This week we Heart Matters gals are highlighting Amber Krueger's beautiful blog. She uses her gifts of creativity and artistry to bless and encourage others to do the same.

Check out her blog: https://byambershands.com/. It's a wonderful collection of yummy recipes, creative crafts and ideas to inspire you to tap into your own God-given gifts and abilities.

The last few days have been incredibly difficult ones for me.

On days like today, when my heart is heavily burdened, when my thoughts are clouded and my spirit is grieved, I find myself drawn to performing simple tasks with my hands.

During the month of July, we gals at Heart Matters want to lift the voices of other women who write beautiful blogs.

I'm delighted to re-post a beautifully written blog by Hannah Sorvik Fordice.

The story of life is quicker than the blink of an eye, it is hello, goodbye…until we meet again.

—Jimi Hendrix 

One of the advantages of advancing years are all the memories that are stowed away in the heart. Like treasures that have been carefully tucked away up in the attic, we brush the cobwebs aside, lift the trunk lid and memories come spilling out.

I’ve reached the age where my train of thought often leaves the station without me.

—Maxine 

I’m aging. And it’s getting more and more apparent: from the crow’s feet around my eyes to my ever-growing wattle neck. Yep. Inherited that lovely item from my grandma o. There were so many wonderful traits I would have loved to have inherited from grams, but, this is the one I got. 

“There is nothing more beautiful than someone who goes out of their way to make life beautiful for others.”

Mandy Hale

“I tell you the truth, anything you do for the least of my people here, you also do for me.”

We gals grew up hearing and reading love stories and fairy tales from the time we were little. One of my very favorites was, and still is, Cinderella. 

Perhaps I am drawn to her story because, like myself, she was just an ordinary gal. 

And, she, like many of us, found herself stuck in what felt like the inescapable drudgery of daily life.  

No book is a chapter

No chapter tells the whole story

No mistake defines who we are…

I heard an old man speak once… He said that he’d finally figured out a few years ago that his profound sense of control, in the world and over his life, is an addiction and a total illusion. He said that when he sees little kids sitting in the back seat of cars, in those car seats that have steering wheels, with grim expressions of concentration on their faces, clearly convinced that their efforts are causing the car to do whatever it is doing, he thinks of himself and his relationship with God: God who drives along silently, gently amused, in the real driver’s seat.

Anne Lamott  

I don’t know if it’s because I’m a firstborn. A child of divorce. A burden-bearer by nature that desperately wants everything to be alright. Or a combination of all three. 

“I’m feeling very thin and vulnerable, in a good way.”

Amy Layne Litzelman 

It hit out of nowhere. The flu.  

They ate till they were gorged— he had given them what they craved.

Psalm 78:29

There is a difference between eating and drinking for strength and from mere gluttony.
Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862) 

They were longing for a better country… a heavenly one.

Hebrews 11:16

Think for a moment about the word paradise, what comes to your mind? Is your first thought a tropical retreat with white sandy beaches and swaying palm trees? Or does a cabin up in snow-capped mountains with stunning views better fit your notion of the word?

My idea of paradise would be a little cottage surrounded by flower-filled gardens set in the Lake District of England.

The mere thought of getting away to places such as these stirs our hearts with longing.

There is something almost magical in the plotting and planning of a trip, whether it is to Boston or Barbados, Portland or Paris. Once we’ve settled on where we are going, the anticipation begins to build as the longed-for day of departure approaches, which to me is half the fun. After counting down the days on your calendar, you finally begin your journey, and before you know it, you are finally in the destination of your dreams - you are in paradise.  

But, a strange thing begins to happen to me after I’ve been away awhile. I begin to feel a lot like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. In spite of the fact that Dorothy and I once ached to be somewhere over the rainbow where all our dreams would come true, it is not long after our wishes have been fulfilled that we begin to yearn to be back home.

It’s not what you gather, but what you scatter that tells what kind of life you have lived.

Helen Walton

Whoever clings to his life shall lose it, and whoever loses his life shall save it.

Luke 17:33

It’s midway through August now, and I’ve already spotted signs of season’s change.

I’ve spied goldenrod blooming, burning bushes blushing in shades of pink and red, and tall grasses waving taupe-colored plumage. I’ve noticed crabapple trees shedding their yellowed leaves and stood gazing in marveled wonder at the peapod-shaped seeds that now top what was once a cheery carrot-orange butterfly weed.

I’ve been so taken by those odd looking seed pods of late, that I’ve started taking pictures of them. Have you seen them in your neck of the woods? If not, you ought to be on the lookout for them.

They’re green now. But, as the waning days of summer march on, they will dry into a tanned husk and break open. Then, the seeds inside will fly.

