Bread for Tomorrow

Some foodies are posting on social media about a renewed interest in baking bread. In our unique time of sequestering, bread machines are coming back into service, rolling pins are getting a workout and children are learning there are delicious, crusty pre-cursors to packaged bread.

Just think of the simple goodness of a slice of fresh bread with a slather of real butter. For many of us, it’s a journey back to the farm, to Grandma’s kitchen, to a sacred place in time when a slice of homemade bread was a synonym for home; for security; for safety and well being.

There is a slim little paperback titled “Sleeping with Bread”; a book that has sustained and quieted me in good times and in times of uncertainty.

A collaborative work by Dennis Linn, Sheila Fabricant Linn and Matthew Linn, this dog-eared collection offers tasty morsels of wisdom I return to again and again.

The opening page explains what it literally meant, once, to sleep with bread – sometimes, an entire loaf of bread.

During the bombing raids of World War II, thousands of children were orphaned and left to starve. The fortunate ones were rescued and placed in refugee camps where they received food and good care.

But many of these children who had lost so much could not sleep at night. They feared waking up to find themselves once again homeless and without food.

Nothing seemed to reassure them.

Finally, someone hit upon the idea of giving each child a piece of bread to hold at bedtime.

Holding their bread, these children could finally sleep in peace. The bread reminded them, “Today I ate and I will eat again tomorrow.”

What a powerful word picture. A child, cared for but alone in the world, clutching a crust of bread to get through the night.

As we are hopefully nearing an end to our isolation, the symbolic idea of sleeping with bread, seems particularly fitting.

“Today I ate and I will eat again tomorrow.”

There was uncertainty in the day, perhaps pockets of emotional scarcity.

Even so, today took care of itself – tomorrow will be enough, too.

“Enough” becomes a warm-from-the-oven slice, buttered generously with the good stuff.

And yes, it’s plenty.

This blog supports www.booksforbondinghearts.com/shop, timely gifts for all seasons. Please visit the link to see my seasonal books, the "Breath of Joy! series. Breath of Joy! Singing Spring is a favorite this time of year.

You Don't Have to Make Lemonade

When we were not looking, the whole world slipped on a new mantle, cloaking our once-familiar days with an alternate reality.  For those fortunate enough to still be employed, weeks have merged into a blur of working while social distancing.

We’ve endured a continuous loop of zoom, swipe and disinfectant; news updates, no hugging, uncertainty; nights merging into days into twilights into nights again.

Unsplash Photographer Jon Tyson

How are we doing, really? And how is our sanity measured -- by how we stay connected, how much Vitamin D we’re getting, how many projects we’re finally getting to?

Maybe we should pump the brakes. 

Not every expanse of time needs to be optimized. 

Not every waking moment needs to be a gorge-fest of accomplishments.

There’s no need to make lemonade out of this.

Unsplash Photographer Heather Gill

Dial it back.

Give yourself a free pass.

Relax.

Anchor yourself.

Sure: pursue the industry of the day, but when it’s time to log off, try not to swim extra laps.

See if you can sit quietly instead. The extra projects can wait; you need a Sacred Pause.

Unsplash Photographer John-Mark Smith

When you do move, move strategically. Plan for breaks. Walks. Breathing. Eating. If you’re particularly blessed, lean into the laughter of loved ones who share your sequestered space.

Unsplash photographer Mi Pham

Find a patch of sunlight and sit inside its nurturing warmth.

When there is desolation, allow yourself to sit in that shadow, too. Experience the heaviness.

There’s no need to squeeze something out of this weirdness and make an elixir of happiness.

You can sit with the discord, the mess, the complete lack of normalcy that currently defines our days.

It must be alright to experience your own emotions because they give you empathy for others, insight into heartbreak and hope for a better day.

On the other side of this, we’ll be plunking down a quarter for a Styrofoam cup of watery lemonade at the corner of Time-Served and Emancipation.

And it will taste so good.

This blog supports www.booksforbondinghearts.com/shop, timely gifts for all seasons. Please visit the link to see my seasonal books, the "Breath of Joy! series.

If Kids Carried Business Cards

What if kids carried business cards? I mean, can't you just see it? 


Cards speckled with smudges of fingerprints, bits of Play-Doh and yesterday's lunch. 

