The Gift

The Gift

By John W. Vander Velden

 

The greatest you can ever receive, is not wrapped with fancy paper tied with a ribbon of silk. It cannot be found on a glass display in a department store. No, the greatest gift is wrapped in swaddling cloths found in a stable, lying in a manger.  And yet nothing -- absolutely nothing -- can compare with that gift.  No other thing you have ever received.  No other thing you could possibly hope for -- has the value of that special gift.

May the birth of Jesus -- the Savior of the world -- be part of your Christmas -- part of your life!

(106 Words)

Amos

Amos         12-18-2013

By John W. Vander Velden

Some call it a cozy room – others dingy.  The first glimpse of faded wall paper, with its once cheerful patterns now diminished to slight contrasts of brownish grays, or the worn coffee colored rug that shows pathways of frequent footsteps leading to and from closed doors, might fuel a person’s opinion.  The room is simply furnished with two green upholstered chairs that do not match by either color or style, a small round glass topped table that holds a lamp and a single shiny metal framed photograph of a woman, apparently in her thirties.  The space contains little else other than a brown porcelain covered Segler oil heater, burning ferociously, yet unable to completely chase the damp chill beyond the walls.  Behind the Segler, above the space that long ago would have been a fireplace, now filled with concrete painted beige to approximate the walls coverings,  stands a cream painted mantle with  a collection of small photographs,  two teenage boys and three young ladies of varying ages separated by small figurines, a white angel with pleading eyes, a black and white cat, that if one stared at that cat long enough it would seem to grin, and a boxer, the pup crouching down, face forward as if anticipating the toss of a ball for it to fetch.

The space is occupied by a single old man seated in a green chair.  Amos Fenton, dressed in a hand knitted red sweater, the boldest color in the room, over a deep green shirt, wearing olive colored work trousers and heavy grays socks.  The man sits motionless, his newspaper spread across his lap.  The paper does not hold Mr. Fenton’s attention for the man‘s eyes, face the mantle across the room.  Yet his gaze is further, not trapped by walls.  A few moments pass and Amos’ distant eyes begin to return to his surroundings.  Shaking his head ever so slightly the old man slides his fingers through the neatly combed stiff white hair, which may have thinned over the years but still covers his head.

Amos turns to his right and smiles as he views the picture at his elbow.  Gingerly he lifts the framed print and stares into the eyes of the woman’s image.  The old man draws a deep breath and allows it to slip out with a sigh.  He glances up to the pictures upon the mantle, allowing another sigh to slip past tight lips.  The old man whispers as once again he faces the photo he holds in shaky hands.   “I’m well my dear.  They’re fine – all healthy and happy, best I can tell – all five of them.”

Amos embraces the silver framed photograph of his wife Ellen, as a single tear slides down his cheek, and with a trembling smile, allows a few soft words to slip into the room.  “Yes, dear it’s been a good year – Merry Christmas my love.”

(483 Words)

Red and Blue

Red and Blue

By John W. Vander Velden

The night dark, heavy clouds hid the moon and stars.  The sound of the wipers slapping the large drops that fell, pounding the Valiant’s windshield and roof, and the hiss of tires on wet pavement made listening to the AM radio difficult.  Tom turned up the volume which only added to the din.  The two lane seemed more quiet than usual as he made his way home.  The ride, of twenty-five minutes, familiar, even in the dark.  Tired, he stared bleary eyed at the dark roadway, the headlights of a car that followed -- too closely -- did not aid.  Tom shoved the rearview mirror aside to keep the glare from his eyes.  But the light on his side of the windshield only added to the difficulty of driving.  “Pass or back off…”  Tom cursed to himself.  The answer -- red and blue, alternating intense flashes which filled the old Plymouth with color.

After Tom had at last found a space safe enough to pull over.  After the wet officer had tapped upon his window.  After Tom had shared his driver’s license and registration.  After the State Policeman told him it was a mistake…Tom pulled away slowly, his car yet filled with red and blue.  