Last year I picked a dried pod that was chuck full of seeds and placed it on my desk. I can’t explain it, but, it spoke to me then… It speaks a clearer message to me now.

Here's what it's whispering...

My life. Your life. Our lives. They’re fleeting.

…the Father…does not change like shifting shadows.

James 1:17

I’m Lost

I’ve gone to look for myself

If I get back before I return

Please ask me to wait!

Our last day in Aix en Provence happened to be Market Day. And I, for one, was not leaving until I had sufficiently shopped as many stalls as possible.

Nearly every inch of those tight, old Roman city streets was lined with vendors plying their wares.

We began our little spree amidst the artfully displayed tables piled high with vegies of every shape and variety. Little chalkboards with the prices in Euros were wedged between purple l’aubergine (eggplant), bright red tomatoes, orange peppers and bundles of laitue (lettuce).

From there we made our way over to the local les fromagers (cheese makers) who were offering small wedges to taste, and to the meat merchants slicing slivers of saucisson for sampling. And who in their right mind would pass up the wine vendors? A sip of summer rosé does a heart good.

Then there were the stands of fresh cut flowers—big bouquets of les tournesols (sunflowers), peonies and roses, as well as plants to add to one’s garden. I could’ve stayed there all day, but, a booth filled with homemade soaps of jasmine, cherry blossom, vanille, and nearly every fragrance under the sun, tempted me to move on. That was followed by a stall filled with all things lavende (lavender).

The deeper we went into the market, the greater the hordes of humanity. Temps were nearing 100° - the humidity was thick.

And I loved it! Absolute joy…

That is until my hubby and I got separated.

 "My soul is utterly frantic for that single place of perfect refuge from which I can clearly see the winds rip and hear the tempest tear, yet despite the ferocity of the tumult I rest in such sublime peace it is as if neither existed at all. And if I have not found such a place, it is because I have not yet found God."

Craig D. Lounsbrough

Between thunderstorms, I scampered outside for a breath of fresh air…and to take a sneak peek at the state of my waterlogged gardens. There amidst the leaves and twigs littered across our yard and driveway, I spotted a sweet little birds nest lying on its side. I was grief stricken. The violent wind and rain had shaken that little shelter right out of the tree limbs.

I carefully took the nest inside and placed it on my desk in my office. Then, I made my way back out to the deck to pull my poor potted lavender plant under the eve. It, too, looked as if it had had quite enough of the wet weather and could use a bit of a reprieve.

Hoping to spend a few minutes outside journaling between storms, I set out in search of paper towels to dry off my patio table and chairs.

As I began to wipe the glass surface, I noticed a moth clinging to the underside of our table.

I ran inside to grab my camera and took a photo of my insect friend just as the heavens began to weep once more, sending me scurrying inside.

Standing at my sliding glass doors I watched the heavy raindrops pour down from the sky. It felt as if the heavens were weeping both raindrops and tears.

With all the tragic events that have unfolded, with such hatred and division plaguing this nation of ours…is it any wonder?

I wept along with the clouds.

“Spring flew swiftly by, and summer came; and if the village had been beautiful at first, it was now in the full glow and luxuriance of its richness. The great trees, which had looked shrunken and bare in the earlier months, had now burst into strong life and health; and stretching forth their green arms over the thirsty ground, converted open and naked spots into choice nooks, where was a deep and pleasant shade from which to look upon the wide prospect, steeped in sunshine, which lay stretched out beyond. The earth had donned her mantle of brightest green; and shed her richest perfumes abroad. It was the prime and vigour of the year; all things were glad and flourishing.”

Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist

You made summer… and gave it to the earth.

We seem so frightened today of being alone that we never let it happen. It is a difficult lesson to learn–to leave one’s friends and family and deliberately practice the art of solitude for an hour or a day or a week. And yet, once it is done, I find there is a quality to being alone that is incredibly precious.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Early in the morning, well before sunrise, Jesus rose and went to a solitary place where he could be alone in prayer.

Mark 1:35

I spent the afternoon gardening at my friend Mariann’s house. When we parted ways she blessed me with gardening goodies. As soon as I got home, I planted those green gifts, along with a packet milkweed seeds I’d purchased, to add to my growing gardening collection of butterfly-charmers. I love everything about butterflies–from the fuzzy caterpillar stage to chrysalis to the final metamorphosis. That’s why flowers like allium, asters, bee balm, coneflowers, daylilies, hollyhocks, lavender, Russian sage and Shasta daisies fill every space possible in my garden to attract my beautiful winged friends. 

