Born and raised in Nebraska, Merry Muhsman is sometimes a fantasy writer, sometimes a nonfiction writer, sometimes a flash fiction writer. Basically, she’s a writer of a lot of styles. She reads a lot of different styles, too, which often influence her writing. As Forest Gump once said, “Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re going to get.” And so is the case of this site. Merry still lives on a farm with her husband and son, a dog and lots of cats.
I bounced in the house (which is not easy for a woman my age), and I announced to everyone who had ears, “I have overcome!”
My husband sat in his chair, scrolling through Facebook on his iPad. “Good day?”
“Yes, I made peace with a spider,” I said, my face creased in a pirate’s smile.
My husband nodded. “Really,” he said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“Yes, yes I did. I walked in the storage shed, and there was white spider sitting on the wall next to the light switch, and I let him.” I said. Mel Robbins would be so proud.
It was an unusual spider; I had to admit. Yellow-white like a bone left out in the sun. He was kind of hitched up on one side, his legs splayed out. Still as death, but with spiders, you never could tell. They fake death sometimes, being so still to entice their victims into thinking their dead, getting close enough to poke the spider body, causing them to jump onto your hand.
Terrifying.
“You let him?”
“Yes, I let him stay there. I didn’t spray him with Raid, brush him off with a broom, smash him with a shoe, burn him with the lighter or any of those things. I let him stay there.” I folded my arms across my chest.
“Uh huh, and was this just today?”
“No, that’s the best part. It’s been all week. He hasn’t even moved from the spot,” I said, slapping the counter with my palm. “I have overcome!”
My husband put down the iPad and turned to me. “Ok, he hasn’t moved at all?”
I paused, considering my next words. “Well no, but they fake death all the time.” From what I could remember, he was poised in that same “I’m going to pounce on you and drain the life from your body posture that most spiders exhibited daily.
“You don’t think it’s odd that it hasn’t moved?”
I tensed. If I had pearls on, I would have clutched them. “No. I mean if it was dead, why would it be stuck to the wall? Wouldn’t it just fall on the ground and let nature take its course?”
He shrugged and turned back to the pointer-finger scroll on the iPad.
I shrugged and let out a deep sigh. “I don’t think he’s dead, and even if he is, I still made peace.”
“Proud of you honey,” my husband said, still scrolling. “Since you’ve made peace, did you get the mail?
Spiders: the final enemy in my mailbox. These are the stories of a Nebraska farmwife terrified of spiders. Her mission is to avoid getting the mail until the second frost. Her mission is to avoid spiders at all cost, seek out new ways to avoid them and to boldly never open the mailbox until winter.
Spider date: 07.2025.1
My dear friend from Colorado heard of my plight with black jumping spider in the mailbox, and she sent me a photo of a new spider discovered in Mexico. Signed it, “I know how much you love spiders.”
We are no longer Facebook friends.
Photo from the San Diego Natural History Museum) Continue reading about this super-sized spider: https://bit.ly/4nG9rnf
Since these spiders are in Mexico, I decided the best course of action is to light the places in Mexico the spider lives on fire.
However, that might be frowned up on by the Mexican government.
Instead, I could write a letter to our government’s national security and encourage them to burn everyone’s luggage that traveled to Mexico, any part of Mexico, because spiders travel. Even though they haven’t been seen in the US, it’s only a matter of time before some whacko brings it home as pet.
Because this is such a critical issue an email won’t do. I have to write a letter. Type a letter because my handwriting is shaky. This letter is so critical to the safety of the entire nation, and I don’t one any words to be misunderstood. Burn them all, but be clear and to the point.
I will type the letter, and then I’ll have to mail it. There’s a problem. I’d have to open the mailbox, and I’m not doing that. I could go to town and mail it, but it would have to be a town that no one knows me. I don’t want word getting out about my idea. I don’t want hate mail from the Spiders of America society.
Besides, I’m avoiding my local post office and the postmaster. I’m fairly confident that she’s not pleased at my lack of attention to the mailbox.
