Last week I shared a note I recently wrote to a lady who had left me a note on my website. This week I want to share one more. This note was to a lady who said she had read Tender Grace four times in six months!

Well, she had her reasons.

I am so sorry to hear that you lost your sister and soul mate. I have a sister, two years younger than I, who is so dear to me, and I can imagine your anguish. But I was glad to hear you are considering a trip and that you are going to trust God to lead you in the days ahead. I hope you see again and again that he is the “Faithful One.“

I’ve heard of people re-reading Tender Grace, but four times in six months must be a record. If you have done that, it must be because you saw all the things I was hoping readers would see.

And that has encouraged me. Thanks again.

I have always liked to think I would have been the one leper out of ten who would have fallen at the feet of Jesus to say, “Thank you.“

A thankful heart is one of the keys to happy, emotionally healthy living. I try to spend time every day thanking God for what He has done and is doing in my life and the lives of those I love. This gratitude makes all the difference.

It’s kind of funny, I suppose, to thank people who have written to thank me, but it means a lot to me. It’s all I can do sometimes not to look out my window and say, “Would you look at this, Lord.“ So for any of you readers who have taken time to say you’ve enjoyed something I’ve written—Bless you.

I’ve always been affected by the story of the ten lepers that Jesus healed, affected specifically by the fact that only one thought to say, “Thank you.“

I’m sure it was love that led Jesus to heal them, not the desire to be thanked, and so those of us who “give a cup of cold water in his name” don’t do it to be thanked either.

But it’s so nice when it happens.

When someone writes a note on my website, I’m always encouraged. I’m aware of the effort it takes to write a note, and I try to write a note in return. I doubt those that leave a note expect it, and I’m sure I’ve missed someone along the way, but gratitude makes me try.

I thought I’d take the next two weeks to share a couple of the notes I’ve written lately. I hope the ladies, who will be anonymous, won’t mind. I thought what I wrote in these particular notes might be interesting or even helpful to those who read my blog. I hope so.

The note that follows is to a widow who asked a question many have asked. My wish for her at the end of my note is my wish for you as well, dear reader.

I saw your note on my website, and I wanted to thank you for taking time to write. I love hearing from people who have read one of my novels. I’ve heard from several widows and most of them can’t believe I’m not a widow myself.

If you click on the Books section on my website and scroll down to Tender Grace, and then click on the Q& A, you’ll find many questions and answers about the writing experience, including something of an answer to your question.

Every night when I was working on Tender Grace, I’d come out of my study, so glad to see my husband in the living room watching a ball game as he is right this minute. We are at the age where we do not take our days together for granted.

I have several close friends who have lost mates—one in her 30’s, two in their 50’s. But I think I wrote because of my parents, 84 and 93 now, who seem to be in a perpetual leave taking, dreading so much the day that can’t be far off when one will be without the other. So I asked the question—How do we go on?

Tender Grace was my answer. It will be my answer whatever I face in the days ahead. The concerned, loving, faithful presence of God in our lives is the theme of my life, and writing Tender Grace let me proclaim it. That made me very happy.

May the “Faithful One” be near you as you enter a new phase of your life. I hope He surprises you with joy upon joy and that you’ll be amazed.

I’m ready to begin a new year, which surprises me. It has always been hard for me to let things go, even a calendar year.

For instance, before I left the first house we bought and moved “up” to a nicer one, I actually went through a mourning period. Brief, compared to some of my more notable bouts of mourning, such as the emptying of our nest or leaving the college classroom I loved, but significant, nonetheless.

One night shortly before we moved out of that first little house, I got out of bed, pulled on my jeans and a t-shirt and walked barefooted down our familiar street. As wonderful as I anticipated the days ahead to be, a happy six-year chunk of my life was over, and at least a brief mourning was called for.

After one last look at my little world, I walked up the driveway toward the back door. Then I did something that, even then, I hoped no one saw. I walked over to the side of the house, pushed aside the shrubs and—hugged the house. Yes, I can hardly believe it myself.

After I had embraced it a minute or so, or maybe it was a few seconds—it’s hard to say, I thanked it for six wonderful, growing years and said goodbye.

That was over thirty years ago, and letting go to embrace change hasn’t become easier, even when it’s necessary or beneficial.

But a theory of counseling, and also a premise of Scripture it seems to me, maintains that change is desirable and attainable. The wonderful book of Philippians says that “he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus (1:6).

Finally, I find myself beginning to welcome change that can bring about growth. (Note that it unnerved me a bit to write that.)

