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Events can indelibly etch themselves in our hearts and memories. Here are three of many unforgettable incidents that remain as clear as when they occurred decades ago. Each taught me valuable life lessons. 

“This Can’t be Happening”

I was sixteen the first month I began my first job: school secretary in the small logging town of Darrington, Washington. A highlight of each year was the Junior-Senior Spring Banquet, to which I was invited. I saved enough money out of my $60 a month salary (minus social security and retirement) to purchase material for the perfect dress. i described it to one of the senior girls, a special friend. “It’s pale pink nylon with a darker pink lining. A full skirt, and–”

A student who drove everyone crazy by constantly interrupting other people’s conversations sidled up to us. “Did you get the material at Jake’s?” Duh. Jake’s was the only dry goods store in town. I nodded, glad when the bell rang for the beginning of the next class.

It seemed like the banquet date would never come. At last, I stepped into the beautifully decorated school cafeteria wearing my dream dress. No! my brain screamed. This cannot be happening. Wrong. Miss Nosey Pest stood there wearing my dress. The dress I had scrimped, saved for, and slaved making. Pale pink nylon over deeper pink. Full skirt. I couldn’t move.

“I see you girls made twin dresses,” a teacher said. “How nice!” Nice? Inexcusable! The copycat must have sent her mother scurrying to Jake’s, armed with a full description of my dress. I gritted my teeth, somehow made it through the nightmare banquet and held back anger and tears until I got home. Mom wisely waited until the storm ended, then said, “I understand your feelings, but remember, Colleen, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. The girl obviously admires you and felt that whatever you chose would be appropriate.” Mom was right. Lesson learned: Looking at situations from another perspective can make a difference.

“The Importance of Being Me”

While visiting an out-of-town girlfriend I met a cute guy who paid attention to me. A short time later, I learned he had been inquiring about me. The next time, I saw him, he asked me for a date. although it meant a hundred-mile round trip to my home. I was thrilled but apprehensive. I eyed my closet with distaste.  As a teen in the 1950s, I wore fluffy skirts and frilly blouses, a far cry from what I felt the young man was probably accustomed to when dating more sophisticated girls.

Well,” I decided. “Nothing says I can’t change my style.” I purchased dark blue material, made a sheath dress, topped it with chunky beads, cut my curly hair super short, and was all set to make an impression.

 I did. He was polite but didn’t show his former interest. When my girlfriend asked how the date went, he shook his head. “I liked her the way she was. Simple clothes and curly hair. Now she’s just like everyone else.” Lesson learned: Be who you are, not who you think will appeal to others.

“A Not-so- Soft Answer”

I sat at my desk glaring at the clock on the office wall. Less than a half-hour until quitting time. My hands, that should have been typing a mountain of purchase orders, remained idle, as they had for several hours spent waiting for my sub-boss to approve the orders.  I had repeatedly asked him to sign them. Instead, he spent the afternoon staring out the window. It wasn’t the first time. Why he dragged his heels at simply initialing the requisitions was beyond me.

Fifteen minutes later he came to my desk, smirked, and held out a gigantic stack of papers. “Here you go.”

Frustration at my unnecessarily wasted time culminated in a scene unlike anything my co-workers ever dreamed would come from “Little Miss Sunshine,'” the girl who got along with everyone.  I stared at my sub-boss and let him have it with both barrels. “Of all the inconsiderate people I have ever met, you take the cake! I have asked you for hours to initial these. Now there is no way I can get them done before quitting time.” Paralyzing silence followed. Suddenly my irrepressible sense of humor kicked in. I stuck my hands on my hips and said, “I sure told you–and boy, do I feel good!“

He looked stunned. Then the smirk changed to a chuckle. “You sure did.” Laughter swept through the room. My sub-boss dropped the orders on my desk and went back into his office. I cringed. In spite of the chuckle, would I have a job when I came in the next day? Or be reprimanded?

Shortly after I arrived the next morning, the sub-boss brought a new stack of initialized orders to my desk. His eyes twinkled. “Here you go.” I hid my shock and managed to thank him. Incredible as it seems, my dressing him down proved a catalyst for change. No longer did I have to sit idle while orders piled up. The man also began to relax and relate better to the rest of us. Lesson learned: A soft answer can turn away wrath, but sometimes laughter will diffuse explosive situations and clear the air.

