Welcome to the Pincone Princess Chronicles! You may have wandered here accidentally, or maybe even purposefully, but however you got here was by His design. (And yes... that would be as in Intelligent design...)
I pray that this will become your little corner of paradise... an escape from the "reality" the world likes to portray... a place to be refreshed... and re-fired. Praying that this will become one of your touchstones of inspiration, of thinking outside of the box, and just downright entertaining.
Again, welcome to His place and mine! Buckle your seatbelt, and loosen up your Thinking Caps! Prayerfully, this will be one rip-roaring ride!
in His hand...
Scooter
Saturday, October 1, 2016
Monday, November 5, 2012
Monday, October 11, 2010
My Bible...
I love my Bible. It is my most prized possession, and in the event of an emergency, it would be one of the first things that I would grab besides my family photos. It has been my good friend (maybe, that’s why some call it the good book) and my constant companion since 1975. It has faithfully carried me through all of my ups and downs for almost 35 years. Yes, there are thousands of other editions, publishers, versions, and translations, but the sentiment that tugs at my heartstrings for this book is almost too much to bear.
A King James Version clad in chocolate brown cowhide, I purchased it brand new in the tiny local Bible supply shop. It was a simple model, and compact. I ran my fingers over the beautifully embossed gold lettering that adorned the cover. I slowly opened it; each page was trimmed on the outside edge with a thin sliver of gold. I leaned my face into it and breathed it in; the smell of new leather, and fresh paper was a comfort in itself. I slowly closed it, and the edges of those pages gleamed bright.
The tiny lady that ran the store came shuffling by. “You know, that is a red-letter edition. That means that all of the words of Jesus are typed in red ink.” She shuffled away, and I guessed that it was to take care of other important bookstore stuff. I hadn’t given it much thought before, but if the letters were red, and she had made a point of bringing that to my attention, then it must be the one for me!
She rang me up, and handed me the receipt. I left the shop with a new spring in my step. I am the proud new owner of a red-letter edition! Little did I know, but would soon find out, that I was not the owner of the small brown book. The small brown book was the new owner of me.
In the beginning, that little companion proved quite a challenge. There were places on those pages that I’d never seen on a map, there were people in there that I’d never met, and there were events chronicled that were – I don’t know – miraculous? What a weird little book. And, the Old English? Hey! I didn’t sign up for Shakespeare!
But, “slow and sure” finally won the race. I plodded along, and soon enough, miniscule bits gave way to tiny verses; small passages unfolded into amazing chapters. And, the Old English? I was embraced by its lyrical lilt, and its stunning poetry! Before long, I found myself rushing each day just to see what nugget of wisdom lay in wait.
There seemed to be a verse or a chapter, a person or a circumstance, a book or a revelation that fit every single situation that I found myself in. And, the book spoke to me with more clarity and surgical precision than any friend of mine.
That book, that companion, walked me through the long cold corridors of the hospital where my four-year old daughter lay under the neurosurgeon’s knife after an accident at pre-school. That leather-bound friend talked me into extending mercy to the man that I was married to when I found him in the bed of another woman and I wanted to kill them both. That lover of my soul spoke faith into my heart and gave me the courage to marry again, and to dare to live happily-ever-after with the man of my dreams. That counselor, that guide, was a bright lamp unto my feet as I walked through the dark valley of the shadow of death, when my cancer-ridden dad and my tweaker brother ended up taking their own lives.
That small book has proved to be a living breathing being in my life. It has cried out against impending danger, it has shouted encouragement when I wanted to give up, it has comforted me through the fearful night, and it has whispered strength to my weary soul.
It is shabby now. The chocolate brown leather is worn smooth; the edges of the cover are cracked and torn. The bright pages have been stripped of their delicate gold; the acid from my fingers have eaten away at each page. I still lean my face into it, and breathe deep the life that is buried there. It is my friend, my companion, my dearest possession. I love my Bible.
A King James Version clad in chocolate brown cowhide, I purchased it brand new in the tiny local Bible supply shop. It was a simple model, and compact. I ran my fingers over the beautifully embossed gold lettering that adorned the cover. I slowly opened it; each page was trimmed on the outside edge with a thin sliver of gold. I leaned my face into it and breathed it in; the smell of new leather, and fresh paper was a comfort in itself. I slowly closed it, and the edges of those pages gleamed bright.
The tiny lady that ran the store came shuffling by. “You know, that is a red-letter edition. That means that all of the words of Jesus are typed in red ink.” She shuffled away, and I guessed that it was to take care of other important bookstore stuff. I hadn’t given it much thought before, but if the letters were red, and she had made a point of bringing that to my attention, then it must be the one for me!
