Recently, I undertook the task of sorting through a box of photographs, all black and white I might add, that spanned a lot of family history from my family. There were numerous photos of dad while serving in the Navy, poses of mom with us kids whether it was all three or as we joined the family. They also include those moments and memories when dad captured the antics created by us kids. While sorting and fingering these precious  memories I came across one that brought a big smile to my face and a chuckle in my throat. I found myself looking at myself, a photo taken in July 1957; I was four years old,  sitting on my tri- cycle wearing a metal sand bucket on my head. Standing next to me with a very serious look of scorn or sadness is Katie, my little playmate. She lived next door to us and was the youngest in her family.

We are both wearing warm coats so the weather must have been chilly that day. Not only am I wearing a bucket on my  head, but there’s another one swinging from the handlebars of the bike. Maybe that’s why Katie is sad? Did I not share the other bucket with her? Where’s her bike? Did we take turns riding the one that is shown in the picture? Though I don’t have the answers to these questions I can clearly recall that getting the handle of the bucket down below my chin was a tricky feat. The sturdy handle didn’t “give” way for the snug fit created by this original “look”, my little fingers tugging at it until I got it positioned under my small chin.

Katie and I were pretty tight. She had a hard time pronouncing my name, Susan or Susie, so hers came out as “tooey”….a nickname that stuck with me in the neighborhood and even mom who stretched it to “tooey pie” as a term of endearment. Because both Katie and I were the babies of our families, we often played by ourselves as our older siblings went off to other adventures that didn’t include two little sisters getting in the way. But this didn’t mean we weren’t capable of dreaming up our own shenanigans. Enter a new car and a big mud puddle.

It had rained during the night and a big wonderful mud puddle was formed next to the driveway at Katie’s house. She had an uncle who visited one day, driving his new car for all of her family to come out and admire. It was yellow, about the shade of a creamy homemade lemon pie. And it was parked right next to that mud puddle. At first it was fun to make mud pies with our tiny hands, patting them out flat as we flipped them back and forth between our palms, feeling the wet gooey dirt between our fingers. As much enjoyment and fun we got from forming and squishing the pies, our attention turned to the car and we had a lightbulb moment. What if our pies would stick to something? We carefully planted a pie on the side of the car and voila!–it not only stuck, it stayed in place and in a short while dried a bit, all the while staying in place on the car door and fender as we continued our mud pie display. We were SO proud of our artwork that we didn’t notice when the front door opened and her uncle appeared on the scene. I wish I could remember if he was angry, laughed, or reacted some other way but I don’t. All I can recall is that he asked us “what did you do!” Being the sweet little girls that we were we gave the only rational answer possible…”nothing”. Never mind that our hands, pant legs, and sleeves were covered in the undeniable evidence left from mud pie making turned into displays of art on a ready canvas. Never mind that as the pies dried out even longer, they eventually fell off the car leaving a faint circle outline on that beautiful creamy yellow backdrop.

I’m pretty sure we weren’t punished other than a verbal scolding. Katie’s uncle was left to the task of washing his car and at day’s end our mother’s would put us in a tub to soak away the mischief of the afternoon. It’s a great memory, but unlike wearing a bucket on my head, there’s no photo of the mud pie art display, only faltering details of a new car, a mud puddle and glorious opportunity with a partner in crime.

Heartache in the Neighborhood

Years have passed since we rode our bikes through my neighborhood of childhood that eventually ushered in teen years, high school graduations, college educations and launched fcareers and life as adults taking on the beauty and responsibilities of marriage and becoming parents of our own. This stage of my adult life includes a reflective mirror that allows glimpses back on those formative years that seemed so idyllic. And, though they were, holding onto the treasures and memories of bike rides, games of hide and seek, Halloween night escapades along with snowball fights and the building of forts, sorrow was not an unfamiliar guest.

We are standing outside the home of the G family, the ones who lived in the brick home, owner of the construction business. The years of long neck beer bottles being delivered to their home have taken on the reality that alcoholism exists in the lives of these wonderful friends and neighbors. It’s a truth that escaped my childhood innocence for many years. I wouldn’t come to recognize and understand for quite some time the devastation this disease’s toll can have on a person. While I never actually saw anyone in the family when they were drunk, I knew. Slowly, details of dysfunction emerged in the life of their oldest son, Gary. I would describe him as a “bad boy”, handsome, talented in many ways, but possessed a weakness towards alcohol and rebellion. Though our lives separated once high school graduation took place, I learned that after working with his younger brother in the family business for many years, he died. His body was destroyed by the effects of too much drinking. I can only imagine the mental anguish he endured that drove him to drown his problems in a glass of beer.

This same family had another son, Jeff. He came along late in life to Mrs. G. I can clearly remember him being born and becoming a delightful child. But, later as an adult, whatever tormented Jeff caused him to take his life. As if losing one child is certainly unbearable in my own imagination, I cannot fathom the loss of two.

