Anne here. I'm sharing a fun Christmas project I did this week. While moving my son home from college last week, we often stop in Wabash, Indiana, at an antique store there. This time my eye caught on a bowl of old brass jingle bells that had been discarded after they'd fallen off of a leather harness sometime in the last 150 years or more.
Today I found Christmas ribbon 70% off at a craft store and my project was birthed! I laid out my musical gems in order of size and sound, clipped my cording to fit the space I was going to decorate. Then I arranged them in even spaces and tied each one along the ribbon, and viola!
No secret that I'm a sucker for nostalgic vintage history! Which of course made me wonder about the history of bells. Turns out bells were cast in bell foundries for centuries. One of the bells has a running horse and initials W.E.B. on it...so, looks like I found a copy in GoogleBooks of the reissued patent. That's fun! He was an early American bell maker.
Another GoogleBook source states that Wm. E. Barton's grandfather started the bell works foundry in Connecticut in 1808, and W.E.B. continued it until at least 1881. Many bell works made andirons, large and small bells, baby rattles, church bells, city or clock tower bells, as well as sleigh bells. To this day, the jingle of sleigh bells brings back a time when winter sleigh rides were high fashion fun of horse drawn times.
"Just hear those sleigh bells jingling,
ring ting tingling too
Come on, it's lovely weather
for a sleigh ride together with you
Outside the snow is falling
and friends are calling "yoo hoo",
Come on, it's lovely weather
for a sleigh ride together with you."
Readers:
So, I'm adding sleigh ride to my bucket list!
Have any of you taken a sleigh ride?
And yes, sounds like a great place to start a story, don't you think?!
Merry Christmas to all!
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Blog post by Anne Love-
Writer of Historical Romance inspired by her family roots.
Anne here. A white pick up truck just turned the corner in front of the large window front of my home town main street coffee shop. In the back of the truck bed, a huge stack of six American flags rides hanging over the edge as it accelerates, and I'm reminded that I just watched the movie The Patriot last night. The final pre-battle scene flashes through my mind, where Benjamin Martin's character has just lost his son to pure honor-less hatred and he's given up the fight, defeated by all he's seen and experienced. But as he packs his saddlebag, he catches sight of the American flag peeking from the corner of the leather pouch and pulls it out, running his hand over it's patched colors.
The next scene is the flag waving free in the wind over the crest of the hill, riding closer to the line of soldiers marching to fight Cornwallis. We know they defeated Cornwallis. But they didn't know they would. They knew pain, tyranny, hatred, prejudice, anger, oppression. And they fought it--at great cost. They protected each other's hopes.
I refill my coffee cup and sit down as my dear friend texts me about the terrible impact of media-crazed misinformation that is swirling in her town. Like a tyrannical enemy, the mob is claiming a group of students who were asked to give a "high-five" sign for a picture for their parents has gone viral online. The story has been twisted worse than the silly telephone game we used to play at my Amish babysitters, suggesting the students were flashing a hate sign.
I ponder how times have changed as I sip my hot dark brew and watch out the window where six little Amish kids sit quietly entertaining themselves and talking kindly to one another without the use of any electronic devices and I smile at the simplicity of human kindness unfolding before me.
It hurts and it's sad that the whole world can't be so beautiful a place as my little hometown coffee shop this morning. I pull out my laptop and open it to begin edits, wondering if I can find the right words. Wondering if it really matters if I write them. Speak them. Share them. The gaggle of Amish children soon leaves, replaced by two young mothers having lunch, an Amish lady having coffee with a Mennonite lady, and a Millennial Asian girl who drapes her mod-dressed body on a lazy chair in front of me and puts on headphones as her fuzzy clogged foot hangs over the armchair.
I hear the coffee grinder in the background. The cat needs let out at home and I begin to wonder if I'd have gotten more meaningful words accomplished at home. My friend texts again from Wisconsin, asking for prayer for her community as the controversy is blowing up on social media, her coworker is in tears, and death threats have been sent.
