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Retrospect
A former computing columnist for Newsday, Bonnie has written articles, greeting cards, and stories for both the inspirational and general marketplace. She feels blessed to have been given the opportunity to write books for children, including The Young Reader’s Bible, Secret Journals of Bible-Time Kids series, and the God Thought of Everything devotionals for middlers. Currently, she’s working on her fifteenth book--an inspirational book for adults: When God Steps In: Stories of Everyday Grace. In addition to her writing, Bonnie’s love for the outdoors led her to specialize in landscape, macro, and black/white photography. A sampling of her Pacific Northwest photos are on display at the Oregon State Snowmobile Association website. Bonnie and her husband Nick enjoy camping, gardening (except for weeds!), exploring regional pioneer history, and bragging about their grandkids. E-mail Bonnie Visit Bonnie's Website: ___________________________________ Answering the Nudge
"Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The earnest prayer of a righteous person has great power and produces wonderful results." I remember the day Mary's note arrived, because I had spent most of the night before tossing and turning about a medical test I'd be taking the following day. I never considered myself much of a worrier, but this was different. I was in my thirties, busy with family and a blossoming writing career. I didn't have time for breast cancer. After needling it for fluid, my doctor turned to me and said it definitely wasn't a cyst. "It's good you found it," he said, "and if it's anything serious, don't worry. We've caught it early." I suppose that was his way of saying everything would be fine, but it set my worry wheel in motion. I tore into Mary's letter (yes, this was in the days of real paper letters, folks), glad for such timely contact from an old friend. "I don't know what's going on with you," she wrote, "but God has been pestering me to pray for you. What's up?" God is a nudger. When we're willing to listen, He'll often whisper the name of someone in our ear and urge us to pray. Sometimes the nudge comes in the middle of the night. That's what Mary claimed she received numerous times over the course of that week. Sometimes the nudge to pray comes when we're in the middle of doing something routine. I love those nudges because I know that I can trust God's timing. It's not that He needs you or me specifically. If we're too sidetracked, too sleepy, or too lazy to respond, He'll quickly find someone else, but He doesn't give up. Sometimes the Lord nudges me to pray for a passersby, like the old woman I saw walking along the highway one afternoon, or the young mom screaming at her kids in a parking lot. Usually, though, He nudges me to pray for people I know, without a clue as to the urgency of their need. (I remember one night waking up at 3 a.m., with a friend's name on my mind. Little did I know that she was awake in her house, too, struggling with the thought of her upcoming kidney transplant.) Many years ago, I read an article about a woman who was awakened with a sudden need to pray for a missionary couple from her church. She'd never experienced such a panicky urge to pray, and couldn't go back to sleep until the feeling had lifted. A few months later, that same missionary couple visited this woman's home church while on furlough, and were speaking to a gathering of friends one Sunday evening. They described a day when they were traveling across the African plains in a Jeep. "Suddenly the ground shook and we automatically thought, EARTHQUAKE!" he said. Seconds later, a quick glance in the rearview mirror told him everything he needed to know. "A gigantic cloud of dust rose from the earth as a herd of elephants bore down on us. I didn't know what to do. It was obvious we couldn't outrun them, so I just stopped the Jeep right then and there. It all happened so fast!" Miraculously, the stampeding elephants tore past on either side of their vehicle, like the Red Sea parting to let the Israelites through. After the church meeting, they discovered that God had awakened their friend in the middle of the night in the U.S. At the very hour they were in danger of being overrun by stampeding elephants, this dear friend was answering a nudge to pray--without knowing why. God's nudges are never wrong. My friend Mary's prayers strengthened and comforted me when I was facing the unknown. Thankfully, a biopsy found the lump was benign, but if it had been cancer, I know that God would have provided plenty of prayer support. I have a feeling that someday in heaven, we'll discover how the prayers of both friends and strangers played a vital role in our lives. In fact, answering the call of those gentle nudges from God might be the single most important thing any of us will ever do. ©2008, Bonnie Bruno For more slice-of-life stories, visit Bonnie's Macromoments blog: http://macromoments.blogspot.com
