Blog – Page 2 – Sharon O'Connor

Just Like That

by Sharon

“That’s how quick it can happen,” said my husband. He had observed my near catastrophe from the open kitchen window.

I was doubled over laughing. Embarrassed. Relieved. And sore.

Our dachshund Scotty has a mind of his own. On Independence Day morning I took him outside. He did his business. And then sat. And sat. And sniffed the beautiful warm air. And he sat some more, long haired silky ears gently flapping in the wind. Ignoring me. He’s cute. I was in a hurry. Finally I picked Scotty up to get moving. I took the final step from the slanted dirt path up onto the concrete driveway.

And just like that.

One Puma flip flop caught the cement edge. Flailing forward, Scotty launched out of my arms and scrambled safely away. Four huge desperate comical stumbling steps later, fighting to stay upright, arms outstretched, I triumphed and landed face first on the hood of the car.

How quickly we can stumble.

Proverbs 4:11-13 talks about stumbling. While the world is tumbling spiritually into deep darkness, God offers powerful strength to keep us upright and steady. Are you relying on his instructions and wisdom today?

“I instruct you in the way of wisdom and lead you along straight paths. When you walk, your steps will not be hampered; when you run, you will not stumble. Hold on to instruction, do not let it go; guard it well, for it is your life.” Proverbs 4:11-13

A thought for today:

Lord, help me to

listen to what you say

accept what you say

pay attention to what you say

(And if I stumble, please launch me to safety!)

Sharon's Journal

Defining the Music

by Sharon

Is music a gift? A goal? A trust?

Leo C. Cox is written on a faded tag inside my fiddle. He was the man who owned the instrument, who took it apart, fixed it, and put the ivory screw pegs on the scroll for easier tuning. He played the fiddle in barn dances with my grandmother and other family in the Southern Tier of New York during the Great Depression. He was my grandfather. I never knew him. I always heard about the music.

Grandpa’s fiddle rested in an old antique wooden case in our attic on Spencer Avenue. The instrument held court surrounded by other violins, mandolins, banjos, and an old silver saxophone. One fiddle lay in two pieces with a tiger striped back. Another was a copy of a Stradivarius violin my father had played in elementary school. Dad’s music teacher tried to get my grandfather to part with that violin. Grandpa declined.

Grandpa’s fiddle was the piece in the attic that always captured my imagination. Mother-of-pearl inlay gleamed in the shadows. The fingerboard had grooves worn in it from my grandfather’s fingers flying along the surface. No strings. No bridge. Beautiful. Silent.

The summer of 1983 I came home from Camp Susque and my parents gave me an early thirteenth birthday present. Dad had spent the week fixing up Grandpa’s fiddle. I communicated most fluently with my father in the cadenced language of music. He had entrusted to me a volume of unspoken love. An exchange of family treasure.

Mom had lovingly replaced faded material inside the wooden case with soft red felt. Encouraging music in our home was a team effort.

“My dad claimed he could throw that case across across the dance floor and the fiddle would be perfectly safe,” said my father, squinting at the antique wooden case. Smoke swirled from the cigarette hanging casually out of his mouth. I pictured the grandfather I had only observed in black and white photos tossing the wooden case across a dance floor. If my dad said so, it must be true. I wondered how this theory had been tested. I did not ask.

Dad played bass and guitar in local bands. He tuned pianos, gave lessons, and fixed what was broken with most instruments entrusted to his care. At home he loved playing hymns and the old songs of his family. Dad played the music, not just the instrument. He would smile when I picked up the fiddle and laugh when I missed the chorus into Red River Valley. I confused it every time with some other similar melody. I still do.

My favorite place to play fiddle is in church. I don’t pull out the fiddle as much as I should, but did play for a hymn sing. I tuned the strings and thought about the hands that had worked on Grandpa’s fiddle in years past. The sound guy attached a mic and noticed that the bridge was slightly bent.

“Your fiddle has a nice tone to it. But you’ll want to fix that bridge sometime soon,” he said.

“I’ll have to figure out how to do that,” I mused. “My dad always fixed what was broken.”

Dad has been gone home to heaven over ten years. Music bridged some wide emotional chasms in his life. We gained access to who he was down deep when music flowed solid over gaps between us. Now Dad is with the One who created him, the giver of all good things, the healer of all that is broken. This is the same God who removed the chasm of sin separating us all from a relationship with him. He sent his son, Jesus, to live with us and make a way for us. He died to pay the penalty of my sin, and yours. Our heavenly father gave us a way to gain access to know who he really is, through a relationship with Jesus, his son.

