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Luciano was not an ordinary clock maker. He was a master. People would come from around the country to watch him work on his clocks. Every day Luciano worked, tinkering and fiddling with the ticks and the tocks, to make sure each clock would run like they should. And they almost always did.

One day, Miss Charm, the school marm, walked through the door with a broken clock. Miss Charm almost always seemed in a tizzy about any little thing. This day was really no different. (Rumor has it that Tom, the class clown, had pinned a dead spider onto a hat of Miss Charm's. The kids thought that the spider added some well, charm, to Miss Charm's otherwise drab hat. So when she took off her hat and went to place it beside her at the beginning of school, she took one look at the spider and had one big hissy fit in front of all of her students. Though she has always been a bit off center, the kids say that she hasn't been the same since.)

Miss Charm plunked the broken clock onto the counter and sighed.

"This clock won't work," she said, with a lilt and a tilt of her head.

"What's wrong with it?" Luciano inquired.

"It goes click clock instead of tick tock."

"Hm, interesting." Luciano wound it up. Just when he thought the clock was dead, it perked up and did what she said.

'Click clock, clickety clock clock clock,' it went.

"This clock needs fixed," she said with finality.

"That it does," Luciano replied. "I'll have it ready by Thursday."

Miss Charm nodded her head and bid good day.

It was on a beautiful day in the full of the year in the village of an era gone by that Luciano finally could not fix a clock.

Oh, he fiddled and whittled, and yanked and pulled. He spoke to it firmly and kindly cajoled. But no manner of fixing could be done to change the click clock to a normal tick tock.

And Miss Charm, having not been her usual self, forgot that she had ever taken the clock to Luciano.

Luciano set the clock on the shelf for everyone to hear. From then on, people would walk in the door and immediately hear click clock in the midst of all the tick tocks.

Some would say, "What an awful racket?"

Others would say, "Won't you smash it or smack it?"

Luciano would reply with a poem that went like this: "Do you ignore the beauty of a rose because it has some thorns, or the power of a beastly bull whose head is sharp with horns. A clock can ring or tick or chime as long as it can give good ime. The tick or click that it expresses is the personality it possesses. A clock is likened to a friend. To seek to fix or condescend, may bring a friendship to an end."

Some would not and agree.

Others would say, "I see."

But of all those who came to see the master at work on his clocks left knowing that he had also done a little work on their heart.

Something jolted me awake. I lay there, heart pounding, trying to figure out why I felt alarmed. My maternal instinct seemed to say, “Go check your baby.” I rose from the bed, careful not to wake Leon.

We had gone to bed early that evening because my husband, Leon, felt sick. I had tucked our infant daughter in her crib with a kiss and a prayer. We were all asleep within minutes. A quiet peace settled over our home.

At that time, we lived in the officer's housing on a gated military base in central California. An enclosed outdoor courtyard joined the two ends of our L-shaped home, with our bedroom located at one end of the house and our daughter's room on the opposite.

As I walked past the draped window outside our bedroom door, I paused. Did I see a shadow? I opened the drapes and peered out. A man stared back. Only inches and a glass pane separated us. Terror gripped me.

He had already removed the window screen. He now attempted to lift the window. Like in a nightmare, my feet froze. I cried out, “Leon, there is a man breaking into our home!”

The assailant panicked. I watched him turn and flee. He hurtled the six-foot privacy fence.

After calling 911, I rushed back to check our baby. She slept peacefully, oblivious to danger. Relieved, I knelt beside her crib and cried, “Thank-you, Jesus.”

However, that traumatic experience triggered an intense battle with fear that I struggled for years to overcome. Every time my husband went out of town, my mother had to come and stay with me, even after we moved to another state.

That event also highlighted two of my major struggles: an unrestrained imagination and an unwillingness to completely trust God. For starters, God demonstrated that He had protected me. But I chose to focus on what could have happened, instead of what did happen. I erected a stronghold of fear.

Years later, tired of the struggle, I asked God to give me victory over my run-away imagination. Over time He showed me how to harness my thoughts and take them captive to Him. Memorizing small portions of the Bible helped me.

This promise from the Bible specifically brought peace: I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.1 I often recited and prayed it out loud before bed.

This promise and others like it helped me refocus my thoughts. As God's truth from the Bible sank deep into my heart, I learned to trust Him a little more each time my husband traveled. And I eventually grew strong enough to stay alone.

Furthermore, I experienced victory when I realized that the core of my problem exposed one of my underlying questions: Can God really be trusted? When I confessed my unwillingness to trust Him, courage followed.

Many times since then, Leon has reminded me that the thief comes to “steal, kill, and destroy.” But Jesus had protected us that night. I learned to change my focus from the thief to Him.

Once again, a quiet peace has settled over our home. I have learned to rest secure—not because I have any guarantees whether I would ever face another intruder or not—but because God's truth in the Bible has replaced the lies. Although it took some time, I have discovered a tiny bit more about how to trust Jesus and cling to His promises, seeing His truth beyond the shadows.

