In January, Karl and I made a trip to Moab.  I’ve been there twice before, and both those times, my friend Mary Jane —  the reason for the trip — welcomed me to her home and made me feel like I was special. Like I was the person she most wanted to see at that moment. Cherished. For many years, Mary Jane loved me as a precious friend, a cheerleader for me as a writer, and as an untiring, patient source of amazing information. She welcomed me to her home with good meals, lots of stories, unwavering support. When we weren’t face to face, we were avid email buddies, sharing, laughing, staying connected. I’ve never met anyone more alive, more joyful, more thankful.

My third trip to Moab was different. Sad. We went to say goodbye. It was difficult to drive into Moab knowing I wouldn’t get that hug and that welcome. And of course, I didn’t. Not from Mary Jane. But I did receive a welcome from her children that rivaled hers. Unfettered love.

Today is Mary Jane’s birthday. She would have been 91. I’m celebrating the day in thankfulness. Thankful that she read my first book and reached out. Thankful that I had the blessing of knowing her. So thankful to know that her spirit and outlook lives on in her family. And it lives on in me.

Hey friends, have you recently gone to Amazon to buy a copy of my first novel, Mountain Time and been confused with finding it listed for a crazy high price?  Don’t be dismayed or confused, and don’t be taken for a ride somewhere you don’t need to go.  Somehow, there’s a guy out there (actually I researched him, he is in TURKEY of all places!) who thinks it a bargain to sell MY book for exaggerated prices. One offering I found was over $80, another for $31.  Not that he’s offering me any royalties for his efforts, but really, who’s going to buy it at that price anyway?  Here’s a work around for the problem.  Search Amazon for “books by donna coulson”. You might still find Mountain Time for that whacko price, but you’ll also find it for $15. From Amazon. New. And I’ll get the royalties.  Thank you for your attention to this matter! 

Karl and I were talking about the Christmas story last night. Specifically, we were discussing the angel’s appearance to the shepherds and the wonder of a battalion of angels singing overhead. He asked a question neither of us had thought of before. ‘Do you suppose the angels knew? Did they have access to God’s full, entire plan?’

We pondered that for a while. The heavenly host are warriors fighting unseen above us and all around us. These battle-hardened soldiers had seen the worst that humanity offered and the strength that Satan’s forces were gaining as evil thrived.  On the night of Jesus’ birth, they’d already been fighting a long time. Ugly battles: wars and threats to Israel and God’s people from within and without, plagues, heresies. Did they know the full plan?

Or, did the messenger’s announcement to the shepherds come as such a welcome surprise that they spontaneously formed a heavenly choir to sing Alleluia for the shepherds and the vast night sky and welcome God’s decision to move? Did they think that their fight in the heavenly realms was about to be over? Did they expect this precious, perfect child to grow up and lead a final, decisive battle to end the war once and for all? Or, just thirty-three years later, did they watch in agony as their own Hope was nailed to a cross? Did the heavenly host that horrid day stand with their fists clenched and their swords at the ready, aching to step in and fight despite their orders to stand down?

We don’t know. Worldly logic tells me that foot soldiers are rarely made aware of the ultimate battle plan. Jesus Himself told us that no one, not even Himself, knows the time of the Second Coming. It makes sense that they didn’t know about the first, either. That knowledge and choice is God’s and God’s only. So, maybe the angels didn’t know. Maybe they, like us, don’t know what tomorrow will bring. But what is true, is that whether they did or not, on that night, that Christmas night so long ago, perhaps weary and tired of fighting, a huge host arrived to praise their Commander and sing, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.” Can we do any less?

You might think this is a picture of an empty flower bed. Just dirt. Barren. 

November arrived ten days ago.  Along with it came a time change which plunged us into darkness each day before I’m ready, trees without color, vicious winds that cut through nearly any coat I chose, a definite dip in night and day temperatures, and the desolate reality that winter is settling in. I’ll admit, I was feeling a little blue about the whole prospect. Sunshine is my game, not chapped lips and cold toes.

But then. A glimmer. Thirty tulip bulbs straight from Holland arrived like a candle in the window of my gloom. Now, they lie beneath that seemingly barren dirt in my back yard whispering a warm promise each time I glance that way.  That empty flower bed is my talisman of expectation. Of anticipation. The light at the end of winter’s tunnel is already shining.

This is what God gives us when we trust Him.  Not warmer toes or longer days, but a promise. An assurance that after the winter there will be a spring. Happy November, Everyone!

