Perhaps you have been writing for a long time. And you enjoy it tremendously.
Over the months, your writing has gone far beyond what you expected and dreamed of. You've developed your niche in your own writing style. A niche that you're so good at, and your many readers and friends know and see it too.
But how did you get better and better at WRITING?
Or you've only been tinkering and testing the waters with your writing at the onset of your discovery, "Hey,I do have a 'gift' of writing! Later, you realize, "I've got to set a goal with my writing. Or,"I've got to do something about my writing and get published. Or perhaps, earn.
Until you've built up your confidence, you've joined up with several writers' groups and began writing for publication. You enjoy writing so much that you thought you could do some freelance writing jobs.
With diligence and sheer joy with your "word-working", like what you've always been doing and believed--your exciting adventure with your writing career will surely go a long way.
Keep it up!
Monday, February 7, 2011
Home Schooling Adventures
Concerned about your child's education? If they've been in any institutionalized school, are you at peace with what they are being taught? What about the Biblical values you, as a parent, have been teaching and helping your child to embrace, and then lead your child to love God with all his heart, soul, mind and strength? Is the traditional school supporting you in your parenting endeavors?
Well, I've had this conviction 12 years ago. My dear loving husband supported me in my conviction to take full responsibility in teaching, and educating my children in the "ways they should go" (Proverbs 22:6).
After reading up some articles about homeschooling, asking parents who homeschool and wannabe homeschoolers, our confidence built up to full surrender to the call of God to home-educate our own children (three girls at the time).
As soon as Reuel said yes, and after much prayer and counsel from His Word, together, we bravely committed to do it.
In 1996, our homeschooling journey took on with excitement, adventure, and blessings.
We now have seven precious children. With humility, I learn everyday with my children in the process of teaching them at the same time.
If you've just pulled out your child from a traditional school, and you do not know where to start, here's a very good way to find help: Pray. Ask God the you need His help, "for without Me, you can do nothing" the Bible says.
Once you've done the first-things-first, then you can begin to seek advice from people who know their craft, God-given gift as a parent, and most importantly their commitment to their children by homeschooling them; and building your home in a loving, caring, gentle, disciplined atmosphere of homeschooling.
Would you like to try your new quest for knowledge in homeschooling? Have a look at Knowledge Quest, Inc. and Homeschooling ABC's.
Click Here!
With prayer, confidence and willingness--you can do it.
Well, I've had this conviction 12 years ago. My dear loving husband supported me in my conviction to take full responsibility in teaching, and educating my children in the "ways they should go" (Proverbs 22:6).
After reading up some articles about homeschooling, asking parents who homeschool and wannabe homeschoolers, our confidence built up to full surrender to the call of God to home-educate our own children (three girls at the time).
As soon as Reuel said yes, and after much prayer and counsel from His Word, together, we bravely committed to do it.
In 1996, our homeschooling journey took on with excitement, adventure, and blessings.
We now have seven precious children. With humility, I learn everyday with my children in the process of teaching them at the same time.
If you've just pulled out your child from a traditional school, and you do not know where to start, here's a very good way to find help: Pray. Ask God the you need His help, "for without Me, you can do nothing" the Bible says.
Once you've done the first-things-first, then you can begin to seek advice from people who know their craft, God-given gift as a parent, and most importantly their commitment to their children by homeschooling them; and building your home in a loving, caring, gentle, disciplined atmosphere of homeschooling.
Would you like to try your new quest for knowledge in homeschooling? Have a look at Knowledge Quest, Inc. and Homeschooling ABC's.
Click Here!
With prayer, confidence and willingness--you can do it.
Writer's Writing Job
You enjoy writing. You love writing.
Words, ideas, stories after stories pour out like waterfalls gushing through that write-brain stream of yours. Your writing has become your essential part of life as breath is to a baby.
You write as easily as a master-hand crafts an intricate basket, weaving strands of words together. And you are always pleased with your craft.
You write in such a way you speak. It comes so natural. And to me, words are God's wonderful gift to mankind.
With your experiences as a writer, have you ever felt:
1. the need for help to becoming a better writer? And be able to do your best you could possibly be as a "word-worker"?
2. the need to join with other writers' groups and help in any way you can hone in your fellow writers' skills as good writers?
3. setting your goals to encouraging others in their expertise in their craft of writing? What really motivates you in your unique niche as a writer? Inspiration and a lot of reading worthwhile books set you in the right direction.
4. that you do want to work hard, be better skilled and earn money? That's not too bad.
You've built up your confidence over a short time. While some are still finding their way to coming out of their shell. We need good writers like you to influence for the good--honoring God.
You might be one of many influential writers who have found out this site:
Click Here!
There are freelance writing jobs readers of this blog can do to earn. Have a look and
Click Here!
This is where I'm at. I'll test the waters for myself like you have.
Words, ideas, stories after stories pour out like waterfalls gushing through that write-brain stream of yours. Your writing has become your essential part of life as breath is to a baby.
You write as easily as a master-hand crafts an intricate basket, weaving strands of words together. And you are always pleased with your craft.
