THE THANKSGIVING I WILL NEVER FORGET: Devotional by Lorilyn Roberts

 

Many years ago, I sat with my dad on the front porch one summer night in Marietta, Georgia. The stars shone brightly overhead, and the chirping of nightlife filled the air. We got into a discussion about whether we would live to see the turn of the century. I was a young teen at the time, but my dad was in his 40’s.

He shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll live that long. I’d be in my 70’s. Well, maybe.”

Both his parents died when he was young, so his words hung in the air, pressing in on me that I would probably outlive him and my mom, although my mother’s side of the family is long-lived—typically into their 90’s. My mom is approaching that age in 2021. Sadly, my dad didn’t make it to 2000. He passed away in 1994 from a brain tumor, but he was close.

My dad used to say that even though his body had aged, his mind was still the same as when he was young. I never understood what he meant when I was young. I suppose if you get Alzheimer’s, that’s not the case, but the thought that your mind doesn’t age like your body does is intriguing. How can that be? 

As I continue to stretch myself doing things I never imagined, I hope it will help keep my mind spry. I am learning Morse Code and pondering what my first sentence will be when I go on the airwaves. The biggest adjustment will be instead of sending out captions at 260 plus words per minute, I’ll be “competent” if I can send out ten words per minute using C.W. 

I just applied for Social Security and will be retiring at the end of the year. Where does the time go? I remember a poem I wrote by that title when I was around fifteen. Because my mother loved it so much, I even turned it into a song.

It’s so easy to lose track of years as they come and go and not even realize decades have passed in what seems like the blink of an eye. Since August, I’ve been an empty nester. Both my daughters have moved out. I even needed to replace the 20-year-old van that I bought when Joy was still an infant.

While I might be sounding a little melancholy, I’m thankful to be alive. And this Thanksgiving, I wanted to focus on how grateful I am for all the blessings God has given me.

I asked myself, what is my favorite Thanksgiving? At sixty-six, I’ve lived through quite a few. And the answer came almost as quickly as I asked the question. I want to share an extraordinary Thanksgiving story from when I was seven.

My mom and adoptive father married on November 3, 1962. Three weeks later, that Thanksgiving holiday, my life changed forever. The arrival of my childhood pet is a story made for Hollywood. But God wrote it for me before the foundations of the world.

At a tenuous time when my mother had just remarried, because we moved to a different area of Atlanta, I had to switch schools. I was a lonely, confused kid. Being forced to repeat first grade didn’t help. But God had His eyes on me. He knew I needed a special friend. Our loving, heavenly Father sent me a stray dog that taught me more about God and the meaning of love than most seven-year-olds could ever understand. That is—unless it was someone like me, someone who needed the kind of love only a dog can give.

Here is an excerpt from my recently published book, Tails and Purrs for the Heart and Soul.

 

Seven Years Old

 

One morning I awoke from a fantasy world more thrilling than Disney could ever create. I felt a wet, warm kiss on my cheek. When I opened my eyes and saw a dog, I wrapped my arms around her.

“Who are you?” I asked. As my dreamy eyes focused, I saw she was white, and somehow, she had walked into the house, run up the stairs, and found me in bed.

My mother stood across from me with a smile etched across her face.

I patted the dog’s head. “Where did she come from?”

“This is Gypsy. We’re going to keep her,” she said.

I blinked to make sure I hadn’t died and gone to heaven. Not that I even knew where that was, but I wanted to make sure I wasn’t starring in a Hollywood movie. Surely this was just make-believe.

A prominent movie director in New York once tried to convince my mother to let him take me to Hollywood. My mother said no, and I lost my only bid for Hollywood stardom. Instead, Hollywood discovered Hayley Mills. Everybody, when I was young, compared me to her. I’ve heard it said everybody has a twin. Hayley Mills was mine.

