Author: Emily Henson

Author Blog

Graveyard of the Atlantic: A Ghostly Encounter

Emily Henson

It’s October. The season for ghost stories. I want to be careful and remain respectful as I tell you about my family’s recent encounter. With any topic concerning what “lays beyond” I believe one should use tread lightly. First, if whatever is haunting an area is truly a lost soul, they deserve certain considerations. The first step in any encounter is to pray for the happy repose of the soul who may not be able to be at rest until they receive intercessory prayer on their behalf. If, on the other hand, the haunting is of an evil origin, i.e. – a demonic spirit, the laity must use extreme caution as the demon’s sole purpose would be the ultimate destruction of human souls. A priest of the Roman Catholic Church would provide the best guidance in those situations.

On a recent trip out to Hatteras Island in North Carolina, my family and I met up with dear friends at a beach house we had rented for a week. Hatteras Island is at North Carolina’s Outer Banks. Due to the thousands of shipwrecks and the unknown number of human lives lost in the area, the Outer Banks are referred to as The Graveyard of the Atlantic. The shallow sand banks along the coast are hard to see on a brilliant day. Add dark and formidable weather without high tech navigation systems and you have a recipe for disaster. Near our beach house, for instance, lay the graves of a young couple. Captain Stephen Barnett and his wife Rebecca who, along with their baby boy, lost their lives when Captain Barnett’s schooner ran aground off of Ocracoke Island. It is a tragic story you can find here: https://www.ncgenweb.us/dare/cemeteries/index_barnettstephend.html

Several days into our trip, a squall hit the island as night closed in. The wind slammed against the outside walls and thunder boomed on both sides of the island. Being around 30 miles from the coast of North Carolina, storms feel ominous on an island. After talking late into the night with my friend, I finally headed to bed. Before settling in, I went down to the lowest level of the house to make sure the door was locked. As I turned from the door, I felt a presence very near to me. Deciding I was being silly and chalking up the prickling of my skin to the billowing storm outside, I rushed up the couple flights of stairs to my bedroom.

Thunder continued to crash and the wind roared throughout the night.

The next morning dawned crystal clear. The island appeared freshly bathed and brighter after the torrential shower. Our family was the first awake. We headed to the topmost story of the house to make breakfast. My nine-year-old son greeted me with a hug and asked why I had been in his room the night before. The conversation went like this:

“Do you mean when I checked on you before I went to bed?”

“Never mind,” he responded, too sleepy to want to explain.

“No, I want to hear about it,” I encouraged. My skin was prickling again. “I gave you and your sisters a quick kiss and headed out of your room before going to my room. Is that what you mean?”

“You were standing by our door. Why were you standing there?”

My stomach felt suddenly heavy. I remembered the presence I had sensed in the downstairs entryway the night before and now my son had seen a form in his room. I kept my face blank and remained outwardly calm. I needed coffee before I could process what my son was asking me.

Mistaking my lack of response for disinterest, my son grew bored of the conversation. “Never mind,” he said, shaking his head and running off to play.

After we had eaten our breakfast and our friends were up and about, the two husbands took off with the children to explore the island’s shoals. My friend and I stayed at the house.

My friend asked, “Was anyone up last night during the storm?”

I froze. “What?”

“We saw someone at our door. I thought it was a child scared during the storm. When we called out, they didn’t come in. We got up to check but no one was there. Our kids said they stayed in bed.”

All I could do was stare. She had not heard my conversation with my son. Now two people had seen a presence. I told her I’d check with my children to see if they’d been up during the storm.

When I asked my children later, none of them had left their beds.

Later, I approached my son again. “Can you tell me what the shadow looked like that you saw by your door last night?”

“Tall, short hair, very straight shoulders.”

His oldest sister chimed in, “That doesn’t sound like a description of Mommy. Why did you think it was Mommy?”

Suddenly, I remembered all the shipwrecks that had occurred just off shore. Hesitantly, I asked, “Did the form look like what you’d expect a soldier or a sea captain to be like? The way it was standing so straight?”

“Yeah,” he nodded.

Looking nervous, my daughter broke in again, “Why, Mommy?”

I had one more question to ask my son, “Did you feel like the presence was nice and kind of watching over you during the storm or did you feel scared?”

“I wasn’t scared,” he responded with a shrug. “I think it was like someone was protecting me.”