***
Letter mailed. The world can breathe a sigh of relief. Our government will take care of us.
I heard a locust this evening. Only 90 days until the first frost. The first death day for spiders.
I’m going on sabbatical. Time frame is to be determined, but I’m done getting the mail from the mailbox.
You see, there’s not just mail in my mailbox. There’s black creatures lurking in the mailbox, building their sticky sacks where their thousands of children live. And the worst part of these creatures? They jump.
I should have known better. The signs were there: random webs along the black mail box, hot metal, cool shade inside, random mail and package to hide within.
I thought twice about opening the box. I peered down on the lid making sure no one was lurking inside, hiding in the dark. I even gave the package a good WHACK against the box before pulling the mail into the car. If there were occupants in the mail, they needed to vacate now.
I felt safe as I drove up the driveway and took the mail in the house. I’d say I even felt confident. I put the mail on the kitchen counter. Maybe the webs I saw were just random babies traveling the wind, looking for a new home. Far away from me, if they are smart about it.
When I was younger, I didn’t get much mail, so getting packages (not just bills) is like getting a Christmas present every day. You can’t wait to open it, even if you know what’s inside. I started to open the brown paper package and felt something pop onto my hand.
Something unholy escaped my mouth. Not a scream of terror, but rather disgust and guttural darkness The worst was the feeling that something touched me. On my hand. I could still feel where its black, hairy legs pressed against my skin.
I walked like a stiff person away from the counter, babbling something incomprehensible, praying, cursing, swearing. I have never dropped the “f” bomb that much in 10 seconds.
A breath later, I realized the spider was in the house. IT was in the house.
I looked under the bag, and the black spider crouched, waiting. I started to record the encounter with my phone because I was certain I would die. Someone needed to know what killed me.
My son called. I ordered him to come home now. I was his mom, and he should do what I say.
“How do you know it’s on the bag?” he asked.
“I can see it,” I half-whispered, half-hissed.
“I’m not coming home.”
Mental note: take the only child out of the will.
“I think you should come home,” I repeated.
“Mom, take the tongs and throw it outside.”
This sounded like a horrible idea. It still required me to touch the package and walk the package to the door. The door was about five feet away. Entirely too many steps and I still had to open the door and slide it shut. All while hoping the spider didn’t jump off the package and onto me again.
I kept my son on speaker phone in case this all went wrong and he needed to call 911.
I took the spotlight out of the garage. I had to make sure the spider wasn’t anywhere else and cursed myself for picking dark granite countertops—a mix of black and orange and gold. All spidery colors.
Maybe the light that illuminates a half mile away would blind the spider momentarily. Just long enough for me to toss the package outside.
“You still there?” I asked.
“Yes Mom.”
“Don’t give me attitude son.”
The spotlight illuminated the counter. No spider. Just the package and the rest of the mail. I opened the deck door, grabbed the tongs and hurled the bag outside and slid the door shut.
My heart hammered in my chest, and I took deep yoga breaths. The last thing I needed was a heart attack which might lead me to passing out on the floor and potentially that little spider might retaliate against me, if it was still in the house.
“Are you sure it’s outside?” my son asked.
Super helpful son. “Yes, I’m sure,” I said. I grabbed the spotlight to check the countertops, under the cabinets, everywhere. I took in a deep cleansing breath. My next breath caught in my chest.
Something black crawled around the base of the deck door outside.
“He’s outside!” I whooped, hollered and jumped up and down like an idiot. My son hung up. Crisis averted.
The spider clicked its legs, feeling the heat of the outside and likely wanting to come back into the air conditioning. “Not today you little f#&@#@*!” I cried victoriously.
It clicked its legs, fangs rubbing together. Emerald markings glinted in the sun; its eyes fixed upon me on the other side of the glass. It began climbing up the door toward the door handle.
I locked the door.
***
Two days later, another brown Amazon package arrived, and it looked eerily similar to the previous package. Brown paper, lots of folds and creases.
I looked at my husband. Wariness slid over my skin, and my lip curled up a little. “Did you shake the package?”
