Christmas

It’s Christmas in our part of the world. Christmas hasn’t come for Israel yet. Soon.

I went to Israel last year (on a mission trip) and I got to see Bethlehem on their Christmas Day. That was special to me. I worshipped in a Christian church on Christmas Day (actually our Day of Epiphany) in the city where Christ was born.

We sang Christmas carols for the pastor and our tour guide. It was amazing. But riding into Bethlehem was frightening.

We arrived by tour bus. We had to go through a checkpoint. We had to agree to a tour, pay that fee, visit the gift shop owned by the tour company, to even enter Bethlehem. It was like Disney for Christians. But it didn’t look like Magic Kingdom. Huge neighborhoods lined either side of the tall stone walls. The top of the wall tinseled with razor wire. Not very festive.

I was looking around the town, hopelessly expecting the nativity, a manger, the barn? All the storybook signs of the birthplace of Jesus, right? I didn’t really expect those things, but I expected some sign. What widened my eyes and stiffened my spine wasn’t a neon sign pointing to a mysterious pile of hay, no pine trees and mistletoe, not even palm trees strangled in Christmas lights. There was Main Street, lined with beret-ed men bearing arms. I hadn’t noticed them at first, but as soon as I looked down–shoulder-to-shoulder soldiers–each armed with an Uzi or rifle. I was scared.

You see, as an American, I don’t see that. Really ever. I don’t see soldiers lining the street to keep order. A military parade with a band, perhaps? One may see a police officer cruising the lane on occasion. And we slow down. We obey all traffic laws. We buckle our belt if wasn’t already. Our neck hair may bristle, our eyes may squint, our lips may tighten, but we aren’t scared for our lives. I’m mainly scared for my wallet, but I’m a law-abiding citizen. And I have the advantage of being born in a wide-open space with wide-open inalienable rights.

These men were simply present in this volatile tiny town to protect Christmas Day. There would soon be a Christmas parade and these Israeli soldiers were there to keep order.

Here in America, on the day of a parade, children would line the streets. Hands in the air, grabbing for candy, confetti, or Christmas spirit. Not in the City of David. The only thing up for grabs was peace.

A cool breeze greeted me off the bus, but it carried sand, dust and anxiety. Don’t look at anyone, don’t smile, just pay attention, follow directions, don’t speak. “And don’t take pictures!” We had been advised. I don’t know if that was the group’s ideal, good advice, or just good-ol’ Puritanical/Evangelical thinking. It wasn’t clear, but again, I’m a law-abiding rule follower. Just do it.

The sun brought warmth as it peaked over a nearby building. The streets were crowded with buildings and people. Sidewalks were uneven. Building codes were a suggestion. Signs were confusing. Horns blared as the bus blocked the narrow lanes to let us off, but I simply followed the group.

Spices always on the air. Food always warming. Israel always moving.

I snapped one photo on the way out of town. I couldn’t help myself. You can see a distant city on the hill.

bethlehem

What’s important? What’s worth dying for? It’s not the places were born. It’s the places we’ll go. But mostly, the people we’re capable of loving.

These people fight over this land. They launch rocks, bottles, rockets, and hate over these walls. For a place to stand. Live. Work.

My American spirit tells me–my God tells me–there is land enough for everyone. You just have to be willing to move. If you love, you will be loved. How far are you willing to go for love? I would go around the world from here until the Second Coming for my loves. I’m trying to expand my territory of love to even those who do nothing for me. Because it’s unusual. And it feels good. And I am commanded to be a city on a hill.

Merry Christmas!

Matthew 5

14 “You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden; 15 nor does anyone light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all who are in the house. 16 Let your light shine before men in such a way that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven.

I did see a cool nativity though! At the gift shop, carved out of olive wood. I asked to take a picture. 😀

nativity

View of the Gulf

I was recently assigned a news article for a local paper’s lifestyle section and I got to interview the director and playwright for a community theatre production of Gulf View Drive. The publication date for the magazine got pushed, so the article will not appear. Too bad! They will be into the run of the show for an entire week before publication, so they decided to pull it, but the paper still covered the theatre. I also got to write that short article and I can’t wait to see it in print. I’ll share when they go to press. 🙂 But please enjoy this article since it’s still mine and I love it! Please, let me know if this sounds pro? Leave a comment. Thanks.