Everything faded into the bedroom walls as I focused on the bouncy white, playful pearl. While some might argue we saved her from a wretched life on the streets, I’d say she saved me from a very challenging, lonely childhood. Is dog not God spelled backward?

Mother told me how the night before, Gypsy snuck into the apartment through the door with my stepfather—who I call Dad for the remainder of the book—when he returned from the store to buy milk.

Soon Gypsy became my faithful companion and playmate. When I came home from school, she would be waiting for me at the door. I invented games to play with her. I would place my hand underneath the blanket and move it around, and Gypsy would “fetch” it with her mouth. I soon learned how much dogs love to chew on shoes, slippers, and record covers.

When I came home from school, I could hardly wait to walk her. When we returned after each walk, I would announce how many times Gypsy had used the bathroom, both number one and number two, to validate I was the best dog walker in the world. I cleaned up after her when she made a mess so nobody would know. I always had a deep-seated fear I might lose her.

One afternoon I arrived home from school, and I knew something was wrong. Gypsy didn’t greet me at the door, and I ran through the house looking for her.

“She’s gone,” my mother told me. “The apartment manager said we couldn’t keep her, and your father took her to a protected area. Don’t worry. She’ll be fine.”

“Where did he take her?”

My mother paused before continuing. “You know the apartment complex doesn’t allow dogs. We had no choice.”

My heart broke. I knew it might come to this. I’d overheard the whispers. I ran out of the room and up the stairs to my bedroom. Burying my face in the pillow, I cried. Gypsy was gone. I didn’t want to believe I would never see her again. Even at eight, I believed in miracles.

That night thunderbolts crashed outside my bedroom, and lightning pierced through the window shades. I imagined Gypsy in the darkness. I could feel her fur against my skin and see her dark, brown eyes pleading for me. I twisted and turned in bed as peals of thunder bounced off the walls. If Gypsy ever found her way back, I vowed to run away with her. I would never let anybody take her from me again.

The next day came and went. She didn’t return. I went to school, hoping she would find her way back.

After another stormy night, Wednesday arrived, the day before Thanksgiving. We were packing things to visit my new father’s family in North Carolina. My mother had recently remarried. We had yet to meet the extended family of her new husband—a brother and three sisters.

I kept looking up the hill in front of the apartment, imagining that I would see my dog come flying over the rise in the road. I knew it was almost impossible, but I hoped. I made one last trip to my bedroom. The car was loaded, and we were ready to leave. I picked up my pillow and remembered the first morning Gypsy awoke me and licked me on the face.

“God, please help Gypsy to find her way back.”

I walked out the door to get into the car. Glancing one last time up the hill, I saw something white. Was it, could it be—I dropped my pillow and started to run. My mind raced, and I ran as fast as my legs would move. It couldn’t be—but it was.

Tattered and dirty and barking excitedly, Gypsy ran toward me, flashing her tail in the wind. She had survived two nights of bad weather and found her way home through a raging storm. If she had arrived two minutes later, we would have been on the road.

I crouched down and held her as she whimpered and licked my face. I didn’t know I could laugh and cry at the same time, but one thing I did know—God brought Gypsy back to me.

“I will never let go of you,” I promised.

Gypsy squealed. For the first time, I believed in God.

 

🐶🐶🐶

 

All these years later, my faith in God remains steadfast. And as I wrote in my book Tails and Purrs for the Heart and Soul, I know I will see Gypsy again. My younger daughter Joy and her roommates recently adopted a dog from the local humane society. I’m smiling on the inside. The Roberts’ tradition lives on with my children, and that brings me great joy this Thanksgiving.

To learn more about my memoir, Tails and Purrs for the Heart and Soul, click on this link.  

BOOK EXCERPT: SEVENTH DIMENSION - THE DOOR: A Young Adult Fantasy, CHAPTER 1: “The Dark Secret of Shale Snyder”

Prologue

A diary entry many years later:

“Long ago, a magical king was born in a kingdom where animals talked and intellect sparred with spirituality. It was a time when truth transcended culture, forgiveness won battles, and love conquered a young girl’s heart.”