You write in such a way you speak. It comes so natural. And to me, words are God's wonderful gift to mankind.
With your experiences as a writer, have you ever felt:
1. the need for help to becoming a better writer? And be able to do your best you could possibly be as a "word-worker"?
2. the need to join with other writers' groups and help in any way you can hone in your fellow writers' skills as good writers?
3. setting your goals to encouraging others in their expertise in their craft of writing? What really motivates you in your unique niche as a writer? Inspiration and a lot of reading worthwhile books set you in the right direction.
4. that you do want to work hard, be better skilled and earn money? That's not too bad.
You've built up your confidence over a short time. While some are still finding their way to coming out of their shell. We need good writers like you to influence for the good--honoring God.
You might be one of many influential writers who have found out this site:
Click Here!
There are freelance writing jobs readers of this blog can do to earn. Have a look and
Click Here!
This is where I'm at. I'll test the waters for myself like you have.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
First Draft
“Dreaming as usual, Miriam?”
Miriam stifled a half-smile, didn’t answer, and then went back to her reverie.
“You’re extremes. It’s either you’re out here tiring yourself, or lulling half asleep with a book.”
“I wasn’t asleep,” Miriam said and pulled a blade of grass. “I was watching the lake.” A giggle escaped, she knew Grampa was only teasing.
“Look there! The blue wrens took flight, then back with their morsels and fed them to their baby starlings.” Then Miriam pointed to the mountain, “I’m waiting for the sun to brush its last ray on that ridge.”
“What’s on your mind, Miriam?”
She hesitated.
“I’m satisfied, Gram. My final manuscript’s ready for publication.”
“Your first non-fiction, “The Daughters’ Return” will be out soon. I believe in you, Miriam.”
“Thanks, Gram. But, I’m not sure how the mainstream churches will accept it,” she sighed, “because, I’m only eighteen.”
“I’d care more what parents would think and do about the obvious modern-day issues.” He stared at the visionary young author, “You poured out your heart and life on your first book.”
“I wish I’d become a pilot, and ventriloquist, instead.”
“How d’you think author Miriam’s gonna do that?” Grampa said, chuckling.
“Gram?” Silence pervaded.
“A-huh?” Miriam watched him gaze at the distance, Grampa always knew how she felt.
She sucked in breath of the late afternoon mist.
“If only Mom were alive.”
“Yeah. I miss her too”
“Hey, Gram,” she wiped away tears, “you haven’t written for a year since Mom died. Why not dig up those manuscripts and have them published?”
Turning back to the house, they passed the sloping banks inlaid with blooms and thickets of wild daisies and lavender. The evening walk was pleasant under a full moon. They could see the lights from the house uphill.
“Gram? Can you make me your apprentice?” Miriam spoke under her breath. “And while I’m at it, the first draft of my next book might have a head start.”
Grampa jested, “Apprentice with me, heh?”
“How ‘bout it, Gram?”
“Hmmm...”
“Best-selling author— my grandad! Me, apprentice. Isn’t that how I’m supposed to be-- to set out for the second book I’m writing?”
Miriam teased, “Disciplined under the tyranny of a master teacher of writing. I think, I can learn to cope with that,” she chortled, a gleeful laugh felt nice.
“Hold your horses, child,” he said. “So now I’m the expert at cutting writers to the quick with my criticisms, heh?”
“Dyo’ think you haven’t done that for forty years as editor, Gram?”
Grampa thought a while.
“I was once a young writer brimming with hope. I learned to endure, to perfect, and to challenge my pain-makers-- my writing teachers.”
Practice. More, more, practice. Miriam’s writing-craft perfected and became enjoyable. She remembered her first bicycle ride. Without thinking of the techniques, now became natural to her.
Grampa continued, “Variety. Clarity. Precision. These enlisted for my watchwords since.”
“Clichés clutter,” Miriam mimicked, “watch out for those awry lines and words.”
“See here,” Grampa showed Miriam’s latest manuscript. “You did well with your catchy, inviting words in every page.”
“I... I wanted to impact my readers. Otherwise I didn’t do my job well.”
With “The Daughters’ Return”, would her readers have profound experiences with her live, moving characters? Miriam hoped. She wanted the best of her readers’ time, what they were willing to heed and be challenged by --was important.
She was young. Did Miriam have a real understanding of human nature?
“My book might be a failure, Gram.”
“Study. Experience. Vision. These are what make you a skillful young writer, Miriam.”
Her heart leaped with joy.
“It was a pleasure knowing my characters. It was not easy. Sometimes I thought, “’Did my characters say this? Or was it me?’”
“You’ve seen the otherness in so many people around you. You had a teacher--your mother.”
Miriam’s experiences with wiser women helped make her book become a reality.
But it left her a vast terrain of sorrow and pain in the middle of success and loneliness for her best friend-mother.
“Beyond that horizon of grief, rejoicing places higher into which your mother has been the heart of your writing tapestry.”
“O, Grampa, I wish Mom were here -- to pray with me.”
