She sauntered around a few seconds to refocus, hands on her hips, then turned on a heel to face the propeller once again. With a swift motion she yanked with all her might. The plane chugged, sputtered in protest, then fell silent as if pouting. Frustration rocketed out of Josie. Her fist connected with the cold metal shell of the plane with a dull thud. The bitter chill of the wind magnified ache in her knuckles.

It was Christmas Eve, for Pete’s sake. Only two days off from WASP training. She shook her sore hand and glanced around the barren, rolling plains. Wind whipped her chin-length brown hair into her eyes, but she could still see far down the dirt runway in the mid-afternoon stretch of sunlight. Maybe two more hours of daylight. Maybe.

Hmmm. Only a few miles back to Avenger Field. Even so, Otto was long gone and daylight was burnin’. West Texas dust had trailed her truck after she’d dropped off Josie where the Stearman was parked on a family friend’s air strip.

She turned and sized up the plane once again while hugging her thin coat to herself. It had to start. She placed an open hand on the side of the plane as an apology for the punch. The faithful Stearman hadn’t deserved that. She shot a quick prayer skyward – part plea for help and part asking forgiveness for getting distracted from Jesus’ birthday. Taking a deep breath, she rounded the front and turned to the propeller once more. One more swift yank, one more burst of hope.

She shouldn’t have been surprised. The motor roared to life and the baritone whirrr warmed her heart. The last few months had taught her that nothing was impossible. Now, what was that saying? …Something about truth being stranger than fiction? She chuckled at the memories of the last month-and-a-half, yet wasted no time. Two seconds and she vaulted herself from wing to cockpit.

Mercy, it felt good to be back in her family’s plane. To grasp familiar controls. No cramming bushels of new information just to get airborne. She smiled and sped through the pre-flight check with expert precision. A quick touch to two bags at her feet and she was ready.

Within moments she rumbled down the airstrip, easing the controls in a firm, smooth motion to push away from the land.

She leaned into a steep bank from north to east. Oh, how she loved those turns. She surveyed the land and caught sight of Sweetwater on the horizon. Cold air turned her nose as red as Rudolph’s. After sailing by the sleepy town, she headed southeast. It was almost as if the plane could fly home blindfolded to the James farm.

Home. The thought warmed her as she readjusted in her seat. Her weary body and mind rejoiced to be free from the rigors of training for a couple of days.

If only Johnny would be there with them. The sting of missing her older brother pricked her.  What would his Christmas be like? Leading a mission? Hunkering down in a chilly tent with a bunch of stinky fellows, all wishing they were home with their families?

Yet pride filled her as she thought of her brother’s service to their country, to the free world. He’d be home as soon as he could. In the meantime her parents awaited her return tonight.

Before that, though, she had a job to do. The time in the air would give her the chance to plan that she’d missed while working on the plane. She rechecked her bearings while noting the faint outline of Abilene to her left. Good thing she didn’t have to stare down the setting sun on her other side. Satisfied, she let part of her mind focus on the task at hand. The bit of money she’d earn would surely come in handy on the farm.

Now, she had to time it just ri–

“Yowww!!!” Josie yelped and jumped in her seat. The plane lurched off course. Confusion clouded her mind. She scrambled for the controls and tipped the wings level again.

Only then did she look down to see what pain gripped her thigh. Breathing hard, her eyes grew as big as Mama’s pecan pies when she spotted him.

“Confound it, Gravy!” The scared, crouching cat at her feet stared at her with innocent eyes while an outstretched paw hooked claws into her leg. “How in tarnation did you get here?” More stares.

Josie tore her eyes away to regain her bearings. Her thoughts raced and she shook her head. She dared a glance down. Yep, still there. Still staring at her.

That stupid cat. He’d almost been the death of her almost as soon as she’d set foot on Avenger Field.  Cats belonged in barns, earning their keep by mousing. This flea bag – she felt him climb onto her lap, gripping claws all the way – had made her dream her first week about warm Russian-style hats. She’d read about them in school. When she awoke one morning from the recurring dream, she’d heard purring. Jerking fully awake, she looked at her pillow only to see this lounging gray and cream tabby cat gazing at her, content. She’d shooed it off her cot and watched, still in disbelief, as it hopped on another one and out the open window.

