Author: Livin' What You're Given

“That is just ridiculous. What an idiotic thing to do,” the tall man, standing next to me, muttered to his companion. He was referring to the construction of a ship called Vasa (pronounced Va:sa, with accent on last syllable). It is housed in the Vasa Museum in the Royal National City Park in Stockholm, Sweden that my husband and I visited last year.

Our guide, as we toured the museum, told us Vasa is the legendary ship built by the King of Sweden in 1626-1627. It was commissioned as a symbol of the King’s military ambition and designed to be a powerful war vessel armed with tons of bronze cannons. The Swedish King, Gustavus Adolphus, used the majority of the country’s resources to establish a powerful military presence in his campaign to occupy countries in the Baltics and defeat Poland-Lithuania during a conflict he initiated in 1621.

Formidable as she was, and no doubt ready to prove her superiority in battle, Vasa was unable to make it farther than 1,400 yards out of the harbor on her maiden voyage in August, 1628. Due to instability caused by unbalanced weight from heavy battle equipment in the upper portion of her hull, she sank moments after leaving port. Despite warnings, the King proceeded with the launch that resulted in destruction of the vessel and loss of lives. The ship was salvaged and restored as closely as possible to original form in 1961. Today it sits in a museum designed to house this piece of Swedish history.

When we returned to the U.S., I thought little about this story, and what it said about personal choices, until recent months that is. As things in our country/world have escalated in violence, division, uncertainty and fear, I have felt increasingly more combative as a means to take control of the uncontrollable events around me. Then one day while looking at pictures from our trip, I found the photos of this ill-fated vessel. In my quiet time with God, I began to reflect on Vasa, what made her unsuccessful at her mission and what lessons could be learned from her.

God called me to start noticing how I proceed with each day and to answer the following questions. Do I pour my mental and spiritual resources into being better than or more powerful and dominant in my encounters with others (including on social media)? Do I arm myself with the heavy battle equipment of judgement as I venture into the sea of other humans who may also be feeling the sting of division, uncertainty and fear? Do I have need to engage in struggles while thinking there are only two sides and mine is the right side? Do I sometimes ignore the warnings of God’s teachings and my wiser friends when I am about to embark upon a course that can possibly lead to the destruction of a relationship or distance me from the Holy Spirit?

Sadly, I must confess that on some days, if I’m being honest, I have to answer guilty to all of the above. But being aware of these characteristics has brought me into a new realization about choosing courses of action. I can set my face toward battle as a primary function of my day. Or I can hand off my cannons, my illusion of mighty control and my need to be right, to the One who fights my battles for me.

As Keith and I have traveled this world, learned from her people, listened to the stories and histories of others, I am enriched by what God teaches if I will first take a seat in His classroom. I don’t believe He sends lessons to shame or blame. I believe He wants me to release the burdens that can keep me from doing the work He has assigned for me. In this case I’m grateful for the lessons of a ship built centuries ago.

After all we have endured in the first half of 2020, recently I’ve begun to wake up each day, look in the mirror and ask, “Got Vasa today? Or is there another way to sail the seas of uncertainty, division and sometimes fear?” It really is a personal choice. I know I can’t do this by my own power. Trying to do so adds frustration to the complicated mix of things I don’t want in my life. I’ve found it’s simply about being willing to ask for help in releasing those heavy cannons designed for battle and destruction that keep me from enjoying smooth sailing.

Connect with me, Laura Padgett, on Twitter @lauraleepadgett or my Facebook Author Page

Check out the books I have published:

• “Dolores, Like the River,” available at Westbow Press, Barnes & Noble, Amazon and all major online retailers.
• The award-winning “Jesus in Shorts: Twenty-five Shorts Stories of Life-Changing Jesus Moments,” available now at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

For autographed copies of my books, you may click on the tab for buying books on my home page and if you live in the U.S. I will sign and send a copy to you after you purchase one there.

“If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten we belong to each other.”

—Mother Teresa

“How can this be possible?” I ask my two table mates.

“How can what be possible?” replies one of my companions.

“You two sitting here, drinking tea and chatting like lifelong friends. It just isn’t possible and should not be happening. That’s all there is to it.”

“Why?”

I take a deep breath and try explaining what, to me, is obvious. “Because you are a . . . well, you’re a dog, and she’s a rabbit.”

“Yes, she is a rabbit and I am a dog. That’s true.” Dog empties his cup; then offers it to Rabbit who fills it again.

“By all that is natural and normal, you are enemies.” I speak using my most authoritative voice.

“Are we?” the dog asks.

I’m trying to decide if this dog is teasing me. At the same time, I wonder about the rabbit. I can’t understand why she is so calm. He could devour her in one chomp. “Yes. In the animal kingdom dogs chase and eat rabbits while rabbits run and hide from dogs.”

“How do you know that?” Rabbit asks, speaking for the first time. Her voice is not as soft as I expect. I’m surprised by the tranquil strength she exudes as she pours tea.

“I know because I have been taught that. Everyone knows that. It’s in books.”

“What are books?” Dog asks, leaning on the table with his forelegs pointed in my direction.

“What are books!?” I gasp. “Never mind that now. This rabbit should be running for all she’s worth, if she wants to stay alive.” Despite attempts to the contrary, my impatience laces every word.

“Should she?” Dog asks. The corners of his mouth turn upward in an almost undetectable smile that makes me think he’s just having a game with me. I know at any moment he’s going to put his enormous mouth on her tiny head and have a snack.

“What about you?” I ask Rabbit, imploring her to enter this conversation. “What do you have to say?”

Rabbit pauses and takes a deep breath. “I say it’s time for another pot of tea.” She raises one paw to attract the server’s attention.

“No, no, no. This isn’t about tea.”

Rabbit looks at Dog and then back to me. “Would you rather have coffee?