We can wander now to the middle of the street, to the P family. Let me introduce you to them as I didn’t do so in the previous year’s bike tour. The P family had two daughters, both of them very pretty and fun to play with outside or with our Barbie dolls in the shade of a tree or garage. Mr. and Mrs. P were rather private people too. (I used to confuse private with being stern or mean)

Like the lost connections with the other kids of Zauel Street, I had no contact with the girls after moving away from home. I learned that the oldest daughter, Barb, had married and had a toddler son. She had a great job which involved the opportunity to travel. One of those business trips took her and her husband to Texas. I learned that before they left for the trip she insisted on creating a will and custody arrangements for their son in the event of death. This desire was scoffed at by her husband and I hold no fault for that. Don’t we all assume life will never be interrupted? But it was. Barb and her husband were in the back seat of a taxi one evening during the trip and they were rear ended in an accident. Barb did not come home on the plane alive. Her husband, her family, joined the group of despairing families who had suffered extreme loss.

Remember the home of Mrs. H? The mom who made donuts or other goodies for us kids? They, too, experienced the loss of a child. Not one, but over the course of a few years, two daughters. Tragically, one took her life and the other died several years ago of an illness. Intertwined with those losses was the suicide of a daughter who belonged to the oldest son, granddaughter to Mr. & Mrs. H. This past year, the surviving daughter of David died from a heart issue; she was only in her 30’s. 

Back at my own home, now empty of our memories with a new family living there, I am thinking of my oldest brother David. He often recalled how he helped our dad with the different phases of building the house which was completed in 1954. He’d smile when he told me about seeing me walk for the first time, getting up from sitting on a pile of hardwood flooring and taking off through the house that could be walked in a circle through the doors to each room. David left home in 1967 when he married. He didn’t move far from us so visits were frequent, especially when his three daughters had birthday celebrations or holidays rolled around. 

Dave was my buddy. Seven years older than me, we seldom argued. He tried to teach me euchre, let me borrow his baseball mitt (we were both left handed) and we shared a love for popcorn and homemade ice cream, both of which he would make without any extra pleading on my part. 

It’s hard to believe that  memories are from the 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, 90’s. Before we both realized it, we landed in the 2000’s. Gone were the frequent visits as miles were put between us by my family’s move from Saginaw in 1989. Phone visits kept us connected with a few family gatherings in the summer months. News came by phone two years ago that Dave was struggling physically and emotionally. After several misdiagnoses, Dave received the final report that he had a tumor on his brain. At first, surgery seemed an option, but the tumor had a mind of its own, growing fast, creating and solidifying that surgical intervention was not an option. Dave left the hospital and entered a care facility. As the tumor gained in strength, overpowering his ability to converse much, he had an increased need for pain medication. My last visit with him in person is one I will always cherish. He was in and out of coherence; I can still hear him saying “whoa” repeatedly. Then, and even now, I believe he was getting glimpses of heaven. We were able to exchange “I love yous” that day which became the last words he spoke to me. News of his death came several days later. At the very moment of leaving this life, Dave was reunited with our parents, grandparents, numerous uncles, aunts, and cousins.

While I have absolutely no doubt where my brother is spending eternity, I have to confess I hold a certain amount of fear for Gary. For Jeff. For Barb. Any time I rode my bike or took a walk in my neighborhood back in those years of childhood, I don’t remember any deep connection with God for those families. The immaturity of a child cannot comprehend such a disconnect. It’s now, as I reflect, as I write and describe what I can “see” and “remember” that this precious gift of salvation was not taught or modeled by their parents. Thankfully, the H family were faithful church attenders and opportunity for a relationship with God was most evident.

I haven’t thought a lot about all the families I grew up with as a child. Occasionally a memory will pop into my mind and float by as quickly as it came.When I do ponder the variety of memories and experiences, I can clearly see now that as a child I experienced life  wearing rose colored glasses and adorned myself with  trusting innocence. That was comfortable attire for a little girl born in 1953 who left home in 1974. Now, in 2021, having “lived life”, complete with my own measure of joy and sorrow, coming face to face with my own weaknesses, I am looking at those years with lens of discovery and reality of brokenness, gazing at imperfect people who did their best in the moment, in the years of successes and setbacks, and above all–great loss. Now that I have been able to measure and evaluate the influences from each family, mainly the adults at the time, on my life, I am thankful. I am grateful that in the midst of dysfunction, lack of faith for some, each family was respected, loved, accepted–even disciplined–I marvel at how so “many” different people could build a home, have a family, and create a beautiful, loud, crazy neighborhood that I loved to ride my bike through, stopping for a cold glass of Kool Aid or a P & B sandwich served on a paper plate from one of the “neighborhood moms”. 

Our pleasant bike ride that took us up and down Zauel Street has ended and now we will venture up Wheeler Street to introduce you to those families that were also part of my childhood and teen years. These memories are not as vivid as I realize now that the majority of my childhood friends did not live on this side of the neighborhood block. Nonetheless, there are some interesting people and characteristics that I’ve never forgotten all these 60 plus years later.

