Back at the computer I stared at a blank screen. The phone rang; my son, Wesley, inviting me to supper with him and the "boys." It seems that Tonya and the "girls" were gone and the guys were looking for a cheap meal out. I like spaghetti. Especially when I don't have to pay or clean up and the company is good.

An hour later, I'm back at the computer looking at the same blank screen. Could I write a blog about dinner? Naw. That's just family stuff and certainly nothing those on my mailing list would find of interest. I sighed and scolded myself; "Your life is too ordinary to be interesting!"

That was when it hit me. It was one of those moments when you smack your forehead and say, "Hello! Duh! Wake up!" Two weeks ago I sent a novel to my agent. When he asked about the passion that drove me to spend five years on this project, I told him I longed to help others see the intense value of ordinary days when viewed in the light of spiritual realities.

Yep, I spent five years exploring why no day can be "ordinary" when seen from heaven's point of view then grew frustrated when experiencing an ordinary day of my own! The truth is that life is woven of ordinary days and if we discount them or fail to see the majestic inside the common, our sense of adventure and purpose will be sharply diminished.

The title of this new work of fiction is "An Ordinary Sunday in Thyme" and what writer's call the "pitch" reads:  "In this novel the author pulls aside the veil between matter and spirit as angels and humans and God work together answering a prayer that's been 20 years in the making. In a world where angels tell jokes and Christians are not always what they seem, the most common events take on new meaning as the future of a discouraged pastor and his struggling wife hangs in the balance."

Sound like something that would interest you? If so--and the Lord should bring the project to your mind--how about joining me in prayer that it lands on the right desk of the right editor in the right publishing house? If you drop me a line and let me know you are interested, I'll put your name on a list and keep you posted as the book makes it way through the l-o-n-g process that leads from proposal to finished product. Who knows? One day you may actually see it on the shelf and if you do, turn it over. The back copy should read:  

 
My novel is finished, but getting in on the shelf can take months or even years. In the meantime, my prayer for you is that you never fail to see the Glory in the mundane and the Divine among the dry leaves of daily living. After all, when we stand in glory and look back at how we experienced those ordinary days, we will see our path covered with every footprint of God's presence. all along the way. On that day, when we know as we are known and all our questions are answered, it will be too late to honor Him through living by faith. Our journey will be over and nothing will be ordinary anymore. 

    

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Footprints in History, continued

Blinded at eighteen months of age by the clumsy efforts of a young doctor just learning his art, Fanny had adjusted well to her darkness. Her life was full and happy with play mates and a loving family and sounds and smells and touches. She could make out the difference between bright sunlight and total darkness, and occasionally there were hints of color in the fleeting light. Why should she want more?

Fanny would soon discover what "more" she might want and when she found it, her perfect world tilted slightly on its axis. Her simple life and loving family were still the same, but slowly-almost imperceptibly-something new began to grow inside her. She instinctively knew that there was a world of ideas and adventure beyond her grasp. She wanted more than anything to be a part of that world and knew education would be the key to unlock the door. But, Fanny was a blind female in an age when women were thought too delicate for serious mental activity and sightless people were assumed to be stupid.

When she had turned seven, friends marched off to school and since the precocious blind child wanted to follow, her whim was indulged. Hour after hour she sat listening as the teacher taught others, but had neither the skill nor time to explain "4" to a child who could not see the chalkboard. Eventually, she gave up and remained at home.

Yet, Fanny's naturally buoyant spirit and indomitable will took the blow with characteristic grace. At age eight she composed: "Oh What a happy soul I am, / Although I cannot see; / I am resolved that in this world / Contented I will be. / How many blessings I enjoy, / That other people don't; / To weep and sigh because I'm blind, / I cannot, and I won't."

If these were the only recorded words expressing her feelings, we might think she tripped along through life and never knew sorrow, but while her positive outlook was real, she also felt real pain and did not minimize the sadness in her life. As an adult she would write, "[At that time] a great barrier seemed to rise before me, shutting away from me some of the best things of which I dreamed in my sleeping and waking hours." No one believed a blind child could be educated. No one saw her future as anything but helpless dependency. No one supposed she had anything to offer a world filled with "normal" people. No one, that is, except her grandmother.

One spring twilight Fanny's grandmother called her to the old rocking chair on the front porch. Together they enjoyed the waning sun as the old woman encouraged the girl to express her longing and Fanny freely poured out her heart. Then, together, they knelt by the chair and petitioned the loving Father for the impossible. "Dear Lord, please show me how I can learn like other children."

Childhood passed and Fanny grew to be a teen. Recalling those years she said, "I was somewhat impatient, but as the years succeeded each other in their usual round, what frequently seemed to me an oasis, sooner or later, faded like a mirage farther and farther into the dim and distant future."