___________________________________ Blessings of Freedom
I've been thinking a lot lately about the things I take for granted. Blessings of everyday life, like being able to turn a knob on the kitchen sink so clean water flows into my glass. Loading the washer with detergent and more clean water, instead of scrubbing clothes in a dirty stream. Heading off to church on Sunday morning without fear of persecution or arrest. My lifestyle isn't showy, but it's comfortable. It's what I've enjoyed for my entire life, a byproduct of freedom. I'm well aware, though, that freedom is not free. It has been paid for by generations of patriotic types who were willing to step out of their comfortable cocoons and serve their country well. I learned early on in our marriage what it means to commit to a military man. Together, we learned how to create a sense of home wherever our country sent us. _______ I'm 23 years old, and my plane has touched down 7,000+ miles from home. My husband meets our toddler son and I at Frankfurt International Airport, and hugs us like he'll never let us go. We're amazed that all three pieces of luggage have arrived safely, and within minutes we're heading up the autobahn towards home. We chatter nonstop, trying to make up for the five months we've been apart. Home for the next three years will be a cozy two-bedroom place on the second floor of an American apartment complex. Welcome to the world of military families who are skilled at sinking roots, making new friends, and adapting quickly to a new environment. Yet...I'm hungry, jet-lagged, and already homesick. Delivery trucks scream past, their sides plastered with words that I can neither pronounce nor understand. A few miles later, rain is slapping the windshield like a mood-detector. The wipers beat a monotonous rhythm that my weary brain interprets as, "You're stuck! You're stuck! You're stuck!" A good night's sleep works wonders. I awaken refreshed and happy to be living under the same roof with my husband again. In the following weeks, I'm convinced that God often works best when one feels stuck. I pore over the book of Jeremiah, where it describes the Israelites' adjustment to their new life as exiles in Babylon. I'm certainly not in exile, but the advice God gave to his people back then also rings fresh and true in this new chapter of my life: "Build houses and make yourselves at home. Put in gardens and eat what grows in that country." (Jeremiah 29:5, The Message) In other words, sink roots. Trust God. Carry on as usual. Within days, I meet two new friends who also happen to share my Christian faith. We talk about the churches we left behind, and the ladies' fellowship groups we belonged to in the U.S. It seems only natural to begin a new fellowship, and we invite others to join us every Thursday morning at my house. Over the next six months, our group of three grows into a circle of almost thirty women! We split into two groups and take turns hosting. God is hard at work changing not only us, but our community. God soon opens another door, as well. I apply for a job with the local military chaplaincy and am hired for a position that includes greeting newcomers with "welcome packets". The packets are filled with practical information about our community and the surrounding German countryside and culture. It's a perfect opportunity to make a tangible difference in the lives of other military families, who often feel like their lives have been shaken up and blasted out of a time tunnel. It's a paid position, but in my heart it feels more like ministry. Young wives far from home respond well to the outreach. I invite them to our Bible study, and our numbers continue to grow. Three years overseas pass surprisingly fast. Our family has increased in number from three to four. On the morning of our return flight, I'm not at all surprised when my eyes suddenly cloud with tears at the sight of our temporary home fading from view. What began as a dreaded assignment became a period of memory-making opportunities and a chance to grow closer as a family and as believers. Over the course of three short years, the Lord transformed my homesick heart into a fertile garden plot. There, precious new relationships took root. New challenges stretched me as a person. The seeds He planted would grow into a bumper crop that not only met my immediate needs, but would continue to nurture my soul for many years to come. Freedom isn't free. It's the hard work of men and women who willingly go when they're sent, and who represent our country well. That freedom blossomed long before you and I were born, and with God's blessing, will continue long after we're gone. ©2008, Bonnie Bruno For more slice-of-life stories, visit Bonnie's Macromoments blog: http://macromoments.blogspot.com