When my husband and I discussed what my friend and our son had witnessed in the night, my husband reflected that there were gravestones speckled throughout the surrounding yards around the house. He wondered if the house had been built on a graveyard. A quick internet search showed us that, sure enough, the house may have been built on the site of the Zora Gaskins graveyard.

It seemed clear to me that whatever soul was seen during the storm could have been someone who died during a shipwreck, potentially during a storm, and meant no harm. As a Catholic, I believe that some souls are in need of intercessory prayer in order to be at rest. After explaining to our children what we might have experienced in the night and reminding them about the importance of praying for Holy Souls, we traveled to the local Catholic Church and obtained a bottle of holy water. Returning to the house, we offered prayers for the Holy Souls not only in the area but for all those who met their demise in the Graveyard of the Atlantic. We sprinkled holy water in each bedroom and at every threshold.

Even though we had a couple more stormy nights, we did not experience any more ghostly encounters. I pray our friendly ship captain is now at peace.

*One more note of caution: Do NOT seek encounters with spirits. Often, demons will pretend to be those that have gone beyond in order to trick us. The hatred demons have for humans is very real and they will do anything to lead our souls astray. If you do experience an encounter, immediately pray something like the following and if the encounter does not cease, it’s time to call in a Catholic priest.

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

Author Blog

Writer’s Block: My Ways to Beat It!

Emily Henson

Defeating Writer’s Block in 3 Easy Steps

The dreaded Writer’s Block. It’s like you’ve embarked on a journey and as the train slowly rounds a bend, just before the view opens to reveal a breathtaking vista, the train grinds to a halt. Or, it is as if you’re in the middle of the adventure, right in the thick of it. You are walking up decaying stairs toward a dimly lit room, your heart pounding, thoughts racing about what might come next. But, when you reach the threshold, the door slams in your face. You don’t just hear the click of the door’s lock, you also hear a heavy deadbolt thud, a chain lock catch, and, just to make the impediment extra impregnable, you hear one of those tiny slide locks grate into place. You’re barred from any more progress.

When a Writer’s Block hits, I sometimes imagine my characters just sitting or standing in the scene where I left them – tapping their foot or picking at a hangnail until I get my act together and start writing again. They even grumble between each other about my ineptitude. Unfortunately, they find themselves doing this quite a bit at times.

[In the movie “The Man Who Invented Christmas”, Dan Stevens, who plays Dickens, aptly portrays a tortured writer in the throws of a crushing Writer’s Block. In the movie, Dickens’ characters even follow him around, giving him writing advice.]

Over the years, I’ve found some great ways to crush Writer’s Block when it rears its ugly head. I hope you’ll find these tips useful too!

Before Writer’s Block even hits, try this! Don’t write too long every day (If you’re up against a due date, this doesn’t apply.). Set a timer for a reasonable amount of time – enough to make progress but not so much that you run out of ideas or you stop working as sharply. When the time is up – STOP. Yes. Stop. That way, you’ll have more to write the next day when your mind is fresh. Obviously you can finish your sentence before turning off your computer or jot a quick idea down that you don’t want to forget. When I’m at a particularly challenging part in my books, this tactic has helped avoid Writer’s Block.

When Writer’s Block strikes, try these ideas:

  1. Go for a walk! It’s hard to leave your writing space but force yourself to get up and walk away. Preferably go out in nature, breathe, clear your mind. This idea to walk away from a problem seems counter to what we’re told to do, you know – “Face your problems” and all that. The problem of Writer’s Block, however, is different. Sometimes, you have to get out of your head. When you’re walking, you’d be surprised what might trigger a moment of genius, so bring a pad of paper!
  2. Act it out. When dialogue is the issue, often acting out how your characters would converse can break the block. If you’re up for it and can get past cringing, you can even film yourself acting out the dialogue and watch it back. Then, as the critic, you’ll catch things you wouldn’t have or have fresh ideas.
  3. Phone a friend. This can be anyone willing to be your sounding board. A fellow writer may have expert advice from their own playbook or your sister may have priceless life experiences from which she can pull. Be sure to put your ego aside and just listen.