Some of our most important lessons are learned from the most trying circumstances.

At home in Darrington WA

Growing up a few miles out of a small western Washington logging town meant snow. Lots of it. And time to read. I reveled in the northern adventure novels of Edison Marshall and James Oliver Curwood. I mushed along beside dogsleds drawn by powerful Siberian Huskies and Alaskan Malamutes, raced blizzards, and lived the thrilling life portrayed by authors who personally knew the Canadian and Alaskan Wilderness well.

No wonder that after I became a full-time author, I recalled the scenes I had loved and visited over and over, then turned to the Far North and familiar settings for many of my historical romances.

New Kindle Collection: NORTHERN BRIDES: Three inspirational novels plus a novelette!

Angel of the North. Evangeline Lawrence realizes too late she banished the man she loves. Can carrying medicine to families in the Canadian wilderness atone for her bitterly regretted actions?

Flower of the North. Sasha Anton falls in love on her 23^rd birthday—with Kobuk, the Husky pup gift from her father. Dr. Bernard Clifton, who saves Sasha after a blizzard, wins her undying loyalty. Will admiration turn to love?

Flower of Alaska (sequel to Flower of the North). A four-thousand-mile journey lies between Dr. Arthur Baldwin and his hope for redemption. Does the isolated village of Tarnigan hold forgiveness, and love with Inga Nansen?

Winterlude. A rare snowflake in San Diego lures Ariel Dixon home to Ketchikan, despite her fiance’s objections. Meeting a childhood sweetheart complicates things. Will Ariel choose wealth and position, or life in a fishing village?

How 3 novels and a novelette became a collection

A poet I am not, other than a couple of rhyming picture books. But a few nights ago. a “pome” knocked at my brain demanding to be let out. For better or for verse, a good laugh.

A Not So-Epic Poem.  I know: Don’t quit my day job.

“Listen, my children, and you shall know, a curious tale from not long ago.
I awakened one morning and looked at the snow. Lovely to see– but I could not go walking and talking with my neighbors dear. Ice and cold temps had shut me in here cozy and warm in my own little house. with no one for company—not even a mouse.

“Well,” said I, to my lonely room, “No use to complain, or wallow in gloom. What can I do to make my mood lighter? I must find a way to make the day brighter.”

I stared at the white world, then thought of some books. The journeys they took me on offered a look at Canada, Alaska. They carried me away for hours on end–for many a day.

Angel of the North, the first of its kind. Flower of the North, number two in the line. Then Flower of Alaska, sequel brightened my mood. Oh, I must not forget number four, Winterlude.

 My brain settled down, no more at a loss. Suppose that I contacted, Cynthia, my boss? Just maybe she’d issue a Winged book collection, as she’d done before. Happy recollection.

I ran to the web and started to hover. For hours I searched for just the right cover. There had to be snow and a wilderness home. Past hundreds of photos my fingers did roam. “Aha!” I cried when I found what I needed. It sent my blood racing as with me it pleaded, “Pick me! Pick me! I am the one.” I laughed and agreed. The long search was done.

NORTHERN BRIDES has now become a real book. Its four unique stories deserve a good look.

This tale has a moral, everyone should know: “Find something worth doing when trapped by the snow.” 

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What better way to start the new year than with a new, inspirational, entertaining book?

  Jenny of the Lookout, a World War 1-era novel. Cherished Romances #10. Published 1-1-22

“Love Signals from the Mountaintops”

After four heartsick years away at school, Jennifer Ashley is going home to Three Rivers, Washington. No more noisy streets and trolley cars. Just family, friends, mountains, forests, and freedom.

The daring girl celebrates by entering a men’s-only horse race. She hires on as a logging camp flunky (helper) and later becomes a lookout fire-watcher high atop Flower Dome.  Soon she is flashing mirror signals to Keith Burgess on Pinnacle Peak. They fall in love, but WW1 shatters their lives.

Keith enlists. He is missing in action. After the signing of the Armistice on November 11, 1918, others come home, but not Keith. Will he and Jenny only be reunited in heaven?

Best-selling author Colleen L. Reece, 170+ “Books You Can Trust,” six million copies sold, “goes home again” to her small logging hometown in this based-on-truth story. Her brother served as a lookout fire-watcher.