“Yes, there’s nothing in there,” he assured me, while flipping through the envelopes.
Confident in his assessment because he loves me and knows my fear of spiders, I lift the bag and began to rip it open. And there along the fold was a black object curled up in a ball.
I screamed.
The package went flying out the door onto the deck.
And this is why I will be officially going on sabbatical from getting the mail until after the first frost.
Wait.
Make that the second frost. Just in case the first frost doesn’t kill all those f&*%&@s!
About a month ago, I learned I was honorable mention in a writing contest. When I got the news, I did the happy dance, jumped up and down like I was on a pogo stick and told anyone who cared enough to ask why I looked like a gleeful idiot.
A month later I learned that I did not make the final 20. Surprisingly I wasn’t disappointed or surprised.
I expected it.
Why? Am I just that much of half-empty person?
No, I knew that my story was a sweet story of resilience, overcoming fear. But the contest I entered generally wants stories that are painful, gasp-worthy and sometimes just plain weird.
I entered anyway because maybe this one time, there might be a chance.
I read the winning story, and I just didn’t get the appeal. The second place story was better. Only once have I read a story from the contest that lingered with me. It was truly brillant honestly. The second one was also a previous winner in a different contest, and the fairness factor in me thought well, what one contest wasn’t good enough?
This could be my reaction. Why does the one author feel the need to submit again? Wasn’t one contest win good enough? It’s hard enough for writers to break through, but you already have and now you need validation again?
But here’s the thing, feeling this way isn’t going to change the outcome or really make me feel any better. Raining on someone’s parade doesn’t make the sun shine brighter on me.
It was one person’s opinion. Just like the judge of this particular contest. She had her own experiences, what she liked to read is a heavy influence when she reads stories. The same is true for us.
Take for example, you read a book and you loved it, and you describe it someone. They pick up that book and decide after a few pages that the story isn’t for them. Does that devalue the story because you liked it and your friend didn’t?
Of course not. It means that not every story will resonate with every person.
A friend mentioned to me that she has never watched Star Wars. I told her that she was truly missing something special. But my fear is that after talking it up, she will be disappointed because it’s not her “cup of tea.”
Maybe Star Trek is more her jam. Maybe not. Maybe Bridgerton is really what she likes. Or maybe she likes a true crime documentary.
We live in a world of choices, and it’s really a wonderful thing. I have a choice to wallow in my disappointment and be rejected yet again and never send the story to another contest or publication.
Or I could research new places for my story because maybe this contest wasn’t quite the right home for it.
Here’s some interesting facts. Stephen King submitted the story “Carrie” 38 times before he finally got a yes. Let that sink in for a minute. He addressed 38 envelopes, bought 38 stamps and saved every rejection. Jack London was rejected 600 times. Louis L’ Amour was rejected 200 times. All of these people went on to be highly successful.
When I live in the world where no is the only answer and choose to give up, I might miss out on something marvelous. When I look at that closed door, I never see the one opening off to the side of me. Maybe the open door isn’t as pretty or intricate or fancy, but it’s open, waiting for me to acknowledge it.
If I give up, I would never experience the beauty of the moment when I hear that one “yes.” Because that yes will be beautiful, life-changing and satisfying. And I will scream it at the top of the mountains.
You lose your dream when you allow your fear to grow bigger than your faith.
There’s a movement that is becoming a bit troubling to me, and I’m not talking politics, AI or the future. I’ll let other bloggers talk about that.
I’m talking about gratitude. Writing thank you notes is becoming a lost art, even just writing a note in general is rare. And nowhere is the absence of thank you felt more greater than in nature.
Specifically, animals.
Yes, I am finding that for the most part, animals of the world are an ungrateful bunch.
Except dogs. Dogs love us unconditionally, wag their tales and give us those big, sorrowful eyes when we’re sitting at the kitchen table and so we extend our hand and give them a scrap of food (even though we know it makes them fat). We don’t deserve dogs.