Although isolated and without any form of education Fanny loved to compose poems for family and friends. Occasionally those early verses even found their way into local papers. Finally when she was fifteen, a letter was received from New York City where a bold new experiment was underway. They had heard of the blind girl who wrote poetry and wondered if she would be interested in coming to the city as part of their experimental school? With homesickness pulling one way and a sense of adventure pulling the other, Fanny agreed and became their 31st student.

The New York Institute for the Blind school was indeed an "experiment." Nowhere in the world had such a thing been attempted before. Could the blind actually learn? Within a few years the school's astounding success answered that question once and for all. Blindness had nothing to do with being mentally deficient. The blind-male and female alike-could reach their full potential and offer back to a skeptical world the talent, skill and creativity with which God had gifted them. 

Within seven years Fanny had been introduced to philosophy, political science, mathematics, music, classic literature and religious studies. She also learned the intricacies of every type poetry in the English language. Committing much of it to memory, she could mimic the style of the masters so well that it took an expert to separate her words from theirs. Her talent and the popularity of poetry at that time soon had her work appearing everywhere and she was frequently called on to compose for special occasions. Soon, she had composed two books full of poems with the profit going to the school and after graduation she became a lobbyist petitioning governmental bodies to set up schools for the blind in every state. Fanny traveled extensively and twice appeared before joint sessions of congress. Then, returning to New York she taught at her alma mater for eleven years.

At the age of 38 Fanny married a fellow teacher who was also blind and resigned her teaching position in hopes of becoming a full time wife and mother. But, the one daughter to whom she gave birth died in infancy.

Fanny's grief for her child was intense, yet in the same spirit as that of the little girl who refused to wallow in self pity because she was blind, she adapted to this tragedy as well. Turning her energy back to poetry, she sought employment with Biglow and Main Music Company where for almost forty years she composed lyrics in her mind and dictated them to an assistant . Often working on twelve to forty pieces at once, Fanny would eventually write over 8,000 hymns and hundreds of popular songs. She was so prolific she published under a dozen names and so winsome hundreds were drawn to know her better. Among her close acquaintances were two US Presidents, railroad laborers, society mavens, preachers, entrepreneurs and former alcoholics, as rich and poor alike sought out her warm spirit, purity of character and genuine love for others.

Offering such famous hymns as "Praise Him, Praise Him" and "To God Be the Glory," the little girl who at one time was marginalized as having nothing of value to give a skeptical world, grew to bless thousands-even millions-throughout the English speaking world. Christians of  generations past and generations to come will use Fanny's words to "Tell Me The Story of Jesus."
 

Footprints Today, continued

I set out to solve the mystery with my camera and zoomed to capture the action close up. Then I took the photographs to the knowledgeable clerks at a local store where we purchase wild bird feed. He identified the brown bird as a cowbird. The female of this species refuses to care for her own offspring, but places eggs in the unguarded nest of another. When the host bird returns and finds an extra egg, they enter upon their duties as surrogates and raise the waif just as they would their own. Most often, the parental responsibility of feeding falls to the females, but in the case of the cardinal, it was the male who had risen splendidly to the occasion and become a super foster dad.

The thought of foster dads touched me. I remembered those years when I was a single mom raising three children, two daughters and a son. With the many challenges which faced me, I was more concerned for my son's development that he have a mature male in his life. Ever since my husband left our home, he had virtually no part in parenting. The nurturing, training and discipline were left up to me.

I often prayed and asked my Lord to fill the gap in my son's life. It seemed impossible to me, but the Lord provided a father figure through our church's youth program.

Tony didn't have a son of his own-only one daughter-but he invested himself in all the young people around him with love and understanding. He never neglected the girls in the group, but his influence on boys with or without dads of their own was profound. Through him they learned how to become godly men. Sunday events were planned that featured food and entertainment, but what really drew the kids was Tony's personal caring and the way he increased their appetite for Bible study and Christian character.

The definition of foster reads, "To bring up, nurture. To promote the development or growth of, encourage," and that is exactly what Tony did. He was there for my son, Rick, when his father died and has remained so to this day. In my mind, foster dads are special. And, Rick-along with many others-must think so too.

When Tony's fiftieth birthday arrived, young men and women traveled across the nation for a surprise birthday party at his home in North Carolina. What a tribute for this humble man! He truly fostered children as a spiritual father and blessed many. The loving respect between Tony and Rick goes far beyond what I could have asked or expected. God abundantly answered my prayer.

As I watched the cardinal go beyond his own needs to give to the needs of another, I saw a demonstration of God's heart in action. Men who fill the role of true foster dads are part of God's plan. They may be officially appointed by the state or informally connected with needy kids through the church or they may be extended family members who reach out in love.

A foster dad was there when God chose Joseph to help raise Jesus and also there when this single mom asked for help. Foster dads are heroes in every sense of the word.
 
 

Judy Madsen Johnson is a freelance writer.