Her five baymates–her friends–had only chuckled and ignored her attempts to keep him out. Betty, who slept closest to the window, would reopen it after Josie conked out every night. The routine repeated each day. Before long he’d taken on the name of Gravy, after the cream-colored fur on his soft belly.  Josie allowed a small smile.  Truth be told, she’d never slept better than when he warmed her head each night. Not that she’d admit that to anyone. She cleared her throat.

Quick scans around the cockpit floor confirmed her suspicion. Her canvas bag now gaped. Bits of fur decorated the opening. “Well, cat,” she glanced down at his closed eyes. How could he sleep up here in the sky? “I reckon Brown Betty will have a barn visitor for Christmas.” She laughed out loud, anticipating her mare’s whinny of displeasure. Brown Betty didn’t like cats any more than she liked swarming flies on a June afternoon.

Ugh. Josie clamped her mouth shut. She’d laughed too long and swallowed a high-flying bug. Her grimace continued through a coughing fit. Get it together, flygirl! She peered ahead and took in Buffalo Gap’s twin hills getting bigger. Shadows below were getting bigger, too. Time was running out to finish her plan.

Now, where was the Kramer house from here? Mr. Olin, a baker in Sweetwater, had described it to her while handing a warm cinnamon roll over his counter. “It’s across the road from the church,” he said with a nod and a smile. “Red bench out front. My son-in-law built it himself. Can’t miss it.” The family had moved to Buffalo Gap two months prior. Josie asked Mr. Olin to hold the reward until after she’d completed her mission.

The glaring sunset chased her toward town. She leaned forward. Gravy stirred. Would she be able to find their home in time?

A few minutes later her hopes had faded with the light as she approached town. She couldn’t see the houses below in the gray dusk. Her pulse raced. Another quick prayer.

Her mind went blank as the town turned black. Faint lantern light flickering in a few windows offered now help. She sighed. An incomplete mission. She frowned yet stayed her course.

Just as she was thinking of how to explain it to Mr. Olin, a bright glow glimmered ahead. What in the world?

Then it dawned on her. The church’s Christmas Eve service. She smiled, tears trailing down her cheeks. Moment by moment the light grew. She began to make out the line of people streaming outside to the front yard, candles in hand.  The light grew so much as she neared that the glow spilled to the neighboring houses. Josie banked, circling over the neighborhood.  It just might work…

She frantically scanned the small homes and yards. Where was it?

The she spotted it. The red bench, tiny below. And a couple with a little boy perched on their laps, watching the candlelight service. She kept one hand on the controls and reached the other for her second bag, a round, burlap one cinched near the top.

Wait, wait….now! As she shoved the bag over the side, the painted red words on the bag “From Santa” rolled by her. She caught a glimpse of the surprised churchgoers as she pulled up hard. Gravy gripped her lap.

Had it made it? She had to know. She swung wide and returned.

She craned her neck and found the home again. Peering through the dark she spotted the parents kneeling over the open bag. Wrapped packages sat next to it. The little boy jumped up and down. Just before she passed out of view the parents looked up and smiled at her. Her own huge smile made her frozen cheeks hurt.

She didn’t care. Mission accomplished. Pansy veered east and headed home.

Of course, there are always distractions. There are pesky, minor details like a full-time job, another partial job as a ministry wife, other activities, etc.  …But when aren’t there distractions? This is good for this writer who normally thrives under short-term pressure…brief sprints. This marathon is helping me grow. And I’m really enjoying it.

So if you see me and I’m muttering about crops, Stearman biplanes, ground school, and washing out, don’t mind me. I’m just in another world for the moment.

Question for you: What projects or goals have you taken on recently that really stretched you? What did you learn about yourself?

In case you’re wondering, NaNoWriMo isn’t some exotic alien animal that Mork owns. It’s short for National Novel Writing Month.

Every November, thousands of seasoned and first-time novelists alike pledge to crank out the first draft of a novel, to the tune of 50,000 words in 30 days. Those who reach the goal “win.”

These frenzied days don’t always produce works of genius. Rather, it’s a celebration of creativity and daring to take on the challenge. And testing the limits of caffeine consumption on the human body.

