All posts by dscales24

I am a wife, mother, and grandmother who enjoys sharing life experiences through writing short, lighthearted articles. These are intended to entertain, inspire, motivate, and inform my readers. I hope to receive responses in which readers tell me if they relate to the articles and share with me ideas that my writings generated in them.


I have a part-time job teaching English online to non-native English speakers.

My company connects me with students who want to learn English or want to improve their English skills.

I work on a platform that enables my students and me to see and speak with each other in real time.

During our lessons, I didn’t want my online students to be distracted by the bookshelves and cluttered tabletops of my home office. Therefore, with Dan’s help, I constructed a backdrop.

Now, my students see only me in front of this flowery board.

I showed it to a friend, who said she thought it was attractive.

“Well, it’s my Plan F backdrop,”  I said.

She understood what I meant.

“I know all about Plan F,” she said. “It’s where I live much of my life.”

Isn’t it the truth?

No one starts with Plan F, of course. We all start with Plan A, the one we hope will work because we consider it to be the best plan.

When Plan A fails, as it usually does, we move to Plan B. When Plan B fails, we move to Plan C, and so on.

Plan F is where I stopped working on my backdrop because, though it was not as good as Plan A, it was acceptable. Had it not been, I would have moved on to Plan G or decided my students could tolerate looking at my messy office background.

I have been fortunate in my life. Some of my Plan A’s have succeeded. My husband and I just celebrated our 47th wedding anniversary.

Many of my Plan A’s, however, have failed.

The recipe was a flop. Rabbits ate my first crop of lettuce. Editors rejected my submitted manuscript. My printer ink cartridge wouldn’t slide into place on my first three tries to insert it.

The Bible is full of examples of people who lived in the land of Plan F.

I think first of the woman Jesus met at a well in Samaria.

[Jesus] told her, “Go, call your husband and come back.”

 “I have no husband,” she replied.

Jesus said to her, “You are right when you say you have no husband. The fact is, you have had five husbands, and the man you now have is not your husband. What you have just said is quite true.”

The Samaritan woman was living with Plan F.

King David slept with the wife of a soldier who was away fighting the king’s battle. The woman became pregnant.

David was in trouble.

Plan A: David brought the man home for a break from military life, thinking the man would sleep with his wife. The baby the woman carried would then be thought to be her husband’s child.

But the man didn’t visit his wife during his furlough.

Plan B: David gave instructions for the man to be put at the front of the battle line so he would be killed. Then David would marry his widow and pass off the pregnancy as a legitimate one.

Plans C-D-E, etc.: Dealing with guilt. Experiencing the condemnation of a prophet. Suffering the death of a child. Moving to repentance.

Other Bible characters didn’t succeed with Plan A: Jacob, Moses, Naomi, Elijah, and the Apostle Paul, for examples.

But all those people moved forward and found success, redemption, or new passions with Plan B or C or D or . . . Z, or Plan A2, B2, C2.

Life is hard. Everyone has missed the mark on a first try.

Aren’t we blessed that our God is not a scorekeeper?

His children don’t receive demerits when they move from Plan A to Plan B.

They don’t become second-class citizens in His kingdom because of do-overs.

They don’t receive a grade of F when they move to Plan F.

In the game of life, we all strike out, miss the basket, jump the gun, step out of bounds, and commit fouls, but our Coach cheers us on.

He doesn’t give up on us.

It was to redeem us from our failure at Plan A that Jesus came to earth in the first place.









I haven’t written much lately, but I have come across two pieces on Facebook that I wish I had written.

I am sharing them below. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

My friend, Marilyn Hiser, reposted the first piece, which was untitled on Facebook.

Astrid Tonche

Have you ever noticed how in the scriptures men are always going up into the mountains to commune with the Lord?

Yet in the scriptures we hardly ever hear of women going to the mountains.

But we know why—right?

Because the women were too busy keeping life going; they couldn’t abandon babies, meals, homes, fires, gardens, and a thousand responsibilities to make the climb into the mountains!

