Enter Mom to the rescue. She bends her massive head reassuring him with the touch of her trunk, then stands up and circles around debating which way to do this. Finally, she moves to the edge of the pool, bends down and pushes him gently aside so she can climb in. With amazing care, she lands in the pool beside him and makes her first attempt to bush her baby out. Unsuccessful, she turns him around to a different vantage point . She moves up behind him, wedges his rear-end between two lethal tusks and literally lifts him up out of the water. But the sandy bank is too slippery and he slithers back into the water.

Next she moves him further round the pool and this time with much pushing and shoving he walks out the pool. Trouble is, now she can’t get out. She searches for a good place to get out. The slippery sand has no traction. She doesn’t panic. Finally she kneels on a section of ground and with great effort, pulls herself out. Off she lumbers to her little guy, trunk outstretched to see if he’s alright. He’s okay. She’s okay. Together they walk away.

When all else fails call Mom. Tell your Mom you love her this Mother’s day. I know I will.

Along the way we dodged hailstones, clouds of mosquitoes and a charging moose. And then there was the pothole. The Alaska/Canada highway is a work in progress. Built during the last world war, its surface has become buckled and bumpy with the uneven thawing and icing of the permafrost and is constantly being fixed.

It was getting dark and we still had a ways to go before stopping for the night at a motel along the route. At the back of the bike I was becoming drowsy and relaxed when I was suddenly hoisted right out of my seat as the front tire slammed into a massive pothole. The forks of the bike compressed with such force we thought we’d spent our last seconds together. My arms instinctively circled Mark’s helmet (while I was up there), releasing a few less-than-gracious words out of my usually passive mouth.

Amazingly, with a little help from some wide-awake angels, we stayed on the bike. Stunned we sat there, minds blank at first, then grateful to the Lord we’d lived to tell the story. Did it spoil the journey? Absolutely not. Were we afraid to get back on the bike? No. But we learned the lesson of the pothole. Drive only a fast as it takes to see pothole to be able to avoid it. Then you’ll have the time to enjoy the beauty around you as well.

I guess in life too, we can go so hard that when we hit a “pothole” it unseats us. We’re suddenly faced with difficulties or problems and we fear we’re not going to be able to cope. Our lives have become unblanced. we’ve lost the art of slowing down so we can enjoy the journey. Slow enough to love the people close to us. To appreciate the things we have and to enjoy the trip.

Slow down. Be balanced. Be prepared for the hard times.

There was no fire brigade to call or telephone to call them with. No taps with running water to hose down the homes. No electricity to light the uneven ground in the backness. But there were people. Wonderful, warm-hearted people, who appeared out of the darkness and grabbed whatever they could to help put out the flames. Passing buckets of water from the well, they toiled in the weak light of hissing gas lamps.

No one was hurt but in the morning the small brick homes were blackened rubbles of soot and dust. Those families had to start their lives all over again.

We discovered there was no arsonist or vengeful activist. Just one little boy who played with matches. He didn’t mean to destroy his family’s home.

Words can be like that fire. Parents whose thoughtless words wound their children. Friends who discourage with carelss words. Spouses who hurt the ones they love because they’d rather be right than loving. We don’t ususally mean to cause a fire with our words but like a little flame, they can set a fire that burns relationships, self image and confidence.

Let’s start a new trend.Think first. Then if we need to, speak lovingly. Let’s rather put out fires by inspiring, encouraging and motivating.

He lumbered steadily toward me then slowly veered into the bush. That was just fine with me. Then, still waliking in my direction he circled around until he was in line with my car, facing me. He stopped and stared at me.

All of a sudden he stamped his elephantine feet, flapped his gigantic ears and lunged at me. I put foot and skedaddled out of there so fast even the dust wasn’t stirred. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it hammering in my throat. Oh, the excitement. I giggled like a school girl.

Now I knew that ninety nine percent of the time elephants do that to show who’s the boss and have no intention of carrying out their threat, but I wasn’t about to find out if I was part of the one percent when an elephant meant business.

It reminded me that in life there’s a time to stay and persevere and a time to run. Sometimes we need the wisdom to know the difference.