My bottom jaw drops to my breastbone and silence tumbles into my teacup. Dog sits back in his chair and eyes me. I begin to wonder if I’m the snack this morning.

I shake my head and return to my original question. “How can this be possible?”

Dog follows suit by repeating one of his original queries. “Why . . .” he begins while watching Rabbit as she pours more tea. “She has nothing to fear from me. She is my friend”

“Look, Mr. Dog. I mean no disrespect, but you eat meat, right? She is meat.”

“Yes. Do you eat meat?” Dog issues a full smile now in what I believe is canine humor meant to mock a less-wise human.

“Yes but . . .”

“Do you eat your friends?”

“Don’t be ridiculous; of course not. And you are changing the subject. You have nothing in common. You are enemies, plain and simple. You always have been and always will be.”

“I see.” Dog scratches his chin with one paw.

“We both like tea.” The sound of Rabbit’s voice startles me. I’ve almost forgotten she’s at the table. I jump, spilling hot tea on my right index finger.

“Ouch.” I put my finger in my mouth and sit in confused suspicion as I look from one to the other.

Dog uses his large, hairy paw to bring my wounded digit back to the table. He leans down and licks my new wound. His gentle touch dismisses my fear of being on his menu.

“We have many things in common even though we have many differences.” He looks around us. I follow his gaze. We are sitting at a small table outside a coffee house in the mountains of Colorado. We’re beside a clear stream carrying melted snow from high peaks that will provide water to the flatter lands. The waves in the water are various sizes. They flow at rapid speed, separate yet together, moving toward the same destination. They’ve no time to question solidarity.

My attention is drawn to three birds of different colors and sizes perched on a nearby tree branch. They perform a composition in three-part harmony that sends shivers of pleasure through my small frame. Dog nods as if he hears percussion in the little concert. I marvel at him and Rabbit in their unhurried, peaceful, shared relaxation.

Rabbit puts her delicate paw under my chin and lifts my head skyward. I gaze through green leaves and see an array of blue hues on an infinite canvas. The three of us follow movement of clouds chasing each other on their celestial journey. As we gaze upward together, I am brought into a secret corridor of their understanding. I become relaxed, at peace, content.

“I see.” I mutter. They are the only words I have uttered in several minutes.

Rabbit breaks the trance when announcing she must attend to her young. She departs under the brush and long grasses bordering the stream. Dog clears his throat.

“My humans will be concerned. It’s my lunchtime. I never miss lunchtime. You know us dogs must have our meat.” He winks and takes his leave.

My smile unmasks my joy of discovery, and I break into laughter. A voice interrupts my musings. “Honey, are you okay?” The voice belongs to my husband.

“Honey, wake up. Who are you talking to? Why are you laughing?”

As he nudges me awake, my eyes focus, and I attempt to explain. “Keith I’ve had the most extraordinary experience. There was a rabbit and a dog and tea and . . .”

“I know, Love. But it was only a dream. Tell me in the morning. It’ll be dawn soon.” He kisses my forehead and rolls over onto his side.

“No, no Keith. It was real.” My protests are lost as slumber recaptures him.

The clock says it’s a few hours past midnight, but for me it is already a new dawning. I get out of bed and move to the living room. Out of habit I reach for the remote control and turn on the TV.

A world leader is speaking to a cheering crowd of people. Those present raise their voices in enthusiastic roars of approval.

“We must never forget those different from us are our enemies. We don’t have beliefs, habits, or cultures in common. They’ll present a real threat if we allow them to bring their lifestyles into our country. I am telling you they will eat us for dinner if we don’t prevent it. It is them or us.”

Cheers and applause rise to an ear-splitting level.

“We must never forget they have always been our enemies. History tells us that. It’s been recorded in books throughout centuries. They will always be our adversaries. We’ll never see eye to eye or have common values. Why I bet they even eat different food than us.”

The crowd erupts in laughter and pumps their fists in the air. He joins them in both.

I turn off the TV, hug my legs into my chest, and rest my forehead on my knees. Keith’s right; it was only a dream. It just seemed so real to me. A tear comes to my eye and does its best to defy gravity but loses. I try to slow its progress by wiping it with my right index finger. The salty liquid stings and I pull my hand away. In the moonlight, coming from an open window, I stare at a little raised blister on my wounded right paw.

Illustration by Sally M. Cordrey, M.A.

It is usually my preference to write from the nonfiction lens. But every now and then, I step into the world of fantasy and/or allegory to express a creative idea. This story is based on a vision I was given by God four years ago by a river in Summit County, Colorado. It appears here for the first time on my blog. But it is featured in my book, Jesus in Shorts: Twenty-five Short Stories of Life-Changing Jesus Moments (details on how to purchase that book are below).  I believe, in this vision, God was trying to say that no matter how divided we seem at times, we have more in common than we think; and living in harmony is never impossible.

Connect with me, Laura Padgett, on Twitter @lauraleepadgett or my Facebook Author Page

Check out the books I have published:

• “Dolores, Like the River,” available at Westbow Press, Barnes & Noble, Amazon and all major online retailers.
• The award-winning “Jesus in Shorts: Twenty-five Shorts Stories of Life-Changing Jesus Moments,” available now at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

If you would like an autographed copy of my books, please click on the tab on my home page for buying books. I will send you one after you purchase it there.

“To what will you look for help if you will not look to that which is stronger than yourself?”
—C. S. Lewis, Mere Christianityš

For all my healthcare brothers and sisters in this current COVID crisis.

It is very quiet in the donor room. I try not to imagine the sounds made only days ago by the six-year-old boy now lying motionless, lifeless, under the paper drapes that cover the sterile surgical field. Instead I move through the setup of instruments, sponges, and sutures.

