FOREVER FRIENDS, MY LITTLE PAPERBACKS

I like one-word  snappy nouns so if BOOKLOVER was one word, I would adopt it as my own, slap it on my business card and letterhead.     Separated, the words dangle, wedded, they wow me.   ;  A lover of books, I am, I am.    Even my old, bedraggled, dog-eared, grungy ones.    You know, the ones that get put on the bottom shelf because of their unsightly appearance and curly pages.

Yearly, I take inventory of my books to convince me that I must edit my shelf for some reason.    Usually, this occurs in the spring during what I loosely call, Spring cleaning.    So, dutiful I am to my inner critic, I stoop down to the lower shelves to downsize my stash of books.     A friend suggested that I might share my books with the nearby thrift store and help others.    I smiled  but secretly thought that that would be like giving one of my kids to the corner cafe.

I love my old books, especially my little paperbacks.   They've stayed with me through multiple moves, moody days and mushy moments I'd rather not mention.    They are my friends; they instruct, they calm me when I'm near hysteria  and they deliver all sorts of wisdom, homely tips and kindnesses when I'm feeling sort of, righteous and good.    Here is a list of some of the little paperbacks that have changed me for the better:

The One Minute Manager, Trust the Process, An Artist's Guide to Letting Go, Freedom of Simplicity, Hinds' Feet on High Places, Funny, You Don't Look Like a Grandmother and my all-time favorite little paperback: My Utmost For His Highest, the little paperback that walked with me and held my hand (and heart) through my first months of widowhood.    

Now, can you just imagine me ridding myself of these masterpieces of kind literature that befriend me even when I'm cranky or confabulated about reducing my stash of books.

DO YOU HEAR EASTER CALLING? DO I?

Soon we will lean toward a sanctuary of thoughts offered by those who seem to know a secret.     The lily lit churches worldwide await our new shoes and bonnets.     The Easter secret seems to be all about One Who died with all manner of gruesome details - bloodshed, nails, dangling flesh and heartache.      


Yet the story gets glorious when we read the end of the story which, in fact, is the strong doorway to the sanctuary of Truth and Triumphant Energy.    This Divine contradictory of Truth v. the pitiful, remains the reason for Life, a renewed life, an abundant life-quest abounding with grace, peace and miracles.


For me, Easter is the Ultimate Extremism.    Within a matter of hours our Christ suffered the deepest humility possible and in the next three days, He created the highest moment in history when  He rose from that black cold cave back into the warmth of His Holy Father's 's Arms.      The Ultimate Greeting,   "Welcome Home My Brave Son," changed the world forever.     What a page turner in the history of book of Life.


Today we are left with the Unseen Presence Who just happens to sit with me now.    Yes, it's a kind of miracle, but the same One who spun gold across the sky at night and once held the earth in His Mighty Hands by day is my truest friend and guide.    God sent His Son to show us His Image in body form as well as in heart.    


Happy I am in this afternoon hour in March just as the sun slides across my desk for the first time in days.    Outside my wide window, the dogwood branches lift and sway and the robins return .    It's a a new day, a new fresh family of good ideas and hope-dreamed goals.    Perhaps I shall illustrate my book, What Does God Look Like? and ship it off to the publisher - with a lick and a prayer.    


There is no aftermath of Easter for Easter remains and lives and breathes in  those who dare to dance with the Easter side of Truth.    After an Easter Service in church, we may kick off our new shoes and remove our bonnets but not our peace, for we have been visited by the Prince of Peace and if we acknowledge Him, Easter will be our reason for being, now and forever.    


Winter must die for the sake of the dogwood and the daffodil.   Spring must surrender to Summer and Summer must melt into the glories of the crimson leaf.    I, too, must die to the the tendency to tamper with the Sanctuary of Holy Thought.     


I hear Easter's call, Do you?