Year of 5,000 Books

Although I wrote this piece in 1999 as part of an Ere of Shabbat (Friday night) Women’s Retreat lightening presentation, today I am posting it to celebrate our new bundle of joy, baby Eric.

Each child brings a blessing and a challenge. The blessing is the gift of life given from above, especially chosen by God for us. The challenge that grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, and parents seek wisdom as we help mold this young life into a person who will chose to do what is right even when others tell him that what he is doing is wrong. A person who knows the Lord, loves Him, and wants to emulate Him - and Him alone.

I am certain that all of us endeavor to fulfill that calling. At times, we all fall short. That is why today the Lord asked me to post this poem as a reminder and a promise from Him. For truly when we are at our wits end, when everything we have tried to teach seems to have fallen upon deaf ears it is important to remember that…

Each of us has a special spark inside,
That needs to be lit and share with pride.
Not pride in who we are or what we do,
But pride in our Messiah who made our life new.
For just as these candles were shaped by a mold,
God has designed us in a way that is wonderful to behold!

It may take a lifetime to learn to yield our will,
So that God can make us a vessel worthy to fill,
With the pure light of His radiance and grace,
As evidenced by Yeshua who chose to take our place.

He came into this world,
The true light for all to see,
and yielded His life upon that fateful tree.
So as we put the match to the candles wick,
Let us each recall,
That we are but a small reflection of the greatest light of all

About five months ago, my Rabbi’s wife, Bonnie asked me to contact her friend Karen who is the editor of the Messianic Times because they needed writers. I spoke with Karen and sent her some samples of my writing and three interviews I had done for the Casa Saga. Although we clicked, I heard nothing from her until yesterday when she emailed me to see if I would be interested in writing a piece for the July/August issue. I suggested we talk today.

After a detailed conversation where we seemed to complete each other’s sentences, she told me of several opportunities. When she mentioned the third one the Spirit quickened it to my heart and hers! How fortunate for me that Bonnie mentioned my work to Karen and that she still remembered me after all this time.

Knowing that prayer must undergird everything, I am asking each of you lift up my ability to contact and interview the person that I am to write about and that my writing is clear and effectively uses the voice that the paper has established.

Furthermore, since the editor mentioned monthly assignments and my having a selection, please petition Adonai that I only ask for those assignments that He has chosen for me and that this work will bear fruit and bring the unsaved to Messiah!

Yours in Our Kinsman Redeemer,
Paula Rose Michelson – Author – The Casa Saga
Book One – Casa de Naomi – The House of Blessing – Yearning – fall 2001

A nurse took the tired, anxious serviceman to the bedside. "Your son is here," she said to the old man. She had to repeat the words several times before the patient's eyes opened.

Heavily sedated because of the pain of his heart attack, he dimly saw the young uniformed Marine standing outside the oxygen tent. He reached out his hand. The Marine wrapped his toughened fingers around the old man's limp ones, squeezing a message of love and encouragement.

The nurse brought a chair so that the Marine could sit beside the bed. All through the night the young Marine sat there in the poorly lighted ward, holding the old man's hand and offering him words of love and strength. Occasionally, the nurse suggested that the Marine move away and rest awhile.

He refused. Whenever the nurse came into the ward, the Marine was oblivious of her and of the night noises of the hospital - the clanking of the oxygen tank, the laughter of the night staff members exchanging greetings, the cries, and moans of the other patients.

Now and then, she heard him say a few gentle words. The dying man said nothing, only held tightly to his son all through the night.

Along towards dawn, the old man died. The Marine released the now lifeless hand he had been holding and went to tell the nurse. While she did what she had to do, he waited.

Finally, she returned. She started to offer words of sympathy, but the Marine interrupted her. "Who was that man?" he asked.

The nurse was startled, "He was your father," she answered.

"No, he wasn't," the Marine replied. "I never saw him before in my life."

"Then why didn't you say something when I took you to him?"

"I knew right away there had been a mistake, but I also knew he needed his son, and his son just wasn't here.

When I realized that he was too sick to tell whether or not I was his son, knowing how much he needed me, I stayed. I came here tonight to find a Mr. William Grey. His son was killed in Iraq today, and I was sent to inform him. What was this gentleman's name?”

The Nurse with tears in her eyes answered, “Mr. William Grey..."

The next time someone needs you...just be there. Stay.

REMEMBER: We are not human beings going through a temporary spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings going through a temporary human experience.

Some of you may not know that I fell assumed I was alright, walked on a broken hip for 8 days, tossed and turned until I fell out of bed, landed on my hip again, and finally had surgery on Thursday, April 7th. Because of that, I have not written something especially for my blog. However, as I lay in the hospital recuperating all I could think about was that “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up,” commercial that features a senior citizen like me. So please journey back with me to yesteryear and read “I Never Thought I’d Become,” the memoir of the girl I was and the woman I became. As you read I hope you will remember Jeremiah 29:11 where it says, “For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” When you get to the end of this posting ask God to tell you which of the Ten Commandments you found hidden within the words, email your answer to me through the blog and I will post the names of those who sighted the correct scripture.

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The 50’s were a time when girls seemed to grow up emulating their moms. Because my mom pressured me to be like her, I thought I’d never become the person I wanted to be. I knew that being an authentic individual was not the norm. And according to my mom, I was far from normal. Knowing she disapproved of me left a hole in my heart. All I wanted was to be was to be loved for who I was and whom I would become. And I was. But not by the woman I needed love from. For me love came in special packages labeled grandma and great aunt. Nowhere was there a package of love labeled mom.

Mom was the woman whose house I slept in and from whose house I escaped every morning when I ran next-door to spend the day with grandma. I was certain that mom would have treated me better if she weren’t worried about my baby brother who’d been born sickly and seemed to worsen everyday. As altruistic as I wish I could have been, her concerns took a back seat to my need for love, which grandma and my aunt met. My days were filled with grandma’s love, my nights with my aunt’s who shared a bedroom with me.

Whenever mom found fault with me, I would remember the unconditional love they lavished upon me. Where my mom did not seem to understand me and wanted me to be a miniature version of her, their love helped me believe that my life was as close to perfect as possible.

When I was seven, that illusion shattered. My aunt married and grandpa bought a home which was hours away from us. The day they moved I cried so hard I couldn’t say goodbye to my grandma. I remember waving as I turned, and entered mom’s house. I walked to my room, thought about school ending in a few weeks and wondered what summer would be like now. During dinner, I discovered it would be far worse than all the school years of my short life put together. The principal had told mom that I would be held back since I hadn’t learned much during my years of school.

It took a trip to the ophthalmologist’s office, a pair of glasses, and a summer with a retired schoolteacher who taught me every shortcut she knew, for me to pass the proficiency test.

The first day of that new school year is as fresh in my memory today as it was the day I lived it. Mom drove us to school and parked the car in front of the main building. I saw large block letters on its façade and read, “Thomas Jefferson Elementary School,” for the first time.

When school ended, mom picked us up and drove us home. Upon entering the house, she called me into her bedroom and took a book titled, “Why Johnny Can’t Read” from her bedside table. “We won’t need this any more,” she said nodding in my direction. Her message was easy to understand. I was to become what she wanted and give her no more grief or create another situation where she had to visit the principal’s office.

I was certain life couldn’t get any worse. But, I soon discovered that I was wrong. Dad told us we were going to move to another city. It was hours from where we lived and further away from the women whose love had succored me. His job required that he travel but he was certain we could manage without him. Aware that I was going to be alone with mom who viewed me as my brother’s keeper, I became fearful.

My angst motivated me to learn. By the time, I graduated the seventh grade I was on the honor role and remained an honor student throughout my school years. However, I felt a fraud since I didn’t learn anything. Rather I memorized everything as a hedge against failure.

At home, I struggled to be subservient to my mother’s wishes: an unhappy, plump version of her, whom she reviled whenever the feeling hit her.

After graduation, I searched for myself through a series of jobs. A year later, I met and fell in love with a man who loved me. He envisioned a future for me where I could grow into the person I was desperately trying to become. I grabbed hold of him and all he promised.

I entered Beauty College; grateful for the money my aunt had left me, which allowed me a future of my own choosing. For 18 months, I toiled away, aware that I was sacrificing a comfortable life for a life worth living.

The date of my Cosmetology State Board test drew near and so did my wedding. Mom had tried to dictate every aspect of my nuptials. My fiancé interceded and I walked down the aisle in the white wedding gown I had chosen, rather than the off-white suit mom had insisted would do. From the moment, I spoke my vows and my husband affirmed his, I felt loved and free to be me.

Our first years were spent settling down, beginning a family, and growing together. When my thirtieth birthday drew near, I thought mom and I had achieved a sort of stasis in our relationship. That illusion proved false when I entered college. Mom had urged women to go to college. Yet, she seemed angered by my attending and vented her feelings, alternating between accolades and putdowns. As painful as this was, I was buoyed up by the fun of actually learning, my husband’s support, and our daughter’s encouragement. I was becoming an authentic me.

When I look back, I remember many were eager to hear about everything I was learning but it was mom who prodded me for more information. She’d bait me with a question, hoping I would say something she could take umbrage with, and then she’d pounce. Since attending college gave me information that she did not have, I believe she felt one-upped by me.

However, by the time I had completed half of my studies, what she thought didn’t matter. I had fallen in love with learning. And, the girl who couldn’t read was working at the tutorial center with students who had learning disabilities and a few like me, who feared failure.

Before I graduated, I began working with women who had experienced abuse in childhood. I helped them see, as I had, that everything makes us what we are. We are over-comers!