It is hard to resist temptation to wonder if he played baseball, had a sister whose hair he pulled, or squealed with glee as he wrestled his dog. I push away the image of him fighting bedtime before saying goodnight to his mother. “I love you, Mommy.”

I call all my training to the front lines in the battle to silence my heart. I focus on the rhythmic hum of the breathing machine pushing oxygen to organs we will harvest and place in other children’s ailing bodies. Despite my intense focus on the precious little gentleman in our care, the machine’s voice stays on the periphery of the oppressive silence resting in the room.

The surgeon stretches his hand toward me. For a little more than a second, we make eye contact. He says nothing. I need no words. I place the scalpel in his hand, and it begins.

At twenty-six years old, I am a skilled and practiced surgical technician. I know this is not the time to attempt dialogue. I don’t expect the banter and camaraderie I’ve come to enjoy in other operating rooms and different situations. Gurneys carrying patients roll past the closed door but are of no consequence to me. I take no notice of chatter at the scrub sinks.

I don’t dare step from behind my mask of a honed technician, to ask the question that will reveal my humanity. I stay well-guarded in the busyness of routine. I move methodically, efficiently, thinking carefully about my task—the mental equivalent of moving one foot forward, and then the other. I proceed alongside the doctor who is also stepping forward with one foot and then the other. We have done this dance before. We know the choreography by heart.

This child is my patient. He has been declared dead by medical and legal criteria. But in this room, in this hour, under these lights, and with all I have, I offer the gentlest of care for his dignity. Touching a little leg draped with a sterile sheet I attempt to connect with his young soul and let him know someone is here. He is not alone in these last, silent hours.

The surgeon puts his hand out. I respond. I place one metaphorical foot in front of the other. My eyes are the only visible part of my face. I will them to continue scanning the field in anticipation of the physician’s needs and order them to lock their tears behind stoic lenses unclouded by cataracts of emotion while, with tenderness, I hold in gloved hands the sacred hush. I am one of the last to feel life’s warmth in this little frame. I am noiseless as I again touch the small draped leg close to where I stand.

At the procedure’s conclusion, I attend to legalities of filling out paperwork. I head to the locker room, strip off my surgical clothes, and step into the shower. With hot, pulsing water cascading over me, I wait for the answer that my youthful mind insists will come if I just keep asking. I rest in the void of the unanswered query. Weak and tired, I surrender.

There are people I work with who say we cannot always know reasons for some earthly experiences. Still, my coworkers believe a power greater than us has the answers. Tonight, like never before, my heart craves their faith, their wisdom, their understanding. I find comfort in the words they’ve spoken. And I allow those words to flow over me with the tumbling water and unanswered question.

When I step from the shower, I dress and leave before the rest of the OR crew gathers for our weekly pilgrimage to the College Inn for enchiladas and half-priced drafts. No food or drink tonight. Not tonight. I start the short walk to my apartment on the edge of the hospital campus. I am alone.

My shoulders slump with heaviness as I think, not for the first time, about the boy’s parents. Where are they? Do they know their treasured child was not alone in the end? Do they understand he was treated with tenderness and love even as we disconnected the breathing machine? Are they holding each other in the shadows of both losing and giving hope with the stroke of a pen?

I’m two blocks from the hospital. It is safe to cry now. No permission is needed; none is sought. I move on and am careful to place one foot and then the other. My thoughts return to the words of faith shared by coworkers. I sense a presence I do not know but welcome into my silent space.

Now it is okay to ask, “Why?” Only this one word accompanies me on my journey.

Tomorrow I will start a new day and return to work. Perhaps I will help alleviate suffering by assisting with a gallbladder removal or repair of a broken hip. Maybe I will witness the miracle of new life at a baby’s birth. But tonight, tonight I think only of the little boy who slipped from this world into the next with me at his side.

At home I sit bathed in dim light. I am motionless, pensive, in awe of life, with respect for death. And I remain very quiet.

Illustration by Sally M. Cordrey

Excerpt from the book Jesus in Shorts: Twenty-Five Short Stories of Life-Changing Jesus Moments, Copyright 2018

This story was written because a friend of mine, Patricia Raybon, and I sat having coffee one day when she asked what it was really like to work in the OR. I told her that it was fast-paced and most of the time it looked like any other work situation, with friendships and camaraderie among co-workers. That was, however, not the atmosphere in the transplant donor rooms.  As we spoke, I drifted back to my days as an OR technician and first assistant. I found myself telling a story I had never told another living soul. I was back at a table where I stood over forty years prior to this conversation. I was recounting a memory I tried to bury deep in my heart and soul, for self-preservation. Patricia asked if I had ever written this story and I said, “No.” I could not consider that. I could barely speak it. But this is a woman I admire very much and I’ve always listened to her as she is a wise teacher. She convinced me to write it. I did and then submitted it to a Writer’s Digest Short Story Competition. It won honorable mention in the contest. Since then, it has been published in my second book, “Jesus in Shorts.” It has never appeared on my blog before now.  God has used it to minister  to many people who have had to make the agonizing decision to donate organs of a loved one, especially a child, after their death.

Connect with me, Laura Padgett, on Twitter @lauraleepadgett or my Facebook Author Page

Check out the books I have published:

“Dolores, Like the River,” available at Westbow Press, Barnes & Noble, Amazon and all major online retailers.

The award-winning “Jesus in Shorts: Twenty-five Shorts Stories of Life-Changing Jesus Moments,” available now at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

If you would like an autographed copy of my books and you live in the U.S., please click on the tab for buying books on my home page and I will send you a copy after you purchase a copy.

 And the crowds that went before him and that followed him were shouting, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!” And when he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was stirred up, saying, “Who is this?” (ESV Matt 21:9-10)

What can a Biblical story from thousands of years ago mean to me today, other than signaling the beginning of a sacred season in my faith base? But that season has been interrupted in the sense of routine. I just spent my first Palm Sunday in over forty years unable to be with other believers, wave palm branches, sing songs of praise and gratitude. I, like millions of others, was denied opportunity to delight in the community of those who, like me, believe Jesus came to save mankind from spiritual destruction and separation from God.

