 Joshua and Caleb. Fresh from slavery. Ready for freedom and dirt of their own. Two of twelve sent to spy out the land the Hebrews once inhabited and were once again promised after a great deliverance...
They looked, they saw, they tasted, and they wanted to take back their land. The land was theirs after all. The God who delivered them from the hand of Pharoah, who generations before that, sent father Abraham from his home territory to find, said the land was theirs. These two knew it, trusted it, trusted the mighty hand of God and were ready. Ready for victory, ready to take back what was theirs before famine and oppression changed the course of their history. They were ready! Spears in strong hands, adrenaline and anticipation coursing through their blood and veins. They stood in front of Moses, mediator between mighty God and mortal man. A multitude of Hebrew humanity amassed behind them as they gave their report... the land was good, all God promised! Theirs to take back. hey raised their spears, muscles tense and tight with assurance. "Let's go!" they shouted with a stomp! A war cry, loud and strong, much the victory chant the Hebrews gave with shoulder checks, fist bumps and high fives, as the refugees rejoiced when they left the dead first born of Egypt behind them... Egyptian treasures in their carts and packs. "Let's go!" they screamed, veins popped out of strong necks, heads and spears raised to the glorious God of heaven... But no... No response... No reciprocation... No chant back this time. No "Let's go, let's go, let's go!" like before... when the masses shouted it in awe and in frenzy to hurry along the living littles as they walked between a wall of water on dry land. No, "Let's go!" like before... in unbelievable, earth trembling, mind-blowing, hands-on-head, fists-to mouth, glorious, victorious celebration when the sea swallowed up their enemies in front of their thunderstruck eyes. No. No, "Let's go." Not a whisper. They stood, the two of them, in the eerie silence... Looking, in question... in confusion... in disquiet, first to each other, then to Moses, they saw the answer in his furious and forlorn eyes. Mighty arms lowered, spears dropped, they turned and saw... They said, "Let's go," but ten of twelve spies said, "No." No way. No how. No go. They said there were giants. They said it was impossible. They said, "No go," and God said fine. No faith to go, no Promise Land for you. Save two. Two mighty warriors. Two men among the masses, strong to fight, ready for battle, God at their helm. These two would taste victory over more enemies. They would take back the land of their ancestors. They would... in time. Forty years they waited while the doubters died off, the lot of them. Forty years Joshua and Caleb waited. Forty years they trained the youth not to be weak, slave-minded victims, but God's chosen, victors. They waited and they watched plague, and snake bite, and marauders and God's mighty hand take one after another, in groups and individually, to their sandy graves. Then there was one. One last doubter. One last coward. One of the twelve. The last of the lot. Then there were none. Then Moses went to the mountain top and saw the Promised Land and told them to be strong and courageous. Very strong and courageous. Then they said, "Let's go!" Their army was with their God, victory was in their hand, and they proceeded into the Promised Land! "Let's go!"
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 Luna... Luna... Luna...
I've had stories inspire me to write them before, but Luna is the only character I've ever met that wants me to live the story with her. She came to mind about two or three years ago. I love her and want to get to know her. I'm not sure where this will go... but here we go... Let's talk about Luna... The Columbia Falls Volunteer Fire Department #3 Chief didn't usually call any available volunteers in or have morning briefings, but today he did. Asked any available volunteer to come in for a 7am briefing. Three were able to make it in, Bonnie, Sam, and Ken. The Chief started as they all informally took up space in the common area. "She came in last night. Well fed, clothes were clean. There's a canister of formula in the diaper bag. A safe harbor baby. Looks like her parents must have dropped her. All we've got is the video and the note. They were careful to cover their faces but definitely male and female..." The chief, a portly man, no one would want to see running into a burning building, pressed play on the video feed. The time tracker noted 12:54am. A couple, male and female, age unknown, carried a car seat and diaper bag up to the front of the Columbia Falls VFD #3. They came from the north side of the parking lot, kept any vehicle they used to access the fire department out of the video's view. Both were gloved, wearing over large shaded glasses and had COVID style masks over their nose and mouth. Both touched the baby, hugged the baby, lovingly but made no noise, spoke no words. They strapped the baby in the car seat, set the diaper bag beside it, with the note on top and walked away the way they appeared. The whole interaction lasted less than four minutes. "What's the note say, Chief?" one of the volunteers asked as she rocked the baby in her arms. The Chief, picked it up, as if he actually needed to look at it again to recount what it said, "Her name is Luna. She never sleeps." "So far she hasn't... I'm guessing she's one, maybe two months old. Should be sleeping every two to four hours. Nothing yet. Not a wink."  I lost my computer. What's one more loss right? Evidently on the heels of the largest loss in life it's just enough to set my sad sorrowful soul off into an explosive fit of grotesque grief once again. Who knew?
