Blog Birthday Reflections

I've blogged now for a whole year.

Translation: I've kept up with one thing for a whole year.

Yep. July 12. This blog's birthday.

I planned to repost some earlier writings this week to celebrate.

But nah.

Maybe I'll tweet some links to some of my favorites or top hits.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

I wrote some good stuff during this year--but also some bad stuff. Some fun stuff, some serious stuff. Some prose, some poetry. Tried to dig a little. Make myself bleed. Looked for my voice. Fought for my voice. Tried to not try so hard.

Tried to discipline myself to write. And found I need to discipline myself not to write.

Learned not to be so hard on myself for being a woman of many interests. Because really, maybe, hopefully that makes me more interesting as a writer.

For I am she who seeks and shares.

And writing is my passion. I know this now.

Over speaking. Over harping. Over singing. The music that begs to come out is not notes, but words. And words that sing better on the page than through the air.

At least I think so.

I started a writing blog about six months ago.

So now I have two blogs.

Some folks even follow them. And some folks take time to comment.

I developed cyber friendships as close, I believe, as any face-to-face. And all over the world. Heart-to-heart friendships. Other writers. Other seekers.

And quite possibly some of those are people I might not have given more than a head nod to had I not gotten to know them through their blogs.

I've participated in blog carnivals (such as One Word at a Time and Pleasantly Disturbed Thursdays) and group writing projects through High Calling Blogs. I've even been asked to guest blog.

I've found joy in poetry, dabbled with my camera, and maybe found even a call to fiction--all of which surprised me.

I've hooked up with ChristianWriters and joined ACFW.

And acted like I have a clue.

A comment Kathy Richards (katdish) made on Amy Sorrell's blog encouraged and inspired me. She said:

"@noveldoctor (Stephen Parolini) tweeted, 'If you want to write what you believe, write nonfiction. If you want to tell the truth, write fiction.'"

"There's so much truth to that statement," she said. "A work of fiction sometimes gives us a level of protection and allows us to tell a greater truth we may not be ready to write as nonfiction. The best writers are brave souls indeed."

I want to be a brave soul.

Thanks for celebrating with me. 

Party on!

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Running

Mike was a police officer. Joanne was a nurse.

They birthed children, fostered children, adopted children.

Special needs.

Mike and Joanne played soccer in college. Their kids played practically from the time they could walk.

Mike and Joanne coached.

They lived life on the run. Church activity to church activity. Doctor to doctor. Game to game. Goal to goal.

Then Ben began to run. Away from the family. Into trouble. Back home to steal money or a car.

To run some more. Away from the law.

A black blanket billowed over Mike. He burrowed under. Grateful for the insulation.

One day Mike and Joanne argued. Over some small something.

Joanne ran to the store.

And Mike ran.

Joanne found him an hour later. Behind the house. With his gun next to him.

And the weight of his pain fell on her.

And she ran, pounded pavement. And the pounds melted. And the weight fell away, leaving a bony frame that enclosed an empty shell of life once known.

She clawed her way from under the darkness.

But still she runs.

Without a goal.

A young man once ran. To chase the ways of the world. To find his fortune.

And his father waited. Watched. Until he saw him in the distance. Coming home.

And he ran to him.



"I'm not saying that I have this all together, that I have it made. But I am well on my way, reaching out for Christ, who has so wondrously reached out for me. Friends, don't get me wrong: By no means do I count myself an expert in all of this, but I've got my eye on the goal, where God is beckoning us onward--to Jesus. I'm off and running, and I'm not turning back." Philippians 3:13-14 (Message)

Where are you running today?

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

I Have These Scars

I have this scar.

It's fully four inches long and runs from the center of my palm up the inside of my wrist, skimming the vein. Pooh, a part Siamese from years past, sat on the kitchen counter, focused on something invisible in the sink. So focused that when I picked him up, he went beserk. And I dripped blood everywhere.

I remember.

I have this scar.

An inch long below my left knee and a couple of puncture wounds. From surgery due to a severed ACL--from a Cocoa Beach wave that knocked me off balance while I splashed in the shallows. We had just returned from a cruise and still had a couple days of vacation in Florida before we drove back to Michigan. Our car broke down on the way home and left us stranded in Kentucky for two extra days.

I remember.

I have these scars.

On my belly. From an ovarian cyst. From reconstructive tubal surgery in our quest for a baby. From a tubal pregnancy. From which I came close to not surviving. Two of the scars run perpendicular to each other and remind me of a cross. I used to be able to see it better when I looked down. I also have scars from a gallbladder removal that remind me of the Grand Hotel and hiking around Mackinac Island and concern about every twinge of discomfort and my daughter's phone call telling me I had an appointment with a surgeon.

I remember.

I have these scars.

Still. All over. Especially on my legs. From liquid nitrogen spray. Memories of several trips to the dermatologist last year that left me looking like I had chicken pox. Skin lesions zapped, leaving--well, skin lesions. And the hole in my hairline from the excision of a blue nevus, and then a deeper excision.

I remember.

I have these scars.

On my heart. From hurts endured. From hurts inflicted. That I allowed to be inflicted. Through decisions I made. Out of love and desperation. Yet out of stupidity. That caused life-changing scars for someone I love. Toughened scars. But tender still. Very tender. Memories I want to forget. Wipe away. But I can't. And I weep sometimes in the night. And in the day.

I remember.

But I don't want to.

He has these scars.

On His back and on His head and in His wrists and in His feet and in His side. Inflicted from stupidity. And from greed. And from jealousy. And from hate. Yet self-inflicted. Out of love. Because He was desperate. For me.

He remembers.

Me.

"See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands." Isaiah 49:15a

Where are your scars?