But lest I get ahead of myself, let me start from the beginning—which happened a long, long, long time ago. So long ago, I barely remember the beginning of my journey to the Seventh Dimension.

Chapter One

The Dark Secret of Shale Snyder

I hid in a closet underneath the stairs—my safe house. Nobody would find me in here. It wasn’t used because the ceiling was too low. After the accident, the closet became my friend. I wanted to avoid Judd, who came over to visit Chumana. She was not my sister but we lived together.

Guilt overwhelmed me. The door creaked as I turned the handle. I held my breath and peered through the tiny slit. Moving shadows darkened the room. Judd, Rachel, and Chumana stared into a small brown shoebox.

Chumana burst out crying. “I hate Shale.”

I cringed. She already hated me anyway, ever since we moved in with them a few months earlier.

Rachel stood and recited a Jewish prayer. “Barukh shem k'vod malkhuto l'olam va'ed. Blessed is the name of his glorious kingdom forever and ever.” With her unkempt hair, puffy red eyes, and flushed face, I barely recognized my best friend.

“Why are you praying?” Judd snapped. “We aren’t here to pray.”

“Accidents happen,” Rachel said.

“She should be cursed,” Judd exploded.

“Don’t say that,” Rachel said.

 “How do you know it was an accident?” Chumana asked.

I looked away. I couldn’t listen. My whole body quivered—what kind of curse?

Judd’s voice cracked. “I demand she tell us what happened.”

The three twelve-year-olds sat silently for a moment before Rachel responded. “She fell down the stairs with Fifi and she’s afraid.”

I swallowed hard.

Judd pulled his uncle’s Atlanta Braves cap over his eyes and clinched his hand into a fist. “I hope Shale never has any friends—for the rest of her life.” He covered his face and sobbed.

I bit my fingernail holding back tears. I’d never heard a boy cry. Could his curse come true?

Chumana’s red hair matched her fiery temper. “That’s not enough of a curse. She already doesn’t have any friends.”

“I’m her friend,” Rachel said. “Accidents happen.”

Rachel lived two buildings down from us in the Hope Garden Apartments. Would she still be my friend if I told her the truth? I didn’t just fall—it was what I was doing when I fell. I was too afraid. I rubbed my swollen ankle, a reminder of my foolishness. The doctor hoped it would heal, but Fifi lay in the box.

Probably God hated me, too. If I told the truth, everyone would hate me. I couldn’t even tell my mother. My father—he left me long ago.

***

Two Years Later

I felt a hand reach underneath my blue skirt. I spun around on my toes. Students in the crowded hallway blended into a blur of anonymity. Hurried bodies shoved past. Am I going crazy? Did I imagine it? I scanned faces and froze each one, like a snapshot with a camera.

“Shale, why are you standing there? Come on or you’ll be late to class.” Rachel was waiting at the hall lockers.

I walked towards her as the bell rang.

“Are you okay?” She furrowed her brow.

“I’m fine.” I smiled, pretending nothing had happened. I’d think about it later. “Did you finish your analysis of As You Like It?”

Rachel’s brown eyes bulged. “Is it due today?”

“Here’s mine. You can take a quick look if you need to.”

“Oh, thanks, Shale. I hate Shakespeare anyway. No copying, promise. Just a peek.”

“It’s no different from reading Spark Notes on the web,” I quipped.

When we walked into English class at Garden High School, I sat in the seat closest to the door and stared out into the darkened hallway. Who did it? What would I do if I caught him? Mrs. Wilkes’s voice brought me back to reality as she recited from a Shakespearean play.

“All the world’s a stage.

And all the men and women merely players

They have their exits and their entrances

And one man in his time plays many parts

His acts being seven ages.”

What was my part? At fourteen, did I have one yet?

