Does This Blog Make Me Look Fat?

One of the perks of loading up on birthdays, is gaining a certain spunky wisdom.    That's good because wisdom adds no pounds to the ever expanding backside yet it gracefully explodes into one's life as a long awaited gift, a type of peace that seems to pass all human understanding.

With that said, you must forgive me if I continue to post and boast and roll sentences across the screen with random speed and alarming confidence.     


Indeed, please expect folds of photographs and tidbits about life and how to make it better, richer, fuller - more abundant.     Why do I think I can write with this abrupt confidence?    The answer is simple:  I am now happily fat with grace and I want to spare those out there in cyberspace a few mis-steps about how not to sweat the small stuff in  this swift journey call life.


Let's start with blogging, the most alarming land of Modern Connection.


Quadrotrilions of folks twit and tweet, post and pin all matter of information and images to other socials out there swirling in their global spaces.     What's a grandmother of eight do to get some attention in this blog peppered world.    Instead of fussing about the lipless communication and the quick comments that, at times, appear flimsy and  ego-driven, I have chosen to enter the Blog race with gusto.    Now I'm linked in, pinned up to some degree, and facing up to  my foibles online and aptly current.       


Actually, I have learned volumes from my younger blogging, socially connected, in the moment pals and have convinced myself that between the tweets and quick abbreviated jots and jabs, there are messages with heart, warm and endearing. 


Because I am also fat with ideas and encouragement, here are three tips to help you (and I) stay true to ourselves - balanced and breathtaking as we flit and flirt our way with others online:


1.  The motivated and thoughtful blogger considers his readers first and foremost.     Discerning readers "hear" your motive and feel your authentic almost in spite of your subject.    Everyone wants and needs to feel  appreciated and liked.   Notice I say "liked" for this reason -  when we like someone or something, we want to be with that person or place.   Like is the spunky brother to Love, I feel, proactive and spirited.   The disciplined, energetic  blogger truly likes his audience and they know it from the first sentence.  The good blogger takes time to put down well-turned phrases, mined words and saucy sentences - comedic and wrenching.    Dignity is all about choice and choice is respect in action.    Select carefully what is appropriate and helpful for your reader.    The polished blogger should never take his reader down the "woe is me" trail.  


2.  Carve out your blog title and your subsequent post titles  like Michelangelo.    Take time to cut out the mediocre mantras (though lovely they may seem) and  get to the heart of your piece and make your title sing and dance and stomp around on the page.    
You find that you, the writer will be energized and creative by your own title work.  


Here are a couple examples of lame to good to excellent titles:    The idea - When a female teen turns twenty.   Lame:     Teen to Twenty, An Overnight Sensation.   Good:    Say Hello To The Real World, Girlie.
Excellent:  Always Wear Red When It Counts!    The last title was scooped up  from my motherly bucket of spicy advice while raising three daughters.     


So why is that the excellent title?    Because it has rhythm and is a tad outrageous.   There's an element of surprise and asks a question in the mind of the reader.   It bops a reader on the head and says, "read on, read on."   Because it leans toward the authoritative, it tempts the reader to want to   learn more about this blogger/mom who seems to think she knows  everything about the color red and perhaps all things fashionable.      


At this point in the blogging process, the writer must offer up a feast of yummy words and a delightful, entertaining  story that would satisfy even the pickiest reader.


3.   Besides the "others first" and the "bop on the head" title making, the "take away" message is truly the icing on the cake.    


We can type into dawn and only 
.

What? Where is Christ Now?

No Longer torn and bloody

No Longer dead

No Longer in the tomb

Where is Christ now?

Easter sings, announces. . . Christ is Risen

Renewed and Strong 

Standing Tall

Alive, Vibrant, Smiling

But, Where is He now?

Down the road on His way to Heaven

He stops to visit friends, dines with them,

Makes promises,

Ascends

Where is He now?

Today, March 8, 2012?

Here

Alive

In This Hour

With Me

With You

For Me

For You

Forever!

The Miracle of Good Friday
Lives Anew

THANK GOD FOR GOOD FRIDAY!

When I was a kid, Easter meant new shoes and ruffled anklets, straw bonnets and new undies to match my new pastel dress - complete with white cotton gloves and tiny New Testament.    Good little girls also carried "change purses" on Sundays.      Easter morning's surprise basket brimming with all things "chocolaty" and bunny-like rivaled Christmas at our house.     

Today, I think back on those days and smile.    Oh yes, I can still smell the new shoes and feel the hardness of the heels on mine.     I adored having my picture taken and the way I felt when properly dressed for the Easter service at our Methodist church.    I cherish those memories and admit I applied those mandates to my three daughters when they were young.


Now, wiser and a true follower of Christ, I am continually awestruck with Easter.    Holy Week means more to me than I could explain in our limited language.
So, yearly I focus on one aspect of the Ascension of Christ to make it more personal and a richer part of my life.    


This year I humbly (with a grateful heart) attempt to place myself in the grandest Christian tragedy, the drama misnamed,   Good Friday.   It's  there on that earthly stage I ask God to anoint my imagination-- to enter my mind, my  emotions, my understanding, and my story telling.  