___________________________________ Remembering Daddy
I add several tablespoons of water to the mixture. With quick movements and a shiny fork, I help her cut through the flour mixture, transforming it into a big ball of dough. I watch her divide it into three chunks. She rolls each into a perfect circle, which she lifts and spreads across a glass pie plate. "Can I help with the pinch part?" I ask, knowing she'll say yes. She always lets me help with the pinch part. Using a butter knife, Mama cuts away excess dough that hangs over the side of the plate, then we tuck the ragged edges under and crimp them into a pretty design. Our sticky fingers meet at a certain point and she tickles my fingertips. "What a beautiful pie this is going to be," she says. "I couldn't have done it without you." We repeat the process two more times, until a small lump of leftover dough remains. Mama hands me a smaller, child-sized rolling pin. "Here, it's all yours." I dip my hand in flour and spread it across an apple-shaped cutting board, then pat my lump of dough as I'd seen her do countless times before.. "This pie is for Daddy," I say. "It's gonna be his fav'rite." It wasn't my father's birthday. It wasn't Thanksgiving or Christmas. It was the day before Father's Day, and I wanted to surprise him with my very first pie. I kneaded and flipped that dough until it was tough and dry. Mama offered to help, but I was a three-year-old know-it-all.. "I can do it myself. It's MY pie!" I borrowed a little silver pie pan from my set of play dishes, and nodded when Mama asked if I'd washed it in soapy water. The day before, it had held the remains of a grasshopper from a backyard adventure. She helped me fill the shell with warm peach filling and slid it into the oven next to her bigger pies. By the time Daddy came home, our pies were cooling on a rack. A sweet scent wafted out the door, down the sidewalk to greet him. "Mmmm! I smell a surprise!" he called to me up on the porch. I watched him sample a bite of my pie, and declare it delicious-with-a-capital-D. That's all this little girl needed to know. A couple of decades later, I confessed that I really hadn't washed my grasshopper holder. My dad laughed, and confessed that he hadn't really swallowed that bite of pie, either, because he knew about my decomposing grasshopper. Father's Day brings a myriad of memories, some hilarious, some bittersweet. Mostly, it takes me back to those early formulative years when I learned what it meant to feel secure in my father's love. Those are the years when I learned how to pray, too, with Daddy on his knees next to me at bedtime. Because God mattered to my dad, I learned from a very young age to love and trust my heavenly Father with every detail of life. My earthly dad passed away in 2006, but my heavenly Father still speaks in precious whispers and gentle nudges that encourage and guide me in the right direction. Sometimes while singing in church, I remember my tall daddy sharing his hymnal with me and singing "Amazing Grace" or "When We All Get to Heaven." When I gaze at the Big Dipper on a clear night, I remember the night he first showed me how to locate that sparkly lineup. And whenever I bake a pie, I can't help but smile-with-a-capital-S. ©2008, Bonnie Bruno For more slice-of-life stories, visit Bonnie's Macromoments blog: http://macromoments.blogspot.com
___________________________________ Worth the Wait Mother's Day is a sweet pause in the life of a family. As a child, it was one of my favorite events. My siblings and I would often pool our collective dollars to buy our mom a The year I turned seven, I'd forgotten to save for a present. I remember writing a syrupy poem and presenting it to Mama, along with a Mason jar filled with white trumpet-shaped flowers I'd picked in a field behind our orange orchard. (How was I to know the flowers were stinkweed?) She didn't seem to notice the noxious odor, and treated that bouquet like lovely roses. Mama went through grandiose gestures of gratitude, oohing and ahhing my creation. Secretly, I wondered whether she planned to really use it, or if it would just take up space on her dresser as a dust collector. So I did what any private investigator would do. The next day I tiptoed into her bedroom to see for myself. Easing the lid open, I discovered that she'd filled each egg compartment with her favorite earrings, bracelets, and necklaces. My snooping came to a halt when I felt my mom plant a kiss on my cheek. "It's the prettiest jewelry box ever," she said. "Thank you, honey." Under all that paint and glue and glitter sat an ordinary egg carton. The carton had traveled from henhouse to grocery store, and eventually to my teacher's house. It had ended up in my school classroom, where I'd transformed it into something else; yet, my mother didn't view it as an ordinary egg carton at all. Mothers are just like that, I figured. A couple of decades later, Mother's Day morning found my own young children tiptoeing around our house, preparing to surprise me. I knew better than to climb out of bed early. A surprise takes time, so that's what I gave them. Soon they'd tap me on the shoulder and I'd pretend that they'd awakened me from a deep sleep. I'd close my eyes while they led me by the hand to the living room, where crepe paper streamers and a poster-sized Mother's Day card would transform the room into a celebration. And their daddy would pretend he knew nothing about their plans. True to form, they pulled off yet another Mother's Day surprise. The dining room table was set with our blue and white china, and down the middle of the table was a row of vases, each filled with flowers gathered from our flowerbeds. Breakfast consisted of peanut-buttered-and-jellied English muffins, banana slices, and orange juice sipped from crystal goblets. My Mother's Day surprises knitted beautiful memories that I treasure to this day. They took