And mom…as the years passed, her life took a turn towards senior dementia. Because her demands affected my dad, my husband and I moved them close and spent as much time with them as we could.

On one particularly difficult day, dad was pulling their car into its assigned parking spot when mom yelled, “You’re parking in the wrong place!” Her arms flailed at him as she screamed horrible things.

I put my hand on her shoulder.

She patted it and calmed down.

Then I said, “It’s really hard being you.”

She looked at me and smiled. “Now you understand.”

From then on, I uttered those words whenever the need arose. They reminded her that I understood her. That as hard as I had fought to become me, I knew it was time for me to pay attention to her.

Several years later dad died and mom was diagnosed with cancer. She was in constant pain. As the end of her life drew near, she sternly forbid me to visit. I knew she wanted me to remember her at her best. It was hard not saying goodbye to mom but I acquiesced to her wishes.

When she died, I knew that we had come to understand, forgive and enjoy each other. Yet, I felt a sense of loss for the mother she hadn’t been. I was, however, finally at peace with the woman she was.

After the memorial, stories shared, and pictures viewed, my brother and I found a quite place and talked.

“You know what mom called you?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“She called you a saint…Saint Paula.”

Being a Jewish believer in Messiah (Christ) I believed this was the final, unwanted, but not totally expected putdown.

“And here’s why…” He enumerated what she meant. I listened as he shared all she had seen and never commented on. When I thought he was done, I began to rise. Then he added, “She said she admired your wanting to be yourself even when she tried to stop you.”

When I look back on becoming the person I wanted to be, I realize we never fully understand who we want to be until we see who we don’t want to become. Each of us faces the choice, to self-actualize or not. In the process of becoming me, I fashioned a life I could truly call my own…thanks to my mom.

When I meet Jessie Lemus at the MJAA Conference, I heard about the Battalion of Deborah and remembered the piece I had written about Deborah in 2008 while meditating on scripture. Since I had her email, I contacted her and asked if the Battalion which consists of women committed to Israel’s biblical boundaries, would like to use it. She received it with joy. Although I do not know how they will use this prayer, God seemed to ask me to share it with you. Enjoy…

Scripture: “Barak said to her, “if you go with me, I will go; but if you do not go with me, I will not go.” Very well,” Devorah said, “I will go with you. But because of the way you are going about this, the honor will not be yours, for the Lord will hand Siser over to a woman.” (Judges 4:8-9) In reply, Jesus declared, “I tell you the truth, no one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again,” (John 3:3)

What were you thinking my sister, my kinswoman? How did you come to feel comfortable with the task laid before you? I know that you were a woman of prayer, one that was called by God Most High. If I could have been there would I have heard your petition which is, I think, founded on the same questions all of us women pray when we are asked by God to step out of our normal roles and assume a mantel that is unique? If so I believe that your prayer might have sounded something like this:

“Oh God why have you chosen me for this work,
I am as a seed of wheat,
Not yet ripe for the harvest,
Yet you call!

Oh God why have you asked me to lead men,
I am as one unprepared for war,
Not schooled in weapons and fighting,
Yet you call!

Oh God why have you asked me to bear the burdens of the nation Yisrael,
I am as one of the least of your people,
Not wise in my own understanding,
Yet you call!”

“Daughter, it is because you see yourself as nothing,”
Saying, 'I am as a seed of wheat,
Not yet ripe for the harvest,'
That I call!

Daughter, it is because you see yourself as one unprepared for war,
That I ask you to equip my people with righteousness and send them out with prayer,
For there is no weapon fashioned against my righteous ones that will stand,
That I call!

Daughter, it is because you see yourself as a seeker of the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob,
Because you have an undivided heart that yearns for and reaches up to me,
Saying “What is God’s will in this matter,
That I call.

Many are ready for leadership in the world’s sight,
Many are prepared to do things in their own way,
Many believe they have a burden to serve but will leave when the battle turns against them,
But few truly know how to seek after me with all their mind, all their heart and all their soul.

That is why I have chosen you,
For you have chosen to abide in me,
I have chosen you to be a standard to my people,
an example of selfless devotion to their God.

That in seeing your selfless devotion to me,
They may also come to know Adoni-Jireh,
The Lord that will provide today,
Then, they will learn to search for my provision tomorrow.

For just as I had my servant Moses lift up the serpent in the desert,
That all who looked upon it in faith would not die,
Even though they had been bitten by a deadly snake,
My people must learn to look at those I have lifted up and not judge them,
But see me!”

“This I understand Lord Most High,
This, I Devorah, pledge to do and this will I sing about,
And give glory to your name for you chose a servant not a warrior,
That your name would and will be forever proclaimed!”

“Yes, and in the future that is yet to be another comes that is greater that he,
Greater than Moses who I led through the red sea,
Greater then any who have walked the earth,
for this is the Messiah who will herald in the rebirth."

“My Lord, I do not understand for I am not wise,
However, if you will it,
I will pray for those who will hear it,
that you open up their eyes.”

Oh Devorah did you know, as I think all the righteous do, that life is fleeting and there is more to us than the here and now? If so, may I, and all that follow after be as wise as you were. Wise enough to know our wisdom is as nothing before the throne of God Most High. Yet, wise enough to know that what we say and do matters both here and now and ripples throughout eternity. May God grant us all a modicum of understanding and a heart that is melded to His, least we fall into Satan snare and become ineffectual for all who care to hear and heed the message of the Lord and His Messiah!

Romans 12: 1 “Therefore, I urge you...in light of God’s mercy, to offer your body’s as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God.”

O God my rock and my redeemer there is no one like you. No one who understands me as you do. You know that my desire is to please you and yet I am unable to do so without the guidance of the Ruach Ha Kodesh... your Holy Spirit. Remind me, therefore, O Lord to walk close to you. For I am as a young child who at times wanders from away you—the only one who knows what is best for me. But where can I go and what can I do without your guidance? What can I accomplish that has merit in your sight or value for eternity unless I stay close to you?

When I was a young child, I ventureed out to explore my world so that I could eventually become a separate and distinct person. However, my relationship with you is the antithesis of this. In order to present myself to you a sacrifice that is worthy and pleasing, I have learned to seek you first and keep you close to me throughout my day. My hunger to become a worthy disciple of yours has allowed me to break though my own desire to be an island unto myself. I admit that I need your presence in my life moment by moment in a way I never needed anyone else.

Although I am aware that I have the freedom to choose to spend time with you early in the quite hours of the morning, or not, each day I have to chose whether I want to be a living sacrifice for you or to sacrifice my life upon the altar of some other god who is not God at all. Thank you, Ha Shem for calling me to spend time with you this morning. I know that by putting you first in all that I do I will not waste this day storing up treasure that does not last and creating a life that has no significance but is full of wasted potential.

Paula’s Note…

Several weeks ago my friend Diana sent me this write up about a book that made a difference. Since she had sent me, two write ups I posted her “Little Engine that Could” piece and save this one for later. Little did I realize then the wisdom of doing that, in fact it wasn’t until I opened this short response that I realized how gracious God is for He prepares us for the unexpected with missives which in their due season He uses to minister His love through others. After you read what Diana wrote, I will explain what I mean. For now, be blessed…


From Diana…

I had little guidance in my life as far as life skills. I was pretty miserable feeling like I was taking one step forward and two steps backward. I had been married about 10 years when a career councilor recommend I read "Feeling Good" by Dr.'s Mernith & Meier. It’s a book about changing yourself though cognitive therapy. More easily put. You determine what is not working for you, where it came from, what you do with it and replace it with some thing that does work for you. This challenging book put a method to things I did that drug me down and made difficulties. I didn't change instantly, unfortunately, but I realized so many things I wanted to change that as I worked on them one at a time I began to free myself. It felt really good. Others noticed a change right away. Some thought it was good, others reacted negatively. This is a process. From time to time I read it just to discover more and encourage myself about how far I've come. I had to buy a new copy because I "loved" it so much.

Paula’s Note…

I love that Diana amended the title to read “And that is not being selfish.” If you are wondering why--and who wouldn’t, it’s because we believers are continually asking ourselves the “Am I being selfish,” question. We seem to want to beat ourselves up as if walking in the truth of Messiah means that we deny what we need. For example, today was a red-letter day for me because I had been waiting to get my editors comments and suggestions. Since I had sent Casa de Naomi – Yearning in the end of October, I was eager to begin working on the text! However, imagine my surprise when I discovered, upon reading her email that after all her work she would not be able to bring the novel to fruition because she was moving closer to her family. At first, I felt disappointed since I was certain this was the editor I was to work with. Then I was worried for her since no one leaves a job their good at and moves close to family unless there is a need. Finally I had to admit that underneath all these concerns I could hear the “Why me,” whine which as a believer I have come to loath. I tried to force that idea away but it would not leave so taking it in as I knew I must I realized that I wasn’t being selfish…I was being human. And being human no matter how much we wish to be like Christ, informs us of the human state from which we, if aware, can minister to others.

I’d like to say that I overcame the lethargy that descended upon me. Yet it was not I that overcame…The Spirit did!

So if you, like me or my friend Diana think your being selfish, think again and remember that if the Lord reinstated John so He could be used how much more will He do through those of us who admit our shortcomings and allow Him it use us…

Let us remember Proverbs 15:29 and stand firm with our believing brothers and sisters in Christ, united in prayer each day for one minute. Our God is listening.

Someone has said that if Christians really understood the full extent of the power we have available through prayer we might be speechless. Did you know that during WWII there was an advisor to Churchill who organized a group of people who dropped what they were doing every day at a prescribed hour for one minute to collectively pray for the safety of England, its people and peace?

