Lord, I’m setting out to ride. Go with me and be my guide. Keep me safe from angry dogs, Poison snakes and feral hogs,
Yellowjacket on my shades, Gravel up the steepest grades, Headwinds and torrential rains, Roadways blocked by poky trains,
Traffic in the neighborhoods, Sasquatch in the deep back woods, Drivers texting (how insane!), Dually pickups in my lane,
Guinea hens that run afoul, Rednecks passing with a growl, Sunburn, potholes, cows that roam… Maybe I should just stay home.
Yes, I’ve actually seen / experienced pretty much every one of the items listed. The feral hog was road kill that I passed years ago, but to this day, whenever I ride that road I look for escape options, just in case. But I really did have a yellowjacket stow away on my sunglasses. When I tried to flick it off with my safely gloved hand, it fell on my arm, stinger-first.
And yes, I often do pray for safety when I start a ride. Last time I did, my requests got so specific that I laughed at myself and started composing this poem in my head. I threw in everything I could think of.
But you know… if I let every potential obstacle or hazard stop me, I’d never do anything. Hence the poem’s last, short line.
Today’s guest post appears courtesy of Kelsey Gillespy, my longtime critique partner and beloved friend. (When we became outnumbered by her children, the critique sort of took a back seat… but the friendship never did.)
You’ll love her, too! See more about Kelsey below the post.
Take it away, Kelsey!
Thursday means one thing at our house.
I won’t say how long we’ve held the tradition of grabbing a greasy pizza once a week—that’d be too embarrassing—but I will say it has been such a beloved, time-tested tradition in our family that one of my son’s first words was ‘pizza’.
Back then, he hung from the crook of my elbow in his carseat as I paid for our pre-ordered pizza.
“EEEEEETTTTZZZZAAAAAAAA!!!!” he’d shout, his tinny voice rising above the ringing phones, the bantering employees, the roar of the oven. “EEETZA! EEETZA! EEETZAAAAAA!!!”
Once, an employee stopped everything he was doing to cock a brow at the little baby. Then he turned his confused look to me. “Is that baby yelling, ‘pizza’?”
Flushing, I gave a casual flick of the wrist, as though it were totally normal for babies to have an addiction to greasy food. “He really likes pizza.”
And it continued that way for a long time. The boy ate so much pizza in one sitting, his cheeks were stained red from tomato sauce.
So it isn’t any wonder that, not too many Thursdays ago, my son came to the pizza parlor with me and his baby sister to pick up a big ol’ pie (fortunately, this time, the baby wasn’t screaming ‘pizza’ at all the employees).
“All right, bud, I’m going to need your help,” I said as I gathered all our things together.
Eagerly, the little boy leapt to my side, ready for action. “What can I do to help?”
I plopped three containers of extra sauces into his hands. “I need you to carry these.”
Three sauces. Two small hands.
His jaw dropped in disbelief. “You mean I have to carry ALL the sauces??”
“Yes, that would be very helpful,” I replied as I slung the diaper bag over one shoulder and picked up the baby in her car seat. And also got the pizza. And the breadsticks. And opened the door so my son could walk through. And. And. And.
My son followed, grimacing in intense concentration as he stared down the full load in his hands. Gingerly, he walked to the van, taking one slow step. Then another. Aaaaand another. Careful not to drop what he’d been given. Finally—thank heavens—we were at the car door.
Is that what I look like when God asks me to do something? I wondered to myself, a smile half-cocked on my face as my son dumped all the sauces in the passenger seat, and then grumbled about how much he had to do.
The answer was yes. That’s exactly what I look like.
Every day, God plops some extremely minuscule portion of His will into my hands.
I feel its weight in my clumsy fingers, and almost instantly, my jaw drops in disbelief.
You mean I have to take care of ALL these kids?
You mean I have to do ALL this laundry?
You mean I have to wash ALL these dishes?
You mean I have to write ALL these chapters?
“Yes, that would be very helpful,” God replies, humbly leaving out the fact that He was the One who created the kids. And gave me an amazing, supportive husband. And provided our clothes, our home, our washing machine, our dishwasher, our dishes, our everything. And gave me the ideas and inspiration for my writing. AND opened the doors for me to pursue writing. And. And. And.
I follow Him as best I can, grimacing in intense concentration as I stare down the full load in my hands. Gingerly, I walk beside Him, taking one slow step. Then another. And another. Careful not to drop what little I’ve been given.
Finally, thank heavens, I reach the end of the day and let everything drop, often astounded by how much I got accomplished.
Yet, in reality, I hold the smallest fraction of the big picture. God knows I can’t hold the big stuff. It would flatten me outright. So He does the heavy lifting, walking beside me, matching my extremely slow stride as I fumble the tiny bit in my hands. Struggling to take. Each. Slow. Step.
The truth is, it would probably be easier for God if He just did everything and we got out of His way.
But, for whatever reason, He made us to be helpers. Co-redeemers.
All we have to do is hold the sauce and walk with Him.
See? I told you you’d love Kelsey. Don’t stop with this one story, though. For more of her fresh insights and zany stories, visit her website, Kelsey Gillespy | Faith ~ Family ~ Fiction. Here’s the link: https://kelseygillespy.com/
Kelsey Gillespy homeschools her four kiddos, gets her fitness fix with Camp Gladiator, writes faith and family blogs and dystopian novels, captures the beauty of the world through photography, serves as a seventh grade youth minister, and plays piano badly. All WITH kids. Living proof that life doesn’t end when you become a mom.