planning. Time. A joyful anticipation by those who loved me. In my eyes, each celebration was worth the wait. God's surprises are well-timed, too. When I allow Him the freedom to work in my life, I'm never disappointed. His ways are higher and deeper than mine, and He has proven time and again that He loves turning the ordinary into something extraordinary. Life in Christ is an ongoing adventure well worth the wait. "You open Your hand and satisfy the desire of every living thing. The Lord is righteous in all His ways, gracious in all His works." - Psalm 145:16-17 (KJV) ©2008, Bonnie Bruno For more slice-of-life stories, visit Bonnie's Macromoments blog: http://macromoments.blogspot.com ___________________________________ Sweet Journeys
How many flowers are you able to name? I recognize common flowers like roses, tulips, mums, violets, lilies, and daffodils, but if you propped me behind the microphone on a game show and drilled me with floral flashcards, my brain would short-circuit. Botanists claim that they've documented more than 270,000 different species of flowers. That's quite a bouquet! Paleobotanists (those who have dedicated their lives to the study of fossilized plants and animals) have discovered fossilized flowers that resemble magnolias. Imagine the moment a sweet-scented magnolia broke free from its stem and fluttered to the ground. Through a time-consuming process—perhaps from being buried in volcanic ash or sand—that flower's shape and structural details were later embedded in a rock, which eventually found its way into a museum for visitors to enjoy. The journey is said to have taken thousands of years from tree to display case. God only knows the exact amount of time. Here are a couple more flowery factoids: In 1929, a document about herbal remedies was discovered. Written in Latin, this sixteenth-century record described how the Aztecs in Mexico used dahlias as a prime treatment for epilepsy. Because insulin had not yet been discovered, diabetics were often given a special sugar tonic made from the tubers of dahlias. Like far-reaching flowers, each of us is on a journey. No doubt your life's journey includes a few proverbial cliffs and canyons, slippery slopes and potholes. But tough times shape us. Trials and tribulations are nothing new; Jesus experienced them, too. I Corinthians 1:3-5 assures us of God's abiding presence no matter what we encounter: "Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. For as the sufferings of Christ abound in us, so our consolation also abounds through Christ. (NKJV) Take time to review your unique life's journey. Do you see evidence of His faithful provision? shelter from the storm? timely promises from his Word? precious friendships He intentionally planted across your path? Do you recall compassionate smiles He delivered via strangers at the exact moment you needed an encouraging touch? The journey of life grows sweeter each year, as we pause to acknowledge God's hand on our shoulder and His light spilling across our path. He's the fragrant flowers from a loved one, and the arm around your shoulder when you think you can't go on. He's the Beginning and the End. What could be sweeter than that? ©2008, Bonnie Bruno For more slice-of-life stories, visit Bonnie's Macromoments blog: http://macromoments.blogspot.com
___________________________________ The Four-Legged Lesson "Behold, I am the LORD, the God of all flesh. One Easter weekend when I was a teen, someone slipped into our backyard while my family was The next morning, we discovered the gate wide open. The latch was intentionally tricky, and it had taken a long arm, some fancy finger work, and patience to open it in the dark. We searched for over an hour, thinking that Gretchen might have slipped out after the intruder left, to explore our neighborhood. She rarely left the spacious yard. We checked the edges of a nearby highway, in case she'd been hit by a car, but didn't find her. I imagined her romping from gate to gate, greeting other dogs and having herself a ball. "There's a chance she may have been stolen," my dad decided. "We'll just keep our eyes out for her and hope she comes home soon." My thoughts turned to the day my mom had sneaked that furry pup home from a pet store to surprise my dad. He'd rolled his eyes, pretended to be upset, and asked if she'd lost her mind. We already had a cat, and what-in-the-world-was-she-thinking? But she handed the pup to him for closer inspection, knowing he'd fall instantly in love with her the minute she nuzzled his neck. He did, and she spoiled the whole family as the years went by. I already missed her sweet personality, perky expression, and backward-curling tail that reminded me of a tightly coiled spring. How would I stand never knowing what had happened to her? After our Easter church service, we headed out to look for Gretchen again, calling her name every few steps. I half expected to find her waiting by her food dish out back. My dad jammed his hands in his pockets and rattled his change-something he did unconsciously when he was deep in thought. "Dogs have good radar. Maybe she'll find her way home," he tried to assure me. Silently I asked God to direct her steps toward home. I didn't promise to