Through the Refiner'S Fire , livre ebook

Inspiring Voices - Janie Coleman

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36 pages

English

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Through the Refiners Fire is a collection of stories that reflect the authors life growing up in the South in a rural community. It was a wonderful and simple time of life that brought joy and amazement to her as a young child.This book also reflects her journey through various significant relationships she has had over the years. It is her desire that as you read this book, you will find encouragement and even some joy because of her words. Also, the stories can help you reflect on some of your own positive stories you have had in your journey.

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Philosophie et théologie

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Publié par	Inspiring Voices
Date de parution	17 décembre 2015
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781462411627
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

THROUGH THE REFINER'S FIRE
Stories of a Heart Growing Up in the South
JANIE COLEMAN

Copyright © 2015 Janie Coleman.

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 author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc. All rights reserved worldwide. Used by permission. NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION® and NIV® are registered trademarks of Biblica, Inc. Use of either trademark for the offering of goods or services requires the prior written consent of Biblica US, Inc.

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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4624-1161-0 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4624-1162-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015914497

Inspiring Voices rev. date: 12/17/2015
Table of Contents
Auntie's Dooryard
Butterfly Kisses
Congratulations!
Grandfather Oaks and Tire Swings
Growing Up
Hand Squashed Cathead Biscuits
In Ma's Attic
Life in the Hen House
Lil Coleman
Little Ones
Marriage
Mother
My Daddy -- His Plan
My Old Cat
Ouch
Skinny Dipping at the Well
Tadpoles in the Fishpond
Tom and the Mockingbird
Auntie's Dooryard
O ne of my favorite places to go as a child was to Auntie's house. Her real name was Beulah Pauline Platt. She was my daddy's aunt, which made her my great aunt. Anyway, we always called her Auntie. She lived at 3715 38 th Street in Tampa, Florida. For the benefit of those who may remember Tampa, in the 50's, her house was smack in the middle between Lake Avenue and Buffalo Avenue. In those days, it was almost a rural area, at least it seemed that way to a six-year old girl. Actually it was on the eastern edge of Tampa, but she had chickens, an old dog named "Butch" and there were always a few cats around the place. To me it was a farm, and a place of endless fascination where it was all right to eat with your fingers, crawl under the stoop and go to bed with dirty feet.
One of my favorite pastimes was to play with the peeps. Peeps was my name for baby chicks (for obvious reasons). Auntie's dooryard was where the hens and their peeps spent their days...it was mostly sandy dirt left over from generations of hens and their peeps pecking and scratching for bugs and cracked corn. All along the fence-line were lantana bushes, and good luck to the hapless butterfly that ventured there, for those hens had sharp eyes.
In the early days of summer, I was fascinated with those soft yellow babies. For the first few days after hatching, I was not allowed to touch them, so I spent my days waiting. I would sit on the stoop - three wooden steps. They were dry and weather-worn with no paint left at all on them. One had to be pretty careful how she slid her bottom on those steps, since large, dry, splinters were very painful and as common as an excited child's bottom scooting back and forth while she tries to touch a stray chick.
After a week or so, I was allowed to touch the chicks but not to chase them. A handful of cracked corn was a slick enough trick for picking one up, but I was always amazed at the way those peeps moved. They almost peeped in unison and they pecked in formation following the hens movements. They trailed behind her to some degree, but also wandered about freely like a soft wave of yellow feathers. They swam in the warm dusty dooryard as if they floated on some unseen current of air, that drew them in fits and starts across the expanse of that place.
The image really sticks in my mind of watching those peeps and the hen just before a summer thunderstorm. Storms come on quickly here and without much warning, but the hen knew. Just before the thunder started, a cool breeze would waft through the yard, signaling a drop in the air pressure. The hen would begin to scan the sandy expanse for her peeps. Puffing her feathers out and clucking in a low rapid fashion, she would spread her wings down and outward, scuffing them in the dirt and hollowing out a nesting place for them as she called them to herself.
Quickly they would respond to her calls and as the big fat raindrops began to fall, any stragglers would come 'round and make for the safe cover of her body's shelter. They would swarm up under her, disappearing in her down and falling silent as they did so. She would settle herself around them, drawing the draft feathers of her wings under them making a dry, safe nest for them. As the rain would fall in large, steady drops on that parched and dusty dooryard, it would bead up and run in small rivulets around her and the rain beat down on her, yet those peeps would remain safe and dry. That is the scene that comes to me as I read Christ's words "How I longed to gather you to me, as a hen gathers her chicks".
That's exactly what Jesus does for us. Calling us in and giving us shelter, bringing us together. In the dooryard of this world, parched and dry, He singles us out and makes a safe place for us to seek shelter from the storms. Drawing us unto Himself as one of His brood, just as I can recall the tender care of those long ago hens, I can experience that the same loving care and preparation that Christ has made for me.
Butterfly Kisses
T his year my husband and I have been married for 22 years. Sometimes it seems like a long time as I have grown older along with my marriage. It is, however, true what they say about time flying. When we first got married though, it was a tough road. To begin with we got married on our 5 th date. I know that seems a little rash but we were "in love". We had both been divorced and living on our own for some years and we both agreed that nobody could do anything right in the relationship except ourselves. This went on for about three years and several times we invited each other to take a long trip apart but we always came to some sort of agreement.
Being the "Christian" bride that I thought I was, I began to pray for him. I prayed for God to make him the man that he should be. Let me just give you one small piece of good advice...don't pray for your spouse that way, for when I did each day that I prayed for him there was another dozen things on my list to that I needed to work on for myself! I thought that God just wasn't listening to me. Well, he was listening all right, but he was also about to teach me one gigantic lesson. One afternoon I was lying on the bed crying about something, (I don't remember what) the Lord brought this remembrance to me.
When I was a girl we lived out in a rural area, where there were empty fields and orange groves all around our home. In the spring and summer those fields were always full of butterflies. Some were a smooth, buttery yellow, while others were like monarchs with deep blue and purple colors in their wings that seemed to glow from the inside. Soft as velvet they were and I loved to chase them. Mommy would give me a stretched out coat hanger and an empty bread bag, and from those materials I would fashion a sort of a butterfly net.