I’ve always loved Emily Dickenson’s poem that starts “Hope is a thing with Feathers.”  That image touches me. I love that she doesn’t call hope a bird, but instead a ‘thing’ with feathers. I’ve been pondering what kind of a ‘thing’ joy is, but naming the essence of joy isn’t easy. To me, joy is iridescence. Usually unexpected. A weighty lightness. Sparkly fireworks filled with surprise and flickering beauty. Joy doesn’t endure – has a shorter lifespan than hope without doubt, but the residual effect of a moment of pure joy remains in some unnamable chamber of the heart where it is protected and cherished.

I came close to a metaphor for joy recently quite by accident. My dear husband had double knee replacement surgery at the beginning of this month. (All went well, though considering the pain he is in right now, that assertion is a hard sell.  It’s going to take a while to recover, but he will. No doubt I’ll write more about this more later but for now, his surgery only serves as the setting for my encounter with finding what kind of ‘thing’ joy is.)

Anyway, as we sat in the surgical waiting room (our daughter Amy and me), entertaining visions of what was taking place in an unidentified OR somewhere nearby, a music-box-like rendition of Brahms’ lullaby came across the hospital’s otherwise silent PA system. Huh. Wonder what that was all about? I gave it little thought. Then, maybe an hour later, it happened again.  Curious now, and tired of just sitting and waiting for news from the surgeon, I walked myself up to the reception desk and asked the very kind lady there about the serenade. “Oh, they do that when a baby is born in the hospital.”

There it is! That insubstantial spark that sidelines the worries, the hum-drum, the bad and the worse and replaces it all for just a moment with the unbounded ‘thing’ that is joy.  A new baby! A new life! The unexplored promise of a newly created future. We heard that lullaby two more times during our time at the hospital, and each time I was able to stop thinking about how pale Karl was when they brought him to his room, and the weight of the next few months ahead as he recovers, and simply rejoice at a new life just arrived. And that tiny thing – that tiny joy – buoyed me and encouraged me.  I really don’t yet have a Dickenson-worthy definition of what kind of a thing joy is, but for now, the lilting tones of Brahms’ lullaby will suffice.

Life isn’t for sissies or the cowardly. It is hard. Unpredictable. It is difficult to face the inexorable passage of time, the aches, the pains, the unknown of how each day will go and how it will all end. Quick or lingering? Painful, undignified wasting away? Grey hair and walkers? Gone too young, before it is fair or comprehensible.  I shudder. Even with a deep and unshakeable faith, the unknown is frightening, ominous. Threatening. Then this:

In her tribute to her husband at his memorial service, Erika Kirk described Charlie Kirk’s final moments: “There was no pain, there was no fear, no agony. One moment Charlie was doing what he loved, arguing and debating on campus, fighting for the gospel. And truth. In front of a big crowd. And then he blinked. He blinked. And saw his savior in paradise. And all the heavenly mysteries were revealed to him.”

What a picture! What a beautiful, amazing thing to look forward to!  No matter what leads up to those final moments, the joy and hope of all believers is in that blink.  One blink. Oh man!  What peace resides in that idea!

I appreciate many of the posts by Nick Freitas on social media. He is a delegate in the Virginia state legislature, Christian, devout and succinct. After the assassination of Charlie Kirk, Freitas tweeted his strong and passionate – and yes, quietly angry – thoughts and reactions. In essence, Freitas made the claim that for years he had attributed the name calling and personal attacks from the left as “simply hyperbolic rhetoric done for effect.”  He went on to say that view changed with the murder of Charlie Kirk and the celebrations that ensued. Now, instead of seeing the argument as healthy, though obnoxious, disagreement, he understands that the confrontation is “a war between diametrically opposed worldviews which cannot peacefully coexist with one another.”  Freitas goes on to declare, “My Christian faith requires me to love my enemies and pray for those who curse me. It does not require me to stand idly by in the midst of the savagery and barbarism.” 

Freitas’ outrage, and his changing perceptions mirror my own. Opposition presented with civility and an honest desire to find a meeting place, even if that meeting place is an agreement to disagree, is healthy, wholesome. I’ve engaged in that kind of discourse with others as a result of my blogs and in my everyday life. I’ve listened, considered, appreciated, and in some cases been changed by those types of exchanges. But there’s another kind of discourse: a bullet from the back, an anonymous email filled with hate and name calling, a sucker punch that excludes the ability for reply. These constitute the savagery and barbarism that Freitas is decrying and that diminish us all by preventing growth and change on either side. Their goal is to hurt and to silence, not to communicate and listen.