***

Later in the afternoon, I tripped while stepping off the school bus. My books were scattered over the ground. My bum ankle from the accident two years earlier would catch at the worst possible moments—what I considered my eternal punishment.

Scrambling to pick them up, I wiped the red Georgia clay off my math book. The bus waited long enough to make sure it wouldn’t run me over before pulling away.

“Hey, wait up, ya’ll.” I walked faster to catch up as Rachel stopped, but Chumana and Judd kept going. We still lived in the same apartment complex on the south side of Atlanta—had for years.

“If you used a backpack, you wouldn’t have dropped your books,” Rachel chided me.

“Mine broke.” I scanned Rachel’s back. “Where’s yours?”

“I did my homework at school. This is all I needed.” Rachel waved a thick book with strange-looking letters in the air.

“Can you read that stuff?”

“Sure,” Rachel laughed, “but I don’t know what it means. You could too if I taught you.” Rachel flipped to the first page. “You start on this side.” Her finger pointed to a line of Hebrew and she ran her finger across the page from right to left.

 “Really?”

“Yes.” Rachel giggled. “So who reads backward, the English or the Jews?”

 “I’d say the Jews. I can say that since I’m not Jewish, right?”

“Why not?”

“Writing would sure be easier if English was right to left. I wouldn’t smear my words.”

Rachel nodded. “I forget you’re left-handed. It’s crazy, isn’t it—like the Brits drive on the left side and we drive on the right.”

We walked for a while not saying anything. I glanced at my friend with her striking olive skin, almond brown eyes, and brown hair. “Do you like being Jewish?”

“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know any different.”

 “I wish I was Jewish.”

“Why?” Rachel asked.

“It would be neat to be able to say I was something.”

“You could go to church,” Rachel suggested.

“Mom and Remi would never go. Every time they talk about God or anything religious, they end up fighting.”

Rachel flinched. “That’s too bad. By the way, thanks for your help with English.”

“You’re welcome.” I switched my books to the left, thinking how much I hated the long walk home, especially since we now lived farther away. The new unit we moved into when Remi and mother married was at the very back by the woods.

Rachel frowned, noticing my musings. “What’s it like having a father now?”

I bit my lip hesitating. “At least I have my own bedroom and don’t have to share with Chumana.”

“That’s good,” Rachel agreed. “How did you ever end up living with her anyway?”

“Mother didn’t have any money when we moved to Atlanta. She found an ad that Chumana’s mother placed in the Atlanta Constitution looking for a roommate. It was a cheap place to live.”

I eyed Judd and Chumana ahead of us. “What are they talking about? They have been spending a lot of time together.”

Rachel lowered her voice. “I know.”

“Maybe they deserve each other.”

Rachel edged up even closer to me and spoke in a whisper, “You never knew your father, right?”

“No.” I clutched my books which now seemed heavier. “Mother couldn’t wait to marry Remi after being divorced for so many years. Then she cried all night when they returned from their honeymoon in the mountains. I couldn’t sleep. I wondered why, but was too afraid to ask.”

“Maybe it was a bad honeymoon,” Rachel chortled.

“Silly you. How can you have a bad honeymoon?”

“I don’t know,” Rachel replied. “I’m sure it’s happened.”

“I hardly knew Remi the day they married.”

“It’s hard to imagine what it would be like to be at your own parent’s wedding. I mean, it might be funny if it could happen,” Rachel said.

“Like Back to the Future?” Then my thoughts darkened. “How would you like having a stepfather you don’t know?”

Rachel shook her head. “I wouldn’t.”

I’d never confided in anyone about my past but now I couldn’t stop. “Presents arrive twice a year from North York. I don’t remember anything about my father. One day he left and never returned.”

“I can’t imagine what that would be like,” Rachel said.

“Sometimes I get angry.”

Rachel’s eyes widened. “About what?”

“Mother didn’t ask how I felt about her remarrying.”

