Happy Easter

While the country celebrates with Peeps and Russell Stover, let us remember what Easter is all about.

For God so loved the world, He gave His only Son to die for us and for our salvation. I am grateful.

Salvation is a gift. We didn't ask for it, we don't deserve it, we don't have to work for it. We do good works in gratitude for salvation.

Easter is the pinnacle of our faith as Christians; it is the reason we are Christians. Fear of being recognized as a Christian is unacceptable.

There are places in our hearts and in our world that we are not proud to have gone. God recognizes our human failings and forgives us anyway.

I am proud to declare myself a Christian.

Happy Easter, my friends.

A Certain Age

When one  reaches a certain age (in my case, chronologically  sixty-one, mentally about seventeen), one sees things in a different light (sixty watts instead of one hundred, for example). One looks at things from a new perspective---from the nose up instead of a full-length body shot  (although that would have told me that my jacket was inside-out before I got to church. True story.

One tends to wear choker necklaces (called so because they are. They do. Whatever.) to hide the wrinkle (yes, you have one too), or a neck scarf...or horrors! a turtleneck in August. Or perhaps you don't give a damn and figure you've earned every wrinkle.

This is the age when you have to do stuff. You have to take a leap of faith from the airplane, or float over Oz in the wizard's hot air balloon, or write a book. You find something that you loved long ago and pick up the pieces. I found my writing again (my first job was as a copywriter), and time to go dancing.  Hubby found his goat (GTO for non-car buffs). Friend found husband number six. Let's not go overboard, here. And we don't have to do what we don't want to do.

Sixty-something has its perks.

At almost sixty-two I am blossoming.  I have changed jobs yet again (yes, some places prefer us older folks). I've developed a definite style that is mine (if it doesn't appeal to you, well, eat eggs). I've made a very minor venture into politics (just don't try to talk liberals and conservatives with me). I'm thinking about joining the Junior League.  My book is well on its way. I'm more active in my church (president of council, two committees and whatever comes along). I'm working on more. Busy, busy.

Some days I am very down. This cough and the palpitations (less lately) trouble me. My vision isn't improving. I'm sick of clutter but have no ambition to rid myself of it. My retirement looms ahead, but it will be semi-retirement--one job instead of a bunch of part-times. (Three months, four days.)

Other days, I feel like I do today. I'm happy for a few new adventures. I am loved--and I don't have to change anything  about myself to have that love continue. Today my faith can move a mountain. Today I am content.

Today, with the words of a friend who reminded me that sixty is sixteen Celsius; with the help of another who tells me I look good even if I don't; with roses from  hubby, a nail tech who keeps my hands lovely and my uni-brow at bay; with the joy of friends who have always been and new friends who simply are ...well, what else is there?

Except, of course, the sixty-watt bulbs and short mirrors, make-up and chokers that camouflage the flaws.

It's good to be a certain age. After all, you either get older or you don't.

In a Hurry

Lately I've been in a hurry. Not just lately, I guess, but for almost three years. Since Mom passed (and it seems since I began).

I feel sometimes like I have to cram as much living into each day as I can, as though tomorrow will never come. Maybe it won't. I've had some breathing issues of late and some heart palpitations. Lack of insurance has kept me from the doctor. Yes, stupid, I know, but I can't see owing money for what might be too much caffeine. I've cut back. I feel better.

I'm in a rush. The job is more frantic than I anticipated. The book needs editing. I'm running for Judge of Elections in my district. I find wrinkles. I don't feel well. My bucket lists call to me. The house needs cleaned, the bills need to be paid, the clothes need pressed. My mind is spinning out of control.

I see spring struggling to arrive, robins hopping lightly across the snow. I hear the mating calls. I see the bay waters, deep blue now, no longer heaving and rolling slush.  I got some spring clothes together today, rushing into the season, sick of the suede boots and pink fur coat.

I'd like a garden this year, maybe a container garden. Maybe I will take my friend up on her offer to share her plot with me. So much to do. Why do I feel a need to have it all at once.

I've been praying a lot, too. I've been praying for family and friends and the world at large. I've been praying for things for which I have no business praying.  I pray for a peek at the future, but no answers come. I want things I shouldn't want.

The need to do does not mean I accomplish. Fits and starts, fits and starts. I begin, then think of something else or take a nap. I don't think I sleep because I am tired. I don't think I begin because I will finish. I'm in a hurry to go nowhere!

There is a list of gifts from the Spirit in Galatians. Among these are joy, love, generosity, kindness, gentleness and patience. I see where I am sorely lacking. Maybe I need to ask for these instead of being in such a rush.

Foreword

So I'm told my book needs a foreword. Maybe a preface. Certainly a dedication.  It's hard enough to come up with things to say, let alone adding words before the words.

MzzRzz started because I was told I should write.

It became cathartic. I began to say what I knew someone else was thinking, but hadn't the nerve to say aloud. Have you noticed I haven't many shy bones?

How do I dedicate the book (tentatively called Meanderings)? If I pick a friend who talked me into writing, there will be others left out. If I give thanks for one encouraging word, there will have to be more. Dear friends, I can't leave you out.

Will I be able to sell Meanderings? I've talked to a local bookstore. I've got a bar code. Will anybody even look at it, much less buy it?

I didn't begin MzzRzz to become a best-selling author, just to write, but the pride and greed have reared their ugly heads. I have stalled.

The purpose with which I've been writing MzzRzz was but one...to touch one person's life and make it better. Now that publishing is a reality, I wonder if I have lost sight of the goal?