Chef Hadley Beckett’s cooking show is all sweet Southern charm. Chef Max Cavanagh’s show, To the Max, perpetuates his hot-tempered, bad-boy reputation. When they’re the two finalists on a cooking competition show?
Hide the knives.
Weeks after his end-of-competition meltdown, Max gets out of rehab / anger management to find his popularity shot. To get back on the air, he’s forced to work alongside Hadley, who never wants to see him again.
I thoroughly enjoyed this hilarious story. Between the on-camera personas, the backstage maneuvering, and the minefield of personal feelings and career aspirations–not to mention the droolworthy dishes the chefs keep whipping up–author Bethany Turner kept me laughing and turning pages.
The book is available from Amazon and other retailers. I hope I’ve whetted your appetite for this Great Weekend Read!
Guess what: Today, March 2, is Texas Independence Day. That day in 1836 is when Texas declared independence from Mexico and became its own republic. About ten years later it became the 28th state in the Union, but some of … Continue reading →
Tuesday morning, I woke up early and checked the weather on my phone. The temperature read “-0”. In other words, negative zero degrees F. “Negative zero? What does that even mean? Is it, like, colder than regular zero?”
What a drag. We’d been in a deep freeze for five days already. One of the two tankless-water-heater intake lines had frozen so we had no hot water at that end of the house.
Brent, concerned about sensor batteries, moved two of our bikes inside from the garage. Then a retro one with old, vulnerable tires. Before I knew it, all the rest of them had slipped indoors. We had to ooch sideways to sit at the breakfast table.
Two inches of ice encrusted the swimming pool. Rolling blackouts kept us guessing (unlike some friends and family, our outages have been fairly short with a couple of hours in between). Only about four inches of snow had fallen, but swirling wind had piled it a foot deep– right in front of the garage door.
I mean, we were okay–we had food, water, and heat–but kept busy trying to stay ahead of everything. Instead of going out through the patio door and letting all that 12-degree air inside, we took to exiting via the garage, which stayed above 40 degrees. This saved a lot of heat. Brent dubbed it “the airlock.”
First Brent, then I spent part of the midmorning shoveling snow. This was actually kind of fun.
As long as, you know, I never have to do it again.
Late that afternoon, Brent took a hair dryer and extension cord to warm up the water line. About the time he collected and hooked everything up and removed the cover from the water heater, the electricity shut off.
Meanwhile, I’d started dinner. In one pan, my lucky special barbecue beans simmered. The electricity shut off just as I pulled the griddle out to cook the burgers.
Fortunately, I knew the old-school way to light the gas stove with a match. Too bad I couldn’t turn on the vent fan. I decided NOT to grill the onion slices I’d cut earlier.
I’d flipped the burgers and was slicing a tomato when Brent asked me for an old towel to use as extra insulation for the water heater, since he had the cover off anyway. “Sure, I’ve got a couple upstairs.” I ran up to my stash and came back with a suitably faded, scruffy towel, which he took outside.
Back to the stove to check… wait, that smells like– Sure enough, a bit of smoke drifted above the griddle, right through the splash cover. “Oh crud…” I hustled that skillet out to the garage like I was a bouncer and it was a 13-year-old who’d sneaked into a nightclub.
Too late. The nearest smoke alarm gave a couple of experimental whoops and then launched into its earsplitting tirade. Great. How do I turn it off?I’d run into a similar problem before and was not optimistic, even if a tall enough ladder had been handy.
I left the slightly charred beef patties (griddle and all) in the garage and went back in, covering my ears. No way to hush the stupid alarm until the smoke dissipates. But how, with no vent fan?
Desperate, I opened the patio door and swung it back and forth, fanning that 12-degree air right into my own kitchen.
So much for the airlock.
Moments later, the smoke alarm blared less urgently, then tapered off to a few last whoops.
Blessed quiet. The Monty Python skit was over. Wisely, I refrained from asking, “What else could possibly go wrong?”
Please don’t think I’m complaining. In fact, I had to laugh at the comedy of errors. After all, we at least had power most of the time and weren’t in any real hardship. So many people all over the state are still in serious danger. And we couldn’t get out to do anything for anyone. We can only check on our family and friends via phone, and pray.
But eventually this deep freeze will thaw and it’ll feel like Texas again. I am hopeful.
We even got to eat our hyper-well-done hamburgers.
I’d love to hear your stories or comments. There’s room for you in the box at bottom of screen.
Jody L. Collins, my friend and fellow writer, knows how to listen.
She listens to people. She listens to God. And she listens to nature.
A poet at heart, Jody spent years reading and absorbing inspiration from the work of dozens of fine poets. Along the way, she blended their inspiration with her other listenings into a body of original poetry. Universal music in her own voice.
In this book, Hearts on Pilgrimage: Poems and Prayers, she has collected her poems and organized them into phases or seasons. Read through these pieces, maybe straight through from first page to last. Or browse the titles–the lovely, the whimsical, the no-nonsense–to see what catches your fancy. “Thresh Hold,” perhaps? or “Gossamer Faith,” or “Steps to Picking Raspberries.”
Most importantly, take time to enjoy, to savor each one.