I now notice almost every single butterfly. I pay attention to most plain old butterflies, not just the ones in tiaras or argyle socks. Butterflies…are like one perfect teaspoon of creation.

Anne Lamott

For all the enjoyment fuzzy caterpillars and flittering butterfly antics bring, it’s the cocoon stage that absolutely intrigues me. I find it nothing short of supernatural! How God takes a hairy little creature with myriad legs and transforms it in the quiet darkness of a chrysalis into a winged thing of beauty–in just a week or two–flabbergasts me.

And yet, astonishingly enough, that very miracle of transformation that God shapes in a cocoon, he also longs do in us.

But, that kind of work requires something of us.

It requires our time. Just as the weaving of a caterpillar into a butterfly takes time.

In order for God to do that kind of supernatural metamorphosis in our lives, we must carve out time hidden away from all eyes but His. Time alone. Time in solitude. Time enough to free us from distractions. Time enough to abandon ourselves to the Spirit in order to stretch, mold and shape God’s heart in us.  

Solitude is not simply a means to an end. Solitude is its own end. It is the place where Christ remodels us in his image and frees us from the victimizing compulsions of the world. In solitude our heart of stone can be turned into a heart of flesh, a rebellious heart into a contrite heart, and a closed heart into a heart that opens itself up once more.

Henri J. Nouwen

It’s plain and simple, life or the plans we make in life are not plain or simple.

Austin Kleon

I had spent countless hours on the internet pouring over airline, hotel and B&B sites for our trip to France last summer. I started the process in February, booked our flights the end of April, and our hotels the end of May.

But, even best-laid plans can change at a moment’s notice.

Our flight was delayed two hours in Minneapolis. The connecting flight in Frankfurt--missed. Confusion and mayhem ensued. Long lines endured, barely. When we finally arrived in Geneva hours later, Rey’s bag had gone AWOL, literally—even the airline had no idea where it was.

And to top it all off, Rey was scheduled to start work at a cheese factory in the Alps the next day. Only, his uniforms and boots were packed in that lost suitcase--floating somewhere out there in the airport stratosphere.

Here’s the thing I’m learning through experiences like this one… God doesn’t always get you where you are going to smoothly.

But, I like things to go smoothly. In fact, I kind of expect it to. How about you? If you're like me, interruptions, schedule changes, waiting in long lines, or behind slow cars in the fast lane when you're in a hurry can be a real mood changer.

Why is that, I wonder? It’s not as if everything in life falls into place or goes according to our plans and dreams every single time. But, somehow we still expect it to and are so disappointed, frustrated, or agitated, even with God, when it doesn’t.

What does this say about me? About us? What does this say about our faith in a God who works all things together for our good? (Romans 8:28)

Our arrival in France put us behind schedule in every way. With no way of connecting with le fromager (the cheese-maker) in Bogeve, we headed to our B&B on Lake Geneva. The following day we nervously made our way to our hotel in La Chappelle d’Abondance and prayed for the best.

“Civility awareness and a common foundation of considerate conduct are crucial to our future. Let us work towards not only bringing civility back in style, but ultimately making it a lifestyle.”

Cindy Ann Peterson

The Power of Civility: Top Experts Reveal the Secrets to Social Capital

Put a guard over my mouth, Lord; keep watch over the door of my lips.

Psalm 141:3

I found myself in a long line at Walmart the other day. It’s one of the reasons why I find it so difficult to shop there…those lines try my patience! Yet, there I was. Stuck, like everyone else ahead of and behind me.

Let me just say that there was plenty of foot-tapping, head-shaking and sighs going on all around me. That is until one woman could no longer hold her tongue and unleased her frustration on the poor cashier.

Nothing unusual these days. But, what was unusual was that rather than turn away wrath with a gentle answer as Solomon so wisely advised, the cashier instead goaded the irritated customer with snide remarks and sarcasm.

This only flustered the older woman further. She searched desperately for support from one of us in line, who now had their eyes diverted in order to avoid being drawn into the situation.

After she was gone, the cashier continued to belittle the “rude woman” to the remaining customers in line.

I was saddened.

When it finally came my turn at the register, the cashier tried to lure me into her tirade as well. Instead, I shared a little story with her. I told her that several years back when my sister was hospitalized with brain cancer, I spent days at time away from my own family in order to care of my sister’s three children. I often brought them back home with me, as well, so that my sister's hubby could be by her side. Before long I felt emotionally, spiritually and physically spent and, as such, I have no doubt that I said and did things under duress I would surely regret today.

I continued, “We never know what the back story in another person’s life is. Yes! That customer may have just been downright crabby, but, since we don’t know, it’s always best to counter rudeness with a civil, polite, courteous, grace-filled response. Because the only words we can control are our own.”