“With your writing-gift, God, our Master-Teacher equips. And He hears, Miriam.”
Miriam fought back the tears. Grampa’s words delved into her heart.
Silence.
“Now, Miriam, let’s get started with your first draft.”
“How does the title, “Journey into God’s Will” sound, Gram?”
---------------------------------------------------------------
Miriam stifled a half-smile, didn’t answer, and then went back to her reverie.
“You’re extremes. It’s either you’re out here tiring yourself, or lulling half asleep with a book.”
“I wasn’t asleep,” Miriam said and pulled a blade of grass. “I was watching the lake.” A giggle escaped, she knew Grampa was only teasing.
“Look there! The blue wrens took flight, then back with their morsels and fed them to their baby starlings.” Then Miriam pointed to the mountain, “I’m waiting for the sun to brush its last ray on that ridge.”
“What’s on your mind, Miriam?”
She hesitated.
“I’m satisfied, Gram. My final manuscript’s ready for publication.”
“Your first non-fiction, “The Daughters’ Return” will be out soon. I believe in you, Miriam.”
“Thanks, Gram. But, I’m not sure how the mainstream churches will accept it,” she sighed, “because, I’m only eighteen.”
“I’d care more what parents would think and do about the obvious modern-day issues.” He stared at the visionary young author, “You poured out your heart and life on your first book.”
“I wish I’d become a pilot, and ventriloquist, instead.”
“How d’you think author Miriam’s gonna do that?” Grampa said, chuckling.
“Gram?” Silence pervaded.
“A-huh?” Miriam watched him gaze at the distance, Grampa always knew how she felt.
She sucked in breath of the late afternoon mist.
“If only Mom were alive.”
“Yeah. I miss her too”
“Hey, Gram,” she wiped away tears, “you haven’t written for a year since Mom died. Why not dig up those manuscripts and have them published?”
Turning back to the house, they passed the sloping banks inlaid with blooms and thickets of wild daisies and lavender. The evening walk was pleasant under a full moon. They could see the lights from the house uphill.
“Gram? Can you make me your apprentice?” Miriam spoke under her breath. “And while I’m at it, the first draft of my next book might have a head start.”
Grampa jested, “Apprentice with me, heh?”
“How ‘bout it, Gram?”
“Hmmm...”
“Best-selling author— my grandad! Me, apprentice. Isn’t that how I’m supposed to be-- to set out for the second book I’m writing?”
Miriam teased, “Disciplined under the tyranny of a master teacher of writing. I think, I can learn to cope with that,” she chortled, a gleeful laugh felt nice.
“Hold your horses, child,” he said. “So now I’m the expert at cutting writers to the quick with my criticisms, heh?”
“Dyo’ think you haven’t done that for forty years as editor, Gram?”
Grampa thought a while.
“I was once a young writer brimming with hope. I learned to endure, to perfect, and to challenge my pain-makers-- my writing teachers.”
Practice. More, more, practice. Miriam’s writing-craft perfected and became enjoyable. She remembered her first bicycle ride. Without thinking of the techniques, now became natural to her.
Grampa continued, “Variety. Clarity. Precision. These enlisted for my watchwords since.”
“Clichés clutter,” Miriam mimicked, “watch out for those awry lines and words.”
“See here,” Grampa showed Miriam’s latest manuscript. “You did well with your catchy, inviting words in every page.”
“I... I wanted to impact my readers. Otherwise I didn’t do my job well.”
With “The Daughters’ Return”, would her readers have profound experiences with her live, moving characters? Miriam hoped. She wanted the best of her readers’ time, what they were willing to heed and be challenged by --was important.
She was young. Did Miriam have a real understanding of human nature?
“My book might be a failure, Gram.”
“Study. Experience. Vision. These are what make you a skillful young writer, Miriam.”
Her heart leaped with joy.
“It was a pleasure knowing my characters. It was not easy. Sometimes I thought, “’Did my characters say this? Or was it me?’”
“You’ve seen the otherness in so many people around you. You had a teacher--your mother.”
Miriam’s experiences with wiser women helped make her book become a reality.
But it left her a vast terrain of sorrow and pain in the middle of success and loneliness for her best friend-mother.
“Beyond that horizon of grief, rejoicing places higher into which your mother has been the heart of your writing tapestry.”
“O, Grampa, I wish Mom were here -- to pray with me.”
“With your writing-gift, God, our Master-Teacher equips. And He hears, Miriam.”
Miriam fought back the tears. Grampa’s words delved into her heart.
Silence.
“Now, Miriam, let’s get started with your first draft.”
“How does the title, “Journey into God’s Will” sound, Gram?”
---------------------------------------------------------------
Infinity: Simply Calculus (Testimony of a Homeschooling Mom)
I often marvel at mathematical formulas and equations.
It confounds me when I watch my daughters decipher Saxon Math problems with ease. They make sense of algebraic equations as simple as baking banana bread. Baking calls for maths in converting proper proportions with the right ingredients. Thus, their success at both, algebra and cake-making, helps me re-evaluate my own knack in solving simple arithmetic and culinary skills. There’s always room for learning and improvement. And I’m set for increasing my knowledge as a home school teacher and mom.
