A Restful Moment

A Restful Moment...

Because We All Need One About Now

The hubbub of the holiday season will soon be over. We breathe a bit easier now that the big family meal is over, the gifts have been opened, and the wrapping paper is bagged and put out to the curbside. 

A few weeks ago, a fellow writer sent me a gentle story of a trip to the shores of Lake Michigan. A warmer season. A restful moment when the real treasures are found in spending time with someone you love and taking time to discover something new and wonderful in the blue waters of the lake. 

I invited Bill to share this bit of writing with my readers today as a gift...a sweet reminder of sunshine and water and the amazing creation God has given us. Enjoy!

 Petoskey Stones

by William Morrow

A lazy red sun greets Jane and I as it rises over the hilly countryside surrounding our motel breakfast table – certainly a good start to a morning looking for Petoskey stones.  After breakfast it is only a short drive to the rocky beach on Lake Michigan.

Why would anyone want to look for Petoskey stones? Its lure runs through beachcombers, tourists, and locals, all coming for the mysterious stones located mainly in the Petoskey area on Lake Michigan.  They even have “State Rock of Michigan” status.  Come with me to the shore.

The eye is quickly drawn to the aqua-green shallow water, the lapping waves constantly breaking.  Ten feet or so from shore a lone sea gull perched on a jutting boulder preens herself.  Done, she skims over the deeper blue waters, changes course, and heads toward the far western shore where white cottages and houses nestle themselves into the hillsides. Beneath are portions of a quaint city – storefronts, a church, a taller building.

Meanwhile, we notice a short couple approaching from the parking lot.  The wife’s face is thin making a nice fit for her light metal glasses.  Her quick smile and slightly pitched voice reflect warmth and friendliness.  The husband, stockily built, is wearing waders and clutching a blue plastic cup in one hand.  He wastes no time getting into the water; however, his wife lingers to talk, giving us tips on finding Petoskey stones, volunteering that her husband makes jewelry from the treasured stones, and promising to give us the first one she finds on this day.  

So, we set out on our own to look for the precious stones that have a hexagonal pattern with eyes and a dark center radiating out to a white outline.  Perhaps the best tip that the wife has given us is that the stones show up most clearly when they are wet.

When a novice like me starts looking, it’s hard not to get sidetracked among the myriads of rocks on this beach in all shapes, sizes, and colors.  The crashing waves only accentuate their beauty.  Some of the yellows look like a smooth biscuit, the black one’s glisten, and the white one’s are washed clean.

Further down shore the husband is hard at work. His approach reminds me of ducks looking for food.  Once they hone in on a prey their bills go under water and their fannies bottom up.  The husband’s approach doesn’t exactly measure up to the duck’s but there are similarities. He is almost knee deep in his waders, and he, being short, doesn’t have to bend far to get a good look at the lake’s bottom, and like the duck, he keeps on looking, lifting those heavy waders up and down again and again.

Fifteen minutes hasn’t passed before the wife happily returns with a Petoskey stone for us that isn’t much bigger than a chocolate kiss.  In fact, it is even shaped like a chocolate kiss, but true to the lore of Petoskey stones, many look like ordinary stones.  This one is a perfect example, gray with tiny white specks and one side darkened.

Like the husband, I waste no time in getting to the water.  The moment I dip the stone and pull it into the sunlight, white veins radiate to form hexagonal patterns and black eyes stare back at me as if to say “I told you I was a Petoskey stone.”

Meet William Morrow:

"In my freshman year of high school my English teacher told me that I should be a writer.  I dismissed that thought, especially when I went to college and got a bad grade in English composition. Next, my career in warehousing and transportation had nothing to do with words.  In mid life I felt God was speaking to me about words.  I again enrolled in college and after ten years of night classes I got a degree in English Language.  Then I tried teaching writing fundamentals at a junior college and discovered that teaching was not for me.  Lately I’ve only written small pieces like this one.  When I retire in two years, I hope to write a book."

