I find it incredibly interesting that cases of osteoporosis significantly increased in the mid 2000s. In fact, from 2005 to 2018 “data from the National Health and Nutrition Examination Survey shows a significant increase in cases.” Google says this is due to the “aging global population”. Huh. My grandmas aged, they didn’t drink milk, they didn’t have it. My mom aged. She didn’t have it either. Huh.

Here are some other fun facts.  The Dexa scan was invented in 1987. In the early 1990s the WHO established criteria for reading the scan. (Oddly, at first they looked at an average T Score for all spots scans, now they just consider the lowest T score as the one to go with.) In 1998 Medicare began paying for Dexa Scans. In 2002, a preventative task force for the US Preventative Services began recommending regular Dexa Scans for women 65 and older.

And this: in 2005 Boniva was approved for treatment of osteoporosis. Prolia was approved in 2010. Neither drug cures osteoporosis, neither even reverses it. Simply put, the drugs might stop the advance of the disease though they can cause jawbone decay and leg bone fractures among other uncomfortable and progressively dangerous side effects. Huh. In addition, patients with this diagnosis are told to take Vitamin D supplements which often cause kidney stones. Huh.

My personal takeaway: Which came first? A horrid, widespread disease that demanded clinical attention, or the scan and the drugs, then the need to create fear in women in order to generate paying pawns, uh, patients to pay for those scanners and help pharmaceutical companies to get rich?

Well, I’m not going to ponder it for long. After I finish this glass of milk, I’m going to go weed my garden and live like my grandmas and my mom.  See ya!

Back in November, (the 10th to be accurate), I wrote about the barren coldness of the coming winter. I shared that I’d received a ‘glimmer of hope’ in the guise of some tulip bulbs, planted with the hope of their promise. Well here we are! April, and a gift has arrived. My tulips have begun blooming. Joy erupting from the cold, rocky dirt. Promise fulfilled. Hope realized.

God is good every day. He keeps His promises. Enjoy, relax, everything’s going to be alright.

What a beautiful, loving God we have! I hope you had a wonderful Easter. Ours was quiet and gentle, much different than the Resurrection Morning described in the Bible. I can imagine the disbelief, the stress, the internal panic that probably took place that morning. “What? His body is gone? You are mistaken, I’m sure.” “You SAW Him??” “Wait, what? Who walked with you on the road to Emmaus? Not really?!?” “I don’t believe it!”

And then, finally, at some point the Light began to dawn and understanding came to them. “Oh. That’s what You meant!”

I’m thankful to know the whole story, to be able to navigate Good Friday with absolute assurance. To be able to awaken on Sunday morning with the full knowledge of Jesus’ sacrifice and its meaning. Grateful that I know what happens next in the greatest story ever told.

Grateful, also, for a quiet Easter enjoying the company of my favorite husband. Awed that he will still humor me and color Easter eggs with me.

A bit ago, the book club I’m a member of decided to honor two members who are no longer with us by donating a Book Club Kit to our county library in their memory. During a meeting I couldn’t attend, the ladies decided that the book they wanted to donate for the kit was The Archer’s Perspective by…yup…donna coulson!

I was touched at their decision and helped put together the reader’s guide that accompanies the Book Kit.

I was in the library today (looking for the book our club is reading for next month), and thought it would be fun to share a picture of the book kit of my book with you. It was listed among the kits offered and marked with an * as a new set, and that was cool. But. I couldn’t take the picture. The kit wasn’t there. It was checked out!  Okay, so I get that pride is a sin, but I’ll admit that knowing another book club is reading my story makes me do a little happy dance. 🙂

For the last few years, by this point in the spring, I am furiously working on finishing a novel. You know, reading each page over and over for the inevitable typo and working on ‘fun stuff’ like formatting and covers. But not this year. Sorry. First off, there was a lot going on last fall that made writing a lower-than-normal priority. Now, I’m writing nearly every day and my latest book is going well, but it isn’t done. Or close to done.

This novel, the one in process, is a historical piece, but when I do release it, I think you’ll find it a bit different than the rest. A bit edgier, a bit less gentle. I think you’ll like it.  I hope you do.  In the meantime, I have a favor to ask.  Please. Go to Goodreads. Write reviews of my other books you’ve read. You don’t have to be eloquent or long winded, just honest. Short and sweet is good.  Thanks!

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.