Every night, I leave a bowl of cat food out for the cats, and other critters decide to partake in the cat food buffet.
Possums, with their rat-shaped face and pirate smile, will trot up to the dish, and generally, they are tipping over the bowl to get the last morsel. But if I happen to walk outside and disrupt their dinner, one of three things happens: 1. They either run away, 2. Hiss at me or 3. Charge at me. But never do they say thank you.
Consider this… possums eat bugs and ticks and they do their job well enough, but food in the winter can be hard to come by. They even love to get their noses slick with grease from the grill. But no thank you. Ever.
Possums=ungrateful.
Birds will even give me the occasional song, or if it’s a blue jay, they squawk about how long it took me to refill the feeders. Ok maybe birds are a little grateful.
Racoons are another nightly visitor. Those thieves. They enjoy sitting on their haunches, staring off at the night sky and eating the cat food like popcorn. And how do they say thanks, well they wash their hands in perfectly good water and leave an inch of mud, straw, dirt and just general filth.
Just the other night, the water dish was completely dry and dragged three feet from where I had left it the night before. The bowl was dry.
Every morning, I change the water, knowing its futile, because the raccoon will be back again.
Not the best guest.
You might be thinking why I don’t just bring the food in at night, and occasionally I do, but you have to understand one thing. I have outside cats.
Cats are grazers, they keep coming back to the buffet, eat a little, run off, roll in the dirt, come back brown and dusty and eat again. They just assume the food will be there, so why fill the belly completely in one stop.
And before you tell me that cats don’t say thank you, I do get the occasional gift (aka a mouse or bird or snake), and I get a general leg rub or head butt. Generally, the cats say thank you in some way nearly every day.
Cats=grateful.
I’m not really making my point, am I? Sadly, even raccoons have changed my mind.
When I started to write this blog a few weeks ago, I was completely annoyed with the racoons. The daily water dump and rinse was getting old. And then something changed. I dumped out the water one morning, and a small white rock fell out of the bowl.
What is this? A gift? I thought maybe it was just the raccoon wanted to wash his rock, but he dropped it in the filthy water and couldn’t find it again. Well it served him right.
The next morning, I found two rocks. The morning after, a piece of wood. Since I then, I have found multiple rocks, a piece of plastic, a stick shaped like a sword, a long rusty bolt and more pieces of wood. None of these things were close to the water. The raccoon had to put thought into what he wanted to drop into the water. He made a choice as to what he threw in the bowl.
Perhaps, I was wrong. In the dead of winter and early spring, water is not as easy to find. The raccoon found hope in the one thing that he does not have to fight or scavenge for. Because of this gift of water, he gave something in return.
Maybe nature is a bit more grateful than I gave them credit for. And when we experience small acts of kindness, perhaps we should offer a thank you to like nature does.
I admit that I look forward to what the raccoon deemed worthy of dropping in the water. Sometimes, if the bowl is empty, I do feel a little sad and wonder if my buddy got lost or hurt.
Why should I care? Because it brings me joy. Simple as that, and I am grateful for the gifts the raccoon shares with me.
Well except for possums. Still ungrateful.
P.S. I have since found out that raccoons like to horde treasure. They are in fact pack rats. The raccoon is likely setting the “treasure” in the water, and he forgets about it. Not a gift.
Fear cripples every living thing, but God shows us how to overcome.
The north wind blew strong, bitter; the very chill that comes with the bite of snow. Winter was still showing her teeth no matter that it was officially five days into spring.
The cats snuggled in their warm buildings with their bellies full. Everyone that is, but Axyl.
He likes to play a game with me, and being a cat, he only comes in when it suits him or when it’s about to rain. I nicknamed him my weather barometer. Life clockwork, Axyl came home a few hours before it rained. Sometimes he was gone a week, sometimes just a few days, but bitter cold was not his thing.
I walked around the front of the house that was out of the wind. There he sat. A blanket had fallen down between the seat and the back of the metal bench. Axyl used the blanket as a kitty shield. He was stiff with fear.
