The Newest Issue of TYLM! Fall 2014

The Young Ladies Magazine

A Letter from the Editor:

Dear Young Ladies,

There are so many wonderful things to look forward to at the end of the year that it almost feels like the best part is the last part. Sometimes it is so hard to wait for autumn and winter to come so we can enjoy the fun of Christmas shopping, Thanksgiving (besides the dishes), present wrapping under holiday lights, and the relief of coming out of a corn maze intact. ☺ (Minus some shedding of tears!)

We may not all enjoy the wait, but the reward at the end is so worth it! I was just thinking about this idea today and was immediately struck by how much it applies to life, as we know it. Most importantly, this appears in our lives as young women, as it has for thousands of years. We tend to have to wait for everything! ☺ Waiting for marriage, children, fulfillment, the end of the day, etc... It is so easy to want it now!  (Guilty as charged here!)

Yet if we chose to have everything now there would be so much lost in its joy! Sometimes I confess that I have wished to have a remote control that could fast-forward through the whole day so I could get to the end; but imagine what would be lost in running through memories. We would never enjoy their tangible warmth! Not all memories are good of course, but they serve to remind us of the agony of our own mistakes and the great need we have for Christ’s perfection.

Imagine the anticipation of what it is like waiting on Christmas Eve for the morning to come. You breathe hard in your bed, agonizing over the many hours separating you from the surprises downstairs! On the other hand, the tightness in your throat wondering if the young man you are walking with is going to propose. Or perhaps the moment when you are sitting alone in a waiting room for the doctor’s results, wondering if you are going to be a momma for the first time? These examples may be romanticized, but they are real for the lives of countless girls like all of you.  What must Ruth have gone through waiting for the final verdict concerning her destiny and Boaz’? We fear the very thing that makes the relief at the end so much more beautiful!

I know I have rambled on a bit here, but I thought that this would be a good message to all of us as young women. Sometimes the hardest thing is the best start to our most wonderful dreams!

So Don’t Give Up!

-Editor Lindsay D. Miles

Quote of the Month:

I believe that a trusting attitude and a patient attitude go hand in hand. You see, when you let go and learn to trust God, it releases joy in your life. And when you trust God, you're able to be more patient. Patience is not just about waiting for something... it's about how you wait, or your attitude while waiting.  -Joyce Meyer

Chapter One: Stories from our Esteemed Readers

Jesus Jewel of Heaven

By Jill Briscoe

To know Christ is to be rich beyond measure, wealthy beyond your wildest dreams. After all, Jesus is the Jewel of Heaven! Let me tell you a story....

He was the Richest Man in the Valley. There was no disputing it. Secure and confident, he was escorting his house guests to their expensive cars, when John, his gardener, cap in hand, approached him to give him a message. The man was poor and shabbily dressed and looked embarrassed to be talking to the Richest Man in the Valley. He shuffled from one foot to the other.

“Well, out with it, man,” his employer snapped impatiently, his eyes on his departing guests.

“Sir,” John stuttered. He was obviously very nervous. “Sir—I know this sounds mighty strange, but I had a dream last night that really upset me. I dreamt that the Richest Man in the Valley would die tonight at midnight! You all right, sir?” he finished lamely, feeling exceptionally stupid.

His boss stared at him. John was all right as gardeners go. He worked hard and was honest and trustworthy, but the Richest Man in the Valley was aware that he attended the little evangelical church in the village and was one of those “born-again Christians.” He’d never had much time for religion himself, always felt too much church made you a little weird. John’s words confirmed his suspicions! “You don’t need to worry about me, John,” the Richest Man in the Valley said impatiently and cheerfully, turning on his heel.

John watched him disappear inside the huge carved door of the mansion and felt relieved. It had taken all of his courage to talk to the man, but the dream had been so sharp—he’d never experienced anything like it. Had God sent him a message in his dream, he wondered? He worried about the Richest Man in the Valley. He had no idea where he stood with God.