She rang me up, and handed me the receipt. I left the shop with a new spring in my step. I am the proud new owner of a red-letter edition! Little did I know, but would soon find out, that I was not the owner of the small brown book. The small brown book was the new owner of me.
In the beginning, that little companion proved quite a challenge. There were places on those pages that I’d never seen on a map, there were people in there that I’d never met, and there were events chronicled that were – I don’t know – miraculous? What a weird little book. And, the Old English? Hey! I didn’t sign up for Shakespeare!
But, “slow and sure” finally won the race. I plodded along, and soon enough, miniscule bits gave way to tiny verses; small passages unfolded into amazing chapters. And, the Old English? I was embraced by its lyrical lilt, and its stunning poetry! Before long, I found myself rushing each day just to see what nugget of wisdom lay in wait.
There seemed to be a verse or a chapter, a person or a circumstance, a book or a revelation that fit every single situation that I found myself in. And, the book spoke to me with more clarity and surgical precision than any friend of mine.
That book, that companion, walked me through the long cold corridors of the hospital where my four-year old daughter lay under the neurosurgeon’s knife after an accident at pre-school. That leather-bound friend talked me into extending mercy to the man that I was married to when I found him in the bed of another woman and I wanted to kill them both. That lover of my soul spoke faith into my heart and gave me the courage to marry again, and to dare to live happily-ever-after with the man of my dreams. That counselor, that guide, was a bright lamp unto my feet as I walked through the dark valley of the shadow of death, when my cancer-ridden dad and my tweaker brother ended up taking their own lives.
That small book has proved to be a living breathing being in my life. It has cried out against impending danger, it has shouted encouragement when I wanted to give up, it has comforted me through the fearful night, and it has whispered strength to my weary soul.
It is shabby now. The chocolate brown leather is worn smooth; the edges of the cover are cracked and torn. The bright pages have been stripped of their delicate gold; the acid from my fingers have eaten away at each page. I still lean my face into it, and breathe deep the life that is buried there. It is my friend, my companion, my dearest possession. I love my Bible.
My Favorite Place...
There is a historic landmark safely snuggled in the Silver Valley of Cataldo, Idaho. The rustic cream-colored Mission of the Sacred Heart is situated on a grassy knoll, flanked on the south by the Coeur d’Alene River. Aspen, maple, and cottonwood stand sentinel over those that find rest there – both past and present. I love the startling solitude and can’t begin to number the times that I have pulled off the I-90 just for the opportunity of breathing life there.
I have stopped to possess the gradient coral of the morning broken by great shafts of sterling light; I have stopped to swallow the indigo of midnight pierced through with pinpoints of silver; I have stopped to roll in the glorious silken sheets of the Aurora Borealis.
I have stopped there to partake of the fragrant bloom in spring, the lazy buzz of summer, the fluttering zephyr of fall, and the stark delicacy of winter. I have grieved there, rejoiced there, stormed there, and danced there.
It has been a refuge for me; it has been the place to meet me, and a place to meet God. I have asked my husband to fling my ashes to the wind there, to be consumed by the cycle life and death that abides there. It is one of my favorite spots to quietly live and breathe and have my being.
I have stopped to possess the gradient coral of the morning broken by great shafts of sterling light; I have stopped to swallow the indigo of midnight pierced through with pinpoints of silver; I have stopped to roll in the glorious silken sheets of the Aurora Borealis.
I have stopped there to partake of the fragrant bloom in spring, the lazy buzz of summer, the fluttering zephyr of fall, and the stark delicacy of winter. I have grieved there, rejoiced there, stormed there, and danced there.
It has been a refuge for me; it has been the place to meet me, and a place to meet God. I have asked my husband to fling my ashes to the wind there, to be consumed by the cycle life and death that abides there. It is one of my favorite spots to quietly live and breathe and have my being.
Perception!
Perception! To be or not to be? That is the question! Several years ago, my husband and I received a Hastings gift card for Christmas. Movie buffs to the core, we couldn’t wait to spend our loot and bring home the perfect DVD. We rushed over to Hastings and browsed every new title in the store.
Exasperated with their overpriced merchandise, we decided to search the previously-viewed DVDs instead. Eureka! We hit the jackpot and were ecstatic. Little red and white signs were placed neatly above each row of flicks and read $2.50 each. We scurried up and down the aisles, filling our arms to the full, as we pulled movie after movie after movie off of the shelves. We had died, and gone to cinema heaven!