But this past Sunday, I stopped to reflect upon the first ever Palm Sunday. I asked myself (not for the first time) what that may have looked and felt like. As a follower of Christ, I like to think only of those who were there to offer “all glory, laud and honor” to Him. But there were many in the crowd who felt anything but praise and gratitude for this man on the back of a donkey. Celebrating His entry into the Holy City was not on their ancient bucket lists.

There were those who insisted He was a con artist trying to attract a following and undermine or even overthrow the religious ideas of the day. Some in the government and law enforcement were, no doubt, tired of dealing with the disruptions He caused wherever He went. Perhaps those falling into one or both of these groups wanted Him to just go away. I imagine others were curious and wanted to know what was going on and what this stranger had to offer or teach them. Perhaps the inquisitive ones were confused by people waving greenery and declaring this man the son of a king.

But His followers believed He was exactly who He said He was, and He’d come to offer a new way of living, thinking and worshiping God. They also hoped for a deliverance from the oppressive political system of their day. They hoped for a new King of Israel. I’m not sure if they were struck by the irony that this king arrived on the back of an animal signifying peace and not straddling a powerful beast symbolizing dominance, as many kings of the day rode.

Regardless of what or how they saw Jesus, the question was raised and remains today, to believers and nonbelievers, “Who is this guy?”

As I pondered this scripture in my quiet time with God, I realized he does not ask me to figure out how others of that day, or this, define Jesus. God called me to look beyond the church celebrations, rituals and finery to see the Jesus heading to the cross. Then He asked me to examine who Jesus is to me, not to my neighbor or to my Christian siblings. He asked me to find a deep meaning that does not rely upon opinions of others, political approval or my quest to be in step with whatever crowd I am part of at any given moment.

God asked me if Jesus is indeed the one I want to praise and worship, even in the face of difficulties and loss. Is He a bother some days when I don’t feel like loving others or finding a way to be generous to those who think in ways foreign to my mindset? Can I still say He is my “all” when He disrupts my life, my plans, my agendas? Have I relegated Jesus to the gumball-machine God who responds when I put in my required time and effort in order to get my way? Am I willing to allow Jesus to change my bad habits and misunderstandings in order to be more like Him? Most importantly, am I willing to ride through my life with expressions of inclusion and peace, or prance in on the steed of arrogance to impress and conform to a world treating superiority as the ultimate prize?

These were not indictments from God, but they were questions He brought before me. I know God does not expect perfection but rather willingness to listen, learn and try turning from some of the things in my mind and heart that keep me from being the woman He wants me to be. And on days when it is beyond my humanity to be willing, He asks me to be willing to be made willing.

Not only in this sacred season, but going forward, I pray to be reminded of who I am, and whose I am. And I pray that with each day I ask to know Him better and seek to do my best to ask and answer the question daily, “Who is this guy – to me?”

This is a re-post of this piece I published in April of 2020. We were beginning to see life as we knew it unraveled by a deadly micro-organism we could not see but felt the presence with grief, loss and fear. In the midst, I again asked myself, “Where is Jesus?”” Again, I was called to look hard at who He is, who I am in Him and navigate with faith, knowing that He was indeed here with me, with us.

Copyright April 2020 Laura L. Padgett re-posted March 2022

If you enjoy the stories on my blog, you will love my podcast

Connect with me on Twitter @lauraleepadgett  or my Facebook Author Page

Check out the books I have published:

“Dolores, Like the River,” available at Westbow Press, Barnes & Noble, Amazon and all major online retailers. If you live in the U.S. and would like an autographed copy sent directly to you, click on the tab for buying books on my home page and you can purchase a book directly from me.

The award-winning “Jesus in Shorts: Twenty-five Shorts Stories of Life-Changing Jesus Moments,” available now at Amazon and Barnes & Noble. If you live in the U.S. and would like an autographed copy sent directly to you, click on the tab for buying books on my home page and you can purchase a book directly from me.

Hummingbird Story-Pot

Shared with me by Kori Guy

       This is a story-pot about how the hummingbird saved the humans. In the Navajo way, as told by my clan (To’ Aheed Lii’ni) there was a miss-use of powers by the humans that the Holy People gave them.  They were abusing their women, and abusing their children, and the use of the water that they were given to bless themselves with and a miss-use of spiritual gifts as well.

       Because of the Holy People’s discouragement towards the Humans, the Holy People decided to remove all water.  Soon there was a great draught, and Humans began to be sorry for their miss-use of the gifts the Holy People had given them and prayed for forgiveness, and for the return of the water.  Eagle heard them and tried to fly to the Sun to ask for water to be returned. As he tried to fly too close to the sun, Eagle got burned in the process, and being discouraged, sadly returned to Earth, unable to find the water.  Hummingbird was touched by Eagle’s attempt to help the humans, so she decided to do what she could.  Though she was so small, she knew about water and Rainbow Woman being the main bringer of water, and, though the trip seemed impossible, she wanted to help the Humans. After all, they planted and cultivated the flowers Hummingbird loved so much, and because the humans loved flowers, Hummingbird could see they had some good in them still.

Hummingbird went to Eagle, helped him heal, and in return, asked for help to ride to the Sun.  Maybe if they worked together, they could find the water and save the Humans.  So Eagle offered his back for Hummingbird to ride on, to save her strength, and to take her as far as he could. When they got close to the Sun, Hummingbird took off, flying as hard as she could.  She wanted to do this herself, and knew just what she needed to say to the Holy People to show them that the humans were worth saving.