* * *

“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.” Psalm 121: 1-2 (KJV)

Growing up in the small western Washington logging town of Darrington, pioneered in part by my great-grandparents, and surrounded by mountains [White Horse is 6840 feet] and rushing rivers, instilled in me values to last a lifetime. I loved stories of the “olden days,” every time generations of families and friends gathered.

When I became an author, treasured memories of the way of life that is no more, flowed like the Sauk River in flood. More than 100 years of actual incidents sparked ideas and lent authenticity to my inspirational novels.

So it is with Jenny of the Lookout. Three Rivers reflects Darrington as lived in the early 1900s by Mom, Dad, and relatives who never tired of talking about days gone by. Of logging and the one-room school that served all eight grades. Of cougars [mountain lions] that screamed from the forests encircling the town.

Years later, my brother, Randy, spent a summer as a lookout-firewatcher in a tent on one of the lower mountains.  He heard cries in the night, like a woman sobbing. The next morning, he discovered cougar prints outside his canvas door. 

Although fiction, this novel contains events and characters based on those who did whatever it took to conquer an untamed land.  Rugged, hard-working men, women, and children overcame incredible hardship, including the Spanish Flu Epidemic which claimed more lives worldwide than World War I, and valiantly soldiered on.

I thank God for my rich heritage. May I ever meet life the way my courageous, God-fearing ancestors did.

Chapter 1 excerpt

Western Washington, early summer 1913

Free. Free at last!

Heart thundering, eighteen-year-old Jennifer Ashley smoothed her lacy shirtwaist, gathered her school books, lifted her ankle-length skirt to the top of her buttoned shoes, and stepped into the aisle of the trolley car. If she never rode a trolley again, it would be too soon.

She took in a deep breath and slowly released it. For four long years, Jenny had studied hard to make her family proud, counting the days to high school graduation when she could shake the dust of the city off her shabby shoes and go home. Freedom from trolley cars, crowded streets, and city smells.

The trolley jolted to a stop. Jenny walked to the door and beamed at the friendly driver. “Good-bye, Sam.”

“See you on Monday,” he called when she stepped to the street. “Same time. Same place.”

Jenny shook her head so hard a rebellious black curl escaped from beneath her wide-brimmed hat and dangled over her forehead. “No more school for me,” she crowed. “I’m going home tomorrow!”

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Kindle and print versions.

Friday, December 31, 2021.

Shades of my childhood and growing up years! Little did I suspect what waited in the darkness when I went to bed Christmas night after happy times with my family on Christmas Eve, and lunch with a dear friend on Christmas afternoon.

Surprise, surprise. Old Man Winter dropped temperature to 20 degrees and dumped 3″ of snow overnight, with lighter snow falling several times since then. Gorgeous but treacherous. Time for me to stay inside looking out.

How different from when I lived in Darrington. No staying inside there! Snow meant friends knocking at the door and calling, “Bundle up. We’re going sledding.” Young and old alike headed for the Ski Hill. Sleds and dishpans flew down the slope packed hard by volunteers. Bobsleds attached to cars slowly drove up and down the streets and country roads. Most fun of all, was climbing into a wagon bed packed with hay or straw and people, secured to a Jeep by a strong trailer hitch.

Our treks inevitably ended up at the one small drive-in to warm up with hot chocolate topped with soft ice cream and devour Logger-burgers created by the owner. Darrington’s version of a hero sandwich, a full meal.

. A long soft, French roll contained ham, bacon, ground beef, cheese, lettuce, tomato, pickles, mayo, and mustard. It came with or without onions. Too good to even consider splitting with a friend!

Wonderful memories, but time to move on. Being snowed in gives time for reflection. For remembering the past and looking toward the future. Our world changed in March 2020. Some good things came out of the chaos. Amidst the turmoil, families spent more time together. Neighbors helped neighbors.

We have no way knowing what 2022 will bring, but I find hope in a true story that touched my heart.

Darkness and Light

On the last day of the year, in the middle of a terrible war, despair filled a commanding officer. What would the New Year bring? Heavy losses had left the officer fearing he and his remaining men could no longer hold their position, critical as it was to do so. Staggering from fatigue, desperately in need of sleep, he knelt beside his cot. Cannon fire beat in his ears, threatening to overwhelm him. “Dear God,” he cried, “I no longer know what to do. Please give me light in this terrible darkness, so I can find my way, Otherwise, I cannot go on.”