 

 

 

 

The Sound of the Season

 The Sound of… 

 

           You thought I was going to write about the Sound of Music didn’t you? I watched that memorable musical a few nights ago, singing along with Julie Andrews at the top of my lungs. 

 

           But no, this post is about Christmas music. 

 

    I love the sounds of Christmas. I once had a collection of record albums filled with Christmas music. As a teen, I played them over and over throughout the season. Now I simply ask Alexa to play Christmas music and she obliges. 

 

    Music is the universal language. As Alexa played Silent Night, I was reminded of a story that took place in World War II. I don’t remember all of the details, but in 2002, Hollywood came out with a movie based loosely on the true story.

 

    It is reported that during that horrific war, a ragtag team of American soldiers and a similar group of German soldiers, came upon each other in a mountain hunting cabin near the front line of combat. A woman in the cabin and her son, Fritz, had taken refuge in the cabin. The woman fed both groups of soldiers offering what she had as well as the rations they had. She insisted they all leave their weapons outside. 

 

    The soldiers, knowing it is Christmas, honor this sort of civilian ordered cease fire. As the story goes, one of the American soldiers began singing Silent Night. Silent Night is a German Christmas carol. All of the soldiers join in as the snow falls outside. 

 

    Indeed, music is the universal language and Christmas music is the language of the season. It is filled with two words: peace and joy.

    I've often thought how wonderful it would be if we could set aside our differences and join together in song.

 

    This month, I had the opportunity to attend two school concerts. The first was an orchestra presentation and the other, last evening, featured the school choir. My oldest granddaughter performed in both.

 

    I enjoyed both programs. The music was beautiful. Yet there was something different.  I couldn’t put my finger on it at first. I had to mull it over a bit. There were no songs about Rudolph or Santa. Neither evening ended with Silent Night, either.

 

           Yet, as the students performed, the auditorium was filled with sounds of peace and joy and love. Music is indeed the language we all understand.

 

           And need. 

           

           I hope your season is filled with the songs...peace...and joy...of Christmas.

      By the way, if you want to learn more about that snowy night in Germany and the woman who orchestrated that memorable cease fire, Check out Fritz Vicken. After the war, he lived in Hawaii until his death in 2021.

           

 

 

The Scattering of Christmas

A Scattered Sort of Christmas

 

We see images on television of people coming down the stairs to open gifts on Christmas morning. Some people do that, yet in reality, many open gifts on Christmas Eve. 

 

And if you are part of my family, you open gifts whenever you can get people together.

 

Take this Christmas. Most of my family opened Christmas presents during our “ThanksChristmas” gathering in November. Most. 

 

My mother wasn’t feeling well so she was not part of the festivities. Instead, she sent her gifts for everyone to my house. 

 

It wasn’t a lot of heavy lifting. My mom gives everyone money for Christmas. It’s her version of “one size fits all” and takes joy in her claim “No one ever returns it.”

 

Yet because she wasn’t here, we had to make other arrangements for her to receive her gifts. 

 

My middle daughter, Danielle, and her family stopped by my mom’s house on their way back to Wisconsin to give her their presents after Thanksgiving. 

 

This past Saturday, my oldest daughter, Allison, and her family brought GG’s gifts and a breakfast casserole to my house for a Christmas brunch. Yes, many people know my mother as GG. It stands for Great Grandma, a title she’s held for over twenty years.

 

Allison and her crew took the money GG had given them and bought what they wanted. Instead of  merely telling her what they did with the money, they wrapped everything up and brought it all to my house so GG could see them open gifts from her. It was fun.

 

Soon to come: my youngest daughter, Kendall, and her family have a special treat in mind for GG. It’s a surprise. (It isn’t Christmas yet, anyway.)

 

It’s good we are flexible enough to celebrate a rather scattered Christmas. But isn’t that the way of the true gift God gave us? 

 

We talk about Christmas in terms of the birth of Jesus. We sing carols to celebrate the notion that God would come to earth as a baby, live a life as we do, and ultimately offer himself as a sacrifice on the cross to account for our evil doings. 