Fear that he had been forgotten. He meowed when he saw me, and ran away like he didn’t trust me. Fear had such a hold on him. I bent down, and he came straight to me, nudging me with his head. I scooped him up, feeling his rough fur. His fur had been transformed by his stress. He trembled in my arms.
Now Axyl is not a feral cat. He just had a moment where he felt forgotten and cold. Cold had a bitter hold on him.
I felt like Axyl once. Alone, cold, lost, forgotten. I was unemployed for the first time since I was 16. One bitter cold moment, and my faith dissolved into the darkness of fear. Two words bounced in my head.
What now?
I read that the Bible references fear 365 times. Let that sink in for a moment. Fear is so important that we need a reminder every single day. God knew the power that fear holds, so he gave us enough defenses against for every single day of our lives.
That cold day in February I needed the reminder, as I felt alone and forgotten. I, like Axyl, felt unable to move, unable to make another step, just curled up in a ball in a shock, feeling forgotten.
But God had not forgotten me.
God sent people to find me, message me, call me. They answered the phone when I called. I sat in the parking lot with my list of things I needed to pick up that day. It seemed so unimportant now. The people who answered my call told me it’s going to be OK. You will bounce back. And most importantly, I believe in you.
I found that people came out of the woodwork of my life to show up and say, it’s going to be ok. It’s going to be ok. How did they know it would ever be Ok? I certainly did not. And yet they showed up.
God sent me hope in the form of everyday angels. And I will always be grateful for them.
I carried Axyl to the warmth of the shop. Axyl nudged my chin with his head, and he purred. The texture of his fur softened. I set him down inside, but he didn’t go to the food. He rubbed against me, and his eyes shone with gratitude and love.
I know times seem difficult and scary, and the world might seem a little dark right now. It is now we must look to God, trust in him and have hope.
In Isaiah 43:1-4: But how, this is what the Lord says—he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. 2. When you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze. For I am the Lord, you God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior; I give Egypt for your ransom, Cush and Seba in your stead. Since you are precious and honored in my sight, and because I love you, I will give men in exchange for you and people in exchange for your life.”
Fear not, for I have redeemed you… and look for your everyday angels.
Sundays are a time for rest and reflection. They are also a time I choose to write. I could work on my novel. I could work on a short story or flash fiction story that has been nudging at me, but instead, I have a few random thoughts.
Mary makes things happen. John 2: 1-5 is a perfect example of a mother seeing what needs to happen and ignoring her son when he basically says, “let it go.” It made me wonder did Jesus shake his head when his mother ignored him and told the servants to do what Jesus said? Maybe Jesus even rolled his eyes a little?
(The above example was inspired by a conversation with an IT guy. We talked about how no one is perfect, except for the man who walked on water. Although, Jesus was scolded by his mother once.)
Why is a brand called Drunk Elephant? Where did they come up with this? Were they on safari and saw an elephant sway back and forth and said, “let’s make a beauty brand and call it Drunk Elephant!”
(I happen to like Drunk Elephant products, but I could never figure out why the name.)
Watching Patrick Mahomes start to run out of bounds, slow down, and then flop dramatically when the defender touches him. The ref did not fall for the drama. It made me wonder, do you not trust the talent of your team enough that you have to draw a call from the ref? It’s one thing to draw players off side, but to make an obvious fall?
(Yesterday’s game continues to tarnish the Chief’s reputation. There’s plenty of articles about how the NFL is rigged and the Chiefs are paying the refs. Consipracy theories abound.
Finally, how is it that it’s 32 degrees in Alaska, but it’s 9 in Nebraska, and it feels like -5.
(Canadian cold front, the weathermen tell me. Thanks Canada. I understand now why people move to Florida for the winter.)
The internet is ruining one of my favorite authors. This is not the first time.
I was sitting in the physical therapist’s office, randomly scrolling through Twitter and came across a tell-all piece regarding Marion Zimmer Bradly.
