Consider the Lilies

by Sarah Albrecht

I'm feeling a bit abashed to be posting again, but here it goes anyway.

Recently I heard a radio interview of two esteemed American poets (yes, esteemed, but I can’t remember their names). At one point the discussion turned to the preoccupation with death in poetry and in literature in general. One of the poets joked that to major in literature means to major in death. Another explained that as beauty in poetry frequently stems from contemplation of death, so we find real flowers more beautiful than silk ones because the real flowers’ beauty is fleeting; in other words, they are beautiful because they are dying.

As is my wont, I disagreed with that assessment but took several days to formulate my thoughts coherently—way too late to call in to the show and comment!

Now, this may seem a tangent, but I’ll get back to the point. Sometimes when I go to bed and need to put my brain in neutral, I make up top ten lists. Top ten favorite movies, top ten favorite places I’ve visited, top ten times I’ve been awed by nature. One of my top, top ten lists is to think up my favorite memories of flowers. I imagine the warmth of a North Carolina afternoon in the Biltmore gardens as bees hum around small purple puffs; I think of the breeze on a Northern California boardwalk entangled by delicate vines with scoop-shaped pink blooms; I smell violets lurking in the shade of my otherwise disreputable newlywed apartment building.

Invariably, as I close my eyes and extract memories for the list, I find myself on a bracing day several years ago, walking with my husband and young children down a wet, hard-packed path just out of sight of the south end of the Golden Gate Bridge. Sea air curls around us and heightens every sense. Redwoods shade the path and the deep, russet soil on its sides into perpetual moisture. We come around a bend into a field of white calla lilies, stark and smooth against the deep greens and browns of the forest. For the first time I can picture the lilies of the field, how they toil not, neither do they spin, yet surely Solomon in all his glory could not have been dressed as one of these.

Now I return to the original idea and dispute with the esteemed poet: real flowers are not more beautiful than the artificial because they are dying, but because they denote there is a God. True, in them may lay the poignancy of death and the shortness of life, but in their intricate simplicity lies the mark of the loving Creator and therefore the hope of life renewed.

Loaves and Fishes

by Sarah Albrecht

I love to read the story of the loaves and fishes from the New Testament and to imagine the multitude being taught and then fed by the Savior. I love the often-heard interpretation for our own time, that the Savior is merciful, and if we come, He will feed us bountifully.

At a time when I felt utterly inadequate in almost every aspect of my life, as if whatever I had to offer was not enough, another application flashed into my mind.

It came as I sat bent over a children’s version of the story with my little daughter. When I saw the picture of a plate with a loaf of bread and a few small fishes, I suddenly thought of who had supplied the Savior with the food with which he fed the masses: not a merchant or a fisherman; not a baker or an innkeeper accustomed to feeding groups, but a boy. He probably brought the Savior his own lunch, or maybe he’d been out getting dinner for his family. In any case, it wasn’t much, and certainly not enough to feed everyone.

But here’s the key: he offered what he had, and with the Lord’s help, it was enough. The realization swept through me like a sudden breeze, cleansing the stagnant despair and leaving a brightness of hope and a confidence rooted on the surest foundation.

If I offer all I have, with the Lord’s help, it will be enough.

Weathering Life's Storms Together

In a world of confusion and change, there are many who are searching for the beacon light of hope. And even though constant stability is never a sure thing, we can find a strong foot hold as we weather life's storms together.

And that is what this blog is intended to do - to uplift and inspire those who are trying to find secure ground. It is our sincere hope that we, as authors and writers, can put our talents to good use and create a readable haven for those who need to find momentary peace, perspective, or simply rest a while before facing another wave of challenges.

In that vein, as the founder of this site I offer this - a short story I wrote in hopes that you will find your light to hang onto....

The Lighthouse
By Stacy Gooch Anderson

His face sunk into a stern expression as he slowly lowered the brass looking glass to his side. The old sea captain had agreed to take on one last voyage before he nestled into retirement finally able to enjoy the rest of his twilight years with his sweetheart. Years of reading charts and following an exacting seaman’s instinct however had not prepared him for the massive squall billowing on the horizon.

“It’ll take mor'an a wing an a prayer to get er through this'un,” he lamented to himself and the swirling winds being glad for years of experience from which he could draw.

He quickly shouted the orders to his crew and they jumped into action battening down the hatches, lowering the sails and tightening the winches. The old captain noted with satisfaction that having such a fine crew under his tutelage and an extremely seaworthy vessel, although not easily they’d surely ride out the storm. He just hoped it wouldn’t be a long one for if they were blown off course, the dangerous reefs lurking on the eastern coast could easily swallow them up before the storm ever would.

But that was not likely to happen – in all of his experience, no storm had ever lasted more than a day.

Night came upon the ship within moments of the storm. More than just a few hoped that the coincidence was not to be on omen of what darkness might possibly lay ahead. The old captain confident in his leadership, thought nary a second of the timing other than to almost savor the challenge this gale would provide.

For three days the vessel had been thrown over the peaks of the angry ocean without benefit of sunlight or a moment’s reprieve. The captain had grown weary not from the strain of his physical demands and lack of sleep but from the knowledge he harbored that those nasty eastern reefs were looming out there somewhere. With a storm like this however, pinpoint accuracy even for a seasoned chartist was impossible. And without benefit of visual landmarks, he feared for the lives of his passengers and his crew. It was a heavy burden indeed to carry upon his weathered and stooped old shoulders.

Finally succumbing to the realization that he could never deliver his precious cargo to safety through his experience and wisdom alone, battered by the gusts and salty water he stood firmly at his wheel and raised his voice to heaven.

“Lord, I know I’m a rough ol’ soul who’s mor’n a bit prideful and oft times neglec'ful of those things of import includin’ ye. But I been given charge of getting’ these here folks to a safe harbor and I been given it my best but for the firs’ time in all m’ days, I‘ve come across a tempest that’s mightier ‘n me and she’s a feisty one whose hell bent on throwing us into a mess I can’t get us out of. I’ve lost my bearings, Lord, and I need guidance. Could ye pull one more miracle out? Not just for an ol’ scalawag like me although I’d be mighty grateful but for all those others on this ship who need to find their way home to safety.”

The captain lowered his head and peered out into the darkness until he thought he saw a glimmer of something on the horizon. Could it be? It was so dim at first that he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him but it continued to grow steadily brighter until it became his sole focus point leading him through the darkness. He shouted his orders and made adjustments ever watchful of the light that kept them from harm’s way.

The light remained emblazoned on the horizon and the old captain, wondering at the light which continued to remain steady through the storm, kept steering his ship away from the dangers the beacon protected them from.

Three days later as they finally sailed safely into harbor battered but not beaten, the deck hands rushed aboard to help the crew unload.

“We’re amazed you were able to make it through that storm, Sir. Your survival speaks highly of your skills as a captain. We’ve seen a lot of debris wash up but you’re the first ship with life we’ve seen here at the docks. I must say, we’ve been quite disheartened. You’ve given us hope and bolstered our faith, ” one bantered as he pulled the rigging and helped tie the vessel down.

“Oh twasn’t me,” the old captain was quick to reply. “Twas that blessed lighthouse of yours down the shore who guided us to safety.”

The deck hand looked at the sea captain a bit perplexed. “Sir, that lighthouse was destroyed within the first hours of the storm. That’s why all the debris. We can’t even count how many ships must’ve gone down and lives lost in the last few days. That’s why your being here is such a miracle and has given us hope.”

The sea captain nodded as it dawned on him that it had been a heavenly light - not an Earthly one – which had led them through the storm, “Yes,… a miracle. Indeed it is seaman, indeed it is.”