become a missionary in a snake-infested jungle or give up M&Ms for a year. I simply asked the God of the universe to undo what had been done. He'd hung the moon and was an expert at rotating seasons and providing our planet with light and heat; surely He could turn her four paws in the right direction. She'd find her way back-if she wasn't chained or confined indoors. A week passed. Two. Three. In my frustration, I eventually stopped praying, and decided that it wasn't meant to be. I hoped Gretchen was with people who were treating her well, and if they weren't, I secretly hoped that she'd rebel and bite them so they'd turn her loose. On a hot July afternoon, my dad and I were talking in the front yard. I started across the street to check our mailbox, when I heard a familiar bark. The bark turned to a high-pitched yap-yap-yap, and I turned to see Gretchen, racing up the middle of the street, her tail curled high over her back. A short length of frayed rope hung from her collar and her once-beautiful gray coat was now tangled around hundreds of cockleburs. She leapt and danced around me like a prodigal dog, then raced for the backyard gate as if she'd been gone for just an hour instead of months. We filled her dish to the brim with food and water, and hardly took our eyes off her for the rest of the day. Her footpads were cracked and bloody, her body worn out. She'd lost weight, but hadn't lost her playfulness. Dad shook his head in amazement. "She's come a long way. I wish she could tell us what she's been through." Decades later, I'm still floored by the memory of Gretchen's journey home. With the passing of time, it has become a picture of God's faithfulness at work. Long after I'd given up searching for our dog, He honored my plea for help. Long after the shock of her disappearance faded from my mind, He was busy working out the details, planning to point her toward home. Through the experience, I came to believe that God takes pure delight in the details of ordinary, everyday life. I also learned that there's a priceless beauty in the act of relinquishing my own timeline when I pray--to trust the Lord to work at his own pace, in his own way, for a bigger picture and a higher purpose. That lesson didn't come naturally; it took an intruder and a dog to drive the message home. ©2008, Bonnie Bruno For more slice-of-life stories, visit Bonnie's Macromoments blog: http://macromoments.blogspot.com
___________________________________ A Loving Legacy
I'd been poring over rows of Valentine's Day cards. Card shopping requires plenty of time, partly because I've spent nearly a decade writing greeting cards for Hallmark and other card publishers, so I'm a little on the picky side; and partly because it's often hard to find a card that matches what I truly feel. My least favorite cards begin with, "I know I don't say it often enough, but..." and end with sugarcoated declarations of undying love. (I figure if you love someone, you won't need to spring it on him or her thanks to someone else's words. You'll show it and say it often. Period.) My favorite cards are simple and succinct. Some are even blank inside. So as I'm sifting through the sentiments, this elderly couple maneuvers past me. He's using a cane, and she's driving a hot-pink walker that must surely glow in the dark. Along one rail of her rig are vinyl stick-on letters that spell, "Shop 'Til You Drop". We exchange friendly hellos and they busy themselves with what she calls the "mushy-gushy" Valentine's Day cards. I savor a sudden flashback of my parents, who are both in Heaven now. This couple has the same white hair, same sturdy walking shoes, and the same carefully gauged stride, set as a safeguard against taking a tumble. But what really grabbed my attention was the back of his navy blue t-shirt, which reads simply, Psalm 89:1. She gives a little squeal and points to something on the upper row. "Oh John, look at that," she says, nodding toward a giant heart-shaped card with a fluted pink border. "It looks like satin. Touch it and see. Is it?" He adjusts the tilt of his sporty tweed beret. "Is it WHAT?" he asks. "Is it SATIN," she says louder. "Look up there next to the 'For Her' sign; a big red heart card. See it?" Mr. Beret squints and leans in for an inspection. "Yes, Sweetie, I do believe it's satin. If it isn't, it's as pretty as satin. Why? You want it?" She couldn't take her eyes off the card. "I don't NEED it; I've got boxes of cards, John. Why would I need another? I just think it's pretty enough to frame, that's all." She went on about how she needed to de-clutter the closets, starting with that "silly" card collection. "I think I've kept every card I've ever received." "Well then, how 'bout we just pretend you didn't see this one?" he says, tossing me a mischievous wink. When she glances away, he reaches for the matching envelope and holds the card behind him, like a kid set on springing a surprise. I watch them meander up the center aisle, him with the big red heart card behind his back, and her stopping every so often to rest. She taps his shoulder and motions for him to lean down, then whispers something in his ear. He recoils as if he's been stung, and lets loose with a loud, raspy laugh that draws the stares of a young hand-holding couple in Electronics. The old couple disappears into a crowded checkout line. I think, What a blessing, to create a loving legacy that outshines the most beautiful Valentine's card; to share lifelong experiences that leave a history of God's faithfulness for generations that follow. Perhaps the referenced verse on John's t-shirt says it best: "I will sing of the mercies of the LORD forever. With my mouth will I make known Your faithfulness to all generations." - Psalm 89:1 (NKJV) ©2008, Bonnie Bruno For more slice-of-life stories, visit Bonnie's Macromoments blog:
