Category Archives: Uncategorized

What Happened When the Angels Came for Iris

You just never know when or how this one beautiful life may end.

It was summer… a warm, lazy, ordinary day, when my husband called with the news. Would I like to go with him? One of our wonderful church members, a lady we all loved, was lying unexpectedly in a hospital bed. They would soon turn off life support.

Would I like to go with him? I wasn’t sure. I was afraid. But I said yes.

No one met Iris without falling in love with her. Unique, bubbly, funny, compassionate, thoughtful. A lady with a great sense of style, humor, and a heart full of love. She was special.

Iris lay quietly in the bed. We gathered around her and held hands as David prayed. I didn’t know what would happen next. So I sat next to her husband and held his hand…because what else could I do?

It was then that they drew the curtain back and came in. Two ladies – quiet, unassuming, carrying fold-up chairs and harps.

Would you like some comfort in here? They said.

Who doesn’t need comfort at a time like this?

And as the nurses quietly began their work, those ladies began to sing and play.

Peace around you; Peace upon you; Peace above you; Peace beneath you.

It’s hard to describe what happened next.

The whole room filled with the sweet sound of their music, and a peace that I have truly never felt before. And although we all watched as the monitor screen went blank, and although we all saw the soft rise and fall of her last breath, it was as if the song of the harpists summoned in the very angels of heaven, who flew down, lifted our sweet Iris gently in their arms, and winged her safely home. I could almost hear the beat of their silvery wings as they soared upwards with her soul.

And if I didn’t believe in heaven before that day, I would have to believe in it now.

Iris left this earth. Iris left us. But she lives, she laughs, she loves, somewhere else, somewhere where angels gather, waiting on hovering wings, waiting to take us home.

Sam and the Red Balloon

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It’s Sunday morning, bright and early. I’m excited to be here, in Portland, Oregon, to meet my wonderful new granddaughter and spend time with her big brother.

Sam is not yet two and a half. He is utterly adorable, and utterly sweet. I didn’t realize quite how sweet he really is until I got to spend seven precious days with him.

We arrive at Montavilla United Methodist Church and jump out of the car. It’s cold and rainy in Portland this morning. We pull our coats up around our ears, put our heads down and get ready to scurry inside.

But Sam has seen something. He pulls on my hand, makes a squealing sound and points upward. He can’t quite say airplane yet, but I’m pretty sure that’s what he’s seen.

We all turn to gaze upwards, and we see a tiny red balloon, floating far, far away, being carried on the wind through Portland’s cloudy skies. It’s only there for a moment, and then it’s gone.

Wow Sam! We say. Good job! You saw a balloon!

And that’s it. That’s my little story. Except I think there’s so much more to it than that. I’ve thought a lot about that tiny red balloon since Sam saw it, less that a week ago. And I got to thinking:

Why did he see that balloon?

How did he see that balloon?

He was the smallest person there. My husband is over six feet tall, my sons are taller still. But Sam is only two feet tall. You could argue that us grown ups were closer to the balloon, and therefore, shouldn’t we have been the ones to see it?

But we didn’t. Sam did.

And the only possible explanation, the only possible reason, is that he was the one looking up. And why would he be doing that, if he wasn’t expecting to see something… something surprising, and wonderful?

And that makes me think about God too.

We grown ups, we think we’re the ones closer to God. We think we’re the ones who know more, who read the Bible, who know how to pray, who study the scriptures.

But maybe, just maybe, our children are closer to God….because they are the ones looking up, the ones expecting to see God, the ones knowing that God will show up in surprising and wonderful ways.

Like little Sam, who looked up one Sunday morning and saw that tiny red balloon, as it floated across Portland’s cloudy skies and far, far away.

Interview with Laura Sassi, Author of Goodnight, Manger, and a Giveaway!

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If you are looking for a wonderful Christmas book for your little ones, look no further than Goodnight, Manger, the newest release from children’s book author and poet, Laura Sassi.

In this adorable book, it’s bedtime for baby Jesus, but who knew a stable could be so loud? Mama, Papa, and all of the animals try to lull the baby to sleep, but between itchy hay, angels singing, and three kings bearing gifts, it’s too noisy. Will the baby ever get to sleep? You’ll have to read the book to find out!

I’m thrilled that Laura agreed to be interviewed on my blog today, and also graciously agreed to give my readers a chance to win a signed copy of her book.