My eyebrows furrow at Jotham’s fractions and reducing portions to smaller equivalents. His quick-to-learn and get-on-with-it study habits inspire my desire to further my studies in the world of numbers. Pursuing advanced calculus down the track though is quite a strange wish, and is unlikely to materialize.
Homeschooling has its share of ups and downs. One of them is teaching Algebra. As I share this with some homeschooling moms, they share the same uneasiness, “You are not alone in this.”
To be able to brave through the tackling of the most obscure equations, my imploring knees to the All-Wise Creator must first be in fervent operation. After all, with just a word, He put the whole universe in perfect place and order. Another mom echoed, “What a mighty God we serve!”
Re-learning the basics in math is invigorating and uplifting too.
Another usual home-schooling morning, Jotham needed my help. Fifty-five items of problem equations and fractions in his math workbook daunted me at first glance. A half-smile, a half-puckered lip met with my creased eyebrows. My whole face looked like a fraction of anxiety and courage. Finding the standard formula for algebraic equations was most elusive. I was hard at thinking. I was concerned for my son’s future endeavours with facing higher maths. I guess, the mother’s heart in me overruled. The clock ticked rapidly towards lunch break. But beyond doubt, we advanced at a steady speed. I wasn’t giving up. I must teach him. I must relearn.
Here were five simple approaches to how I valiantly defied my trepidation in math:
1. helped the best I could,
2. be cheerful,
3. took a deep breath: portrayed that I was in control –of myself.
4. consulted my valuable teacher’s manual;
5. make sure Dad was available for deliverance.
A writer-editor and friend who taught her daughters until they graduated from their homeschooling is now reaping the fruit of her labor. She noted to me, “Why, my eldest now teaches college maths.”
I pondered, “Hmmm, why not me?” My friend, an author and editor, a homeschooling mom, her labours are never in vain. On second thought, I might as well get back on board into writing... while I teach.” My heart leapt with joy.
-----
My sons acquired the term, infinity. Elementary school math introduced this word attached to a mathematical formula, I think. I don’t remember defining it to them from one of their math text books. But I suspected that they might have read about it somewhere in our library of 1800’s-1900's antique books. But I cannot underestimate the probability that they might have learned infinity from a dusty Advance Calculus book neatly stacked in some crevice intended for that volume. Given the benefit of the doubt, they might have gotten it from Isaac-Newton’s use of calculus. Rumours tell me, Daddy contributed this endless word to their vocabulary.
If my old memory remained loyal, my grade five definition of infinity was, “Never ends.” At the time of writing this article, Thesaurus gained my gratefulness. My success with word search yielded dividends, at least to my simple satisfaction. Perpetuity. Time without end. Eternity. I think, never ends suited me just fine.
Just the other night at our sporadic Daddy-Mommy-time alone, courage beckoned me to admit my ignorance. I asked my husband what sort of term was infinity.
“Is it scientific? Is it spiritual? Or is it simply calculus?”
My husband, a man of few words, answered, “Simply calculus. Infinity characterizes God, as well. He’s no beginning and no end.”
“Whew!" To me, it was an exhilarating breakthrough to know this, "Thanks, Hon!” My guess was right.
Since the conception of its usage, infinity has acquired its valuable place in the many phases of our home life. It hasn’t worn out its use and function to whom and for what it was intended.
For instance, each time food was served on our ten-seater, messmate dining table; my sons often rate my cooking: “Infinity out of infinity, Mom!” Even the little ones, Gilead 3, and Uzzielle, 5, copy, "Fin fin, Mom." What many pleasant meal times they'd been. My English inclinations to correct, “Use proper adjectives, dear” just simply amounted to infinite gratitude of, “Oh thank you, children, I’m very glad you like my yummy, scrummy cooking!”
Isaac-John, 8, and I exchanged hand signals. Three squeezes meant, “I love you”. But his boyish little hand squeezes,as hard as he could, hard squeezes that seemed more than three. And he said, “I love you Mommy, infinity out of infinity.”
Well, if stones of calculus were still of use today, its mathematical functions could never logically reason away love. Methodically, love cannot be confined. Symbolically, love, and all of the rates, volumes and gradients of human wisdom combined cannot explain the love overflowing from a mother to her child, and a child to his mother.
There is one encompassing and better love: It is the high cost of the free gift of God's mercy. It is the perfect kindness that came down from glorious Heaven to be with humanity. God has begun it, and perfected it at the cross by His only Begotten Son Jesus Christ.
It’s a high call to all to come, repent of sin, and surrender to the never ending, infinity out of infinity merciful love of God.
The Scriptures says, “Nor shall height, nor depth, nor any other creature, be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Math? Who? Me, teach Math? Piece a’ cake?
Yeah, come to think of it, it should be, with more work plus time put out while at it.