Writer’s Block can be challenging. There are so many ideas floating around on the internet about how to break the block. These were three that work for me. A couple I haven’t tried are:

  1. Put a pin in it. Put an asterisk or a note to “come back” where you are experiencing Writer’s Block in your manuscript and then move onto the next scene. I may have to use this one day but I think it would be hard for me to fill in holes later. I don’t think I could move on but it’s a trick I’ll keep up my sleeve. You never know.
  2. Disable the internet. Many writers think they’re experiencing Writer’s Block when what they’re actually dealing with may be distraction. I don’t easily fall down the rabbit hole of internet searches, but if you do, set a time to “research” for your writing and a time to just write. When it is time to write, disable your Wi-Fi.

Writer’s Block is an unfortunate reality for writers but there are ways to beat it. Try one of the above ideas or search online for other ideas and then – get writing again!

Author Blog

Book Review: The Maid

Emily Henson

Ms. Prose is a talented author. I thoroughly enjoyed the development of the story and the unfolding of the plot – until I got to the last couple of chapters and discovered the book’s intent was to redefine Truth and make Justice subjective. 

The main character, Molly Gray, (a name ironic now that I realize it since she decides in the end that there is room for “versions and variations [of the truth], for shades of gray”), strikes one at first as a loveable albeit, quirky young woman. Raised by her dear grandmother, some of Molly’s ways are a bit old fashioned. The reader soon understands she must be on a spectrum and she is even described by other characters as “special”. She is quite OCD and a true clean freak. Her life then as a maid, as you can imagine, creates many delightfully humorous occasions for her to endear herself to the reader. When Molly is accused of the murder of a wealthy patron of the hotel, named Mr. Black, she finds out who her real friends are when they come to her aid. As a reader, the problem arose when – 

***Spoilers***

In the last third of the book, Molly started referring to truth as “her truth”. My spidey-sense prickled. Isn’t Truth objective?

I lost all interest when, in the epilogue, the reader even gets a preachy diatribe from the author through Molly about how there is no absolute truth. Molly has come to realize that truth, and even justice, are subjective. It is in the last few chapters of the book that the reader discovers that Molly has committed a mercy killing of her beloved grandmother at her grandmother’s request when her grandmother could not have been more than moments from passing away from natural causes due to an illness. The reader also discovers that Molly has withheld the identity of the murderer of Mr. Black because she believes Mr. Black deserved to die. Based on Molly’s new philosophy, murder can be justified outside the laws of morals – in a grayer area.

This philosophy would have the reader believe that since there is no absolute truth, murder is justifiable. It would follow then that, depending on a person’s perspective, murdering another human being is justifiable no matter what. Their truth – their justice. Right?

Sure enough, Molly comes to this shocking conclusion – Those who are mistreated (even those who feel subjected) are, Molly concludes, given license to take justice into their own hands. Mr. Black was a rude, rich man who abused his wife – surely it is justified that, according to Molly’s new “subjective truth” theory, his murderer suffocated him in his inebriated state… even though his current wife had the financial and physical freedom to escape.

I don’t say “shocking conclusion” lightly. This shift for Molly goes against everything the reader was led to believe about her character, her obsessive fixation on order.

The hypocrisy that, juxtaposed to her obsessive, compulsive desire for order, she would commit murder or allow for murder is hard to swallow. Perhaps this sudden revelation of Molly’s unbalanced nature at the end of the book aligns with her disturbingly violent inner thoughts the readers notes from early on in the book. Thoughts such as: “I imagine a big red bucket of soapy water and pushing his bulbous head into it.” Or: “I want to gouge out her eyes” Or: “I imagine taking the fork and from my place setting and stabbing him with it” And many more disturbing ideations.

It’s possible that Molly’s imbalance began after she murdered her grandmother. That’s certainly when things seemed to begin to be in upheaval for Molly. Unable to pay rent, friendless, disturbing ideations, and withholding the identity of a murderer. Maybe her conscience couldn’t justify what she’d done to her grandmother and she cracked. She needed to justify, or “order”, her actions around a new philosophy.

In the first half of the book Molly tells the police detective that she disagreed with her grandmother’s idea that truth is subjective. Molly states then that she believes truth is absolute. But, for a girl brought up idolizing her grandmother, the grandmother who pressured her into assisting her suicide, perhaps Molly feels compelled to redefine truth and justice to rectify her guilt of participating in a mercy killing – a killing that should have horrified her orderly nature.