She started for a second, then began offering excuses for her behavior. I simply listened and walked away disheartened.

Sadly, this scenario plays out every single day. At Walmart. At the grocer’s. At restaurants. Sometimes even at church.

It happens in our vehicles, too–only we use hand and head gestures and, these days, sometimes bullets to get our point across.

What has happened to civility? To patience? To respect? To common courtesy and being polite?

A canvas: linen, muslin, sometimes a panel; then the gesso—a primary coat, always white. A layer of underpaint, usually a pastel color, then, the miracle, where the secrets are: the paint itself, swished around, roughly, gently, layer on layer, thick or thin, not more than a quarter of an inch ever—God can happen in that quarter of an inch.

Steve Martin

I first caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye.

As I panned across the Conservatory’s colorfully riotous display of flowers, I spied a bent-over elderly figure, seated on a bench, tucked between the lilies and cyclamen.

There he was quietly working. His paints, brushes, water jars and a completed canvas lay spread out beside him.

I was drawn to him like a moth to flame.

I tucked myself into a little nook, just behind him, where I could watch as he delicately worked his craft. His first strokes were a watercolor wash of teal blue-green. When his backdrop was dry, he took out a pencil and lightly drew the outline of the flower he intended to paint. He dipped his fine brush into the water jar, then into red paint, then added white and worked them together to get just the right shade of pink.

Each sweep of his brush had intention. Each swirl. Each stroke. He knew what he wanted to accomplish. One-flower-at-a-time.

To my untrained eye, however, there were times when he’d add a color that looked muddied or seemed to ruin the work altogether. But, a line of paint would be added, giving definition. And before I knew it, what I thought to be a mistake, transformed into a thing of beauty.   

Isn’t that the way God works his brush strokes across the canvas of our lives?

He, too, like my elderly friend, goes about his work quietly. Despite the fact that we wish he’d speak up more and explain himself.  

And he is never in a hurry. Though we often wish he’d move a little faster. But, he has a process. His first strokes lay the foundation from which our lives take shape. He knows what he wants to accomplish in us. One-stroke-at-a-time.

 In the place where Jesus was crucified, there was a garden containing a new tomb in which nobody had yet been laid. Because it was the preparation day and because the garden tomb was conveniently near, they laid Jesus in this tomb.

On the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene arrived at the tomb, very early in the morning, while it was still dark, and noticed that the stone had been taken away from the tomb.

Mary stood outside the tomb weeping. As she wept, she knelt to look into the tomb and saw two angels sitting there, dressed in white, one at the head, the other at the foot of where Jesus’ body had been lain.

They said to her, “Woman, why are you crying?”

“Because they have taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where they have put him!” she said.

Then she turned and noticed Jesus standing there. But she didn’t recognize him.

Jesus spoke to her, “Why do you weep? Who are you looking for?”

She, supposing that he was the gardener, said, “Oh, sir, if you have carried him away, please tell me where you have put him.”

Jesus said to her, “Mary!”

At this she turned to face him and said to him, in Hebrew, “Master!”

John 19: 41 and 20:1, 11-16

This is one of my very favorite passages in all of Scriptures.

And I love it for so many reasons…on so many levels.

For one thing, I love that of all the places that God could have arranged for his Son’s body to be lain after the Crucifixion, he had him placed in a tomb in a garden.

And that makes sense. It was, after all, in a garden that God’s story with humanity first began.

The Eternal God planted a garden in the east in Eden—a place of utter delight—and placed the man (and woman) whom He had sculpted…whom He had formed…there to care for it.

And where it all went terribly wrong…

The woman approached the tree, eyed its fruit, and coveted its mouth-watering, wisdom-granting beauty. She plucked a fruit from the tree and ate. She then offered the fruit to her husband who was close by, and he ate as well. Suddenly their eyes were opened to a reality previously unknown. For the first time, they sensed their vulnerability and rushed to hide their naked bodies, stitching fig leaves into crude loincloths.

Genesis 2:8 and 3:6-7

Then, in this garden where Jesus is lain, God redeemed that story.

The circle once broken in Eden’s Garden, by flawed, sin-stained humans like you and me, finds its completion at the foot of a cross in Golgotha where Jesus died, then climaxes in this garden when he rose again.

God brought His story…our story…full circle in a garden.

Another part of this story that I love is God’s timing! Of all the times of the year that Jesus’ death and resurrection could have taken place, he chose springtime! A time when life here on earth is awakening from the deep death of winter. Both landscape and human hearts alike are experiencing the renewal of hope that this Easter time of year brings.

Easter is the soul’s first taste of spring.