View of the Gulf

Venice Theatre completes Arlene Hutton’s trilogy of plays with Gulf View Drive. Gulf debuts in the Pinkerton at VT on January 10, 2020 and runs through January 26th.
In 2018, Venice Theatre started with Last Train to Nibroc. In Nibroc, May and Raleigh meet for the first time on a train, pre-World War 2. In 2019, VT produced See Rock City, a furtherance of the couple one year after their elopement–add mothers. In 2020, we see the last play of the trio, Gulf View Drive. Gulf is inspired by the Sarasota area. May and Raleigh buy their first home.
The Nibroc Trilogy takes place just over a decade. The series started as a one-act play based on a news item. The bodies of Nathaniel West and F. Scott Fitzgerald were transported for burial on the same train. Hutton imagined a couple encountering for the first time on that journey.
Third in the collection, Gulf View Drive forces May and Raleigh to make difficult choices in an uncertain world. Family pressures stretch the limits of love.
Each play is a complete work and does not require prior knowledge of the sequence. However, resolution to the series will be satisfying for those who have followed the productions.
From the catwalks to the footlights, each experienced member of VT staff, cast, and crew are excited to bring this third production to life. A veteran director of VT, Kelly Woodland heads the final offering.
Kelly brings authenticity, sentiment, and prowess to each show she directs. Nuance is her expertise; tight drama and tenderness are her hallmarks. Woodland enjoys working with new faces and carefully selects each cast. Kelly has raised many shows at VT, her most recent–Good People.
A fifth-generation Florida native, Woodland understands the subtle distinctions of this play set on an island inspired by area keys–Siesta and Longboat. Warm November Gulf breezes, cinder block houses, sunburns, and sulfur water are just some of the small brushstrokes of Hutton’s Gulf View Drive.
Floridians, transplants or no, won’t compare old bayside beachtown to new in this impression. Kelly surmised, “I think more than anything [audiences] will relate to a young married couple with their in-laws moving in, trying to deal with personal relationships, as well as developing their professional life…and all of the clashing personalities. It’s really interesting.” As with any good drama, plenty of laughter peppers Gulf.
The story takes place in 1953, a different time for Sarasota than the bustling beach borough we enjoy today. Gulf is a snapshot of the area’s past. May and Raleigh, the main characters of the three shows, are a portrait from Hutton’s own family album, her parents.
Interesting director’s note–Kelly’s father was the original athletic director for Manatee Junior College (State College of Florida, currently). He taught alongside Hutton’s parents. May and Raleigh are based on Hutton’s real-life mother and father. Also, Kelly’s mother, a teacher for Bradenton schools, taught Hutton’s fifth-grade class…the year Kelly was born. For Woodland to direct Hutton’s show feels like fortune to her.
More than chance, Arlene Hutton scripts strong female characters for the stage. She started writing parts for herself. At a time when there were hardly any dynamic roles for older women, Hutton created her own. From her personal experience and working with actors, Hutton crafts thoughtful, honest scenes hewn and honed on the boards.
“[I]t’s been hard for women playwrights to get produced.” Hutton shares hopeful insight, “That’s changing.”
Emerging playwrights have an even wider representation of backgrounds, cultures, and orientation, but Hutton reminds us; “[d]iversity includes age.” There are many “wonderful female voices…yet to be widely heard.”
Several theatres have produced one or all of the shows. “I’m happy that my family can see Gulf View Drive at Venice in January and Last Train to Nibroc at Mad Cow in Orlando in February.” Hutton has been quite successful with the trilogy that started as a one-act. With the help of companies, workshops, and actors–she just kept expanding it.
Venice Theatre keeps expanding as well. VT venerates its 70th season; the theatre established in 1950. Founded by two women, Muriel Olds-Dundas and Sonia Terry promised a picnic to volunteers and supporters.
The theatre still thrives on an active volunteer population and throws an annual volunteer barbeque picnic to honor their growing numbers. VT is the second largest community theatre in the US.
VT just purchased the facility that Sarasota Public Library had used temporarily for its Venice location. With the new library built and operating, VT can now plan expansion for its campus and education department. 70 years and Venice Theatre is still growing.
With only one building for performance and rehearsal, the addition of the Arts Education Building (formerly the Hamilton Building) welcomes even more students, performers, and artists. Home to aactWORLDFEST, VT’s new space will be crucial in housing actors, technicians, and theatre companies from around the globe.
Venice Theatre is a powerhouse of talent and technique thanks to Murray Chase. Chase is a visionary who takes risks. Under Murray’s charge, VT included shows in its seventy-year anniversary like Gulf–the setting just three years after VT’s inception. Other shows at VT this 70th season: Menopause The Musical, Guys and Dolls, Hamlet, Chicago, aactWORLDFEST 2020, concerts, cabaret, and much more.
Gulf View Drive has a short run so don’t miss this well-written, well-done Nibroc finale. Tickets are on sale now at venicetheatre.org. Shows run from January 10-26, 2020. Sunday matinees at 2:00 PM, all other performances have a curtain time of 7:30 PM.