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

15 Lessons From My Garden

 First harvest

1. Weeds multiply. Fast.

2. A pruned plant is a healthy plant.

3. Overgrowth hides new fruit and drags it down.

4. It's hard to support an overgrown plant without breaking it.

5. Mosquitoes thrive in overgrowth.

6. There's a snake in my garden.

7. Don't plant seeds called "flower mix."

8. Only a handful of seeds may sprout from a bazillion sowed.

9.  I'm not a very good seed person.

10. I do better with established plants.

11. It's easier to pull a few weeds (even relaxing) than to wield a hoe.

12. You may need to uproot something good to make room for something better.

13. One needs to periodically step back and survey the whole scene.

14. Hard work yields great satisfaction.

15. Your weeding may disturb and confuse others.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

A Paper Bag, a Window, and a Tongue Blade

Note: This somewhat silly post is in response to a group writing project on "Bosses" over at the High Calling Blogs.

I worked in a small OB/GYN practice early in my nursing career.  I "managed" a satellite office, where I "bossed" only myself for four days, and worked at the main office on Fridays.

I met my husband, who was a drug salesman at the time, there--but that's another story already told in another post. I remember Dr. J muttering about the cost of a single place setting of the dishes I'd registered for, but he bought us two sets.

I also remember how the doctors provided free care for the wives of interns and residents--until their husbands went on strike. Come to think of it, I don't remember any female interns or residents coming in for care.

We had an hour and a half for lunch, and sometimes the doctors would give us nurses the key card to their "club," and we'd go out and splurge on a big meal. They were generous, although I do remember Dr. J often talked (worried) about funding his retirement, and he must have been in his 30s at the time.

Anyway, I worked there for 2-1/2 years, and a lot of memories are hazy now. But I remember three clearly.

One day I heard frantic pounding on the private entrance to the satellite office. When I opened the door, I met the eyes of the frightened secretary down the hall. I ran with her to discover one of her coworkers twitching on the floor. I freaked and raced back to our office.

"Dr. B! Dr. B! Come quick! Hurry!"

He was in an exam room with a patient at the time, so he told her he'd be right back, left her up in the stirrups, and sauntered--yes, sauntered--down the hall. He seldom got excited about anything. As in nonchalant.

I listened for the ambulance, but he returned in a matter of minutes.

"What was wrong with her? What'd you do?"

"Oh, she just hyperventilated. I gave her a paper bag."

And he strolled back into the exam room leaving me to calm myself down.

Lessons: Don't worry. Stay calm. Breathe. But carry a paper bag.

"Don't fret or worry. Instead of worrying, pray. Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers, letting God know your concerns. Before you know it, a sense of God's wholeness, everything coming together for good, will come and settle you down. It's wonderful what happens when Christ displaces worry at the center of your life." 

Philippians 4:6-7 (Message)

A disheveled lady burst into the waiting room just as we prepared to lock up for lunch. She jabbered about stuff that didn't make much sense to me. I was new, but the others had seen her before. I don't remember much about that "conversation" or what was wrong or even the final outcome. What I do remember is Dr. B hovering outside her range of vision, not wanting to get involved, with his eye on the exit. He had to walk right past her to get out. So he did the next best thing. He climbed out the workroom window, directly into the parking lot, and left us to deal with her.

Lessons: Avoid futile arguments. Have an escape plan. Look for a window of opportunity.

"But refuse (shut your mind against, have nothing to do with) trifling (ill-informed, unedifying, stupid) controversies over ignorant questionings, for you know that they foster strive and breed quarrels."
2 Timothy 2:23 (Amplified)

Dr. J loved cheesecake. I mean loved it! So one morning I brought one in. Lovingly baked in a store-bought graham cracker crust. Topped with cherries. I set it on the counter in the workroom. The same place where we processed fingerstick blood and urine samples. He grabbed for it. The top fell off. And the whole thing landed upside down on the floor. He stared at it for a moment and then reached for a tongue blade, squatted down, and ate.

Lessons: Don't waste anything. Keep your floors clean. Carry a big spoon.

"Jesus answered, "You've come looking for me not because you saw God in my actions but because I fed you, filled your stomachs--and for free. Don't waste your energy striving for perishable food like that. Work for the food that sticks with you, food that nourishes your lasting life, food the Son of Man provides. He and what He does are guaranteed by the Father to last."
John 6:26-27 (Message)

And here's some extra reading for your Friday Enjoyment. The origin of graham crackers.

Do you have any memorable boss or work experiences?

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Lessons From Basketball Camp

Gracee's kind of a wimp.

Well, she used to be anyway. The littlest scratch required a magnifying glass and a box of tissues to absorb all the tears.

Drama queen.

So we were all thrilled, as well as more than a little apprehensive, when she agreed to play soccer last fall. And then she actually asked to go to basketball camp last week.

Run over to katdish.net to hear the story. 

When you're done reading, take a look around the site. And take your tissues because you'll find posts that will make you cry and make you laugh until you cry. Kathy Richards, who writes some pretty good stuff herself, is the writer's encouragement queen. I've started to call her "barnkat," in honor of the biblical Barnabas, "the son of encouragment."

I'm excited to be able to guest post for her.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Swallowed by His Strength

Miles of trials
and sorrow smiles
sink deep the feet
in silence speak
of eagle wing and sing
with fear-sliced heart
and trace the scar
of sacrifice
and blood-stained sheet
where hidden knife
carves hurting flesh
kneel trembling
to weep for her
and rise again
to face what may
its breadth and length
with weakness swallowed
by His strength.

"Surely God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid. The Lord, the Lord, is my strength and my song; he has become my salvation." Isaiah 12:2 (NIV)

"But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint." Isaiah 40:31 (NIV)

NOTE: This post is part of the One Word Blog Carnival on STRENGTH. For other thoughts, visit One Word at a Time.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King