Our house faced Arthur Street; we lived on the southwest corner of Wheeler and Arthur. Behind us, butting up to our very narrow backyard, was the K family. They had five children, were Catholic and Mr. and Mrs. K became good friends with my parents. Mrs. K made the best grape Kool Aid on hot summer days (I think she doubled the amount of required sugar, thus making her recipe one of my favorites compared to the conservative method my mom followed) They had a large backyard, a big sandbox and lots of bikes to take turns riding. 

Next to them was a couple who lived by themselves until late in life they were blessed with a son, who ended up being their only child. I can’t remember their last name; I think it started with a G so that’s what I will call them. Mr. G was VERY particular about his lawn. He tended it carefully, kept it well fertilized, and manicured. Mr. and Mrs. G were rather gruff, and I remember being instructed very sternly by him “don’t walk or play on my lawn.” So, is it any wonder that whenever we dare so, we would plant our feet in his grass just to say we had defied his orders!

A few houses down was the W family. Mr. and Mrs. W were rather stern people too. They had a daughter and a son, both of whom I didn’t get well acquainted with until our teen years when high school classes brought us together as well as a small band (more on that later). A couple doors from them was the E family, dad, mom and two daughters. It just so happened that they were the family we shared a telephone party line with which caused trouble on occasion (they didn’t always do the polite thing and hang up immediately when lifting the receiver; we could hear them listening and breathing until we’d ask “please hang up”.) I played with the E girls occasionally as my mother wasn’t fond of their “language” at times, thus banning them from our yard or me from theirs.

Next door to the E family lived a single mom raising two boys. She was one of two such women on the street, a rarity in my childhood years. I remember including her oldest son in some of our playtimes with the Zauel gang. 

Back down the street and on the corner of Wheeler and Gilbert was the S family. They moved in and aroused our curiosities since they had four kids and became the “new family in the neighborhood”. Two sons were their older children, followed by two girls. They quickly fit right in with all the Zauel kids and soon became a favorites place to play in the summer because they put up a small pool. Theirs was the home where I learned that white bread torn in chunks to soak in Campbell’s tomato soup was a delicacy. 

Mrs. S could sometimes use language that would make a sailor blush. I can visualize her leaning on her kitchen counter, smoking her cigarette and talking to a girlfriend, cuss words flying left and right. After experiencing this display of colorful conversations she carried on for what seemed like hours, I recall going home and telling my mom “Mrs. S sure is angry a lot” and explained my reasoning when asked why was because of her wide range of swear words. Mom laughed a bit and told me “She’s not mad, that’s just her way of talking.” And mom was right, when I got in my teen years I realized she was one of the most loving women I’d ever meet. In fact, she was very generous too, beyond opening up her home for inside play dates and serving up a quick lunch. She was the “cool” mom who, on an early Saturday afternoon, piled a bunch of kids into her car and deliver us to the Court Street Theater for a double feature of scary movies. Since this was in the early 60s seatbelts weren’t required so I know we had kids on the seats with a few of us smaller ones on laps. She’d drop us at the curb and tell us where to be at the end of the second movie for the ride home, windows all open and us noisy kids telling her about the movies!

When I hit my teen years of high school, Mike S., who was an avid drummer put together a small band. He asked me to join as a vocalist, along with Greg W., a guitarist he knew named Bob (he was really cute and eventually became a boyfriend for awhile) , my best friend at the time, Luann, and our manager was a good friend to Bob (can’t remember his name). Mrs. S let us practice in their home and never complained about the racket we made. We were lucky to get a couple of gigs and thought we “had arrived”. But, gigs come and go and so did our little band, but not without leaving behind some great times together!

In the middle of the block across from grouchy Mr. and Mrs. G was another family, Mrs. W and her children. She was a single mom too. She kept to herself and anytime I played with her daughters, it was in our yard. She had an older son who everyone liked; he served in the Army and during the Viet Nam War was killed. But that wasn’t her only heartache and tragedy. One summer night a couple police cars pulled up to her home and the officers lingered for a long time, going in and out of the house, carrying stuff, checking the trash can on the curbside for pickup. Soon, neighbors were coming outside to stand along the edges of our yards, wondering and speculating what the fuss was about. I remember standing on our front lawn, my mother beside me, and we too pondered the situation. I don’t remember if it was hours later that hot summer evening or a few days into the week when we found out that Mrs. W had birthed a child and whether she harmed the baby herself or something accidental happened, she had disposed of the tiny infant in the trash but her attempt to self protect was found out….I can still hear my mom, upon learning of the facts, told me that Mrs. W must have been in a very bad situation and it wasn’t our place to judge her, but to love and give her grace. It’s a lesson attached to a very vivid memory which has become foundational to my understanding of grace.

On the corner was the R family. They had two boys who were quite rambunctious and caused my dad a lot of scratching his head. Dad would often tell people he’d never forget seeing Terry on the roof of their home literally swinging from the rods of the TV antennae. Before storm sewers were put on our road, it was Terry who would sit on the drain to stop heavy rain water from escaping the curbed lined streets, so us other kids could wade, splash and ride bikes through the deep water.