http://macromoments.blogspot.com ___________________________________ A Life Remembered "Any concern too small to be turned into a prayer is to small to be made into a burden." When I was five, I worried about getting lost on the path between my kindergarten classroom and the school cafeteria. When I turned seven, I worried that my chatty reading partner would get me in trouble with our teacher. At nine, I fretted over my too-curly hair, or whether I'd finish my term paper on time. And at thirteen, I worried that my dad's job might transfer him to Turkey. Later in life, I found opportunities to worry about whether I was too strict or too lenient as a parent. When I wasn't preoccupied with the challenges of motherhood, I had plenty of other concerns to keep my head spinning: bills and deadlines and aging parents whose health issues were mounting yearly. Then I met a woman who had every reason to worry, yet didn't. Diane had suffered liver damage from a childhood illness and by the time she reached her early teens, she'd became an insulin-dependent diabetic. In spite of careful monitoring and a strict diet, her glucose level would rise and fall with little warning. As a result of those daily shifts, Diane's vision suffered drastically. She developed migraines. Her energy level plummeted without notice, and afternoon naps soon became a necessity. One evening as she stepped out of the shower, Diane suffered a seizure that literally threw her to the bathroom floor. Her husband called for an ambulance, but by the time paramedics arrived, my friend had lapsed into unconsciousness. At the hospital, a team of specialists raced the clock to corner the culprit. After numerous tests, they discovered a "blister" tucked between the folds of her brain. Inoperable, they said. Too risky. Weeks passed without change. Friends from our ladies' Bible fellowship prayed, trusting God for her "best," whatever that might entail. When her doctor assessed that the machines were only keeping her warm and nothing more, Diane's husband made the tough decision to let her go, and she slipped away within minutes of removing life support. I remember how different the world felt the next morning. Kids played tag on a nearby playground, oblivious to my loss. Buses hurried by as if nothing had changed. People still griped about politics. Junk mail still crowded my mailbox. TV commercials still coaxed consumers into buying products they didn't need. But my good friend was gone. Certain people impact us for the rest of our lives. Twenty-seven years have passed, yet the thought of that special friendship still makes me smile. Whenever I think of Diane, I remember her bright outlook on life, and her faith that God always knows best; His plan for each of us is higher and broader and deeper than anything we could ever conjure up ourselves. I remember her shrugging at worry--a waste of time, she believed. Little did she know that her time on earth would Diane was in step with God, and in tune with her world. One New Year's Day, I asked her if she'd made any resolutions. "Nope. Why rock the boat?" She'd just keep on doing what she'd been doing, she said. "I just stay out of God's way and trust Him for whatever." ©2008, Bonnie Bruno __________________________________________ Like a City on a Hilltop
All except for the homesick part. We were a military family back then, and like most of our peers, we'd learned the importance of adapting to change. The year before, we'd lived Stateside, and traveled 2,700 miles to spend Christmas with grandparents and cousins. This year we'd be celebrating the holiday alone. Young children take their cues from the adults in their life, so we shook off our longing for home and got busy. We strung dried cranberries and Lifesavers to drape the branches of our Christmas tree, and hung nativity scene characters we'd sewn and stuffed with soft cotton. We recycled old Christmas cards from prior years by cutting them into small shapes, then crocheted around the edges and hung them as colorful ornaments. In the twinkly light of our living room, we surveyed the results. Beautiful! Our street sat on a hill, and from our living room, we could watch snow gently falling on the earth below. I set a pair of electric candlelights on our front windowsill and the next day, a neighbor mentioned how pretty they looked, glowing after dark against our sheer white curtains. I'd set them there as a simple decoration, but her comment reminded me of Matthew 5:14: "You are the light of the world-like a city on a hilltop that cannot be hidden." December doesn't seem complete without baking. "Wouldn't it be fun to