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.   

My dear husband, Karl, is 25,000 days old today!  I know, it isn’t a normal day of celebration – or even a day we normally take note of – but maybe it should be.  Just think about it: 25,000 sunrises and sunsets. 25,000 chances to do your best, discover all you can, enjoy this world, be useful, productive. To love and be loved.

I can tell you with authority, because I’ve been married to Karl for 15,150 days out of those 25,000, (that works out to 3/5^th of his life!) that I’ve watched this guy through the good days and bad, and I’m continually amazed and impressed with how well he has managed to use his time.  He certainly isn’t perfect, and in his mass of days there have monumental fails, but all in all, I’m thinking there’s more to celebrate than to whisk under the rug.

Every day is an adventure, and I’m thankful to have been on this journey with this terrific partner and friend. So, Happy 25K, Karl!   

Shoot the kitty did NOT see her shadow this morning! Hail Spring! Bring it on!!

I stepped out of my truck yesterday, in the garage, and hit a slick of ice. Both feet went flying and I came down hard as my left hip made contact with the truck’s running board. Dang. That hurt. Took my breath away for a moment. My fanny hurt all day. When I got dressed for bed last night, I expected a humongous bruise to mark the spot. Nope. Nothing.

I feel cheated. Not that I would be showing it to anyone, but I feel like I deserve to have a token for my trouble. There should be hues of blue and black in a banner across that cheek as a talisman to my near-death experience and the pain that has lingered. 😉

Pain is like that, I guess. Be it a bruise on your back side, a broken heart, or a difficult diagnosis. Some pain leaves an outward mark, most pain doesn’t. It’s a reminder to me to treat others tenderly, since we don’t know where they are hurting.

Not long after Karl and I got married, my sweet husband made a request. It was something to the effect of: “As my wife, I would really appreciate it if you would make sure that my jeans are ironed. I like them to have a crease.”

Honestly, I like to iron and that didn’t seem unreasonable.  I did counter him by saying that I thought, in exchange, it would be terrific if he’d make sure my car always had a full gas tank since I hate pumping my own. Deal made. Everybody happy. Mostly, we’ve both held up our own ends of the bargain. Again, everybody happy. OR so I thought.

Oblivious to any problems, I was ironing his jeans and shirts not long ago when my sweet husband looked at me with a touch of a frown. “You do know, don’t you, that you always hang my shirts up wrong?”

Huh? Isn’t there only one way to hang shirts? Apparently not. With a bit more (bewildered) questioning and conversation, I ascertained that what I had been remiss with (for almost 42 years it seems!) was the direction his shirts are facing after I’ve ironed and hung them.  I always face his shirts toward the left when they are hanging in the closet. With his patient redirection and correction, I now know that is wrong. Karl prefers that the buttons be on the right.  

I’ll admit, since receiving that ‘talking to’, I’ve had to rehang several shirts to correct my errant ways. The thing that haunts me, though, is why it took him 41 years and 5 months to bring the subject up?

I’m proud to admit that I have never, in any of my novels, used the word cacophony. I’ve used lots of words, but this one does not join membership in my club.  Why? Hmm. No one anywhere in my realm ever uses the word cacophony in daily conversation. I’ll bet real money you have never heard your gramma say, “You kids stop that cacophony and quiet down!” I’m quite certain you haven’t heard it spoken on a television commercial or in a radio news cast. I haven’t.

So why am I boastful that I’ve never written the word in one of my novels? Simple. Everyone else does. Maybe not everyone, but a grand majority of writers feel the need to employ this non-conversational word within the pages of their books. This fact is a source of mirth for me. Even renowned and popular writers succumb to the word’s allure. Why? I’m not sure. Perhaps they deem it worthy because it’s long and looks erudite. On the surface, it’s interesting, attention getting, I’ll give them that. Whatever the reason, cacophony populates pages on a regular basis. The one thing I am sure of is this: every time I locate and note the presence of the word on a page, I feel like I’ve found Waldo.

I’m wondering, now that I’ve mentioned it, described the red striped shirt and dark funny glasses of this word, will you start finding it, too?