Sunday, December 15, 2013

According to Your Word


My #1 favorite, most satisfying thing to do at Christmastime is to sing in our church’s Christmas musical (cantata for you traditionalists). The songs help me realize again the real meaning of Christmas – that Jesus, God in human form, came, out of his great love, to save us. I leave the performance feeling centered, revitalized, content. It is a fitting culmination to frenzied weeks of preparation.

Beginning in September when relaxing vacations are only vague memories and hectic school schedules loom ahead, the choir begins behind-the-scene preparations for its largest presentation of the year. Singers pore over new music, audition and rehearse; technicians tune instruments, arrange lighting and sound elements; actors and directors work out dramatic interludes; seamstresses repair robes and costumes; carpenters design and construct sets.

 By mid-November, amid technical glitches and musical challenges, we question our ability to bring the program to life. Is a performance really worth this effort? Can we do justice to the writers’ words and the composers’ music score? Inevitably, in December, the miracle occurs, the tedium decreases and the message comes to life.  

This evening our choir presented the third of three performances. One particular song pierced my heart more deeply than the others. It is Mary’s song, the words of a young, pregnant, unmarried girl who learns she is carrying the longed-for Messiah. Even in the midst of her fear, she presents her whole self to her Lord, content in the knowledge that His Will is sovereign and that she is His vessel to be used as he desires. The song, Be it Unto me according to your word speaks of her simple faith, her childlike trust and her wholehearted commitment to whatever God places in her path.

Even now the words resonate within me. It has become my prayer. I pray it will be yours throughout this special season and always.
 

Monday, November 18, 2013

BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN


It’s been a while since I blogged.  For a while now I’ve told myself that the muse deserted me never to return. Some call it “writer’s block.” Some call it fear. Fear of failure. Fear of success. Maybe. I am determined to find it again. Get back in the saddle, so to speak. And so I write...

I hate cold weather.
This island girl has never adapted well to the changes in seasons. Not once in forty-plus years of living in America’s northeast have I welcomed or even cautiously anticipated winter. Yes, I do welcome the relief of cooler temperatures after the piercing heat of summer. To be sure I admire the vibrant colors of fall. There is admittedly no more beautiful sight than the leaves of a mighty maple slowly surrendering its lush greenness in favor of bright orange, sienna and vermilion hues. But somewhere around mid-August I become keenly aware of shorter days, cooler evenings, waning sunlight, falling leaves, wooly caterpillars, chirping crickets, migrating geese, and a backyard swimming pool that urges me to take one more dip if I dare.

But it is mid-November. We’ve already experienced our first snowfall, the first frost and the first pea-soup fog of the season. Even the last geese have begun their flight to warmer climates. It all serves to remind me of a poem by the late English poet, Thomas Hood whose thoughts must have been as morose as mine:  

No sun, no moon,
No morn, no noon,
No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day,
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member,
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November.

But there are moments of wonderment too. This morning I awoke to unexpected sixty-degree temperatures, a warm breeze and amazing sunshine. Tomorrow it will be cold again; today I will relish in this unexpected blessing.
And soon it will be spring.
 

Thursday, August 1, 2013

Parenting our parents


    Not very long ago my elderly mother drove herself and her friend to Walmart. Backing into a parking spot, she miscalculated her turn and hit another car. (No damage done and no one was injured.) Mom, who was in her eighties at the time, pulled away from the car and promptly swung into another more accessible parking spot, at which time both she and her friend casually exited the car and continued their shopping expedition. (I should note that until this occurrence Mom held an exemplary driving record.)

    My sister, the owner of the car and my mother’s “caregiver,” became aware of this misdemeanor when the insurance company called her with details. It seems that a bystander had witnessed the event and made the report. Mom came clean when my sister confronted her with the indisputable details. So, in a subsequent telephone conversation, we, her daughters, agreed that since Mom was of the mindset that it was no big deal to hit a car and not report the accident to the authorities, it was probably time for her to relinquish the car keys and end her driving career. Thus began a struggle between mother and adult daughters that has continued to this day – Mom’s struggle to maintain her independence and her position as matriarch of the family, and her daughters’ determination to protect her and prevent further infraction with the unsuspecting public. We’re setting boundaries for our mother; parenting our parent, so to speak.

    The conversations have been painful. Our arguments in favor of limiting Mom’s freedom are shadowed by our desire to allow her the independence she craves. Quite often we capitulate (except for the driving thing), throwing up our collective hands in despair. Parenting Mom is unarguably the most challenging task we’ve undertaken. We understand it’s a task we cannot shirk, but we don’t like it one bit. The upside is that this has motivated us, the daughters, to initiate the conversation early with our own adult children. Jim Comer gives great advice about how to start the conversation on his own blog: www.parenting-your-parents.com/blog.
  