Thank you so much for stopping by my blog today Laura! Let’s get the formal introduction out of the way. What does the bio on the back of your books say about you?

The bio on the back of my books reads: Laura Sassi has a passion for telling humorous stories in rhyme. She writes daily from her century-old home in New Jersey where she lives with her husband, two children, and a black cockapoo named Sophie.

Okay…now for two interesting and quirky facts about you that we won’t find on the back of your books…

Oooh, this is fun. Let’s see.

First fact: One of the side-effects of writing stories in rhyme is that sometimes I rhyme (without thinking) in normal conversation. Ex: “Pull up a seat, it’s time to eat!” This is especially embarrassing to my children when friends are over, though the friends usually like it.

Second fact: I spent most of my elementary school years living in Paris. I spoke French every day, played in French (and English too), watched TV in French, sang songs in French, and memorized poems in French. To this day, I LOVE watching French films and speak French whenever I get the chance, which is more often than you might expect. I credit all those years of listening to the beautiful lyrics of francophone singers such as Jacques Brel for infusing me with a love for creating beautiful pictures with words.

What inspired you to write Goodnight, Manger?

As a mom, I have tender memories of putting my babies to bed and how hard it was when they were overstimulated or overtired. I also have memories of my sweet daughter, who was only three or four at the time, playing with the little Baby Jesus that was part of our nativity set. She’d carry him around the house saying things like, “Baby Jesus crying. It’s okay, Baby.” Then she’d gently feed him or rock him and sing a lullaby. Before listening to her tender play, I’d never thought of Baby Jesus as ever crying. But, he was human (and God) and so he must have cried. With those sweet sparks of inspiration, I was ready to write the story that was on my heart – which was to write a fun Christmas bedtime book that kids would want to read again and again and which would point them in the direction of Jesus – the real gift of Christmas.

The illustrations in the book are just adorable, and so unique. What was your reaction when you first saw them?

I loved Jane’s illustrations for my first book, Goodnight, Ark, so I was confident that she would do an amazing job with Goodnight, Manger as well. And once again, when I saw her work I was thrilled. Her illustrations for Goodnight, Manger glow with a warmth and gentle humor that perfectly capture the essence of the story. I love the sweet interactions included in each illustration, such as the mice peering dotingly down on Baby Jesus and the exceptionally expressive donkey, rooster and hen. I also love how her depictions of all the Christmas characters look like they belong in the beautiful part of the world into which our Savior was born.

Do you have any other books on the horizon?

I do, but I am afraid that any details must remain in the “top secret” category for now. =)

How can readers stay connected with you?

Readers can stay connected by visiting me on Facebook, Twitter, or by stopping by my blog. If readers are interested in arranging a class or library visit either in person or via Skype, please reach out to me via the Contact tab on my blog. I would also like to share that in response to requests from readers for signed copies, my local indie book store, The Town Book Store in Westfield, New Jersey, will now offer signed, personalized copies. If this is of interest, please call them to order the books you want. Explain that you would like to have them signed by the author and pass along the names you’d like included. They will take the order and do the transaction. I will then come in and sign the book or books. Readers can either pick them up in-store at no extra charge, or have them mailed. There will be a shipping fee to cover the cost of mailing, but they can give you those details. I thought this was a nice way to make signed copies available and support a wonderful independent book store. Their number is: The Town Book Store (908) 233-3535.

Thank you so much Laura! It was a blessing to have you visit my blog today! And here’s the best part….enter the giveaway to win a signed copy of Goodnight, Manger! (To be eligible, you must be a U.S. resident and have a physical address, not a P.O. Box. )

Stealing From My Brother….

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When I was a little girl I was a thief.

I used to steal from my big brother. I couldn’t resist. I knew that hiding in his brown wooden wardrobe was a stash of sweets. I would creep into his room while he was at work. It didn’t take me long to find them. If they weren’t at the back of the shelf, then I would simply feel around his jackets as they hung quietly in his closet.

I can still remember the joy of feeling a tell-tale bulge inside one of the pockets, and the thrill of discovering a bag of Raspberry Ruffles hidden inside. Sometimes I would find liquorice…. the only sweets I ever put back.

My brother must have known that I stole from him. But he never challenged me. He was much too quiet, and forgiving, and unassuming.

And if you’d have told me that one day, this quiet, humble brother of mine would become a preacher, I never would have believed it, and neither would he.