For a single moment, the cannon fire ceased. A voice as soft as an angel ‘s wing whispered, “Put your hand in the hand of God. It shall be better than any light.”

Strangely comforted, the officer lay down for a nap. After just a few  hours sleep, the officer arose, rallied his men, and led them to victory.

* * *

Eleanor Roosevelt is credited with saying, “Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift. That is why we call it the present.”

My grandmother taught me one of the greatest gifts God bestows on us is one day at a time. She said, “If we knew all the wonderful things that lay ahead, we would be so eager for the tomorrows to come, we’d miss out on the good things happening today. If we saw trouble and sadness, we would feel we could never have the courage to meet and overcome them.”

May we live each day as it comes and always remember: 

Blessings and prayers,

Colleen

 

Making a Difference

The classic Christmas movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life” continues to delight viewers with a powerful, and important message. Each of our lives touches a multitude of others.

In the depths of despair and feeling there is no way out, George Bailey [James Stewart] is shown what would have happened if he had never lived.

We can only speculate on what effect our lives will have on others. We can, however, look to the past and catch glimpses of how we affected those around us.

Turning Point

Little did I know the far-reaching effects of a conversation with my brother in the summer of 1978. Led to quit my government job and go into fulltime writing, Mom and I moved a few miles from his home Memorial Day weekend. 

“Contact the college up the street from you and see if you can teach a writing class,” Randy advised.

I laughed. “Teach at a college? I only have about 45 college credits.”

“Your published books. would qualify you to teach in the Continuing Education program,” he persisted. “A lady at church works for the college. Ask her who you should approach.”

Still feeling inadequate, but conquering my misgivings, I did. It turned out she was the secretary in the Continuing Education program! I ended up teaching Creative Writing from fall 1978 until the mid-1990s. This also led to my teaching at the Auburn Senior Center until 2012.

Aftermath

• Students welcomed the opportunity to learn writing skills and marketing know-how. A surprising percentage took the class again and again, needing encouragement to keep writing and face the inevitable rejection slips that come with the job.
• Many sold stories, articles, even books.
• Others found joy in recording memories for family and friends.
• A few even went on to become award-winning, best-selling authors.

The best thing that came from the class was the formation of life-long friendships, some life-changing. Students committed to a common cause bonded. Decades later, a surprising number of former students remain best friends, supporting one another in critique groups, or one-on-one. I am so thankful I did not let fear of the unknown cause me to reject Randy’s suggestion. Lives continue to be enriched, mine, most of all.

* * *

One Solitary Life

Anonymous

He was born in an obscure village. The child of a peasant woman
He grew up in another obscure village
Where he worked in a carpenter shop
Until he was thirty
He never wrote a book
He never held an office
He never went to college
He never visited a big city
He never travelled more than two hundred miles
From the place where he was born
He did none of the things
Usually associated with greatness
He had no credentials but himself
He was only thirty-three
His friends ran away
One of them denied him
He was turned over to his enemies
And went through the mockery of a trial
He was nailed to a cross between two thieves
While dying, his executioners gambled for his clothing
The only property he had on earth
When he was dead
He was laid in a borrowed grave
Through the pity of a friend
Nineteen centuries have come and gone
And today Jesus is the central figure of the human race
And the leader of mankind’s progress
All the armies that have ever marched
All the navies that have ever sailed
All the parliaments that have ever sat
All the kings that ever reigned put together
Have not affected the life of mankind on earth
As powerfully as that one solitary life.

Happy Birthday, Jesus. I’m glad you came.

As a child, I had five dolls, all with soft bodies and china faces.

Ruth, from Mom and Dad, had big blue eyes, and delicate, apple-blossom cheeks. Doris, whose dark eyes and rosy cheeks reminded me of Aunt Edith, who gave her to me. Bonnie and Betty, not as large, but lovely. Janette, the smallest, completed my collection. I cherished my dolls, but Janette was my constant companion.

A huge willow tree on our country property outside of Darrington, Washington had two sturdy branches that crossed and made a seat. I spent hours snuggled against the tree trunk, reading every book I could get my hands on. Janette slept cuddled in my arms.