There is now a group of people organizing the same thing here in America. If you would like to participate: Every evening at 9:00 PM Eastern Time, 8:00 PM Central, 7:00 PM Mountain, 6:00 PM Pacific, stop whatever you are doing and spend one minute praying for the safety of the United States, our troops, our citizens, and for a return to a Godly nation. If you know anyone else who would like to participate, and are concerned about giving out their email address please ask them to visit this site and join so that we can support each other through the email available here. Remember, our prayers are the most powerful asset we have. Please forward this to your praying friends.

A friend asked me to submit an answer to the question “Why do I read what I read,” and base it upon a children’s book published in 1911. What follows is the short story I wrote. When my friend received my submission, she told me she had not expected a story but a few lines. However, she loved this piece and suggested I have it published. It seemed to me that with a blog titled “Year of 5,000 Books, I should post it for you to read. Enjoy…

It is cold and rainy like all the other cold rainy nights that seem to eradicate all light from Londonderry town and tonight is sadly no different from that Friday night a fortnight ago. I remember it and believe I always shall for mama and I were hurrying to prepare for the Shabbat when papa stormed in.

“Stien’s twins are ill again,” he said. He grabbed his medical bag and rushed out.

I saw mama grab her stomach, groan, and crumple to the floor. By the time I had moistened a compress and knelt at her side she was gone…gone from me as surely as if she had never been.

Papa found me there cradling her head as I cried, “Mama told me she was not ill but merely with child. She made me promise that I would keep her secret for she wanted to surprise you in the spring!”

A sigh escaped papa’s lips. He picked me up and drew me into the soothing comfort of his warm embrace. “Oh my dear one,” he said, he voice ragged with loss, “Mama knew she was ill and did not wish to burden you unduly.”

I shook my head and pushed away from him. “Sir,” I insisted as if I were role-playing rather than mourning, “due you take me for a simpleton!”

“No, I take you for what you are dear daughter--a child who has lost her mama. Nothing more…nor less!”

I glared at him. this man…this father who had been gone when mama needed him the most! My father the doctor who had given up the comfort most doctors had to work with the poor was able to save their lives but not the one he was sworn to love. No retort came to mind so I allowed him to take me to my bed where he fluffed my pillow, lay me down, and covered me up. He was about to leave when it seemed, though I am not certain since, it was quite dark in the long narrow drafty closet that served as my room-but it seemed that he hesitated, nodded and sighed. “I will return momentarily.”

“I would not notice if you did,” I snipped hating myself for becoming less than my mama had taught me to be, yet angry with him for not taking care of her.

“Your mama feared you would act this way,” he muttered. He closed the door behind him.

Once I heard it close, I began to wail and sob. At some point, I must have fallen asleep. When I awoke, I could see faint shards of light between the floor and door. It must be morning, I thought. My stomach grumbled in reply. I listened for footfalls but there was no sound. A sense of foreboding prompted me to leap from my bed for many children--I had heard when bereft of hearth and home, were wont to roam the streets. “Oh,” I silently prayed, “dear papa please, be understanding, kind and forgiving…please!”

I put on as best a face as I could, opened the door a crack and looked around. The kitchen, which had been in disarray the night before, was set to rights. And mama--as much as I had wished the situation to be different from the one I remembered—when I scanned the room, there was no mama. Then I heard voices from their bedroom, peeked in and saw auntie and papa in conversation as they prepared mama for burial.

They looked up. For some reason, which I cannot yet fathom, when they did, I shied away.

“Alice, come back here,” my aunt insisted.

I aquesied and stood waiting.

Aunt walked around me as if taking me in for the very first time. I saw her open her mouth as if to say something.

However, before she could papa sat down, patted his knee as he always had when he wished to invite me to join him. Aware that he had forgiven my behavior of the night before I jumped onto his lap and kissed his face as tears, both his, and mine mingled. When we had finally dispensed with our apologies, he insisted, “Now then, I have something for you.” When he pulled a cloth wrapped package from behind mama’s pillow I wondered at what he had said for it was apparent that mama had purposefully wrapped it in what remained of her wedding gown.

Papa saw tears course down my face, took out his kerchief and said, “Now we will have none of that,” as he alsway had when Mama was alive. I wanted to reprimand him. Instead, I sniffled them back to please my papa. When I saw him force a smile it seemed to me that, he was relieved that I would not make a scene but be a sensible girl. “Mama knew that she was dying and made me promise that when she did I would give you this book as a gift from me to you, but one wrapped in her love, which,” he insisted while he pulled out his kerchief and dabbed at his eyes, “which she promised would last you your whole life through.”

I wanted to yell at him and tell him he was a bloody fool to think that a book--no matter how grand, could replace my mother. Instead, I unwrapped the precious fabric, which was all that remained of my parents’ pledge of their troth to each other and read, "Peter and Wendy by JM Barrie, illustrated by F. D. Bedford." It being 1911, I knew this book cost more than my papa and mama should have ever thought to spend. For gifts were usually made at home and done from scraps and bits or on rare occasions yarn for mama to knit a much needed scarf, mittens or sweater could be purchased or bartered for if need be. However, a book--not the Holy Book, a children’s book from the looks of it, was a singularly odd gift indeed.

“Your mama fancied it for you since it is about children some of whom do not have a mother. She hoped that it would give you solace if instead of thinking only about yourself, you did as she did and strove to use your situation to help others.”

I wanted to yell at papa for making me feel far worse than I already did. Yet I could not for mama was right and I knew it. I nodded my head, took the slim volume, turned, and entered the kitchen. I put the kettle on to boil and sat down by the window where the light was best. An hour passed--maybe two before I noticed that the pain in my heart had somewhat been ameliorated by my concern for Wendy, her brothers, Peter Pan and the lost boys.

I began to write down all that I have shared with you. However, that was a very longtime ago. Tonight I am giving this book to you Johnny as it was given to me for you see this book is for children like you. Ah, I see you are looking at me as if to say, grandmamma no one I have cared for has died. You are right and glad I am of that! Yet since this novel helped me become me, I believe with Gods help the very same thing will happen to you so let us read it together tonight.

When Skip woke up it was early. That is early for a little boy who had only gotten a few hours sleep. He bounded out of bed with a smile as he remembered how easy it had been for him to make his mom see his side of things. “After all,tomorrow is the big day,” he had explained. "It's the last day of the World Series, and Babe Ruth’s batting first! I’ve just got to be there with his bat all cleaned, and spruced up! He’s counting on me to hand him his special bat!”

As Skip rushed to get dressed, and gulp down some breakfast, he smiled remembering how the big guy had come over to him when the Yankees arrived at Wriggly Stadium. He had looked him over from head to toe, handed him his bat, and said, “Sonny this here’s special,” as he, grinned, winked, and walked away to chat with his teammates’ who were gathered in the dugout.

That was all The Babe had to say because Skip knew what he meant. The bat was in his care. Babe had entrusted it to him, and it was his job to take care of it, and bring it to him when he was at batting practice, and when he headed to the mound. So every night of the Series, Skip took it home, cleaned it up, going to extra special lengths to make sure it was in pristine condition. Last night he took more time than ever before because Babe had to win one more time. If he did not win, Skip knew he was going to feel just awful for he was rooting against his own team. However, he pushed that thought aside as he reminded himself, Babe is counting on me, that’s what matters. At nine, Skip knew what that meant. He knew that without his favorite bat, The Sultan of Swat, as many of his fans called George Herman Ruth, Jr. the team would not, could not win the penitent! Yep Skip told himself as he sat down for breakfast, and gazed longingly at Babe’s bat, which he had rubbed to a high gloss sheen the night before when he had stayed up way past ten, without me, and this bat, the Wizard of Wham may strike out!

As his mom set a blow of cereal in front of him, he looked at her, pulled out a Babe Ruth bar he had been saving for the big day from his pocket, peeled back the wrapper, and took a big bite. His mom smiled, sighed, and sat down across from him. He knew he was going to get a lecture; Skip did, for mom did not allow candy first thing in the morning. In fact, as Skip sat there munching away he could almost hear her litany of reasons why. However, to his amazement, his mom put the cereal in front of herself, and began to eat. Wow, Skip thought, I haven’t left the house, or gotten to the ballpark, and this is already the best day every!

Mom looked at him, smiled, and said, “Big day today.”

Now Skip knew he had died, and gone to baseball paradise! For his mom never mentioned anything about the game, and she never ever used words like big, special, or grand unless she was talking about a Bible Study, church, or Pastor Ethan Smithers who in mom’s eyes was taking much to long to ask his sister Betty Jean to marry him. But, Skip reckoned, as he looked at the bat one more time, that has nothing to do with me, as he cautioned himself, keep your mind on the game, Babe needs you!

His candy bar done, Skip stood, and tossed the wrapper in the trash as he put on his official baseball cap.

“Have a good day,” his mom smiled.

Skipp picked up Babe’s Bat, nodded her way, and headed to Wriggley Field. Yessiree, Skip thought as he walked the five blocks to the field, it sure doesn’t get any better than having the New York Yankees playing in Chicago!

As he walked along the other batboys joined him, but none of them looked his way. They think I’m a traitor to the Cubs, the boy sighed. He nodded at the guys who used to swat him on the back when they came up from behind, and with whom he secretly wagered on the games as he whispered, “Don’t tell my mom or ill get a lickin.” As Skip looked around, he noticed that all the boys were as focused, and as determined as he was that their guy was going to pull it off. Yep! Each of the boys had their favorite, and until Babe had handed him his bat, Skip’s favorite had been Charles Henry Root. Hank, as Skip though of him when he fantasized about the friendship they would have one day. He had never missed a day when the guy born in Middletown, Ohio, was pitching, cause in Skips book he was the best there was! And Skip figured he should know since he’d been around the game all his life.