Cards that announce the child's field of expertise:

Sand Castle Architect

Giggle Coach

Butterfly Whisperer

Snuggle Consultant

Snot Excavator

Guru in the Science of WHY

DRAMA QUEEN

Play-Doh Therapist

Ice Cream Curator

Band-Aid Enthusiast

Cookie Negotiator

Truth Stretcher

Mud Pie Maker

Tooth Fairy Supply Agent

In their circles of influence these tiny entrepreneurs would pass out crayons and juice, wildly cheer for the one who swings the highest and give honest opinions about what's on the menu.

Pie charts would be drawn in the sand. After that, mud pies would be made.

Organization would be tossed to the wind in favor of creative free play.

Superheroes would be the peers who take the garbage out, feed the dog and remember to flush.

Kids really do have a handle on the essentials. 

We should let them lead a workshop -- it might be titled, "Basic Life Skills".

Sign me up, I'm dusting off my pogo stick for the commute.

Has anybody seen my Krazy Straw?

Photo Credit by Unsplash Photographer Kristin Brown

This blog supports my collaborative tribe, booksforbondinghearts.com

I hope you'll visit the site to purchase my book, "Breath of Joy! Singing Spring"

Spring Tiptoes In

Photo by Kathy Joy

Most years, Spring's official arrival gets top coverage on all the media outlets. In winter-weary climes like mine, the first glimpse of a crocus is a metaphor for hope.

Likewise, the first mild morning - that particular morning when you trade in the heavy coat for a mere sweater - is cause for celebration.

But this year it's different. This year, we are self-isolating; hunkering down, finding new ways to fix canned beans.

While the coronavirus crisis dominates the news, Spring tiptoes in: Hesitantly, on cat-like feet, it slinks in sideways, taking a seat in the shadows.

Is anybody noticing that shift in the breeze, that heady buoyant quality that tousles pigtails and tugs playfully on sequestered souls?

Robins, oblivious to the pandemic, are leaning in for earthworms, pausing only to trill their signature birdsong.

Living things are stretching their roots beneath our feet, wriggling and rejoicing at the approach of the resurrection.

It's all happening, all around us, despite the looming dread of COVID-19.

Tight-fisted rhododendrons are ready to unfurl in bursts of pink, purple, red and white; forsythia hedges will soon be trumpeting their yellow splendor; daffodils not far behind in their marching brigades of buttery magnificence.

If we could just part the curtains on Spring's arrival and take a peek, we might be astonished.

We might be gladdened.

We might be reminded Who's got this whole weary world in His hands.

Photo by Benjamin Davies of Unsplash 

This blog supports my collaborative tribe, booksforbondinghearts.com

I hope you'll visit the site to purchase my book, "Breath of Joy! Singing Spring"

GRACE RUNS TO PAIN

Grace runs to pain like healthy blood to a wound. 

Have you been the recipient of grace lately?  It's a swoosh of comfort; a balm of healing; an ointment of relief.

Have you been the giver of grace lately?  It's a nod of affirmation that needs no words; a squeeze of the arm, a spark of warmth in the eyes.

Genuine.

Caring.

Grace.

Some of my work includes greeting the public. We are Human Services, so there's a steady of stream of humans in need of services including family help, parenting classes, addiction referrals, mental health providers and housing.

As a Christian I am called to serve others with the love of Christ.

As a Christian in a government-run organization, I am restricted in the earthbound realm.  Even so, I am wholly free to share His grace in surprisingly easy ways: by showing kindness on the phone, by listening carefully to the client who is confused and distraught, by spilling a bit of laughter into a tense moment.

Grace is tangible; you can feel it rush to the place of pain.

Maybe you've heard the story of the small boy who learned that his neighbor was grieving the loss of his wife.  The boy asked his mom if he could go next-door and see the man.

When he returned home, the boy's mom asked what he said to comfort the sad neighbor.

"Nothing," he replied. "I just sat in his lap and helped him cry."

Grace is light and airy, but oh! It is profoundly powerful, rippling into a needy world.

Infusing it with hope.

Last year, in preparation to lead a women's conference, I wrote a poetic essay about the activity of grace.  I hope you like it; I hope you recognize the winsome contrast of grace to the stuff we often experience in the day-to-day.

