“I heard the bells on Christmas day. Their old familiar carols play. And mild and sweet their songs repeat. Of peace on earth good will to men. And the bells are ringing (peace on earth) Like a choir they're singing (peace on earth) In my heart I hear them (peace on earth) Peace on earth, good will to men.”

Peace on earth good will to men. We have entered the season of Advent, preparing for the day of our Savior’s birth. Trees are lit, gifts have been bought, and families gather together in celebration. Something, however, is missing. Something that we long for, pray for, hope for—Peace on earth, good will to men.

War has been a part of our lives for too many years now. War abroad and sadly war within our nation. Tempers flair. Fear engulfs. Lives are lost. And, yet, we continue to hope, and we listen for the bells ringing (peace on earth) 

“And in despair I bowed my head. There is no peace on earth I said. For hate is strong and mocks the song. Of peace on earth, good will to men. But the bells are ringing (peace on earth) Like a choir singing (peace on earth) Does anybody hear them? (peace on earth) Peace on earth, good will to men.”

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote the poem “Christmas Bells” which ultimately led to the Christmas carol “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” while our country was in the midst of the Civil War, and he was in the midst of depression due to losing his beloved wife, Fanny as a result of an accidental fire, and his son, Charles suffering a crippling war injury. There was no peace for our country, nor for his soul. His head was bowed in despair and he was certain there was no peace on earth—For hate was strong and mocked the song. Hate and despair, however, could not silence the bells.

“Then rang the bells more loud and deep. God is not dead, nor does he sleep (peace on earth, peace on earth). The wrong shall fail, the right prevail. With peace on earth, good will to men. Then ringing singing on its way. The world revolved from night to day A voice, a chime, a chant sublime. Of peace on earth, good will to men. And the bells they're ringing (peace on earth). Like a choir they're singing (peace on earth). And with our hearts we'll hear them (peace on earth). Peace on earth, good will to men”

(The following is a direct quote from Tom Steward –
Dec. 20, 2001) “The first Christmas after Fanny's death, Longfellow wrote, ‘How inexpressibly sad are all holidays.’ A year after the incident, he wrote, ‘I can make no record of these days. Better leave them wrapped in silence. Perhaps someday God will give me peace.’ Longfellow's journal entry for December 25th 1862 reads: ‘‘A merry Christmas' say the children, but that is no more for me.’  Almost a year later, Longfellow received word that his oldest son Charles, a lieutenant in the Army of the Potomac, had been severely wounded with a bullet passing under his shoulder blades and taking off one of the spinal processes. The Christmas of 1863 was silent in Longfellow's journal…. Finally, on Christmas Day of 1864, he wrote the words of the poem, "Christmas Bells."…  Longfellow's Christmas bells loudly proclaimed, ‘God is not dead.’… Even more, the bells announced, ‘Nor doth He sleep.’… ‘The wrong shall fail, the right prevail’…the message that the Living God is a God of Peace is proclaimed in the close of the carol: ‘Of peace on Earth, good will to men.’”

This past year has been tumultuous for our nation. Peace has been nowhere to be found. Many have endured their own times of despair. Hate this past year has been strong and has done everything in its power to mock the song. But, the bells refuse to be silenced.

“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep,” they sing. “Then ringing singing on its way. The world revolved from night to day. A voice, a chime, a chant sublime. Of peace on earth, good will to men. And the bells they're ringing (peace on earth). Like a choir they're singing (peace on earth). And with our hearts we'll hear them (peace on earth). Peace on earth, good will to men”

Can you hear them? Listen closely. The bells will continue to ring through the chaos and strife, through war and fear, through loss and despair—the Christmas bells will continue to ring. Can you hear them?
 
“Do you hear the bells they're ringing? (peace on earth) The life the angels singing (peace on earth) Open up your heart and hear them (peace on earth) Peace on earth, good will to men.”

Please take a moment to watch the hauntingly beautiful video of Longfellows, "Peace on Earth Good Will to Men"

The mock trial was over, He had been condemned to death, though He was innocent. His betrayer was now dead. He was scoffed at and spat upon; beaten and flogged to within an inch of His life, thirty-nine lashes. Our blackest, vilest sins had been heaped upon Him; He now was sin. For the first time in eternity He felt the pain and loneliness of the absence of His Father God.