When the batboys got there, the stadium was empty except for the people that made the event what it was, like the guys that lined the field, and gramps who sold the hotdogs. If anyone had asked Skip about the slow peaceful start to his day, he would have smiled, I like it this way, kind’a helps a fella get into the swing of things before the guys start swinging. Ya know what I mean? Of course, he would never have spoken like that when his mom was around because she insisted on good manners, the correct use of words, and perfect diction. However, having lost his father in an elevator crash some years back, more years back than Skip could remember, he had learned to be the man of the house and save his boy activities, attitudes, and the use of sang, for when he was far away from home, and the responsibilities of being the man.

So as the stands filled up, and everyone settled down the game began. The pitchers pitched, and the players played. The boys did their job, and the crowed cheered. The vendors sold food, and the heat beat down upon the hushed throng as each one there rooted for their team, and their guy. In between at-bats, the boys traded jabs, and baseball cards, and while their personal favorite was at-bat, each boy said a prayer. When anyone one else got up to bat, they heckled them unmercifully.

Yet, as idyllic as Skips life looked to others, it was with a longing born of an unspoken need, that the batboy handed Ruth his bat on that fateful day. The boy knew that Ruth, and the team had been unstoppable back in 1927 when the Yankees were known as Murderer's Row because of the strength of its hitting lineup. Heck, Skip thought, as Ruth took his bat in hand, back then the team won a record 110 games! As Babe swung the bat a few times, as the boy wondered, can he still do it?

He had heard the rumors, and read about arguments before the Series began, and as the game progressed the fans heard the two teams throw verbal barbs at each other, which his mother would have spanked him soundly for as she insisted, “My boy does not speak that way, not in my house or anywhere else!” But, this ain’t home, it's Wriggly Field, shrugged Skip with a smile, this is baseball!

If he had taken the time to look at the bleachers, Skip would have seen fifty thousand cubs’ fans that agreed with him. However, rooting for the other team, he kept his head down, and did his job. Except for earlier in the day when the teams were still warming up, when he had looked up, it was to watch Ruth, and Lou Gehrig put on an impressive batting display during practice. Ruth launched nine balls to the outfield stands while Gehrig hit seven, then as quickly as Skip had looked up, he hunkered down again. That is until he handed The Bambino, his bat.

The Babe must have sensed that Skip needed something from him, though the boy never asked The Colossus of Clout, why he smiled at him, winked, and whispered, “This ones for you son,” as he called the shot, and pointed to the center field bleachers during his at-bat.

Skip knew it was Babe’s declaration that he would hit a home run out of the park. As Skip nodded, smiled, and stepped away, the man that was called, The Sultan of Swat, The King of Crash, The Colossus of Clout, The Babe hit what for want of a better word, was dubbed a “Ruthian!” As everyone stood to watch that beautiful, powerful, ball sail into deep center field, past the flagpole, and into the temporary seating in the streets, and the crowd went wild!

At that momentous moment, Skip witnessed a miracle! It wasn’t the miracle of the shot Babe called, and it certainly wasn’t the fact that he had won his bets even though his mom could certainly use the money, since he needed new shoes. No, the miracle that Skip witnessed that day had nothing to do with the shot ‘the home run king’ called. It had everything to do with the fact that before the Titan of Swat headed out to slowly jog around the field savoring the joy of being able to shape the game one more time to his liking, George Herman Ruth, Jr. turned to Skip, handed him his special bat, and smiled, “Thanks son for helping me today. I wish I had a boy like you. Your dad’s a lucky guy!”

Skip waited until The Babe left. Then he headed home. The other guys had left earlier. After all, he thought to himself when he headed back all alone, who’d want to hang around with a guy who rooted for the other team, the team that won. Nobody, that’s who.

He tried to pretend it didn’t matter to him if they all walk back together or not. However, it mattered terribly. You see Skip had always thought that life had given him a raw deal. Which is a hard way to feel when your still in elementary grade school, and don’t know how to get over losses so profound, but never spoken about as having no father. Yet this time as he ruminated on all the things he and his dad would never do, the face of Babe Ruth smiled at him, and he heard, “Thanks son for helping me today.”

As he turned down his street, Skip was joined by the other batboys who had felt sorry leaving without the little guy, and retraced their steps to meet him.

“Okay, my guy won, so what of it,” he said nonchalantly as they walked along together. The others were surprised because they knew that Skip liked to harp on every good thing that happened to him. They tried not to mind because they knew how tough Skip had it, and all of them realized that what happened at Wriggly Field was the biggest, and best thing that had ever happened to the kid. However, when they asked Skip about the game all he did was smile, and say, “This was the best day I ever had.”

The MJAA Conference...

When I look at all that God achieved regarding Casa de Naomi – The House of Blessing – Yearning, at the MJAA Conference, I am amazed! I had no idea where my table would be, since I left that in our Lords capable hands, I had never sold anything at a conference, and I was asking people to walk by faith not sight because there wasn’t even the mockup of the cover to view. Yet God met me there and while Elizabeth prayed me through the event, we met some amazing people and 11 who visited my table pre-bought 13 books.

As much as I wish I could tell you about each divine appointment, the sudden urgency of doing a final edit on the second novel "Fulfillment" precludes that. Therefore, I will tell you about a few. Before I do let me share that for me this conference was as much about making contacts so that people who live in other areas might hold Casa Events for the book as it was about selling the novel. That goal was accomplished in more ways than I could ever imagine when a woman from Australia purchased a book and I asked her if she would like me to deliver it to her (as I did with everyone who purchased). When she said “Yes,” I smiled and asked if she would set up events for me and provide hospitality and to my delight, she agreed! I believe that was a devine appointment!

Several women who bought the book listened to my “Year of 5,000 Book” plea and committed to hosting events. When I mentioned that events could take place at a congregation or church, coffee shop or mall, home or park another woman became interested in helping me. When I added the library, which often invites authors who write historical fiction, she asked why a library would invite me. I explained how my year of research interests librarians who are committed to helping people understand the many uses they offer and that, that coupled with the fact that Casa de Naomi is a good read makes my library program one librarians will want. This statement that motivated her to commit to having venues for me at three locations in one weekend, if that is the Lords will.

By this point, I was ready to exclaim, “What more can Yeshua do to bless me for walking by faith!” However, more blessings came my way as I visited with many friends I had not seen in 18 months since Ron and I are now fellowshipping at another congregation, and ministered to a few of their grown children who stopped by and needed to hear a word of scriptural encouragement, and at times I found myself listening to others while I prayed for their needs.

The second day of the event I met a decedent of the first governor of New Spain, a Jew baptized into the Catholics faith during the Inquisition. Because of my research, I had thought all the members of Luis Carvajals family were dead, but Phillip was before me. Yet I would have never known who he was if I hadn’t taken Dr. Martin A. Cohen’s seminal work, "The Martyr-The Story of a Secret Jew and the Mexican Inquisition in the Sixteenth Century," and placed it on my table. Although, I had many research books to chose from, it was this tattered book which I almost left behind that bridged more than 500 years and linked us together when he made an offhanded remark as he turned to leave while mentioning his last name. Upon hearing that name, I opened the tome and showed him his family tree. We spoke throughout the remainder of the conference and he gave me his phone number and asked me to stay in touch.

Since I had brought Dr. Dell Sanchezs book, "Aliyah! The Exodus Continues," many Sephardic Messianic Jews stopped to visit. One woman mentioned working with him and I found myself wishing that at some point in the future our emails might be replaced with actual audible conversations. Yet without Dells work, I reminded myself, my research would have taken longer and the evidence would not have been as conclusive or significant.

Ron popped in an out of the conference as he was able and when Elizabeth needed to leave Ron joined me at the table. After a few hours where no one stopped by I sent him home. I must share that I was somewhat disheartened. However, that was not a bad thing because I found myself rejoicing for the other vendors while I prayed that if anyone one else needed to connect with me they would visit the book table that had four books none of which were the book I was selling. Strange as it might seem, the next person to visit was man who wanted to take my copy of The Decree of Alhambra, which began the Spanish and later the Mexican Inquisition. When I explained that it was the only one I had printed out he walked away. He came back a short while later and explained that he was working on his doctorial dissertation and needed the information. We spoke at length and I committed to sending him that document as well as the bibliography for the Casa Series. He in turn offered to send me, once his dissertation is published, his bibliography which will be invaluable to my work on the next series!

Lastly, I must share that I saw that the Lord was active in my affairs. For he placed my table next to Lederes’ which as many of you know, was the publisher I originally wished to use. Lisa and I struck up a friendship and before the conference was over, we both knew that we would be dear friends sharing life’s joys and concerns with each other.

I count myself very lucky to have gone to the conference. I reconnected with friends and their children meet wonderful believers, had my work affirmed by readers and scholars, and sold enough books to cover the cost of the table and books. Women committed to hosting events for the novel, I spent time with Elizabeth, and my husband Ron supported me while each of you faithfully prayed for me throughout this event. I could not have done any of the things mentioned above without your prayers for who would ever buy something they could not see from a person they did not know except by the prompting of the Ruach Ha Kodesh!

The blessings I experienced this weekend belong to you and the Lord! Thank you for partnering with me in His work! So that you will be equipped to pray for those I met I am sending you the information I sent to them.

Yours in Messiah,
Paula Rose Michelson – Author
Casa de Naomi – The House of Blessing – Yearning – fall 2011

PS - If you are reading this blog and wish to receive the information I mentioned above become a follower of my blog, send me your actual email address through this site and I will send the information to you as well.