I was talking to a friend the other day, saying that as a modern woman I feel like I’m never “free” enough from my responsibilities, never in a quiet enough space I want with God.

Her response floored me. “That is why God comes to women. Men have to climb the mountain to meet God, but God comes to women wherever they are.”

I have been pondering on her words for weeks and have searched my scriptures to see that what she said is true.

God does indeed come to women where they are, when they are doing their ordinary, everyday work.

He meets them at the wells where they draw water for their families, in their homes, in their kitchens, in their gardens.

He comes to them as they sit beside sickbeds, as they give birth, care for the elderly, and perform necessary mourning and burial rites.

Even at the empty tomb, Mary was the first to witness Christ’s resurrection. She was there because she was doing the womanly chore of properly preparing Christ’s body for burial.

In these seemingly mundane and ordinary tasks, these women of the scriptures found themselves face to face with divinity.

So if, like me, you ever start to bemoan the fact that you don’t have as much time to spend in the mountains with God as you would like, remember: God comes to women.

He knows where we are and the burdens we carry. He sees us, and if we open our eyes and our hearts, we will see Him, even in the most ordinary places and in the most ordinary things.

He lives. And he’s using a time such as this to speak to women around the world.


I don’t think most kids today know what an apron is.

The principle use of Mom’s or Grandma’s apron was to protect the dress underneath because she only had a few.

It was also because it was easier to wash aprons than dresses, and aprons used less material. But along with that, it served as a potholder for removing hot pans from the oven.

It was wonderful for drying children’s tears, and on occasion was even used for cleaning out dirty ears.

From the chicken coop, the apron was used for carrying eggs, fussy chicks, and sometimes half-hatched eggs to be finished in the warming oven.

When company came, those aprons were ideal hiding places for shy kids. And when the weather was cold, she wrapped it around her arms.

Those big old aprons wiped many a perspiring brow, bent over the hot wood stove.

Chips and kindling wood were brought into the kitchen in that apron.

From the garden, it carried all sorts of vegetables. After the peas had been shelled, it carried out the hulls.

In the fall, the apron was used to bring in apples that had fallen from the trees.

When unexpected company drove up the road, it was surprising how much furniture that old apron could dust in a matter of seconds.

When dinner was ready, she walked out onto the porch, waved her apron, and the men folk knew it was time to come in from the fields to dinner.

It will be a long time before someone invents something that will replace that ‘old-time apron’ that served so many purposes.


Santa’s Clauset



Like many people, I spend lots of time looking for things I’ve misplaced.

This isn’t a new problem for me, but it has gotten worse as I’ve grown older. Added to the age factor is the reality that I have more things to keep track of today than ever before.

My phone is the item I lose most often.

For Christmas, both my kids bought me a Tile, which is a small square of plastic that has a button I can press and make my phone ring. I press the button, follow the sound of the ringtone, and find my phone, every time.

If I lose one Tile, I have a replacement on hand—somewhere.

This week I have worked in our yard a lot because the weather has been nice, and the flower beds needed tending.

As I moved from one flower bed to another, I often failed to take with me one of my pieces of equipment. Usually, it was the metal, wooden-handled dandelion digger-outer.

I estimate I have spent two hours this week looking for that tool. I don’t want to leave it where Dan will mow over it and sling it into a window, or worse, into a neighbor or into me.

Since the item poses potential danger if left lying around, I cannot rest until I find the thing. I was outside looking for it in the rain yesterday.

This week, I suffered a new loss that caused me great angst. Let me explain.

I use WordPress to create the blog posts you read, this one you are now reading, in fact. My posts usually contain some photos or other images I have retrieved from my camera or downloaded from a website.

After I retrieve these images, I place them inside my Media Library on my WordPress site. I have dozens of images in my WordPress Media Library.

While perusing the Web this week, I came across an article that began like this: You probably have dozens of images in your WordPress Media Library that are taking up space on your computer.

Now, because I’m impulsive and because I knew the article would include technical terms I wouldn’t understand, I read no further but immediately acted.