Suddenly the Asian girl throws her phone, jumps to her feet, and starts jumping up and down squealing out loud. The moms look up, I look up, the Amish lady and the Mennonite lady look up and say, "whatever it is, congratulations...?!" She exclaims that her visa has just been approved. And just like that six women unknown by one another, laugh together.
I want to hug her or buy her a coffee to celebrate but she's gotten up to meet someone. So I look back at my laptop and wonder about meaningful words again. About the power of bad words. The power of good words.
The Asian girl sits back down, joy still exuding from her as she rapidly texts someone. A small Amish boy walks up to her about ten feet away, staring at her, he smiles. She looks up and smiles. He grins wider. She waves at him. He waves back.
And just like that. Asia waves at Amish. Woman smiles at boy. Strangers share joy. Without words.
And I see them. I see Asia. I see Amish. I see boy and woman. I see kindness that makes us more the same than different. More united than opposed, or defeated by hate or division.
We are supposed to see the differences and the sameness, the connections and the hearts. We are supposed to care about what we know, who we know, and who we don't. We are supposed to overlook offense, and see hearts. We are supposed to celebrate together.
My coffee is cold now.
My heart is warm.
I offer a prayer up for my friend's hometown, and thank the Lord for mine, which suddenly seems not so small-town.
Then I remember that flag again. The sacrifices for liberty.
The Lord's sacrifice for liberty.
And I remember the feeling of hope when Benjamin Martin decides not to give up.
How can we possibly give up?
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Blog post by Anne Love-
Writer of Historical Romance inspired by her family roots.
Anne here. Anyone else get the end-of-summer slumps? I do. I love scheduling the summer full of fun things to look forward to, and I equally love the return to routine when August arrives. But each end-of-summer, I've come to recognize this sort of numbness that besets my transition from summer to fall. Those in-between days where summer overload has taken it's toll and I just need rest, but when I finally get there it feels sort of empty, "meh" "non" and "bleh".
So this last week when I had a day off full of nothing, I thought it would be so awesome just to nothing-it-away. But that felt flat, and I decided to shoot out a text to my prayer group to ask if I was the only one who felt that at the end of the summer. I shouldn't have been surprised to learn that I wasn't, but I was. So, here's a hearty welcome to all you who have felt that too! Suddenly after sharing that with my prayer group, reminders of love poured in the shape of scripture.
Ephesians 3: 17-19: So that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith—that you, being rooted and grounded in love, 18 may have strength to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth, 19 and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.
Someone in my group sent it. Yep, I've read that before. I know it's true. But "still feeling flat here..." were my thoughts.
Then I opened my copy of Kim Meeder's Encountering Our Wild God and flipped to my current chapter. Through blurry morning eyes and coffee I read of His wild love....and yes, that same scripture! I sat a little more bright eyed and pondered that God's love is really there even when I feel flat. His love doesn't come with instructions to always feel it, only to know it, and remember it.
(I'm hoping to do a review & give-away once I'm finished! Stay tuned!)
I went to the kitchen for another cup of joe and flipped open my emails and clicked on Thursday's newsletter from Laura Martin, from TimeToRevive. The Keurig chugged behind me. The dim morning light from the stove had begun to break through my morning haze as I skimmed the newsletter and my eyes halted....there it was, third time in the space of thirty minutes...the SAME scripture. Okay, I'm just saying, when you ask for prayer, or you see or hear something more than once...stop what you are doing and listen. That is God speaking to you!
Okay. I hear you now, Lord. You love me even when I feel flat, tired, and barraged by the summer schedule, the evening news, and the day-to-day junk. A relieved smile lifted the corners of my mouth. That's it. I need a battle plan! I went to the closet and changed up the usual hum-drum wardrobe for the day's work and selected RED shoes!! I sorely needed to walk out this reminder of love all day long. I just needed to look down at my feet all day and remember that he speaks love.