Last year I had intended to stay away from the MJAA Conference because I was not volunteering my time and having attended this weekend event for year’s and recently become involved in Congregation Ben David in Orange, CA, I wanted to use my time and efforts there. However, when I heard that my friend Marlayne would be selling her novel "The Victor" during the conference, I offered to help her.

I was glad I did because while at the conference I reconnected with people who live in other place - some as far away as Israel, and others as local as the next city. One of my local friends that I had not seen in a while, Olivier Melnick, who is a published author and had encouraged me in my writing had a table there, saw me, and said, “You’ll be here next year!”

His words were almost palatable yet seemed unattainable. I grabbed hold of them as if I were drowning and needed someone to pull me into a boat. As dramatic as this sounds that is how I felt. For having completed the rough draft of Casa de Naomi – The House of Blessing in 2008, I was still looking for a publisher. I know that sounds odd because I had already contacted Tate and knew they wanted my manuscript. Yet my husband Ron insisted I search for a more known publisher so I put their offer aside and did what he asked.

I remember nodding my agreement to Oliver as I greeted another woman I knew who dropped by Marlayne’s table.

Now, a year later, what Olivier said is a reality! I have a table and am pre-selling Casa de Naomi - The House of Blessing - Book One - Yearning. What happened during the year that transpired from Olivier’s statement to today, is a journey I would have forgone were it not for my husbands wishes. In the year between that conference and this one, I visited critique groups, had a well-known Christian author befriend and help me understand how critical point of view is, discovered that less is more, and edited the novel. When I thought I was done, I read about writing and reviewed the manuscript with what writers call the "third eye," which means I read the book as if I were the reader and asked myself if I had shared too much or if important information was missing.

I can now say with confidence that the novel I would have sold before would have been a poor version of the one Tate Publishing will release this fall. However, my confidence is not in myself but in the Lord and the Ruach Ha Kodesh who showed me - a sometimes very willful wife - that submitting to my husband has rewards beyond my understanding.

If you are like me and find yourself sometimes running ahead of your husband who provides your spiritual covering I hope you will remember my story which is based upon choosing to live as we are directed in Colossians 3:18 where it says, “Wives, submit yourselves to your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord.”

Before you read this posting, I must share that yesterday while meeting with my prayer partner of over 15 years I confided that I would not be posting anything new to my blog until the MJAA Conference had ended. I had planned to post a follow up to that event next week so that my loyal followers could see how God used the conference to further his gospel through literature. However, Bobbi Skinner emailed me this story, which spoke to my heart, and I know it will do the same to yours. Enjoy…

Carl was a quiet man. He didn't talk much. He would always greet you with a big smile and a firm handshake. Even after living in our neighborhood for over 50 years, no one could really say they knew him very well. Before his retirement, he took the bus to work each morning. The lone sight of him walking down the street often worried us. He had a slight limp from a bullet wound received in WWII.

Watching him, we worried that although he had survived WWII, he may not make it through our changing uptown neighborhood with its ever-increasing random violence, gangs, and drug activity. When he saw the flyer at our local church asking for volunteers for caring for the gardens behind the minister's residence, he responded in his characteristically unassuming manner. Without fanfare, he just signed up.

He was well into his 87th year when the very thing we had always feared finally happened. He was just finishing his watering for the day when three gang members approached him. Ignoring their attempt to intimidate him, he simply asked, "Would you like a drink from the hose?”

The tallest and toughest-looking of the three said, "Yeah, sure," with a malevolent little smile.

As Carl offered the hose to him, the other two grabbed Carl's arm, throwing him down. As the hose snaked crazily over the ground, dousing everything in its way, Carl's assailants stole his retirement watch and his wallet, and then fled. Carl tried to get himself up, but he had been thrown down on his bad leg. He lay there trying to gather himself as the minister came running to help him.

Although the minister had witnessed the attack from his window, he couldn't get there fast enough to stop it. "Carl, are you okay? Are you hurt?" the minister kept asking as he helped Carl to his feet.

Carl just passed a hand over his brow and sighed, shaking his head. "Just some punk kids. I hope they'll wise-up someday." His wet clothes clung to his slight frame as he bent to pick up the hose. He adjusted the nozzle again and started to water.

Confused and a little concerned, the minister asked, "Carl, what are you doing?"

"I've got to finish my watering. It's been very dry lately," came the calm reply.

Satisfying himself that Carl really was all right, the minister could only marvel. Carl was a man from a different time and place.

A few weeks later, the three returned. Just as before their threat was unchallenged. Carl again offered them a drink from his hose. This time they didn't rob him. They wrenched the hose from his hand and drenched him head to foot in the icy water. When they had finished their humiliation of him, they sauntered off down the street, throwing catcalls and curses, falling over one another laughing at the hilarity of what they had just done. Carl just watched them. Then he turned toward the warmth giving sun, picked up his hose, and went on with his watering.

The summer was quickly fading into fall. Carl was doing some tilling when he was startled by the sudden approach of someone behind him. He stumbled and fell into some evergreen branches. As he struggled to regain his footing, he turned to see the tall leader of his summer tormentors reaching down for him. He braced himself for the expected attack.

"Don't worry old man, I'm not gonna hurt you this time." The young man spoke softly, still offering the tattooed and scarred hand to Carl. As he helped Carl get up, the man pulled a crumpled bag from his pocket and handed it to Carl.

"What's this?" Carl asked. "It's your stuff," the man explained. "It's your stuff back. Even the money in your wallet."

"I don't understand," Carl said. "Why would you help me now?"

The man shifted his feet, seeming embarrassed and ill at ease. "I learned something from you," he said. "I ran with that gang and hurt people like you. We picked you because you were old and we knew we could do it. But every time we came and did something to you, instead of yelling and fighting back, you tried to give us a drink. You didn't hate us for hating you. You kept showing love against our hate." He stopped for a moment. "I couldn't sleep after we stole your stuff, so here it is back.” He paused for another awkward moment, not knowing what more there was to say. "That bag's my way of saying thanks for straightening me out, I guess." And with that, he walked off down the street.

Carl looked down at the sack in his hands and gingerly opened it. He took out his retirement watch and put it back on his wrist. Opening his wallet, he checked for his wedding photo. He gazed for a moment at the young bride that still smiled back at him from all those years ago.

He died one cold day after Christmas that winter. Many people attended his funeral in spite of the weather. In particular, the minister noticed a tall young man that he didn't know sitting quietly in a distant corner of the church. The minister spoke of Carl's garden as a lesson in life. In a voice made thick with unshed tears, he said, "Do your best and make your garden as beautiful as you can. We will never forget Carl and his garden."

The following spring another flyer went up. It read, "Person needed to care for Carl's garden." The flyer went unnoticed by the busy parishioners until one day when a knock was heard at the minister's office door. Opening the door, the minister saw a pair of scarred and tattooed hands holding the flyer. "I believe this is my job, if you'll have me," the young man said.

The minister recognized him as the same young man who had returned the stolen watch and wallet to Carl. He knew that Carl's kindness had turned this man's life around. As the minister handed him the keys to the garden shed, he said, "Yes, go take care of Carl's garden and honor him." The man went to work, over the next several years, he tended the flowers, and vegetables just as Carl had done.

During that time he went to college, got married, and became a prominent member of the community. But he never forgot his promise to Carl's memory and kept the garden as beautiful as he thought Carl would have kept it. One day he approached the new minister and told him that he couldn't care for the garden any longer. He explained with a shy and happy smile, "My wife just had a baby boy last night, and she's bringing him home on Saturday.”

"Well, congratulations!" said the minister, as he was handed the garden shed keys. "That's wonderful! What's the baby's name?"

"Carl," he replied.

At the end of this piece I read the usual, “Email this to 10 people.” However, by posting this to my blog I know it will be viewed by many more if you will invite your friends to drop by which I hope you will do.

There was a further comment about this being the gospel in 60 seconds. For believers that is true. Yet for a world led astray, what is obvious to us is nonsense to them. Always remember that as those who strive to emulate Messiah what we do shines forth as brightly as Carl actions did. You may be the only gospel your non-believing family member, friend, or associate might ever see. Be prepared in season and out and search for material that will help them hear what you are saying in a way they can receive. And I know that God will be with you as you labor in his garden!

For several years, Ron and I were the couple in charge of hospitality for the MJAA Conference in Irvine CA. During that three-day conference, if you were a volunteer, hospitality was open for you 24 hours a day. Whether you needed a meal, wanted to grab a snack or have a hot cup of coffee, we made sure everything was there. A few years ago, Ron’s missionary schedule precluded our continuing to serve in this way.

Remembering the Past…

As a result, I had not attended this conference, which always seemed to fall on Valentines weekend until last year when my friend, Marlayne Grion, announced that she would have a table. Because of our work at the conference and our association with Chosen People Ministries, people knew me and I felt I could help her become visible to those she had never met so I offered to help her. When I arrived I realized that I was right…She needed my help! For although the conference had begun on Friday afternoon and I did not arrive until two o’clock on Saturday, only a few people had stopped by her table because it was hidden behind a pole making her invisible. Lucky for me, God had always given me an extra measure of chutzpah (lack of fear) when I was faced with situations like this. Sizing up my friends situation, chutzpah took over and I walked around meeting and greeting people I had not seen in a while. Then I invited them to visit Marlayne.