I’ve tried this before but have yet to win. So why now?

Why not? My story is still burning inside (no, that’s not heartburn from mochas aplenty), and a writer has be able to go the distance.

So here’s to the challenge, and Godspeed to friends and family who are doing the same.

Sigh.

I’ll try to recreate it this week. In the meantime several people have asked about this year’s Autumn Challenge website, where Bryants galore post a fall-themed photo each day. Here’s the link: Autumn Challenge 2011

forbearing the scrapes and abuse

of friendship, of laughter -

debate, contemplation

Accepting wayward waterfalls and

crumpled balls of paper not missed

Offering “character” and silent stories in return

I don’t care if it’s still so hot the squirrels are wiping their furry brows while cooking little pans-full of eggs on my sidewalk.  Come September 1, the storage boxes appear and autumn takes over our house.

It’s been on my mind for a while now. …Say, since the end of last fall.  And today I saw one of the signals that a new season is just around the corner:

Chile. That’s chile with an “e.” Not  to be confused with my beloved chili, especially Texas chili – the real deal. But, like Texas, that’s a whole other conversation. I digress.

It was as I crossed the Albertson’s parking lot this hot afternoon that I spotted and smelled that annual herald of fall, the chile roaster. Now, I didn’t know about chile roasters until we moved to southeast New Mexico eight years ago. Maybe you did. If you’re familiar, you’ll know that this time of year grocery stores and some smaller sellers and fruit stands across the southwest pull out the black metal drum-like roasters for all passersby to see. Those buying bags of chiles tote them over to the roaster person, often waiting in line to have them roasted on the spot. The train of carts waiting outside Albertson’s today stretched 12 deep.

And the scent of freshly roasted chiles fills the parking lot.

Mind you, I don’t buy the roasted chiles myself, usually.

But I do like that it’s one of the reminders that the heat of summer will fade away…eventually. And fall will come. Praise God.

So, what early signs of fall do you look for each year? Do they make you smile, or do you frown about thinking that summer weather is almost over?

That’s not much time.

It may sound like a lot, but it’s really not.  Not if you’re planning to meet and connect with local people, win them to Christ, begin Bible studies and plant churches – all before the 2014 Winter Olympics and Paralympics in Russia’s coastal/mountain city of Sochi (pronounced SOH-chee – I didn’t know myself until last year).

But that’s the exciting plan that God has unfolded to leaders of Engage Sochi. There’s so much more to it, so whether or not you like the Olympics, I hope you check out Engage Sochi.

How did I get involved? Just a couple of weeks ago I heard from Marc Hooks, Engage Sochi Co-Director and our buddy from the Vancouver Olympics mission trip. He needed writers to create content for their site so it could launch before the Southern Baptist Convention this week.  He and wife Kellye were Russia-bound until then. He’d never read a lick of my writing, so he asked either from a great deal of faith or from sheer desperation (or both). I don’t care which because it’s been fun so far. I’ve had a blast giving myself a crash course in a more journalistic style of writing. Can we say Journalism for Dummies?

A small handful of writers contributed the articles. More content will be added regularly. I hope you have a chance to read as many as possible.

I’ve been asked which are mine. Look on the main part of the page – not the side menu – under Recent News. So far, I’ve written From the Sea to the Snow, What is Engage Sochi?, Praying for Engage Sochi, and Have You Heard of the Olympic Spirit? Some of the stories may be under the Archives. Bonus points if you spot the stories written under the influence of sinus meds and one written well after the time Cinderella had to be home.

If you watch the video connected to the Sea/Snow story, look for some faces who might be familiar to you.

Thanks for visiting when you can. My prayer is that God uses all of this missions effort for His purposes and glory.

In the meantime, God has dropped a few fun, volunteer writing opportunities in my lap. These little pieces offer variety and exercise new writing muscles I’ve been eager to stretch.

One of them I can tell you about in a few days.  A cause that means a lot to me is gaining momentum, and I’m glad to be a very small part of its media strategy.