(202 Words)

We Can Teach

We Can Teach                        

By John W. Vander Velden

What can we teach?  Who would learn?  How have we learned?  Who has nurtured?  Life -- its ups -- its down, the ultimate instructor, so many lessons learned by bruises most invisible. While we continue yearning for a gentle pat, recompense of task well done or achievements noticed.  Have we tools to spare others from the pains and disappointments?  Look into mirror’s reflection; see the truth in lines, wrinkles and hair long lost of color.  Do not life’s scars make us worthy instructors?  Does not our conscious demand, harsh lessons learned shared, that others need not pay penalties avoidable. Surely hands and voice driven by truth -- words spoken -- words scribed -- offer wisdom to the ears willing to hear.  We can not force deaf ears to listen.  We can not expect blind eyes to observe.  Yet surely around us are those open, wise enough to accept life’s lessons paid with our sweat -- our blood.  Therefore it becomes our obligation to teach any willing to learn and by our effort perhaps make the world a grain of sand better.  Yes, it remains with us.  We can teach!!!

 

(189 Words)

Mary Jo

Mary Jo                  

By John W. Vander Velden

 

At work in her kitchen, a place she knew better than the backside of her hands, Mary Jo had so much to do.  Yet all the while as she prepared the midday meal, her mind drifted to another time.  Weary, Mary Jo made herself a cup of coffee – instant.  It was quicker, and time always had rushed her along.  She sat at the kitchen table turning the cup with tired gnarled fingers.  The house seemed large these days.  It had not always been so.  Mary Jo smiled at the thought of how her three boys had been practically stacked in the only real bedroom upstairs.  And though both girls may have had their own rooms, each of those spaces were scarcely larger than the twin bed wedged within.  Yes, they had made do in so many ways.  Mary Jo Hawkins shook her head.  How many weeks had she wondered how they could afford the groceries.  But each week the pennies, dimes, and nickels had been enough.  That did not matter now – perhaps it never did. 

Mrs. Hawkins decided thing had turned out well – better than she had ever dared to hope.  The farm family had found a way to send all five to school.  Larry her oldest went to the technical school in Indianapolis and ended up settling there.  Both Jenny and Sue had become registered nurses with families of their own.  Jenny, her husband Leo, and their two daughters lived in Crawfordsville, so far away.  Well Sue wasn’t much closer.  Her brood lived two hours distant.  Lyle became an electrician.  He lived the closest, the drive only took fifteen minutes.  Lyle’s wife was a delight – of course she would be -- for she was a Mary Hawkins too.  Lyle and the young Mary didn’t have any children – yet -- but the Elder Mary Hawkins put in a good word for them in her prayers each night.  And though Mary Jo would deny it, her favorite, Jim the engineer, her youngest, lived furthest of all, in Sacramento.  Mary Jo sighed, California seemed a world away.

Now the house felt so empty – so quiet.  Lee had stepped out.  That man always seemed to have something to do – outside.  Leaves or some such thing Lee had said – if Mary Jo had heard correctly.  She wasn’t sure she had.  “Enough dilly-dallying” Mary Jo scolded herself.  “I’ve got lots to do.  They’re coming home today – all of them.  And I expect they’ll be hungry.”  Her smile grew as she went back to her stove.  Yes, today would be special – life was good!  

(428 Words) 

Brushstrokes

Brushstrokes

 

By John W. Vander Velden

 

The years seem to fly by.  Our lives so busy we seldom consider the place we find ourselves.  The young, with so much canvas before them, don’t even notice the brush held which has set the first stokes to their art. Going day after day, doing what might seem mundane, yet forming a framework that years hence will be unable to completely erase.  How a person deals with the everyday create the subtle colors and shades of their masterpiece.  Times the brush paints with fervor -- bright colors -- reds and blues -- green and gold.  Those days we find ourselves in changes most dramatic.  However when things settle in to new patterns and change comes more slowly, the colors subdued, soft shades, lavender and peach -- mint and silver.  Life and its changes never cease while we have breath and so the painting goes on.

