​Writing has been a part of my being since I learned to write in first grade.  Second grade was the best, though.  I got to buy a new Big Chief pencil tablet and I could use it whenever I wanted.  It seemed I wanted to write whenever I could.  I envied the fact that my big sister had homework, so I assigned myself a writing project and turned it in everyday.  My teacher provided me with paper that had room to draw a picture and enough lines to describe the picture.  The trouble is, I had no idea, at the time, that a picture paints a 1000 words, so I used my Big Chief tablet and added on the extra pages I needed.  I still have a few examples of those early childhood blogs.  I loved homework until the day my second grade teacher assigned real homework for the first time.  It was great the first few weeks.  It was only one or two short assignments a week.  I stopped the “pretend” homework and tackled my real homework.  One day, I left my homework on the counter.  When Mrs. Patterson asked us to turn it in, I had nothing to show.  She didn’t know it, because all we had to do was put it in the homework box.  I was panicked inside and did not know what to do.  I knew what happened if someone in my sister’s 7th grade class did not turn in her homework, and I didn’t want that to happen to me.  I went home under a cloud of dread.  I could not eat dinner and pretended I was not feeling well.  Once I got into bed things got worse.  Problems always seem bigger when the lights go out and there is seemingly little to be done.  I fell asleep but woke up startled from a nightmare and cried out at the top of my lungs.  My mother came running to see what was wrong, probably assuming I was really sick.  I fell into her arms sobbing and blurted out the entire story about forgetting my homework.  Thinking the second grade teacher was being unreasonable; she called the teacher the next day.  I really don’t know what happened in that exchange.  My Mom was never confrontational and was very passive in her ways.  I’m sure she just told the teacher what I had shared.  Later that day, my teacher gently took me aside and told me how much she appreciated my diligence and dedication to my homework.  She reminded me that I was the only student who had ever done homework on her own.  And then she reminded me that forgetting homework in the second grade was normal and we were just practicing to be responsible in preparation for the upper grades.  And then she hugged me.
 
That could have been the end of my writing days, if I had stayed in the fear.
 
Fast-forward about 53 years later when I turned in my Big Chief tablet for a computer.  God had nudged me to get busy and start writing some incredible stories that I’d held in my heart for many years.  He even helped me figure out a style in which to write.  Oh, my, writer I had become.  I blogged for 3 years before I had another occurrence similar to what happened in second grade.  It seemed I had let someone down with something I had written.  I did what some would call due-diligence, a comprehensive appraisal of the situation.  In my heart, I knew what I had written was my truth and was about me.  However, I became fearful.  I was afraid to put anything out that could hurt someone, or cause pain. How would I ever know? How could I be responsible for the response of others?  It seemed impossible. I froze in that fear and only wrote outlines for stories I would tell at another time.
 
A year ago, after waiting 5 years, the nudge from God became a shove.  It’s as if He lit a fire underneath me and said, * ” For such a time as this you were placed upon the earth to hear my voice and do my will, whatever it is.”  It is true that when God has inspired me and I immerse myself into the call, I am happy, filled with joy and productive beyond compare.
 
A few days later, one my Spiritual Direction partners heard my story and recommended I join a Facebook writing mentor group, WriteMoreWriteNow.  I knew it was right.  I did, and immediately started writin­­g––not blogging, writing.  In late spring the leader of the group announced the possibility of co-authoring an Anthology for a December devotional. After stating my interest, I was offered 3 days in the 31 day devotional, The True Meaning of Giving-Daily December Devotions to Delight Your Soul.    What an exhilarating time it was, to strengthen my writing and editing  skills, learn how to submit my writing and watch as our leader engaged in the process of Amazon Publishing.  In preparation for a November 11th launch, we learned how to send press packages, build our author page on Amazon, start an advertising lead-in, and write our bios which would include links to our other books, blogs, and websites. It was time to revive my blogging. 
 
So here I am. It is a new beginning for this blogger.  I feel as if my second grade teacher has hugged me again. I go forward with more confidence and gratitude for the lessons learned during the pause.  There are always good lessons to learn in times of darkness and chaos.  We must remember to take a look at our pain, discern what is truth, accept responsibility where needed, change what doesn’t work and forge on.
 
I am and author and a blogger.  
 
In the spirit of renewal, I changed the name of my blog to Peanut Butter, Pickles and Mayo.  What’s with that name?  Aside from the fact that it is my favorite sandwich, my blog will contain subjects humorous, serious, spiritual, informative and historical.  It’s just a combination of very interesting flavors that together become something very special.
 
Welcome to my blog.  
 
For such a time as this
For now and all the days He gives
I am here, I am here
And I am His.
 
Esther 4:14
For Such A Time As This
Words and Music
Wayne Watson

I come from pioneer stock. I know that the pioneer spirit of my 3 times great grandfather, his wife, and his brother runs deeply in me. As an adult, I learned of their wagon train stories starting in Kentucky to their settlement in Oregon, and those stories seemed to spark a note familiar to me. I felt affirmed and uplifted as I compared my life stories to theirs.
 
I've always had a sense of justice, compassion for those who have less and most importantly, understanding of worth for those deemed unworthy of the same God-given life we were all born into. I believe my strong sense of justice and compassion for those who struggle came from my ancestors.
 