Who knew?! Aftermath... after an explosive fit of emotion, mourning, melancholy you look around and observe the wreckage. Surely I'm not the only one, the only woman at least, who's regretted what happened in a fit of emotion. I never understood hysteria until the last few years. Perimenopause has wrecked me, and just in time to deal with the "all of it" of losing a child and building a dream and leaving a life I once knew and creating a new life in a new place with the love of my life. The love of my life who is lucky enough to the the "all of it" all over him. Lucky guy. So here I am in the aftermath, trying to figure out what to do with myself, my self that I do not know or recognize, although I remember who I once was and know who I want to be. Here I am. Finally out of the spinning loop of horrible feelings and spiraling thoughts. Here I am. On a borrowed computer spewing words for therapy and art and you and me. Here I am. I am here. Here sitting on a swing that leans a little too far back to be comfortable, but here I am. (I'll remember to bring a pillow for support next time) Here I am. Still, for but a moment. Rested after a 2 mile walk, because this I know I MUST do in the wake of the aftermath. I MUST move! I MUST be active, get my heart rate up, get endorphins and dopamine flowing. I MUST because it keeps medicated. Yeah, like a pill. Here I am. Repeating wisdom of the ages and science to myself. I've known this about me for years and somehow in the mess of grief, I've lost the motivation to "do" walks, or hikes, or workouts, yet I MUST. Here I am. Hearing birds chirping and letting thoughts filter into and out of my head in a beautiful flow of consciousness. Write. Write was my word of the year and ironically I've written less, I think, this year than the decade past. Maybe two decades. Irony? Maybe. I had intentions to write birthday cards this year to all the most famous people in MY life... you know, hubs, kids, grands, folks, close family, and I can count on probably two hands how many made it to the mail box. Travis Tritt sings a song about the best of intentions, having them and failing. There's a melancholy to the song I love, and there's a kindred song in my heart. I have so many good intentions. Maybe too many. So many I don't know where to start or what to prioritize and so nothing happens. Nothing but intending to, which seems so far away from being intentional, but they're related right? One is the thought, one is the execution? Here I am being intentional about walking or hiking AT LEAST two miles six days a week. I'm on day three... let's see how long I can keep this stretch going. Here I am being intentional about writing, by keyboard or pen, fifteen minutes six days a week. Thing is both of these I love... to move and to wonder... to wander if you will, in body or mind. Here I am at the end of fifteen minutes. Breathe... Verse of the day: Nehemiah 8:3 - It inspires me, the word of God! Two things happened last year, maybe three, that changed everything. When I say everything, I mean every… single… thing. I am changed, my life is changed, my family is changed, my home has changed, my career, my relationships, my faith. EVERYTHING. These things: death and dreams coming true, forced me to face the point of life, or at least the point of mine, head on. The collision of real dreams and real nightmares at the same exact time, caught my face in its hands and forced me to take a good long look at my life… where I’ve been and where I’m going. It’s time to clear some things up and out of my life. After all… there is a time for everything. It’s the time and season for me to build a new life and of course, my writing didn’t escape my review... Dave Ramsey, a financial guru, counsels people to never make major decisions immediately after the death of a loved one. I’m still feeling my way through the first year of great loss but somethings are more clear than ever. One clear thing that emerged is my love and need for writing. It is a form of therapy as much as entertainment. Playing and processing with written words… that, yes that, is so necessary for my health and well-being. Equally important is sharing what I write. Save for diaries (which I haven’t written since I was in high school), I’ve never written for myself alone. The stories or words are prayers to God or avenues to connect with others. I want to share my words and worlds and stories. I want to inspire raw, honest emotion. But… I don’t want to market... I had, please note the past-tense… HAD… I had a dream to live by my pen. I wanted to make my living writing stories that others would want so badly they’d pay enough to support me financially. Although I am not opposed to that happening, I have been at this long enough to know I would have to sell at least 15,000-30,000 books a year to make a modest income. Apart from a sales team (that would also need to be paid from my book sales), an inventory of over 100+ books, statistical anomaly, or Divine Providence it’s just not realistic. This dream, I think, is