I went to my WordPress Media Library and started deleting images.

“Boy, I’m freeing up lots of space in my computer,” I thought.

Well, and this is beyond my scope of understanding, images I had previously used from my Media Library and put into blog posts (but was now deleting from my library) began disappearing from those posts.

Possibly my latest blog post, when you opened it (Hardy-Har-Har), contained wide blank spaces or even random question marks in the middle of wide blank spaces.

I had put images there.

The images had been stored in my Media Library. When I deleted them from my library, they disappeared from wherever I had used them in posts.

It reminds me of the movie Back to the Future when Marty McFly, living in the past, began taking actions that would lead to his family members never being born. He carried a family photo that he looked at off and on. Parts of his family members in the photo were fading away because of the things he was doing in his present, which was not the real present but the past.

I called my tech friend, Brian, who explained that I had probably “linked” not “embedded” those images from my library into my blog posts. Whatever that means.

When I deleted the images from the library, magic fingers (Brian did not use the term “magic fingers.”) reached out from my library to all my posts that contained those linked images and deleted them.


People of my age and station in life know how this blunder made me feel. They understand the thought process I then followed.

“What business do I have trying to have a blog? I’m too old and too stupid. I should never post another article! URGHHH!”

Yet, here I am, posting another article. Hope springs eternal.

I can relate to the bumper sticker that reads: Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my mind the most.

In order to end this article (containing images, I hope), on a happy note, please allow me to say I have also found some items which brought me great joy this week.

I had not previously used and mislaid these items. In fact, I can take no credit for having them at my disposal.

I found a pink dogwood tree and a white dogwood tree, visible through the window of my home office. I found purple lilac clusters hanging from bushes, and young redbirds fliting about learning to use their baby wings. I found lush green grass and new leaves and a glowing sun.

God, who never loses anything, placed these items in my world for my enjoyment.

The wonder I experienced from finding these things far outweighs the frustration I felt from losing other things.

Unlike people and things, God is reliable, all the time.


This shelter-in place confinement has affected all of us.

I now have a deeper appreciation for the freedom to come and go at will. On any given day two months ago, I may have zipped to the library, post office, and grocery store, and then suggested to Dan that we go out for supper.

Not so today.

My thinking patterns have changed.

I have spent more time pondering how awful it would be to lose a family member or friend.

Also, I have reflected on hard times experienced by people of past generations: the wars, droughts, depressions, and plagues they endured.

Compared to their sufferings, I have been only mildly inconvenienced.

I have thought more about some good things in life that still exist: the sunshine, the arrival of spring blossoms, and, as I will emphasize in this article, laughter.

I grew up with family members who had a sense of humor. I am glad they did.

My dad came home one day with a big, round object in his coat pocket.

“You kids will never guess what I brought home with me,” he said.

He let us glimpse a part of the object in his pocket.

“It’s a monkey!” he said.

We kids stared in amazement! It WAS a monkey in Dad’s pocket!

Well, no, it was not a monkey. It was a coconut.

Monkeys were not abundant in north Arkansas.

But notice how much a coconut looks like a monkey when only a portion of its hairy, face-like surface is revealed.

My siblings and I still laugh about that little snippet of memory from our childhoods.

Our mother was quick-witted, could turn a phrase and never hesitated to laugh, even at herself.

One day she and my adult sister were shopping at Walmart.

The two of them gabbed and laughed as they dropped things into their separate carts.

Then, as Mom bent to place a new item into her cart, she stopped short.

It was not HER cart she was pushing.

At some point she had abandoned her cart and had begun pushing a cart loaded with dozens of pairs of white, canvas tennis shoes marked down for quick sale!

She and my sister laughed then and continued to laugh every time they retold that story.

That same sister, Pam, tells another funny story.

She one day noticed a bad smell in the bathroom of her and her husband Jim’s house. (This “bathroom” story is not going where you think it is.)

“What’s that awful smell, Jim?” she asked.

Her husband said he didn’t know.

“Smells like a dead animal,” he said.