If home-teaching drew me closer to God, then, it was good. I see it now, to serve the Lord with fear, rejoicing with trembling because of what He did for for me on the cross- He truly loves me. He truly loves my children.
Teaching then at home is my simple, reasonable service to our merciful, Eternal God.
___________________________________________
It confounds me when I watch my daughters decipher Saxon Math problems with ease. They make sense of algebraic equations as simple as baking banana bread. Baking calls for maths in converting proper proportions with the right ingredients. Thus, their success at both, algebra and cake-making, helps me re-evaluate my own knack in solving simple arithmetic and culinary skills. There’s always room for learning and improvement. And I’m set for increasing my knowledge as a home school teacher and mom.
My eyebrows furrow at Jotham’s fractions and reducing portions to smaller equivalents. His quick-to-learn and get-on-with-it study habits inspire my desire to further my studies in the world of numbers. Pursuing advanced calculus down the track though is quite a strange wish, and is unlikely to materialize.
Homeschooling has its share of ups and downs. One of them is teaching Algebra. As I share this with some homeschooling moms, they share the same uneasiness, “You are not alone in this.”
To be able to brave through the tackling of the most obscure equations, my imploring knees to the All-Wise Creator must first be in fervent operation. After all, with just a word, He put the whole universe in perfect place and order. Another mom echoed, “What a mighty God we serve!”
Re-learning the basics in math is invigorating and uplifting too.
Another usual home-schooling morning, Jotham needed my help. Fifty-five items of problem equations and fractions in his math workbook daunted me at first glance. A half-smile, a half-puckered lip met with my creased eyebrows. My whole face looked like a fraction of anxiety and courage. Finding the standard formula for algebraic equations was most elusive. I was hard at thinking. I was concerned for my son’s future endeavours with facing higher maths. I guess, the mother’s heart in me overruled. The clock ticked rapidly towards lunch break. But beyond doubt, we advanced at a steady speed. I wasn’t giving up. I must teach him. I must relearn.
Here were five simple approaches to how I valiantly defied my trepidation in math:
1. helped the best I could,
2. be cheerful,
3. took a deep breath: portrayed that I was in control –of myself.
4. consulted my valuable teacher’s manual;
5. make sure Dad was available for deliverance.
A writer-editor and friend who taught her daughters until they graduated from their homeschooling is now reaping the fruit of her labor. She noted to me, “Why, my eldest now teaches college maths.”
I pondered, “Hmmm, why not me?” My friend, an author and editor, a homeschooling mom, her labours are never in vain. On second thought, I might as well get back on board into writing... while I teach.” My heart leapt with joy.
-----
My sons acquired the term, infinity. Elementary school math introduced this word attached to a mathematical formula, I think. I don’t remember defining it to them from one of their math text books. But I suspected that they might have read about it somewhere in our library of 1800’s-1900's antique books. But I cannot underestimate the probability that they might have learned infinity from a dusty Advance Calculus book neatly stacked in some crevice intended for that volume. Given the benefit of the doubt, they might have gotten it from Isaac-Newton’s use of calculus. Rumours tell me, Daddy contributed this endless word to their vocabulary.
If my old memory remained loyal, my grade five definition of infinity was, “Never ends.” At the time of writing this article, Thesaurus gained my gratefulness. My success with word search yielded dividends, at least to my simple satisfaction. Perpetuity. Time without end. Eternity. I think, never ends suited me just fine.
Just the other night at our sporadic Daddy-Mommy-time alone, courage beckoned me to admit my ignorance. I asked my husband what sort of term was infinity.
“Is it scientific? Is it spiritual? Or is it simply calculus?”
My husband, a man of few words, answered, “Simply calculus. Infinity characterizes God, as well. He’s no beginning and no end.”
“Whew!" To me, it was an exhilarating breakthrough to know this, "Thanks, Hon!” My guess was right.
Since the conception of its usage, infinity has acquired its valuable place in the many phases of our home life. It hasn’t worn out its use and function to whom and for what it was intended.
For instance, each time food was served on our ten-seater, messmate dining table; my sons often rate my cooking: “Infinity out of infinity, Mom!” Even the little ones, Gilead 3, and Uzzielle, 5, copy, "Fin fin, Mom." What many pleasant meal times they'd been. My English inclinations to correct, “Use proper adjectives, dear” just simply amounted to infinite gratitude of, “Oh thank you, children, I’m very glad you like my yummy, scrummy cooking!”
Isaac-John, 8, and I exchanged hand signals. Three squeezes meant, “I love you”. But his boyish little hand squeezes,as hard as he could, hard squeezes that seemed more than three. And he said, “I love you Mommy, infinity out of infinity.”
Well, if stones of calculus were still of use today, its mathematical functions could never logically reason away love. Methodically, love cannot be confined. Symbolically, love, and all of the rates, volumes and gradients of human wisdom combined cannot explain the love overflowing from a mother to her child, and a child to his mother.
There is one encompassing and better love: It is the high cost of the free gift of God's mercy. It is the perfect kindness that came down from glorious Heaven to be with humanity. God has begun it, and perfected it at the cross by His only Begotten Son Jesus Christ.