John was never one to speak in public. Even though he went to church every Sunday, knew his Bible inside out, and read the scripture lesson when asked, he was always much more comfortable greeting people at the door, or handing out hymn books, or passing the offering plate.

John was utterly terrified of preaching. The very thought of having to stand in the pulpit and deliver a twenty minute sermon made his knees knock and his heart pound.

How could he go back to school and compose long, detailed essays, after forty years?

How could he battle through all that studying and reading when he had cataracts?

How could he become a preacher when he was over 60 years old?

But he did.

Because when the call comes, it doesn’t go away. We can ignore it, or walk away from it, or pretend we never heard it. But God is a pursuer. God is one who will chase you down and keep tapping on your shoulder, until you turn around and listen.

And John did.

I wish I could have been there. I wish I could have sat in that little church in England as my family gathered to celebrate. Like our dad before him, and our great Uncle Harry before that, my brother joins a long line of Methodist Local Preachers in our family who have answered the call…

and as I see John standing at that open door, I know that God opened that door for him; that God will walk ahead of him, opening doors in the hearts and minds of all who will listen to his message.

One day, the person listening will be me. I’ll sit in that pew as my brother preaches, and I will be proud of him. I’ll learn from his words and I’ll remember his bravery, his determination, and the sheer hard work it took for him to be standing there.

And I might just steal some of that courage, and perseverance, and obedience, like I stole his sweets all those years ago.

Look at me. I stand at the door. I knock. If you hear me call and open the door, I’ll come right in and sit down to supper with you. Revelation 3:20 The Message

What Happened on the First Day of Fall…

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It was the first day of fall when they came to take the silver maple down.

I had loved that tree so much. So ingenious the way the previous owner had wrapped the deck around her sturdy trunk.

‘Our Shady Deck’ we used to call it. It was like being in a tree house. No one could see you. No one knew you were sitting up there except the birds.

And now she’s gone.

Just this morning I went out there to take one last look. One last photograph.

And call me crazy, but I even put my hand on her strong trunk and apologized for what was about to happen. I prayed over that big stupid tree who was making me cry and thanked her for the shade she brought, and the squirrels she entertained, and the sheer beauty of her yellow and orange leaves in the fall.

And you can laugh, or snort, or scoff, but I wouldn’t be my dad’s daughter if I didn’t love all living things, and marvel at the beauty of every tree, and respect their place in God’s world.

I was there when they made the first cut, like a mother accompanying her child through surgery. For three long hours, I endured the incessant whirring and grinding and sawing.

I saw every leaf flutter helplessly away; every branch plummet to the ground.

It’s eerily quiet now. Even the birds are not singing. She’s gone.

And now when I look up, instead of her leaves, shimmering and dancing, I see blue, blue sky instead.

And what, you might say, could possibly be wrong with that?

It’s a Beautiful World Colette….

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Dear Colette,

It will be many years before you can read these words. Little one, you are just one day old, wrapped up tight, a perfectly precious bundle of joy. You are only just beginning to open your eyes, to peek out in wonder at the world that has been waiting so long to greet you.

It’s a beautiful world Colette.

It’s a world of color, and love, and hope, and family. Just down the road, there’s a two-year old boy just waiting to share his toys with you. He doesn’t really know much about you yet. He doesn’t really know that his little sister is sleeping peacefully in his mama’s arms. But you will grow up together, and he will love you.

Much too far away, out towards the east, there’s a grandma and a granddad here, who prayed you into this world, and who are yearning to hold you… their first granddaughter.

And even further away, in a country called England, you have a great-granddad too.

Colette…you may never get to meet him. But if you did, I know he would laugh with joy. And with a twinkle in his eye, he would scoop you in his arms, lift you high on to his strong shoulder, nestle you there, and sing you to sleep. And he would be so proud of you.

This is your family Colette. And even though we may be far away, and the distance in miles may be great, as long as we have love, nothing can separate us.

Sleep well with your mama, little one. I will be there soon.

With Love,

Grandma

Why I Don’t Understand God

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WARNING! THIS POST CONTAINS AN IMAGE YOU MAY FIND DISTURBING. (BUT SOMETIMES I THINK WE NEED TO BE DISTURBED)….

I don’t understand God.

I can almost, almost, sympathize with the atheist. How can it be that some of us live in a world of fun, while others live in a world of fear?

How can it be that I can jump on board my little wooden boat, and sail out across the lake to enjoy a picnic while others jump on board a refugee boat to escape being beheaded?