Pressing on Towards the Goal…

Exactly one week from now, I will be setting up my Year of 5,000 Books table at that same MJAA Messianic Conference in Irvine CA. Unlike my friend Marlayne, people know me. However, where my friend had a physical book to sell, I am pre-selling Casa de Naomi – The House of Blessing – Book One - Yearning. Though that might seem odd to some it is what the Ruach Ha Kodesh (Holy Spirit) has told me to do…So I press on towards the goal! If you are wondering why I have not completed Philippians 3:14 scripture I sighted above which ends, “...to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus,” it is because I want you to understand what a huge undertaking of faith it is for me to do what no one else has done! So let me explain by posting my “Dear Friend” letter that is on my website and accompanies my promo package.

Dear Friend,

Because my husband is a missionary, we spend many Sundays in churches and revisit them often. When we do women have confided how relieved they are that we have come and how difficult it is to get their non-believing spouse, relative, friend, or associate to attend the service. Though they know the Lord wants them to speak about the gospel, they fear loosing these relationships and remain mute.

I wrote the Casa Series so that men and women could use the gift of literature to reach the lost. These novels reveal a unique people and their history. Both you and those you gift the books to will enjoy the romantic, historic, fiction. In the first volume, Casa de Naomi – The House of Blessing - Yearning the reader experiences Naomi’s problems, which multiply as she hides who she is and marries Chaz, a man she believes to be Catholic without sharing her secret with him. When she is unmasked as someone other than what he thought her to be, she flees.

As Chaz prepares to leave town, a friend challenges him invoking Gods name. Our hero responds, “Leave God out of this!” This startling conclusion to book one will cause those who have read that novel to read Fulfillment, the second book in the series to discover how our star-crossed lovers’ story ends. They will be surprised to discover the novels name indicates Naomi and Chaz’s desire, which is in Messiahs…Jesus hands. The culmination of their individual salvation stories will guide the reader from our characters journey into their own and show them how to enter into a relationship with Christ our Kinsman Redeemer and experience Gods love for them.

I have signed a contract with Tate Publishing. Casa de Naomi ~ The House of Blessing ~ Book One ~ Yearning will be released in the fall of 2011. While in prayer, I discovered that the Lord wants to get these books into the secular bookstores. That is a tall order since secular bookstores do not carry Christian or Messianic books. However, there is a plan that will accomplish what most believe to be impossible - pre-sell 5,000 books. To my knowledge, no one has pre-sold this number of novels. When we accomplish what most believe to be undoable, the secular booksellers will call the publisher and order the book. And that my friend will get our Lords message spread! I cannot do this by myself. Please join me. Together we can accomplish the impossible, which will cause secular booksellers to order the series.

Change…

If I had attached this letter to my prom package or you had visited my website, you would discover how you could help me and that is important. With the conference uppermost in my mind, I have added new requests. What appears on the letter follows. However for this conference, please pray that:

1. People stop by my table to visit, buy the novel for themselves and other believers.

2. People determine how many gifts they will give this year and purchase the book for these people.

3. People buy books to keep in their trunk to hand out to those who do not know the Lord or give to the Angel Fund so I can do this.

4. People invite me to speak, do a reading, or develop a unique Casa de Naomi event for their church or friends.

5. Lastly, since one does not have to be attending the conference to drop by the Messianic Marketplace, encourage those who live in Orange County, CA to stop by the Hyatt in Irvine and visit my table.


Since many of you live far from me and others have already made plans for this weekend, I have posted my original appeal below:

You can assist me in two ways. First, order Yearning from my website or blog. Second, invite me to speak or do a reading for a group of your friends or your church or any other group setting which you deem appropriate. Since the goal of my visit is to pre-sell the novel, response cards will be available, and I will ask those attending to purchase books.

Yours in Messiah Yeshua (Jesus Christ),
Paula Michelson ~ Messianic Author ~ The Casa Series
Due fall 2011 - Casa de Naomi – The House of Blessing
Website http://www.paulawordsmith.com
Blog http://paulawordsmith.blogspot.com
Email or call me at 949-310-3360 to set up an event for your church or group

Authors Comment – By now some who have been checking my blog are probably wondering where the stories are since I had said there would be stories on this blog. My answer to that question is, come experience the butterfly grove and enjoy…

Fran had not been outside much, what with preparing to get her eldest, Analise off to her second year of college, and settling in for the fall. She was a practical woman, with brown hair and such a petite stature that many thought her no more than a teen. Yet, once one got to know her, they soon realized that she was a force to be reckoned with. She, like the house she ran, did things in a no nonsense sort of way. Underneath it all, she was one of those sweet souls who had devoted herself to hearth and home. Because of this, it was surprising to her two daughters who still lived at home and her husband when she looked up from her Sunday read and sighed, “The Fall Festivals on this weekend.” She waited for a reply, even a smile will do, she thought, but no one said a word. Her husband turned to the next page in his Wall Street Journal’s financial section and continued to read.

Setting her paper aside, Fran stood and began to clean up from breakfast. She did not harp on the matter for she understood how much everyone needed to rest on Sunday since the week was full of commitments and their Saturdays were busy with their Messianic congregation, family, and friends. Still, she thought to herself as she washed up the dishes and set her kitchen to rights, The fall is a beautiful time of year. Nature is arrayed in her very best. The leaves of the trees are changing color from dappled green, to burnt-orange as the season ushers in the winter. Thinking that it had been a long time since she waxed poetical, she took the trash round back, and was hit with a blast of frigid air. Her face numb from the unexpected unsought she closed her eyes and hoping her picture of the day might somehow be realized though, the air turns crisp, not fridge, and the days grow short. However, as much as Fran tried to keep her thoughts from the festival, she found herself again wishing to go. You are not traipsing out there without your family, she scolded herself as she headed in, pulled her warm coat out of the hall closet, and headed out again determined to walk off her desire. She took her usual route past the city park that was five blocks long with its beautiful marshes, past the parks trails, past the manmade beach, jogged around the high school, and headed back home.

Looking up she saw a flock of birds flying off to warmer climes, and smiled as she thought, It is a time of making taffy, and curling up with a good book. Feeling better already, she hurried her pace as she walked along until she found what she called, for want of a better word, her center. She thought of the day Renniha, her second daughter and the most inquisitive of the three had asked, “How do you manage to always look and answer appropriately?” Well, she remembered admitting rather shamefaced that she did not have a grand bible teaching to impart, I ask myself how I would like to be treated, and treat the person I am with that way. Fran had noticed that Renniha had stared at her, just as her family had done today. Pondering her daughters reaction, for perhaps the tenth time since the incident happened, Fran wondered, Why does it matter to you what she thought, as long as she behaves properly I have done my job!

By now, Fran was in a sweat, whether from the weather that had warmed up as the sun reached its zenith or from her own musings, she was not sure, as she hurried back home. All she knew as she opened the front door and put her coat away was that today she would take her own advice and treat herself as she would others.

As she hurried upstairs to get ready to leave her husband hollered, “Where have you been? I have been looking for you!”

Peeking out from their bedroom door, she smiled, “Walking, thinking, and now I’m getting ready to go the festival!”

Before she could utter another word, Fran saw two bedroom doors fly open as her daughters whined, “But mom, you promised…”

Fran had never, for as long as she could remember interrupted anyone. However, she had, had enough! So with as well modulated a tone as she could muster, she insisted, “The weather has warmed up, and it’s a wonderful day for an excursion!”

The sister rolled their eyes. They had learned long ago that when their mom spoke that way, one or both of them, was going to have to do whatever she wanted. Without saying a word Laila looked at Renniha, and nodded in their mothers direction, as if to say, ‘you’re turn.’

Renniha sighed resigning herself to the outing. However, Fran was aware of all they were not saying and announced, “I don’t want any of you to put yourself out on my account!”

The girls looked at each other, shrugged, and turned way.


Ten minutes later, Fran was behind the wheel of their station wagon and heading out all by herself. She felt a little sorry that her brood had decided to forgo the event. However, as she pulled onto the level graveled place where the sign directed visitors to park, her sprits revived reminding her that this was her day, not theirs and that she deserved to do something for herself every now and then.

Even before she locked the car door, Fran spotted the old farmhouse, which someone had bequeathed to the town. As she walked toward it, she was taken back to another time, a time when life was simpler. It was only upon reaching the place that she discovered the grand Victorian nestled in the trees, some distance behind it. Wanting to inspect it more closely she headed out and spotted a meticulously calligraphied sign that read “Butterfly Crossing” on a pristine field of white with raised letters of forest green. I saw one just like this when I parked, she thought to herself aware that the place had so captivated her imagination that her practical nature had taken a backseat to her sense of joyful exploration.

Feeling unfettered by obligations, she walked up the winding path to the Victorian and as she neared the place, Fran realized that it had been built to look much like the brownstones in San Francisco. She paused for a moment, and thought about the people that might have once lived, or visited the place, which was adorned for the season, resplendent in all its Victorian trappings. Interested in the buildings architecture, she mounted the wide veranda that enwrapped the small but pristine Mans, and walked around, as she peered within to view its rooms. She wanted to go in but trying the door, found it locked. Thinking there might be someone about with the key, she turned intending to search for them. She heard the sound of children’s laughter, and headed toward them. As she did, she spotted another “Butterfly Crossing” sign. All right, she thought, I get the message! Yet, as she neared the children, she laughed inwardly as she told herself, Butterfly crossing, why that is silly!

Perhaps if she had not discounted the words, and thereby found herself needing something else to think about, Fran might not have looked up to gage the weather front that was slowly approaching and noticed that the trees across the field, were aglow with moving, shimmering, and varied colors. As she happily exclaimed later, “I will never know for sure what drew my attention toward the fallow field, for I was interested in the Mans, and did not look at anything else once I spotted it!”

