RISE

Posted on April 3, 2023 by sherryrossman

Someone asked me the other day if I held a management position at my day job (it’s actually a night job). Makes sense, considering I’ve been at the retirement place for 23 years, and the American Dream, interpreted as it is today, is the formula we’re expected to follow. But the answer for me is always an easy NO for several reasons. Mostly, management should be for people interested in the administrative world, which is not for me. So, is it a dead end?

Earlier on, when the opportunity to move up the ladder was suggested to me, I let it be known I’m a doer (but thank you for the confidence).

Working at night with little or no team for support can be challenging, but it’s also an introvert’s dream. We hold the fort together free-spirited style. Sometimes it’s three emergencies at once, and sometimes there are long stretches to twiddle our thumbs. I’ve chased a dementia-inflicted resident down in the snow at 1am, I’ve filled concentrators in oxygen tanks (I’m not medical staff, but I’ve learned a lot of random things because there was no one else to do them), I’ve been given private musical performances in apartments, I’ve helped an intoxicated artist track down a mysterious beeping noise in his apartment, which ended up being the bad language censor from his TV. He was mighty drunk and boy, did we have a good laugh.

I’ve seen the culmination of many life stories and how the hurt or the healed things manifest themselves toward the end. I’ve laughed with those who see life as one big comedy, and I’ve been with people as they lay dying. I’ve heard a woman whisper about Heaven’s music as she unknowingly approached the last year of her life. Sometimes the transition between this life and the next is a long process, and rarely do the discerning ones talk openly about the experience, at least in my experience.

How great is the night where the mysterious workings of God are revealed.

As for those of us with long quiet stretches, we have the choice to ponder these things. We’re looked down upon by some as being the lowliest of departments, but I don’t think anyone there has it better. Why? It’s the very thing that sets us peasants of the night apart from the gentlefolk of the day: The opportunity to mingle with ghosts. To learn from them.

Stay with me. Night owls and insomniacs carry a universe of life within them. The characters that have strolled into my life have been many: former soldiers, spies, people haunted by their pasts, people haunted by their present, teachers, artists, authors, alcoholics, mentors, partiers (oh, that WWII generation), people who wanted to die, including one who tried to purposefully catch COVID, people who wanted to live and didn’t have long to do it, missionaries, Christians, atheists, activists, pacifists, elderly parents who lived long enough to see their children grow old, and if you’re disappointed because I haven’t mentioned non-metaphorical ghosts, I’ve seen two of those, although I’m unsure how to interpret them. That will be addressed someday.

Do you realize how much wisdom I would have missed had I chosen the path more traveled? I would have climbed straight past all the things that have matured me, educated me, inspired me, and led me to become a writer. What more obvious career to pursue when I work among living, breathing stories? I mean, I couldn’t find a better education on writing character. What would I have done without those quiet hours to think about all I’ve been given? How thankful I am to have chosen the peasant’s path.

There are things I will discuss when I have a little more time and distance from certain events, but my point in all of this, and the word I’m exploring for April, is Rise. Rising comes from within, and the choices we make. Rising doesn’t require formula, or other people’s approval. It might take great sacrifice and humility (Hello, Easter), and it may take many quiet hours of thinking and observing. Thinking for ourselves is a lost art, which many fear will make America fall. So, let’s take the time to learn, and to go forward.

To observe along with me for the month of April, follow me on Instagram and Facebook.

Grow

Posted on March 2, 2023 by sherryrossman

When we were expecting our daughter, I had my list of names, my husband had his, but the name Chloe was the only one we had both written down.

It means verdant. Some translations say green herb, or young green shoot, and these basic definitions branch off to garden, fertility, and blooming.

Chloe was born with lungs bearing the strength of a thousand green shoots that blossomed to the tallest trees in the world. We didn’t sleep for more than a half hour at a time for months while our little green herb let her feelings be known.

And then she started school and became shy for a while, remaining quietly motivated to bring forth good things from her talents. There it was, that little bloom, that little namesake we placed upon her when she was wrapped inside my belly, quietly suffering the lessons of the playground and schoolwork and bullies; the tiniest signs of spring in a field of snow.

And then, the sharpest of thorns came. I believe junior high is The Test. No one feels like they’re enough as they go through junior high. They were my own worst years, and the terrible, no good, very-bad-day years of most people I know. If you survive it with the tiniest shred of self-esteem and a fragment of an idea of who you are, you win.

