Writer's Magic

Writers possess magic.  It's in their words.  

They compose phrases as powerful as incantations, creating illusions in the minds of readers. These spells make eyes envision things that aren't real; they make hearts feel things that aren't actual. A writer's work is to pen enchantments meant to entrance and hypnotize the mind, causing neglect of all other duties and responsibilities in order for the reader to remain a puppet controlled by the writer's wand. And if some foul friend does manage to break the spell, he is despised for it. His heroics are too late in coming. The words―the fairytales―have seeped beyond the body and into the soul, taking possession. Our poor reader is infected, compromised, never to be cured. The notion of magic found in simple words such as, 'Once upon a time...' has always fascinated me. It is no wonder I am compelled to write.

Copyright 2015 Richelle E. Goodrich

Discouragement, Fear, & Depression

“

Discouragement, fear, and depression—
three villains who lurk in the dark.
They slip inside souls with a blindfold and goals 
to shatter your dreams and extinguish your spark.

Their tactics are highly effective.
They crush a great many each day.
And under their spell it is easy to dwell
On fiascoes and failures that end in dismay.

The heart and the mind are left heavy.
The last speck of will is erased.
And nothing stays on when these villains are gone
but a mouthful of bile with the bitterest taste.

Alas! You must conquer the scoundrels!
Elude, dodge, and keep them at bay!
To feel fear slink in, boring under your skin,
is a sign that his brothers are well on their way.

So reach for your weapons against them!
Take hope and hard work in each hand!
Strap faith on your hips and a prayer on your lips
and show those debasers how firmly you stand!

Discouragement, fear and depression;
the truth should be known of these cads.
They’re empty and weak; it is your strength they seek.
Deny them and life is your wish in the bag.

”

— Richelle E. Goodrich

Gratitude is Medicine

My New Year's Eve was the worst ever.
I felt like the crud under cow herder's shoes, having cried my fair share of tears the past few days. My husband was seriously hurt in a car accident―a wreck that kept him in the hospital for five days, me at his side.  It was wrong; it was just wrong.  For crying in the night, he's the seasoned emergency responder who saves other people in car wrecks!

Life is so not fair. I have been repeating these words as if the fact were some profound epiphany.  This whole thing sucks lemons.  And so for New Year's Eve, all I could think about was how awful, how dreadful 2015 was destined to be.

It seems traditionally we bring in every new year with eager optimism, making grand goals, having great expectations that excite us to action from day one.  We stand at the threshold, hopeful.  But this year, day one kindled no such hope or excitement for me, only a bleak sigh at the unavoidable uphill climb ahead.

It's easy to stew in a pot of "woe is me"―a salty stock made from my own tears.  Nearly lost his life. Stapled and stitched together, his mobility hampered by injury. Bedrest, the doctors say. No work. An active guy forced to stop and wait for bones and flesh to heal.

What a dismal way to start off the new year.  Life is so not fair.

January 1st, the sun rose as always. My spirits did not. I got up and went about helping my husband to carefully rise and strap on a sturdy back brace. Pain killers are administered every four hours; it hurts otherwise. He paused to thank me for my help, for my aid and assistance throughout the past hard week. This John Wayne of a man thanked me with tears in his eyes. I felt a warm ray of sunlight in my chest at his expression of gratitude, and I too was grateful. I was grateful to hear him say those words to me; he does not say them often.

I was affected by feelings of gratitude amid tragedy. The idea made me contemplate how we have things in this situation to be grateful for:

• Survival.  A rear-end collision at 50-60 mph managed to crumple his truck like an aluminum can, but my husband survived.
• No one was in the truck with him―no child crushed in the back seat.
• His injuries, though painful and timely to heal, are expected to mend.  He was nearly killed, but not.  He was nearly paralyzed, but not.
• A great many friends and family have reached out to support us.  They have stopped by for unexpected visits at the hospital and at home, offered words of encouragement over the phone, posted kind sentiments on Facebook, brought meals to us, offered assistance at any time of the day, held us firmly with hugs, whispered earnest prayers―all of it a heartwarming reminder that friends make every bit of difference in life.
• We have learned that laughter is a better painkiller than any narcotic.
• At the hospital, I crossed paths with many a stranger who proved to me that kindness and compassion are still strong in the world.  I also realized that misfortune is a shared truth; everyone has an emotional, true story to tell.