Perhaps the last family to describe from my childhood memories is the R family who eventually came to build a home across the street from ours. Mr. R farmed the land along Arthur Street. He grew corn, wheat, and sugar beets. He and his wife had three children, all older than me so their boys were someone my brothers would “hang out” with and Mr. R also hired my brothers to be “water boys” for the migrant workers who came in during harvest time. Mr. R was a big, tall man with a huge smile and a matching belly laugh with nary a mean bone in his body until us kids would play in his wheat, knocking it down as we used it to create imaginary castles and forts. His youngest son Tom was a lot like his dad, all fun, always up to a challenge. In the aftermath of a snowstorm one winter, where we got over several feet of snow, it was Tom who decided he’d clear the road with a family car. Somehow, he managed to drive the car down the street a ways, rev the engine and drive at full speed right into a mound of unplowed snow where he promptly stayed stuck for awhile, giving all us neighbors a good hearty laugh and another person to dig out of the deep snow.

These families, along with all the others on Zauel Street, made up my childhood. Farming ended for Mr. R when I was yet in grade school, walking the two blocks to our new building that I attended from second grade until sixth. He sold his land to a private club who created a beautiful golf course and dining facility where corn and wheat used to cover the rich soil. Another developer turned the curbside portions of ditch and weeds into buildable lots and a variety of houses were erected in a matter of months, allowing countless families to join our merry band of kids riding bikes, tossing Frisbees, flying kites, and creating all kinds of snow forts. We all grew up, graduated high school, went off to college or the workplace. 

Everyone is gone. The years have taken parents to eternal resting places. Whenever I visit the “old” neighborhood, I can see faces, smell the kitchen aromas through open windows, hear the laughter and arguments typical of childhood play and growing relationships. The families are gone though the homes remain. The memories have faded but the feelings of love, acceptance, and adventure still linger, all worthy to be recorded and share with you as we park our bikes after enjoying this last adventure together, this trip around a city block that was home to a wide variety of families who will forever remain in my heart, soul and mind.

Put on your Keds or store brand sneakers. Get your bike. Hop on and let’s take a ride down one of the city blocks that was the western boundary for the neighborhood that hosted my childhood. We will visit the homes and families that played an integral role for my formative years in the 50s and 60s. We will meet a variety of people and in order to be respectful, full disclosure of their last names won’t be part of this tour. Their names aren’t the driving factor of our tour; it’s what I recall from each of them and how they helped to form my values and opinions today, living in the 2000s. Are you ready? Do you have your bike? Do you have your baseball card and clothespin clipped to the spokes of the wheel to make a cool clicking sound? Are there plastic streamers hanging from the plastic grips on the handlebars? Is your city issued bike license clearly displayed on the frame under your seat? No matter the answer, let’s go!

Our first stop is the home of the H’s. They moved in after the family of 3 left. They had four kids, drove a Ford (on goodness no! We all declared–this was GM territory) Playdates were a daily event with them and soon we learned that Mrs. H had an uncanny knack making homemade donuts and her willingness to share with whoever happened to be outside her back door was indeed a jackpot win. The H’s were Lutheran like us although they attended a church closer to home compared to us.

Across the street from the H’s, on the other corner of Zauel Street, was the D family. They had two children and their oldest daughter Karen was also a daily playmate for me. Mr. D was an assistant principal at an elementary school and he often brought home confiscated items from his students. Mrs. D was also very proficient in her kitchen and any meal or snack made by her hands was delicious! They were Baptist, attended church twice on Sunday and midweek on Wednesday. As a child I could not wrap my head around all that church attendance. Wasn’t once a week enough?

Next door to them we park our bikes in the double driveway of the G family. Theirs was the largest home on the block, beautiful brick compared to the wood siding of all the other homes on the block. Why? Mr. G owned his own construction company and was responsible for many custom homes built in Saginaw in the boom of the 50s and 60s. They had five kids, two cars in the garage and a cottage up north. By outside appearances they were rich. They also liked to party. It was not uncommon to see a beer truck back up in that double driveway, pick up the empty bottles and deliver cases of long neck beer bottles stacked on a pallet in the corner of their garage. As I recall, my mom and dad were never invited to any of their parties. The G family, as far as I know, never attended church; weekends found them at the cottage. By the way, that double driveway made for a perfect basketball court for the boys; their hoop was mounted on a pole that was erected on the side between them and the D family.

Further down the street was the S family. They had four boys, all tall like their dad. Mrs. S was barely five feet tall but what she lacked in stature she made up in personality. She had complete control of those boys and her driveway was often the place for a pickup game of basketball with the hoop that hung over the entrance to the garage. As far as I know, they did not attend church either.