       Hummingbird flew into the Rainbow, took on the colors of the rainbow dewdrops and talked to Rainbow Woman. She promised that as long as there were Humans, she would fly to them, reminding them of the beauty that was within each of them, by showing them the colors of the rainbow, how water was precious, and how even though Hummingbird was the smallest of all creatures,  she could do the impossible. 

        Hummingbird was charged with teaching Humans that miracles are possible if only they believe and act is if it is done.  Rainbow Woman loved Hummingbird for her valiant heart and great self-less love, so she gave Hummingbird the gift of water to take back to Humans. Hummingbird and Eagle flew back to Earth with the water, plunging the crystal back into the Earth where it belonged, and warned Humans to always be careful with how they used water.  They were told to keep it pure and use it only for the most precious of uses.  Ever since that time, Hummingbird and Eagle have always been special messengers for Humans, giving us life and hope  and a special connection to the Spirit World.  They also remind us that we are to take care of one another, showing love and thoughtfulness, so we don’t lose the water again.

       This help they can give us only if we learn to ask for help from them, and learn to listen to the answers.  So are we listening to the Holy People?

Ahe’hee’ (Thank you),

Kori Guy- Dine’ Woolchoo’n (Navajo Quilt),

www.koriguy.com, www.HeartlineRanch.com

P.O Box 287, Chiloquin, OR 97624, 541-887-9013

In a time when we are being taught to fear others on all levels who are different from us, I find myself in frustration and spiritual dispair. Then recently, I ran across this story I was given years ago by my dear friend and Sister in the Lord, Kori Guy, Navajo/Cherokee To’ Aheed Lii’ni (Where the Water FlowsTogether Clan). Kori wrote this story down and presented it to me along with the hummingbird pot. I have never forgotten it. I wept as I revisited this story, held this pot close to my heart and prayed, “Father can we please remember that we are all precious in your site and should be precious in the site of each other. Please turn us from our wicked me-ness and return us to a heart of loving as you love, caring for as you care for, and respecting because you love and care for us so deeply. May we dare to work for the good of all no matter how small we see ourselves. Amen”

Connect with me, Laura Padgett, on Twitter @lauraleepadgett  or my Facebook Author Page

Check out the books I have published:

“Dolores, Like the River,” available at Westbow Press, Barnes & Noble, Amazon and all major online retailers.

The award-winning “Jesus in Shorts: Twenty-five Shorts Stories of Life-Changing Jesus Moments,” available now at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

If you would like an autographed copy of my books, please click on the tab on my home page for buying books. I will send you one after you purchase it there.

“I’ve spent most of my life behind bars. Many people see me as hard and scary.  In some ways I guess I am. Others see me as an unfortunate member of society who fell on hard luck. Still others feel I’m just lazy and find life easier by living off taxpayers’ money in prison.  In all honesty, I can’t say I ever met anyone who woke up one day and decided it would be a blessing to spend part of their life in jail.

But for me it was a gift because it was there I became a believer in the risen Christ. Today I live in joy and hope. And I am free in more ways than I can count,” he said.

He was a member of our adult Sunday school class and up to this point no one knew of his past. That day, we were studying forgiveness and gratitude. It was then he chose to share his story.

“You see,” he told us, “as a kid I learned that stealing was okay and using whatever means I could to eat was just a matter of survival.”

No one in the room spoke. I hoped our silence would encourage him to continue speaking. It did.

“The first time I was in jail, I learned very little except how to stay alive and perfect my criminal techniques for when I got outside. I was young and hung on every word uttered by the seasoned offenders.”

He let the hush hang in the room. When he continued, it was his audience hanging on his every word.

 “The second time I was imprisoned, for the same type of crime, I was introduced to Jesus Christ and His forgiveness. As I studied and learned of His mercies and promise of a new way to live, I felt something I had never known – gratitude.

Every day when I awoke, I made my way across five feet of cold floor to the small stool and basin in my cell. I began to speak with each step. When I put my right foot down, I said ‘Thank’ and when I put my left foot down I uttered ‘You’.

Soon it became a ritual for me to walk with those two words in my mind and feet throughout my day.  ‘Thank you. Thank you.’

This simple act allowed me to weather the harsh prison environment until my release. And today when I get up, I still walk to the bathroom, in my small apartment, with those same steps of gratitude. “

I asked him how he finds life on the outside. He said most days are good, even though he has challenges and roadblocks because of his past decisions. He confessed that many times he is not sure what he needs to do, and is tempted to return to what he once knew as existence options.

“But,” he said, “One thing is for sure. When I remember the sacrifice Jesus made for me so I could live hopeful and free, I can’t help but start my day thanking and praising Him. I’m assured that no matter what or who I meet, if I walk in thankfulness, I’m taking the next right step.”           

Copyright January 2020 by Laura L. Padgett

Connect with me on Twitter @lauraleepadgett  or my Facebook Author Page

Check out the books I have published:

“Dolores, Like the River,” available at Westbow Press, Barnes & Noble, Amazon and all major online retailers.

The award-winning “Jesus in Shorts: Twenty-five Shorts Stories of Life-Changing Jesus Moments,” available now at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

If you would like an autographed copy of my books and you live in the U.S., please click on the tab on my home page for buying books. I will send you one after you purchase there.

š

“They say a person needs just three things to be truly happy in this world: someone to love, something to do, and something to hope for.”

—Tom Bodett

šOne would think a seasoned member of Santa’s helpers, and captain of the Golden, Colorado Elves, could answer any Christmas-related question thrown her way. That was not the case this time, however. My inability to construct, let alone articulate, an answer was not because it was a difficult question. It was due to the setting, and what appeared to be the reason, behind the child’s query.