So, stay tuned…

At first glance it doesn’t look like much.  If you didn’t know it was there (and if fences and tour guides were gone), you might pass by the scene below without a second glance. This was the opening:

But just beneath the surface lies one the most famously photographed slot canyons in the world. David took this. (You can see more from this trip at Reflections of Creation.)

I can’t really describe how beautiful it was to be down there. Even though it was just for a couple of hours, the memories will stay with me forever, I imagine.

Later the thought came to me: how often do I pass by things in my everyday life that deserve a second glance?  What do I miss out on in my busyness?  Heaven forbid if I veer a smidge from my to-do list.

Yet God does give us those chances. A mosaic of people and places fills my mind – mental snapshots reminding me of times God has made me slow down so I wouldn’t miss it. I’m grateful. It could be as simple as stopping to watch a sunset seen from my backyard while I’m hurrying my chores, chatting with a sweet person while waiting forever in line at Walmart, overhearing a little kid telling a joke, or talking with an elderly person only to learn that he’s a Pearl Harbor survivor.

They’re brief, sometimes forgotten moments, but they can form some of the treasured touchstones along the journey of our lives.

I pray that every day I’ll have the eyes to see before I pass up the treasures.

It was the best of espresso making, it was the worst of espresso making. (…Betcha saw that coming.)

Oh, the caffeine highs and post-caffeine-crash lows of being a married couple addicted to specialty coffee drinks. It’ll drive you to feed your addiction in creative ways. It’ll also drive you to Starbucks so often that they’ll mail you a shiny, re-loadable gold card with your name printed on it. Or so I’ve heard.

Yet over the years we’ve been learning from our habit. I share our wisdom now with you.

Lesson Number One: Don’t give away your heart too easily. We told ourselves, We should buy our own espresso machine. We can make them at home and rarely darken the door of a coffee house! Think of the money we’ll save! This is a sound idea in theory. And it worked to some extent.  Yet we didn’t know we’d have our heart broken in the process. After carrying home our on-sale, chrome-and-black pride and joy, we settled happily into our new roles: David morphed into Coffee Drink Creator Extraordinaire, and I the lucky taste tester. Flavored mochas galore! Oh, how the aroma filled our home when he worked his caffeine magic.

But the magic didn’t last (sigh). A year or so later, our first-bought went kaput. We lovingly laid it to rest in the local landfill.

Lesson Two: Beautiful machines make lousy traveling companions. Let’s buy a better-quality machine that’ll last longer, we said. Marvelous plan!  We combed websites and read reviews for weeks. Finally, we laid eyes on it: a sleek, high-quality refurbished model for a decent price. We knew it belonged with us. It arrived, and we made a place for it on our kitchen counter and in our hearts. This beaut had style and could make a mean mocha. Proudly I invited friends over and attempted my own creations, using a page-long list of David’s coaching instructions.

But, alas, it was too good to last. The time came when we couldn’t bear to leave it behind during a camping trip. Yep, you heard me. You see, many of you know that we love camping in our little RV. When talking about it, though, we call it “camping” with air quotes; it’s hard to claim that you’re roughing it if you’re toting along a queen-sized bed, TV/DVD player, and full kitchen  – even a microwave! So when we went “camping” one Thanksgiving, we oooohed over the idea of sipping coffee drinks while watching the Macy’s parade. Into the RV the espresso machine went.  Will it be okay on the kitchen counter while we’re on the road?  Suuuure, it’s heavy enough that it’ll stay put, we reasoned.

What I would give to have had a video camera inside the RV to capture the machine’s maiden voyage when we had to slam on the brakes.  I’m certain it happened in slow motion; the theme to 2001: A Space Odyssey could’ve been a fitting soundtrack. Upon arrival, we peered inside to see that it had sailed high enough to knock a chunk out of the counter top then land six feet beyond on the floor, metal arm severed clean. Oops.

Lesson Three: Once an espresso machine owner, always an espresso machine owner. It gets in your blood, this addiction of ours. The forlorn metal arm couldn’t be mended, nor could the rest of the machine. But that didn’t stop us.

We allowed ourselves time to heal…about a year. Then one day – tears long dried – we found its successor. Another gorgeous, capable maker. The space on our kitchen counter sits filled once again, along with our coffee cups.

And so it continues…