I was sickened by the philosophy Ms. Prose would have the reader swallow. I refuse to believe there is no ultimate Truth and that justice is not clearly defined – even if only to prevent utter chaos! Yes, mankind is responsible for upholding justice and, since mankind is not perfect, mistakes and deceit happen. Sometimes the innocent are marginalized and the guilty walk free. This does not mean that fundamental Truth and Justice do not exist. If we believe otherwise, we invite chaos.

If there is no absolute Truth, one can create their own truth and if there is no understanding of justice – well then [insert any heinous crime committed against another human being] is justifiable in the mind of the transgressor. Someone with their own definition of truth or perception of reality can decide that murder, theft, assault, or abuse is justified.

In closing, while the book started off SO GOOD, I cannot recommend it on moral grounds. I strive to live by the motto Esse Quam Videri – To be, rather than to seem. “To be”, necessitates the belief in a fundamental blue print for Truth which cannot be altered by perspective or societal trends. “To seem”, on the other hand, although quite vogue, is subjective and as futile as chasing after the wind.

Author Blog

Poetry Month: My Favorites!

Emily Henson

April is the National Month of Poetry. Most people have a favorite poem—lines of verse that struck a chord in their heart perhaps due to a trial or triumph in their life that reflect the poem’s story. A person’s particular favorite may stir feelings of nostalgia, romance, victories, or religion. Some of us have even dabbled a bit in composing our own rhymes.

I thought it would be fun to share two of my favorite poems and explain why I find myself coming back to them. I’ve put the poems below for your enjoyment.

The first of my favorite poems is The Children’s Hour by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. It is a story of a father who sits in his study at twilight. He hears, edging closer, the sound of little feet and stifled whispers before he is suddenly ambushed by his three daughters. They devour their father with kisses and cuddles. While it may seem he is defeated, he declares himself the victor. He will never let them go. He will keep them he says, “down into the dungeon, in the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day…” This is a particular favorite of mine because it reminds me of my father—my dear “old mustache”. Some of my fondest memories are of me and my siblings starting a full scale attack that resulted in squealing peels of laughter as we sought desperately to escape his tickling reach. Oh, to rewind the clock and join again in that fun.

Another of my favorite poems is a short metaphysical poem called The Pulley by George Herbert. The poem describes the blessings God poured into man at our creation—blessings such as strength, beauty, and wisdom. At the bottom of this glass of blessings lies rest. God stays His hand, withholding this coveted gift however, He will allow man to keep the other gifts “but keep them with repining restlessness; Let him be rich and weary, that at least, if goodness lead him not, yet weariness may toss him to my breast.” I think Herbert captures the human condition succinctly in his short poem. Too often we are distracted by the things of this world or too delighted by ourselves to remember our Divine Creator. God, in His infinite wisdom, withheld perfect rest in order that we might, weary with the world, turn ourselves to Him and seek His heavenly repose.

I would love to hear what your favorite poem is! Sharing a great poem is truly like giving someone a beautiful gift.

The Children’s Hour
BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day’s occupations,
That is known as the Children’s Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
O’er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

The Pulley
BY GEORGE HERBERT
When God at first made man,
Having a glass of blessings standing by,
“Let us,” said he, “pour on him all we can.
Let the world’s riches, which dispersèd lie,
Contract into a span.”

So strength first made a way;
Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honour, pleasure.
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that, alone of all his treasure,
Rest in the bottom lay.

“For if I should,” said he,
“Bestow this jewel also on my creature,
He would adore my gifts instead of me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature;
So both should losers be.

“Yet let him keep the rest,
But keep them with repining restlessness;
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast.”

Author Blog

Spring is in the Air!

Emily Henson

Before the 14th century, the season we know as “spring” was called Lent. The word “Lent” refers to the solemn Catholic observance during the forty days leading up to Christ’s death. This time of penance and fasting was meant as a preparation for Christ’s suffering and death leading to the renewal of life brought by His resurrection. The term “Lent” for the spring season is rather fitting then when you consider nature’s transformation from death and dormancy to the burgeoning life enjoyed by late spring and early summer.

Spring is my favorite season despite the allergies—which are awful! (PSA – try a teaspoon of local honey to help create a natural defense against allergy symptoms.) The vibrant colors and fledgling life visible everywhere fills me with renewed hope after the dark, cold days of winter. I love when sunlight remains after we have eaten dinner allowing for a family walk or throwing a ball outside before bedtime routines commence. I am a fan of the Sunshine Protection Act. The fact that we will enjoy sun later in the day forevermore makes me supremely happy.