The first heavy snow of the season put an end to my tree-sitting.  Janette went missing. Dad, Mom, my two brother and I searched everywhere: beneath the willow, throughout the house, and in the garden. The snow deepened, stopping our outside search.  I cried bitter tears. What kind of mother lost her youngest child?

Weeks grew into months. I mourned the loss of Janette. At last, warm spring winds melted the snow. One day my little brother raced into the house. He held up a bedraggled object and shouted, “Look, everyone. I found her in the garden!”

I stared in horror. Could this be Janette? The back of her head had come apart. Her china face was cracked from lying under the snow. Her eyes had sunk into her broken head. “Oh, Janette, I am so sorry!” I cried, holding her broken body close.

 

“Let me see,” Dad said. He washed the mud from her painted face and took off her filthy dress. He stuffed Janette’s head with clean cotton, so her eyes went back to their normal position. Mom made her a new dress and a frilly cap to cover the back of her head.

“She isn’t pretty like she was,” my little brother said. “Her face is all cracked.” 

“I don’t care!” I looked at Ruth. At Doris. At Bonnie and Betty, then  back at Janette. “I love her best of all. She needs me the most.”

* * *

Wisdom from the child I once was, who still lives within me, has served me well. There is a special place in my heart for those who need me the most. Jesus said that when we care for “the least of these,” we serve Him. I learned a [ valuable lesson from my broken doll. From a father and mother who painstakingly took the time to restore their grieving daughter’s doll. Most of all, from my Heavenly Father, Whose Son came to seek and save the lost and broken.

There are many hurting persons this Christmas season who desperately need encouragement. The best thing we can do may well be to simply listen and show that we care.  If we can help others as we travel life’s journey, then our living truly will not be in vain. My prayer is for each of us to share our love with those seeking hope and light in this troubled world.

December 12, 2021.            MERRY CHRISTMAS, everyone!

I hope this finds you well and looking forward to again celebrating the birth of God’s Son. Weather and health permitting, at least some of our family will be getting together this year, the first time since Christmas 2019.

Me at 86 with my grand-niece Sophia, senior in high school. (Ignore the baggy clothes—favorites from when there was more of me.) 😉

This winter friends and I no longer have to meet in “Colleen’s Clubhouse” (masked, bundled in parkas and sleeping bags, garage with doors open).

I passed my annual Wellness visit with flying colors and marked 43 years of living in Auburn home. Wonderful neighbors look after me as if I were family. God continues to bless my writing. https://www.amazon.com/Colleen-L.-Reece/e/B001H9PAYY

 My good friend, Author Susan K. Marlow, set up my    website, Colleen’s Creations, at https://colleenreece.com. Latest Reece’s Ramblings blog post: LADEN WITH LOVE: Memories of Christmas Past. Not all gifts come wrapped in colorful paper or in gift bags tied with bows.

I find comfort in Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s classic poem “The Rainy Day.” Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining.

* * *

The Grinch in “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” learned that the village of Who-ville would let nothing stop Christmas. It impressed him so much that his shriveled heart grew three sizes!

Many today choose to follow the Whos’ example. People smile and decorate houses, yards, city streets, and businesses. Neighbors care for neighbors. Dark as life may seem, this trouble shall pass, as have so many previous afflictions. God is still in control. If I could put blessings instead of gifts under your Christmas tree, they would be those listed below.

 Love, prayers, and happy “holy-days,” 

Memories of Christmas Past

Not all gifts come wrapped in colorful paper or in gift bags tied with bows.

Every year a dear friend/former writing student steals time from her busy schedule the day after Thanksgiving to help me decorate for Christmas.

A Rudolph, complete with red plush nose and made of tree branches by a neighbor sits in my front yard, along with Merry Christmas and snowman signs. A fragrant swag with a red bow adorns my lamp post, courtesy of another dear friend/former student.

A Nativity plush throw, gift from a neighbor, covers a chair. A collection of angels and stuffed snow people sit on the windowsill behind a small artificial tree with years of ornaments from family and friends. Nativity figures inhabit a rough-hewn stable, courtesy of former neighbors and a niece and her family.

Memories are even more precious than the decorations. Decades of family get-togethers, with many who over the years have gone on ahead.