The Richest Man in the Valley closed the door of his beautiful home and looked around. Silly to let the poor man’s words bother him. Why, things had never been better. It wouldn’t do any harm, though, he mused, to invite his doctor round for a drink—late in the evening!

So, late that night the Richest Man in the Valley and his doctor enjoyed a game of cards and talked at length about world affairs and the stock market. The clock on the expensive wooden paneling ticked on: five minutes to midnight, four minutes to midnight, three minutes, two minutes. One minute—MIDNIGHT! Irritated with himself that he felt so relieved, the Richest Man in the Valley bade the doctor goodnight and retired.

He had no sooner climbed into bed than the doorbell rang urgently. Hurriedly wrapping his robe around him, the Richest Man in the Valley ran downstairs to answer the frantic knocking. A young girl stood on the doorstep, her eyes red with weeping. Her clothes were old, and she carried what looked like her mother’s purse.

“What’s the matter?” the Richest Man in the Valley inquired, not unkindly.

“Sir,” she gulped, “l just came to tell you that tonight at midnight my father died.”

“Your father?” Who is your father?” asked the puzzled man.

“John,” the little girl replied softly, tears coursing down her face. “John, your gardener—The RICHEST MAN IN THE VALLEY!”

To know Christ is to be rich beyond measure, wealthy beyond your wildest dreams. For after all…Jesus is the Jewel of Heaven!

By An Old Signpost

Written By Ms. Leslie Green

The fallen leaves were rimy beneath his feet, the branches of barren trees silhouetted against the ashen sky. The clouds hung low and if he chose to hear, the rising and falling breaths of winter were audible in the wind. But he did not choose to hear. If he opened his ears to one sound he would have heard them all--the poignant voice of regret, the raggedness of his

own breathing....the remembered laugh of the girl who held his heartstrings.

He closed his mind and heard nothing.

He was standing quietly where they had left him; the post seared cold against his naked shoulders and the ropes at his wrists were frosted. It was an old sign post to which he was bound--it had once read, “Penndelton; 3 miles,” but after time and weather and boys with snowballs had taken their toll, only a P and a couple of Ns were legible.

The path to Penndelton was seldom used. Any soul in England however, had they braved the brambly overgrowth to glimpse him, could have deduced a great deal about Connor McNair.

The taut sinews of his upper-body were ribboned with the blood of a savage beating--dried now that he had been standing two days and nights.

His skin was chafed from the recent wearing of ill-fitted armor, and the shards of bone protruding from a deep wound in his leg explained why he had fallen behind in the desperate retreat of his kinsmen, where friends had been trampled in the chaos of fear.

He thought ruefully of the rapid death-by-sword most prisoners of war are dealt upon their capture, and cursed both the post to which he was bound and the ingenuity of an Englishman’s mind.

Abruptly his good leg buckled beneath him. His captors (quick-witted when it came to pain) had precautioned against this--whenever he fell the force of his weight came down sharply upon his wrists, which were supported by an iron spike driven deeply into the wood of the post.

Inevitably, he realized, his arms would be forced in degrees from their sockets.

During the hour that followed this unpleasant comprehension, sleet began to fall.

Night fell with it, and wrapped it’s shivering arms around the countryside.

In the cold he began to drift in and out of consciousness like a child who tosses in his sleep without rest. Feverish dreams plagued him; the cacophony of the remembered battle rose in volume until he screamed. If the scream accomplished nothing else, it roused him from his stupor.

The sleet turned to snow. The edge of the wind grew biting.

The young man shifted his benumbed body against the post—rough splinters probed the lacerated web of his back.

He closed his eyes against the conjured images of his thoughts. The battle had been a losing game--many had known it at the time. “Mind you don’t lose your pluck, Connor,” they had said, knowing too well the events to follow.

The young Scot had no cause to doubt his self-possession, but then—this was his first battle. With the odor of blood filling his nostrils, and the feel of it wet between his fingers, a sense of panic had come over him like an enveloping hood. Death, until then, had been relegated to the chopping block--the mindless butchering and gutting of farm animals.