We carefully balanced our heaps, as we threaded our way to the register. Passing by one of those little red and white signs that read $2.50 each, I decided to take one last look. Yep, it was the exact price! Well, that is, for anyone who wanted to “rent” one of those fine films for the evening. Objectivity would have told us that there was no such thing as a free lunch, and that if it sounded too good to be true, then it probably was.
Yep… perception is in the eye of the beholder.
Exasperated with their overpriced merchandise, we decided to search the previously-viewed DVDs instead. Eureka! We hit the jackpot and were ecstatic. Little red and white signs were placed neatly above each row of flicks and read $2.50 each. We scurried up and down the aisles, filling our arms to the full, as we pulled movie after movie after movie off of the shelves. We had died, and gone to cinema heaven!
We carefully balanced our heaps, as we threaded our way to the register. Passing by one of those little red and white signs that read $2.50 each, I decided to take one last look. Yep, it was the exact price! Well, that is, for anyone who wanted to “rent” one of those fine films for the evening. Objectivity would have told us that there was no such thing as a free lunch, and that if it sounded too good to be true, then it probably was.
Yep… perception is in the eye of the beholder.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
God Is Not Angry
God is not angry with you!
He does not want His pound of flesh.
He does not have an axe to grind.
Believe it or not, all the well-meaners in your life were all mistaken!
Whoever sold you that line of malarkey never EVER knew the ways of God.
They may have been the neighbor who lived next door while you were in elementary school;
the podiatrist you sat next to on the plane bound for Chicago;
your silly parents...
might have been your very own pastor.
The silliness is the same - just a different face.
But whoever peddled-the-poo didn't know the ways of God.
God is not angry with you...
He does not want His pound of flesh.
He does not have an axe to grind.
Believe it or not, all the well-meaners in your life were all mistaken!
Whoever sold you that line of malarkey never EVER knew the ways of God.
They may have been the neighbor who lived next door while you were in elementary school;
the podiatrist you sat next to on the plane bound for Chicago;
your silly parents...
might have been your very own pastor.
The silliness is the same - just a different face.
But whoever peddled-the-poo didn't know the ways of God.
God is not angry with you...
The Pinecone Princess Chronicles
Preface
Once upon a time, in the great green forest of the north, lived the most world-famous-est princesses of all: The Pinecone Princesses. Their father, King Delighted-daily, loved them a lot. A whole lot! And He had specially planted and sheltered them there that they might grow up stately and strong in the very shadows of the great pines that had grown up before them.
Their father, the King, was the most wise-est, and the most smart-est, and the most brilliant-est, of all kings. And in all the decisions He made regarding them, He had a purpose and a destiny for each one.
All of the girls were the apples of their father’s eye and He delighted himself by laughing, and dancing, and singing with them. On all of their adventures, and everywhere they went, He led the way. He had very kingly, and important, and serious things to do, of course, but He thought his most kingly-est and important-est and serious-est thing to do was to keep them safely in His care on all of their great quests.
There was Princess Clair - the scientist. She was the smart-est of all the princesses - she took after her father, the King - and she was the tall-est, also. She had lovely brown curly-ish hair, and golden-ish spectacles that carefully stood guard over her shy blue eyes. She was in charge of all the most scientific-ist things and important-est experiments. She concocted the most mysterious-est of contraptions, and created the most gorgeous-est of crowns. And - of course - she was in charge of the cooking!
Her sister, the minuscule Princess B, was short. And little. And small. And tiny. And short. But she was the twirling-est, leaping-est, pirouetting-est ballerina that was ever seen in a tutu! Sometimes she braided her long dark flowing casca-scading hair and they would use it for a jump rope. She was in charge of all kinds of things, and all sorts of things, and a variety of things. Short things. And little things. And small things. And tiny things. And short things. And - the most important “and” of all - she had the most great-est and famous-est of all freckles!
Then there was Princess Ellen - the opera singer. Although she wore the most beautiful-est crown, she really didn’t need to, because her short red hair poked straight up into the air like little flames dancing on her head! Everywhere she went, people would say:
Look at that lovely spikey red crown on her head! She must be a princess!
Or,
Is that girl on fire?
She sang as she played, and bounced, and jumped, and ran, and skipped, and laughed in the shade and the cool of the woods. All of the birds gathered around and flew great circles above her. In fact, they followed her wherever she went. (That was kind of scary, to tell you the truth!)
To be more than perfectly honest, there are so many Pinecone Princesses, that it is impossible to mention all of their names in one story. In fact, there’s not even enough paper in the world! But since all stories have to start somewhere, we will content ourselves to start with these three and perhaps add others as the stories unfold.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)