“EEEEK!” screamed my sister

I can picture her now, grabbing a dishtowel and holding it over her nose.

“You go in the bathroom and shut the door,” Pam said to Jim, her voice muffled by the towel. “I’m not going back in there. Take your phone and call me when you find what it is.”

Jim had been in the bathroom for a while when he reported back. “Something dead is inside the wall,” he said through his phone.

“EEEEK!” screamed Pam, through the phone that she held beneath the towel.

“I’m going to have to cut into the wall,” Jim said.

“EEEEK!” screamed my sister.

Pam heard sawing and hammering noises coming from the bathroom as she paced the floor a safe distance away. In a few minutes, she heard this.

“What in the world?!” Jim said into the phone.

“What? What? What is it?” Pam asked.

“It’s a nest of dead baby mice,” Jim said.

“EEEEK!” screamed Pam.

“I guess the mother mouse escaped but left her babies to die inside the wall,” Jim said.

“Oh, no!” Pam cried. “That’s so sad.”

My sister, the damsel in distress, did everything but put the back of her hand to her forehead and swoon while her knight in shining armor rescued her from a nest of dead baby mice.

My brother-in-law, an unsung hero.

My other sister, Joni, is a riot. She says and does funny things all the time.

I would not have said Joni and I look alike, but apparently; we do.

One day she and I were shopping together in a clothing store.

I saw Joni approaching me. I held up a dress to show her and began commenting on it.

Suddenly, there was Joni standing at my side. She put her hand on my back.

“Stop walking, Debbie,” she said. “See that woman you’re talking to, the woman you thought was me coming toward you? That woman is you. You’re about to walk into a mirror.”

I must not leave out my brother, who claims he never gets more than an “honorable mention” in my stories, because he is the only male sibling.

He is the best brother ever, and a great storyteller.

On the day he got his first pair of bifocals, his eye doctor said to him, “Now, Sam, it’s going to take you a while to get used to these bifocals. If you’re not careful, you’ll fall.”

Sam listened.

“Stairs are especially tricky,” warned the optician. “Walk around here in the office for a few minutes before you leave to head home.”

Sam thought the doctor underestimated his (Sam’s) skill at adapting. He walked a few paces in the office, felt confident, said, “I’m good,” and left.

Then, wearing his new glasses, he strode out the door and walked onto the sidewalk.

He stepped down off the curb, and in his words, “almost removed my kneecap and the front bumper of my truck in just one step.”

We all need to laugh.

  • Remember Dick Van Dyke falling over an ottoman at the opening of his show?
  • How about Carol Burnett in her spoof of Gone with the Wind prancing elegantly down the stairs wearing a dress made of green curtains, with the curtain rods extending through the armholes?
  • Tim Conway, the clumsy dentist who accidentally injected his hand with numbing medicine as he worked on Harvey Korman’s teeth.
  • All the fabulous one-liners exchanged between Hawkeye Pierce and B. J. Hunnicutt on M*A*S*H, one of the funniest (and most serious) shows ever on television.
  • Victor Borge and his hilarious piano stunts.

I will leave you with a classic: Abbott and Costello’s Who’s On First?

Enjoy the laughs.

Closer Through Distancing

A truth many of us have seen demonstrated in our lives is this: Anything God intends for good, Satan can make bad. Anything Satan intends for bad, God can make good.

This coronavirus plague is certainly badness at its worst. Yet, God has brought blessings from it.

People are checking on neighbors they barely know. Out of their abundance, folks are sharing with people who have needs.

Simple waves from porches hold special warmth for their recipients.

I find myself writing long, newsy emails to friends who received no more than smiley faces and virtual hugs from me before the virus.

Distancing has drawn us closer.

We need each other. We always have, but this sheltering-in-place has made that need more evident.

Maybe God is using the badness of this virus to bring some of His goodness out in us.

Listen and respond as God’s Spirit urges you during this unique time. Now, more than ever before, be the hands and feet of Jesus.

Allow this forced distancing to draw you closer to others.


