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Inspiring Voices - Connie Lounsbury

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139 pages

English

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Author Connie Lounsbury admits that, at times, she has been slow to listen to how God wants her to live. Now immersed in the third act of her life, she shares her blessings, mistakes, and the secret she carried during her childhood as she learned to hear Gods voiceeven in the most difficult times.Lounsbury begins her story in 1950 on a frigid morning in rural Minnesota when, at just nine years old, she was terrified to hear her father shout, "The house is on fire!" Her father was able to save just a few items before their house burned down. He had no insurance or job, and so life was not easy for the family. As Lounsbury details her journey through childhood and the years beyond, she illustrates the importance of Gods presence during challenging times, of teaching children about God, and of living a faith-filled life. From remaking cast-off clothing to buying shoes in thrift stores, Lounsbury shares how her family somehow survivedand even thrivedby relying on love, faith, and a fierce determination to persevere despite many obstacles.Thrift Store Shoes shares a poignant glimpse into one womans inspirational journey from when she first accepted Christ into her heart to today, as her life continues in Gods graceand demonstrates that, no matter what, God is always with us.

Sujets

Philosophie et théologie

Memoir

Informations

Publié par	Inspiring Voices
Date de parution	27 décembre 2011
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781462400355
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0240€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Copyright © 2012 Connie Lounsbury

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Inspiring Voices books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

Inspiring Voices
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.inspiringvoices.com
1-(866) 697-5313

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-4624-0035-5 (e)
ISBN: 978-1-4624-0036-2 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011943846

Printed in the United States of America

Inspiring Voices rev. date: 12/12/2011

Contents
Preface
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
About the Author

Also by Connie Lounsbury

QUIT YOUR JOB AND MAKE ENDS MEET
Published by Communication Spectrum
(out of print)