Our little legs are pedaling our bikes to another corner of Zauel. It’s here that we park them on the lawn and play with the D kids, all four of them. Their mom could take an entire loaf of wonder bread and turn it into peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to feed a bunch of kids. She did so with no hesitation, only taking a moment to pickup the rotary phone to call mom…”Ida, Susan will be eating lunch down here today, just wanted you to know so you won’t worry…” Those rotary phones in each home were secondary communication; the first was sending a kid with the necessary message, pedaling as fast as was needed based on the urgency or topic. The D family was related to the G family; Mr D was a finish carpenter and brother-in-law to Mr.G. If they attended church I wasn’t aware; later in life when I saw them at the funeral for Mr. H I found out they were Methodist and very involved in their church and faith.

Coming back down the street, after enjoying one of Mrs. D’s sandwiches we meet another G family. They had three kids. And, this Mr G also worked for Mr. G’s construction company; he was the bricklayer. They were frequent guests at the house parties across the street….and I don’t believe they attended church either. Both Mr & Mrs G were rather gruff people and once in awhile let words fly that weren’t common place in my house.

We can leave our bikes in the yard of the previous G family and walk next door to the F family. They had six kids, the most on this busy block. They were Catholic, sent their kids to the local parochial school for their parish. Mr. F was a car salesman for the Oldsmobile dealer, smoked huge cigars, and coached the boys of the neighborhood in a city little league. Mrs. F kept to herself; she was a quiet private woman. Oddly, I cannot tell you what the inside of their home looked like. None of us kids were ever truly allowed or invited inside their home. When we came to the front or back door to “ask” if their kids could come play, we had to wait on the porch, even in the rain or cold.  Speaking of their kids, and the fact they attended parochial school, I was always jealous of the days they were “off” from school to honor a saint. It seemed they got more days off than us public school kids. They were the only Catholic family in an otherwise protestant or agnostic group of families.

Next to the F family was another home with dad, mom, and two boys. I cannot pull their last name from my memory. Mom’s first name was Shirley. Why can I remember that? The boys in the neighborhood liked this mom. In the summer she wore short shorst and tube tops. She had a beautiful figure and always had her hair very stylish and makeup applied. Their home was across from the G construction family. Both yards hosted snow walls in the winter for snowball fights. She, too, was non intrusive or a domineering factor in our childhood play. She pretty much kept to herself, but it was her that came immediately to my aide one August evening when I took a bad spill on my bike. She cleaned me up while Mr. and Mrs. D came outside to investigate.. It was Mr. D who drove mom and me to the ER because my dad had the car that evening. I don’t think Shirley and her family attended church either but she was very kind under all the outward beauty.

We can park our bikes in my yard now. Our short ride took us to a variety of homes. The memories and character of each home, whether churched or not, are not things to be judged with a critical spirit. Rather, I would tell you that in evaluating how each set of parents in these homes acted, how they talked or treated us kids was quite remarkable. Expectations were mostly the same. If a line was crossed the rotary phone was used without hesitation to report any misconduct. Imagine that before you could pedal back home from any one of these houses, your mom already had received a call informing her of your infraction.

I may not have completely understood my Baptist, Catholic or unchurched families, but I knew I was loved, cared for by all of them, especially those moms who were home all day while the men were at work. Course language was mostly saved for adult time, yards were turned into play areas, pantries were emptied for simple lunches and pitchers of Kool Aid kept us hydrated on hot summer days.

Our ride has revealed a total of 50 kids living on the east and west side of Zauel Street; there’s actually more but a fading memory isn’t allowing me to visualize all.  By today’s measure, that’s a lot of kids in the span of one block. That’s a lot of donuts, snacks, P & B sandwiches, Kool Aid and phone calls from a black rotary phone on a kitchen counter.

Keep your bike nearby and your sneakers ready to be laced up again. Our next ride will take us down Wheeler Street where we will meet some more neighbors.

She grabbed a simple spiral bound notebook and pencil. At age 13 these two common items were part of a normal 8th grader’s pile of textbooks and accessories used every day in the classroom. Only now the paper and pencil take on a new adventure. Instead of writing out assignments or calculating math problems, she will choose to write, calling upon her growing imagination to string clever words together, to tell a story that is her own, but not really knowing where to begin she looks for an example and she decides she can be the next Laura Ingalls Wilder. Yes, she will write about living on a farm, on a prairie, with a family of her own carefully characterized as she births each one in her mind, translating those images to the paper. Yes, she will become a famous author. And so she begins….

She’s in high school now. The spiral notebook and pencil from long ago were laid aside after writing only two chapters of a book that would make her famous. What happened? She doesn’t truly recall, except that without a solid plan or outline her “book” was tossed on the pile of procrastination and lack of follow through that seemed to be larger than her dream to write. Entering high school she still yearned to write; she engrossed herself in language arts and enjoyed all the reading and writing assignments by her teachers. To her surprise, she chose to be part of the school’s yearbook team and in her senior year was chosen to be the editor, though her skills were immature and not as strong as others who could have done a better job in the role. Yet, she stepped into the role and flourished. She had a place to write and to shine.