Those that have the years and take the time, might step back and consider the art that reflects their lives.  Too easy for us to dwell upon each of the picture’s imperfection – mistakes -- poor judgments -- foolish decisions, and become angry with ourselves.  But those flaws are but a part of the whole.  They make us human.  But there are also the grand and beautiful scenes we most often ignore.  Times of love and compassion -- of self-sacrifice -- times when we have been our very best.  Does not art reflect the light and the dark, and does not our painting show our best and our worst.  We are not so bound to the past, to the things we once did, to the people we once were, for transformation is always possible!   Does not our painting show change and growth?   Our lives are not cast in stone -- but rather a great painting forming -- a lifetime of brushstrokes.

(306 Words)

BEN

Ben                         

By John W. Vander Velden

 

The light entering through colored glass, the only illumination in the large room with a high ceiling and precisely ordered furniture.  Benjamin Richards had come in search of answers.  This place the last of many locales he had gone with a yearning heart.  Richards had no idea why he had chosen this particular building.  There were many from which to choose.  Yet as he drove, feeling so lost, he pulled into the parking space.  Why had he left his car and moved those few steps to the doorway which Benjamin felt certain would be locked?  Where was the logic that had driven his life?  But leaning upon the heavy oak door, grasping the handle, the way opened easily.  It seemed Benjamin Richards had been expected.  Without thought Richards moved to the large room, the open dim space of high windows and scents unfamiliar, filled with silence.

  Benjamin had never moved across these carpeted floors before, nor had he darkened any other building of this type.  Until this day Richards had never felt the need.  There had been so many other places to be.  So many other places that supplied the needs he felt.  But days of seeking what remained hidden, drove Benjamin at last to a place he felt had no purpose, at least no purpose for him.  Now here in the dim light, a place alien yet familiar in ways Richards could not fully understand, something primal, something written it seemed deep within the subconscious. 

Alone in that space, Benjamin crossed most of its length.  Taking a seat, the man stared into the dimness before him.  It was then Benjamin Richards began to speak, a whisper soft yet clearly auditable.  And as Benjamin Richards asked questions, the questions that like lead, weighed upon his heart, his voice grew stronger.  As tears began…tears of fear…tears of guilt…tears of pain…tears of anger…Benjamin’s voice now shouting…demanding…begging…echoed as the words moved back and forth, filling  that space to the rafters.  Filled with anger and doubt Benjamin continued his ranting’s until at last even his voice failed him.

Sitting bent, feeling broken, filled with hopelessness, Benjamin supported his wet face with trembling fingers.  Wailing, as with gasping breaths, Richards struggled to regain control of raging emotions.  When at last the shuttering ceased.  When at last breathing came in even intervals.  When at last his racing heart calmed, and Ben could lift his head, a stillness entered him.  As if the quiet dignity of his surroundings had absorbed all the hate…all the anger…all the contempt.  Within that immense calm, came something most unexpected.  For though others would believe this room contained only one angry, bitter man…Ben realized he was not alone.  That something great and good, far beyond his understanding, told Ben, that he had never been alone…That he would never be alone, no matter where he went or what he faced.  That together strength could be found.  And Ben understood…that would be enough!

(500 Words)

Just a Stone

 

 

Just a Stone   An excerpt from: The Game.                 

By John W. Vander Velden

 

Jacob tumbled the stone he had found in his hand.  It seemed very much like those he had found in the stream behind his grandfather’s house, small enough to be concealed within his grip.  His fingers moved about its smooth shape.  Smooth so very smooth, as if polished like the rocks his Uncle Harold had.  Rocks that spent weeks rumbling around inside noisy machine his uncle used.  Yes, this stone was as smooth…but different.  Jacob’s finger moved over the stone’s cool dry surface.  Not that it always felt dry.  Times he had noticed it seemed damp…even slimy…slippery, difficult to hold.  Other times it wasn’t cool at all.  On occasions it might be pleasantly warm, but times Jacob could scarcely hold his precious treasure, as it grew quite hot.  Sometimes the smooth hard stone became cold.  More than cold!  It seemed to draw the warmth out of his hand.  Those times Jacob would stare at that stone, as he felt the cold crawl up his arm, stiffening his elbow, slithering toward his shoulder. Pain took hold of him then.  Jacob wanted to throw away the stone or at least allow it to fall, but he didn’t.  Gritting his teeth he would move the stone to his other hand, the effect there the same.  Then a moment later the cold ceased.  It was after all nothing more...

than a stone.