Ironic that I should learn to greater appreciate my own quote:

"Gratitude is medicine for a heart devastated by tragedy.  If you can only be thankful for the blue sky, then do so." — Richelle E. Goodrich (Smile Anyway: Quotes, Verse, & Grumblings for Every Day of the Year)

My eyes still sting with tears, and weariness lingers in my bones, but I have decided that a year beginning with an uphill challenge has the potential to reap more rewards than I first thought.  Perhaps 2015 will be a year of improved health, closer friendships, greater wisdom... and a new truck.

About Christmas

Christmas Day is right around the corner which means for many of us a rush to finish holiday shopping and preparations while squeezing out time to decorate trees, adorn table tops, wreath our front doors, and light up windows and eaves. Not to mention all the added Christmas parties and Winter concerts to attend.  As our check-listing scramble begins to overwhelm, inevitably the spirit of the season diminishes.  

It happens.  Often without notice.  

And so, I would like to revive that tender spirit of Christmas and gently warm your holiday heart once again... that is, if you will take a moment to check-list a short story.

About Christmas
By
Richelle E. Goodrich

　

My identity is not important—age, gender, or ethnicity.  The year and circumstances make little difference either, other than to know it was a cold Christmas night when this miracle occurred in my life.  And though the memories are distinctly mine, vivid and unforgettable as if years had never passed since their transpiring, I sincerely hope through this retelling of events you will acquire every thread of understanding I gained in a remarkable moment of truth.

It was cold enough to snow, yet warm enough to melt every flake that touched the ground.  I sat outside on my front porch, bundled in the warmest wrap I could find.  Inside, the sounds of merriment tickled my ears—a celebration of Christmas among friends and family.  I was missing their exchange of homemade gifts, having put no thought or effort into the task.  Christmas didn’t thrill me like it seemed to for so many others.  And as I sat in the darkness staring up at the twinkling aura of a particularly bright star, I wondered for what reason exactly this holiday existed.

I pulled the wrap more snugly around my shoulders while contemplating a string of traditions practiced yearly at this time.  What was the big deal about observing silly rituals?  Why the extra jollity and efforts this time of year? 

What was Christmas all about? 

I’m not sure how to explain what happened next, only that everything seemed quite natural in its occurrence.  The shimmering star that had locked my eyes upon it—a celestial light I knew to exist far, far from my world—suddenly changed perspective, appearing within my sight as if it hovered above me at an arms throw.  I blinked a number of times thinking my focus would return to normal and the star would once again hang sensibly in the heavens.  Instead, every flitter of my lashes produced a change in the star that revealed with decreasing brightness a male figure centered within the light.  He was beautiful beyond description—white, radiant, and smiling down upon me.  The thought occurred that I had passed on to the afterlife.  Perhaps unawares to my conscious self, I had frozen in the cold and suffered death.  Was this radiant being God?

The man’s smile broadened as if he found amusement in my thoughts, and I worried he could actually read them.  Anxiety made me sink lower, pulling the woolen wrap up over my hair.  The blanket warmed me, and so I doubted I was dead.

“Fear not,” the man said in the softest voice ever to caress my ears.  “Your prayer has been heard.”  I assumed then he was an angel.  To think God would personally come for me was a highly vain notion.

The smiling messenger reached out his hand, and I stared at it, wondering how light appeared to radiate from every inch of his skin.  It turned out he stood even closer to me than I had first perceived.  I blinked again, disturbed by the way distance seemed an incalculable thing in my eyes. 

“Fear not,” he repeated.  “Take my hand.”

Stunned by all the unusualness there was to perceive, I asked, “You heard my prayer?”  My forehead tightened at the idea.  I didn’t recall offering a prayer. 