The world is a fist.
Grace is an open hand.

The world loves a snappy comeback.
Grace loves a kind word.

The world runs from pain.
Grace runs toward the hurt.

The world thunders, "Me first!"
Grace whispers, "You first.

The world upends.
Grace mends.

The world abandons.
Grace abides.

The world quits.
Grace perseveres.

The world shrugs.
Grace hugs.

The world mocks.
Grace grieves.

Grace re-frames everything.

In the workplace, in church, at home -- wherever your day takes you, Grace is a currency we can all exchange with good will and generosity.  We can trust the quiet, capable, dynamic activity of grace to heal and heighten and bolster up.

About the Author:
Kathy Joy enjoyed being a popular Christian radio DJ in Colorado for many years. When her husband wanted to move to Pennsylvania to live on a 65-acre farm, Kathy accompanied him with their two young daughters. Four years later, Kathy Joy found herself a widow raising two teenagers. To stave off despair, she began writing three everyday celebrations in a journal. Friends on Facebook began prompting her to write a book, and so the beginning of the Breath of Joy series began. Kathy now works in human services, speaking wonder on the weekends to grief therapy groups, motivational corporate meetings, and women’s retreats. Some of her topics include Vision Board workshops, Being a Harbor Pilot, Mirroring the Savior, The Fifth Season, and Bless Your Socks Off..

Link to purchase book: https://amzn.to/2PJGrxl

Kathy's personal blog supports www.booksforbondinghearts.com/shop, timely gifts for all seasons. Please visit the link to see my newly-launched book, "Breath of Joy! Winter Whispers".

The Astonishing Human Capacity to Be Sorry

Photo Credits Steinar Engeland

I work in a busy office as a receptionist - as Gatekeeper, I greet clients, answer phones, field questions, confirm meetings and deliver documents.

All this is secondary, I feel, to my higher calling of whispering prayers, calming nerves, deescalating anger, floating grace, smiling at strangers, finding humor and sometimes bringing cookies to fellow staff.

Now that retirement is pulsing like a tiny blip on my radar, I certainly cannot coast. A dear friend has cautioned me against coasting: "Stay on your game," she warns, "Don't go into neutral. Your lifetime of experience and people-skills are still needed 100 per cent." 

Oh, great.
Okay.

So I'm staying in the game and there are days, like last Thursday, that push me to the brink of desperation. People disappoint. Life is unfair. Bad things happen.

Last Thursday was one for the books -- depressing and raw; loud and irritating; heartbreaking and shrill.

A client stormed in, visibly riled up.  The man, larger than life, filled my reception window. 

I remember I stood up, as if answering a call to battle. 

Everything went silent. 

Except for the rage spilling from this broken man. He reminded me of a Viking, ruddy with wild red hair, ice blue eyes and a determined jaw.

Two things happened.

First, the security guard walked over to my post and stood vigil. Silently, his presence eased my nerves and filled me with courage.

Second, the angry man continued his rant, increasing his volume, demanding answers. 

It was like watching a sea of emotions, all salt and waves, yet not being in the sea.  

Joe, the security guard, remained a sentinel at my side, saying nothing. I knew he was calmly waiting for Viking Man to run out of steam.

And he did.

He ran out of steam and his eyes, those eyes, they were still desperately pleading.
Without incident, we got him settled in the waiting room until another worker would come to speak with him; to answer his questions.

It shook me, of course. But more than that, it called up a visceral compassion in my gut. This man wasn't attacking me, he was crying for help. In his world, all the resources meant to assist him, were failing him. He felt trapped and abandoned.

All that anger with no place to go.

It just so happened that Viking Man spilled his pain in our agency, at my window.

The day got worse from there, with a series of mishaps, a few mistakes, a flurry of difficult phone calls and a slog through the icy air to my car at the end of an impossibly long day. My emotions were fried, my body aching from tension.

And then came Friday.

I drove into the office, mentally rehearsing what my friend had said: "Don't coast, Kathy. Give it your best and remain present until your last day. You'll be glad you did."

Okay.

Guess who came to my window -- again. The Angry Viking. Only this time, he wasn't all thunder and bluster.  No - this time, just one day later, he still loomed large, filling my window. But he was noticeably solemn.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he said.