High school graduation came and went without much fanfare. The uncertainty of where to go, what to pursue, the  “what do I do now?”  questions haunted her. Working on a yearbook that won national awards had spurred her on in her desire and dream to write. Maybe she could work in an advertising agency and create awesome ads for companies? Yes! She could try that, she could finally gain recognition and fame for fancy words and unique ideas. But she didn’t. Practically speaking,  she didn’t know how or where to go for that kind of education or opportunities, Lacking clear direction or guidance, she landed in business school and upon that graduation landed a position in a small local bank which launched a 20 plus year career that taught her immeasurable skills, put her in the path of many interesting people and yet in the midst of those productive years, the desire to write did not fade. 

Marriage and raising children came along which was a different way of satisfying life’s dreams for her. She made numerous friendships along the way, mostly with women she met in the church that had become a second home. Other worthy connections developed in her community and during her youngest child’s high school years she found herself employed by the town’s small newspaper. Her responsibilities consisted mainly of clerical and office duties, but being in the presence of all the words, all the daily work associated putting together a newspaper reignited her dream to write. So, one day, in the midst of doing her routine tasks she asked the owner of the paper. “Could I have a chance to write?”

She can still remember how getting her first writing assignment made her feel. She “had arrived”. She would write such a wonderful and amazing article, one that would surely launch her into the exciting world of being a “writer”. The owner of the paper was impressed with her work and her father kept a copy of the article in his drawer at home, a sign of his ongoing role as one of her biggest fans and encouragers. Other than this, there was no huge fanfare, no demands for her skills with words.

Several more writing opportunities were given to her over the course of her tenure at the news office, but they didn’t completely satisfy the need, the draw, the hunger to “write”. Leaving that job, she settled into being home more, spending time with friends, serving in a variety of roles at her church. Soon, she was introduced to social media and with the convenience of having a laptop and access to the Internet, she found herself daydreaming again, wondering, asking herself “what if” questions, remembering the 13 years old girl, the high school student, the young adult woman who entered her senior years still embracing the deep desire to weave words, paint word pictures, inspire, spark a smile or a gut wrenching laugh, the flow of tears down cheeks–those kind of compositions. She remembered, too, once thinking how great life would be to write and publish a magazine or newspaper that only featured positive news, human interest stories reflecting the goodness and kindness of people. With easy access to social media and the Internet that idea which could have consumed her dream, burned up or faded away into nothingness did not happen. She found an avenue to write using a blog site and she created her own “Page” on social media. The ordinary items from teen years–a spiral notebook and pencil–were now replaced with a keyboard and a screen, merely awaiting to be opened, clicked on, echoing  clitter and clack sounds under the direction of her fingertips.

She has come a long way from the days of a notebook and pencil, from the desire to be the next Laura Ingalls Wilder, a famous advertising agency writer, or renowned author of human interest stories. She can look back on 50 years of  life and see exactly how every experience, each cherished memory, those things that make her who she is, will be her source for pulling out ideas to thread into a story, a blog, a series of topical devotionals, a record of her life that allows her to offer encouragement, kindness, love, and above all, hope. 

She is walking on a path that is pursuing and hopefully leading her to great things, no matter how many rocks she needs to step over or having to decide which twist and turn in the path to follow. She has not arrived. She is only beginning. She is “Me”.

Matthew 4: 1 – 11

Stepping out from the cool deep waters of baptism, Jesus’ next recorded event by Matthew is a description of spending 40 days and nights in the wilderness, fasting. A look at a map from that time in history reveals a lot of barren land around the spot along the Jordan where He was baptized. If ever someone wanted to be alone, the expansive region certainly provided the right atmosphere. Yet, He is not alone. It’s the Spirit of God Who leads Jesus to the dry arid terrain and after His 40 day “retreat”, He meets His adversary who is first described as “the tempter”.

Before I expand on the encounter between Jesus and satan, there’s a couple of interesting things to know about some small details and background information contained in these 11 verses. First, is the significance of the number 40. According to one site which gave insight from the viewpoint of a Jewish rabbi, the number 40 in Hebrew represents transition or change, concept of renewal, a new beginning. Other examples were given as well, but it’s worth noting that His retreat to the wilderness for 40 days following His baptism signifies something new indeed is coming. It’s as though there are foundational blocks being laid to launch and support His earthly ministry.

Secondly, another scholar states that it was fitting for Jesus to be baptized in the Jordan River as this was where the Israelites crossed over into The Promised Land. It’s always apparent–and exciting!–how God uses numbers, locations, symbols to tie in everything in scripture to reveal truth for us!

So, back to our account of this desert experience. At the end of the 40 days Jesus is hungry and Satan seizes the opportunity to prey on the human side of His weakness. But, he loses. Not to be defeated he appeals to tempting Jesus to desire power. Another loss. Lastly, he brings out the big guns to entice Jesus into wrongful worship, and, again he is defeated, to the final point of leaving Jesus alone. He departed. When he does, angels swoop in to minister to Jesus, reviving Him, tending to His needs.

I have never attempted a 40 day fast. The longest I’ve done any fast is about one day’s worth of meals. It. Was. Hard. I cannot imagine a lengthy one at all, therefore my mind and body cannot comprehend the consequences of extreme hunger and thirst. What I CAN grasp is how quickly satan can and will arrive on the scene during a fast. When he does, suddenly everything food wise sounds delectable and aspirations to be spiritual begin to pale. But God.