A few years ago, at Christmastime, my lieutenant elves and I were helping Santa in a church-based homeless shelter. We were attempting to keep the excited children in line while awaiting their one-on-one time with St. Nick. I was distracted from my duties by a tug at the bottom of my red and green tunic. A young boy, whose head came only to the middle of my five-foot frame, stood looking up at me. His twinkling brown eyes and wide, gap-toothed grin greeted me. He motioned for me to bring an elf ear closer to his mouth.

“Miss Elf, is Christmas for me too this year?”

His expectant expression punctured my soul. I was taken by surprise and trying to understand his need for clarification on this issue. I slowly raised up, hoping to buy time to come up with an appropriate answer. Somehow, a simple “yes” just didn’t seem to be enough.

“Yes. Yes, sweetest child,” I said. “Christmas is for everyone. And it’s especially for you this year.”

The twinkle in his eyes grew brighter as he received the answer. He nodded his head as if I had confirmed what he already knew and then moved in the direction of the big guy in red.

I was pretty sure there was a twinkle in my eyes as well. But my glimmer was due to tears bubbling up from a heart stung by his simple, sad question. I wondered how many times he had asked that question and what answers he may have received.

The boy and Santa were soon engaged in quiet, animated conversation. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him until I heard a soft voice in my left ear, “Thank you. May I give you a hug?”

I turned to face a woman in perhaps her mid-twenties. Her eyes were as misty as mine, but she was smiling much like the young man I had spoken with a few seconds earlier. Their similarities were unmistakable. I smiled and nodded my head. Her arms wrapped around me before I could blink. Then stepping back, she asked permission to tell me her story. I nodded again.

Her hand rested on my red, velvet-clad arm. “These last four years, my two children and I have lived on the streets after I ran from an abusive relationship, trying to keep us safe. In summer months we sleep under bridges. In winter we’re housed overnight in shelters, when there’s room for us.”

She dropped her head as she continued. “I never completed high school, you see. So I’ve only been able to find temporary and part-time work.”

When she looked back up, a smile accompanied the rest of her tale. “After I passed my GED a few weeks ago, I was accepted into a training program for a career I think will provide a livable income for us. This is the first real Christmas my children will remember. And at last I see light at the end of what has been a dark road for us. I have hope now for a brighter future. For the first time in years, I believe we will be okay.”

As she shared her journey, I gained an understanding into why her son asked the question. Having wrapped up his conference with Santa, her young child joined her. They moved to a table spread with roasted turkeys, hams, sweet potatoes, and a variety of freshly baked pies. The little guy pulled his mother toward the celebratory feast then stopped and turned to look at me. I smiled and winked at him. He smiled back, waved, and attempted a wink by blinking both eyes twice.

I left the church that night with elf bells jingling and pointed green shoes plodding along in a snow-covered parking lot. I thanked God for His mercies and for that little family. I felt gratitude for being able to witness that moment in their transitional season.

As I considered what had happened, I asked myself if I had ever really understood the true meaning of Christmas before then. Had I ever been such a close witness to hope offered to the hopeless? Had I ever really taken time from my busy schedule to observe others experiencing new life and another chance? Wasn’t that really what Christmas was supposed to be about?

While sitting in my car, under a city street light, I watched the snowflakes fall upon my windshield. I mulled over the numerous times I’d celebrated in decorated churches, sang carols, opened presents, and enjoyed delicious food. Yet, I could not remember ever feeling the peace and joy I unwrapped that night as I answered the simple question of a child who knows homelessness and street life firsthand but refuses to relinquish his precious sense of hopefulness.

I can honestly testify that in an old church, on a wintery Denver night, in the presence of a child-angel who relied on a secular elf to answer a sacred question, I was the recipient of the true Christmas blessing. I understood that every year, in the busyness of the worldly holiday season, there is one question that must never go unanswered: “Is the true promise of Christmas for me too this year?”

This post originally appeared on my blog December of 2013. It also has been published by Chicken Soup for the Soul in one of their “Merry Christmas” editions. And it appears in my latest book, “Jesus in Shorts: Twenty-five Short Stories of Life-Changing Jesus Moments.”

Connect with me on Twitter @lauraleepadgett  or my Facebook Author Page

Check out the books I have published:

“Dolores, Like the River,” available at Westbow Press, Barnes & Noble, Amazon and all major online retailers.

The award-winning “Jesus in Shorts: Twenty-five Shorts Stories of Life-Changing Jesus Moments,” available now at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

If you would like an autographed copy of my books, please click on the tab on my home page for buying books. I will send you one after you purchase there.

š

“A good laugh overcomes more difficulties and dissipates more dark clouds than any other one thing.”

—Laura Ingalls Wilderš

“These years don’t last forever. When you look back, you’ll see I am right about that.” These words came from my friend and mentor, Dolores, when my small son and I were visiting her one afternoon.

Dolores’ children were grown and living their own lives when I met her. She taught hundreds of young people as an educator, prior to retiring. She was my “go-to” person for advice on how to parent, especially when the waters got deep or murky. I was never shy about asking Dolores for help when needed. She offered those words that day because I related events of the previous week that were particularly frustrating due to multiple power struggles with my three-year-old.

After listening to her advice, I said, “I know. Everyone says that. But honestly there are times when I’m so tired I feel like I could sleep until the middle of next year. I love my son more than anything in this world, but some days I just don’t know how to cope with the challenges, not to mention the exhaustion.” As I spoke those words I felt like anything but a candidate for “Mother of the Year.”

“We have all been there, Honey. Most parents have thought their kids would be small forever and they’d never be able to keep up with the stresses that accompany the joys of childrearing. I always found it best in the tough times to remain calm, pray, and keep a sense of humor. The sweet, funny things are among the biggest blessings in parenting, and in life,” she told me. “And most circumstances have a funny side you know.”