 I yearn to observe and honor the Lord's mother, Mary, and link my mother/heart to hers in a deeper way.


Here is that story:


I fall beneath the cross,  

And linger there on that lonely hill.

The smell of dust hangs in the thick air.
Fingers and faces scrape hard into the earth.
I taste the dust as my mouth moves closer to the soil.  
Fully prostrate, I lay my forehead onto my wrist.


Then, lift my eyes just in time to . . . 


See my Christ's lips move for the last time.  Then He sighs as his barren ribs rise and fall.

Sounds come out of me - my grief engulfs me.  
"My Lord, My Lord."




Others weep, some wail as the blast of heaven thunders across their broken hearts.    


The stained cross is downed by those who lifted it on that lonely hill.


The cross, no longer needed.

The ground trembles as my Christ is lowered into the uplifted arms of His mother, Mary.  Others struggle to release Him from the nails, the ropes, the humiliation.

Mary caresses her Man-Child's broken body.  She holds his head - bruised and caked with blood.   His skin hangs in strings of flesh,  allowing vessels to lay open, empty.  

All is exposed.  She searches for the last shreds His scant clothing to cover Him.    She kisses His swollen eyes and whispers, "My Son, My Savior, My God."

She wipes His wounds with the sleeve of her robeand holds His dangling Hand as she walks  with others as they carry Him to a grave spot nearby. 

The cave is dank and dark; the bedrock, cold and hard.    

Mary  wraps Him once more in swaddling clothes and lays Him on the narrow slab.   Her tears fall across His Body creating tiny creases in the linen.   His once warm and strong body lay limp, lifeless.     Just before she wraps His Holy Face with the delicate grave cloths.      she places her lips on His.     "Goodbye, my Son, my Holy Son.

She watches and waits with gasping groans - -

Sorrow unspeakable, she leans toward the cave, arms outstretched - as if to say, "please come back,"

As the immense boulder rolls across the opening to her Son's grave.  

I stand in awe as I observe her deep sadness - her rounded shoulders, her bowed head, her slowed steps.


Silence, a Holy Silence, falls across the hearts and minds of those present; mine as well.

In that quiet hour two Bodies of Light and Form appear and sit down next to Mary on the ground.    It appears that is larger than the other, but when I see them stand, I see they are identical Beings.   Twins I believe.    I recognize them  for they were the same Beings that visited me when I was widowed years ago.    Their loving Presence is like no other 




Mercy,  with Grace remain and gather  around Mary on the grassy mound nearby.    Mercy wraps her arm across Mary's shoulder, Grace holds Her Hands.     "Compassion and Trust will visit you soon," they tell Mary.    "They are on assignment with the High Eleven just now."  Mary looks deeply into their eyes and for the first time in many days, a faint smile appears.

They bring with them  the vials of the Comforting Oil of Presence sent to earth by God The Father.    They open the slim bottle and pour out just a drop of the oil and place it in the shape of a cross across Mary's forehead.    Within minutes, she leans on Grace's shoulder and falls asleep.       Others gather the leftover grave cloths and cover Mary to ward off the cool night air.


I stand and look about me; my clothes crumpled and filthy, my sandals barely covering my muddy-crusted feet.   My hair hangs in  damp strings.    My voice is hoarse and hot, grinding with anger.   My arms are heavy and limp.   I want to shout and lift my fists to the murderers of my Lord, but can't.      From the depths of my being a certain silent voice spoke, "This must be - the Cross must be."      I climb higher, up to another flat boulder and lift my face toward heaven.    


Below me Mary sleeps while others stand in disbelief.    
I ache for her; I pray for her, I honor her.


I  looked back toward the half moon of a mountain where Christ's Cross had pierced the narrow landscape.  
I gasp when I reviewed what had happened there just hours before.


Just then I heard a rustling of voices and saw the lovely descent of angels flowing down and around Mary and those standing nearby.   Their voices in perfect harmony sang to Mary as they praised and worshiped 
God.    Heaven sent, they lifted their voices in a sacred language, unknown to me.    Mary, at times, joined in their singing.   Mercy and Grace sang as well as they walked among the choir of angels.    There was no need for light as the robes and wings of the angelic beings  shed a calming glow that could be seen for miles around, even into the darkest valleys.   

In those moments the rocks and trees and streams and skies blended their natural voices into the joy rejoicing and it became the most beautiful song  ever heard on earth.   "All Is Well, All is Well, All Is Well."


Around midnight just as the stars become their brightest, I watched as the angelic beings rose into the clear night air, except for two
I've heard, and I believe it's true, that an uncommon breeze picked up the beautiful, holy song and carried  it n the cool night air to that lonely hill where Jesus took his last breath on earth.     A shepherd boy who lost one of his lambs  wandered up the lonely hillside the next morning and found his lamb safely asleep in a broad field of wide-petaled lilies, white and gleaming, taller than the shepherd, brighter than the sun.   


Carrying the lamb across his shoulders on his way to his flock, the shepherd boy remembered a story his father him about  how he wandered upon a