It’s a high call to all to come, repent of sin, and surrender to the never ending, infinity out of infinity merciful love of God.
The Scriptures says, “Nor shall height, nor depth, nor any other creature, be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Math? Who? Me, teach Math? Piece a’ cake?
Yeah, come to think of it, it should be, with more work plus time put out while at it.
If home-teaching drew me closer to God, then, it was good. I see it now, to serve the Lord with fear, rejoicing with trembling because of what He did for for me on the cross- He truly loves me. He truly loves my children.
Teaching then at home is my simple, reasonable service to our merciful, Eternal God.
___________________________________________
Judge Erskine's Daughter
Zec Stone grunted, “Grrr!”
Annoyed.
Imperfection of human nature of those around him made Zec so cross to the core. Faint hints of intelligence from these people in question just irritated him. Zec felt that simpletons in his society are undeserving of his respect.
Another condescending outburst lost his words. Though so many in his vocabulary, summed it all up with, “Grrr!”
Letting out a series of annoyance, Zec folded his arms, freed them later when he got tired of their enclosure.
Paced. Muttered. Paced.
With a wave of his arms in the air, and then dropped them slapping his sides. The parlor contained enough room for what seemed miles he’d paced.
His treads on the azure carpet swirled dust. The first ray of western sun beamed gentle orange light into the French-laced curtains- casting shadows on the Edwardian choicest furniture. He had intended to vent his vexation in the library with, “W. Cowper’s Treasury.” But as soon as he had arrived, a settee in the parlor looked more inviting than Cowper’s.
Hisses almost took on snaking out the coiled annoyance from within. “Grrr,” with a few jolting words beating from his heart-- rising rapidly--loud enough to echo in the room. His voice thundered like an accomplished opera singer. The vibration in his libretto bounced within the walls of the parlor. Words escaped like a steed-- mounted, galloped at a full speed.
An Englishman by decent, Zec composed a tongue of wealth of vocabulary.
“Grrr!” He finally let out the fourth one. Color deepened on his cheeks. His hearers counted.
“Looks like your visit with Judge Erskine fell to naught.” Zec’s mother did not mean to jest. She was curious to hear how it all went.
“Come sit, and regale me about any good side of your visit.”
In the way he was behaving, Zec baffled the eloquence of the wise. But his mother knew him so well for twenty-seven years. She would have turned him on her knees for a life-changing spanking even if he were seven when he began to reason out for himself. Rather, she saved her words of wisdom for later--when Zec was cool-headed.
“Zecky, did you have a lovely chat with Ruth?” Lottie’s long braids dangled as she sat on Zec’s lap.
Zec colored and said, “I almost did.”
“She wasn’t there?” Lottie thought aloud and innocently. Pity came over her for her eldest handsome brother.
“Lottie, you little curious munchkins,” he paused, tugged a gentle pull on his sister’s braids.
“There were others visiting.” His crimson face deepened. A disdainful, “Hrmph!” fastened his lips. At which Zec chose the deep sigh than another surly “Grrr”.
“Hmmm,” acquiesced Mrs. Stone at who might be “visiting”. She was sure that Judge Erskine’s daughter could make a perfect daughter-in-law. Her eyes twinkled at the prospect. Every well-to-do matchmaking mother at church thought so too, for their own sons.
“Lottie, dear, time for supper,” interrupted Mrs Stone. She stood and ventured a gentle tap on Zec’s shoulder and said, “Father just came in from his study, we must not keep him waiting.”
The following week, the church choir commenced practice for Easter. Zec straightened at his pew and caught glance towards the sopranos. His heart raced,excited with a confident lift. Tenors usually sat behind the sopranos.
“I need a tenor soloist to accompany us in, “Calvary’s Mercy,” announced Mrs. Biggs. Satisfied, she liberally scanned faces from where a good number of choristers sat.
“Ehem,” keyed-in a baritone-speaking voice from the men’s side. A marvellous tenor, an earl-like stance possessed him-- sat straighter, yet continued looking at his music sheet. He was sure he could sing this high C.
“Mr. Zecky Stone, can you do this part?” said Mrs. biggs.
Brilliant! Zec thrilled at the choice made. But flinched at how the misfortune of a permanent, invisible pet-name tagged on him. Aunty Dottie Biggs never gripped her grrr-ing nature-- so aggravating, to never dub him that pet name! How insulting! A miserable pout nearly caught up. Ruth Erskine looked behind and smiled at Zec. He was sure that Ruth agreed with Aunt Dottie, not with the name but with his brilliant singing voice.
Whew! Saved by the smile.
Visiting with Judge Erskine’s daughter became frequent. Zec eyed the “farmer boy” with condescending animosity. He harrumphed crossly at such nature of a suitor. He was sure that farmer-boy would never get a chance!
----
Judge Erskine’s messenger bestowed from his hand an elegant silver envelop. He laid it on Zec Stone’s hand.
1, September 1860, 10:00 am.