    Have you had “the conversation” with your aging parents?
    How did you start the conversation?  
I'd like to know...and I'll keep you posted on how it's going in my family.
Maxine

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Tapping into motivation wherever it lies

 I am a product of The Sixties.

To most readers, that statement conjures up a host of disquieting images: marijuana junkies, Woodstock, free love, JFK, MLK, demonstrations, gas shortages, the Beatles, funky music, the cold war, and the Cuban missile crisis. Other readers might recall that the Boston Celtics were basketball champs, the country was entertained by the socially inept Beverly Hillbillies, and teens couldn’t get enough of Leslie Gore’s “It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.”

But those were not my experiences. In the sixties I lived in an idyllic world, in beautiful, laid-back Jamaica, cocooned by a loving family and untouched by world crises. I have kinder, gentler memories of the sixties: The first Jamaican Miss World; the emergence of Bob Marley and the Wailers (who knew they would soar from Rasta pick-up band to world renown musicians); lazy days at the beach; and dancing the Ska on cool nights.   

And there was high school. 

High school is my happy place. I know I must have experienced some teenage angst, parental confrontations, sibling rivalries, during those years, but I cannot remember a single such event. Hindsight truly is 20/20. I go back to my high school days for sweet memories, and, quite often, for motivation. In my mind I picture the daily, all-school assembly where we young ladies of Wolmer’s High School for Girls stood in perfectly ordered rows to sing a hymn, read Scripture, say a prayer, and hear a motivational call to arms – usually a poem or famous quotation – from our very British headmistress. I hear her voice; I see her piercing eyes connecting with each student from the stage, and it is here in that commanding presence that I hear words that even now inject me with the booster shot of inspiration I seek.

You can do what you think you can - you'll never accomplish more,
If you're afraid of yourself, there's nothing for you in store.
For failure comes from the inside first - It is there if you only knew it,
And you can win though you face the worst if you feel you're going to do it.

When I balk at a tedious writing assignment, when I doubt my ability to meet an approaching deadline, when I am faced with my greatest fears, these words remind me that success is as close or as far away as the thoughts swirling through my mind. Yes I can.

So tell me, WHERE DO YOU FIND MOTIVATION? Share your thoughts....

Thursday, July 4, 2013

God Bless America

 
"I sought for the key to the greatness and genius of America in its harbors; in her fertile fields and boundless forests; in her rich mines and vast world commerce; in her public school system and institutions of learning. I sought for it in her democratic Congress and in her matchless constitution… not until I went into the churches of America and heard her pulpits FLAME with RIGHTEOUSNESS did I understand the secret of her genius and power.”
~ Alexis deTocqueville

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Busted

Received a scolding from Grandson Sonic recently as he examined the pencil  notations and Post-it notes stuck between the pages of my Bible.

"Grammie, this is no way to treat your Bible. We don't write in books."

Ha. Nothing like having a kid throw your own words back at you. Then I recalled a recent tweet from Kay Arthur: Don't feel guilty about marking your Bible as long as your Bible is marking you.

Now to explain this to an 8 year old...



Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Welcome to the Family (A short, short, doggie story)

