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ISBN# 0-9707846-1-9
$12.95 |
RENAISSANCE OF THE SOUL is spiritual poetry that will touch the very core of its readers. Whispers of Mary, the mother of Jesus, and others who walked with him resound with clarity, demanding to be heard. Voices ranging from the beyond the graveyards of slaves to unborn children strike a chord with the listening ear. Renaissance of the Soul runs the gamut of the ages. It shares poetic glimpses of days gone by equally and as poignantly as it shares slices of today's busy lifestyles. Highly devotional, it is a must-read for the inquiring soul.
EXCERPT from IN HIS PRESENCE
Preface
Mama said I was born with a veil over my face. For many years I wondered if it were lace, silk, satin, linen or cotton. I wondered who’d removed it and what they’d done with it. Since it was a part of me, I felt they should’ve saved it to share with me at a later date. Then, I decided to dismiss it. Surely, I could not have been born with a veil over my face as laces do not grow in the womb. But, the spoken word would not lie dormant within my soul. Years later, I would learn that the veil Mama spoke of was not woven by the hands of man. It was woven of the Spirit.
There have been many days I’ve regretted not having documented the times I knew I was in the presence of God. Neither the date nor the hour seemed important at the time. It was always yesterday, last night or today and I was certain I would not forget. As time is forever with God, He did not require that I remember exact dates or hours. The events that happened when I was in His presence were all that mattered. Those events are so embedded within my soul, I can never forget them.
I’ve shared openly with family, with friends and people in general the times I was in His presence. My family has been very supportive. They’ve witnessed times that I saw images and heard voices they did not see or hear. Many people are skeptical—it’s very difficult to trust the unknown. I understand that. Yet, there are certain others who, intentionally or unintentionally, have tried to throw snares at me to cast doubt in my spirit. Their sole purpose is to make me question the very vision with which God entrusted me. They’ve asked, “How do you know it was God?” Though this served as a source of irritation more often than not, it is a valid question. I’d felt the answer was inherent, ingrained in one’s subconscious—when you’re in His presence, you know it’s Him. But, I’ve come to learn that Satan often mimics God in hopes of deceiving us. Crafty and wickedly cunning, Satan’s powers of persuasion are fine tuned to the point that he can confuse all except God’s very elite. He’s referred to himself as an angel of light, a day star. How do you know it’s God? Jesus answers this best when He said: “Beloved, believe not every spirit, but try the spirits whether they are of God: because many false prophets are gone out into the world. Hereby know ye the Spirit of God: Every spirit that confesseth that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh is of God.” 1 John 4:1-2.
I find it very ironic and troubling that demons, Satan and his imps recognize the Holy One, yet many professing Christians do not. The following pages are an accurate accounting of the times I was in His Presence.
Chapter 1
There were no streetlights in my hometown. There were no streets, just graveled roads and roads of clay. We lived in the last house on the last road. Electric lines had not yet reached our Clear Creek Community, which was five miles from the nearest small town, Valliant. We lived in country excellence with large wheat fields to our right and rolling acres of green and pine to our left. Behind our home all sorts of living foliage flourished underneath God’s watchful eye. The land was speckled with dogwood trees, redwoods, elms and various fruit trees including persimmon and pears. There was an abundance of pecan, black walnut and hickory trees as well. Wild grapes were ripe for the picking and black berry vines lined the roads. We lived on forty acres and had two mules.
I had an adventurous spirit. I loved to go exploring in the woods. I found streams, strange and beautiful trees and even a beaver’s den I was certain no one had seen except me. Though Daddy often hunted for game for our table in those same woods, he listened with interest as I told him of my discoveries. Mama would clear her throat and warn me to stay out of the woods as bobcats, coyotes and wolves were sometimes spotted in our area. Anytime a bobcat or wild animal was spotted, Daddy would get his rifle and find him. And, I would go exploring in the woods.
Daddy and Mama, affectionately known as Crook and Sis in our area, were not my natural parents. They were married nearly thirty years and raised ten children of which only four were theirs. It seemed they were prime targets for anyone either un-willing or unable to accept responsibility for their own children. Daddy and Mama never turned anyone away. My birth mother died when I was three years old and my sister, Charlene, was two. My father sent us away from our birth home in Arizona, leaving siblings, grandparents, uncles and aunts behind. Daddy Charles sent us to live with his sister and brother-in-law in Oklahoma. In doing so, he severed all ties between my mothers’ family and us for many years. Hence, my aunt and uncle became Mama and Daddy. They treated us as their own. Our home was filled with laughter and love—and, work. Even with many children running around, Mama’s house was kept immaculate. The chores were distributed evenly; although, she usually helped with my turn to do the dishes because I was slow. Not lazy—slow—in movements, not in mind. Saturdays were always washdays.
We lived off the land, butchering one cow and one hog yearly. We made our own sausage and cracklings. Daddy would then salt and cure the extra meats hanging the various cuts from large hooks in the smoke house. He loved to fish. He’d catch enough to fill a number two galvanized steel tub. He’d bring home catfish, trout, bass and tasty perch. Also, Daddy brought home tubs of buffalo that were half as big as I was. Cultivating our own garden, our bounty overflowed with every green thing imaginable. We grew mustard, turnip and collard greens. Polk salad grew wildly in the fields. We had separate potato patches, both sweet and Irish. Mama would roast sweet potatoes and we’d eat them with butter. Not commercial butter. Butter we’d churned for hours from clabbers, the spoil of sour milk that had once been sweet from the cow we’d milked. It was creamy and sweet. Mama canned everything we grew in clear Ball or Mason jars. Watermelon and cantaloupe we grew upon the hill. We never knew we were poor.