When I was a teenager, my aunt gifted me with “Mists of Avalon.” I remember my mom not being pleased with this choice, as there were ahem… questionable scenes in the book, and she was not sure I was old enough to handle these scenes.
It was not Game of Thrones (which I agree has several questionable and uncomfortable scenes in the book). Its fiction, but finally, my mom was being a good parent and involved in what I was reading.
(I digress for a moment and firmly believe that parents should be involved in what their kids are reading. Check into the author, check into the content. There is no reason these days that you can’t find a synopsis or reviews to help you make the best choices for your kids. It was more difficult for my mom back in the day.)
The article accused Marion Zimmer Bradly of child molestation by her own daughter after Marion Zimmer Bradly had passed away. To say I was shocked is an understatement. Now you may be reading this and think, Merry this is an easy decision. Why a crisis of conscience?
Because “Mists of Avalon” was one of my favorite books. I looked up to Marion Zimmer Bradley as an author. I had planned to re-read the book in adulthood; I even have an autographed copy of another of her books. I can’t look at either book without profound disappointment.
When Bradley had a magazine, I submitted to her magazine, and while my work was rejected, I kept the letter. The letter had a personal note, not just a formula rejection letter.
Now looking at the books just makes me sad. Can I separate my feelings of the person from the art they created that I loved? I don’t know. I should know. I know better, as my mother would say. I almost wish I had never looked at the article.
But that’s not the only piece of childhood that now I question, because I am informed now.
I read an article that Michael Landon, Charles Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie, a beloved TV series, had cheated on his wife. I guess it came out at the time the show was still on the air (didn’t know at the time; I was kid), and the incident came out again recently when the Karen Grassle, the actress who played Caroline, published a memoir.
Little House on the Prairie was an iconic show for my sister and me. I could relate to Laura in a lot of ways. I’m certain most little girls could at the time. And Charles Ingalls was such an iconic father, not perfect, but certainly he would never cheat on his wife in the show. But in real life…a different story.
Should I stop watching the TV series? I enjoyed that show, and I still do. I was rewatching the first season recently, but now, I look at the show a lot differently, especially the relationship between Caroline and Charles. They were beloved characters, played by really good actors.
But that’s not all I’m struggling with today.
Today on X, I ran across a story about Brandon Sanderson. A beloved author that I only recently discovered, and I was blown away by how well he writes. He has written a lot of books; he’s a Nebraska fantasy author and now there are lengthy claims that he is going woke. Because of his change in beliefs, his stories are more about checking boxes than actually developing a good story. I personally haven’t read recent work. This was simply what the article suggested.
The internet, AI and algorithm have insured that I can’t simply ignore these stories now. They will continue to feed me these stories, because I clicked on them once and showed interest. That’s how the internet game works.
At the end of the day, I wish I didn’t know these things. Is this considered cancel culture or just being informed? Some might say you should know about these people that you support and love their work. In some cases, they are really awful people.
No one of us are perfect. I’m guessing that if I looked up any actor, actress or author there is some an article citing how they made a mistake or commented inappropriately at some point in their lives. And I’m not saying that we should ignore infidelity or child abuse. These are all awful acts. But should it change how I feel about a story that I fell in love with ?
The answer is I don’t know.
For now, I’m going to enjoy my TV shows and my books and the characters they played or created. I am going to box up my Bradley books until I can decide what to do with them. I will continue to watch Little House and read Sanderson’s series I have come to enjoy.
She is 8, maybe 9. Her hair is blonde and curls up at her shoulders. She pushes her bangs out of her eyes, leaning forward to listen to the choir.
She did not have a Christmas dress with sparkles or lace or black patent leather shoes. Her hair was not curled into long ringlets. She had her Sunday best, a floral dress with straps. Probably a summer dress, but she did not care. The church was warm; her heart was warmer. She was singing, hugging and full of love.
She rests her head on her dad’s shoulders and sometimes her mom’s. She hugs them both close, her arms wrapped around their necks pulling them close.