“He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.” Psalm 91:1 (NIV)

If you would like to communicate with, pray for or support, go to the following link:

* http://www.watercolorbypamela.com

2009©Pamela Alderman
nSightz #28

I recently received an e-mail from Jason Kogar. He told me that he had seen information about my site and wanted to tell me his story.

I immediately was intrigued and checked out the videos that he suggested that I see. I must say that I was blown away. His reason for e-mailing me is because he believes that God has a purpose for his accident and he wants to do all he can to follow His lead. He wants his story to be heard.

So here are the videos. Check his story out.

It’s the art of simplicity. The painting has hues of blue, an azure sky that is fresh and new, with billowy clouds rolling by.

There are eight flowers; why, no one knows, they look as though they are on their toes, reaching their hands to the sky; buds with faces, searching for places to be and see.

Emily Scott began painting for a very simple reason; she needed money. At the age of 15, she was just like any other teenager who has interests that requires cash and her mom suggested that she paint. This was not an out of the ordinary suggestion because Emily comes from a family of artists. The thought was that she should paint a picture and place it on e-Bay and see what happens.

This was the beginning of many pictures and just as many sales. Each picture was imagined and painted and given a name…names like ‘Diamond Earrings’…’Jesus Loves Me’…’Lights in the Dark’…’Stars in the Sky’…her mother never knew why; each name defined the essence of the painting and the intent of the painter.

‘Emily is a 15-year old, emerging artist, approaching the art world with full force. Artistic genres from abstract to folk, primitive and raw, are complimented by her selective infusion of hues, generating flowing movement and energy. Emily is an extremely passionate and expressive artist, yet considers her work to be "outsider" in nature. Coming from a family consisting of influential artistic talent, Emily's aunt and sibling are artists as well, and have both inspired and encouraged Emily's creative force and drive.’ [1]

To say that Emily is an artist would be the same as saying a bovine is a cow…it is her essence, it is what she is meant to be. Yet, some need to place an asterisk beside her name because she is unique. She is not Emily, the artist. She is Emily, the girl with Down Syndrome, who happens to paints pictures.

All of these quotes define Emily as an artist, not as a disabled artist. Emily has shared from the depths of her heart and placed it on each blank canvas she paints, baring her soul for you and me; imagining things that others may see. The same collector who wrote the above critique, continues:

‘One would never guess Emily was born with Down Syndrome, as this determined drive set forth by this shining individual has stopped nothing short of doing what she sets out to do, from entering a beauty pageant, where she appeared on the local news, to winning a Gold medal in the State Special Olympics, to engaging in one of her favorite passions: painting art for the love of her family and painting for others.’

The youngest of 4 kids, Emily’s mother, Sherrie, wasn’t expecting another child and the pregnancy caught her completely by surprise. Because she was older, the doctor recommended that she have an amniocentesis, a test that checks for possible complications and deformities. As a Christian, she believed that, if the Lord had given her a child, she would accept any child He gave her. For that reason, she declined the test.

Emily’s birth was without complications, but it seemed the nurses and doctor was preoccupied when Emily was born. They whisked her away and were gone for awhile. When the doctor came back, he told her that he saw signs of Down Syndrome. She heard the words, but didn’t completely understand, until Emily was brought to her; and then she noticed the difference. She could see it in her face.

But it wasn’t her Down Syndrome that almost killed her. It was her heart defect. For the 1st 5 months, Emily barely ate and the only way Sherrie could feed her was through the use of an eyedropper. She grew more and more alarmed until she finally took her to the doctor and shared her concerns. When the first doctor said she was fine, she decided to get a second opinion. After a series of tests, the second doctor determined that she had a huge hole in her heart.

For 3 months they waited; after a serious bout with RSV (viral pneumonia) and many sleepless nights…Emily’s heart was finally repaired.

It’s her heart that gives her life…its heart that lives in her paintings. Since that 1st painting 4 years ago, she has created and sold over 100 paintings on e-Bay. Emily has garnered a following of repeat buyers who look forward to her next creation. And Sherrie assists, printing her works on note cards, which have become popular during the holidays.

In the decrepit section of Atlanta, where poverty walks hand in hand, where a drunk wanders aimlessly, carrying his soul in a bottle, lived a man named Ernest.

His refuge was a dark, dingy room in a dirty, smelly basement of a poor excuse for a building. His home was his neighborhood. But, amidst all of the uncertainties of the city, Ernest seemed immune. He walked with confidence in his step and pride in his voice. I am extremely privileged that Ernest was my friend.

Ernest was one of the first people I hired when I moved to Atlanta. My reason for moving was to develop a program that would provide training to people with mental disabilities. The goal was to give them the opportunity to feel a sense of pride and a desire to reach their full potential, as well as give them a good paying job. Ernest fit the criteria perfectly.