I sighed and thanked her for the wise counsel. I was comforted by knowing at least I wasn’t a bad parent who was losing control. I reasoned that perhaps I could try seeing life’s events with a little more humor. I had no idea I would be called upon to put this new approach into practice a few weeks after our conversation.

One day my son, Gabe, was following me around with continuous chatter and requests. It seemed like every other minute he called, “Mom, Mom?”

His dad was out of town and his grandmother was visiting for the day. Although he loved his grandparents, it was his mother’s attention he wanted that day.

It was a pleasant day filled with activities aimed at keeping a toddler busy. There were no power struggles or tantrums disrupting our time together. Still, about mid-afternoon, I began to feel weary. That’s when Gabe’s grandmother offered a suggestion. “Laura, why don’t you go enjoy a hot bath and relax? Sometimes you just need to do something for you and not feel guilty about it. Explain to Gabe that you’re going to be in the big bathroom for a little bit, but you are still close. He and I can take care of each other for that time.”

I agreed, swept Gabe onto my lap and explained, “Gabriel, Mom is going to take a bath. When I get out of the tub, we’ll help Grammy make dinner. Then we’ll all play later tonight. I’m going into the big bathroom now. I won’t be far away. And I need you to do something for me.”

He nodded his head with such enthusiasm I was encouraged to continue. “Now, for the time I’m in the bathroom, which is just going to be a little while, I need you to stay with Grammy. And you know how you like to call ‘Mom’ when you want me? Well, while in I’m in there I don’t want you calling ‘Mom’ okay?”

He smiled, nodded again, kissed my cheek, wiggled down from my lap, and went happily on his way with his favorite action figure. I smiled, feeling confident he took the instructions quite well. I was overjoyed, guilt-free, and already feeling renewed by the prospect of taking care of me.

I filled the bathtub with warm water and fragrant lavender bubbles. After pouring a steaming cup of herbal tea, I settled into what I thought would be a luscious half-hour without my little one requiring my attention. About ten minutes into my bliss I was marveling at how well my son was behaving. I knew Dolores had been right. A kind and clear explanation, while inwardly praying, was all that was needed.

Then I heard a knock on the bathroom door accompanied by Gabe’s little voice. “Laura, Laura, you still in there?”

I took a deep breath, submerged into the bubbles. Blew out all the air and came up laughing. The little guy literally followed my exact instructions. I could almost hear Dolores giggling.

Just a few short months before I wrote this story, my handsome, thirty-two-year-old son took a bride. He walked into a journey that will include new adventures and challenges. I don’t offer advice to him or his lovely wife other than to, on occasion, work in some words from my mentor and friend. “Keep a sense of humor. The sweet, funny things are among the biggest blessings in life. And almost all circumstances have a funny side.”

Like most mothers I often reflect on the fact that, indeed, the years flew by without me being conscious of how fast time was moving. While my son was growing up, I treasured my few small patches of alone time. But today, in a season where my life has an abundance of alone time, I rejoice when I answer a ringing telephone and hear, “Mom?”

I am posting this piece, originally published on my blog several years ago, to honor my son on his 36th birthday. Happy Birthday Gabriel. This piece can also be found in my latest collection of short stories, “Jesus in Shorts: Twenty-five Short Stories of Life-Changing Jesus Moments.”

Connect with me on Twitter @lauraleepadgett  or my Facebook Author Page

Check out the books I have published:

“Dolores, Like the River,” available at Westbow Press, Barnes & Noble, Amazon and all major online retailers.

The award-winning “Jesus in Shorts: Twenty-five Shorts Stories of Life-Changing Jesus Moments,” available now at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

If you would like an autographed copy of my books and you live in the U.S., please click on the tab on my home page for buying books. I will send you one after you purchase there.

One of the biggest perks of being a professional author is that it has given me opportunity to mentor younger writers like my friend Esther Sexton. Earlier this year, Esther wrote a piece that I found wise beyond the years of the author. It is my great pleasure to feature Esther as a guest blogger today and to share her perspective on this timely topic as she celebrates her twelth birthday on November 28, 2019. Here, in her own words, Esther shares with us her perspective on God’s truth and the world’s.

Trying to Fit In by Esther Sexton

Have you ever tried to fit in? I know I have, lots of times. I’ve tried with clothes, looks, shoes or accessories…and I can go on.

God says, in the Bible, that charm can fool you. Beauty fades, but a woman who has respect for the Lord should be praised. This means you can be as charming as you possibly can be, but the truth is that looks can be deceiving. He also says beauty fades and goes away. We will get old.

He says that a woman who has respect for the Lord should be praised and that won’t go away no matter how old you get, how charming you want to be, or are, because God won’t go away. That is the truth.

So, no matter how much you want to “fit in” it’s really best if you stand out. I know this is easier said than done. But either you can stand with the world (a.k.a. the crowd) and be judged by God. Or you can stand with God and be judged by the world.

All those worries about what to wear and how to wear it will be gone one day. The choice is yours. What will it be?

A note from Esther: I’m Esther. I’m almost twelve years old. I have been writing for almost four years. I love writing with my BFF Laura. I want to be a nurse practitioner when I grow up. If you want to know more about God, let me know.

Connect with me, Laura Padgett, on Twitter @lauraleepadgett or my Facebook Author Page

Check out the books I have published:

“Dolores, Like the River,” available at Westbow Press, Barnes & Noble, Amazon and all major online retailers.

The award-winning “Jesus in Shorts: Twenty-five Short Stories of Life-Changing Jesus Moments,” available now at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

If you would like an autographed copy of my books and you live in the U.S., please click on the tab on my home page for buying books. I will send you one after you purchase there.

This entry is a repost of an entry originally done on my father’s birthday in February 2018. I repost it today as a way of honoring him and all of our brave men and women in uniform. We must never forget.

“He was  a hero you know.”