Daniel Ettter/The New York Times

How can it be that in my backpack there’s coffee, and chocolate biscuits, and a big fat subway sandwich, while in his backpack there’s only lemons for sea-sickness and a green laser pen, because if in the dead of night, he is bobbing around in the waves, he wants passing ships to be able to find him?

How can it be that I can take pictures of lily pads and sailboats and sunshine on waves while others try to cling to their children in the dark waters of the Mediterranean sea because their overcrowded boat capsized?

How can it be that my grandson can play on the beach with his bucket and spade, while the lifeless body of Aylan lies on the sand, and he’ll never play again?

AFP/Getty Images

I don’t understand God.

I don’t understand why I was born in England, and Aylan was born in Syria. I used to think I was blessed….I used to say I was blessed. But if I am blessed by being born where I was, what does that mean for Aylan or his brother, who drowned beside him, or his mama whose body was found washed up, or their father, who is left to wrestle with what just happened and the decision he made to rescue his family from ISIS and let the cold sea claim their lives instead? Are they blessed too?

My sister told me once, We are as much trapped in our world as they are in theirs.

But I am NOT helpless. And shame on me if I cannot crawl out of my cocoon of affluence to sign every petition, and weep for that boy, and give what I can to help.

And pray.

Because I DO believe in God.

I just don’t understand him.

Five Ways to Help the Syrian Refugee Crisis

Why You Might Want to Listen to that Little Voice that Prompts You to Action…

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On a crisp autumn morning one year ago, I drove to Kalamazoo, a little town in Michigan, on my way to present a workshop at a Children’s Ministry event. Nestled in the back of my car were two boxes holding treasure: hot, off-the-press copies of my newly published children’s book, Love Letters from God.

That autumn day would be the first time I would sell my book; the first time I would read a story out loud to an audience; the first time I would sign the inside cover; the first time I would meet Jess.

She was young, and quiet. We didn’t get to talk much. She was in her second year of children’s ministry. She listened intently. She made notes. She asked questions. And she bought a book.

She would tell me, later, that she didn’t have much money that day. But a little voice inside whispered that she should buy a book anyway.

Who is it for? I asked, as I always do when I sign the book.

Jess didn’t know. Perhaps she would give it to a niece, or perhaps she might use it in her children’s ministry. She left, with the book tucked under her arm. Inscribed on the inside cover, I had written the words: May the one who turns these pages be blessed.

And the rest of the story belongs to her….

Well later that day, my husband and I had a sweet surprise. We had been trying to get pregnant for a few months, waiting on the Lord’s timing… I was a few days late – so off to the store I went (to buy another pregnancy test.) Sure enough, the Lord’s timing had arrived. We were almost in disbelief. To be honest, my husband didn’t believe me right away. We were so excited!!!

Lo and behold, God had wanted me to purchase “Love Letters from God’ for my very own son, Josiah! What’s so cool is that this book walked with us through our entire pregnancy. Mr. Josiah and I read the stories together over the next 9 months as we waited to meet each other. I would flip through the pages, usually reading one or two stories at a time. We would talk, and pray together – I’d fill in the blanks with “my precious child.” I’d describe to him the pictures on the pages (that’s the Art Teacher in me)…

I remember one specific day, maybe 21 weeks in – I read “The Little Boy Who Listened.” We had just found out we were having a son and we couldn’t for the life of us decide on a name… I’d ask my little man what he wanted to be called, I pleaded with the Lord to give us the perfect name… My husband and I just couldn’t decide. It seemed that the pressure was too great! I read this story about 3 times, all in a row. Something about it stood out to me. It was the last paragraph:

“What a wonderful night for Samuel!” It read. “God knew his name. As the candles flickered and the shadows danced, a happy little Samuel closed his eyes and finally fell asleep.”

It was that paragraph that brought peace to my heart — God knew my son’s name, just as he had known Samuel’s name! I opened my bible and highlighted Isaiah 43:1: “I will send for you by name. You belong to me.” My son, my Josiah, was already named by my Father in heaven, and soon, very soon, I would get to meet him and know his name too!

My husband ended up naming our son, Josiah Thomas, just moments before he entered this world. He said God had just put it on his heart! It was, and is, the most perfect name for our little one.