REACHING PAST THE WIRE: A NURSE AT ABU GHRAIB
Published by Borealis Books

To my husband, David—

The finest man I’ve ever known

My abundant thanks to
Vicki Williamson, Connie Lee,
and
Darlene Anderson,
my wonderful, insightful, Christian friends,
who worked tirelessly with me in my edits.
Preface
I am enormously grateful to God for the grace He has shown me during these seventy years of my life. In the rules of golf, each player is allowed one do-over without penalty when they mess up. The free do-over is called a “mulligan.” In my game of life, God has allowed me more than one mulligan. I have been slow to listen to how God wants me to live and have, consequently, made many mistakes and have many regrets.
But God has continued to love me and bless me abundantly with a wonderful family and many friends. Those are the most important blessings we can ever hope to receive.
And so my life continues in God’s grace.
Chapter One
The Fire
W e still talk about that frigid January morning in 1950, when I was nine years old. It was the last Saturday of our Christmas vacation from school, and my older brother, Lee, my three younger sisters, and I slept late. We quickly dressed in the cold and rushed downstairs to the warmth of the roaring fire in the wood stove that sat in the middle of the living room. It was the only source of heat in that old, rented farmhouse near Orrock, Minnesota.
We kids all huddled close to the stove. Mom was in the kitchen cooking oatmeal. I was brushing my hair, and Lee squatted on the other side of the stove, tying his shoelaces. “Don’t stand so close to the stove, Irene,” I said to my youngest sister. “You might get burned.”
“I’m cold,” Irene said.
“Come and stand in front of me,” I told her. “Then your back will be warm too.”
The door opened, and Dad came in with an armload of wood crusted with snow and ice. Cold air blew into the room, and we all shivered. “We’ll need a lot of wood to keep the house warm today,” Dad said as he stacked the wood behind the stove.
Mom called from the kitchen, “Bob! Something’s wrong upstairs. It sounds like marbles rolling across the floor. Go see.”
Dad walked past us, opened the door, and started up the stairs. “Fire!” he yelled. His heavy feet raced back down. “The house is on fire! Get the kids out!”
“Lee, Connie, help me with the girls,” Mom yelled as she grabbed coats, hats, and mittens from the hooks by the door. “Take them to Schaufield’s. Tell them to call the fire department and come help us.”
I looked at the bobby pins gripped in my left hand and the hairbrush held in my right hand. I needed to put them somewhere. Let go of them. But where?
“Hurry, Connie,” Mom yelled. “Come help.” Her words brought me to my senses. I dropped everything and ran to her.
As I helped Donna with her coat, hat, and mittens, Dad threw a radio and some chairs into the snow bank from the open doorway next to me. I heard thumps and bangs as things hit the floor upstairs. The smell of smoke became strong. “Come too,” I pleaded as Mom pushed us out the door.
“I have to get things out,” she said. “Run fast!” As we left the house, she yelled to Dad, “Get the sewing machine!”
The cold morning air stung my face as we ran down the driveway to the road. Lee carried Judie, I carried Irene, and Donna hung on to my coat as we ran through the snow. I had forgotten to put on my winter boots and the snow and subzero temperatures seeped through my open-toed shoes and anklets. Soon I could no longer taste the salt from my tears because the frigid air crusted them on my cheeks.
At the end of the driveway, I turned and looked back at the house. Dark gray smoke seeped out from under the roof, and I heard the crackling of wood. Mom’s sewing machine sat tilted in the snow among other scattered items a short distance from the house. After we got around the curve in the road, Irene’s weight in my arms prevented me from turning to look again, so I kept running.
Mr. and Mrs. Schaufield lived only a short distance across the road, but when we got there, they weren’t home. “They’re probably milking cows at Grandpa Schaufield’s,” Lee said.
No one locked doors in rural Minnesota in the 1950s. We could have walked into the warmth and safety of their home. But we knew better than to go into someone’s house uninvited, so we began to walk to Grandpa Schaufield’s farm. I could no longer feel my toes.
I heard windows exploding and looked back toward our house. Dark, angry, black smoke rose high into the air, and bright orange flames shot out of the window of the upstairs bedroom I shared with Donna and Judie. I squeezed my eyes closed against the image of our beds and clothes being burned. Mom! Dad! “Father in Heaven,” I whispered to myself. “Help them! Keep Mom and Dad safe.”
I shifted Irene’s weight in my arms and ran faster to catch up with Lee. When I did, both Lee and I stopped, put the girls down, and rested our arms. Irene was three and Judie was five. In only a few moments, we continued in a slow, jerky jog. None of us talked except Donna, who pleaded to be carried.
Later Mrs. Schaufield said they had heard what they thought were calves bawling when they saw all five of the Duncan children coming down the driveway crying: “The two oldest carrying the two youngest; a mile down the road behind them, a thick cloud of smoke telling their sad story.”
All four of the Schaufields ran to meet us. Grandma Schaufield picked up Donna; Grandpa took Irene from me, and Mr. Schaufield took Judie from Lee. They ushered us into the warmth of the kitchen and took off our coats and hats. I sat as if deaf and dumb. Lee stood by the door refusing to remove his coat and cap, even after Mr. and Mrs. Schaufield and Grandpa went to our burning house without him. “Mom and Dad need me,” he kept saying. “They need me.”
Grandma stayed with us, and took off my shoes and frozen stockings, and put my feet into a pan of warm water. Lee moved to the stove but refused to remove his coat. Irene climbed onto my lap, and Donna and Judie sat on the floor close to me. Nothing seemed real. I felt as if I were looking at myself from outside my body—not feeling anything, just observing. Then the pins and needles began prickling my feet as they began to thaw.
Mr. Schaufield soon brought Mom to us. She smelled of bitter smoke. Soot and tears streaked her face. Her hands shook as she held Irene tightly on her lap. “My saddle?” Lee asked. “My fishing rod? Did you get them out? They were upstairs.”
“Everything upstairs burned,” Mom said, her voice breaking.
Lee turned away and cried, his face against the door, thin shoulders jerking inside his jacket. I cried for him too. He had trapped gophers all summer for the fifteen-cents-per-tail bounty, and he had saved his money to buy that rod and reel. The saddle, a recent birthday gift from Uncle Marsh, the man who had raised Dad, was old and scruffy, but Lee cherished it