Suddenly, his radiant palm was pressed against my chest.  “In here,” the angel explained.  “He knows all your heart’s desires.”

I wasn’t sure whether to attribute it to the glowing touch of an angel or the knowledge that God actually knew me, but a warmth beyond any physical source consumed my chest.  All my fears dissipated.

Again a hand was extended to me in offer, and I took hold. 

As inept as I had proven myself at perceiving distances, it seemed time and travel also elected to bewilder my senses.  For I knew we were in motion, and yet my discernment was of the world revolving around me and my heavenly guide.  A whirlwind of chaos encircled us, slowing within a blink to a nighttime sky.  I noticed one difference among the stars—a brighter light shone above the others, penetrating the darkness more effectively than any star I had ever witnessed. 

“Christmas,” the angel breathed, following my gaze upward.

“This is Christmas?” I wondered.  “Is this what Christmas is about?  A star?”

The angel smiled.  “Not entirely.”  He continued to look up.

“Is it about Heaven?” I asked, broadening my guess.

He flickered a glance at me with his beautiful, bright eyes.  “Not entirely.”

I watched him as he watched the heavens, the two of us still holding hands, for I was afraid if I attempted to sever our bond I might fall to the ground which we presently hovered above.  It wasn’t my intent to gawk at him, but withdrawing my eyes proved a difficult thing until something more amazing than a celestial companion lured my focus skyward again. 

Singing, rich and harmonic and penetrating, affected me first.  Such beautiful carols I had never heard before.  As my eyes swept across a choir of angels, I held my breath in awe.  They were singing hymns of joyous praise.  Carols of a newborn king—the Christ child.

I listened silently, my heart affected so profoundly as to bring tears to my eyes.  The whole time my guide squeezed my hand, beaming.  It wasn’t until the choir began to fade that I noticed a meager audience of sheep and shepherds gathered beneath them, witnessing what I saw.

Then we were all at once standing among the shepherds, mingled in their numbers as if we belonged with them.  I could understand their acceptance of me, being wrapped in a woolen blanket that resembled their draped attire, but I knew not why my companion received no incredulous looks.  Perhaps because of the messenger angel above?

“Fear not.  For behold I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.  For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior which is Christ the Lord.  And this shall be a sign unto you; ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.”

After a final chorus of praise, the angels went away.  I was sad to see them go, to have their inspiring music no longer permeating the atmosphere.  Naturally, I sighed at such a stark loss.

My glorious companion sighed likewise.  “Ahhh, Christmas.”

I nodded.  “Is this what Christmas is about?  Singing carols and songs of heavenly praise?”

The angel smiled kindly at me.  “Not entirely.”

“Is it about the message then?  Is Christmas about heralding Christ’s birth?”

I was given another patient smile.  “Not entirely.”

We separated from the shepherds, our feet touching the ground now, taking steps on a dirt road.  I felt secure enough to let go of my companion’s hand.  He released my fingers readily.  Our walk remained quiet; hushed but for the nocturnal sounds of herding country.  I pondered the things that had transpired—the message delivered by heavenly hosts to humble, poor shepherds willing and ready to hear.  This was the first Christmas.  This was Christ’s birthday.  What else would Christmas be about if not Him?

I had taken a few steps beyond my angel guide when I realized he was no longer at my side.  Turning back, my eyes opened up, aroused from my deep, inner reflecting.  We were standing in the shadows of a lowly stable.  Stone, wood, and straw were arranged as shelter for docile animals.  A small light shone from within, sustained by a single candle.  I squinted to make out two silhouettes that appeared joined.  Mother and baby.

I couldn’t help but ask, whispering, “Is it Him?”

The angel nodded, his smile tempered by reverence. 

“This is the first Christmas,” I said, making sure my understanding of events was correct.

The angel nodded again, concentrating on the newborn child.

“Christmas is about the baby, Jesus.” I declared. 

The angel’s smile reappeared as a result of my certainty.  “Not entirely.”