 

 

(230 Words)

Thorn Street

Thorn Street

 A Halloween Story

 

By John W. Vander Velden              

 

Thorn Street, on the edge of Carterton, is much like other streets.  Small and moderate houses, framed and painted, stand among a few brick residences.  In late October Jack-O-Lanterns glow on front steps as in other neighborhoods.  Yet few children include Thorn Street on their route to goodies on Beggar’s Night.  For residents of Carterton have heard the stories, and even those who put no stock in such tales do not put children at risk. 

There are no houses east of those on Thorn Street.  Behind those ordinary homes a strip of grass grows.  But beyond that narrow pasture, stands a grove of trees known as Baker’s Woods.  Eldon Baker, young and ambitious, farmed the land that included Thorn Street, but that was long ago.  Few know who owns that wood, and far fewer have roamed beneath those twisted boughs, for within lies the remnant of a grand farmstead, now enwrapped by old and gnarled pin oaks and blue beach, a place long abandoned. 

Most know the story of young Eldon Baker and his beautiful wife Lana.  Eldon worked hard to reach his dreams, and among those dreams was Lana Carter.  For many years Lana paid no heed to the affections of the big handsome man.  None know the reason she at last consented to marry, perhaps it was the house.  For Eldon built, with his own hands, the grandest house in the county, a large brick edifice, standing proudly upon a gentle hill among barns of red.  Word of that house’s splendor spread across the state. 

On the eve of Eldon and Lana’s second anniversary, the lovely Mrs. Baker vanished.  The distraught Eldon told how Lana had left him, going west with a traveling tinker, a tall young man young with dark eyes and coal black hair.  Neighbors wondered, for though many had seen the tinker, none had witnessed Lana in his company. 

Eldon Baker shut himself off from the world.  Even the hired men only caught glimpses, as the broad farmer moved past the upstairs bedroom window.  Then on a late October night, a night when the moon failed to shine, a night clouds hid the stars.  That grand house -- that house of stone and oiled wood -- burned.  Far the blaze could be seen, as the house standing on the hill, was consumed by the red-orange flames reaching into the pitch dark sky.  

The morning’s light revealed the hollowed out brick shell, crumbling walls around charred wood and deep piles of ash.  No trace of Eldon Baker was found.  Many shook their heads that day and wondered.  Some said the man set fire to the house he had built -- built with blister and callus, built for the only woman he loved -- out of grief.  Others certain that guilt overcame the big farmer, for they believed Lana’s blood, a burden unbearable.  With years passing and no word or sign from the beautiful Lana Baker, the farm lay abandoned, the buildings crumbled, slowly becoming surrounded by the trees that now make Baker’s Woods.   

But on nights of the new moon, dark nights when thick clouds block out even the brightest stars, the houses on Thorn Street lock their doors and bolt the east windows, hoping to lock out the dreadful wailing that comes from that block of trees.  The bravest watch from behind sealed glass as, from time to time, they see eyes -- glowing as white-hot coals -- watching from the woods, watching the houses on Thorn Street.

(585 Words)

 

 

 

 

 

You Can't Go Home

You Can’t Go Home…                      7-31-2013

By John W. Vander Velden

 

I watched some young Blue Birds that have been moving about our yard for a month or so, as they returned one afternoon to examine the house which must have been their earliest home.  One by one they clung to the old wood, peaking within the dark space it contained.  Though none entered the box, I wondered what they might be thinking about the small space that had once contained their whole world.  When they at last flew off, I thought that they had realized that they couldn’t go home again.

Surely there has been a time, when we too understood that we could never return to the place of our childhood memories.  Perhaps that place no longer exists.  But even if it does, our present examination shows it much different than we had remembered.  No, we can’t go home again, if home is some place that, shaped by our minds, may never have really existed in the first place.  Though it is true that the world changes -- the places -- the people -- it is more true that, “our world” has changed and continues to do so.  Home of those by-gone days is more than a building on some street in some town.  It also includes the people there.  It includes the attitudes we carried then, as well as the attitudes of others we had bumped into.  We have grown too large for the “box” that once made up our whole world.  In truth we just don’t fit!

