Monday, April 25, 2011

"Love is not just a spoken word" by Noemi S Rabina

This was submitted as a Valentine's story -- I have been negligent in waiting so long to publish it. But, when you think about it, any day is a good day to be thinking about love. ~ Bonnie

Coming from a meeting one beautiful Thursday morning, as I drove along Downey ave. I was annalyzing the message that I heard from the speaker about love. She based her message on I Corinthians 13. What struck me most were the passages that says, "(V4) Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. (V5) It is not rude, it is not self seeking. It is not easily provoked, it keeps no record of wrong doings. (6) Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. (7) It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres."

God's love is always directed toward others, not towards ourselves. It is possible to practice this kind of love, giving love to others and expecting nothing in return. We can give without loving, but we can not love without giving.

I thought of my sister living not too far from me. We have not talked nor have seen each other for a long time. Both of us were busy doing our own activities. While I was on the road, I saw the newly built bakery shop on Downey Ave. I stopped to get some pastries for my sister to surprise her with a love gift since Valentine’s Day was around the corner. I called her up and said that I will just pass by on the way to my Memoir Writing Class. She invited me in but I just stood by the door for they have a big watch dog inside. The dog loves me so much that it will leap on me and sit on my lap. Not this time when I have to go to my class.

Since then, my sister and I have talked more often, putting aside small petty disagreements. Another sister of mine lives across the ocean and I also love her. I always remember her with gifts from the heart. God made us sisters and all that God has created are good. It is better to build bridges than putting a fence between friends, relatives, and especially, sisters.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011


I had purchased a little fairy figurine just a few days before Joe, my husband, became ill. I had bought her even though one of her arms was broken off because she was so especially beautiful, and I had planned to place her on a shelf in a way so the missing arm would not be noticed. As the time went by during my tending to Joe, I began to realize how she was symbolic of that which he and I were going through at that time.

Poised in dance-like abandon on my dining room table, she was my comfort and guiding light when I would sit down for a needed break, while Joe, lying in the hospital bed in the living room, was slowly and gradually slipping away each day.

My fairy would give me of her delicate strength that assured me that this situation was in divine order, totally in God's control and playing out in the way it was supposed to be doing. This little soul had suffered the loss of her arm and yet was intrepidly giving forth of her beautiful spirit in ecstasy and rapture. Her severed limb spoke of the coming loss which I was about to go through, the separation of a vital part of me, my right arm, that which Joe was to me, even during the time his torn mind had hidden itself into obscurity. But my fairy reminded me that at his death I could continue in elegance and faith, still looking upwards to my highest good, soaring with Joe's spirit into acceptance of what was yet to come.

I will continue to dance, despite my loss, like my inspired little fairy, a fractured but triumphant spirit, who was still poised and able to hold her head high in acceptance of God's wondrous ways. My companion and husband, my right arm.... gone.... torn asunder by the reality of the order of life; but because of the fortitude of this luminous little being my exultant spirit is joining with him in higher realms of faith and hope and courage.

photo by Mary Ramirez

Monday, April 4, 2011

Thoughts on healing and love, by Annette Skarin

How swiftly my life slips
through the hourglass allotted me
I try to make sense of the plots and characters
woven between each line

I reduce the monsters to peons
one-dimensional and harmless
I listen intently for my real name
which only my Creator knows.

My story flows from my pen
The ink dries with each healing word
leaving a permanent trail of discovery
My abusers become powerless
with each forgiving thought

Today a friend said
“I love you, Annette”
leaving me warm and full
Today my Father whispers to my heart
I love you my child – if I will be still and listen
The denouement of my story is His