All Fran knew at her moment of discovery was that as she stepped on to the field, her feet began to sink into the moist brown earth. An old gray haired gent in a wagon filled with hay pulled up along side and asked, “Do you want a closer look at the butterflies?” Suspending her version of reality, Fran nodded her head excitedly, got into the wagon, and watched with baited breath as he brought her within a few inches of the beautiful and varied array of the butterfly grove. She watched in wondered awe as the old gent lovingly explained, “This grove of trees is in their flight path. They stop here each year, eat till their full, and fly off to continue their migration to warmer places where they winter.”

As she listened to his soothing voice, Fran felt herself surrounded by Monarchs, almost as if she was one of them. She felt the beauty and serenity of their rhythmetic wings that moved the leave of the trees to stir ever so slightly, causing them to look, for want of any better observation, like a living organism. Fran found herself wishing to be one with them, and suddenly aware of that idea, she paused to think. Nevertheless, not being fashioned to be other than she was, at some point she heard the gent’s voice continue, “When they stop here they bring a blessing, and because of that people come to see them from miles, and miles around. In fact,” he smiled knowingly, “that’s why the family that owned the place left it to the city, and made certain that this place was marked as a Butterfly Crossing. But,” he cautioned, “you won’t find many town folks here because their used to the butterfly days. Besides,” he chuckled, “sometimes the pretty little things are nothing more that a darn nuisance!”

Fran looked at him quiziqually. The old gent must have sensed her unasked question because rather than swat the teams rump, and direct them back to the bale of hay where others waited patiently to be taken to the trees he sighed, “Having them here is an amazing experience. Until they get in your path, causing you to chose a different route. Worse yet, they make it impossible for life, to continue in any orderly fashion because of all the visitors. Then, he sighed sadly, as he swatted the horses rump with his reigns and they headed back to the hay bale, “As quickly as they come, their gone. I think their about ready to fly away, since they’ve been here for a week and that’s about as long as they stay.”

She understood more than the old gent said, for having said goodbye to Analise last year as she headed off for her first semester at Stanford, and facing the same ordeal with Renniha’s leaving after the holidays to take up residence in Palm Springs where her grandparents and fiancée live, Fran knew she was facing another loss. Yet, as Fran, headed back to her car and turned back to glance longingly at the grove, she reminded herself that she had learned to let go, as she unlocked the door. As she started the motor, she turned back for a last look and sighed, Their have been only a handful of places in my life that I have regretted leaving, and I most assuredly I have never allowed myself to regret leaving a place I can visit again. Nevertheless, even as she told herself that, and turned her gaze away from the Cypress trees and focused of the road, she felt a pang of sorrow that reminded her of how she had felt and would feel again.

Years later she would admit but only after her husband of sixty years had died, that, in the comfort of old age she had learned to let go of each member of her family, and many other things, and learned how to say hello to the unexpected with a smile.

Yet when she left that grove the first time, Fran found it hard to shake off the feeling that in leaving it she was loosing something special. “Perhaps you have felt that way at times too,” she told them, her aged voice resonate with the joy of her discovery thirty-some years before as she continued, “It's, to hard to put it into words because they still fall short, yet if I had to explain it I would say, it's like a leaving when one should be cleaving.” However, that first time, as Fran hurried home to get dinner started; she realized that she was glad she had taken the time to steal away.

As she hurried in the front door a chill wind came off the Back Bay, and Fran sighed bidding a fond farewell to fairyland fantasies as she hung up her coat. Renniha, her very grown up nineteen year old greeted Fran, and listened as her mom waxed lyrical about her experience. While she did, Renniha realized, yet again, what a gifted poet her mom might have become if she had not married and devoted herself to her family.

“Please come to the butterfly grove,” Fran begged, her eyes bright with the possibility of sharing one last outing together before the daughter that was, became the woman that was to be. As Renniha aquesied, Fran thought, It might have been my not taking no for an answer, I will never know for sure! However, she did not care as they headed back together. All she knew was that they were headed back; just the two of them, and that was enough for her! When they arrived, Fran discovered Renniha was placating her. At least that is how it seemed to her when they reached the bale of hay, found the kindly gent gone, and had to wait until he returned while Renniha silently fumed.

However, it was all worth it to Fran when her daughter spotted the Monarchs. As her daughters face lit up, Fran took a silent photograph and stored it in the memory of her heart as she etched Renniha’s expression of delight upon her mind. This moment she sighed will be one of my favorite ones to remember because it will remind me of our precious time together! As the butterflies did their colorful dance for Renniha, mother and daughter stared in wonder, speechless yet united in a way they had never been before. Then as the sun waned, the two of them headed home, savoring the memory.

As they got out of the car, Renniha turned to her mother and exclaimed, “Thank you insisting I come, and see!”

Fran smiled back thinking that was the end of it, but it was just the beginning. From that time until Renniha left, everyday whether it was good weather or fowl, the two of them headed out to the grove. It was a season of sharing, and carrying. Of growing close to each other as they prepared to say goodbye, for her second daughter was intent on heading down south, and Fran was saying put keeping hearth and home for her and Mort, happy to be there whenever either of their gown daughters could visit or drop by.

Yet as surely as the seasons came around again, the butterflies came back, and this time Fran made the pilgrimage with Laila, her youngest. However, knowing she would be her last child, and that the teen was just a few years shy of flying the nest, instead of watching the array of color as she had before, and allowing herself the fantasy of wondering what it would be like to live the life of the Monarch, Fran watched Laila.

The years, and the cycles of life ebbed, and flowed and before anyone knew it, Fran and Mort were old. Then one day quite unexpectedly Mort died. However, when the daughters returned for the funeral, and spent some time with their mother, and asked about their fathers last words, Fran smiled, “He said I will meet you there.”

The sisters did not know what that meant, but sensing it was something private between their parents, they chose not to pry. However, rushing to their mothers bedside eighteen months later to say goodbye as she prepared to leave them Fran asked, “Remember coming to the butterfly grove?”

Each of them nodded, for visiting the grove had become a family tradition and even though the family was disbursed, at least once a year they all came home with husbands and children in tow to head out too the old farm.

Seeing her brood nod, Fran smiled, “That my children is how God looks at you and me. He looks at us as any loving parent would, for we are His whether we believe or not.” Seeing some of her grandchildren look at her questionly Fran sighed, “How do I know? I cannot explain it all, but in the same way I found myself drawn to the Butterfly Grove, God is drawing us to Him, even now. Even now, he is calling to each of us through the Ruach Ha Kodesh, “Come and see.” Even now, the women are racing to the tomb. Even now, the angel is saying, “Come and see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples: 'He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.”

Analise, Renniha, Laila, their husband, and children nodded as grandma Fran continued, “Even now, the butterflies are flying away. Even now, it is time to decide what you will give your life to, the world, or the Messiah. Even now, before the sunsets, and all is hushed, even now there is time before the last butterfly flutters by. Even now Mort waits for me there.”

I received this from my friend, Joyce Cardoa with a request that I pass it on as one would a chain letter. Since I have never participated in those, I was tempted to delete the missive. However, the title, “God at Work,” caught my eye and I’m glad it did because the true story contained within in is precious and priceless. That’s why I posted it, hope you enjoy it, and ask you to invite others to the blog so they can experience “God at Work.”

A little girl went to her bedroom and pulled a glass jelly jar from its hiding place in the closet. She poured the change out on the floor and counted it carefully. Three times even, the total had to be exactly perfect. No chance here for mistakes. Carefully placing the coins back in the jar and twisting on the cap, she slipped out the back door and made her way six blocks to Rexall's Drug Store with the big red Indian Chief sign above the door.

She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her some attention, but he was too busy at this moment. Tess twisted her feet to make a scuffing noise. Nothing. She cleared her throat with the most disgusting sound she could muster. No good. Finally she took a quarter from her jar and banged it on the glass counter. That did it!

“And what do you want,” the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of voice. “I'm talking to my brother from Chicago whom I haven't seen in ages,” he said without waiting for a reply to his question.

“Well, I want to talk to you about my brother,” Tess answered back in the same annoyed tone. “He's really, really sick...and I want to buy a miracle.”

“I beg your pardon?” said the pharmacist.

“His name is Andrew and he has something bad growing inside his head and my Daddy says only a miracle can save him now. So how much does a miracle cost?”

“We don't sell miracles here, little girl. I'm sorry but I can't help you,” the pharmacist said, softening a little.

“Listen, I have the money to pay for it. If it isn't enough, I will get the rest. Just tell me how much it costs.”

The pharmacist's brother was a well dressed man. He stooped down and asked the little girl, “What kind of a miracle does your brother need?”

“I don't know,' Tess replied with her eyes welling up. I just know he's really sick and Mommy says he needs an operation. But my Daddy can't pay for it, so I want to use my money.”

“How much do you have,” asked the man from Chicago.

“One dollar and eleven cents,” Tess answered barely audibly. “And it's all the money I have, but I can get some more if I need to.”

“Well, what a coincidence,” smiled the man. “A dollar and eleven cents--the exact price of a miracle for little brothers.” He took her money in one hand and with the other hand he grasped her mitten and said “Take me to where you live. I want to see your brother and meet your parents. Let's see if I have the miracle you need.”

That well dressed man was Dr. Carlton Armstrong, a surgeon specializing in neuro-surgery. The operation was completed free of charge and it wasn't long until Andrew was home again and doing well.

Mom and Dad were happily talking about the chain of events that had led them to this place. “That surgery,” her Mom whispered, “was a real miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost?”

Tess smiled. She knew exactly how much a miracle cost..one dollar and eleven cents...plus the faith of a little child.

In our lives, we never know how many miracles we will need. A miracle is not the suspension of natural law, but the operation of a higher law. I know you'll keep the ball moving! Here it goes. Throw it back to someone who means something to you!