My pioneer ancestors were compassionate people who, all along the trail, camped outside the wagon train and took opportunities to befriend the Native Americans when they could.
 
At the Sierra Nevada destination, they had a choice to go west over the Sierras or head north to a settlement at Fort Whitman in the Northwest Territory.  They chose the northern route and arrived safely in Washington.  The party going west over the Sierra's later became known as the Donner Party.
 
They, as always, chose not to settle inside Fort Whitman but rather chose to befriend the local natives, one of them, the Cayuse.  They learned each other’s language, they taught each other their ways of hunting, fishing, baking, surviving.  They'd learned the languages of the natives to get along and to appreciate the wisdom and respect they had for the natural resources they were blessed with.   The language they learned went far beyond the words they spoke.  My ancestors had an instinctive way of understanding that people live in different languages. 
 
Acts 2 The Message A Sound Like a Strong Wind2 1-4 When the Feast of Pentecost came, they were all together in one place. Without warning there was a sound like a strong wind, gale force—no one could tell where it came from. It filled the whole building. Then, like a wildfire, the Holy Spirit spread through their ranks, and they started speaking in several different languages as the Spirit prompted them.
 
This scripture has been a solid foundation for my ministry as I constantly discern what the call means for me in the moment.
 
My original understanding of my call to the ministry of Wholeness and Healing was so limited and literal, that I bounced around for a few years trying to fit into a niche.  I received training in Spiritual Direction and continued my ministry in music and Worship Design but did not understand that the integration of my gifts was substantial to my overall ministry.  All my gifts were crucial to speaking a language that others could understand.
 
I was a visual learner and often became lost when all that was offered were lectures, a textbook, and a test.  I changed colleges because of that and later in life realized that others, like me, have difficulty sitting through a worship service if all that is offered is a sermon and reading of the scripture.  It is a different language for me.
 
Now, in my practice, I feel so comfortable and productive when others, like me, need some form of visual, interactive prayer practice, or some form of the arts to experience God in worship.
 
My ancestors knew this. Every human being is worthy of love, and honoring them and their ways may bring us closer to the truth if we understand the language.
 
When Christianity took hold in our world, many pagan rituals, symbols, and practices were incorporated into the teachings of Christ.  Why?  It was a language and expression they could translate.  Those rituals, in themselves, were not an issue unless they became the focus of our worship and not a tool for worship.  When things like candles and music, bells and shouts of Amen or pictures/icons or crosses are used as visuals to enhance worship, then those of us who need interactive prayer and worship visuals are speaking and hearing a language we understand.  When we offer these examples, we speak back to those who learn in a different language. 
 
Some feel uncomfortable with the music, or dancing in church, or smudging, or incense, or statues. The very same people may love stained glass windows. Those windows are no different than the chants of Taizé´ in a candle-lit chapel, or a hand-painted banner hanging next to the cross.
 
I live on the Oregon Coast close to the end of the Oregon Trail.  The history of the Native Americans and the settlers here is much the same as in the rest of the nation. What I know is that my ancestors knew enough to camp outside Fort Whitman.  They camped on land they knew was not their own, and befriended the local natives, honoring their way of life, their “language.” Where did that sense of justice and honor come from?  And, with the same sense of honor and justice, their new friends, the Cayuse, encouraged my grandparents to pack up and head south.  They informed my family that the Fort would be attacked the next week. The Whitman Massacre was devastating to the white settler and to their particular way of converting the “Indians” to Christianity.  I think that my ancestors deeply discerned spirit and recognized the activity of Holy Spirit in their new friends and engaged with them with that knowledge. You see, the act of converting others is something we do in humility.  I am a firm believer in Prevenient Grace, a grace that precedes the human decision, the fact that God is present and wooing us into a love relationship by showing and teaching love in us before we even know what that means. I am convinced that when we see the awakening of spirit in others, we are also forever changed.  I believe that it was this understanding and discernment that was the inspiration for my family’s kindness and concern as well as the importance of treating others as they wanted to be treated.  I rejoice in their wisdom and know that my ancestors live in me with the same spirit of justice for others.  There has always been a deep drive in me to love others with compassion and a love that only God can provide.
 
My pioneer spirit, partnered with my understanding of the Pentecost story, has been my inspiration for teaching and listening and providing visuals and music in my ministry. I lead retreats and workshops using different forms of the arts to help bring God’s message to those seeking Him. It is my language.  It is my gift, bestowed upon me from God, and I am empowered daily by the Holy Spirit to communicate in ways many don’t understand. But those that do, may just become richer in love, deeper in faith and closer to God because they hear God in the language to which they were born.
 
Perhaps my ancestral history is why I so often refer to the wisdom of the native American animal totem. I smudge my home with beckoning calls to the Holy Spirit to be in this place, to heal me and bring me closer to God. It is with great honor that I listen to the prayers spoken to God when a drumming circle is drumming their prayers.  God hears our language.  We must never assume that those of us who pray in diverse ways are any less Christian or God-fearing than the other.  Listen and pray to God in your language and then sit and wait for your answer.  Listen for the still, small voice of God who yearns to fill your heart with love and encourages you to use the gifts you have received.