We walked in silence as my words hung in the air. I kicked a rock on the sidewalk and it skipped into the gutter. Rachel’s warm nature was comforting. She came from such a perfect family, or it seemed. I’d tell her things I wouldn’t tell anyone else.

Voices from the past mocked me. “Do I walk like a chicken?”

Rachel laughed. “No, you don’t walk like a chicken.”

“Do I have big lips?”

“Big lips?” Rachel stopped and stared at me surprised. “No.”

“You don’t think so? Every time I wet them with my tongue, I worry I’m making them fat—so I was told.”

Rachel examined my fair face. I pretended not to notice. “You’re beautiful. Who would say such mean things?”

I didn’t want to tell her. What was the point in making him look bad?

“I love your green eyes and long brown hair.” Rachel reached out and grabbed a couple of strands, flipping them over my shoulder. “I wish mine wasn’t wavy with all the humidity. I use an iron to straighten it but it doesn’t stay that way for long.” Rachel giggled. “Guys love long, straight hair.”

“Remi wants me to call him dad, but that seems weird.”

A few feet in front of us, Chumana knelt on the sidewalk.

Rachel squinted. “What are they looking at?”

An earthworm wiggled on the sidewalk, barely warm from the late afternoon sun. A few weeks after Christmas, it was the wrong time of year for creepy crawlers.

“It’s probably cold,” I said.

Judd lifted his foot to squash it.

“Wait,” I demanded.

Judd glared at me.

“Why kill it?” I asked.

He leaned down and picked it up, dangling the worm a few inches above the sidewalk. “Have you ever dissected one of these?”

I shook my head.

He stiffened. “I should make you squish it between your delicate fingers.”

I stared at the worm. Judd dropped it on the sidewalk. As he started to smash it again, I leaned over and shoved him. “Just leave it alone.”

Judd’s face turned beet red. “Don’t ever push me again. You hear me?”

I nodded. My knees spasmed like a jack-in-the-box.

“You don’t like squishing worms but you killed my puppy.” His icy eyes ripped at my soul.

Rachel said, “Get over it. You sound so hateful.”

Chumana glared through her thick, black-rimmed glasses. “Judd is right, though, Rachel. Don’t you remember?”

“I remember,” Rachel whispered.

My heart raced as I picked up the worm—its slimy body was cold to the touch—and stuck it in my pocket.

Judd shook his head and stomped off.

Ruefully, I urged Rachel and Chumana, “You two go on. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Rachel nodded. They continued walking, leaving me alone.

After wrapping the worm up in some brown leaves, I placed it on a warmer corner of the concrete. When I lifted my eyes, I saw the white dog for the first time. She sat nearby wagging her fluffy tail.

As I approached her, she stood and limped backward. The scruffy creature was dirty and mangy, with floppy short ears and almond brown eyes. If she belonged to someone or was lost, the owner wasn’t taking very good care of her. A fuzzy feeling warmed my heart. Did she like me? Before I could get too close, the dog turned and ran away. 

To order Seventh Dimension the Door click here.

MEDIA: TV APPEARANCE BY LORILYN ROBERTS ON ATLANTA’S 57 WATC “Friends and Neighbors”

To Watch the Video, Click Here

Lorilyn shares her testimony, faith, and talks about her book Children of Dreams, her family's appearance on Animal Planet's “Monsters Inside Me,” adoption, parenting, and more.

EXCUSE ME, BUT WHAT PLANET IS THIS: Devotional by Lorilyn Roberts

Sometimes I wonder if I live on Mars and not Earth. When I look at the stock market that is up several hundred points today, knowing there is nothing to sustain it or a valid reason for its rise, I wonder who is buying. Is it the government? With businesses closing everywhere, deflation in personal income hitting almost everyone (call furloughs and forced days off from work what you want, but it’s lost income), people losing their jobs, and home foreclosure rates at an all-time high, it doesn’t make sense. And the government telling me that the recession is over makes me even edgier. Is this the new norm? Is this what the future holds for my children and me?