A stranger announced this while I sat at my father’s grave in Ft. Logan National Cemetery. It was Memorial Day Weekend. She was moving from grave to grave, placing small American flags in front of each headstone.

“Was he?” I asked.

She put a flag at my dad’s headstone, and then turned to face me.

“Why yes. All these men and women were heroes.” She swept an arm around the immediate vicinity.

“They paid a high price for our freedom. Some paid with their physical and
mental health; and some with their lives. We must never forget or dishonor
their sacrifices, or that of their families,” she said as she resumed her
journey.

I stared at my father’s tombstone. I hadn’t made many visits to this site
during the forty plus years since his passing. When I did visit, it was out of
obligation. Over the years, I practiced keeping thoughts and feelings about my dad far from my mind. That morning, however, I felt compelled to make an appearance at the cemetery.

“Here we go, water for the flowers and a screwdriver to dig out the metal
vase.” My husband, Keith, had dropped me at the graveside, parked the car and brought the necessary equipment to decorate the grave.

“What’s wrong?” Keith asked when I made no acknowledgement of his return.

“I thought you wanted to come here today.”

“I thought I did too. But when I got here, all the old feelings of resentment and fear of this man I barely knew came flooding back. Then some
woman in a red dress declared him a hero,” I snorted.

Keith went about adorning the grave with multi-colored irises. I watched him in silence until he finished.

“Do you want to go now?” he asked.

“No, I want to just sit here for a few minutes.”

It was a warm day with a slight breeze moving shadows of leaves from the
massive tree that grew a few feet from my father’s grave. I watched the lady in red walking among graves and placing flags. I thought about what she said, wondered why she spoke to me and how she knew anything about my father. I didn’t even know very much about him.

“Maybe it was a mistake to come here, Keith. I didn’t know much about this
man other than he had a bad temper that erupted at the slightest provocation.”

I directed my remarks to my husband but kept my eyes on the grave.

“Maybe you just don’t remember the good things about him. Maybe it’s time
you stopped hating your father and made peace with the past. What did she say?”

He nodded in the direction of the red-clad stranger.

“She said these men and women sacrificed their health, even mental health…” I trailed off and grasped.

“Where did your dad serve, Laura?”

I whispered the answer as I let out my breath. “Northern Africa. He was a
munitions expert on the front lines. He always said his hearing wasn’t right
because of explosions and yells from his fellow soldiers that were injured or…” again words failed me.

“Keith, do you think my dad had PTSD and that was why he had such erratic
and violent outbursts? I know he died from a service-connected disability in
his fifties, after decades of suffering. But do you think what they once called
“shell shock” was the major factor in Papa’s mental instability?”

“I don’t know, Honey. I think it’s very likely. What else to you remember
about him, besides his temper? Papa. Is that what you called him?” Keith asked. I nodded.

I sat for several minutes allowing the warm breeze and sunshine breaking
through the tree’s shelter to form a safe place for unpacking memories. I shook my head to clear almost fifty years of mental cobwebs laced with resentment.

“Well, he had a great sense of humor and quick wit. He loved music and Ed
Sullivan. He fancied himself quite the dancer. He and my mother went dancing a lot at the old Elitch’s Tracadero Ballroom. They won quite a few contests, you know. He was passionate about gardening too and particularly loved his trees and flowers.”

“He loved baseball and even though he completed school only through the
fifth grade, he had a photographic memory that allowed him to tell you who won most World Series contests and who was on the pitching mound at the time. One of his happiest days was when he could afford to take his family to see the New York Yankees play an exhibition game at Mile High Stadium. All his favorites were there – Mickey Mantle, Roger Marris and Yogi Berra. Papa smiled and stuck his chest out like those men were his personal friends.”

For the next two hours, we sat under the big tree as shadows shifted on and
around us while I told Keith about my dad. I alternated laughter with tears and silence until I realized why I felt compelled to visit his grave.

Keith was right. It was time to begin the healing and understand that my
father was not an angry, brutal monster. He had something no one diagnosed in those days – one of the effects of war – PTSD. He had no way of understanding or controlling it. As we strolled through my childhood there were as many, or more, good memories than bad. Those memories were buried under years of anger,  resentment, lack of understanding and even unprocessed grief.

As evening approached Keith reminded me we had a dinner commitment. I
reluctantly agreed to leave, but not before cleaning off my father’s headstone and rearranging the irises. I stood for a few minutes searching the massive cemetery for the lady in red but couldn’t spot her.

“Keith, did I tell you Papa’s favorite flower was the iris? He grew them you
know.”

“No I didn’t know that, Laura. “ Keith took my hand and with tenderness,
guided me toward the car. I turned to look back at the grave of Albert
Carvallo, Tech 5 U.S. Army WWII Veteran. Through tears of new-found recognition, I thanked him for the gift of my freedom that cost him his sanity, his health and ultimately his life. For the first time, I saw my father as a true war hero.

I’ve since cried many tears of loss and released my resentment toward my
dad. I’ve processed where our country would be without the brave men and women in uniform who selflessly sacrifice to protect and defend our freedom. And I’ve acknowledged that even from his grave that day, Papa gave me a new kind of freedom – that only found in the reconciliation of forgiveness.

There are still many things I don’t and probably will never know about the
man I called, “Papa.” This I know for sure: future visits to the final resting place of my father will no longer be out of obligation.

Original post February 2018. Re post November 2019

Connect with me on Twitter @lauraleepadgett  or my Facebook Author Page

Check out the books I have published:

“Dolores, Like the River,” available at Westbow Press, Barnes & Noble, Amazon and all major online retailers.

The award-winning “Jesus in Shorts: Twenty-five Shorts Stories of Life-Changing Jesus Moments,” available now at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

If you would like an autographed copy of my books and you live in the U.S., please click on the tab on my home page for buying books. I will send you one after you purchase there.