To learn more about the good gift of salvation, please visit the link at the the bottom of this page.

I won’t pretend to understand the mystery and joy that is God-honoring music. I do hope the song of my life is pleasing to the Creator. A gift back to the Giver of all good things. A goal to ponder, a trust to keep, and eventually, a legacy passed to another.

I guess that’s how I would define the music.

What (or who) defines the music of your life?

Come, let us sing for joy to the LORD; let us shout aloud to the Rock of our salvation. Let us come before him with thanksgiving and extol him with music and song.

Psalm 95:1-2

Are you seeking peace with God? Here is a website that may be of help to you: www.peacewithGod.net

Sharon's Journal

Looking for Color

by Sharon

I couldn’t wait to get into the woods this past weekend. Saturday morning’s agenda started with sipping coffee next to Tom and watching the back yard show. The green path into the woods has slowly been transformed to a carpet of gold and tan leaves. The day before, we spied moving shadows of brown and white as deer made their way through the trees. Two doe ventured down into our yard, taking their time to nibble at the rhododendrons, before sashaying back into their woods. One paused long enough for a photo.

Every year at this time I have a system of mental notches related to which month and which cancer diagnosis, treatment, surgery, or test result from 2010-2013. Autumns have been seasons with difficult hues and unwelcome changes. October 1, 2012 found us sitting in the oncologist’s office listening to the words, “Your cancer has returned.”

Hunting season. Healing season. The two are intertwined in my head.

On this morning ten years to the day later, I grabbed my usual hunting weapon of choice, a camera. Tom reminded me to put on an orange vest because it was the first day of bow season. I pulled the material over my sweatshirt, grabbed my sturdy stick, and started walking. The trusty wooden staff kept steady rhythm while I cleared my head. I was looking for color.

The previous weekend I visited my mom. We were talking about autumn and the outdoors. She said, “I do wonder what ever happened to your dad’s walking stick.”

The wooden staff had been gifted to my father years ago, chosen thoughtfully for him by one of my brothers and sister-in-law.

“I have dad’s walking stick,” I reminded mom. “You or he gave it to me when we moved into our home, I think, back in 2010.” The year of my first steps through cancer. “I use it every time I walk in the woods.”

Mom smiled. “Oooh that makes me so happy to know one of you kids has the walking stick, and that you use it. I’m so glad!”

Dad passed away in August 2012 shortly after his 80th birthday and just before my second cancer diagnosis in October 2012. I thought about him a lot after the conversation with mom. God entrusted dad with a musical gift that wound down through his family tree and branched deep into ours. Melody flowed freely from dad’s fingertips on a guitar. Maybe that was how he cleared his head and found the color.

On October 1, 2022, the forest was dressed richly in greens, greys, yellows, and orange. Black tree trunks. Brown branches. Clumps of red way up high where tree top foliage burned red with fiery brilliance on the way down to winter. Deer tracks in the dirt. Gratitude in my soul.

Thank you, Heavenly Father, for your steady presence in my life, and for filling our world with your color.

My heart, O God, is steadfast, my heart is steadfast; I will sing and make music.

Psalm 57:7

Sharon's Journal

Anxious for Nothing

by Sharon

God told us “do not fear” or “fear not” 365 times in the Bible.

Do you think He knows us? Our bent towards harboring fear that settles in and paralyzes us from enjoying the abundant life He intends for us to live?

There is an old towering tree in a clearing where I walk. To get to the tree I can take a few different paths. Tonight I took the longer trail. Passed sheltering trees with glints of evening sun in the branches. Silence.

Picked up a stick that fell in last night’s storm. Tossed a rock pushed up from the ground. Stopped to catch my breath at the top of the long hill. Listened for signs of life. Watched a doe disappear into the woods to my right. Saw a feather left by the hawk screeching high overhead. Kept walking. Grateful for a body that works.

I’ve been watching for the wild grapes entwined in the branches of that old tree. High grass surrounds the base of the pine. Deer have been resting there. Tonight, finally, the grapes are ripening and plump. A simple feast waiting in the middle of a forest clearing. Abundant life draped over old branches securely in the middle of nowhere.

Why, my soul, are you downcast?

Why so disturbed within me?

Put your hope in God,

for I will yet praise him,

my Savior and my God.
Psalm 42:11

God provides. Even in our fear and anxieties; in the silence of our walk; clutching burdens we struggle to know how to drop at His feet; imperfect vision contemplating the beauty wrapped around us in this fallen, breathtaking, decaying world.

God is so good to us.

Quiet forest walk? Unexpected feast or provision? How has God encouraged you today?