Pigs screamed something fierce when slaughtered, but men screamed worse, and the hairs of Connor’s neck had stood upright.

Desperation as his mainstay, he had hacked on--then the chief was discovered dead where a horse and rider had crushed him, the battle was acknowledged as a slaughterhouse, and the pandemonium of retreat began.

Connor fell alongside the corpses when his leg buckled beneath him, and he felt, rather than saw, the defeated Scots running like hares, and the English, in their lust for blood, rapidly closing the space between them.

Nearly trampled to death by heels that chanced upon him, and with the shrieking of the unfortunate in his ears, Connor lay face down in the flattened grass. But only for a moment.

As out of place as women are in battle, a thought came to him. A remembrance of a girl with hair like an autumn token and a laugh that forever echoed in his mind.

“Rhona,” he breathed. He rose to his feet in a mad stupor, and with trembling hands tore off his kilt. It fell, streaked with blood and grime, and Connor clothed himself from the English's’ slain.

He was reaching for his shirt when they struck him from behind; he crumpled like a sapling.

These Englishmen, a pair of cowards, had stayed to the sidelines when the fighting was fierce and were now filling their pockets with the valuable possessions of the slain.

Not being able to decide who should have the pleasure of running Connor through, they beat him with a horsewhip ‘till their arms were weary, then dragged him into the fringes of the bordering forest and left him to bleed it out.

Two days and nights later, Connor was guessing his captors had by now filled their purses rather well at the expense of the dead.

He guessed that he himself would be dead before long.

It was too cold--too cold. The snowflakes were leaping at him like crazy white mice. They were biting him. He fought desperately but his wrists were tied--it wasn’t a fair fight. Now the mice had become rats. He wished someone would set a trap for them before they ate him. It was cold-- Connor’s head fell hard against his chest. It was doubtful he would rouse again.

When a dying hour had passed, Rhona, on the wings of a hallucination, came dancing into his mind. The febrile man jerked violently at the sight of her. She was running to him, draped in moonlight. Her hair brushed his face as she danced in a garment of white...

No. The image vanished. Where was it? He cried out for it, screamed for it--and it came back.

But this wasn’t Rhona, was it? Rhona, as cold and bedraggled as he, looking as if she too had endured long days and nights?

She ran to him as the white-clad Rhona had run, only this vision stumbled before it reached him, and caught helplessly at the post to save herself.

He cried out in pain as a jolt ran through his leg, and suddenly the white clad Rhona was there, replacing the Rhona with the tattered shawl and dripping hair.

The white-clad Rhona laid her hand against his cheek, said, “Connor...I’m here now,” and slowly his pain began to lessen. His lips were bloody from agitated gnawing; he said stiltedly, “Rhona? You’re here with me?”

“Yes. I’m going to free--” Connor gasped suddenly, jerking in his bonds and crying out, “It’s eating my wrist! Rhona, kill the rat!”

The white-clad girl vanished despite his anguished pleas for help—from behind the post came the sound of crying.

“Connor,” sobbed the bedraggled Rhona, “it slipped--my hands are so cold...” She was scrabbling around on the ground, searching. Where the blood had dripped from his cut wrist, the snow was melting, and Rhona searched in vain for her little knife--the moon was not kind that night, and shone so dimly only the starkest outlines were visible.

Connor closed his eyes against the pain in his wrist--saw the dancing Rhona again. “I came a long way to find you...”

Something damp brushed his chest--the cold and crying Rhona clung to him briefly. “I’ll never leave you, Connor...”

He didn’t know she patted the snowdrifts for hours though the sky gyrated with thousands of falling flakes, and her searching hands could no longer feel.

                             

Though his eyes were open, he could now see nothing but swirling grey. For a second he would glimpse white through the darkness, other times a flash of vibrant hair. The hands pressed against his face were alternating warm, and chilled.