It's amazing what a little shout out to your praying friends and the living God can do! That "meh" "blah" feeling ebbed slowly away over the day and by Friday on my drive home, a sense of peace stayed with me as I flipped on NPR news. It was an interview with Yo Yo Ma, called Tiny Desk, where they cram all their staff into a tiny room with a small desk and do an interview. Yo Yo Ma had set his cello upon the tiny desk and began to share about his music, playing these lovely cords between his words.
There is nothing like a cello to make you really FEEL something! (Note to self, put 'learn to play cello" on the bucket list...) I sighed and thanked God for my week, grateful that even the short experience of feeling flat, allowed the chance for great reminders of love and feeling good things deeply. I recalled the line I'd underlined in Kim Meeder's book that morning--that a girl she'd shared the love of Jesus with, began to ponder it as truth, actually began to wrestle with it--because Kim said, "she could feel it."
Now, I know over-feeling things has gotten a bad rap in the church. That wasn't my focus. But in culture we know that "not-feeling' it" equals "I don't believe you!" Right?! My mind flitted to the commercial I'd seen this past week:
Yo Yo Ma's cello sounded over the radio as I refocused on my commute. It was the sound of peace. Like a river that flows, a butterfly, an ocean. Summer. Even ends of good things. Transitions. Places and times where God's love is large enough for it all. God's love. I felt it.
Yo Yo Ma said, (admittedly paraphrased): "learning something new is not really that painful when you do it incrementally." He commented that once he played to execute the notes, later he played to express them...the notes were the same, but the sound was different and the experience became different.
Ahhh. That's it. That's like love. We can get caught up in the doing of the things and tasks that represent love, but they can become tasks to check on a list and execute, complete--but the entire experience of love comes alive when we feel them, express them from a place of knowing love, believing in love. Then the experience changes us. And somehow we know we've been resurrected. Sort of like walking around in red shoes all day.
John 8: 36 So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed....
So, get on your red shoes!!
Readers:
Anyone else get the end-of-summer blues??
Any cello players out there, or bucket-list-wanna-be's?
Yo Yo Ma mentions he plays a particular piece for both weddings and funerals, "it has a dual purpose, so think about that, he says..." How do feeling things and not feeling things have a dual purpose in your life?
How is feeling it, believing it?
How is knowing different than believing?
Isn't it miraculous that we are made to experience life deeply?
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Blog post by Anne Love-
Writer of Historical Romance inspired by her family roots.
Anne here. Ever feel like you're barely hangin' on? Sometimes the world is spinning so fast that all each day seems to have time for is tryin' to hold everything together. You know the laundry list.
Dishes.
Laundry.
Vacuum.
Bills.
Bank.
Groceries.
Straighten.
Organize stuff.
And that's only the stuff you are physically doing. Then there's the competition for the other list in your head while your body is doing all the doing.
Pray more.
Listen more.
Try to hear God.
Am I really hearing?
What did she really think?
What do I think?
What do I know?
But I know about that!
Why?
I wonder if...
I wish...
I want my kids to....
God please...!!!!
If he would just....
Why can't I...???
I don't care if....
What do you mean...??
What is your deal, seriously?
But I'm right.
Didn't I tell them to...?
But I want it this way.
Oh. Pray more.
Listen more.
Be still.
I pull out my devotion at 5 a.m. because I can't sleep. I'm not sure if I want to sing, sit, ask, or listen before the list in my head starts. So instead I scroll through Pinterest and sip my coffee, and there's this:
Thud. That hit my heart.
Release it.
My kids.
My future.
My husband.
My job.
Our finances.
All.
"To Me", Spirit says.... "I provide."
But, what if...it crumbles?
What if...it fails?
What if...it ends?
What if...it hurts?
"It could do that while you hold it tightly...." Spirit says. "But I could do more on your behalf if you'd let go of it."
Oh. Sip more coffee.