I crumpled my brow, frustrated, but a large shadow distracted my attention, appearing from the back of the stable.  A man approached and knelt beside the mother and child.  His arm fell gently around the woman, his free hand careful to cup the baby’s head.  He leaned in to kiss his wife.  The picture touched my heart.

“Is Christmas about family?” I asked.

I mouthed the echoed response.  “Not entirely.”

My eyes flickered from the forms beside a manger to my companion.  It was strange that his brilliance didn’t light the darkness within the stable.  But what hadn’t proved strange thus far?  I was about to question his definition of “entirely” when the scuffing of collected footfall caught my ear.  I twisted my neck to find strangers approaching—shepherds in rags and sandals followed by men garbed in finer, richer fabrics.

“The wise men?” I guessed.

My companion nodded.

I watched as the visitors cautiously approached, waiting for permission from the stable’s occupants to come close enough to witness the Christ child.  I wanted a closer look myself and followed the others across a carpet of strewn straw.  I watched the wise men kneel to place gifts at the mother’s feet.  She appeared truly grateful.

“Is Christmas about gifts?” I asked.  It was a holiday tradition spanning the ages, to be sure.

“Not entirely.”

The mother, a pretty young woman, held up her baby for all to see.  His features were glowing in the candlelight.  He was asleep.  Adorable.  He appeared so tiny and fragile, snuggly wrapped in a single blanket. 

“He came to save the world,” the angel told me.  “To suffer and die for all of us.”

I nodded, aware of the truth.

“Is that what Christmas is about?” I asked.  “Christ’s purpose?  His suffering and death?”

There was no smile on the angel’s face when he turned to me, only gravity in his eyes.  “Not entirely.”

I sighed.  What in the world was Christmas about then?  I thought of the few Christmases I had celebrated in my own lifetime—gathered around family, singing carols, exchanging gifts, retelling the story of our Savior’s humble birth, rehearsing by heart the angel’s tidings of joy to the shepherds.  Was this not what Christmas was about? 

When the others stepped back, I knelt before the new mother, questioning her with my eyes as to whether or not it would be okay to touch her child.  She smiled with understanding and held him out to me, offering the chance to cradle the babe in my arms.  I couldn’t make myself do it.  To hold my savior was a privilege I was unworthy to accept.  I yearned, though, to at least touch him.  With a trembling reach, I let my hand fall gently against his cheek, so soft and warm.  I feared for a moment my touch might be too cold, but the baby stirred and turned his face toward me, his little nose nuzzling in my palm.  I exhaled raggedly and chuckled at this.  My breathing stopped entirely when his eyes opened up. 

He looked right at me. 

I couldn’t turn away, even when my sight blurred with tears.  His tiny fingers moved to wrap around my one, clasping on.  Behind him, I caught his mother’s smile as she assured me, “He loves you.”

I bawled like a baby at her words because I knew they were true.  His life, his actions—they proved it to be so.

It took some time to regain my composure before I could speak again.  My companion waited patiently for my eyes to dry.  He was nodding before I even asked the question.

“Is Christmas about love?”

“It is.”

As my angel guide departed to take his place in the heavens, I found myself once again seated on the porch outside my own house.  I looked up in time to catch a shooting star.  The laughter of friends and family carried to me from inside.  Rising to go join them (wondering what the chances were they would believe my miraculous story) I heard the truth proclaimed in the quietest, piercing voice.  Words of a loving Father.  Words I resolved that very Christmas night to forever abide.

“For I so loved the world that I gave my only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.  Love one another, even as I have loved you.”

Copyright 2012 Richelle E. Goodrich

 

Give

“The sun rose and said to me, 'Be a ray of sunshine for someone today.' 
The wind nudged at my back and said to me, 'Blow a kiss to someone today.' 
The rain wet my cheek and said to me, 'Dry a tear on a somber face today.'
The soil fed grass at my feet and said to me, 'Add pleasure to a life today.'
The ocean washed ashore and said to me, 'Calm the tempest of a troubled soul today.'
The mountain trembled and said to me, 'Soften a heart of stone today.'
The moon lit the night and said to me, 'Show the way with your simple giving.'