And this is where I am today. Hovering between righteous anger and the serenity of forgiveness and trying hard to embrace them both in an effort to honor God and stand for what is right. I am acutely hurting from hateful acts and words and for those who deal them out. I will continue to pray for wisdom and understanding to be an instrument of peace while knowing as well that I am called to be a strong and courageous warrior in the face of evil acts and evil ideology.

It seems as if the world blew its mind on Wednesday of last week.  People are grieving, others are cheering. At the forefront is a discussion about freedom of speech and what constitutes appropriate expression and what inappropriate language looks and sounds like. Sides are polarized, angry. The definition of appropriate speech as opposed to ‘hate speech’ is the crux of the discussion.  Let’s think about that for a minute while I share my thoughts. I will be more than willing to hear your thoughts, as long as they are civil.

What hate speech is: Note: I used AI on Google to begin this list. Note that AI says that hate speech is specifically when expression is aimed at “race, religion, sexual orientation, or gender.” The unspoken part of that definition is that being white, Christian, and straight disqualifies you from being the recipient of hate speech, and to that I completely I disagree.  

Forms of expression that intend harm.

Forms of expression that vilify another person or group.

Conversation that does not involve both parties listening and respecting the other’s views.

Name calling with high potency labels: fascist, racist, homophobe, bigot…

Forms of expression that incite hatred or violence against another person or group.

Expression that pulls the trigger on a bolt-action rifle aimed at another human being.

Expression that refuses to acknowledge another’s right to a differing opinion.

Expression that denies another the ability to share opposing viewpoints.

Celebrating the misfortune or grief of another.

What hate speech isn’t:

                Feeling strongly and speaking passionately.

Speaking the truth as that person understands it.

                Sharing honestly and earnestly one’s thoughts and opinions.

                Desiring a frank discussion about an issue, a true give and take.

Refusing to take part in a lie.

                Choosing not to take part in the delusions of others.

                Doing one’s best at living, with the understanding that we all are fallible human beings.

Book 4 in Emmaline’s story is now available!

Search on Amazon for

Testing Faith by donna coulson

for your copy!

 “God,” Emmaline prayed, “Take me where You want me to go, and give me the courage to go there.”

After an eventful British honeymoon, newlyweds Emmaline and Graham Harris joyously anticipate beginning their lives together as they return to Wyoming with their two adopted daughters and a baby on the way. Their family and friends in Encampment look forward to welcoming the travelers home and settling down with them into life’s normal routine.

Finding that normal just may be more difficult than they expect. New challenges, harsh hazards from past and present, disappointment, betrayal, danger, and death will work together to assail the family’s trust and love.

In this fourth novel in Emmaline’s Story, we are once again invited to share in the lives of both fictional and real-life people we’ve come to love. Set against a backdrop of historical events pulled straight from newspapers, interviews, and a wealth of public records, the Harris family weathers the triumphs and ravages that life brings them.

These challenges tax their strength and resilience and become a true test of faith.

I have a little round scar on my thigh from when the fire from my father’s cigarette fell off and burned me while we were watching some firemen put out a house trailer fire. The memory of that burn isn’t actually a bad one. I barely can recall the burn itself, but I certainly remember sitting next to him in his old truck, making sure my knees were out of the way when he shifted, and sharing the excitement of watching the firemen at work. It’s an odd thing to think about after all these years, I know.  It is a small but indelible mark that reminds me of my dad.

Come to think of it, I have another scar that reminds me of him as well. Also small, this one is just to the left of my shin bone. My dad was no where near when I got that one. Instead, he was sitting by a lake, no doubt another cigarette between his teeth or fingers, staring at the water and waiting for a fish to bite. Me? I was at least a mile away, riding his old Harley Davidson motorcycle. We were camping, just he and me. I was about ten or eleven. I wasn’t riding fast, but I felt like ‘big stuff’ being out on my own. When I hit a deep rut in the two-track road, the bike dumped over, catching me for a moment underneath it and cutting my leg. It wasn’t a horrible gash, though I remember it hurt. The worst part was that I was little enough and the motorcycle heavy enough, that I couldn’t get it stood back up by myself. I tried. And tried.  In the end, I had to walk back to camp (on my sore and somewhat bloody leg) and get my dad’s help.

More important than the scar I was left with that day is the mark it and a hundred other marks left on my soul from adventures and misadventures I experienced as a result of my dad. I learned to be intrepid because he didn’t tell me not to be. I learned to be strong because he took it for granted that I was. I became capable and responsible because that’s what he expected.

My dad passed away twenty-five years ago today. That’s a long time to not hear his voice or his laugh. But. It isn’t so long that I don’t remember and cherish them, and so much more.