Hmmm.
So much of the first half of life is filling. Getting. Obtaining. Maintaining.
This half is emptying. Releasing. Trusting.
Ouch. Ohhhh. I hear You now.
"Do you trust Me?"
Deep breath. More coffee.
"Haven't I been faithful?"
Floods of faithfulness moments and stories fill my mind and heart.
Then floods of peace.
Okay Papa.
You can have it all...
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Blog post by Anne Love-
Writer of Historical Romance inspired by her family roots.
Two avenues of thought strike me about this pic and stir my soul. Restoring old vintage things for the beauty they were intended, and how that is not so different than restoring the soul. We aren't house flippers, just so you know. My husband and I have no skill where that's concerned. But, still I always had this dream of restoring an old house. So, our first home fit the bill. It was an 1895 frame home on Main Street, and we worked on it room by room before we sold and eventually moved to my dirt road. Homes are so much like people--covered in imperfections from heavy use and battering storms of decades of use. I love looking at this pic and just wondering about those stories...
So this week I just returned from a five day church conference with over 500 youth and adults. I looked like this at 7am, 8 am, 12 pm, 3pm, and 11pm!! LOL. But seriously, I was totally "juiced" with Jesus and the fellowship there!
These two pins strike me. Each character has a look on their face that speaks from their soul, something is stirring in them... What is that story? What is that emotion? What is that truth?
Of course, I can't get through a week on Pinterest without pinning something historical!! Just can't. Nope. So the above pin I love for the example of the "dance card" that is often written about in Edwardian or Regency historical stories. And the map below shows the trail that Lewis and Clark took to the Pacific Northwest. In high school I was blessed to ride the Amtrak train along much of the trail all the way from Indiana to Portland, Oregon. I hope one day to take my husband to see it!
Readers:
What do you see in these pins?
Has anyone been on part of the Lewis & Clark trail?
Any house flippers or old home lovers out there?
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Blog post by Anne Love-
Writer of Historical Romance inspired by her family roots.
Anne here. It's Easter week. Maundy Thursday. The Last Supper. There are seasons in life where grief takes up residence. In a myriad of ways it grips the soul--the mind, the emotions, the will to have it any other way than the way things have gone.
And that's how Mary felt the morning she went early, to the garden. The closest she could get to Jesus's body. No longer his living breathing soul, she just wanted a reminder of what was good, just, right, and hopeful that he had spoken and been. Crushed, she was. What if? What if everything he said, didn't make a difference?
And that is the central grief. What if all the truth and good was for naught? How could it possibly be? How did this tragedy actually happen? Was it real? If she could just touch him, be near him one last time, might it bolster her pain, ease the emptiness?
She crept through the garden, careless of whether the Romans guards were present. What could they do to her? No more than was already done. She was already dying inside.
The break of dawn shown through the green shrubs. Birds had begun to sing. Their song a strange dissonance to the bleakness inside her. As if they went merry on their way, when all should stop. All should weep together instead of singing. Her Lord was dead. Didn't the birds know that?!
Shaking in anger, weeping for the aching loss and permanent separation she was ready to touch when she reached his body, Mary crept around the stones that guarded his tomb. Ridiculous. She'd not even thought how she would get past the entrance. The rock she knew would stand in her way hadn't crossed her mind. But of course she could never touch him or hear his voice as she had in life. What had made her think it would appease her pain?
And as if that realization hadn't hurt enough, she rounded the last rock next to his tomb to find the entrance agape. His tomb empty. His body vanished. She couldn't even say good bye?! Deep waves of grief bubbled through her tears. Had any of it been true?
"Mary, why are you crying?"
The voice. The words. How scandalous?! Didn't the gardener know that was the worst thing to say to a grieving woman?! What? Was she supposed to just get over it? Didn't he know life was shattered? Ended. Hope crushed.
She turned to face the gardener, ready to unleash her anguish and tell him how it was.