Judge and Mrs. Mosse Erskine
Mr. and Mrs. James Weaver
Request the honour of your presence at the marriage ceremony of
Ruth Erskine and Aaron Weaver
-------
Reception at Judge Erskine Estate
Special Song By:
Mr. Zechariah Jr. Stone
Grrrrrrrrrrrr!
Proverbs 16:18 Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.
Annoyed.
Imperfection of human nature of those around him made Zec so cross to the core. Faint hints of intelligence from these people in question just irritated him. Zec felt that simpletons in his society are undeserving of his respect.
Another condescending outburst lost his words. Though so many in his vocabulary, summed it all up with, “Grrr!”
Letting out a series of annoyance, Zec folded his arms, freed them later when he got tired of their enclosure.
Paced. Muttered. Paced.
With a wave of his arms in the air, and then dropped them slapping his sides. The parlor contained enough room for what seemed miles he’d paced.
His treads on the azure carpet swirled dust. The first ray of western sun beamed gentle orange light into the French-laced curtains- casting shadows on the Edwardian choicest furniture. He had intended to vent his vexation in the library with, “W. Cowper’s Treasury.” But as soon as he had arrived, a settee in the parlor looked more inviting than Cowper’s.
Hisses almost took on snaking out the coiled annoyance from within. “Grrr,” with a few jolting words beating from his heart-- rising rapidly--loud enough to echo in the room. His voice thundered like an accomplished opera singer. The vibration in his libretto bounced within the walls of the parlor. Words escaped like a steed-- mounted, galloped at a full speed.
An Englishman by decent, Zec composed a tongue of wealth of vocabulary.
“Grrr!” He finally let out the fourth one. Color deepened on his cheeks. His hearers counted.
“Looks like your visit with Judge Erskine fell to naught.” Zec’s mother did not mean to jest. She was curious to hear how it all went.
“Come sit, and regale me about any good side of your visit.”
In the way he was behaving, Zec baffled the eloquence of the wise. But his mother knew him so well for twenty-seven years. She would have turned him on her knees for a life-changing spanking even if he were seven when he began to reason out for himself. Rather, she saved her words of wisdom for later--when Zec was cool-headed.
“Zecky, did you have a lovely chat with Ruth?” Lottie’s long braids dangled as she sat on Zec’s lap.
Zec colored and said, “I almost did.”
“She wasn’t there?” Lottie thought aloud and innocently. Pity came over her for her eldest handsome brother.
“Lottie, you little curious munchkins,” he paused, tugged a gentle pull on his sister’s braids.
“There were others visiting.” His crimson face deepened. A disdainful, “Hrmph!” fastened his lips. At which Zec chose the deep sigh than another surly “Grrr”.
“Hmmm,” acquiesced Mrs. Stone at who might be “visiting”. She was sure that Judge Erskine’s daughter could make a perfect daughter-in-law. Her eyes twinkled at the prospect. Every well-to-do matchmaking mother at church thought so too, for their own sons.
“Lottie, dear, time for supper,” interrupted Mrs Stone. She stood and ventured a gentle tap on Zec’s shoulder and said, “Father just came in from his study, we must not keep him waiting.”
The following week, the church choir commenced practice for Easter. Zec straightened at his pew and caught glance towards the sopranos. His heart raced,excited with a confident lift. Tenors usually sat behind the sopranos.
“I need a tenor soloist to accompany us in, “Calvary’s Mercy,” announced Mrs. Biggs. Satisfied, she liberally scanned faces from where a good number of choristers sat.
“Ehem,” keyed-in a baritone-speaking voice from the men’s side. A marvellous tenor, an earl-like stance possessed him-- sat straighter, yet continued looking at his music sheet. He was sure he could sing this high C.
“Mr. Zecky Stone, can you do this part?” said Mrs. biggs.
Brilliant! Zec thrilled at the choice made. But flinched at how the misfortune of a permanent, invisible pet-name tagged on him. Aunty Dottie Biggs never gripped her grrr-ing nature-- so aggravating, to never dub him that pet name! How insulting! A miserable pout nearly caught up. Ruth Erskine looked behind and smiled at Zec. He was sure that Ruth agreed with Aunt Dottie, not with the name but with his brilliant singing voice.
Whew! Saved by the smile.
Visiting with Judge Erskine’s daughter became frequent. Zec eyed the “farmer boy” with condescending animosity. He harrumphed crossly at such nature of a suitor. He was sure that farmer-boy would never get a chance!
----
Judge Erskine’s messenger bestowed from his hand an elegant silver envelop. He laid it on Zec Stone’s hand.
1, September 1860, 10:00 am.
Judge and Mrs. Mosse Erskine
Mr. and Mrs. James Weaver
Request the honour of your presence at the marriage ceremony of
Ruth Erskine and Aaron Weaver
-------
Reception at Judge Erskine Estate
Special Song By:
Mr. Zechariah Jr. Stone
Grrrrrrrrrrrr!
Proverbs 16:18 Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.
“Spring Break Axe Mur..."
“Yeah, I heard about it, Jos. Ashley’s Mom called and asked me if I’d let you.”