No matter if I’m trying to fast or strolling through each day, when temptations come or situations that are hard wear me down, I–like Jesus–have scriptures to defeat my tempter. I may not have hundreds of verses memorized like some of my more astute friends, but I have enough of them in my memory bank to pull one from my quiver, aim and shoot back. I also have a shield of faith to ward off the fiery darts and arrows coming my direction! (Ephesians 6–The Full Armor of God).

Nope, I don’t plan to entertain entering a LONG fast anytime soon but I DO intend to keep reading, studying, devoting myself to prayer, and maybe, just maybe, memorize a few scripture verses. Just in case.

Matthew 3: 13-17

Imagine if you will, being in one the crowds or other gatherings when Jesus described Himself as “the living water”, or you are “that” woman who came to the well in the heat of the day, a Samaritan, and as you are anticipating going about your task unnoticed by the gossipers of the village, you meet a man who asks you for a drink of water. As you talk with Him, He reveals that He IS the promised Messiah and that if she were to drink “of my living water you will thirst no more”.

Further imagine that over the course of months that Jesus began His ministry, indeed, you’ve heard this phrase used by Him often and you recall that season He began teaching a “new message”. You were there. Standing on the banks of the river where John the Baptist is preaching and baptizing people, you are drawn to the mysteriousness and the miraculous of the day. Out of the crowd steps a bearded man. He’s about 30 years old and blends in with the other people gazing at the day’s events. He steps into the Jordan River and asks John to baptize him. John puts up a resistance. After all, Jesus is the Messiah! Baptism is for those who need repentance from sin and He is no sinner; He’s the Son of God. A first teachable moment is also in the making as the water laps around their feet and legs. “John, I need to do this in order to fulfill all righteousness….” Ah, John needed an explanation and immediately consented.

The remainder of this experience in the Jordan has the miraculous opening of the heavens, a dove descending and landing on Jesus’ head with the very voice of God speaking “this is my Son, whom I love, with Him I am well pleased.”

Baptism takes on various traditions in the Christian church. Some do so as infants, others will baptize young children and/or adults depending on the particular tradition and doctrine of the church. I was baptized as an infant and later in my 30s, I made the decision to be rebaptized in order to publicly declare my faith in Christ. My second baptism was done in a lake with our church family in attendance and was a very meaningful day for me.

I love how Jesus modeled behavior and characteristics He desires in those who follow Him. As a perfect God, He did not need to submit to baptism but He did. What a beautiful example of “The Living Water” stepping into ordinary water and turning it into a majestic moment for John, the people watching and participating, and now for you and me as an example of humility and pursuing righteousness living.

Matthew 3: 1-12

“In those days…..” thus, Matthew uses three small words to jump his readers from Jesus at about age 8 in his account into adulthood, most likely early 30s. But, before we will read more about the Messiah he introduces us to another person who will take on a major role in the “birth” of Jesus’ earthly ministry. Meet “John the Baptist”. Matthew doesn’t give us background information on John like the other gospels which tell us he was born a few months ahead of Jesus in the same time frame. His mother is Elizabeth who is a cousin to Mary, making him a cousin to Jesus. His father Zechariah was a temple priest, a position of prominence in the Jewish religion and community. But here, Matthew, begins his account with John as an adult, living in a desert region whose diet consists mainly of locusts and honey. Why we need to know that I’m not certain. Maybe it lends to how I envision him as a rugged nature loving survivalist kind of great outdoorsman! However one imagines what John’s appearance is, one thing is most certain and that’s in the message he is proclaiming.

I think John had a personality people were drawn to or because his message was something they’d not heard before, curiosity was their driving factor. Matthew describes the crowd situation as “went out to him (John)”. Not only did the people feel compelled to confess their sins, they also were being baptized by John. All this “new” activity caused the religious leaders to seek out John, too, who didn’t mince words with these men of high esteem within their communities. John’s strong words to them aren’t the most uplifting but that’s not where I want to camp out; I want to focus on verse 11: “I baptize you with water for repentance, but after me will come one who is more powerful than I, whose sandals I am not fit to carry.” (Other versions say “fit to untie”) What did John mean by that? Why are we talking about shoes in the middle of repentance, baptism and being chastised?

In the midst of introducing the Jews to a message of repentance from sin, accompanied with being baptized with water, John is telling them that another “one” is coming with greater authority, more power and that John doesn’t have what it takes to even untie the thong on his sandals. In the culture of the day among Jews, Greeks and Romans alike this office of untying and carrying the shoes of the master of the house or a guest was the well known function of the lowest slave of the household. You can imagine why perhaps. Remember, travel by foot was most common and there was plenty of filth to be picked up on one’s shoes along the way, dirt and mud soaked with animal excrement mixed in with whatever else fell on the roadways. Having to touch and smell the evidence of a man’s long day on his feet wasn’t the most refreshing job to have! So, by making this comparison with being unworthy, John is letting his audience know that he is NOT the messiah that the Jews have been long awaiting. He is beginning to connect the dots between Jesus entering the region and the approximate three or three and a half years of ministry that will invade the Jewish religious system and turn ancient laws and customs on the heels of reform and prophetic fulfillment. John does this with boldness, prophetic references, and reference to a daily custom concerning dirty shoes–all of which were familiar words and customs, now bathed in deep mystery that will slowly be revealed when Jesus comes on the scene. For the revelation to unfold, we must stay tuned…..