It’s Christmas Eve. The church is full of the regulars, the Chreasters (those who attend only Christmas and Easter) and the children. The pew behind the little blonde girl is filled with her siblings and many other kids. Three quarters of the pew was filled with children. Squirming, excited, dreaming of presents under the tree and cookies for Santa and is-it-time-to-go.
A woman paused at my pew and whispered to me how she hadn’t sat in the balcony in years. Her son rang the big brass church bell tonight, and she remembered that used to be my dad’s job. She missed him. I nodded. It has been 11 years since his passing. I missed him, too.
The lights began to dim. The ushers made a last sweep of the congregation to ensure everyone had a candle for the grand finale of service.
Two acolytes came down the aisle, lit the first person’s candle in the pew and moved on to the next pew. The candlelight being passed from candle to candle in the pew. The little girl carefully tipped her candle to her dad and then held lit candle tight in her hand.
The lights dimmed until there was only candlelight and blue twinkling lights on evergreens and the trees.
The congregation sang the first verse of Silent Night in German. Most mumbled something or stared blankly or hummed. A few strong singers, likely planted in the congregation, sang the words correctly. By the end, the congregation could sing two or three words confidently.
The organ music dynamically changed, the notes building to the familiar English version of the verses.
The little girl stood up, placing a hand on her dad’s shoulder. She raised her candle high, and those around her lifted their candle, too. Candlelight cut through the darkness, and the organ faded away, but the swelling of voices continued, singing the last verse with no music, just the sound of the young, the middle-aged and the old.
My throat tightened, and my vision blurred. The tears flowed freely at the simple beauty of this moment, filled with hope and peace through people united by the birth of a child who changed the entire world.
The heavenly host praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the Highest and on earth peace and goodwill to all.”
I stood next to our hosta plants, blooming with long stems of white flowers. I had just turned to say something to my family sitting on the desk, and something green and moving very fast zoomed around me.
I froze.
I would like to say it was fascination, but it was mainly fear. Why was this maniac bird levitating in the air? Was it secretly judging me? Evaluating if I was worth the trouble? Did the bird think I was a threat to these flowers?
“Um, there’s a hummingbird flying around me,” I said, my voice a little more shaky than it should have been. This was just a bird after all.
It’s green body was shaped like a long tube. Its wings moved so fast they were swirling wind storms of black and gray that sounded like a buzzing wasp.
“I see it,” my husband said.
“What do I do?” I breathed.
A feeling came over me. A peace. Two words. Be still.
The bird hovered near my right shoulder, clearly sizing me up, and then it zoomed off toward the far end of the farm. I exhaled.
I could almost hear my mom’s voice saying, “sit still.”
I heard this a lot growing up. I was an energetic kid, more tomboy than girl. I often could be found wandering our farm, uncovering rocks, jumping across the creek or wandering barefoot through the grass. Never still.
I often was red-faced, sweaty and my mop of naturally curly hair (not like Shirley Temple or Julia Robert, more like Albert Einstein). Sweat only enhanced the curls. Yes, I was a Gen X kid who didn’t come home until it was time to eat. I often had a jar with a lightening bug in it on my dresser.
How many times have we heard the words? Be still. Slow down. Take a breath.
The Bible tell us “Be still.” A quick Google search was a bit fruitless. It’s anywhere from 8 to 113, depending on your search. The most famous of verse of being still comes from Psalms 46:10. “Be still and know that I am God.”
Our society is more about how many things can we do in an hour. We are always trying to do more, be more, and then pat ourselves on the back for being efficient and awesome and motivated. Where is the time to be still? There isn’t. We are so busy being productive, we leave little space to breathe. Even our vacations become a race to see and do everything we can before we leave for home.
Rest is part of God’s plan for us. And yet, we reward those who are courageous enough not to be still. Be the hustle. Except when we hustle, we miss out. We miss out on the child who brings us dandelions. We miss out on the laughter of the child in the backyard playing tag.
We miss out on the beautiful fairy-like creatures whose wings beat in hyper speed and move with grace and mystery and awe.
Be still. And see what gift God has in store for you.