I no longer believe the statistics put out by the government. In fact, I am not even sure there is anybody I really trust in Washington. I feel violated, angry, and helpless to do anything that will make a difference.

And then there is always that one person who thinks everything is wonderful and President Obama is the best thing that happened to America. I suppose if I was receiving those government handouts I might agree. Sometimes when I am captioning, I think, if you mention one more “free” program I might qualify for, I will scream. Why do people feel like they need something or deserve something “free” from the government? What happened to hard work and sacrifice?

All those “free” programs are not free. They have cost somebody something. And I can tell you this; they didn’t come out of President Obama’s stock portfolio or the Washington bureaucrats’ retirement. They came out of hard-working people’s pockets like you and me that get up in the morning and go to work and earn a paycheck by sweat, blood, and sacrifice. And charity—I am all for charity and giving. But the government’s giving of my money is not charity. It’s theft.

I guess I have ranted on long enough. When I get depressed over the news that I caption every day, I remind myself that I have much to be thankful for. I need to put my hope in the only one that deserves my adoration and commitment—my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. It is for such a time as this that we are here, to be a witness to the world. To put our faith and trust in man is futile.

My heavenly Father also gently reminds me that those who are in power He put there. None of this craziness in Washington has caught Him by surprise, and His purposes, thoughts, and plans are higher than mine. “Be still and know that I am God,” is what He commands us to do.

As a young wife abandoned by her husband, who gladly took on the task of raising two orphans from Asia as a single mom, I take comfort that God will not leave me or forsake me. I can turn to Him to be my provider and my comforter no matter the tribulations that may beset our country; and I do believe dark days are ahead, maybe even a depression.

Our Christian testimony may be all some will ever see. We can be a light in the darkness, a beacon on a hill. We can speak a word of encouragement to those who are broken and pray for the lost. We can get up in the morning and thank God that He is unchanging. The sun still rises, our cats still purr when we scratch their ear, and the dogs still wag their tail when we give them an occasional bone. And today, at least, the sky wasn’t green. If I was a betting woman, I am sure it won’t be tomorrow either. God keeps order in His world. Some things don’t change.

I urge you to pray for our country, to pray for those in leadership, and to pray for God’s wisdom in the voting booth in the upcoming elections. God pours out His love for us with good things when we ask, and we need great discernment for the days ahead. Dangerous times abound and the enemy is working overtime. Our future as a nation may be in peril but the one who holds our future is sure and trustworthy. And for that, I am thankful.

CONFESSIONS OF A CHRISTIAN, HOMESCHOOLING MOM: Devotional by Lorilyn Roberts

Leaves floating in the pool always signal the end of summer for me and the beginning of autumn. With fall comes my assignment of homeschooling Joy. While some days it’s a pleasure and other days a chore, I recently thought about curriculum in an unusual way. It reminded me of something funny years ago when I homeschooled Manisha.

In the fourth grade, she was given an assignment to set up a study schedule for the week—what subjects and how much time she should devote to each one. I chuckle as I remember her daily homeschooling curriculum: Reading, five minutes; English, five minutes; science, five minutes; history, three minutes; math, thirty seconds; lunch, one hour; and recess, the rest of the day. While that may have seemed like a great curriculum to Manisha at ten, I would hate to imagine where she would be today in her second year of college if I had allowed her to “go her own way.”

Last spring over Memorial Day weekend, Joy and I went to the Florida Homeschooling Convention in Orlando. It was a time of refreshment as I reflected on what we had accomplished over the past year and what I hoped to do for this next year. Upon arriving Joy and I quickly ate and hurried down to the exhibit hall, where I spent hours pouring over the books, curriculum, games, and “ideas” on display. Most of the venders return every year and there are always new ones to check out. This annual tradition encourages me to keep on keeping on for another year until God shows me it’s time to enroll Joy in traditional school. We just take homeschooling one year at a time.