“So?” Will you let me, Mom?”
“Ah-ah, nope,” I braved an answer. I knew she would growl at me.
Jocelyn pouted. Sulked. Glared at me. “Why, what’s wrong with Spring Break Axe Mur...” she didn’t continue.
“You tell me, Jos.” My thirty- year-old wisdom in mothering Jocelyn hadn’t gone a long way since I was seventeen when I had her. But it was worth the try.
“Oh, Mom!” Jocelyn let out her usual tantrum. “I’m fourteen; I know what’s good and bad for me.”
“I suppose Tiffani, Ashley and all at the youth group who’ll be watching it believe the same thing?”
“ Don’t care what they believe.”
“I care, Jos.” I let out a sigh, hoping she’d understand. “I do care whom you associate with.”
“It’s only a movie, Mom”. Jocelyn slouched on the couch beside me. “They say, it’s kinda’ cool if I’d go and see it.”
“Wait here.” I tapped on her knee and prepared to dart into the kitchen.
“Mom, I gotta’ go! They’re waiting for me at Ash’s.” She’d whined and shuffled her feet under the coffee table.
“I’ll be there in a minute! I’ll just bring this choc mud cake I baked a while ago. Thought you might like to eat it with me.”
I craned my neck by the kitchen doorway. Jocelyn cupped her chin. Her pretty face drooped into despondent look of imagined imprisonment. She eyed the wall clock, which ticked away a chance at breaking loose from my clutches—her mother--if she dared.
“Here, your favourite,” I sliced a fourth piece. “Watch that special ingredient I put there.”
Her doomed pretty face changed. An I- wonder- what- Mom’s- up- to face lightened up a bit.
“Isn’t this your usual mud cake, Mom?”
“I put in some potting mix, and Collie’s poo to add darker shade. I ran out of choc’lit”
“Oh, Mom, d’yo expect me to eat this?”
“It’s only potting mix, and poo added to the nice cake. What’s wrong with it?”
“Yuck!”
“Spring Break Axe ... Murderer,” I braced myself for the real thing to say . Even though she’d be upset with me, I cringed my face and went on, “tell me what’s it like to sit there in the movies and taste and see all that rubbish?
Silence.
"I’m sorry, Jos. I’m not sold to this kind’o’ thing Friday nights at the movies with your friends at youth group.”
Her head hung, “I...I’ll call Ash, and tell her I’m not coming,” resolved Jocelyn.
“Thanks. I'm proud o'ya', Jos.”
“Oh, thanks, Mom.”
“So?” Will you let me, Mom?”
“Ah-ah, nope,” I braved an answer. I knew she would growl at me.
Jocelyn pouted. Sulked. Glared at me. “Why, what’s wrong with Spring Break Axe Mur...” she didn’t continue.
“You tell me, Jos.” My thirty- year-old wisdom in mothering Jocelyn hadn’t gone a long way since I was seventeen when I had her. But it was worth the try.
“Oh, Mom!” Jocelyn let out her usual tantrum. “I’m fourteen; I know what’s good and bad for me.”
“I suppose Tiffani, Ashley and all at the youth group who’ll be watching it believe the same thing?”
“ Don’t care what they believe.”
“I care, Jos.” I let out a sigh, hoping she’d understand. “I do care whom you associate with.”
“It’s only a movie, Mom”. Jocelyn slouched on the couch beside me. “They say, it’s kinda’ cool if I’d go and see it.”
“Wait here.” I tapped on her knee and prepared to dart into the kitchen.
“Mom, I gotta’ go! They’re waiting for me at Ash’s.” She’d whined and shuffled her feet under the coffee table.
“I’ll be there in a minute! I’ll just bring this choc mud cake I baked a while ago. Thought you might like to eat it with me.”
I craned my neck by the kitchen doorway. Jocelyn cupped her chin. Her pretty face drooped into despondent look of imagined imprisonment. She eyed the wall clock, which ticked away a chance at breaking loose from my clutches—her mother--if she dared.
“Here, your favourite,” I sliced a fourth piece. “Watch that special ingredient I put there.”
Her doomed pretty face changed. An I- wonder- what- Mom’s- up- to face lightened up a bit.
“Isn’t this your usual mud cake, Mom?”
“I put in some potting mix, and Collie’s poo to add darker shade. I ran out of choc’lit”
“Oh, Mom, d’yo expect me to eat this?”
“It’s only potting mix, and poo added to the nice cake. What’s wrong with it?”
“Yuck!”
“Spring Break Axe ... Murderer,” I braced myself for the real thing to say . Even though she’d be upset with me, I cringed my face and went on, “tell me what’s it like to sit there in the movies and taste and see all that rubbish?
Silence.
"I’m sorry, Jos. I’m not sold to this kind’o’ thing Friday nights at the movies with your friends at youth group.”
Her head hung, “I...I’ll call Ash, and tell her I’m not coming,” resolved Jocelyn.
“Thanks. I'm proud o'ya', Jos.”
“Oh, thanks, Mom.”
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