Christmas Cast

I’ve been busy at Ringling College of Art and Design trying to be a 46 yo freshman. I’m going after my first BFA in Creative Writing. It’s my first bachelorette of anything.

I took 4 courses and I learned a lot. One course was “Writing for Money”. Very helpful for those who want to make money at writing, which I do. But not from my blog. That’s just for fun.

But I did learn how to do podcasts. I didn’t really ever see this as a writing opportunity, but I came up with a writerly cast, reading flash fiction, and celebrating unpublished prose.

I originally thought this was an outlet for my fellow classmates, but no one was really interested. Who doesn’t want to share their stuff? I would love to have any of you contribute. Simply record your favorite prose and send to me! I would love to add it to my blog.

Miss you all. Hope you enjoy this little ~5-minute pod. 🙂 Let me know your thoughts! And Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and peace to you all. Truly. We need a little magic now, yes?

SAD!

I am sad, embarrassed, ashamed, humiliated, devastated that I abandoned my writing for 4 months. 😦 I’m just sad.

Writing saved my life. I think. I started processing PTSD through writing. I’m starting at Ringling College this fall in the creative writing program. I was just accepted. I just haven’t had time to write. That makes me so friggin’ sad.

So. To take my mind to the gym…a poem. To start again.


I control these words.
This flow.
I form these sentences and sentiments.
Like gods and ice carving rivers from mountains.
Gather clouds
Whisper in your ear
Blow through your mind
Stone yields to time/force/logic
These are my paths.
These are my streams.
This is my ocean
Of ideas and dreams.
This is the inside of me.


Thank you for hearing my voice.

Karma’s Full-time Job is Being a Bitch

Bitch is working overtime.


When I was 21. I was overweight. Over 350 lbs. I think. I didn’t really keep track of my weight. I didn’t care. Everyone else cared. I hated everyone else for caring.

I knew how much I weighed because I used to donate plasma at the local plasma bank and they always weighed me on their very accurate medical scales. I think they wrote 348 one day on my chart. So we’ll just say I was 350 lbs. or more. Anyway.

I went to stay with my brother and his family in Ohio for Christmas that year. I always loved seeing my brother, his wife, and their kids. I was always attentive and ready for fun. I tried to please everyone, laugh, crack jokes and just get along. I was the ultimate get-along girl. I just wanted peace and happiness for everyone around me. That’s when I felt my most happy and secure. When everything was going good for everyone else. It’s my nature as an empath.

We were all sitting around in the dining room one afternoon, watching my brother and his son put together some piece of DIY furniture. Talking, laughing. It was interesting enough. I was sitting on the floor and my 5-year-old niece sits down on my lap.

“Aunt Tina (my nickname was Tina), why are you so fat?”

No salutation. No beating around the bush. No pretense. No shame. Just straight to the fat. I thought for a minute.

“Well, why are you so skinny?”

She wasn’t. She was just a normal 5-year-old girl.

No hesitation. “Because God made me this way.”

Hm. Ok. “Well, God made me this way.”

Then my nephew contradicted me. “No! It’s because you eat too much.” My brother laughed. He didn’t chide his son. He didn’t correct him. He laughed.

This rebuke coming from a self-professed bacon thief. My brother’s wife had to cook a pound of bacon any time bacon was served at breakfast. This was even a topic of conversation during this trip. Of all the people in the room to say I ate too much? My brother and nephew ate more than anyone.

In retrospect, I had a normal appetite. Maybe I had seconds of certain dishes from time to time, but everyone had seconds. I was no different than anyone else at the table. I had always been overweight. Since the age of 5. Just about my niece’s age.

What no one knew, or cared to know, was that I was battling my own body. For years. I was on my way to cancer. Thyroid. And no one cared. I was a joke. I was humiliated for a cheap laugh. I was made to feel that my battle was my own lazy fault. I was gluttonous. Slothful.