A ball is a circle, no beginning, no end. It keeps us together like our Circle of Friends. But the treasure inside for you to see is the treasure of friendship you've granted to me.

Today I pass the friendship ball to you. Pass it on to someone who is a friend to you.

MY OATH TO YOU...

When you are sad...I will dry your tears.

When you are scared...I will comfort your fears.

When you are worried...I will give you hope.

When you are confused...I will help you cope.

And when you are lost...and can't see the light,

I shall be your beacon...shining ever so bright.

This is my oath...I pledge till the end.

Why you may ask...because you're my friend.

Signed: GOD

Paula’s Comment…

I have known Diana longer than any other friend and thought I knew just about all there was to know about her since we have prayed for and supported each other through thick and thin meeting weekly for so many years that neither of us remembers a time without the other. However after I read her story about the first book that mattered, I realized that if we do not ask the right questions those we hold close to our heart and consider dear, remain forever distant to us in areas that matter. As you read I hope her story resonates within your heart as it did mine and causes you to ask those you love questions whose answers will deepen your relationships. Because if we truly believe that God knew everything about us and loved each of us enough to send his son to pray for us as we read in John 17:17-19 “Sanctify them by the truth; your word is truth. As you sent me into the world, I have sent them into the world. For them I sanctify myself, that they too may be truly sanctified,” then for us to do as Messiah prayed and pray for others to do the same, we need to know each other so we can pray as he did.

I received Diana’s story in two parts and I believe it best to post her story in this manner because it shows that relationships and answers evolve. Although Diana’s answers might sound simple, they are anything but. Enjoy…

Diana’s Book…

A book I loved as a child and still do is "The Little Pony Engine" also know as “The Little Engine That Could.” This is the first book I remember reading over and over when I had just learned to read. "I think I can..., I think I can..." was a very self-empowering and self-controlling phrase for this little girl to learn. When I met a situation that was difficult, I would remember the phrase and it gave me strength. About this time in my life, I needed to be strong. My Dad was overseas in the Korean War and Mom and I missed him very much. I still have my original book torn and taped, which I keep in a safe. I bought a newer copy to read again the story that still encourages me. I love the little train that although its size was small its determination was big enough moment by moment.

Diana’s emailed addition…

What I did not include were the trains that were to busy or proud to help the load of toys that desperately wanted to get to the children who were excitedly waiting their arrival. It just did not seem to flow with such a negative thought. This really influenced me too as I saw these traits in others. I did not like them either. I guess that is why I am a "helper" not a leader. Possibly, because of this influence at such an early age I try where others do not. I find I often succeed eventually and it feels so good to know I did something that was pretty great.

Insight…

Diana ended her missive with, “You might want to insert this aspect, or not. I was sort of in a hurry to get this to you.” A true friend, Diana has given me the option of adding, deleting, or changing what she sent. I love that about her!

As I pondered changing what she sent to make it one unified submission, I realized it might take away from the emotional reaction I had experienced when I read the pieces as written and received. That led me to wonder if I had watered down other things like abhorrent behavior, mine or others difficulties or our Lords Gospel. After all each of us can probably recite John 3:16, which was the first bible verse Diana learned when she was in the first grade. It says, “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” Yet we leave the best out when we do not add verses 17 – 20 which complete Gods missive to us. "For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him. Whoever believes in him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe stands condemned already because they have not believed in the name of God’s one and only Son. This is the verdict: Light has come into the world, but people loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil. Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that their deeds will be exposed.”

Here is the crusted of what I learned from that “Little Engine Who Could,” this time around….Since God has told us that his word is active and will accomplish his purpose, do we, by choosing to shorten his message cause people to misunderstand him. Worse yet, do we create a barrier to the message, which did not exist when it was first preached? These questions from a “Little Book that Could…The Bible,” if only we would not change or shorten the message…

I posted one of Ron’s favorite pictures of us on my Facebook page yesterday. Imagine my surprise this morning when I discovered that friends had posited their high fives. That led me to post the following, “When one looks at others with the eyes of God we see love. Therefore, let us befriend ourselves for if God loved us, and we know He did, then why should we discount or doubt how we look or our worth! My prayer for you today is that you receive what is good, disguard what hinders, and rejoice!”

A moment later, I remembered Psalm 64:10, which speaks of rejoicing not over a picture but in the Lord. It says, “The righteous will rejoice in the Lord and take refuge in him; all the upright in heart will glory in him!”

My prayer for you and me today is that we rejoice in what lasts forever and keep our eyes on the Lord.

Because I call this blog, the year of 5,000 books and my book is now in conceptual edit I have post the email I sent to my mishpuka (family) in Messiah.

It’s finally happened! My conceptual editor contacted me! I never knew I could get so excited about receiving an email from someone I have never spoken to or met. But I did and so will you when I share that this is the phase I’ve been waiting for and praying about! I am grateful that the Lord has given me a woman who probably speaks Spanish since her last name is Rivera. I must admit that I’m thrilled because I asked them to give me an editor that spoke and read Spanish and/or Hebrew. Since there is more Spanish in the text than Hebrew, having this editor work with me feels like an added blessing.

So that you will better understand what is entailed, below you will find the outline I received which shows what will happen so that you can continue to pray me through this process.

1. I will edit the entire manuscript, watching for things such as grammar, consistency, plot, description, etc.

2. I will send you the edited manuscript, which will have problem areas and my suggestions highlighted. You will look through those (I'll explain this in more detail at that time) and approve, disapprove, or modify in a different font color.

3. You’ll return the manuscript to me, and I will "combine" our edits.

4. I will return the manuscript to you with our Content Approval Form.

5. You will look over the manuscript thoroughly, sign the form if you are content, and return both it and the manuscript to me. Again, I'll explain more as each step approaches.

Please note that delays or missed deadlines on author's part will result in at least a month delay in book production.

Here's what I need from you:

1) Please send me a quick e-mail confirming the exact title of your manuscript as well as the name you wish to use.

2) If you have anything else you need to add to the manuscript (Dedication, Foreword, Acknowledgments, Epilogue, Addendum, etc.) or if you have not yet completed your Book Teaser/Author Bio, please send those items to me as soon as possible.

3) Send any endorsements to me as soon as possible to include them in/on the book.

Also, you should have received an author questionnaire from our director of copy editing a couple weeks ago. If you have completed the questionnaire, please send that to me.

I have sent her everything as requested and will hear from her within six weeks. At that time, she will send me her editing suggestions, which I will review. When the text is corrected I will send the manuscript to her. Ideally, this would take a few weeks. However, do to ministry constraints and other variables it might take longer.

Once she has received my corrections she will merge the texts and send the corrected manuscript to me. That might take a month. Then my work begins in earnest because I need to examine every dot and tittle to make sure the manuscript reads well, has retained its flavor, and accomplished what God asked me to do.

Since I am wise enough to know my editing skills are lacking and aware that having read and reread the text so often I might think something is there that was deleted I have asked two very gifted friends of mine to read the text at this point and let me know if something seems amiss.
That might take time but I would not want to move ahead until I hear their comments and read their notes. Therefore, I will let you know when the manuscript goes to them because their feedback is critical to the success of this project.

Thank you again for partnering with me. If you plan to attend the MJAA Conference at the Irvine Hyatt on February 18-20, please drop by my Casa de Naomi – The House of Blessing pre-sale book table and say hello. Invite your friends to stop by as well.

Recently, I entered a story contest. I had never entered anything like that before and hoped my work would be good enough to raise an eyebrow or two. I even imagined the judges saying to each other as they passed my work along, “Not bad...this shows potential.” I must admit that my fantasies soared so high that I envisioned them reading the other entries, returning to mine and smiling as they proclaimed, “This is the obvious winner!”

I am certain that all who entered their work were as anxious as I was to discover who had won. The day before the committee was to announce the winner; I discovered that only one entry could win since among the two dozen or more entries only one story had been entered. Being an author, I was certain the winning story was mine because I knew what constituted a story. Furthermore, disqualification of my work was not an option, so I told myself that I had won. “Hurray,” you might say. “Good job!”

However, the idea of winning by default crept in. Now you might wonder why I did this to myself and so did I. Then I remembered the Jewish rabbis attitude towards people, God, and life. These wise men understood how we view the world and they discovered the use of the word adequate covered everything we would experience from cradle to casket. They taught us that when you are born – you are adequate. When you’re a Bar or Bat Mitzvah – your adequate. When you marry – you are adequate. When you graduate college – you are adequate. When you become a Roads Scholar, a doctor, a humanitarian, invent a means of illuminating nuclear waste, solve the problems of the world, and unify the solar system – you are adequate. In Judaism, one can never be more than adequate because according the rabbis we would be elevating ourselves to a position, which belongs to God alone.

This philosophy is valid until we apply it to God incarnate, Yeshua HaMashiach...Christ. In Him, we see the deity of the Godhead and all the humanity of man. Since he called us to be His and walk in a manner worthy of Him, I found myself wondering what He would think of wining or to be more specific, what would He thing about winning by default.

I sought Him, turned to Isaiah 55:8, and read, “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord.

I ponder these words, thought about the apostle Paul, and realized that he gave up everything. I assumed that he had wanted the rabbis to consider him adequate. Yet when Messiah called, he gave his desires no credence – none at all. And we are asked to do likewise.

Now I understand that winning by default or not winning has no value whatsoever unless I am trying to garner applause from men. If that is where my focus is, I will always loose in the end because the things of this world will perish. Only when I strive towards the goal, which is Messiah himself, do I win for then I remember that in Him, I am more than a conqueror!