bake cookies for our new neighbors?" I asked my son, a blond-headed first-grader. With the help of his four-year-old sister, we mixed and rolled sugar cookie dough, and cut out dozens of star-shaped cookies. Several hours later, after frosting and decorating our cookies, we created several glittery, handmade cards. Then we wrapped each plateful of goodies with colored Saran wrap and curly ribbon. The results were festive, and my kids' sense of anticipation was priceless. As we passed out cookies and exchanged Christmas greetings, one lady asked, "Are you the new family on the third floor-the ones with the light in the window?" I couldn't help but smile. My thoughts backtracked to a familiar Sunday school song I'd sung as a child. "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine..." As we neared Christmas day, that familiar Sunday school song took on a deeper meaning. God replaced my homesickness with joy, and I began to feel less like a guest in Germany and more at home. I realized that He had placed us at that particular address surrounded by those particular neighbors. None of the details took Him by surprise. If we'd continue to let His light shine through us, He would take care of the rest. So many times I've recalled that special December, and thought of people who may be feeling homesick or lonely. The holiday season is filled with joy and sentimental memories, yet for those who are isolated or experiencing major changes in their life-divorce, relocation, death of a loved one, job loss--it can be a stressful, depressing period. Look around. Shine your light. God may have a special assignment for you this very season! ©2007, Bonnie Bruno
__________________________________________ The Stuff of Life Have you ever met someone whose influence ripples through your life long after they're gone? Margaret was such a person. Well into her nineties, she had plenty to complain about--joints swollen and twisted by arthritis, a heart that didn't In a society that often judges according to one's pile of material wealth, Margaret would have rated near the bottom of the heap. Home was a tiny four-room cottage that reeked of Ben Gay, except on days when she'd bake her famous Brown Sugar Brownies. Her few possessions--sturdy old furniture, books, and a stack of beloved photo albums, sat against a backdrop of floral wallpaper that was peeling like a tired old billboard. Swollen doors took several tugs to open. Each step across the warped living room floor was punctuated by a squeak, and the ceiling sported cracks that criss-crossed from corner to corner. Margaret joked that no burglar in his right mind would dare stick around, once he realized the challenge of maneuvering through her house. Whenever I'd phone to see how she was doing, she'd invariably reply, "With God on my side, how could I not be doing well?" Her outlook reminded me of I Timothy 6:6: "But godliness and contentment is great gain." She lived that scripture daily. Margaret's stories kept me glued to my chair for hours, and it was obvious that she had mastered how to separate needs from wants. She'd also learned generosity, and would share whatever she had--pears from a 100-year-old tree out back, homemade applesauce, and small gifts she'd crochet in her overstuffed chair near a sunny window. After Margaret could no longer care for herself at home, I visited her one Thanksgiving at a nursing home. I dreaded the visit, because I thought I might find her feeling depressed. She'd recently been released from the hospital, and was still on oxygen and unable to walk without assistance. I found her sitting up in bed, though, her attention fixed on a sprawling bare-branched tree outside her window, where songbirds had lined up to deliver a concert. Margaret was in the habit of taking everything personally. She figured God transported the warblers to that particular tree in time for Thanksgiving. I handed her a bag of saltwater taffy--her favorite. "What a friend you are!" she said, patting my hand. We swapped Thanksgiving memories, and she rattled off a list of things she was grateful for, from the "nice young man" who took time to listen when he delivered her breakfast tray each morning, to the nurse who had recently lost a loved one. "God's always bringing new faces my way," she said. "I never know who will walk through that door." In the years since Margaret's passing, I've thought often about how she treated each stage of life like a special season, honoring what went before, and facing new challenges head-on. The approaching holidays always remind me of a piece of priceless advice she offered me that last Thanksgiving of her life: "Always remember that Stuff doesn't matter; people do." ©2007, Bonnie Bruno Bonnie's new book, When God Steps In: Stories of Everyday Grace includes stories of ordinary people who experienced God's amazing touch during dry, difficult seasons. Visit the book site for more info: ©2007, Bonnie Bruno __________________________________________ Waiting for Rain I love the feel of a new journal-the way its unbent cover creaks open for the first time. The smell of crisp blank pages. If it happens to be a leather journal at a 60% off sale, all the better. There's something about a change of season