I pushed my niece aside. Quietly got up and left. I took a lonely walk that afternoon. Down an isolated back country road. I had no car, no place to stay, no place to go. I just walked. I was so angry. So hurt. I fumed and cried. But I didn’t want to be near anyone from that room. Not one person stood up for me.

My mother eventually drove up, parked the car, and we talked. But.

That day hurt. My relationship with my brother’s family was never the same after that day. Never. We left early the next morning.

Oh well.

Today I weigh 220 lbs. I’ve lost over 293 lbs. after losing my thyroid to cancer, my gall bladder to weight loss surgery and dragging myself through hell and back.

My brother’s family has had to struggle with weight and medical issues as well. I wonder if they still think it’s just a matter of overeating?


Matthew 7:1-3 NASB

Judging Others

“Do not judge so that you will not be judged. For in the way you judge, you will be judged; and by your standard of measure, it will be measured to you. Why do you look at the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye?

God Exists

First.

I have to tell you a little story. Completely true.

I am in the Holy Land. We are handing out wheelchairs and eyeglasses. I am running around, taking pictures, sewing vinyl wheelchair footrests, counting rolls of velcro for inventory and sorting gifts for gift bags for our local volunteers for the end of the week.

I am the pop-fly shagger. The gopher. The water boy girl for the team.

I don’t mind. I’m happy and humble to do it. I have no idea what I’m doing, but as with improv, you simply accept what someone says and build on it.

“Martha, will you…?”

YES! Would you like fries with that???

I was not perfectly humble. Sometimes I grumbled. But then I would just pout in private, pray and move on when I could smile again. In the Holy Land, my butt-hurt recovery period was very short. Thank God! That 4:30 AM call to prayer came early and loudly. Right into my hotel room from the neighboring mosque. Punctuating the snores of my roommate. I would say my own prayers when I woke to those pre-dawn mournful meditations. I prayed. A lot. All day. For everything. Trying to incorporate that into this American life.

It also helped that I was witnessing miracles on a daily basis. Here’s just one. A tiny miracle that sows seeds of faith.


I was mostly in the wheelchair clinic. We were in a very large community center divided into two sections by a beautiful, dark red tapestry. The wheelchair clinic was about 2/3 of the space and the eyeglass clinic was on the other side of the curtain. Because I was helping with the sewing/upholstery department, I didn’t see but a few glimpses of the eyeglass clinic. I took many pictures, but I didn’t get to know the volunteers or patients very well.

They had a young man helping during the week with eyeglass distribution. He was a local tween or teen. Maybe 11, maybe as old as 13 or 14, I’m bad at carnival-guessing anyone’s age under 18, especially boys. I didn’t really notice him until the final two days.

Before the banquet on Friday, we were cleaning up the facility, putting things away, packing up our gear and returning the space to the condition we found it. Perhaps even cleaner!

I had brought several kid-centered trinkets from my home in the States. We had received an email before the trip about all the families and children that come to the clinics and how they might appreciate games, more interaction, activities and attention. I decided to pack a few things that my daughter didn’t want, we couldn’t use or that were cluttering our overfilled home. Things that kids would love. Stuff for bracelets. Pins for older kids. And a pair of neon sunglasses that were given to us. No one in my family wanted them and they were cool, but a little too…bright for us. 🙂 Perfectly good pair of sunglasses.

Well. They were sitting on our small utility table Friday as we were packing up. I never found a kid to give them to. They just sat all week. I looked at the sunglasses. I looked at my overfilled bag of cameras, computer and sewing accoutrements. Looked around the room and saw Swoopy-bangs Kid.

He had curly bangs. A little too long. Swooped to the side. Cool.

Maybe he wants these shades.

As I walked over to Swoopy-bangs, I had a sudden, slight sinking feeling of “do kids still like things like neon sunglasses? Am I the dorky old lady who offers the nerdy object to the cool kid and is totally oblivious to my own ridiculousness?”

Just ask.

“Hey man, do you want these sunglasses?” in as cool a voice as this 45-year old white lady could muster.

He looked surprised. I couldn’t tell if it was disgusted or thankful surprise, so there was an awkward pause.

He asked with a slight accent, “Who are these for?”

I pointed to him. “You! If you want them.”

He cracked a broken smile, averted his eyes sheepishly and heartily accepted them. Phew! Yay!

Sunglasses given! Smile achieved! Backpack and heart loaded for bear. Cool status confirmed.