But that may be only one definition of “home”.  Home should be more than just a local and era.  It should be a place where we know we belong.  A place that no matter how far we roam -- how much we have grown -- that will accept us upon our returning.  It should be the place where people love us -- even though they know us.  Where we find acceptance and unconditional welcome.  Yes, that is the home that calls us back time and time again.

And there is the other definition of home.  The place you find yourself and the people that fill your everyday.  That is the home you take with you.  It surrounds you and is the “every part” of your life.  You may move -- go to another city -- or country for that matter, but if even one person travels with you -- one person that cares -- then you have brought “home” along.  In that respect you cannot go home -- because you are already there.

(423 Words)

Night Reflections

Night Reflections  

By John W. Vander Velden           

The ending day, found me sitting in the dark alone.  Pushing the present aside, I remembered a happier time.  My mind saw Jenny years ago, a beauty.  I could think nothing else.  The beginning, a Sunday afternoon, a walk in the park, talk, too much talk, not enough talk, laughter, I remember the laughter.

That day, she had only dated me on a dare…silly girl.   What caused her to change?  Why did she love me?  I was no one.  She was everything!  My life changed, Jenny my universe; I had a new purpose.  Together we built our new world.  Together we made a home…together.  I became more with her at my side, more than I had ever imagined.  

Suddenly my mind filled with another time.  Angry words, painful spiteful words, spoken out of hurt and frustration, packed suitcases, a door slammed, an empty hotel room.  But love had not abandoned, misplaced perhaps, buried beneath the day to day perhaps, ignored too long but certainly not dead.  Then there were tears, many tears and a new understanding came; with it love blossomed as never before.  

Years, all the years, the good times certainly outweighed the bad.  Now I must face the years alone…

(205 Words)

Wander Indiana...? Why Not...!!!

Wander Indiana…?  Why Not!!!

By John W. Vander Velden

Sometimes thing just don’t go as planned.  We had intended to go north for a few days this summer…well…  Our vacation got postponed so why not go the other way. 

We set up base camp in a really nice hotel in Edinburg, Indiana.  That’s just north of Columbus.  From there we drove to several points in Southern Indiana…beginning with Nashville…that is Indiana.  Jackie calls it little Nashville.  I don’t think the folks there would mind.  It’s an artsy craftsy sort of place.  Tuesday sent us to Clifty Falls State Park for some hiking…huff…huff…huff…  Trust me these old legs aren’t what they used to be.  I did make it to the creek bed…almost. The nice “young” couple down there told me that the real creek bed was just over the next ridge.  “Cool” was how they described it. “I should hike to the falls.”  They suggested.  “Should make there and back in a couple of hours…or so.”  They told me.  I informed them that I had left Jackie at the top of the trail…(her choice)…that I did not want to leave her for such an extended time…and after all, she had the keys!

Strange the climb up was more difficult than going down.  Three times I stopped to take some pictures…a good excuse to give heart and lungs time to reach me.  As I climbed I heard a car horn…our car horn.  No, Jackie wasn’t leaving she felt certain, since my absence was much longer than I had predicted that I was broken and bloody on the rocks below.  This of course was not the case…sweaty, carried by some rubbery things that had once upon a time been leg muscles, and huffing I reached her in one piece.

The remainder of the day we spent hiking the sidewalks and shops of Madison on the Ohio River.  Is it just me or why isn’t it the Indiana River, or the Kentucky River, or Pennsylvania River, for crying out loud.  Anyway it just isn’t.  But Madison is an old place…old being a relative term…old for Indiana anyway.  The state was settled from the river north.  So the towns on the Ohio are thirty or more years older than the new places like Plymouth.  But Madison is worth the drive…and that’s saying something, ‘cause it’s out of the way.

The next morning found us nearly halfway across the state at Spring Mill State Park.  I told Jackie I wanted to be there before lunch so the light would be right.  You know how picky photographers are.  Well the light was perfect…perfect being a relative term…but as close to perfect as I could have hoped.  A beautiful morning in a beautiful place.  We debated whether to hike…our legs ask for the right to vote…or to press on to the next stop. 

 

 

 

It was so tranquil there I could have easily hiked another 5 miles or so…maybe…but concerned that the light would fail us if we waited we pressed on to West Baden.  What on earth is in West Baden you ask?  Why the West Baden Springs as well as the Hotel that gathered its fame…originally…from those springs. It was the hotel that called us…or me…  We had seen it in the distance years ago.  If you have seen the edifice you would understand.  It is like no other building I have ever seen.  And then it was in ruins.  Not so today.  It is surprising what 129 million dollars can do. 

When we went to see the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island, you paid for the privilege to walk the porch and gardens…but to go any further…“verboten”.    So we expected a similar situation here, but were pleasantly surprised to find the building open to the public.  We did pay for a tour though and the information made it well worth the price.  Scratch one place off my “bucket list”.

The following day found us at Metamora on the White Water Canal…or what once was the canal.  It was off season and most of the shops were closed.  The years have not been kind to the “tourist trap”…being murdered by the casinos we were told.  But they have a mill…a scenic railroad…in season, sorry not today folks…and a canal boat ride, which we took…two magnificent Belgians pulled the boat down and back…make it yet an interesting place.  I cannot forget the cookie jar lady who has collected more different cookie jars than any other living being…at least according to Guinness.  And of course the “Smelly Gourmet”, who has one of the most interesting shops I have ever entered.

That took us to Friday…transit day.  We left our nice hotel in Edinburg for an equally nice place on the outskirts of Lebanon.  A hotel so close to I65 they could have charged tolls.  Honestly, the access road you took to reach the place also doubled as the entrance ramp to the Interstate…don’t miss the driveway or you will find yourself Indy bound.   But on the way across the state we made some interesting stops, including Cataract Falls, Indiana’s largest.  The dry weather had reduced the flow but it did not disappoint.  From Cataract we headed to Mansfield, but on a whim detoured to Bridgeton.  It had been years since our…let’s see just how many covered bridges we can find in Park County…days.  That adventure had taken us to Bridgeton, so we wanted to see how the place had changed…dramatically. 

First off…Bridgeton is in the “middle of nowhere”…the mill keepers words.  I can vouch for that for we left town on the wrong road…not on the map…any map…well maybe the county plat map…and it took more than an hour to reach Mansfield only six miles away…though we drove nearly twenty.  On the bright side we found two delightful covered bridges.  Of course the photographer had to stop…and I let him…I mean me.

The light was still good when we reached Mansfield.  The mill there is a gem.  Though Jackie thought it looked better before they painted the place white.  I suppose weathered wood has its appeal.  The mill is a historical landmark and very authentic...paint and all.  I cannot forget to mention that Mansfield has a covered bridge…making it the fifth we had seen that day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

Now we come to day “last”.  I had picked Lebanon…not my first choice, but a good one all the same…so we would be near West Lafayette.  We intended to finish our trip by visiting our son on campus.  It was homecoming weekend and felt the need to arrive early enough to find convenient parking. Convenient you ask?  Well yes, it was also a bring vitals to campus run.  You know staples…pop…pretzels…assorted candy…and a great variety of other things Nick just couldn’t live without…and printer paper.  Over the week the cargo had grown to nearly half a carload.  Convenient was important.  Managed to park about a half block from the dorm…All is good.

I had purchased tickets for the game.  Never had bought seats at Ross Aide before so when I printed off the tickets felt alarmed to see we were in Section 105H.  Non-returnable…non-refundable…yada…yada…yada…oh my goodness!  We felt certain that the “H” meant we would be a few rows down from where they cut the notch to allow the moon to pass through the stadium… Oh contraire.  The seats were indeed in section 105.  What the “H” meant I have no idea.  So we settled into seats 114 and 115 fifteen rows up behind the Northern Illinois University Bench on say the 47and a half yard line…or there abouts.

Great seats…great weather…great game…if you were a Northern Illinois fan.  But a great day all the same.