that demands a new journal. Revisiting an old journal is almost as fun as recording in the new one. For example, this week I read an entry I'd written last October, describing my afternoon at a nearby wildlife Last October was different. The moment I stepped out of my car, I discovered emptiness and silence. No Canada geese honking overhead in formation. No family of beavers paddling across the water. No Great Blue Heron peering through the reeds. Nothing but a few dead fish and a whole lot of parched earth where water used to shimmer. I whined about the change, and wondered what would become of this place where thousands of wildlife winter every year. But dry seasons happen. Might as well make the most of it, I figured. Here was a rare opportunity to walk the full length and width of the dry bed, to photograph the change from the ground up. It was there, at ground level, I noticed tiny green plants had sprung up within the crevices. Meandering vines covered with tiny white blossoms perfumed the air. I saw spiders and ants scurrying into the shadows, and a worm inching its way across a water-polished stick. A red flowered bush sprawled in full sunlight, soaking up the warm autumn afternoon. Change has a way of forcing new life to the surface. After a volcanic flow, wildflowers eventually dot the charred landscape. In the hazy days following a forest fire, when it appears that nothing green will ever grow there again, God sends plants and insects to root the loose soil and replenish what was lost. In His gracious, loving hands, a disaster or detour is transformed into a season of revival. In my own life, dry seasons are the times that clear away the chaff. It's a period when my vision and hearing sharpen, and my thoughts switch off the external and focus on the internal--what matters most to God. Sometimes it's hard to hear above the sound of my own whining. Other times it's as if my world has suddenly switched from a cheap radio to a high-tech stereo system with surround sound. Looking back later, I'm able to see and hear and understand the reason for that difficult season.
"Behold, I will do a new thing, now it shall spring forth; Shall you not know it? I will even make a road in the wilderness And rivers in the desert."--Isaiah 43:19 (NKJV) For every drought, there is a raindrop waiting to refresh. Remember that. ©2007, Bonnie Bruno Bonnie's new book, When God Steps In: Stories of Everyday Grace includes stories of ordinary people who experienced God's amazing touch during dry, difficult seasons. Visit the book site for more info:
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Bonnie 
Bonnie Bruno is a Pacific Northwest author who pursued her dream to write for publication on the day her firstborn started kindergarten. Married 34 years to her college sweetheart, she is Mom to two adult children and Grandma to a pair of precious granddaughters who help keep her heartstrings and her prayer life in shape. 
It's a pie-baking day and I'm dragging a chair up to the kitchen counter in our little house in Arizona. At three years old, anything important usually happens up there, far above chin level. I watch Mama work her magic, measuring and blending flour and sugar, shortening and salt. Then it's my turn to help.
piece of pretty glassware for her display shelf. Sometimes, though, Mother's Day would sneak up on us and we'd improvise. 
sleeping. They didn't count on meeting up with Gretchen, our friendly Keeshond, who probably grabbed the nearest squeaky toy and begged the intruder for a little midnight play. Keeshonds aren't normally an aggressive breed, and Gretchen's wide-eyed doggy charm could melt the most hard-shelled dog hater around. Underneath layers of fur beat a heart that would follow you anywhere. And that's exactly what she must have done.
I noticed them long before they reached the greeting card aisle. She'd pause every few steps for a deep breath, gripping the brakes of her walker so it wouldn't fly out from under her. He seemed well acquainted with the routine--a familiar dance that allowed them to hit the mall at their own comfortable pace. 
be so limited, yet if she had known, I doubt that this young woman with sparkling brown eyes would have changed the way she lived her life. 
Twenty-eight years ago, Christmas found us living in a snowy village in Germany, over 9,000 miles from home. The view from our living room window showcased gently rolling hills, wreaths hanging from windows and doors, and sparkly lights rimming nearby roofs. Having grown up in an area where snow had fallen only once in my entire lifetime, December in Germany exceeded Webster's definition of beauty. It was amazing--almost surreal.
pump adequately, and wobbly legs that wouldn't take her far before buckling--but she was one of the happiest people I've ever known.
refuge. Most months, the area is filled with clear, blue water lapping at the shoreline. Hot-pink thistles hug the water's edge, and assorted birds and furry critters keep up a flurry of activity. 
God always and forever works on my behalf, not against me. The same is true for you. If you're blinded to the beauty of autumn, and you can't see past your current struggle, try to focus on God's promise in Isaiah 43:19:
