be done to brighten his day, causing me stress and frustration. He continued to fuss and try my patience all the way to bed time, and then he refused to sleep, continuing to whine and complain.
My mother’s heart felt so bad for him, but I didn’t know what to do that would make him happy. Finally, I gave in, and got him out of bed. We snuggled under a blanket in our rocking recliner, and watched the movie he wanted to watch. Miraculously, he was smiling and laughing, and quite content to snuggle.
Then it occurred to me! I wonder if this is how God feels? We run around day after day, wanting what we want. If we don’t get it, we moan and complain. Spiritually throwing our little fits, we try to convince God to give us what we want, regardless of consequences. Not quite understanding that what we want could hurt us.
Perhaps, at times throughout the day God had sent us something good. In our ignorance we shrugged it off, discarded it, because it wasn’t what we had our eyes on. Like a grumpy toddler, wanting a chocolate chip cookie, and there is only oatmeal offered. We miss the value in what we have been given because we want something that we think is better.
Angrily we wonder why God isn’t doing the things in our lives that, according to us, just have to happen a certain way. When He is waiting patiently with open arms, longing for us to climb into His lap so that He can hold us. He wants to comfort us, to tell us why we can’t have something we want. He wants to tell us all the wonderful things that He has planned for our lives, now and in the future. We need to come to Him, relax in his arms, and calm down enough to hear what He wants to share.
Jesus says, in Matthew 11:28 (KJV) ‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ Which plainly invites us to cast our cares on Him, with the promise of rest.
When we stop clinging to all our worries, we can be free to come to God. To be held in His arms, and be delighted by all the love and care He has to give us. We will be happier, and definitely have more peace and joy in our lives.
CROSSWORDS
by
Linda Manning
When I lived too far away to visit regularly, I bought a Scrabble board. I'd bring it with me every time I went to visit. So, together, we learned the rules of Scrabble. Rule number one: everyone draws a tile from the bag and the person whose tile is closest to the letter 'A' goes first. Well, there was only the two of us, so that was an easy rule to meet. I always kept score in the manner that she'd taught me in so many other games we'd played in the past. The numbers were aligned haphazardly in two columns: 'You' and 'Me.' Seven tiles in each rack, a glass of red, and we would laugh at all the funny words that seemed to write themselves. There was never a shortage of laughter.
January
An Agonizing Incident - Sometime During High School
by
Joseph S. Spence
The game was very exciting and the audience was on its feet. Moving down the field with the ball, like a snake gliding through water, I had a clear shot of the goal posts. Eyes fixed on the goalie my right foot went back and started forward in a swinging motion for the winning shot. Suddenly, from out of nowhere a player slid into the path extending his legs to block the shot. Tripping over his legs, I could not maintain my balance. If my memory is correct I screamed, “Oh my God!” The fall was heavy like a jack hammer striking a rock. Bam! Darkness followed.
“Joseph you are awake?” The sound came from a soft motherly voice with her warm right hand on my forehead. She was there as always praying in earnest for her dear son, Joseph.
“Where...where am I… mom; what happened?” I mumbled intermittently. Trying to move was agonizing as the pain released a barrage of tiny needles all over my body. “Help me Lord,” I uttered softly.
“Joseph, you fell and broke…I am so sorry, I know it must hurt. We are all praying for you. The headmaster said it was an accident and things like this just take place without anyone knowing when.”
Trying to reaching down to scratch my right leg was tedious and the needling pain was unbearable. Things went from bad to worse when the fellow started crying in the adjoining room from agony and pain. I heard every syllable he pronounced; some good and some bad. Suddenly, the realization came to me that I was in a hospital with a cast on my leg and it was elevated with a sling.
The taste of medication was on my lips; awful! It certainly did not taste like grandma’s apple pie. It was bland and nauseating. The smell of the place turned my stomach like a Ferris wheel. Coming to terms with the moment and what happened made my heart beat like African drums at a festival.
My mother had stepped out the room for a moment to speak with the doctor and my friends who came after she walked out just had to make my day by giving me a blow by blow description of the events. I was getting mad. Then one of my buddies slipped me a tasty chocolate ice cream fudge. He almost got into trouble with the nurse because it was dripping and she saw him. She told me I could
not have it and I remembered saying, “Oh Really!?” It took away the taste of medication.
My friends eventually left and rage rose within me with the setting of the moon because I could not get out of the bed. “How long have I been here mom?” I asked.
My mother said, “You hit your head when you fell and was out. We thought…thank God you’re okay!” She kissed my forehead.
I could feel the bandage around my head and just wanted to rip it off because it made me feel like a bandit from the pirate movies, which I was not. “Why is it that bad things happen to good people?” I asked my mother.
She told me to calm down and started to sing a gospel song, “Jesus, Jesus how I love thee…” My mom was such a wonderful singer. She used to sing me to sleep at night. Reflecting on life, I certainly could use her singing right now.
Realizing I would have missed the exams I had studied for so diligently and it was time for finals—I screamed out loud, “Lord why me?!”
My mother said, “Jesus, will someone call the nurse?!”
After a long and restful night I was sent home the next day. My mother was there with her Bible reading, praying and singing. The sunlight was wonderful but blinding to my eyes, and made my headache vibrate like a cymbal. I told my mom and she gave me her stray hat to wear.
I remember to have said to her that the hat was far a woman and not a man. She said to me, “Beggars are not choosers.” That made me gave a big chuckle while limping with the crutches. Then she said, It’s such a blessing to see you smiling and gave me a hug me. Tears came to my eyes and she said, “It’s okay.”
The entire experience to me was traumatic and unforgettable; however, she turned it into a memorable experience for a son and his mother. One just has to know my mom, with her bible and singing she can turn night into daylight.
When anyone a school asked, “Would you like to play a game of soccer Joseph?” I just waved and smiled while recalling the incident as if it were yesterday.
According to The Three Visions by Ngorchen Konchog Lhundrub, I can truly say, if not for this physical injury and suffering I would have only been busy and traveled the road of becoming intoxicated with pride and arrogance. I may have never obtained mindfulness for the acceptance and rejection of virtue and non-virtue.
As a result, the injury has caused me to evoke within strong renunciation of many things in this world. Living in this manner, my injury and suffering transformed me on a path of enlightenment. Moreover, the good qualities of suffering assisted me to dispel pride by sadness, and generate compassion for others, thus developing an aversion for non-virtue, and a fondness for virtue.