He was a mountain of pure humility.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he said. "You see, I have Bi-polar Disorder. When my meds aren't managed well, I really, really struggle."

He paused.

"I know I was inappropriate when I came in before, and I just want to apologize."

Contrite.
Sincere.
And terribly sorry for how his behavior had affected me.

Seriously. Just when I'm about to give up on people, they come through and surprise me.

The security guard, Joe, silent sentinel of strength. He had my back.

The Viking Man. He yelled at me, but really he yelled at his situation and I was there to bear witness. And then he was sorry, and he manned up and showed up and delivered the sweetest apology.

I wonder how many more surprising things will happen between now and Retirement?

I guess I'll need to keep showing up to see.

Photo Credits Michael Olsen

This blog supports www.booksforbondinghearts.com/shop, timely gifts for all seasons. Please visit the link to see my newly-launched book, "Breath of Joy! Winter Whispers".

Poetry Tax

If I were stranded on a remote island in the middle of the deep blue sea and given only two choices on which to survive – words or numbers – I’d choose words.

Words can paint poetry.

Words sail over an aching heart, whispering strength.

Words bolster up the discouraged; they call armies into battle.

Words inside of prayers have the power to storm the very gates of heaven.

Words form apologies, mend fences, bring loved ones back into the fold.

Words, words, words.

I'll call my little dot in the sea The Island of Poems.

Numbers?

Yeah, not so much.

Unless, of course, you are a numbers person. If you’re a numbers person, then you would be in your zen, surrounded by facts and figures, numbers and percentages. 

That island is called The Island of Numbers.

I think you Island of Numbers dwellers are amazing and a little bit mysterious. Because, why you’d want to crunch numbers all day – particularly, somebody else’s numbers – is beyond my scope of imagination.

But I’m so glad you belong on that island, because we, the taxpayers, need you.

We need you to rescue us from our fear of numbers.

And our fear of the Unknown.

This past year, a new thing was launched  - a thing called the Internet Sales Tax, and honestly, it's got me a little wigged out. Consumers don't think they need poetry and books the way they need technology, clothing and appliances. 

When authors and poets make so little on a book as it is, I find it intimidating to navigate the calculations and reports that might be required to justify what I already know to be a valid, consumable necessity. 

It feels counter-intuitive, like showing up for battle unarmed.

We authors may as well call it the Poetry Tax.

There was a time, way back, when I warmed up to numbers as potential allies; friends, even. 

It was in college, during a class in Math 101. The professor said it this way: “A math equation is beautiful, in the same way a poem is beautiful.”

He had me at poetry. I leaned forward. I started taking notes. 

All because of his many references to words, I passed that course and lived to tell about it. I remember in my notebook, I started lining up numbers in stanzas, or sometimes in free verse. The affinity to words actually helped me form an alliance with a required math course.

Numbers aren’t so scary when they flow like a well-metered poem.

In my book, Breath of Joy! Winter Whispers, there’s an entire page devoted to tax preparation: 

“When the holiday table morphs into the dreaded paper melee of annual accounting…and an advisor singing the music that paying higher taxes is not all bad, for retirement payouts are based on them.”

My editor was so jazzed about putting a positive spin on tax season. 

Taxes and tax preparation, in my estimation, have forevermore been a necessary evil in the throes of winter. And now we have the "Poetry Tax", emerging officially as Internet Sales Tax.

But she was undaunted, my high-spirited editor. “We need this phase of wintertime,” she insisted. "It's part of the season."

Turns out, she was right. Readers often point out this page as “a refreshing look at a gloomy task”, and “a reminder to render to Caesar what is Caesar’s”, a reference to Matthew 22:21.

As I approach my own season of retirement, I’m beginning to see at least one of the benefits of gathering in all the papers, the receipts, the records.

Accuracy will ensure my future; integrity will protect me and also my children.

It’s not always about the amount of the return, or the date it hits your bank account, or how you might spend the proceeds.

It’s really about the annual passage from a messy pile of papers to a tidy result that’s beautiful – like a poem.

This blog supports www.booksforbondinghearts.com/shop, timely gifts for all seasons. Please visit the link to see my newly-launched book, "Breath of Joy! Winter Whispers".