tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50632150376466740652024-03-12T18:50:14.308-05:00Rhonda QuaneyUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger218125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-6107103521769087552017-02-14T11:38:00.000-06:002017-03-08T19:54:37.841-06:00How Well Are You Running Your Race?
A year ago I agreed to write several posts for Diane Bailey and The Consilium. You could not have convinced me at that time I would end up stepping away from the computer for almost nine months. Outside of meeting a few deadlines I have not written. Unless you count composing words in my head space as writing. It's been a season of upheaval and change, full of hard and Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-4785738727144041382016-05-11T22:02:00.000-05:002016-08-30T16:45:07.645-05:00To Live A Flourishing Life
This week I'm grateful for a bed that seems to wrap it's arms around me when I'm finally able to free-fall into it.
I'm grateful for the shower that pours over me in the dark hours of dawn on each new day.
I'm grateful for a husband that is living this wild journey right alongside me.
I'm grateful for my daughters who prove that God extends lavish grace. And these seven grandkids? It isUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-64667694892405566152016-05-02T11:05:00.003-05:002016-08-30T16:45:49.382-05:00More Than, "Just A Mom"
Of course, she never mentioned it.
Considering the fact that I knew her my entire life it seems like it might have come up in just one conversation.
When my mom was seventeen years old and a senior in high school she was given an award by a major metropolitan newspaper for her writing. She received a certificate of achievement and a trip to the big city.
In Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-37496090230520075062016-04-27T10:13:00.001-05:002016-08-31T07:04:41.003-05:00Believing So We Can See
Even the invisible airwaves couldn't hide the pain and disappointment hanging in the silence. My question to her wasn't intended to uncap the well of sorrow she had been pressing down.
When her words came, so did the tears.
"It wasn't supposed to end up like this," she half-whispered.
Her story may have unique characters and villains, but the narrative had a familiar ring to Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-45214766764552173442016-04-19T12:01:00.002-05:002016-04-21T10:34:57.508-05:00Journaling The Journey
Some people have vast collections of valuable items.
I collect colored pens, pencils, and markers.
I may or may not have purchased a pen because it claimed to be, “...the best writing pen in the world.”
I own –blank– leather-bound journals in every size, color, and fancy functionality.
So I've had to admit I like to collect the tools of journaling more than I like the actual work of Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-45156949494519206212016-04-13T08:16:00.002-05:002016-04-13T13:48:48.010-05:00Once Upon A Banquet Table
It was an eclectic gathering of textures and golden light. Patches of greenery, wood, and elements of gold and silver were softened with tumblers of fresh cut baby’s breath. Spanning across the eighty-foot balcony, overlooking the lake, rows of tables and straight lines of white chairs invite guests to come and sit.
The planning. All of it.
The guest list. Family, friends, and the influentialUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-72867782366968290492016-04-05T08:25:00.003-05:002016-04-05T17:02:35.842-05:00Believing His Promises & Waking Up Dreams
The rhythm of my life has the sweet scent of ordinary days.
Unhurried.
Uncomplicated.
Unalone.
Most days, I rise to the gentle strum of a guitar –on my alarm.
I wander into the kitchen in my favorite cotton hoodie and yoga pants to make one large coffee.
Cupping that motivation, I descend to my office and settle into the reclaimed, repurposed chair that's covered with  Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-9800530140819906642016-03-28T21:36:00.001-05:002016-03-29T15:10:08.487-05:00You Can be Part of the Tapestry of Love
"In weaving, tension is a good thing," she said.
Laura makes her art look effortless.
Her hands and feet all work in rhythm, interlacing threads with donated remnants of material or reeds cut from the weed, phragmites, that grow in abundance along the river. There is something soothing about the sound and the process of weaving to an onlooker like me. The natural fibers, earthy tones and Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-77339480285807070112016-03-21T14:24:00.003-05:002016-03-21T18:50:04.224-05:00The Way, The Truth, & The Life
Against the gray horizon, tree trunks look like thick black strokes of an artist's brush. Color has dissolved from the sky into muted shadows of sunlight masked by a canopy of dark clouds. Hues of black and silver settle across the lake making everything appear nearly monotone.
It seems like darkness is hanging over and rising up all around.
In the past? I would have spentUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-45979972627783422042016-03-14T19:28:00.003-05:002016-03-16T10:02:07.757-05:00Catching The Days
The beauty of people who write down their words is how they can come over for coffee anytime even when distance separates. I don't know Annie Dillard, but it's as if she's been at my home, speaking to me these days.
Annie said this too, "How we spend our days, is of course, how we spend our lives."
She seems to be a woman with an understanding about the importanceUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-84004006378576459612016-03-08T16:06:00.000-06:002016-03-09T07:05:40.351-06:00A Call To Real Community
Pink spills across the evening sky reflecting off windows of houses with soft glossy luster.
The air has a faint scent of dryer sheets as I pedal on the narrow road that winds through my neighborhood. Warm air whips a few strands of hair against my cheek as I breathe in deep and count slow: "One....two....three....four..."
I feel my chest rise and belly expand and I continue toUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-69528065785618335892016-03-01T11:21:00.001-06:002016-03-06T14:53:10.606-06:00Being Brave in Every Season
Rising against the steel grey-blue sky, snow geese flap and wave as they beat their wings to a silent calling that propels them on their epic journey.
These winged messengers that travel between heaven and earth, herald the news of a change in season.
I've heard it's true. That birds know more than humans about seasons.
Or maybe they simply respond to what they know.
They don't hold a Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-75819716457478383272016-02-22T17:32:00.003-06:002016-02-24T19:12:46.901-06:00The Miracle of Tears
A single tear rolled down her cheek. A few more splashed out of her beautiful eyes and began to furrow into a steady stream down her young face. The next time I glanced her direction, she was full out weeping ––in silence.