So I went and did as they bid me do.

And the sun shone brightly on me. 
And the wind caressed my face. 
And the rain washed away my stains. 
And the soil made a rose garden along my path. 
And the ocean carried me from shore to shore. 
And the mountain sheltered me from storms.
And the moon smiled down on me.

I've come to realize I can never give enough to recompense what I get in return.” 

― Richelle E. Goodrich

I Am Thankful

It's Thanksgiving Day and I've eaten waaaay too much......again. The turkey, potatoes, gravy, dressing, sweet yams, homemade rolls-it was all delicious.  Well worth the hour of bloated misery afterwards.  But as  wonderful as our traditional spread  always is, the turkey and tempting trimmings aren't my main draw to this holiday.  I like that Thanksgiving is a day of opportunity to give sincere thanks.  I enjoy taking time to really contemplate the many things I have--the abundance of blessings I enjoy.  And today I've done just that.  Here is my list of ten things I'm genuinely thankful for.  It barely scrapes the surface.

1.  The chance to be Mom.  There was a time I thought I would never get to hear someone call me mommy, until three great boys blessed my life. Now I get to hear, "Mom!" all the time--spoken, whined, grumbled, and even yelled across the house.

2.  The opportunity to pray.  I learned to talk to God when I was little, and I've done so daily all my life.  Things I can't tell anyone else, I tell the Lord. He has become my best friend. 

3.  The phenomenal things done on a cell phone.  I can self-publish a book, take virtual tours, watch tv, communicate with anyone anywhere, pay bills, create music/photo albums, see my house from space, play chess with a stranger in Japan, check my heart rate and temp, Google info on any curious thought, and tons more!

4.  Having my parents nearby.  The years tend to teach us what a miraculous blessing it is to have parents who sacrifice so much (including moments of sanity) to raise you, who continually support your far-fetched goals, who listen to your complaints, and who would never ever consider forsaking you. Parents are golden. 

5.  The continual improvement of talents. I kept a copy of  my very first attempt at writing a novel. Reading it makes me groan (and sometimes laugh out loud.) Oh, how far my writing has come since then!  I can only imagine the progress in years to come.  I'm grateful for the fact--practice is improvement, and improvement only leads to perfection. I can see this truth in my artwork as well.

6.  Hot fudge sundaes. My new favorite treat is a smooth, sweet, tempting, mouthwatering, chocolatey, irresistible,  oh so yummy... uh, be right back.

7.  Family and friends.  Relationships make life richer.  Everyone needs a little love and attention—both given and received.

8.  The time and freedom to write my books.  I've learned to use moments wisely and not take time for granted, knowing small increments add up.  Word by word I write my novels.  They are my escape from life's burdens, a portal to new worlds and realities, a fresh change of scenery, a means to interact with my imaginary friends, and a real workout for my creative muscle.

9.  Good health and strength.  Truly, being well and whole and able are great blessings not to be taken for granted.  I love that I can walk, breathe freely, feel good, see to read, and type to write. 

10.  Learning new things.  It's incredible how much information exists at our fingertips nowadays. Want to know about something?  Just go online, search the topic, and see the mass material available! 

The Next Chapter You've Been Waiting For in The Tarishe Curse

Happy Halloween!  

       An air of excitement sends a chill down my spine because I just posted the next chapter of The Tarishe Curse online!  As in years past, this spook tale that continues every Hallows Eve is dedicated to my friend, the reigning Queen of Halloween—Cathie Duvall.  If you have recently become aware of our Hallows Eve tradition, click on the title here—The TarisheCurse—and enter a gripping Halloween tale that will have you returning every year on this same spooky night for another reader's treat. Now, get comfortable, ghouls and goblins. It is story time!

“Vengeance would have us assault an enemy's pride to beat him down. But vengeance hides a dangerous truth, for a humbled foe gains patience, courage, strength, and greater determination.”

― Richelle E. Goodrich