Richelle Goodrich

Mary’s heart began to thump and her hands to shake a little in her delight and excitement. What was this under her hands which was square and made of iron and which her finger found a hole in?

It was the lock of the door which had been closed ten years and she put her hand in her pocket, drew out the key and found it fitted the keyhole. She put the key in and turned it. It took two hands to do it, but it did turn.

And then she took a long breath and looked behind her up the long walk to see if anyone was coming. No one was. No one ever did come, it seemed, and she took another long breath, because she could not help it, and she held back the swinging curtain of ivy and pushed back the door which opened slowly — slowly.

Then she slipped through it, and shut it behind her, and stood with her back against it, looking about her and breathing quite fast with excitement, and wonder, and delight.

She was standing inside the secret garden.

It was the sweetest, most mysterious-looking place anyone could imagine.

Frances Hodgson Burnett

The Secret Garden

There’s something quite delicious about discovering a secret place.

My uncle once discovered a hidden little cove on one of his many Huckleberry Finn adventures along the riverbanks of the Allegheny. This sweet secluded pocket of still, clear water was where he would bring my sis’ and I to swim—while the river itself raced past just feet away. It was our secret place and we, like Mary in her secret garden, felt such incredible awe, wonder and delight when there.

When visiting my hubby’s sister and brother-in-law in Morelia, Mexico last February, I discovered another wonderful little secret. Hidden behind the barred gates and stucco exteriors of the houses built one-right-next-to-the-other were…

Private gardens. Walled-in spaces for the homeowners alone to enjoy. Some were decorated with pavers and fountains, others with grassy areas to lounge in. Each one hidden away from the stares of the people on the street.

Perhaps that’s what Solomon envisioned when he wrote the following love letter to his new bride…  

You have captured my heart, my treasure, my bride.

You are my private garden…scented with the very choicest perfumes! An orchard of pomegranates with all kinds of luscious fruit… A secluded spring, a hidden fountain, a well of fresh water…

Song of Songs 4:9, 12

And every day, the world will drag you by the hand,

yelling, “This is important! And this. And this…”

And each day, it’s up to you to yank your hand back,

put it on your heart and say, “No. This is what’s important.”

Iain Thomas

Above all else, guard your heart, for from it flows the issues of life.

Proverbs 4:23

When my hubby and I lived in France long years ago, there was an ancient city that I so wanted to visit. A city we’d driven past on several occasions. But, we were always on our way to or from a basketball game. And, much to my regret, we never found the time to stop.

Last summer I finally got to check that visit off my bucket list.

Carcassonne is an old fortified city that stands like a beacon on a hilltop. A fairy tale, Cinderella city with turrets and barbicans and stone-laid streets that, if you closed your eyes and imagined it, you would feel quite certain that a horse-mounted knight-in-shining-armor would clip clop past you at any moment.

As romantic as it was to imagine life in those days, God had a few thoughts of his own to speak into my soul that day. Starting with a whispered, “Guard your heart…”

I had loved those words from Proverbs ever since I first heard them many years ago. But, being reminded of them again in such an imposing city like Carcassonne, made the words spring to life for me.

Carrying any baggage with you into the New Year? Oh…I’m not talking about those extra pounds we all put on over the holidays. Or even the balance pending on your credit cards. What I’m talking about is the emotional stuff we lug around with us—old junk that we just can’t seem to shake off—excess luggage like old grudges, hurt feelings, discouragement, nagging worries and cares.

I sure feel like I am carrying a big old suitcase or two with me this year.

The problem with carrying that burdensome stuff around with us is that it doesn’t just weigh on your mind, it weighs down your heart and impacts your life.

It leaves you wide-eyed at night. It shadows you during the day. You try to release it. You beg God to take it. But, somehow it still haunts you.

Over the last few weeks I’ve been reading through the book of Proverbs. When I came to chapter nine, the following verse jumped right out at me. It stopped me in my tracks.

Leave your old ways behind and live!

Proverbs 9:6

Why is it so hard to leave those old ways behind? Why do we struggle so with carrying these burdens from one year to the next?

I think one reason is that after a spell, we grow accustomed to them. Oh, we don’t like insomnia any more than the next person, but, there is also something oddly comforting in bearing old grudges, in feeling justified in hanging on to hurts others have inflicted. And, how can one not feel a bit discouraged these days when we look around at the chaos in our world? Or if you’re one for whom the floor fell out of your life or out of the life of a loved one, how can you not carry that around with you everywhere you go?

We will open the book. Its pages are blank. We are going to put words on them ourselves. The book is called Opportunity and its first chapter is New Year's Day.

Edith Lovejoy Pierce