I’ve been thinking on the rough seasons lately, and on ways to tackle them. I heard someone say on the radio the other day that not good enough is better than not at all. Ten minutes of exercise is better than none. Less sugar today is better than the gallons you had yesterday. Maintaining—yes, even just keeping what you have but not increasing—your balance and core strength could mean being able to pick yourself off the floor when you’re older.

Our young green shoot who, very early on, foreshadowed her ability to paint her garden vibrant, survived the early years of school, and is becoming quite the creative force. She’s on her way to tackling the world, multiple books, multiple schools, and a plethora of ideas at a time. But no matter how big, small, vibrant or delicate her garden becomes, or what the seasons bring, it will always be enough because she’s learned the gift of resiliency, and will become what she’s designed to be.

And so will you.

March brings us a closer look at what verdant means (See my January post to read about my years-long quest). To discover along with me, follow me on IG and facebook.

D is for Door

Posted on February 27, 2018 by sherryrossman

I believe the ugliest battle scars are from junior high. As my daughter quickly approaches the years of doom, I reflect more and more on what I can teach her from my time doing time.
I sat in the back of the class. The very far back, for the students who weren’t members of the honor roll (okay—once—accidentally), gifted (as a professional writer, I protest their definition of gifted), or any genre of student the teachers wrote down as shining star, but the last row of kids who identified with other things beside your general pile of academics. The artist, the athlete, the HSPs (which wasn’t a known thing at the time), or the rebel at heart.
How does a free spirit like myself (and my daughter) find her rhythm behind so many normals?
Thank the Maker of the Heavens for Mrs. T. She taught 7th grade, and music, and a particle of art. Her heart was undeniably in music class, and she taught us how to shake up our world with good things like jazz. I shined up my flute nice and pretty for 16 or so bars of music, to be refreshingly unique. She didn’t have the patience to teach us traditionally. In fact, I was poor at reading music because of it. But what a blessing, because I’m a hands-on learner, and I could memorize the soul out of a piece music, leaving my energy for the art of it, which was where I found myself–outside the lines of what you would normally find in a stack of homework (Parents: please think twice before complaining about a nontraditional teacher).

I knew I was different. I didn’t know the science of it, but something inside me said to not let myself be pulled into the rows of traditionalists, because that’s wasn’t the beat my heart was tuned for. I was also a Jesus follower—despite the protestations of the kids who thought that meant perfectionism or goody-two-shoes, what it meant for me was undeniably Wild. Messy, outside the lines, grab the world by the paintbrush, Wild ( If you’re raising your brows at this, remember, the Bible is not G rated, friends. Not even close. Nor is anyone’s life).
Honestly, it was a long season of feeling lost before I realized my life didn’t revolve around the worldview of the traditional educational system.
Throughout the years, a lot of my teachers tried to shake the different out of me. Many students tried to shake the Jesus out of me. A few of my friend’s parents even tried to shake the skinny out of me by attempting to feed me copious amounts of food—so I would look more normal, I guess—but God doesn’t allow us us stand out without a reason. And He doesn’t let you walk through life without purpose, even when you feel like a Jackson Pollack in a sea of Michelangelo’s. But the last thing I want my daughter to do is to follow the crowd. The crowd strives for normal out of fear of what each other think. But, truthfully, we’re ALL different….why on earth are we all so afraid?!
The Wild DNA runs deep. How many of you have wondered at your differences and looked to history’s legacy?
The ancient church of Philadelphia, surrounded by a sea of pagan temples, was out of place, too, but the members didn’t let the world shake the purpose out of them. Even with the widespread persecution. They even had a Teacher give them a special bit of encouragement:
“I know your deeds. See, I have placed before you an open door that no one can shut. I know that you have little strength, yet you have kept my word and have not denied my name.” Rev. 3:8
Alasehir (ancient Philadelphia) endured a devastating earthquake in A.D. 17…historians say the Philadelphians rebuilt their sanctuary (the church of St. John) several times due to tremors, unwilling to give up. And the open door? John wrote of “a great door for effective work, (1 Corinthians 16:9)” God opened for him. Scholars believe this was for mission work to the far eastern parts of Asia.

What do we see here? John didn’t let his opposition–whether man or earthquake–shake the art out of him. And his efforts survived the chaos of time…God rewarded the Phildelphian’s faith with a visual representation of their perseverance. Out of the few ruins of ancient Philadelphia, guess which one is the most prominent? You can view John’s church here.

Happy Tuesday, Friends. Don’t watch the crowd…look for the door.