just fantasy. I don’t have the drive to sell books. It’s not like that for every author. It hasn’t even always been like that for me, but it is now. Furthermore, I usually read (or listen) to books for free. How can I expect you to buy my books when I don’t buy them either (unless I’m supporting a fellow author)? My books will remain in various forms but my marketing efforts, in large will not. I’m searching for balance between sharing what I have with others and marketing what I have to others, selling for profit and selling to provide. Honestly, I’m not exactly sure what it looks like, but I know I’m switching focus. I’m pulling back. I’m reeling in attempts and expenses designed to simply sell. No more Patreon, no more newsletter, probably no more vendor fairs (although sometimes they’re fun to do with fellow authors), no more Instagram, Tiktok… no more. I’m keeping my personal website, Facebook author page, YouTube, and Amazon platform. I’m going to focus on providing my stories and words to everyone not only for purchase but also for free. I’m going to publish all of my books chapter-by-chapter, on my website and in YouTube videos. I’ll see if I can get them into libraries. I do love the idea of having audio books because that’s my primary way to read new books, so I’ll probably look into that. I’ll still advertise on Amazon to readers who are looking for books, but for the most part I’m going to write and leave the marketing to God and… you! Here’s where the favor comes in... Would you please read, listen to, or share my stories. You don’t have to buy them. You’ll be able to find them for free soon enough on my website, Facebook page, and YouTube channel. Share them, read them, stream them, REVIEW them. Please help my stories find new readers! For what it’s worth… That’s all there is… I continue to write, I close the book on marketing. If you want to see what I’m up to, check my website: http://www.lucyhdelaney.com/ or Facebook Author Page If you want to support my craft… you know the drill… review, like, subscribe, share, and comment. If you want to buy my books and swag find them on my website & Amazon. All my best to all of you. May the LORD bless and keep you!  “So breathe mama, keep breathing…” A package in the mail. A card that told me to breathe and took my breath away. A book that told me, the mother who couldn’t keep my son alive, that I was the mother of all mothers. Who knew this grief of mine and would send this?
The painfully sad thing is… in an instant I thought of her, and her, and her, and her, and… so many women who might know I needed to be reminded to breathe, because they knew this breath sucking pain of loss all too well. I rapid texted “Did you send this?” to a handful of ladies who had been offering comfort, but Carrie was first, and she did in fact send the breath in the mail that got me through a solid week or more. Carrie Sorensen is the mother of all mothers and has a lot to say on losing a child to suicide… I first met Carrie sometime back when our kids were in school together. She had a cute girl. I had a cute boy. They liked each other and were boyfriend and girlfriend cute together for a time. I admired Carrie’s heart for the Lord and her family. She was, and is even more now, an inspiration and example of what a good mom and godly woman is. Carrie knows this pain all too well. I mourned with her nearly three years ago when she lost her daughter, Andrea the same way I lost Jake. She took her grief to the Lord and shared her pain, her questions, her hopeful-despite-it spirit, and unflappable faith with all of us on her website: https://thesorensen5.wixsite.com/website-1 No one can say it all but Carrie’s carefully crafted words and posts speak to the heart of the pain I now know on a far more personal level than I ever wanted to. Her depth and raw honesty on her loss and how she’s processing it has long been beautiful. In these weeks and months and one full season since the unthinkable her words have become a safety net I can fall into. I do not want to feel this, think this, know this, but there is unexpected comfort in knowing this, all of this, is not unique to me. I am not alone. God is here and she has walked this journey ahead of me. If you are struggling with grief or loss or questioning your faith, you too might find some comfort in her words. Thank you Carrie <3 CARRIE’S STATS: What Carrie has to say about books: “So, reading has been challenging for the last 3 years…I can’t keep my brain from wandering. So I crochet and listen! But…I have started reading again!” Last book read: The Outsiders – SE Hinton Current books: The Uglies …middle school teacher right? Karen Kingsbury: Truly, Madly, Deeply Her book rec: A Grief Disguised – How the Soul Grows Through Loss by Jerry Sittser “[Jerry Sittser] was a prof at Whitworth, and he emailed me that he had seen Andrea worshiping… My best friend sent it to me within days of losing her, and I read it in those first few weeks. It showed me one could survive unimaginable loss…it can be done… “ |