On the Third Hour (9am) Our Lord was nailed to the cross. Seven-inch spikes were driven into his ankles and his wrists. He hung high above the ground, between two thieves, fighting excruciating pain just to draw a breath. And yet, after all this, Jesus prayed, “Father forgive them for they know not what they do.”
 
One the Sixth Hour (Noon) the sun went black. He had hung on the cross for three hours. Alone. Lonely. His mother, John and Mary stood at his feet; all others had run in fear. He grew weaker with each agonizing breath. His legs trembling, his ankles on fire with pain, His shoulders dislocated, His face barely recognizable as a man. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” He cries. The sin He bore on our behalf caused God to turn His face from His Son. Jesus was alone.

The Ninth Hour finally came (3pm). “Into your hands I commit my spirit,” Jesus gasped and breathed His last. His eyes closed. His head dropped. A great earthquake shook the ground. The veil was torn. “It is finished.” Our Lord and our Savior hung from his rugged cross. Dead. His mother wailed at His feet, John and Mary at her side. It had happened. Just as Jesus had said it would.
 
His limp body was lowered from the cross and into his mother’s loving arms. He was wrapped and laid in a borrowed tomb, a stone rolled in front to prevent his body from being moved. “It was finished.”

It was Friday. A day of suffering and despair: a day of fear and grief; a day when the world held its breath. It had all happened as prophesied. It had happened as Jesus had foretold. But it was still Friday.
 
Jesus’ followers, his mother and loved ones went into hiding, consumed with grief and questions. His promise to return seemed impossible to all except possibly his mother. It was still Friday—but Sunday would soon come. Until then the world holds its breath…

Please take a minute to watch the Music video below: Carry My Cross, by Third Day. Some of the scenes are graphic, but our Savior's death was graphic.

It’s been a while since I’ve posted a new blog article. I barely welcomed in the New Year and said farewell to the old. Then I went dry. I could say I had writer’s block. But that would be a cop-out. I could say I was just too busy, which was true, but still a cop-out. Or I could fess up and say it’s just been a difficult, and yes I’ll say the word, crappy few months for not only myself, but also some of you. If I have done any writing, which I have, I’ve focused on my big project, my novel. But writing articles for our church newsletter or this blog have plainly and simply not happened.

Many of us stay in touch through social media, in particular Face Book. We have posted jokes and recipes, family photos, vacation pic’s, our joys and our deepest concerns. Many of us have endured personal battles; some of us bear the scars. We have lost loved ones way before their time, had medical scares, suffered the heartbreak of family members moving away, endured the recurring attacks of anxiety and or depression, and so much more. So far this is pretty much a downer isn’t it? Now you know why I haven’t posted.
 
But, that’s also exactly why I am posting today. Each one of us has dealt with our own personal struggles, fought our individual battles. Some days it may have taken all the power we possessed to simply get out of bed—BUT we did. With God’s amazing help and strength we have survived. Do we carry scars? Absolutely: Some physical, some emotional.

Scars aren’t something to be feared, or to cause a sense of disgust, or failure. No. Scars are healed wounds, and the tissue becomes all the stronger due to the scar. A man displays his scars with pride. They call them “battle scars.” I have numerous battle scars, as do most of you. Our scars are proof that we are survivors; no matter what we have faced or endured we have survived. Our scars make us stronger. It’s only after walking through the dark valleys; after stumbling and falling; after struggling through whatever battle we face on a daily basis—and doing so with the strength of the Lord holding us up—that we become Victors—not merely survivors.
 
Our scars aren’t pretty, but they are a part of us, and they tell a story. What are our scars for? They are a reminder of God’s faithfulness during our brokenness, and all He's brought us through. They are a reminder that God will never leave us. A reminder of His Grace and His healing. That's what scars are for.
(The following are Lyrics from: What are Scars For, by Mandissa)

“These scars aren’t pretty, But they’re a part of me, And will not ever fade away.
These marks tell a story, Of me down in the
valley, And how You reached in with Your grace And healed me.”

"They remind me of Your faithfulness. And all You brought me through. They teach me that my brokenness Is something You can use. They show me where I’ve been And that I’m not there any more. That’s what scars, that’s what scars are for. What scars are for.”

“Erase, rewind Wish I could every time The hurt, the pain cuts so deep. But when I’m weak You’re strong, and in Your power I can carry on And my scars say that You won’t ever leave.”