Singing carols around our second-hand piano by the light of kerosene lamps (we had no electricity until I was out of high school).

 Waiting on snowy days, noses pressed to frosty windows and wondering whether out-of-town relatives would be able to come. Watching Mom stretch pennies and check lists again and again to make sure each of over 30 relatives would have a small gift.

Going with Dad to cut down a Christmas tree that would reach the 10-foot ceiling in our old home that had been a one-room schoolhouse where Mom taught all eight grades.

Decorating with paper chains, popcorn, and a few ornaments from years past. Ironing carefully saved wrapping paper (no ripping into packages back then. We had to make it do or do without.”

Children’s letters to Santa from the early 1900s newspapers reflected a simpler way of life and expectations. Letters usually ended with, “Please remember me.”

• hair ribbons
• a picture book for a sister
• an orange
• a coat
• a kettle for Mama

The Perfect Gift

November 1963. Mom, Dad, my younger brother, Randy, my seven-year-old nephew, Jerry, who lived with us, and I gathered around our old-fashioned dining room table for supper. Randy was to leave for Naval Officer Candidate School in Newport, Rhode Island the next day.

Randy laid down his fork and said what everyone was thinking. “Looks like it will be a while before we’re all here like this again.”

Dad burst into tears and left the table. It was the first time we had ever seen him cry.

After a moment of stunned silence, Jerry slipped from his chair and into the living room. His voice floated back through the open doorway. “Don’t cry, Grandpa. You’ve still got me.”

Almost sixty years later, the childish voice echoes in my heart and mind. “Don’t cry. You’ve still got me,” followed by the promise from Hebrews 13:5, “I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee” (KJV).

Surrounded by precious memories, I will once again celebrate the birth and resurrection of our Lord with joy and gladness.

A mantel plaque from my niece, Julie, inspired the following.

“A Christmas Fantasy”

Once upon a time, in a neighborhood not far from a small city, joy reigned. “Surely,” the residents told one another on Christmas Eve afternoon, “This year’s decorations have never been more appealing.” They spoke well. Each home honored the season according to personal taste.

Lights, simple and elaborate. Christmas carols, sung and recorded. Families and neighbors laughing, exchanging holiday wishes. Snow people and Santas. Manger scenes, candles in windows to welcome the Christ-child, sparkling stars, and much more.

Sadie Johnson, although it could have been Dolores Garcia, Sara Kim, or any of the other ladies who lived on “Christmas Carol Cul-de-sac,” paused in her last-minute duties to give thanks. For the first time in years, all the children and grand-children would be home. It meant both offices doubled as bedrooms, sleeping bags in the living room and dining room. Perhaps even parking someone in the RV.

“Dear Lord, please be with us as we celebrate–” Sadie began. The doorbell cut her prayer short.

A few hours later, she counted noses. “Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. Everyone is here.” Sadie herded the family to the extended dinner table. The fragrance of traditional favorites had generated a gazillion, “When do we eat?” questions all afternoon. Grandfather Johnson asked a heartfelt blessing. The doorbell rang just as he closed with, “In Jesus’ name, amen.”

“I’ll get it.” A freckle-faced urchin raced to the door. “Hey, Gramma, a guy wants you. Says you invited him.”

Who on earth–? Sadie hurried to the door. Her heart skipped a beat. The words. Be with us as we celebrate pounded in her disbelieving brain. Had Jesus actually come to spend Christmas?

She gathered her wits and invited Him in. “Look Who is here,” she managed, thankful that in the confusion that followed her husband unobtrusively slid another chair to the dinner table. A quick-thinking daughter hastily added another place setting. Perhaps Jesus wouldn’t notice no one had expected Hiim. Even Sadie.

Once her nerves stopped twanging, things went well. Jesus delighted the children with stories of His childhood. He rocked the youngest baby to sleep and tucked her into her crib. His expression showed how much He loved children. However, when it came time for bed, Sadie panicked. The only place for their unexpected guest was the RV. Although He smiled and nodded, she felt like the innkeeper who had no room in the innz

After Jesus went out, a teenage cousin pointed to the glittering Christmas tree hovering over a mound of packages. “What are we gonna give Jesus?” He scowled. “You don’t have a birthday party for someone and not give them gifts.”

Sadie cringed. Stores were closed. Jesus would have no use for a check or gift card. She thought of the few crumpled bills in her church offering envelope, all that was left after her holiday shopping sprees. Her heart ached.

“Gramma, why are you sad?” A golden-haired granddaughter asked, face filled with concern.

Sadie fought tears. “We don’t have a present for Jesus,” she choked out.

A smile bloomed. Grew. She clapped her hands and crawled under the Christmas tree. “Oh, but we do! I asked Jesus what He wanted for Christmas. He said the only thing He wants is for us to love Him.” 

“And a little child shall lead them” (Isaiah 11:6).

***************************************************

“Ballad for a King.  ©2011 by Colleen L. Reece from Romance at Rainbow’s End

“Tell me, kind shepherds, when you came to the manger, what gifts did you bring to the new little stranger, Who quietly lay asleep on the hay?”

“We had no fine gifts on that glorious night when the fields were ablaze with a heavenly light., but our voices we raised in worship and praise.”

“Tell me, oh travelers, who came from afar, what did you bring, when you followed the Star and found Him that day, in the house where He lay?”

“Gold, frankincense, myrrh, from far distant lands. We bowed down in wonder and kissed His small hands.”

“Tell me, good people, what gifts do you bring, to the Savior Who loves us; the King of all kings? Will you open your hearts and invite Him to stay? Or, like the innkeeper, turn Him away?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you have special Thanksgiving memories?

One of the things for which I give thanks most often is being able to return to the past and again experience happenings from long ago. Here are some of my favorite Thanksgiving memories.

“Over the River and through the Woods. . .” literally. From early childhood, Dad, Mom, my two brothers and I piled in our old car and headed for Aunt Vera’s old farm house about 50 miles away (near Snohomish, Washington.) Aunts. Uncles. Cousins by the dozens. Enough food and fellowship in the small house to warm body and soul. Singing and laughter. I will never forget my younger brother Randy’s childish treble piping out:

“There is turkey in the icebox. There are pies upon the shelf. There are doughnuts in the pantry, but I cannot help myself. When I go into the kitchen, I hear somebody say, “You must wait until tomorrow, when it’s glad Thanksgiving Day.”

Special number.  My cousin, Elaine Towne, and I sang a duet one year at church. Proud to be asked, we chose “We Gather Together to Ask the Lord’s Blessing.” (Anonymous, 1903).

A Hair-Rising Incident. Sometimes our local school was so overcrowded, it was necessary to set up portable classrooms. Mom taught in one when Randy was in her 4th or 5th grade class. As Thanksgiving neared, the class studied early American history, including the horrible practice of scalping by Indians and whites. A mischievous high school boy passing by the open window decided to have some fun. He reached in and grabbed a boy by the hair.

Face so pale that every freckle stood out, Bobby rose straight out of his seat, yelling, “I’ve been scalped!” No one ever forgot the incident. 

Bringing Thanksgiving Alive. At the elementary principal’s request, Mom wrote a one-act Thanksgiving reenactment of the First Thanksgiving to be presented to the rest of the school. She made good use of her students’ personal traits. Two boys who were always hungry added comic relief throughout the play by wanting to know when they would eat, etc.  The class entered in so whole-heartedly, and did such a good job, they delighted the next PTA meeting with a repeat performance.

The Most Unforgettable Memory occurred long before I was born. In the early 1900s, Mom, her two sisters, and brother took Thanksgiving dinner to an old man who lived outside of town and through a forest. On the way home, a rustle, rustle, came from the bushes beside the path. “It could be a cougar,” Ed whispered. “Please, God, help us.”

“Let’s run,” Mom said. ”

“No!” Vera, the oldest, ordered. “That is the worst thing we can do. Shout. Sing. But do not run!” The others obeyed. When they got home, some cousins didn’t think it had been a cougar. They were wrong. A few days later, a townsman killed a starved-looking cougar where the children had heard the rustling.

The story has been passed down through the generations, a reminder of God’s care. One year when the power was out at Thanksgiving, we gathered by candlelight and lamplight and Mom told stories of the “olden days.” Even the children and teenagers pronounced it the best Thanksgiving ever.

May your Thanksgiving be filled with good memories. Perhaps you will add new ones. May you give thanks every day for life and blessings–recognized, and those not easily discerned. Even so. Amen.