Here we are, 11 months later, and my little man can just start to see. We flip through the colorful pages of the book, and talk about the love that God has for him, and for me, and for our friends and family! It’s something very sweet. “Love Letters from God,” was just as much a gift for me, as it was to my son!

The inside cover of my book is signed by Glenys: “May the one who turns these pages be blessed.” We were blessed. We are blessed, by the truth on these pages, and with a beautiful son!

Why a Dead Flower Pod Might be Better For Our Kids than an iPod….

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So his little four year old legs are pedaling fast, and his yellow helmet leads the way. I’m almost running with the stroller, trying to keep up. When suddenly, my grandson stops pedaling and jumps down from his bike. He has seen something that interests him, something so ordinary that most would pass by without a second glance. But not him.

He’s mesmerized by a dying flower garden.

Look at this Grandma! He shouts in excitement.

He’s holding a brown stem, with a fat pod at the top. It’s just a dead flower head. Most would think that all its beauty has long since faded. But he knows something different. He knows that inside that pod, a secret is hidden. Something is waiting in there. And no one knows how many seeds it contains. No one knows what color they are.

We stop. Because this is the beauty of being a grandma: we have time.

He collects. Lots.

Back at home, we spill the pods onto the table, where he proceeds to prise open each one, slowly and carefully. He will not miss a single seed. They all go into his bag.

His favorite ones are those that are perfectly black and round, like teeny tiny bouncy balls. And when one accidentally rolls on to the floor, he’s on his little hands and knees, searching for it like it’s missing treasure. He doesn’t stop until he finds it.

And while the world bombards our children with screens, and sounds; with toys that light up, and buzz and flash in their efforts to entertain, I get to share my days with one who is delighted by simple seeds, and mushrooms, and the sound of cicadas in the trees.

And I’m reminded of a dark summer’s night, long ago, when the evening sky was pierced with a zillion twinkling lights, and how that same little boy took my hand in his and said, in his wonderful three year-old way:

Grandma, look at the stars. Aren’t they marvelous?

And these days, these moments, these precious times, they are marvelous to me.

How are you fostering a sense of wonder in your children, your grandchildren, or your children’s ministry?

The Story of the Hippo Bucket

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Twenty six years ago, a grandma in a floppy hat was shopping In a little seaside town in Spain.

She wandered among the colorful stalls, looking for just the perfect beach toy for her newest grandson. She paused outside the toy shop where buckets and spades swung cheerfully in the Spanish sun and fishing nets stood to attention. And there, on the shelf, sat a little blue and yellow bucket, waiting patiently to be bought.

The grandma in the floppy hat picked the bucket up. It was a hippopotamus, whose nostrils made the perfect watering can. And she bought it for her little grandson.

That was the day the hippo bucket joined our family… just a little plastic toy that James, my son, loved to play with. Every day of our two week holiday in Spain, he would scoop up the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean Sea and pour them out onto the golden sand. Wherever James went, the hippo bucket went too. On the beach, in the pool, in the bath tub, the little hippo bucket accompanied him everywhere.

We snapped the picture of his little blonde head as he bent over the bucket, gripped the handle in his chubby fingers, and poured water from its nostrils.

Somehow, we made room in our suitcase to fly that bucket home to England. And for the next ten years, whenever we went on holiday to Devon, the hippo bucket came with us.

One day a big truck came to our home and delivered twenty empty boxes. We were emigrating to America and our sons were given just one box each, in which to pack their toys and games.

Choose wisely, we told them. Take with you only what is precious.

Into James’ box went the blue and yellow hippo bucket, where it sailed four thousand long miles across the Atlantic Ocean, on its way to our new home in Michigan.

And for the next twelve years it lay in that box, along with legos, and teddy bears, and a little yellow robot.

Until one day James had a son. And when that son was three years old, the hippo bucket came out of the box.

Now it’s my little grandson who plays with it on the beach, who bends his blonde head over the bucket, who holds it with his chubby hand, and pours water from its nostrils.

And suddenly I am the grandma in the floppy hat, my blonde haired son has become the father, and his smiling grandma who flew with us to Spain lies in a quiet graveyard in England.

Take with you only what is precious. My words echo back to me.

And even though oceans may separate; even though the waves of time roll incessantly in, erasing our footprints and stealing our yesterdays, I’m holding on to those precious memories and taking them with me…

And when I close my eyes, or watch my grandson play, I can still see that little blonde head, and his grandma on the beach, as the waves roll in on the shore.