Later we hooked up with Nick and spent a few hours before at last heading home, finishing 1148 miles and never leaving the state.  Who says there is nothing to see or do in Indiana…not I, and on that you can be certain, for we haven’t seen the half.  We had a great time…Wandering Indiana!!!  

       

Perspective

Perspective

By John W. Vander Velden  

                                   

 

Years ago my job required me to climb silos.  Though, most often I needed to climb inside for maintenance, there were several occasions I had to climb the outside ladder.  Things change and those climbs are no longer required.  Yet from time to time, I climb up standing seventy feet above the land…not for the job but for the view. 

The world looks quite different from high up the side of a silo…bigger somehow.  It is a matter of perspective.  What we see depends upon where we stand.  I believe this is broader than just the appearance of the things around us.  How we view our world and those that make it depend upon the place we stand…and what we believe.   

In the hectic-ness of life too seldom do we consider on what platform we stand…the things we hold most true.  Too often we are told what to believe and simply go along not considering the value of different opinions, afraid to look with open eyes, in order to see things in new ways. 

Certainly new views are not always the best…but if we close our minds to all new thought how can we remain certain of the things we hold true!  For the truth will always remain true…and need not fear questions.  And truth will not be diminished when measured by other concepts.  We must begin by the careful study of ourselves…honestly examining the things that shape the way we see our world.  Taking ourselves higher, to see things from another angle…and from that higher place, see our brothers and sisters more clearly… as we see the world from a new perspective. 

(282 Words)

 

Caleb's Moment

Caleb’s Moment                                            3-14-2013

By John W. Vander Velden

 

By the time the sky’s first light appeared, Caleb had finished the milking.  Days started early on the Audensen Farm.   Each day, Sundays as well, had work waiting…work that demanded more hours than daylight provided.  Only summer’s longer days minimized the need for the kerosene lantern, Caleb now carried back to the house.

The young farmer paused …paused just a moment.  Drawing morning’s first air, with its freshness deep into his lungs, Caleb examined the world around him, the new day, dew fresh, the air crystalline clear.  How seldom did Caleb Audensen take the time…to just see…to feel the life that surrounded him.  There was always too much to do!  Caleb set the lantern at his feet…drew another deep breath.  The scent of fresh baking mixed with curing hay filled his nostrils.  A moment…just a few minutes torn out of another hectic day.  A brief time to absorb the wonders all about him.  The morning star yet hung, bright and defiant in the brightening eastern sky.  The sweet notes of a Robin declared the new day’s beginning.  The soft low of Elsie, a reminder of tasks yet incomplete.  But Caleb would take a moment…only a moment… a moment to see…to feel…a moment to savor life….  He would take this brief time…his own time…Calebs moment.

(224 Words)

 

The Hourglass

The Hourglass                         9-19-2013

By John W. Vander Velden

 

Have you watched the sand as it slowly slides through an hourglass?  Each grain of sand significant, as it, one by one, flows through the narrow portion that connects the glass that holds the sand above with the part that holds the sand that has fallen.  An hourglass measures the passing of time…a small sliver of eternity.

Perhaps many find the object fascinating because they see more than sand sliding through from one end to the other.  They see themselves!  For the sand that has come to its rest could represent their past.  The Sand waiting to fall, their future.  It is in the narrows…where the grains line up one by one…the now.

Here in the narrows, we look up and see futures possibilities…dreams yet before us.  Below, we see past successes and failures as well. But it is in the now we live and breathe…In the now we must face the challenges, those expected and those unforeseen…In the now we tread forward toward the future and all it holds.  We must not allow ourselves to be stopped up, by the past.  We must not race so headlong toward tomorrow, that we spill our life wistfully on what has not yet arrived.  No, we must live in the narrows.  Each moment a precious gift, moving from the future we do not know, to the past that are our memories.

None know the number of grains that yet wait their turn through the narrows.  Those whose “year count” has grown, understand that the sand above is not infinite.  Yet now is not the time to worry about what could have been.  For as long as the sand flows…as long as each grain comes to the narrows…we have grand opportunities.  Each grain matters…each grain, a story of its own…Life is meant to be lived! 

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