We have been working to prepare for the spring growing season at our house. My rose bushes are prepped and ready for their season of glory. The hydrangea bushes are budding new life. My husband and father-in-law just planted fourteen oak and maple trees along the road leading to our house. I plan to plant three azalea bushes to replace some that didn’t make it—no thanks to the exterior painters who trampled them last year. My six-year-old daughter started giant sunflowers in a pot inside before successfully replanting them outside.

We also try to enjoy the outdoors more. Fishing on the pond has been a recent activity we have all enjoyed. One of my all time favorite things about spring are the flowers my children bring me.

As an update to my last blog, the chicks are doing well. Sadly, we did lose some even though we fought hard to nurse them. We replaced them with new chicks. Take a look at how tiny the new ones are compared to the originals! For those interested, the originals are Leghorns. Two of the newbies are bantams and the two others are ISA browns. The bantams were “straight run” which means unsexed. We’ll see if we accidently chose roosters…

Tell me what your Spring traditions are in the comments below. If you have any allergy relief tactics, leave a comment below.

Author Blog

Life and Death on a Farm

Emily Henson

“How do you do it?” people ask. “Deal with the death you encounter on a farm?”

Before I answer that question, let me state that the death of farm animals isn’t easy for me. Watching my children grieve the loss of a farm animal is even harder. It would be callous to just tell them with a shrug, “That’s the circle of life, kid. Now, go get a shovel.” We do take the opportunity to talk about how nature works—some animals don’t make it; they get sick or injured or die of old age. We haven’t had more than the normal amount of death on our farm over the years. (Well, minus the time a fox got into the duck tractor, which was tragic.) But death is inevitable on a farm.

We just had chicks arrive in the mail yesterday. We celebrated that all of them made it through shipping before helping them nestle into the safe, warm, and clean living space we had for them. Sadly, this morning we woke to find that one of them had not made it through the night despite it being a calm evening and warm under their heat lamp. My son was distraught. It had been the one he selected to take care of out of the bunch. The highs and lows of farm life can seem extreme at times. After yesterday’s celebrating, here we were needing to bury yet another farm animal. I gave him a tight hug and my children took care to bury him near our beloved rooster’s grave.

Then a new blow. Another of the chicks likely has an intestinal infection or parasite. We immediately put it in quarantine to keep the other chicks safe. With the help of my children, I’ve been nursing the sick chick all day. Every hour or so, I use a medicine dropper to give her water and try to help her eat yogurt and starter food slush. She has revived several times but we fear the worst. As it goes, this one was the chick my youngest had latched on to.

This evening, my son ran in to tell me that another chick was face down in the wood chips. That’s right, folks! We have a second invalid to nurse. So—we’ll see and we’ll hope.

What I like to remember most are the farm animals we’ve cared for and even helped bring into the world. We have had baby goats kidded right here on our farm. We have had chickens secret eggs away until they have hatched while we watched in amazement as mama hen took care of them. We have brought many chicks to adulthood who now roam our fields (and mess up my garden). We saved two sets of Muscovy ducks at different times. The farm dog, Josie came as a puppy and is now helping to “train” the new puppy Lilly. So much life!

How do I deal with the death of farm animals? Well, first we try to avoid it. When it happens, we deal with it with compassion, with awe for God’s creation. That’s all we can do and that’s what I hope to instill in my children as they too experience the ups and downs of farm life—and death.

Author Blog

Writer’s Desk – Why mine doesn’t always exist.

Emily Henson
photo credit: @our.sweet.retreat

If you have a hobby of any kind, it is common to have a “space” for your craft. If you love wood working or giving new life to antique furniture through DYI refurbishment, you probably find yourself in the garage or outdoors. If you are a painter, you likely have a place for your paints, brushes, canvas, etc. For writers, it has become a trend to take a photo of our desk and post that on social media. I LOVE looking at these photos. The creative spaces are gorgeous eye candy! I don’t have such a space.

I’ve dreamed of having that – The writer’s desk. I’ve gotten things pretty well laid out a time or two (proof below):

If I could have my ideal space, I’d have a fairly simple desk in front of a window overlooking a pretty corner of nature. This way I could glance up every now and then from my writing and refocus myself. On my desk, mementoes would sit, tastefully displayed, that remind me of a loved one or perhaps spark my creative genius. The delicious aroma of coffee would permeate the air from the attractive mug sojourning nearby. While I would keep an elegant notebook at hand and a small army of freshly sharpened pencils, the majority of my writing would be done on a laptop.