Scriptures speak of God as our friend, provider, helper, refuge, and strength.

God is all those things, and more.

A few days ago, I was surprised when I read this verse in Psalm 121:5.

The Lord watches over you— the Lord is your shade at your right hand.

I was unaccustomed to God’s being referred to as a shade.

In the Bible, references to God as a “shade” or “shadow” may indicate His role as our defender.

He certainly is that.

But the discovery of this verse has caused me to think of God as the cooling shade provided by a big tree.

Summers in the South are hot.

I grew up in a house that had no air-conditioning. Its rooms were cooled only by air that sifted through our window screens. Hot and dusty, that air rarely stirred the curtains.

We craved shade.

Soon after we moved into that house, Dad planted a row of silver maple trees along the west edge of the yard. They were tall and spindly, but they shaded that side of the house.

On the east side grew a big black walnut tree. (The tree wasn’t black. It produced “black walnuts.”)

Another tree also grew at the east edge of our yard.

I only recently learned the name of that tree.

With help provided by relatives in Arkansas and articles on the Internet, I now know it was a Chinese sumac, also called tree-of-heaven.

This tree put off a unique scent, not pleasant or unpleasant. Some say the scent resembles the odor of burning nuts. I wouldn’t describe it that way, but I would recognize the aroma in a single whiff if I smelled it again.

My family members took tasks outside to work in the shade of the tree-of-heaven.

Under that tree, we shelled our peas, snapped our beans, and husked our corn.

When we were small, we napped there on handsewn quilts. We splashed in cool water Mom poured into a big washtub, so she could watch us as she hung out laundry.

When we were older, we did our homework on the cool concrete front porch that was shaded by that tree.

My brother had a seat in the tree where he sat and read for hours.

My sisters and I hula-hooped beneath the tree and made necklaces from the white clover that grew in our yard.

In its shade, my siblings, friends, and I played games like red rover, freeze tag, and ante-over.

Good memories, all associated with shade.

Sometimes, my life gets hot.

This heat does not come from the sun, but from people and circumstances.

Someone says something hurtful. I break a cherished keepsake. My well-made plan goes awry. I learn of yet another friend who has been diagnosed with cancer.

Sometimes the heat is kindled within me by regretted past mistakes or future scary possibilities.

Inwardly, I break into a panicky sweat.

I look for an escape from this heat.

Like a cool shade, God offers me a tranquil space.

In the shade of my Tree-of-Heaven, I pour out my troubles.

He asks me to trust Him and reminds me I am loved beyond measure. He gives me a glimpse into what Heaven will be like when I enter His eternal bliss.

And I am cooled by assurances no human can give me.

Make time today to rest in the peaceful shade of God’s presence.








I just finished listening to the short autobiography of artist James Taylor. He titled it Break Shot: My First 21 Years.

Being a fan of some of James Taylor’s music, I was interested in the story of his early life.

Unlike many celebrities, who grew up in Appalachian poverty or on dirty streets of cities like New York or London, James Taylor was a child of privilege.

His mother was a socialite with ties to Martha’s Vineyard, and his father was the dean of the Medical School of the University of North Carolina.

Despite their wealth, the family, which included James, three brothers, and one sister, fell apart. Alcohol and drugs were their downfall.

I appreciated James’s telling of life lessons learned in his youth. Among other observations, he made this one.

Memory is tricky. We remember how it felt, not necessarily how it was.

He is right.

I recall specific events of my childhood, of course, but mostly I remember how I felt, the vague, deep-down-in-my-soul feeling that told me who I was.

This was my inner message to myself.

I was safe.

My childhood was spent among the woods and dirt roads of north Arkansas.

There were snakes, as well as wasps, spiders, scorpions, and even bobcats, though I never saw one.

The terrain was scattered with farm ponds, steep cliffs, creeks that gushed muddy water after big rains, abandoned cars in which nested heaven knows what kinds of critters, dark forests of pine trees, and fields of thick sagebrush.

But I stayed within my boundaries, and I wasn’t afraid.