"Mary..." The look. His eyes. Her Lord....
Every broken hope. Every painful breath. Every fainting thought. Rose up in her. "Lord...!"
Oh Mary, show us the way to find my Lord in the garden of life's griefs. Lord, speak to us scandalously. Shake us out of our certainty that death wins. That evil wins.
Remind us from your risen glory that You have never surrendered to defeat on a cross, in a tomb, beneath the weight of breathlessness. No! Remind us in the midst of every grief that You have this.
We want to cling to that as Mary wanted to cling to you there in the garden. We want to hang onto it. The knowledge, the moment, the proof that you Live! And yet it's fleeting. For You had to ascend to the Father in order to send the Comforter we need.
Oh Comforter, never leave us! Remind us continually of life.
Of victory. Of our Lord's authority over death.
Refill us with hope.
That your peace might remain with us.
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Blog post by Anne Love-
Writer of Historical Romance inspired by her family roots.
Tell us what Fledge is all about and what inspired you to write this book?
Fledge: Launching Kids Without Losing Your Mind is really about the growing pains and changes that happen in the family and for the mom, especially, as children begin to leave. It’s also about how to let go and how to parent young adults, teens, and to prepare them with “strong wing feathers”, which is the meaning of fledge. Fledge also means to put feathers on an arrow, and mirrors the image God uses of releasing from Psalm 127, which is the heart of the book: Like arrows in the hands of warrior are children born of one’s youth. Fledge covers an array of topics—mom grief, midlife, balancing the family climate while also learning how to set boundaries, let your kids struggle, and help parents release autonomous, independent kids while also fostering your own identity, too.
Herald Press approached me about writing a parenting book for them and I knew right away that I wanted to write something about the stage of life I was in--releasing kids but also still raising some. While there were resources for parenting teens and young adults, there were absolutely no resources about parenting both stages at the same time and the changing family and hormones that occur when you’re releasing kids but don’t have an empty nest. I had an array of emotions that seemed to be at the surface a lot and I didn’t know what to do with them.
Did you always want to write, or has your life journey been the driving force behind the urge to put words to paper?
I loved writing in high school but married a local farmer and never real thought about writing after high school. I became a teacher and was also a stay at home mom before going back to teaching. I started writing soon after I turned 40 when I was in graduate school for counseling. I was having a faith and identity crisis and started blogging, wondering if anyone else struggled with faith, life, and family. I found out I was not alone in that struggle, and have been writing ever since.
What has been the most surprising thing you discovered while writing Fledge?
It takes a while to go deep with words. When I write on the surface, it can sound preachy. It takes a certain commitment to go deep into the subject you’re really writing about. Fledge includes a lot of personal stories and examples, many of them that brought tears. Midlife hormones make for some good emotional writing.
What has been the most unexpected blessing of launching your young adult children?
Seeing them in their “sweet spots.” Seeing them grow and find their own passions.
I think I know the answer, but my readers don’t. Are you a country girl or city girl?
Actually, I’m a city girl in the country! I grew up a “townie” in Shipshewana but married a dairy farmer. I’d love to live in the perfect city, but would miss the country life.
What are the most vulnerable things about parenting young adults who are launching?
Realizing some of their struggles may be because of mistakes you’ve made, and the emotions and grief. There’s a lot of loss.
If you could caution other parents, what are the traps and trip-ups?
Don’t hold on past what you should. Kids need to grow up, struggle, and do things on their own. You rob them of independence and autonomy they naturally crave when you enable, rescue, and coddle them.
How can Christian parents of young adults be a counter-cultural anchor without being irrelevant to the next generation?
Stay engaged in the culture and constantly learn, but maintain biblical values. Keep your relationships healthy with your kids. Don’t try to be hip to be cool but also don’t be set in your ways.
What verse has given you the most courage and comfort for this stage of life? All of Psalm 127.