In reality, however, I write where I can. I’m a mom, I work at a school full time, and … I’m tired. These days, my writing regimen tends to include: couch, pajamas, and my favorite beverage of the moment.

To my surprise, the first few pages of an old sewing machine instruction booklet started, not with how to operate the machine, but instead instructed the user that her appearance and house be immaculate before she even starts sewing. Can you imagine? Before you thread that needle, ladies, don’t forget your heels!

To a certain extent, I agree that a clean house or a tidy space helps you feel composed and at peace before launching on a project. There is also something to be said for having your basic duties met before allowing yourself the pleasure of sitting down to your hobby. But, in full honesty, I’d never get to write if it meant I first needed to have a perfect house and immaculate appearance.

I think, in order to be our best selves, we must find moments to fit in our hobbies. This may or may not include the perfect work space. That is something you can set as a future goal, but it isn’t integral to being creative. Maybe your hobby area doesn’t look like curated selections from a Pinterest wall or the Instagram page of that social media influencer you follow. Don’t let that keep you from honing your talents! Studies show that when we make time for our artistic outlets, our mental health improves. When I feel good, I tend to handle life’s challenges with more grace than otherwise. If I get to spend five minutes writing, I grumble less about that laundry basket full of clean clothes I need to fold. You can look at taking time to be creative as an investment in your health – like the sugar which makes the bitter medicine of life’s responsibilities go down easier.

Find your comfort zone, be grateful for the opportunity, and lean in to your hobby.

Author Blog

Traits of Friendship

Emily Henson

In the classic novel, Anne of Green Gables, Anne Shirley defines the ideal friendship for which her young heart has yearned. She desires, “A bosom friend—an intimate friend, you know—a really kindred spirit to whom I can confide my inmost soul. I’ve dreamed of meeting her all my life.”

Friendship, and I’m talking about true friendship, is rare. Have you ever had someone who you could call day or night and they would pick up, listen to you ugly cry, and before you’ve finished emptying your heart they’ve shown up at your door? That kind of friendship bolsters us up and carries us through this difficult journey on earth making the trials easier and the joys worth sharing. To me, there is another, quieter sign of intimate friendship which communicates an even deeper soul connection.

In my novel Madame Beekeeper, the main character, Rachel Buckner finds herself in her early sixties without true friendships. She kept everyone at arm’s length for so long that one day she wakes up to the stark reality that, though respected by many, she has no one to, as Anne Shirley put it confide her inmost soul. As the story unfolds, Rachel begins letting people into her heart – or is she finally letting herself be welcomed into theirs? It’s hard for her to tell. Rachel learns relationships can mean being vulnerable and that it is just when we are weakest that we find out who our real friends are.

After a horrific accident involving someone dear to Rachel, she finds herself alone with LouEllen, her neighbor and former coworker. The evolution of their friendship culminates on the quiet drive home from the hospital and this moment has become one of my favorites in the book:

Neither Rachel nor LouEllen spoke. Both were too drained from the day’s events. One sign of true friendship is that you do not feel obliged to fill the void of silence with idle chatter. Sometimes friendship can be best felt in the comfortable intermission between words.

I have been blessed with friends who are kindred spirits. Bosom friends who have cried with me and laughed until we cried – laughed so hard we couldn’t even get another word out and we’re barely able to breathe. Better still, these friends, in the moments when life has paused and the rush lapsed into silence, have sat – just sat – with me, both of us comfortable, not feeling the urge to break the silence.

This criterion for a sign of true friendship might seem odd to some. Comfort in silence as a trait of friendship? Take a moment and think about it though. Who can you sit with, unabashedly yourselves, and neither of you feels compelled to say something? You are just happy in each other’s company? To me, that is the ultimate assurance that a friendship has fully blossomed.

What is your defining trait for friendship? I’d love for you to share in the comments.

Author Blog

When Times Are Tough – The Tough Pray

Emily Henson

10678473_10152707446330952_7154448925630624208_nI won’t bore you with the gritty details of my life’s downs right now – You’ve had ’em too.  We’ve all been there.  When life seems to be throwing more lemons at you then you have the patience to turn into a pitcher of lemonade, what are you to do?  Well, pray.  But, I’m a type A person (or at least that’s what people have told me on occasion).  I think that means I like to solve my own problems – moving mountains to get to the finish line without stopping to take names.