I was loved.

I grew up in a house with my mom, dad, and three siblings. We lived just a short distance from both sets of grandparents and several aunts and uncles.

All these people loved me.

Every one of them wanted the best for me. I was hugged, snuggled, kissed, and read to regularly.

I was carried to bed when I fell asleep someplace else. When I called out, “Momma,” in the night, Momma always came.

I was pampered when I was sick and comforted when I was scared.

I had birthday cakes and visits from the Tooth Fairy.

Santa came every Christmas.

We had Easter egg hunts at my Aunt Freddie’s house, and big family get-togethers with yummy food and lively games of ante-over.

This little girl hula-hooped and made mud pies in her outdoor playhouse and knew she was loved.

I was valued.

I wouldn’t have known how to voice that feeling at the time, but what I thought, what I did, and how I felt—these things mattered to the people in my world.

My parents insisted that I do my homework, memorize my sight words, learn my multiplication tables, and go to school unless I was sick.

They bragged on me and told me I was smart. Mom and Dad encouraged me to read and write, to learn the meaning of new words, and how to spell them.

Dad, when he saw me reading a library book, asked me, “Who wrote that?” I made a point of knowing the answer to that question and came to appreciate the art of writing.

Not surprisingly, my favorite card game was Authors.

Ours may have been the only family within a mile radius that owned a current set of World Book Encyclopedia.

I was expected to do my best and received praise when I did.

Who can put a value on being valued?

I was a child of clotheslines and wire fences,

Bar soap, mercurochrome, and Vick’s salve,

Of bobby socks and hand-stitched quilts,

Mud-holes and wood stoves.

I was a child of hunting dogs,

And cows mooing for their missing calves,

Of homemade butter and yeasty-smelling kitchens,

Blackberry bushes and creaky wooden bridges.

I was a child of pickup trucks with cattle guards,

Long, cold school bus rides and the smell of burning coal.

I was a child of screen doors and woodsmoke,

Old, embroidered tablecloths thrown across picnic tables.

I was a child of book satchels and Big Chief tablets,

Of nursery rhymes and Dick and Jane,

Black-and-white television and 45-rpm records.

I was a child of the rural South in the 50s and 60s.

James Taylor has his memories, and I have mine.

You have yours.

I’ve Run My Last Red Light

I walk a pretty straight line.

I don’t mean I’m perfect. I am as flawed as the next person.

In fact, I dwell so much on how flawed I am that dwelling on my flaws has become one of my chief flaws.

But, back to my walking a straight line.

If I see a sign that reads, “Keep Off The Grass,” I keep off the grass.

If the speed limit sign reads, “Speed Limit 30,” I drive 30 MPH.

I may be the only person in this state who tries always to drive the posted speed limit.

Most people fudge a bit. I’m not judging. I’m just saying.

My husband Dan has been wearing an orthopedic boot on his right foot because of a sprained ankle tendon.

Therefore, his driving is limited.

For the first time in over 45 years of marriage, I am the chief driver.

And it isn’t easy.

For either of us.

Like you, I have established driving habits:

  • How and when I change lanes
  • Where I park on big department store lots
  • How closely I follow another vehicle
  • The route I take when entering and exiting our neighborhood
  • How I judge whether a yellow light leaves me time to continue

I have the luxury these days of rarely being in a hurry. I don’t have a job or kids to shuttle to events. I am, I guess you could say, a leisurely driver.

The kind of driver non-leisurely drivers hate.

I plan my car trips to make my stops in a prescribed order, trying to avoid making left-hand turns on busy highways.

And I get along just fine.

But now that I’m chauffeuring Dan, I have forgotten how to drive.

That’s because I’m trying to drive the way he drives.

And, I’m trying to drive the way he drives because I am a . . . wait for it.

I am a people-pleaser.

On about our second outing after I began driving, Dan asked, “Why do you take this street out of the neighborhood when you’re planning to turn south onto Sawmill Road?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I just do.”

“If you go down one more street, you’ll avoid a stop sign.”