Winner announcement: Patrice Doten wins a copy! Thanks for stopping at the blog! Readers:
What stage of life are you in: just launched, building a launching pad, ready for take off, or "poof-- they're gone"?
What was the best thing your parents did to launch you?
What is the best thing you've learned about navigating the launching?
Any questions for Brenda?
Brenda L Yoder is an author, speaker, licensed mental health counselor, and life coach whose passion is encouraging others when life doesn’t fit the story-book image. Her brand new book, Fledge: Launching Your Kids Without Los-ing Your Mind is endorsed by Jim Daly and was Amazon’s #1 New Release in Motherhood the first week of availability. She’s been has been featured in two Chicken Soup for the Soul Books, The Washington Post, For Every Mom, and released Balance, Busyness and Not Doing It All in 2015. Brenda loves teach-ing the Bible and applying scriptural principles to life’s challenges. You can connect with her at her blog--Life Beyond the Picket Fence-– at brendayoder.com, or on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. Brenda is a wife of 28 years and a parent of four children, ages teen to adults.
Anne here.
Yep, I know it's just me on this dirt road. But I can't seem to shake the greetings I've used with all our faithful Coffee Cups & Camisoles readers over the years. So, just smile and keep reading when you see my old greeting.
What's been happening on your street this week?
On my dirt road, I've been busy planning my next story ideas, preparing taxes, and chatting with my son about science and Skyping my daughter in Ireland. As usual, I've been delving into historical research, and as I've researched my family history farther and farther back through the generations, it's stretched me to the Revolutionary War period. This week I've been reading through original documents about war pensions, battle testimonies, and hospital notes.
There simply is no way to romanticize dysentery, typhoid, consumption, or smallpox.
However, I grow nostalgic and amazed when I think of the fortitude of our ancestors. Their gumption was amazing. Yet, centuries having passed, we get the benefit of seeing their lives in context of our national history toward freedom.
Every time I discover an ancestor who fought for freedom, preached freedom, died for freedom--whether for religious freedom or upon the battlefield--I am shocked these stories weren't passed down in sacred retelling. For instance, I discovered a Revolutionary War headstone memorializing my husband's 5th great-grandfather. It rested in a sleepy cemetery in the same county he grew up in, placed there 100 years beforehand. Yet no one in the family knew this. Sigh...
So why? Why didn't these stories get passed on?Often two reasons. Pain, being the first. Second, their stories seemed ordinary to them, and the feeling of being the present allows people to believe they couldn't possibly forget. But the truth is that pain impacts everyone, and the truth we pass on about how to become overcomers impacts the freedom of generations to come. And the truth is that we are all a people who forget. Without words and stories to help us remember how to preserve the truth of lessons learned--we forget and remain caught in the wrongs and chains that fetter our people for generations. I'm sure this brave ancestor was glad to have survived the battle of Long Island. But as I read about hospitals, perhaps little did he know that his next battle was surviving the conditions there. There are horrors our ancestors wanted to forget about slavery, war, and disease, but what were the truths to be preserved to prevent a repeat of history?
If there's anything worth romanticizing from our past, it's our lessons of victory, perservance, forgiveness, and love. So, as I think about what stories I might write about this era after the Revolution, I'm brainstorming what it might have been like on America's frontier after the war. I can't wait to see what characters might arise!
Samuel Rigg's Millrace Surry County, North Carolina where he settled after the Rev. War
My paternal 6th great grandfather's estate
He makes me lie down in green pastures.
He leads beside still waters.
He restores my soul.
He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Even though I walk through the valley
of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil,
for Thou art with me;
Thy rod and staff,
they comfort me.
Psalm 23
Readers:
What are your favorite 18th century authors and stories or movies?
Have most of you traveled through Virginia, Pennsylvania, or Kentucky where many of these patriots lived?
What time or place would you transport to see if you could? I'd transport to a Revolutionary field hospital--but only for a day--with some hand sanitizer! Lol. SaveSaveSaveSave