There was a spring of dancing waters not very far from our home. The spring bubbled up sparkling clear, cool water even on the hottest of days. This nature’s wonder was God’s handiwork—bubbling up from the deep of Earth to provide drink for His people. It supplied our whole community with fresh water and never ran dry. People living in small towns five to twenty-five country miles away would sometimes come to Clear Creek and ask if they might have a small bucket of water. These people had running tap water in their homes. But, nothing quenched one’s thirst like the freshly drawn dancing waters. Daddy and Mama were generous with everything. They were more than generous with their hearts.
The evening sun had long gone down and I’d not been able to explore that day. I sat staring out the window; my reflection was all that was shown. But, my mind’s eye saw sunlight streaming down clay hills. These were the hills we’d sometimes lick and rub the residue on our cheeks for rouge. I saw a colorful array of wild flowers in patches of green grass with bright sunflowers taller than myself.
“Mama, may I go over Cut’n Dora’s?”
“Girl, are you crazy? You know its night time.”
“But, I’m tired of being in the house. I want to go somewhere. Please, can I go over Cut’n Dora’s? Please?”
Now, Mama wasn’t the one to argue with. We knew all too well to keep our mouths closed once she’d spoken. But, she was in a jovial mood, so I pressed forward. Finally, she and Daddy agreed to let me go. Cousin Dora lived more than one half mile away and she was at least ten years older than Mama. I was seven years old at the time. By right, Cousin Dora and I had nothing to discuss.
“Okay, Lois. You tell Dora that I just made a batch of Tea cakes and she’s welcome to have some,” Mama said smiling at me. She and Daddy didn’t really think I’d go—not at night. I could read it in their eyes.
Glad to have a legitimate reason to visit Cousin Dora so late, I smiled brightly. Mama patted me on the head and Daddy winked at me as I stepped outside the door. My sister and cousins just looked at me like I was crazy while mumbling that I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. I was determined to show them just who was crazy. Humming a sweet song, I left.
The front gate made its familiar screeching sounds and I crossed the cattle guard with ease. Fresh black berries scented the night air and I remembered that snakes loved berries. I heard the swishing of water as I neared the small pond where we caught crayfish and chased tadpoles with sticks. A bullfrog was bellowing in the near distance and I wanted to chunk a rock at him. Not needing to waste any time, I allowed him to make his night calls over the mound of chirping crickets. Darkness enfolded me as the man in the moon had chosen to hide his face. The hooting of an owl warned small prey he was on the stake out. And, I continued walking my familiar path. I’d climbed the little hill and was nearly finished climbing the big hill. Never before had I realized how far Cousin Dora’s house was. Nearly half way there, the fear I’d rejected was coming to taunt me now. I swallowed the lump in my throat and clutched the three or four small rocks in my hand with which I’d planned to throw at the bullfrog. Nearing the little bridge, I knew certain danger lurked underneath. I knew the boogieman was waiting for me there. The big, bad boogieman that snapped little girls heads off with just one bite and broke boys legs with his fingers. Even though I tipped as lightly as possible when stepping on the bridge, I was certain he could hear the wild pounding of my heart. The boogieman could see through the darkness. And, the darkness of Clear Creek was blacker than death.
►© Lois Snell
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EXCERPT of Renaissance of the Soul
THE COCK CREW TWICE
© Lois Snell
Convicted to the very core of my soul
Shamed by every fiber of my being
Never again will I feel whole
For, I am smaller than a mustard seed
Certainly smaller than a grain of rice
Forgive me, Lord, the cock crew twice
Forgive me, Oh Jesus, forgive me
Your humble servant, Simon Peter
Your friend that once
Stuck closer than a brother
That prayed with you
Underneath the cedars of Lebanon,
So tall, so fragrant with spice
Forgive me, Lord, the cock crew twice
You said that I would deny you
Jesus, I never intended to
The cloak of darkness, death and fear
Fell heavily upon my heart for you,
Lord, and others near
Fear caused me to depart
Rather than stand firm and precise
Forgive me, Lord, the cock crew twice
My faith in you is great and strong
I worshipped with you all day long
I walked with you, Jesus, on the water
Never realizing fear of being a martyr
Never realizing how hard it’d be to stand
In judgment for things done right
To honor you and your plight
I counted myself as worthy—
Dependable, seasoned with spice
My Lord, Jesus Christ
Please forgive me for denying you
Before the cock crew twice
MY SISTERS
© Lois Snell
In my sisters faces,
I see glimpses of myself.
Their eyes are like windows to my soul
Where many tears have been shed,
Sometimes, painful—cleansing the hurt.
But, most often—joyous.
Tears have been good to us.
When mine fell, so did theirs.
When theirs fell, so did mine.
We are aware of our differences
But we choose to reflect our similarities.
Each loving the other as themselves
Because we are extensions of each other.
My sisters and I share histories
That cannot be repeated.
The love of God, Jesus, our parents.
Brothers, and precious memories.
My sisters and I share life long secrets.
We don’t always laugh at the same jokes
But, we encourage each other to laugh,
To love, to live as though tomorrow
God would call us home
And today is all that is left.
My sisters encourage me to be my best.
Offering guidance rather than judgment.
My sisters and I know that judgment
Is for God alone. Neither is willing for
Our sister to be judged, not at this time.
Not until we get it right.
When I am weak, my sisters are strong.
Every link in the chain strengthens the bond.
We are open and honest with each other.
My sisters and I speak from the heart in candor.
We know what’s spoken is for our betterment.
Spoken out of love because they are my sisters.
Aside from God, they are my candlesticks in the darkness.
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