“Oh . . . well,” I said.

Now, at this point, a string of questions starts running through my brain. My thoughts go something like this.

Why does this matter to Dan? And, if it does matter to him, why can’t he just tolerate the way I choose to exit the neighborhood? Why does he have to comment? Why can’t he keep his mouth shut and let me drive?

You may be shocked at the route my thoughts took (not at the route I took exiting the neighborhood) because you think I’m a nice person.

I am a nice person. Most of the time.

Can you make a higher claim? Hmmm?

But, and this won’t surprise you, when Dan is in the car, I now take his route when I leave the neighborhood, intending to turn left onto Sawmill Road.

And why is that?

Because I am a people pleaser.

I also choose my parking spots based upon his recommendations.

I change lanes or don’t change lanes, stop at yellow lights or proceed through yellow lights, cross a double yellow line to go around a mail delivery vehicle or don’t cross a double yellow line to go around a mail delivery vehicle based upon what I think HE thinks I should do.

I try to do every driving-thing the way HE believes every driving-thing should be done.

I might as well wear a bracelet engraved with “WWDD?”

Not only do I do things his way, I—heaven help me—ask his advice as I drive.

“Do you think I should go around this truck?”

“Is this the best place for me to park?”

“Should I have stopped at that yellow light instead of going on through?”

“What would YOU have done?”

And, I hate myself for it.

Hate, hate, hate myself for this people-pleasing approach to life I have chosen.

On the first Sunday I drove us to church, the inevitable happened.

We were running late. That is not the inevitable thing. Well, it sort of is, but it isn’t THE inevitable thing for the telling of this story.

As I said, we were running late. I won’t go into whose fault it was that we ran late. That subject is for another day and another blog.

We were running late. Dan was checking his watch, sighing heavily, squirming in the passenger seat, looking at the speedometer, and showing other signs of discomfort.

We approached a traffic light. The light was at not a major intersection but not a minor intersection either. I would rate it a Class Two intersection. Moderately busy.

The light was yellow. It had been yellow for a prolonged time. No way I could make my way through the intersection before the light turned red.

Muhammad had met the mountain.

Should I break the law and proceed through the intersection, knowing the light would turn red as I was halfway through, or should I stop and wait for the next green light, knowing that would cause Dan more discomfort?


I gunned the engine and raced through the yellow/red light.

And then I was mad!

Mad at Dan!

In my mind I vowed, “That is the LAST red light I’m running for you, Mister!”

Now, if I had uttered that vow aloud, Dan would have been shocked.

“What are you talking about?” he would have asked. “I didn’t ask you to run that red light!”

“Yes, you did!” I would have countered. “I wouldn’t have run that light if you hadn’t been in the car! It’s your fault!”

“You’re crazy!” he would have said.

“Oh, yeah?” I would have said. “If I’m crazy, you MADE me crazy. When are you going to be finished wearing that blasted boot?”

I check our mailbox every day as soon as I hear the mail truck go by.

I anticipate receiving a traffic violation notice. Certainly, that traffic light at that intersection had a camera attached. It is probably the ONLY traffic light in the county with a camera snapping away all day every day to catch lawbreakers like me.

Me. A lawbreaker.

I can’t take it.

When that traffic violation notice arrives in our mailbox, I will tell you this.

Dan is the one who is going to traffic court.

He ran that red light.

I don’t run red lights.

I walk a straight line.







He wound through the vines and walked on the ground.

He swung from tree branches, but made not a sound.


‘Til he saw her one morning, eyeing the fruit,

And he found his slick voice, this ill-natured brute.


“Just taste it, my sweet one. What could it hurt?”

Then he smiled a sly smile, and walked off ‘cross the dirt.


He saw the two brothers, watched the strife as it grew,

Eyed the planter, the herder, ‘til he knew what to do.


“Just kill him,” he whispered, in Cain’s ear one day.

“You deserve better treatment.” Then he slithered away.


He made daily rounds, planting mischief and hate.

Wormed his way into hearts ‘til the world was a state!