Choose your battles. Be wise in your choices. And if you need to – RUN.

Down I went. Slowly and gracefully. Legs in the air, arms splayed out, sunglasses gangling off my left nostril. But my large black helmet remained utterly loyal and my armour plated jacket lived up to its promise to protect me. Not a mark. The only damage was internal and I don’t mean spleen, liver or heart.

My inner monologue ranted, “Whatever possessed a white haired, pleasantly plump (okay, well covered) sensible woman to start learning to ride a motorcycle? 55 year old padding and rusty joints don’t have the same bounce-back they used to. I’m selling the bike tomorrow.”

Typically, when I’m wallowing in humiliation, I tend to laugh raucously. This I did with gay abandon. But I had to get back on the horse – I mean, bike. Problem is, armour plating is great for falls but pretty useless for helping you get up after a fall. When I had been lying prone for more time than what was considered ladylike, my husband Mark peered down at me and said, “Are you getting up anytime today?”

“Well, I would,” I said, “but it seems my muscles are on strike.”
“Allow me to break through the picket-line.” Magnanimous, he reached down to help me up.

As I heaved myself up, I realized I faced two choices. One would help me face my fear. The other give me blisters. I could get back on or walk three miles home in my stiff new riding boots. I opted for the bike. I reached out for my pride and placed it securely in my pocket. Then staring fear straight in the face, I jumped delicately back onto the bike and wobbled off down the road, head held high.

Who said old ladies couldn’t ride motorbikes?

When you make a mistake in life don’t be too proud to get up and try again.

I wish I was more like that bird. Sometimes my dreams and desires wither and die because I’m so concerned about the thorms of difficulites in my life. I’m paralyzed by what surrounds me instead of excited by what’s in front of me. And if it doesn’t work to get up and try again. When difficulties become my focus, I lose sight of the goal. I only have one shot at life. I want to make it count.

Keep your eye on the goal. Keep trying. Make your life count.

Once we’d written it, revised it and revised it again, strengthened it and made it the best we could – to self publish and sell it at the end of the year at Christmas markets. You see, we want to learn all we can about writing and if we cover our costs and make a little cash on the side, that’s a bonus.

We’ve jumped into the deep end not knowing what to expect. But excitement is back. We have something to strive for.

Inject your learning with a Bold Goal. Don’t be afraid to fail. Celebrate when you get it right.

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Straight out of South Africa comes the poignant tale of Ida Morgan: her husband murdered, abandoned by God, and alone in the world… Ida’s road to healing and wholeness is paved by diamonds in the dust.

Author Shirley Mowat Tucker knows about the trials and triumphs of South Africa because she lives there.  While her book explores the secretive and often dangerous areas of her own country, readers will recognize similar situations in their own countries:  and also the similar manner that God is at work.

Diamonds in the Dust is the grand prize winner of Athanatos Christian Ministry’s first annual Christian novel contest. Shortly after this was announced, ACM extended an offer to publish, which Mrs. Tucker accepted. The book is expected to be released in fall of 2011.

Born in the doctor’s bed in a leper colony, Shirl Tucker spent her early years in Zambia. Despite having no access to children’s books, her love of story began with her father who entertained the family with spontaneous stories of animals while traveling long distances on dusty roads. At eight, she moved with her family to Zimbabwe where she eventually became a teacher and told stories of her own.

Off on the next leg of her country-hopping life, she moved to South Africa where she met her Canadian husband, Mark. Three wonderful children followed and then another country move – to Canada this time.

In 2007, the children now grown, stayed in Canada while Shirl and Mark returned to South Africa where they founded Phakamani Foundation, an organization that lends money, with training and support, to poor people in South Africa to build small businesses.

Shirl’s experiences have opened her eyes to the plight of those in poverty and ill with AIDS in her own country and challenged her to take action, as her Christian faith calls her to do.  Diamonds in the Dust is the story born of those experiences, and is sure to inspire other Christians to see opportunities in their own communities.

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An addictive storyline that pulls at the reader’s social conscience and sense of justice, delivered in an honest, humane manner. - Kirkus Reviews

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Choose well. Stick to the plan. Arrive in December 2012 with your head held high.