It was beautiful and hard, but a young woman gave herself permission to release the pain she had long suppressed.
Praise God.
The woman who sat nextUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-60953157597046757512016-02-15T11:04:00.000-06:002016-02-15T12:36:42.214-06:00Your True Identity
Walking in the mall, standing in grocery stores and sitting in coffee shops ––you have told me your stories.
How the enemy came early to rob you of innocence, value, and purpose.
You have taught me that identities are often given more than found. And this through tragic events, neglect, and loveless-ness. By words spoken over you, of you and behind your back.
Somewhere the lie wasUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-69566626902829362332016-02-09T08:08:00.003-06:002016-02-09T13:54:59.099-06:00Extravagant Love
It's happening. The pink and red title-wave of heart-shaped candies, balloons, and bouquets of blossoms fill the retail stores waiting to be given away ––all in the name of love.
This is one week when people are not obsessed with selfies but are more likely to take pictures of beautifully plated food, stemware filled with wine with a beaming couple enjoying the holiday set aside to Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-69695988316408291472016-02-01T20:22:00.000-06:002016-02-01T20:29:46.278-06:00Space For Rest
The cold reality has set in, that I am already behind in a brand new year.
January slipped by in the leftovers of holiday hustle, the uninvited companions of cold and flu. Self-imposed quarantine and time alone with a few books and no energy.
I think it was a gift.
It forced me to rest. To reflect. To dream a little. To curl up in a chair with a handstitched quilt, Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-83961286116655716972016-01-25T22:32:00.000-06:002016-01-26T20:57:21.256-06:00A Silvery Lining
Soft waves of candlelight flickered inside the tiny church. She walked with a limp but wore her thick silver hair like a priceless crown as the young usher escorted her to the front pew. My grandma was a woman who knew tremendous heartbreak as deeply as she had experienced happy endings. And I believe the impact of how she loved and lived her life, is still unfolding.
After she was seated, a Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-41813011344384792782016-01-18T22:25:00.002-06:002016-01-24T18:02:28.967-06:00Thin Places
Single-digit air pricks my skin, as I let our dogs out for their morning romp. Thick strokes of frosty orange hues separate the dark of night from the rising of light. Against a shadowed sky, slender ringlets of smoke are rising from houses across the canyon and every roof sparkles with a thin dusting of snow that has settled across the entire landscape.
The light rises to meetUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-73408729977859292132016-01-11T10:58:00.002-06:002016-01-13T09:51:55.508-06:00What Fires You Up?
I bought a beautiful new calendar.
I have my favorite planner.
I found a fresh new journal to keep my prayers and thoughts recorded in.
I picked my One Word.
A word like flourish has beautiful meaning that seems to need a long list of things-to-do for it to become a reality.
It is a word that needs some plans to go bigger and move faster. Strategies to do more. (Ughhhhh!)
Lara Casey is Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-91216039729395763252016-01-04T02:00:00.000-06:002016-01-06T17:13:17.405-06:002016 One Word
New Year’s resolutions never have been my thing. To choose One Word is to have more of a theme for the year than a goal.
This is one reason I love the idea of choosing One Word.
Actually, that isn’t true.
My experience is that the One Word ––tends to choose me.
This year is no different, then here, here or here.
My new word began showing up early last year, while I was still deep into the Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-90244496302947045652015-12-28T22:28:00.001-06:002015-12-29T09:22:16.244-06:00The Thing I Learned in 2015
The earth has traveled another 584 million miles. So, if you are anything like me and wonder what you just did with the last 362 days in 2015 ––there is that.
We've all been twisting and whirling in a wild path around the sun.
This year has left me spinning and wondering what I even did that matters.
I was going to post my favorite pictures from 2015 but decided to spare you.
I looked Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-78854597625095107132015-12-21T20:48:00.003-06:002015-12-22T20:02:11.525-06:00Merry Christmas
These final days of Advent.
The final hours before the Celebration.
The celebration of Jesus' coming to earth.
His leaving heaven to arrive on the landscape of earth in the form of a baby.
His story is unwrapped for us one page at a time beginning in the book of Genesis and weaves a red ribbon of grace all the way through the book of Revelations.
Beginning in the beginning. Adam and Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-33081066991229845292015-12-14T23:04:00.002-06:002015-12-21T10:37:17.318-06:00Deeper
In her book, A Circle of Quiet. Madeleine L’Engle called the word, “ontology,” her, “word-for-the-summer.” For an extended period of time, that word continued to unfold and come alive to her. The meaning of ontology has a lot to do with creativity and teaching. Both of those things are part of the legacy Madeleine L’Engle lived and left for us to enjoy.
Madeleine L’Engle was born in 1917 andUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-67917032917572033982015-12-07T15:28:00.002-06:002015-12-07T17:54:24.900-06:00When You Want A Soulful ChristmasI have a confession to make.
For more years than I care to count, I exhale a sigh of relief on the morning of December 26th. The added crazy, glitter-filled curve balls, which I allow to take over my days, too often deplete my soul.
The very holiday that is about the gift of Jesus is all but lost under yards of wrapping paper, blinking lights and noise.
Life is especially loud and fast Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5063215037646674065.post-53910190107223192782015-11-30T21:56:00.000-06:002015-12-01T18:55:53.826-06:00When You Don't Know What To Do
Towering double wide doors opened to the large common area of the church. The south wall was made up of ornate etched glass which allowed soft light to fill the space. My traveling companion was a beautiful, shy woman whose life had been defined by many unfair things. She would be the first to tell you how it had been a long struggle to live beyond her painful past.
It had Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0