    They must have been holding the plane for him. As he enters the aircraft cabin the flight attendant assists him with his overcoat and suitcase and shows him to his seat – something she hadn’t done for me or any of the other passengers.
    He approaches my row and, with a casual nod in my direction, squeezes past me to the window seat, his cell phone gripped in one hand. As he settles into the soft leather he punches in a number using only his thumb, then wedges the phone between his neck and shoulder before fastening his seat belt. 
    His movements are fluid yet deliberate and unhurried. He has the air of a man in charge. He radiates authority. Entitlement. The kind of man who demands and receives what he wants, when and how he wants it. The big boss. The decision maker. The caller of the shots.
    The flight is behind schedule. The attendant leans across me and signals him to turn off his phone. He responds with the just one minute forefinger wave, and the attendant moves on.
     I wonder how it feels to be that self-assured, to know that people suppress their own desires in favor of your own? What would it take to bring him down to the level of everyday folk? What situation would leave him acting and feeling like the rest of us? Has he ever been the loser in a battle of wills? 
    Someone special must have answered his call for his body eases back and relaxes into the tufted seat. I tune my ear towards him.
     “Hello, Tracey, honey, it’s Daddy....I’m on the airplane...No, I’m still in Houston. The plane’s about ready to take off. Where’s Mommy? ...I know you missed me, Sweetie, but I’m on my way home now....That’s right, I’ll be there before you go to bed. …Yes, in time to tuck you in.”
    I am eavesdropping. I dare not turn toward him, but I sense an indulgent smile.
    “Did you have a good day at school? ...Cupcakes, eh? Yummy. Was it somebody’s birthday? ...Alisha’s? ...Seven years old. Wow. I’m glad you had fun, honey. Now let me talk to Mommy.”
    The fingers of his free hand begin a rhythmic tapping on the armrest. He casts frequent, casual glances over his shoulder in the direction of the flight attendant.   
    “What’s that, love?...No, we can’t get another dog. ...No...no, we already have two dogs. That’s enough for one family...I know there are three people in our family, honey, but we can’t get another dog.”
    He lowers his words to an insistent whisper. His body tension increases and his finger- tapping revs up.
    “No, you don’t need your own special dog. ... I’m sorry, your own special puppy. Honey, a puppy is a dog. It’s a baby dog. …In the kitchen? What’s a puppy doing in the kitchen? ... What? You brought it home? Where’s your mother? Put your mother on the phone...Tracey, get Mommy now. Please... I’m not yelling.”
    I silently agree. He’s not yelling, but a quick glance in his direction confirms that his jaw is clenched. He may still be under control, but he is definitely not in charge.
    “Tracey, please stop crying...Tracey...Hey, Babe. What’s this about a puppy? ...You didn’t have to do that...Why’d you take it?...Then give it back. You know we can’t afford another dog....I don’t care how cute it is....Then she can just un-love it. We don’t need a third dog....I’m not being heartless, I’m being practical. Do you know how much money we spend on dog food? ...Okay, puppy food... Maybe not now, but he’ll eventually become a full-grown dog ...All right, she will become a full-grown... She? You got a girl dog?”
    Now he’s yelling, but it’s controlled, hushed yelling. He blows out a breath.
    “Just what I need — another female in the house....Hey, wait a minute. It was a joke. ...Okay, it was a bad joke....C’mon, sweetheart, it was supposed to be funny....I’m sorry, I’m sorry....Look, I’ve gotta go. They’re signaling me to end the call. We’re backing out of the gate....Is she still crying? Tell her we’ll discuss it when I get home. Tell her....Okay, put her on, but hurry.”
     I sense capitulation.
    “Trace...Tracey, honey....Look, we’ll talk about the dog, um, the puppy when I get home, okay?...You have to stop crying, honey, I can’t understand you....Tracey, listen. We have to talk about it some more, but maybe I can work out a way for you to keep the dog. Just stop crying, okay? …I didn’t say you could, for sure, keep it, just maybe....All right. Good girl. Give Mommy a kiss for me. ...I love you too. I’ll be home soon. ...You want me to say goodbye to...to who?  …Millie. Who’s Millie? The puppy. You gave the puppy a name? That’s it. I’m sunk. Bye-bye, Millie, and welcome to the family.”
    He loses. 
    Booyah!

Friday, May 17, 2013

The Tech Curve

Am I alone in this or is anyone out there also flabbergasted, flummoxed and frustrated in your efforts to negotiate the technology learning curve?  I don't mean the simple stuff like cell phone use, email communication and digital downloads. I’ve managed those. I’m talking about huge tech tasks. Like creating a web page.
Now I’m no idiot. I know my tech limits, so I hired an experienced group to do the creative work and give me legible and understandable instructions on how to maintain the site. Three months later, I still cannot navigate the admin functions, and the experts can’t tell me what to do about it. They’re as flummoxed (I like that word) as I am. After three months I’ve made no updates to my website. No updates means no marketing. No marketing means no sales. No sales means...well, you get the picture.  
Personally, I am about ready to kick the computer to the curb, crawl under a blanket and stick a thumb in my mouth. But I’m a grownup and those behaviors would likely result in a short stay in a mental institution and some lifelong psychotropic medications. So I restrain my impulsive behavior, down another pack of Oreos, and try to write away my frustrations. Sheesh.
 

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Trusting is believing...

I am not skilled to understand
What God has willed, what God has planned,
I only know at His right hand stands One who is my Savior.

Friday, March 22, 2013

Another First


First experiences, whether pleasant or painful, tend to stay with me for a long, long time. I can fully recall every aspect of my first kiss, the first time I met my husband, the first time I drove a car, the birth of my first child, my first job interview and my first F on a college term paper. The events still evoke strong emotion in me.

I have had many firsts in my writing career: first article published, first public reading, first paid assignment, first rejection letter, and, of course, first novel published. Last night a group of ladies invited me to their book discussion group for another first: leading an in-depth discussion of my novel, Very Truly Yours. Wow. Talk about a rewarding experience!
 
Thanks ladies.