For the Brave

Posted on January 2, 2018 by sherryrossman

For the first time in years, my family and I ventured outside the house for New Year’s Eve. All the way across the driveway to our neighbor’s house.
Several of us from the neighborhood, the neighbor’s plumber, and some who are in recovery, gathered around piles of food to bring in 2018 together. Or at least for the few hours that come before it whispered, “Welcome,” through the door frames.

It was a cautious bunch, keeping the most harmful vices out in respect for those who were beginning again, although new beginnings are anything but safe. They’re scary, and wild in the way a man or woman has to confront their monsters face to face. And the unwelcome vices, having been exposed for the roadblocks they were, were banned from now forward.

A few of us gathered around the fire-pit, its blue flame a perfect circle for us to warm our hands over and watch our kids play together. The best jokes are told in a circle of new friends. Admissions about our imperfections are safe with a little darkness to tuck them away in. Friends to be flawed with.

Throughout the night, we had to scoot closer and closer to the fire as the heat couldn’t keep up with the encroaching cold. I stared at that blue flame and remembered that all of us come to a time where we begin again at something. Maybe it’s a lifetime of starting over. A new attitude, a new faith. Maybe just a single step forward. And like that blue circle of flame, we have the choice to stay low and contained, or to move past the barriers and push back the darkness.

A prayer for all who read this–who desire to step forward into 2018 with braver feet. Blessing, my friends.

The Summer Files: Day 7. J-O-Y

Posted on May 31, 2017 by sherryrossman

The Summer has stumbled into our valley with a surge of wind and scowls. With my delayed book release and The Son’s medical tests at the Children’s Hospital, a sweet summer seemed to have gotten knocked into the abyss like a dirt clod.

Deep.

But The Son, even in the midst of his medical prep, had this song for us. Down in the valley, there is J-O-Y. Yes, he sang this during his colonoscopy prep (test one of two).

You hear about kids with health problems that are supernaturally happy and think it’s just a creation of Hallmark films, but it’s no cliché. The Son has been gifted with joy, and indeed was the comfort for his family through his whole ordeal, even when they put the mask on his face and his day faded to black.

When he woke, he smiled and sheepishly asked where his pants were.

I was reminded this morning of our uniqueness, our gifts that God has given each one of us. Sometimes, we hear such reminders so often they lose their power until we walk into those low valleys and find there’s always someone there to offer a song and a chair in which to listen, or an instrument to play your own music.

I suppose we switch from one to the other in various walks of our lives, but isn’t it nice that God has made us so different, yet with the capability of becoming a master orchestra? We are vital to each other.

Now off to work, friends.

Wink

Posted on March 6, 2017 by sherryrossman

While in college, I learned that my hair was really red, no—dark blonde, but mostly brown. My face is long too, or slightly oval by some angles; with most plays of shadow and light my lips are thin, but to those who stand where they can see smiles at the corners, they’re cupid-bow pink. All this I learned while posing for a painting class for extra cash.

The popular Dove commercials reminded me about this experience and the whole beauty phenomenon; if I go sans makeup and let my hair fall in all its natural wildness it’s cool, because people will catch the angle of God’s love on my face if they take a minute to see from His light.

Because that’s what God’s artistry is–His wink reflecting in our gazes the moment they collide with imperfection.

What Matters

Posted on January 1, 2017 by sherryrossman

Once upon a time, I journeyed east where I met up with Christian writers from various patches of this earth who liked to write extraordinary fiction—fiction containing more than ladies in floral sleeves gathered around Amish quilts. Fiction that emulates realms as colorful as the one God made for us.

Some of us think the world has forgotten how extraordinary God is.

In the cafeteria, between classes, I met a man wearing a sign on his back that said, “Ask me about short stories.”

Initially, I thought I didn’t have time for that—I was mid-novel, juggling minions and two jobs on my kids’ summer vacation.

But my friend, Louise, beckoned him over and we talked.

Back home, I decided to scratch out a new story anyway—but would it matter?

I work part time at a retirement resort—despite the reactions I get from people when I tell them what I do, a retirement place can be a fascinating place to work, especially at night when things quiet down. Residents have shared their stories with me, their advice, regrets. It’s also the point where many pass from this life to the next; a portal to the Great Beyond, if you will. I’ve seen stuff…so I threw bits of this “stuff” into a short story and it’s now published in an anthology released today.

How thrilled was I when I found out I’d be in a book with such a great group of talents, and that New York Times Bestselling Author Tosca Lee read an advanced copy and gave us the words, “A truly enjoyable and impressive anthology.”