What I didn’t know until later that night at the banquet…

Final banquet. Dinner. Speeches. Pats on the back. Gift bags!

Can I just say? As the Gift Bag Coordinator for 2019 Holy Land Trip, stop giving gift bags!

Or, buy one thing and give it. Don’t weigh down your luggage from America, burn jet fuel to get it there and then make some hapless pop-fly shagger distribute your American trash. I mean–Merry Christmas.

Fine. Praying over here.

Gift-bag giving was hell. Not one person was happy with the way I distributed gifts to the local translators. I relinquish my duties as the Gift Bag Chairman for 2019 and may all future gift-giving souvenirs burn on the Gehenna piles of Jerusalem. Ahem. Sorry. I’m still bitter. Still praying.

Anyway. Let us not dwell. LOL

Before the gift-bag portion of our evening, one of the directors of the clinics summoned me. “Martha, do you have an extra bag for this guy?” The director pointed to Swoopy-bangs.

Crap!

“No. I’m sorry. If I didn’t have his name before tonight, I didn’t prepare a bag.”

This had become my script. Before Eyeglass Director had asked this specific question, I had been bombarded with questions over the gifts all week.

Did you get this person on your list?
Do you have an extra bag?
Did you put my souvenir in my translator’s bag?
When are we handing out the bags?
Did you get the tea bags I brought?

Can we hand out the bags:
Before?
After?
During?
In front of…?
Can I be in charge of my bag?

Gah!

*In the voice of Pontius Pilate* I wash my hands of this.

The spirit of Christmas was truly lost on this night for me (it was Christmastime for this part of the world). People were obsessed. It was not a very Christ-like environment and I really had to pray hard. Not judge these Americans for their entitled, demanding, materialistic behavior. I made it through the night. Dinged and daunted, but not broken.

But to refuse Eyeglass Director yet another time, I started to feel defeated. He immediately dismissed his last-minute request and understood my frustration. “Nevermind. He just really helped us out. It’s fine.” I felt bad though because I really liked Swoopy-bangs. We only shared a few words, but he seemed appreciative of such a simple thing like the glasses I handed him. Gratefulness, in anyone, is something I admire and appreciate.

Later on that evening, I was relaying my frustrations to a new friend. We sat at different tables that night, based on our clinic service assignment. So when we got to talk after dinner, she asked how my night was going. We had become fast friends, despite our age difference and geographic extremes. (We live on opposite coasts!)

I told her I felt bad about the kid. “I didn’t have a gift for him. Did I miss his name at the beginning of the week?” She was in the eyeglass clinic, so I thought she might know more.

“That kid?” She pointed to Swoopy-bangs. “Don’t worry. He was there part of the time and he was helpful, but it’s fine. I think (Eyeglass Director) felt bad because the kid wanted a pair of sunglasses from the eyeglass clinic and he didn’t have enough.”

WHAT?!

“That kid wanted sunglasses???” I asked. I was dumbfounded.

“Yeah. It’s no big deal. We just didn’t have enough and he seemed disappointed, but it’s fine.”

“No! You don’t understand. I just gave that kid sunglasses before we came to this restaurant. I had no idea.” I was shocked. Humbled. I just kept repeating, softly. “I had no idea.”

I wanted to run over to that kid and hug him. Throw my arms around his neck and scream “Hallelujah!” But I just sat quietly with shiny eyes pooling with tears and the overwhelming knowledge that God had orchestrated all those tiny, tender moments.

Giving me some pair of neon glasses.
Packing them in my overstuffed suitcase.
Traveling halfway around the world.
Preparing hearts.
Creating desire for sunglasses.
Fulfilling wants.
Planting seeds.
Watering my desperate heart with words from my new friend.

God whispers small urgings to our overwhelmed hearts on a daily basis and we usually drown out his pleas with doubt and busy-ness. But this time, because I was tuned to his grace, alone in a foreign country, relying completely on his protection and will, praying my keister off, I took a small risk and the dividend was immense.