Monday, March 18, 2013

Book signing


Please join me at
CLC Book Center
(formerly Sonshine Christian Book Store)
401 Route 38, Moorestown, on
Saturday, March 23rd, 2013;
between 4:30 and 7:30 pm
when I will be signing copies of my Christian novel,
Very Truly Yours.

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

In pursuit of The Dream


     Seated in the second row of the beautiful, refurbished church, I listened and watched enthralled as the speakers compared the Children of Israel’s enslavement with that of the American Negro and their struggles for freedom from bondage.  The speakers and guests represented every religious denomination in the town: Baptist, Methodist, Catholic, Society of Friends (Quaker), Jewish Synagogue, Episcopalian, AME (African Methodist Episcopalian) and Lutheran. They presented a truly beautiful picture of people of varying backgrounds coming together with a common, unifying purpose. As each speech ended, an individual or group from that speaker’s congregation presented a musical number. It was Sunday evening. The occasion was in celebration of the life and work of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  
     From my vantage point I marveled at the warmth in the room and the sense of one-ness. There were no overt signs or perception of aloofness or division. No “us” and “them”. The music – from old hymns to newer praise songs - was familiar to most. The congregation sang along with the performers, standing, clapping, and celebrating. This is the way it should be, I thought. This is how we’ll worship in heaven.
     Later, I re-examined what I had witnessed...and realized that of all the choirs, worship teams, and musical groups present, only one group was truly integrated.  Only one group had singers of more than one race, leading me to conclude that only one church could claim to be ethnically diverse. America, it seems, is still segregated on Sunday mornings. I left with conflicting emotions.
    We've made progress. Our neighborhoods, schools and colleges boast equal opportunity for people of all ethnicities; there is more diversity at the corporate management level than at any other time in our history; and there seems to be acceptance – or at least tolerance - towards marriage between people of different races; but on Sunday mornings we still worship at white churches or black churches
 
     But there is hope. Just recently a woman shared with me that her daughter had left their home church to worship at a face of America church. It was a moment before I realized that face of America was not a new-age denomination, but a description of the racial makeup of that congregation. Face of America. I like the description. It speaks of the hope that Dr. King had for America, a nation living and worshiping together in peace. It speaks of a heavenly worship experience where we will sing and speak with one voice. We’re not there yet...but we’re close.
 
MaxineThomas

Saturday, January 19, 2013

Glancing backwards; Peering ahead


Happy
     New
        Year
 
   Does it serve any useful purpose to look backwards? And while looking backwards, does it serve any purpose to pray for or about incidents that have already passed?
   In his first newsletter for the New Year, our pastor shared a discussion he had with another pastor: “... [We] were talking about prayer and he told me that he prays for Civil War generals. ... He explained that God sits outside of time, meaning God is not bound by time, so He can be at work in all times simultaneously....Maybe the outcome we know [from  the Civil War] is because God has already considered these prayers I offer today.” Wow!

Saturday, January 12, 2013

Poor Old Michael Finnegan

     Throughout my childhood and into adulthood, songs, and music in general, have had an integral role in my life. Music has helped me block out peripheral noises when studying; I’ve put to music Scripture verses and long Shakespearean passages to help in memorization; and, in times of stress, music has been a healing balm to my tortured soul. And, of course, songs of praise gently usher me into the presence of God.  
 
      Yesterday a childhood song popped into my head and has been like an ear worm ever since: There was an old man named Michael Finnegan. I have not been able to get this song out of my head. Nor have I been able to ignore the message. Poor Michael Finnegan encountered many absurd challenges in his life, but he was always encouraged to start over... and the song would repeat with another absurd account of Michael Finnegan's life events.

   What does this have to do with my first post of January? It’s the encouragement in the last line of each verse: Poor old Michael Finnegan, begin again. The song came to mind at a time when I’ve been chastising myself for having started this blog and not kept to my commitment to post three times a week. I don’t like to set goals and miss them. I don’t like to fail. (No, I’m not a perfectionist, just a perfectionist wannabe). Granted I have spent many hours promoting my new novel, Very Truly Yours since its October 2012 release. Since October I’ve had three book signings and made trips to New York, Florida and to Virginia twice. Add to that my church commitments as worship team leader and commitments to home and family and I have had an extremely busy holiday season. I've decided to take heart from the Michael Finnegan song, forgive myself and and begin again. It’s the New Year. What better time to start over?
 
   So my blog goal for 2013 is to cut back blog posts to once a week. I hope you will continue to follow me.

 Season’s Greetings.
Max

Very Truly Yours
A story of enduring faith in the face of adversity.

Available from www.Amazon.com and www.BN.com