Matthew 2: 19-23

Upon reading these remaining verses in chapter 2 one might think hmmm…nothing exciting here. On the contrary, they are very relevant to how Matthew is telling his readers about the birth of Christ.

We remember that Joseph has taken his wife and young child to live in Egypt in order to protect his life from Herod. The warning and directive to do so came from an angel of the Lord in a dream. Time passes and how does God communicate with Joseph it’s okay to return to their homeland? He does in similar fashion, a form of communication that Joseph is now very familiar with–another dream–most likely the same angel.

Herod has died and is succeeded by his son Archelaus. Joseph is aware of this information and I think displayed godly wisdom and discernment thinking “like father, like son”….I don’t trust this guy anymore than I did Herod and instead of returning to Judea, Joseph takes the family to the district of Galilee and settles in Nazareth, all fulfilling prophecy that Jesus would be referred to as a Nazarene during His ministry.

How old is Jesus when the family moved to Nazareth? A quick search online found a site that stated He was around eight years old. Making an assumption of my own, I’m surmising that the family lived in Egypt about six years, based on Herod’s order to kill the male children two years old and younger.

During our trip to Israel in March 2019 we stood at an area overlooking Nazareth. It’s mainly inhabited by Muslim families now; the homes are close together in the rocky non descript terrain. The day we were there was overcast with a slight drizzle and a chill in the air. During our time at the archeological site we were visiting, it was time for the call to prayer in the Muslim community and we could hear the loud speakers throughout Nazareth airing the announcement which lasted a few minutes. The drone of the foreign words was eerie in nature as I thought of one religion overshadowing another, actually three as Israel is home to Jews, Muslims, and Christians. Seeing modern day Nazareth changed my memories of this city from years of hearing the Christmas story and subsequent readings of Jesus’ ministry. One thing it did not change is the reality of God having a plan. Prophecy foretold that the Messiah would come from Nazareth. Herold, with an evil plot to potentially kill Jesus, failed. Joseph, being an upright man, listened and obeyed each time God sent His angel with important instructions.

In times of danger, would we be prepared to act accordingly? How far would you go to protect your loved ones? I’m thankful for Joseph. Thankful for God’s voice through His angel. Thankful for a divine plan that we read about in these few verses.

Matthew 2: 13 – 18

In these short five verses Matthew exposes the corruption of one man’s mind as he continues to have a power struggle with the news of a “Jewish king” on the scene. King Herod is still plotting and scheming to not be pushed aside by ANYONE whom he deems as a threat to his rule. By now Jesus is about two years old, the magi have departed from their visit and ignored Herod’s instructions to return to his palace and tell him the whereabouts of the child so that he, too, could go an worship Him. But God!

God, who knows the heart of a man, knew Herod’s true intentions which were to eliminate Jesus once and for all. I cannot help but stop when reading about Herod thus far in the account of Christ’s birth and reflect on how deep evil ran through his mind. To kill a child that you felt threatened by? Yet, I am not surprised, but those are thoughts for another day.

So, with a real threat on the horizon of hate towards His Son, God uses His angel to instruct Joseph to take his family to Egypt and stay until Herod’s death. Interesting. My flesh thinks “Why, God, You could have easily removed Herod from his reign or allowed circumstances of death to take him out….but you didn’t. You chose mercy. You chose to protect your Son and his parents another way. You removed them and put them into Your witness protection program! And you allowed Herod to show and amp up the evil desires of his heart by making a declaration that all boys under the age of two in Bethlehem were to be killed. This act of violence and bloodshed is not a heartwarming aspect to the Christmas story at all; I certainly wouldn’t want to dwell too long on Herod’s decree when telling or reading this to a child. Yet, it happened. It was real, it is part of God’s story. And, as I reflect upon it, I see a collision of two governments –Herod’s earthly kingdom has been hit by the supernatural power of God’s sovereignty, and all hell broke loose. Literally. This is a spiritual battle. Herod is but a pawn being used by satan, the once beautiful angel of worship in Heaven who was kicked out, thrown to earth, and is now the father of all lies, and governs forces and principalities working to destroy everything good that is of God.

In Herod, I see many of the same negative attributes in people today. We are not without men and women who want power, want to be kingpins in business and government. We have tension between Judeo Christian values going up against some leaders more often now than I can recall in my adult life. But, we also have a God Who is above all we read and see, Who has a plan of escape for us, perhaps….but most assuredly a path to salvation and protection no earthly plan can match. We have Jesus.