Each year I assess Joy’s strengths and weaknesses and which curriculum (or non-curriculum) would work best for the following year. I have not used with Joy the same materials that I used for Manisha. Each of my daughters is unique, and as a homeschooling mom, it’s been a joy to tailor the curriculum to meet each of their specific needs. I have to admit, I have made mistakes. A couple of times I tried math programs which caused far too many tears. It required the unexpected expense and time of switching to something else. But I have never doubted God’s calling to homeschool, even as a single parent. I have been brought to my knees at times by the sheer burden and feeling of inadequacy. I could not do it without the Lord’s help.

But my heart’s desire to give my daughters the best that I can goes a long way in God’s provision. He makes up for what I lack. As I recall what Manisha wanted for a curriculum many years ago, in my finite wisdom, of course, I knew one minute of math a day would not prepare her for Algebra, and twenty-five minutes of English a week would not be sufficient to write a ten-page term paper on International Relations as a sophomore in college. We can chuckle at the absurdity, laughing because we know ourselves. Are we really any different?

In the broader context of life, reflecting on God’s great plan for each of us, do I know what His perfect curriculum is for me? Do I know what I need in His economy to become the person He created me to be? If God way back at the beginning of time had asked me to design my own curriculum, what would I have asked for? The human side of me would have said, “God, how about a little place on the beach with a pool, lots of books, and a Starbucks latte twice a day. I don’t want to cook, wash clothes, worry about car repairs, computers that crash, or anyone I love getting sick. In fact, give me a life where I never have to worry about anything.”

I know it’s not very “spiritual,” but if the truth be told, I don’t think anyone would ask for heartache. After all, we don’t have the mind of God. Our little thoughts are not like His. We long selfishly for a fulfilling life, to have our needs met, and to be accepted by others. The Bible is full of all the perils that accompany that mindset, beginning with Adam and Eve.

One of the courses in my life curriculum (which I never would have asked for) was working for twenty years as a court reporter. I never liked court reporting—the adversarial nature of it, the long, unpredictable hours, the fact that most of what I wrote was meaningless in God’s great scheme (who cares that someone found a cricket in a can of beans). Plus it was something I never wanted to do but circumstances willed it.

Sometimes life takes away our freedom to choose. Things happen. In those moments of doubting God’s best for us, we should cast our eyes on Jesus, who did the will of His Father and not His own. I “begrudged” those years until very recently, feeling like much of my working life was wasted. How many books could I have written during that time? I can’t say I was filled with discontent, but certainly upon occasion I have questioned, why didn’t God allow me to pursue writing at a much younger age? Why did “this” have to happen? You can fill in the blank with your own “this” and ask your own “why.” I have said to myself more than once, things would have been so much better if I had chosen “this” but couldn’t.

What better choices could there be than what my heavenly Father chose for me? Do I not trust Him completely? Does He not know the best curriculum to mold me into His image? Cannot my sorrows and loss be counted as gain for the kingdom of heaven?

Jesus tells us in John 15:7, “If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be given you.” Jesus gave this command to His disciples on the eve of His crucifixion. Little did His followers know what was about to happen. But Jesus knew if His words “abided” within their hearts, it would be sufficient to bring them through the dark days that lay ahead.

God has given us everything we need to equip us for His heavenly kingdom. Our curriculum has been chosen by the King of the universe. He molded each one of us from clay. He breathed life into us. He gifts us with talents and blesses us with hope and so much more than we deserve. He loved us so much He sent His only Son to die for us. No doubt His curriculum is vastly different from and better for my soul than anything I could possibly envision.

When I took my novel course in my Masters studies, I learned that one of the greatest novelists of all time, Charles Dickens, began his career as a court reporter. So I am in great company. Who knows how God will use those years down the road. After all, He is the great designer, craftsman, artist, and author.