Pain grew inside him, until he thought his chest would tear. The white-clad Rhona laughed and said, “Not long now!”

And with her head against his shoulder, the shivering Rhona whispered, “Goodbye.”

For a moment he felt nothing but someone’s lips against his own. His eyelids flickered. The cold lessened.

“Rhona.” His voice was barely audible. “Goodbye? I love you...Rhona!...If you say goodbye I must...be...”

The following morning was clear; the sun glanced off the fallen snow. When the Englishmen traced their steps to the beginning fringes of the forest, a singular sight was waiting for them.

Lashed to his post was the young Scotsman, dead where he stood, and huddled at his feet, with her icy head leant forever against his knee, was a young girl.

A girl with hair like an autumn token, wrapped in a tattered shawl.

It had all happened by an old signpost.

Chapter Two: Wisdom from our Mothers

Unseen, Unsought, and Uncertain

Excerpt by Stasi Eldridge from her book “Captivating.”

“I know I am not alone in this nagging sense of failing to measure up, a feeling of not being good enough as a woman. Every woman I’ve ever met feels it----something deeper than just the sense of failing at what she does. An underlying, gut feeling of failing at who she is. I am not enough, and, I am too much at the same time. Not pretty enough, not thin enough, not kind enough, not gracious enough, not disciplined enough. But too emotional, too needy, too sensitive, too strong, too opinionated, too messy. The result is Shame, the universal companion of women. It haunts us, nipping at our heels, feeding on our deepest fear that we will end up abandoned and alone.

   After all, if we were better women----whatever that means----life wouldn’t be so hard. Right? We wouldn’t have so many struggles; there would be less sorrow in our hearts. Why is it so hard to create meaningful friendships and sustain them? Why do our days seem so unimportant, filled not with romance and adventure but with duties and demands? We feel unseen, even by those who are closest to us. We feel unsought----that no one has the passion or the courage to pursue us, to get past our messiness to find the woman deep inside. And we feel uncertain----uncertain what it even means to be a woman; uncertain what it truly means to be feminine; uncertain if we are or ever will be.

    Aware of our deep failings, we pour contempt on our own hearts for wanting more. Oh, we long for intimacy and for adventure; we long to be the Beauty of some great story. But the desires set deep in our hearts seem like a luxury, granted only to those women who get their acts together. The message to the rest of us----whether from a driven culture or a driven church----is try harder.

And in all the exhortations, we have missed the most important thing of all. We missed the heart of a woman.

   And that is not a wise thing to do, for as the scriptures tell us, the heart is central. “Above all else, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life” (Proverbs 4:23). Above all else. Why? Because God knows that, our heart is core to who we are. It is the source of all our creativity, our courage, and our convictions. This “wellspring of life” within us is the very essence of our existence, the center of our being. Your heart as a woman is the most important thing about you.

Think about it: God created you as a woman. “God created man in his own image….male and female he created them.” (Genesis 1:27)/ Whatever it means to be God’s image, you do so as a woman. Female. That’s how and where you bear his image. Your feminine heart has been created with the greatest of all possible dignities---as a reflection of God’s own heart. You are woman to your soul, to the very core of your being. And so the journey to discover what God meant when he created woman in his image ---when he created you as his woman----that journey begins with your heart. Another way of saying this is that journey begins with desire.

   Look at the games that little girls play, and if you can, remember what you dreamed of as a little girl. Look at the movies women love. What is it that a woman wants? What does she dream of? …… We think you’ll find that every woman in her heart of hearts longs for three things: to be romanced, to play an irreplaceable role in a great adventure, and to unveil beauty. That’s what makes a woman come alive. ……..   This book is not about what you ought to do or what you ought to be. It’s about who you already are, as a woman. A woman who at her core was made for romance, made to play an irreplaceable role ina shared adventure, and who really does possess a beauty all her own to unveil. The woman God had in mind when he made Eve…. And when he made you. Glorious, powerful, and captivating.”