There were so many miracles on this trip of people served. This is just one, tiny example of God at work. But this is a reminder to me. God exists and he knows the number of hairs on your head. In the middle of our struggle, pain, ramblings, writhing, he cares. He is at work. And he cares about a boy, on the other side of the planet, and where that boy will go. Who he will touch. Whether seeds are planted in his brain of kindness and love and providence. And if his eyes are protected and stylish. 🙂

Luke 12:22-27 NASB

…“For this reason I say to you, do not worry about your life, as to what you will eat; nor for your body, as to what you will put on. 23 For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing. 24 Consider the ravens, for they neither sow nor reap; they have no storeroom nor barn, and yet God feeds them; how much more valuable you are than the birds! 25 And which of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life’s span? 26 If then you cannot do even a very little thing, why do you worry about other matters? 27 Consider the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; but I tell you, not even Solomon in all his glory clothed himself like one of these.


As I was writing this, knee-deep in word construction and heart-pouring, my computer shut down, unexpectedly. Nothing was lost. Everything was saved. Thank you, God. Thank you, WordPress. Thank you, AutoSave. God exists.

If kind, loving people exist, then God exists. If the watch is designed, the Watchmaker designs.

 

Jerusalem!

Here I am. Last night in the Holy Land. The old city of Jerusalem behind me. Just came out of the Jaffa Gate. So pretty at night. I was so sick in this shot, but so happy to have hoofed all over Jerusalem. I’m about to hop on the all-night flight home. Thanks, Roomie, for the pic!

martha in israel
Me, with my Dr. Who backpack that everyone asked me about. lol

 

Heart is a Gypsy

Perfume and spices on the air as I wait in the string-lighted courtyard of our final banquet dinner. There are fires burning in the metal stand welcoming street strays. The smoke in my clothes and tearing eyes might as well be from sycamore limbs back home in Missouri. My heart is full and oh-so heavy knowing I might not see my new friends ever again. Wishing farewells and whispering fevered fantasies about moving across the globe to adopt new customs, cuisines and children. This could be my home. My heart is a gypsy. A Native American warrior heart nomadic as a tornado.

My heart so fragile. Powerful. Chaotic. Ready to rope out and lose its whirl at any moment. Yet overeager to jump and pump arteries-first into strange territory of emotion and relationship.

What to do with all this feeling? Love? Raw force of nature?

I love this country. I love these people.

Purple Balloon Boy.
Yellow Chair Girl.
Red-nose Rudy.
Pink-Jacket Joy.

I hope to share eternity with you, Friends. Stay with God and send Him with me and we shall meet again on different, distant shores. Still bright and glistening.

I saw a young girl in a hot-pink jacket take her first steps with the help of a pediatric walker. She strolled straight through our hearts with smiles and laughter into the outstretched hands of her own mother’s love. I got to see what love can do.

Physical therapists seating kids who need wheelchairs. Nurses treating gunshot wounds. Kind people ready to laugh and bring joy, handing out glasses.

Make the sick well. Give sight to the blind. Bind wounds. And make the lame walk to mother’s waiting arms. Miracles. In the land where Jesus walked.

Love did that. Love changed their world. My world. THE world.

“For God so loved the world…”

Please let me see this place again. Please let me feel this love again. This beautiful lump in my throat. Jumping unrestrained from my lashes. Down my cheeks in rolling, fat tears.

Don’t let me pass from this valley without your love, God.
How do I take this with me?

my prayers are

for i am gentle

103

sink stones

yellow chair angled

Dreamy Muffins

I had a dream the other night about one of my teammates from my Holy Land mission trip. I dreamed that he was running a charitable food pantry. They were offering a warm cup of coffee and a chocolate muffin cake for breakfast. It was a treetop cafe with high-top tables.

He welcomed me, asked me why I needed food from the food pantry and I explained. “We’re just having hard times right now and we need a little extra help.” (We’re actually doing okay right now! Not really working poor any more, but we are about one paycheck away from disaster if we had a medical emergency, yikes!) He understood.

He told me, “(Your roommate from the trip), has been praying for your return next year on the mission trip. She hopes you can come.” This man knows my roommate in real life. They attend the same church

It was a sweet dream of help and hope. With cloud-like, fluffy muffins! Best dream ever when chocolate’s involved.

*Harry, let’s call him* is certainly a Christ-like man who is kind, patient and gentle. He talks to anyone and welcomes everyone. He just has a peace about him and I appreciate his kindness and generosity, even in my dreams. He gave me a chance to share my story with the team since he was in charge of morning devotionals. He was so supportive on our trip. He gave everyone honey in the morning for their tea or bread at breakfast. Love you, Harry-bear! You’re as sweet as the honey you shared. [He used to own an apiary (bees! honey!)] We were definitely in the land of milk and honey when we traveled with Harry.