God knows exactly what curriculum we all need to complete a doctorate in life and graduate Summa Cum Laude. And for each one of us, God lovingly designs the classes. I think a doctorate would fittingly describe the many difficult courses we must take to become everything He longs for us to be. And it will probably require—at least for me—more than thirty seconds of suffering, two minutes of patience, five minutes of sacrifice, and five minutes of prayer.

If we can cease our striving, our complaining, and slow down, God might just exempt us from a life class we would rather not take. “Godliness with contentment is great gain,” according to I Timothy 6:6; and that Starbucks latte, well, I do enjoy one upon occasion. Now, by God’s grace, I just need a teaspoon of patience and a tablespoon of love to enjoy another successful year of homeschooling.

WHY ARE AMERICANS SO AFRAID OF ORPHANS? Adoptee/Adoptive Mother Lorilyn Roberts Speaks Out

Why do the marketers of the movie “Orphan” think it will scare people?

In this country alone there are over 500,000 children in the foster care system. Worldwide, the U.N. estimates there are more than 145 million orphans. To translate this into a number easier to understand, my oldest daughter, Manisha, now 18, was adopted from Nepal when she was three. The estimated population of Nepal is around 28 million. That means there are over four times as many orphans in the world as there are people in her native country.

Expressed another way, the population of the United States, according to the U.S. Census Bureau, as of July 21, 2009, is 306,969,874. That means the number of orphans in the world equals half the population of our country.

If the word “orphan” is searched on Google today, the first two listings are for the movie “Orphan.” What a lost opportunity to speak the truth in love! The Wikipedia definition is third: “An orphan is a child permanently bereaved of its parents.”

The real horror is not that the movie portrays orphans as monsters. It’s the number of children that will be hurt by this disturbing message. The movie "Orphan" is only going to reinforce in the hearts and minds of individuals that orphans are damaged goods at best, monsters at worse.

Those who have thought about adopting may have second thoughts, plagued with fears and doubts. Children and teenagers who have been adopted and see the movie might be tempted to question their own self‑worth or value. Orphans who might have been adopted may not be because of the ill‑conceived notion, perpetuated by this movie, that they are “bad.”

“Orphan” is a sad commentary on Hollywood, our society, and a tragic statement of the culture in which we live. A world where money is the bottom line and sensationalism tickles the ears of gullible listeners—let it not be at the expense of those who are the least fortunate. Instead, as in the words of flight director, Gene Kranz, as portrayed in the movie “Apollo 13,” when everyone doubted that the space program would be able to bring those doomed astronauts home, he stood up and said, “With all due respect, sir, I believe this is gonna be our finest hour.”

I challenge every American, particularly those who are Christians, to look beyond the movie at the real horror—the little one who has no one to call mommy or daddy; the baby who goes to bed at night with a protruding, empty belly; the 145 million children around the world who, through no fault of their own, have lost their parents to AIDS, malnutrition, poverty, and violence.

Although all orphans have needs, some more than others, they are not monsters. They are children with beating hearts, sticky fingers, and minds full of unleashed potential. They just need to be given a chance. They are children made in the image of Christ and loved by the heavenly Father.

Rather than attacking the movie, let's join together and rewrite the script of “Orphan.” Give an orphan a chance to worship in our church and synagogue. Invite one to sit down at the dinner table. Help all of them to be educated in our schools. Let us change the negative image of an orphan one life at a time. Let us encourage them to dream big dreams and become everything God created them to be. Most of all, let us show the world that they are loved, just as Christ loved us.

If it were not for God’s unconditional love, we would all be orphans. If we unite, we can send a far different message to Hollywood. We can speak for those little ones that sit in overcrowded orphanages and wait. And hope.

Through God’s love, let us love until we feel their pain. Only then can we make a difference. Let us not let Hollywood have the last word. Truly, we can become the hand of God as we touch one of His own. Let it begin with me. Orphans Deserve Better. Let this be “our finest hour.”

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