 

Our evil. Not His.

 

The true gift of Christmas is a daily celebration of God’s sacrificial love for us. And it is scattered throughout the year.

 

By the way, if you missed the post on ThanksChristmas, You can check it out HERE.

 

The Ohio Literary Trail

 More Than Stroll on the Literary Trail

 

For the past several years, my mother’s Christmas gift to me has been an Ohio membership for the automobile club called AAA. (Triple A) 

Good thing. There was the time my battery died. The time I had a flat tire. And of course the time I was at a restaurant with a friend and she locked her keys in her car. Yep, they came and helped us then, too.

 

The organization sends me their magazine as well. I enjoy the articles and tips. Because I live in Ohio, the magazine always has articles about the best places to visit in “the Buckeye State.” 

 

I save the stories I find most interesting.

 

I am a member of the Ohio Chapter of ACFW (American Christian Fiction Writers). I served as the president for a couple of years. My last year to serve was 2021. That year, I proposed we accept the challenge to visit sites on the Ohio Literary Trail. I pulled out my AAA Magazine and shared the article I’d read about it. The Ohio Literary Trail was put together by the Ohioana Library Association. 

 

After some discussion and a bit of research, our group took on the task. 

 

To kick it off, we met at the Ohio History Center in the state’s capitol, Columbus. We picnicked in the historical village and toured the grounds. Ideas for stories taking place along the trail began to take shape. Michelle Levigne of Ye Olde Dragon Books offered to publish some of the stories in an anthology. 

 

This little idea was growing legs and taking off.

 

Various sites around the state were selected and hosted by members who lived near them. For my offering, I chose the Harriet Beecher Stowe House in Cincinnati. I knew a little about the famous author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, but not much about her life in the suburb of Walnut Hills near me. I had no clue how her nearly twenty years in the area inspired the writing of her most famous book. 

 

I did my research and prepared myself for our group outing. Since I write contemporary fiction, I started pulling together an idea for a story before I ever toured the site.

 

My thought was to have a young mother help chaperone her daughter’s field trip to the house. The daughter would look at a photo and say something about her grandpa. I decided my main character would study the photo, see the resemblance, track down a long forgotten story of a guest in the Stowe house, and eventually, fill in the gaps of her father’s long lost family history.

 

It didn’t work. Not one photo I saw inspired me. I would need to dig deeper. However, the event was a success. I enjoyed learning about the time period and viewing the way of life once lived in that old house. Still, I needed an angle. I don’t write historical fiction. How could I write a story about Harriet Beecher Stowe without it sounding like a book report? 

 

I prayed about it. I wrestled with a few ideas. Then I prayed some more. 

 

NOTHING.

 

So I let it go. Perhaps I wasn’t supposed to have a story in the anthology after all. But then it happened. As it often does, when I let go of an idea or stop trying to force an outcome, God brings it to my mind as clear as a summer morning.

Grab a Copy HERE

 

Split time. I read about it somewhere. Split time is actually two stories taking place in two different time periods but converging in a way that changes the direction of one of the characters. I know. It sounds a bit crazy and a little sci-fi, but it isn’t.

 

My historical character was Harriet Beecher Stowe. Through the story, I peeked into her daily life and the events shaping her writing. The contemporary character, Beth, is also a wife, mother, and writer living in Cincinnati. There are parallel experiences in the lives of these women and a common cause. Beth draws from Harriet a sense of purpose and a commitment to use her pen to change lives. 

 

The anthology released this past week. I’m posting the link to the book. You may want to grab a copy for that hard-to-shop-for friend or the Christmas exchange. That would be great. 

 

But the big take-away? This bit of advice: Whatever you are facing, turn it over to God and let Him do the heavy work….Oh, and of course, then…remember to tell Him “thank you.”

CHECK IT OUT HERE!

Thank you, AAA!

    Choose your next adventure!

        What inspires you?