Most of the time that works for me.  During several, memorable junctures of my life, however, I found myself amidst an ocean of unanswerables, sadly lacking a life-vest, or shark repellent, or sunscreen – one of those times we are knocked to our knees and reminded that the best thing to do in that position is to pray.  It is the refusal of prayer and the stubborn trust in “me” when the other guy wins.

I learned my lesson twelve years ago that prayer is sometimes the only thing that’s left and that I need to trust with abandon when there’s nothing else to cling to.  That’s why, when I don’t see an end to the tunnel, I am again reminded that I can’t solve everything by myself and the best thing to do is pray my Lord reaches His hand out in the storm and pulls me up, for He is truly our Shepherd and will protect us.

~My Shepherd~

Oh my Lord, he draws near again.

My Lord, my God I beseech Thee.

Through pain or prize he seeks to reign,

but Jesus Victor my King shall be.

 

When I was weak he conquered me.

Forgetting to kneel, proud I stood –

too bold, to blind to bend my knee,

neglecting Your sacrificial wood.

 

When all seemed lost, I was rescued –

for my poor heart Your grace ransomed,

by Your power my soul renewed,

to purest treasure my will succumbed.

 

He stands again at my threshold,

beckoning, beguiling Your frail child.

Capture me deep within Your fold.

Whisper my name as his howls grow wild.

 

Never more will my strength falter,

never again his seeds sow doubt.

I rest firmly at Your altar,

for through the Son lies my only route.

Author Blog

Chocolate – and other true loves

Emily Henson

I vividly remember trying cocoa powder for the first time.  I saw the brown container – big, white letters proclaiming “Cocoa Powder”.  I thought I had discovered a secret my mom was keeping from me, a self-confessed chocoholic.  “Chocolate in powdered form?” I wondered excitedly to myself as I plied open the rectangular, plastic top.  I greedily snatched a spoon from the drawer and dug the fine powder out of the container.  ARRRGH!  Cough – cough – GAG!  “WHY?!?!?!?” my soul screamed to the heavens.  “Someone is playing a cruel joke on me.  ‘Cocoa powder’ – A LIE!”

Once I read the fine print – I say ‘fine’ because it should really be stated much larger on the container that the cocoa has not yet been sweetened so no other innocent bystander is tricked, but I digress – As I was saying, once I read the complete label, I realized that no edible chocolate comes that easily.

Isn’t that like everything we love?  As I grew older, I realized (and am still being reminded often) that love requires patience.  A good comparison, for instance, is that Europeans have different ways of expressing things they appreciate, honor, like, and love.  They do not, as Americans do, “love a piece of cake” and “love their mom, too”.  They like cake and love their mom.  Their speech is a reflection that we should honor where honor is due and just appreciate all the other small stuff.

Think of your best friend – Not the person you met the other day that you hit it off with and look forward to seeing again.  No, I’m talking about that friend you cried like a baby to when you were brought low by the grittiness of life, who you showed your crippled shell to when you thought all was lost.  It could be that that friend is your sister or brother, or your mom or dad, or your grade school bestie, but, no matter the case, that deep, secret-sharing friendship took years to foster.

Think of that possession you saved for months for and treasure over the token gift someone gave you.  Or, that assignment for your teacher, professor, or boss that you whittled away at, perfecting time and again before proudly handing it in versus the shoddy work you completed at midnight the night before, pulling references from … well, you can’t remember from where exactly, that you turned in with affected confidence.

Work for something, for anything of importance, is most often a multi-stepped mess that comes together after a long process of careful shaping, carving, crumpling up and starting again before we step back with a knowing smile tugging at our lips.  “It’s finished,” we whisper, “There may be some strings hanging there or a loose nail … my hands hurt and my back aches … my little project has to stand on its own now … I hope it never falls … but it will … and I’ll put the pieces back together … because we’re never done.”

You have to get your hands dirty, your knees will callous, and sometimes you’ll feel like you failed.  Work isn’t for the faint of heart; no one ever said cleaning was clean – But, even when it is hardest, try to love every minute of it.

Love is work.  Not the kind of work we hate … Love is all the work we hate to stop.