“I see it on the cross. The nails You took for me. Scars can change the world. Scars can set me free”

“They remind me of Your faithfulness. And all You brought me through.They teach me that my brokenness. Is something You can use. They show me where I’ve been. And that I’m not there any more. That’s what scars, that’s what scars. You show me that’s what scars are for. What scars are for yeah. What scars are for (What scars are for)”

 Please take a minute to listen to Mandissa's music Video, "What are Scars For?"

It’s that time again. Time to swap out new calendars for old. Time to sing Auld Lang Syne, and watch the glittering ball drop. It’s a time of resolutions, seldom kept, and praying for better days ahead. It’s the time to step from the old year into the new. Yes, hard as it is to believe, the old year is mere hours from limping into the archives to join his predecessors, making way for the baby New Year to take over.
 
I have to tell you, I’m not sorry to see the old year limp away: it wasn’t very kind. Yet, as I stand at this point in time, with one foot at the ready to step over the threshold into the New Year, I am able to recognize God’s hand at work. For my family and myself: as well as many of you, this has been a year of loss and grief, pain and anguish, and as recently as Christmas day…incredible fear. There were times I wondered if God honestly had a handle of things. It has also been a year of great blessings and miracles.

They say hindsight is 20-20, and I have to agree. Often, it is only in looking back with this renewed sight that we are able to see God’s handiwork, His blessings, His miracles.  My go to scripture is, Philip. 4:13. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” A former pastor explained that in ancient Hebrew this would have read, “I can endure all things…” We are able to endure the hardships of life, not through our human strength, but rather through and with the strength of Christ. He promised that He would be with us always, He would never leave us nor forsake us. I honestly can’t imagine enduring life without Him, without His love and strength. Can you?
 
Yes, it’s that time of year again: time to step into a new, and uncertain year. Not one of us knows what our future holds. Oh we may have plans made, and think that we have our future mapped out, but then life happens. Surprise! Thankfully, while we may not know what this New Year may bring for us, we can know with certainty that our future rests in God’s all-powerful hands. Does He have a handle on things? Yes!

​The journey was hard, and long. The timing, he thought, could not have been worse. Though many others journeyed the same road, all heading toward one destination; his tiny group, a group of three, were far different than the others. The other travelers could not know, nor would they have believed if told, that they were indeed journeying in the presence of a King. But he knew. And still he wondered. Why he had been chosen for such a great task?
 
His steps were slow, the path rugged, and though his master’s hand was gentle, he sensed an urgency in the man’s voice. Time was running out, this he knew. He would run if he could, but the burden upon his back was heavy, and fragile. One cautious step followed another. Each step he knew caused her pain, yet she never uttered a protest. Her voice and touch encouraged him, as one mile turned into another, one day into the next.

His eyes sought those of his master from time to time, seeking confidence in their gaze. Silent conversations traveled between the two: concern, fear, encouragement, and trust. Though both were fearful that time would in fact run out, they also held onto the glimmer of faith, that all would be as planned. The two walked, side-by-side; mile upon mile, step after step, traveling toward their final destination, and God’s incredible plan. But all was not working according to plan: at least not the plan of the small group.
 
 The hour was late when the three travelers finally walked the narrow roads of the tiny town. Relief coursed through each of them. She would finally be able to rest. But relief was fleeting. Her time had in deed come, pain gripped her body, and for the first time she cried out.
 
 His concern escalated to dread, as his master ran from one door to the next, knocking and pleading; a room, a bed, a mat in the corner was all they asked. But time after time the answer was no. The tiny town was full. There were no more rooms.  He knew the time was near. Her time had come; still his master pleaded. Finally, one man took pity. “No,” he said, “I have no room to offer, all I have is a small stable.”

The night was not a “silent night” within the small stable. He watched helpless, as she cried in the agony of birth, and as his master, with shaking hands and gentle voice, brought new life into the stable—and into the world. A new light suddenly shone in the midnight sky. A star greater than any had ever witnessed, hovered high above the stable. Its beam cast a glorious glow upon the three weary travelers—and the newborn babe.
 
 A new sound was heard above the rustling of the animals. The small donkey stood slowly to his feet, and one step at a time, ever so slowly, walked to his master’s side. The cry of newborn life wafted through the stable. All the animals rose to their feet, and step by step, ever so slowly, walked to the manger to gaze upon the baby within. Each and every animal, including the donkey so young, bent their knees and bowed their heads; for they knew they were in the presence of The King.