I was so unique

Now I feel skin deep

I count on the make-up to cover it all

Crying myself to sleep because I cannot keep their attention

I thought I could be strong

But it's killing me

Does someone hear my cry?

I'm dying for new life

I want to be beautiful

Make you stand in awe

Look inside my heart,

and be amazed

I want to hear you say

Who I am is quite enough

Just want to be worthy of love

And beautiful

Sometimes I wish I was someone other than me

Fighting to make the mirror happy

Trying to find whatever is missing

Won't you help me back to glory

You make me beautiful

You make me stand in awe

You step inside my heart, and I am amazed

I love to hear You say

Who I am is quite enough

You make me worthy of love and beautiful

(Bethany Dillon- “Beautiful.”)

Chapter Three: Collection of Poetry

Hymn of the Heavenly Dawn

By Ms. Kelsey King

Let youth fade and beauty flee,
Only let me draw nearer to eternity.
Hinder me not, trouble and strife,
As though weighty in this brief life.
My dawn draws near, the night is near spent,
Oh, dust, receive back the little you lent.
To the glorious heavens quickly I go,
How mighty the land I henceforth shall know.
And if lingered a thought of the life that I leave,
It dropped when I saw Him, arms open to receive!

“Thoughts on the Morning”

By Ms. Lindsay Miles

Is there anything so beautiful alike in any way

To the splendor of the morning when the meadow greets the day?

I woke up very early just to see that rising sun

And it’s beauty so consumed me that I had to praise the One.

Yeshua in his power forged the fire in the skies

Laced the gold into the shadows as the night was held a side.

Deftly moved His fingers draping dew on lawn and tree

So it mirrored in its spheres the angry sun to make night flee.

Till irate left the shadow to its blazing starry depth

So there always is a renting when the night and day are cleft.

Yet equal in their splendor are the rose-blush tinted clouds

And the faces of the dewdrops on the foliage they enshroud.

I stood there in the grasses with my toes be-drenched in dew

And I hung onto the moment as in life they are so few.

I closed my eyes and sighing in the kisses of dawn’s gaze

For it lit the grass and flowers in its torched and heated blaze.

The world around me slumbered till the sunlight woke their eyes

To alight on Yahweh’s mastery in the canvas of the skies.

Oh dawn be not vain in the finery you are given

‘Tis the cunning of your master the Creator God in Heaven!

“Thanksgiving”

Author Unknown

We thank thee, Father, for the care

That did not come to try us;

The burden that we did not bear,

The trouble that passed by us;

The task we did not fail to do,

The hurt we did not cherish;

The friend who did not prove untrue,

The joy that did not perish.

We thank thee for the blinding storm

That did not lose its swelling;

And for the sudden blight of harm

That came not nigh our dwelling.

We thank thee for the dart unsped,

The bitter word unspoken,

The grave unmade, the tear unshed,

The heart-tie still unbroken.

Memories

By Ms. Kelsey King

I yearn for things I used to know,
And places I can no longer go.
I no longer walk remembered ground,
Nor catch a strain of familiar sound.
And it gives an ache I cannot feel,
A vague discomfort that is barely real.
How memories knit themselves to my bones,
And echo through me with bittersweet tones.
Sometimes I let them have their sway,
But usually I chase them far away.
For I am too happy to be troubled with gloom.
And surely all present things are memories soon.
So, here's a kiss to the future, the present, the past.
For all three shall end as memories at last.

  

Chapter Four: Potpourri of Thoughts

“Religion should be our steering wheel, not our spare tire.”

-Charles L. Wheeler

“If anyone would tell you the shortest, surest way to happiness and all perfection, he must tell you to make it a rule to yourself to thank and praise God for everything that happens to you. For it is certain that whatever seeming calamity happens to you, if you thank and praise God for it, you turn it into blessing.”

-William Law

“Beauty is truth and truth beauty,” --- that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”

-John Keats