I told him to show up on Monday morning by 8:30 am, not sure he would ever make it. On Monday, I drove to work at 7:30 am and Ernest was sitting on the curb waiting for me. I asked him why he was there so early and he told me simply that he didn't have anything else to do. To this day, he was always there waiting there for me.

One day, we were getting ready to carry a heavy bookcase down two flights of stairs. As we walked toward the stairs, Ernest dropped his end, causing me to let go of my end. Pain shot through my body as the full weight of the bookcase slid down my shin.

"Ernest," I asked calmly after the pain had subsided, "what prompted you to drop that bookcase?"

"I don't know, Kent," he said. One of his sheepish grins splayed across his face, and I couldn't help but smile.

It was on a sweltering summer Georgia day that Ernest first began teaching me the meaning of faith. Ernest and I were tearing out plaster in an old store. It was 95 degrees outside and it felt like 105 degrees inside.

As I took a short break and leaned on the hoe I was using, I watched Ernest. In a rhythm that seemed to be in his head, he pounded, stroke after stroke on the plastered wall, his body glistening with sweat. I looked with high regard at the man some said should be confined to an institution, working diligently at an end result and doing it well. As I watched, Ernest noticed my watchful eye.

Day after day, we would continue the same discourse. Five times a day, Ernest would say to me, "I'm doing a good job, aren't I, Kent?" Five times a day, I would say with enthusiasm, "Ernest, you are doing a great job!" Day after day Ernest would walk away with just a little more confidence because I believed in him and he believed in me.

Because he saw everything through the eyes of a child and had the faith to match, he had made it through his difficult life with a belief in himself still intact. The load of life may have been large, but the weight was small because he focused not on what is and what has been but what can be.

Ernest worked with me for 6 years and encouraged me every day. He had a simple faith and a great big heart. He taught me what it meant to have a 'childlike faith'.

Jason Fayre and his wife, Lalena, were looking for the perfect child to adopt. They found Pandu. Born blind, Pandu was dumped that the front steps of a hospital in India, destined to be a throw away child.

Jason 'saw' something special. He could understand what it was like to not be able to see. Jason is blind himself. Below is the story of Pandu and his new family. If you would like to read more, go to the following link: http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2009/10/26/assignment_america/main5422582.shtml?tag=contentMain;contentBody

Scoopz #29

My sister, Beth Baggs, is one of my Heroez. She has quietly influenced me with her passionate discipline of prayer. A few years ago, she contacted me and asked me if I would like to join her for a weekend of prayer. The Lord had somehow melded our spiritual hearts together, because, even though we live 3 states away from each other, at about the same time she had begun her prayer journey, the Lord had also placed the importance of prayer on my heart.

But the main reason she is my Hero is because she has chosen to share with others about a very painful time in her life; the death of Moriah, her fourth child.

It’s been over 18 years since Beth was pregnant with Moriah. Five months into her pregnancy, after a routine ultrasound, the doctor found that the baby had a diaphragmatic hernia. Her stomach had pushed through the hole and was sitting where her lungs were supposed to be developing.

Dr. Iams, a high risk specialist at the Ohio State University Medical Center, suggested that surgery be done while the baby was still in the womb. That suggestion was soon set aside when more complications were found due to the results of an amniocentesis. Moriah also had a birth defect called Turner's Syndrome.

The cause of Turner Syndrome is an error in cell division that leaves the body's cells with only one fully functioning X chromosome. Though girls born with Turner Syndrome usually have good odds for a normal life, the majority of babies with this condition are lost to miscarriage or stillbirth.

For the next three months they were on an emotional rollercoaster, going back and forth to the doctor. Beth clung to Isaiah 41:10, which says: “Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you. Yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” Beth writes: 'I constantly pictured God holding my right hand.'

In September, however, an ultrasound showed that the chest cavity was filling up with fluid. This was of great concern. A procedure was done where they sedated Beth and the baby and went in with a needle to draw off the fluid. Though it was successful, a week later, there was even more fluid than there had been before.

Moriah Jean Baggs, died a few days later. They had to induce labor, knowing that she had already died. A day that is usually filled with wonder and joy became a day of deep, agonizing pain.

Surrounded by family, church, and friends, they buried her. Through the long months before her death, Beth had always felt God near, but after Moriah death, she felt like God had left her.

The name Moriah means “God is my teacher”. Little did Beth know how much God would teach her because of this difficult time.

For years, Beth has grappled with her own private pain. No one can truly understand the loss of a child unless you have been through it yourself. Though the rest of us moved on, the memory has always been right beside her, never seeming to go away.

Recently, however, Beth has begun sharing her story. Her spiritual walk has been strengthened because of an uncompromising desire to have an intimate relationship with the Lord. Out of that, the Lord has taken a hurting mother and begun to use her pain for good.

Who knows what good will come? Is there another mother out there who has more recent pain; someone who needs to be comforted by her story? Beth may never know. But she is being obedient and God, as her teacher, is showing her the way. I love my sister and she is one of my Heroez.