Tony and I just recently signed a contract to sell our home in the Joplin area (three removed from that first one). We built it five years ago and planned to spend Act III here. But after we both retired from jobs that required our being in Joplin, our daughter Leanne urged us (perhaps the word “badgered” is more precise :-) to move to Branson, MO, and build a house on one of their acres, which overlooks a field of cows and Taneycomo Lake:  “You can write here, Mom!“

When we began contemplating it, I woke myself up one night saying, “I’m afraid.“ Well, we’ve been in Joplin 41 years, most of our married life, and Tony says if you cut me I’d bleed Ozark (OCC) blue, so yes—fear. But I prayed about it, of course, and not even a week later Tony and I were saying, “Why not?“

Packing up to move, leaving Joplin—its people and places, building another house, being in limbo while it is built, revising another novel and asking God to provide still other stories—these things await us in 2010. And other things no doubt—things we can imagine and others we can not.

But I’m going into the new year remembering the one who said, “It is I; don’t be afraid.“ And I’m asking for God’s love, wisdom, and power to help me in the days ahead.

In connection with that, there are five verses in Philippians I plan to memorize and hope to live by this next year (and the years that follow). Maybe I’ll tell you about that next week.

I hope you had a wonderful Christmas.  What did you get? What did you give? Did you think of something to give Jesus?

If not, an anonymous poet writing about a holy Christmas offers many suggestions of things we can bring to the manager. It’s not too late. I give you this poem as a belated Christmas present, a gift that has the potential of making 2010 the best year ever.

Christmas is holy only if you come

                        In silence to the manger, to behold

                        Your holiness made visible to you.

                        Your gifts are but your open hands, made clean

                        Of grasping. Nothing else you lay before

                        The newly-born except your doubts and fears,

                        Your pale illusions and your sickly pride,

                        Your hidden venom and your little love,

                        Your meager treasures and unfaithfulness

                        To all the gifts that God has given you.

                        Here at the altar lay all this aside

                        To let the door to Heaven open wide

                        And hear the angels sing of peace on earth,

                        For Christmas is the time of your rebirth.

I suppose gift giving became a part of our celebration because of the gifts of the Magi-or perhaps because of God’s gift to the world, his savior Son.

Giving to those we love at Christmas is not a bad thing at all, but one way we can adore our Lord is to bring material “gifts” to him. After all, it is a celebration of his birthday.

Just on thing we could do, for example, is provide Christmas for someone who wouldn’t have it otherwise, or be part of that endeavor, depending on what resources are available to us. In as much as you have done it to the least of these, Jesus said, you have done it unto me.

But there are other things to bring, that are not material and are just as significant.

“Shall I play for you” the wonderful old Christmas lyric goes, “on my drum?“ This ability is all the little drummer boy has to offer, and the image of him standing by the manger in his rags, wanting to give what he has touches me endlessly. Perhaps you don’t play a drum, but there is something you can do for him with the talents he has given you.

Madeline L’Engle says the artist (think of that in broad terms as whatever you can do) is “a servant who is willing to be a birthgiver. In a very real sense,“ she says, “the artist (male or female) should be like Mary who, when the angel told her that she was to bear the Messiah, was obedient to the command.“ L’Engle says that whether the work is of great genius or something small, the artist either agrees to give it birth and says, “My soul doth magnify the Lord,“ or refuses. “Not everyone,“ L’Engle writes, “has the humble, courageous obedience of Mary” (Walking on Water 18).

Praising, as I discussed last week, and giving are, in a sense, ways of bowing before him.

But I’m wondering how long it has been since in some private place we have literally fallen on our knees, like the beautiful Christmas song says, overwhelmed by the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Perhaps this could happen if we somehow slow down and listen for the angels’ voices and visualize the miracle of the “night divine,“ and contemplate all it means.

Short of that, or along with that, I try to find things to display in the house for Christmas that represent a bowing heart. One is an ornament that hangs in the middle of my tree at eye-level. It is a pure white Lennox china circle. Cradled in the bottom of the circle is the baby Jesus. At the top of the circle opposite the Christ child, written in script, is a simple word: “Behold.“

I’ve held the grandchilden up to see it. We exchange a smile. The children know its significance, understand its preeminence. Another testimony sits on my mantle. It is a gold colored bust of a wise man, head obviously bowed in reverence.

Such are good reminders when I’m racing through the house with wrapping paper and a stack of boxes or rushing out the door with a plate of cookies for another holiday get-together. The white lights twinkling on the wreath over the mantle and on the tree by the front windows reveal what matters most at Christmas: a baby-and a wise man bowed in reverence before him.