Sometimes, everyone needs encouragement like this to know that their efforts matter. That our time is not wasted when we veer away from our normal course to grab hold of something new. Maybe the opportunities God puts in our paths can look like time-suckers, or inconveniences, but are really the very thing we’ve been asking for. What if, before we did/said anything–or didn’t, we tell ourselves, “maybe this will matter.”

The Summer Files: Day 19

Posted on June 6, 2016 by sherryrossman

I woke up to my daily devotional telling me to expect trouble.
The Canine made a run for it a few hours later. I was vacuuming the twenty pounds of cracker crumbs and playground sand from the SUV when The Daughter appeared at my side, princess skirt ripped straight down the center, feet bare and face streaked with dirt.

The Canine had escaped on her watch. Devastation poured down her cheeks as the story rushed out about running through neighbors’ yards, calling and calling The Canine to no avail while I vacuumed, oblivious to my daughter’s voice.
Guilt plunged into me like a steak knife.
“I prayed so hard, Mommy, but she wouldn’t come.”
The Son and I jumped in the car while The Daughter stayed in case a neighbor brought The Canine home.

We sent up a chorus of silent prayers–each Child expressing to me how hard they prayed–and called The Canine’s name through the windows. No one had seen her, not the neighbor handyman, nor the neighbor girls who doled sympathy like hot fudge on a Sundae.
When we swung home for an update, there was The Daughter, all smiles and peace in the driveway. “She just came home.”
And then I remembered a request I had recently sent upstairs.
Please remind The Children of your existence.
Boom.

Upstairs sends a note: The Creator knows how to speak Kid.
Happy Monday.

A Single Beautiful Thing

Posted on May 16, 2016 by sherryrossman

There was a man in my college photography class who taught us how to capture a beautiful shot from anywhere. “Zoom in,” he said, “It’s about focus.” When he propped his photo up on our critique board, I saw a shadowed arch, eye-catching in its imperfection flowing through a gray sea. I didn’t think crack in a sidewalk until he told us that’s what it was.

I’m not sure what got me thinking about this seventeen-year-old memory; maybe some of you can relate, but when you become a parent, focusing on any single thing becomes folklore. A crack in the sidewalk becomes a collection point for Cheerios overflowing beyond the crevice— milk and all— onto my freshly mopped floor.

Maybe it’s my son with the indeterminate illness, and my friend with the cancer diagnosis. The hard things like to come at once, so how do we manage to focus on a single beautiful thing amidst cold, hard reality?

If Peter had kept his eyes on Jesus, his feet would not have slipped through the water. He saw the storm, the waves–he even suspected Jesus was a ghost. But the few moments he focused on the Lord, he got his miracle—one that’s been documented to help us through every one of our hard seasons. An old reminder of what could be.

Jesus traveled with a team—I’m thinking of all of you right now. Let’s climb inside this boat together and fix our eyes on our King.

A Bird Song

Posted on May 9, 2016 by sherryrossman

Grandma Bird was never without a pocket full of Kleenex. Often when I sneeze, or feel full to the brim with allergens, I pull my own Kleenex from my pocket and think of her. Glasses hanging around her neck like a fine piece of jewelry, fingers and ears bare of adornment, Grandma knew that life wasn’t about impressing others.

How could she? She survived the Great Depression and never forgot it. Not that she was all business either—in eighth grade, when I had FINALLY achieved honor roll status, the certificate of my feat floated around our kitchen for a few weeks. My parents were proud, I was shocked, but my Grandma? Nope. She picked up my honor roll certificate without a glance and moved it out of the way of one of my drawings underneath. That was where my heart was and Grandma knew it.

Just be you.

I didn’t need to impress her by struggling through classes, which, to tell you the truth, I mostly hated (Except English—how I love you, English). I worked harder that year so I could stay in music class, not to achieve honor roll. I just needed to reach the arts that most schools make so hard to find. Even if artists starve and get called all sorts of names like moody, poor, dreamers, without sensible ambition—those are stereotypes invented by people who worshiped scholastic hierarchy. Nothing but the stuff on paper or Kleenex you wad up a throw away.
But my heart on the right kind of paper? That’s me.

I’m eternally grateful that my kids attend a fine/performing arts school. It’s not an uppity right-side-of-the-tracks school by any means. It’s not a private school. It’s a school owned by a couple who knows that artistic kids need to be nourished just as much as the scholarly types.

Where is your heart? I hope you have a Grandma Bird to appreciate the real you.