The little donkey fixed his eyes upon the tiny infant, and listened to his sweet voice. Awe and wonder filled his gentle heart, as he looked into the face of the infant King: an awe, which would continue to flow within his grateful heart all the days of his life. The little donkey smiled, as only donkeys can do, as a new sound filled the stable; a sound so faint as to be barely heard – the sound of angels singing on high.
 
The donkey lay upon a soft bed of straw, as the swaddled King slept peacefully in the manger. The soft stirrings of stabled animals comforted his weary bones. His eyes were heavy, as he pondered all that had brought him to this place, and time. It would later be told, that the shepherds were among the first to see the newborn King, but the young donkey knew the truth. For the eyes of those who could never speak the story, the gentle animals within the stable, were the first to see the King and hear his voice. With a contented sigh, the donkey fell fast asleep. 

Merry Christmas to all.
​Please take a minute to enjoy the music Video below.

I love old houses, which is good, because we live in a house that is well over a hundred years old. Our house was built in the days of horse and buggies, outhouses, formal parlors, and wood-stoves for heat. Ours is an old farmhouse, complete with carriage barns, which, yes, did in fact hold carriages as well as the horses to draw them. A white stone smokehouse once adorned our yard, and a red pump house, complete with watering trough, still resides there. There is even an old cement chopping block in the far back room, (Sunday chicken dinners did not come from the grocery store.)

Yes, I love old houses and the stories as well as mysteries held within their walls. Our house, like many other Nineteenth century homes, has gone through considerable changes over the years. In-door plumbing brought the outhouses in. No more midnight trips across the snow covered yard to relieve one’s-self. And cast iron radiators replaced wood stoves, allowing one to heat the entire house at once.

The first floor of our home has been remodeled and redecorated several times over the years. Dry wall replaced old lath and plaster, floors were leveled, wall to wall carpeting and laminate flooring installed, the kitchen and bathroom modernized, and so on. The second floor however is a much different story.

Once you climb the steep stairway, which my sister and I fell down many times in growing up—I forgot to mention I grew up in this old house—you enter history. There is no dry wall, lath and plaster still abide here, the doors have latches rather than doorknobs, and there are nooks and crannies and oddities that only live in a house of history. Unfortunately along with the charm, there is also considerable labor involved in doing simple jobs, such as painting a grandchild’s bedroom.

“We need to paint the girls bedrooms before they get back from Virginia,” I had said to my husband. “They need a little patching but that won’t take long.” I was wrong—So very wrong. One crack led to another, and that led to a bump and gouge and all sorts of annoying things. Plastering led to sanding, which led to dust—so much dust—and on to the tedious, and unfortunately not very neat task of trimming, (a job I detest) and finally rolling the paint onto the patched walls. (This job I loved) The finished product, if I may say so, looks wonderful.

This project opened my eyes and my curiosity to several oddities in my home. Things that caused me to pause, scratch my head, and wonder. I began to wonder the history of the two long, narrow rooms located on either side of our son’s bedroom, (the granddaughters bedrooms) and why on earth they needed the large, sturdy locks on the inside of the doors. I pondered the relevance of unique finds, which were located in the large, open room that had once been my bedroom. Why had they taken down a wall that had once been there, as marks in the wide board flooring attested to? What had the little room that was no longer there since the wall came down been used for? Why is one part of the floor lower than the other? What was the large gravity flow water tank in the corner of my old room used for? Who were the people who not only built our old house way back before modern technology, but also lived here?

If my house could talk, what stories would it tell? What mysteries would unfold?

I’ll be honest, the entire time that I was preparing our granddaughter’s room to paint I longed for good old, or should I say modern, drywall. How much easier my life would have been with smooth modern walls. And yet, it was only through the tedious, messy, and exhausting process of scraping and plastering that I was able to view history. From the layers of old wallpaper, to the interesting wooden stripping, and on to the heavy-duty locks, and missing walls, history was materializing before my dust filled eyes: questions and all.

Well, Taylor loved her grown-up teal bedroom, and now I get to do it all over again for Cammie’s room, which will be BRIGHT pink. I hope I can hold on to my newfound appreciation for the marvels of old houses, as well as lath and plaster. Hmmm, probably not: At least not until the room is finished.

And just think there’s so much more to do. Yay?