What had started as beauty grew tainted with lust,

And the enemy smiled from his home in the dust.


He said to old Abram, “Try and be a bit clever.

Take Hagar, you moron. You can’t wait forever.”


Through Rebekah and Jacob, he hatched out a plan

To steal Esau’s birthright and bless the wrong man.


Poor Joseph got sold off to be a man’s slave.

Moses killed an Egyptian, hid his sin in a grave.


Satan moved through the ages, this worst kind of lout.

He needed no rest. Seems he never wore out.


He was there at Mount Sinai, where God gave the Law.

Whispered lies to the people, liked the gold calf he saw.


He meddled and hinted and urged folks to grumble.

He saw the bronze snake and watched Jericho crumble.


In Canaan he kept it up day after day.

Despite judges and prophets, he led folks astray.


Said to David, “Just take her, that beautiful thing.

Deny yourself nothing. After all, you’re the king.”


Through battles and rescues for years it went on.

The people kept listening ‘til sin was full-blown.


God looked down from heaven, saw the time was just right

To send his dear Son, born one Bethlehem night.


Was Satan then beaten? Did he give up his trying?

No! He stepped up his game, kept deceiving and lying.


“I’ll beat this man, Jesus,” he thought, in his pride.

“I’ve got friends in high places, lots of folks on my side.”


He weaseled and bargained and tempted each man.

And managed, at last, to accomplish his plan.


But Satan, you liar, you scourge of the land,

God always defeats you with His winning hand.


Jesus rose on that Sunday. He still lives today,

In the hearts of believers, who give Him full sway.


We know you were there. We know you are here.

But you’re destined for Hell. God’s Word makes that clear.


We’ll continue to fight ‘til our battle is done.

Then we’ll go home to glory and live with the Son.


You torment and tempt us, our lives you’ve encumbered.

But know this, you Evil One, your days are numbered.



What I Wanted, but Didn’t Get, for Christmas

I enjoyed a wonderful Christmas season.

The best part of the holiday was spending time with my family. Have I mentioned I have grandkids?

But, as is always the case, (except in Christmas movies) I didn’t get everything I wanted.

You, good readers, are not responsible for my failure to receive these gifts. You’re the best. The fact that you’re reading this proves it.

Nonetheless, I will discuss some gifts I hoped, but failed, to receive for Christmas.

  1. I wanted all loud, hiked-up, smoke-spewing pick-up trucks to be banned from our streets and highways. This didn’t happen. I am confused. How is it that in a country where the American flag is removed from an academic building because one student claimed its presence offended her, these offensive gas-guzzling, fume-exuding behemoths continue to exist, though they pollute the air and assault the ears of 100% of the population?
  1. I wanted people to stop punctuating every other statement with the phrase, “O my God!” It is the response uttered whether someone has just spied a luscious new color of nail polish or been offered a two-carat diamond ring from a lover on bended knee. If I move into a cave where no one can find me, it will be because I can no longer tolerate hearing this phrase.

  1. I had hoped a magical fairy, something like a useful version of the Elf on the Shelf, would visit my home and organize all my paperwork and computer files. Alas, that gift also failed to arrive.

  1. I wanted to regain my slim figure and my ability to remember names; wished all spam calls and junk emails would stop; and hoped someone would develop a delicious, fat-free, carb-free, calorie-free, vitamin-enriched chocolate brownie that tastes like one made from a Duncan Hines mix, but those were pipe dreams.

  1. I wanted people to start using turn signals EVERY TIME they plan to make a turn, but, again, no.

  1. I had hoped people would learn and practice the rules of good grammar. Let me simply say that the word seen is almost NEVER the second word in a sentence. Speakers should not say, “I seen,” or “He seen,” or even “The Elf on the Shelf seen.” Furthermore, they should not mix subjective case and objective case personal pronouns when . . . oh, well. Never mind.

Thank you, dear readers, for indulging this little rant. What is the use of having a website if you can’t write about what’s on your mind?

I hope you got everything you wanted for Christmas.