THE MAGAZINE
December 2017 - Issue 13
TIS
STUDENT CHRISTMAS STORIES
THE
CREATIVE
Addela Bransford Pages 15-17 Kade-Mica Battles Pages 20, 33
EDITION
Lydia Martin Page 28
ARTS
CHRISTMAS EDITION
Claire Verdoorn Pages 30-31 Hannah Olson Page 35
The Singing Christmas Tree on page 6 SPOTLIGHT
Joann Weathersby Page 12-13
SPOTLIGHT
Kyleigh Moore Page 37
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awakened-ms.com 3645 US HWY 80 West, Suite 1315 Jackson, MS 39209 2 • WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE • Issue 13•December 2017
WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE •3
Joanne’s Desk
CEO, Publisher & Editor Joanne Bell Cover Photo David Sprayberry Contributing Writers Lydia Martin Hannah Olson Kade-Mica Battles Addela Bransford Claire Verdoorn Joann Weathersby Kyleigh Moore David Sprayberry Layout Design Michelle Zischke Facebook Woman To Woman With Joanne The Magazine Subscribe! Visit: bit.ly/joannemag Contact us at: woman2woman.joanne@ yahoo.com 601-398-6733 P.O. Box 2031 Ridgeland, Ms 39158 All rights reserved. No portion of Woman to Woman with Joanne may be reproduced without written permission from the publisher. The management of Woman to Woman with Joanne is not responisble for opinions expressed by its writers. Woman to Woman with Joanne maintains the unrestricted right to edit or refuse all submitted material. All advertisements are subject to approval by the publisher. The production of Woman to Woman is funded by advertising and sponsorship.
BY JOANNE BELL, FOUNDER
For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son, that whosoever believeth on Him should not perish but have everlasting life. John 3:16 This holiday season has been somewhat tough for me. Losing two family members, my mom last year, my nephew this year, it's been a rollercoaster of emotion. Not knowing how to feel, how to express those emotions and feelings, being so used to bottling them up and ignoring the promptings to cry and grieve, it has really affected me. I have wanted to hide, not be around people, shut off the world and stay in my own little space, and I know that I am not the only one who has at one point felt this way. But it’s Christmas time! A time of sharing and caring and most importantly, a time to show and share love. No matter what you’re going through, a little love can brighten the darkest day. Showing love to someone else actually heals your heart and warms your soul, it actually makes you feel better to do something nice for someone else.
to the source that I trust the most, the Holy Bible. 1 Corinthians 13:4-8 says: “Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up; does not behave rudely, does not seek it’s own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. Love is the gift that’s missing in this current generation, but it’s the only gift that keeps on giving. This Christmas, my goal is to focus on family and showing love as often as I can. Letting go of the past, any hurt feelings or grudges that may be there, and truly focusing on sharing the love that God meant for us to share. That’s what Christmas is really about. It’s about an unselfish, unconditional love that was shown to us by our Heavenly Father. I charge everyone who reads this to give the gift of love. Make that phone call, send that text or show up at the family Christmas dinner. It’s time to heal, let’s do it together. Have a Merry Christmas!
What is love? Instead of looking to the dictionary for the definition of love, I went
Love ya much!
Joanne
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In This Issue
Rhetorical Promises.............................................................................................................5 Cover Story: Belhaven's Singing Christmas Tree......................................6-8 Note from Designer/The Well....................................................................................10 From Dirt to Display....................................................................................................12-13 A Chance to Lift Spirits.............................................................................................15-17 Sainthood..........................................................................................................................20-23 Mississippi Snow Storm 2017.............................................................................26-27 Not a Cookie Cutter Christmas................................................................................28 A Portrait of a Midwest Christmas.................................................................30-31 First Christmas ...................................................................................................................33 Where Shepherds Gather.............................................................................................35 Hand-by-Hand, Children Can Change The World........................................37
4 • WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE • Issue 13•December 2017
Rhetorical Promises By Kade-Mica Kade-Mica Battles Battles By
We sit back on the sidewalk drink our Dr. Pepper and proclaim many statements beginning with the words: “One day…” “One day we’ll be rich,” We all yell a simple statement hard to earn. “One day I’ll get a girlfriend,” We’d laugh until we frown as it becomes fact. “One day I’ll travel the world,” You’d promise Though I think you still live in Oxford. “One day I’ll be the President,” You’d proclaim Until you realize that’s insane. “One day we’ll meet again,” We’d repeat, and repeat. Until “One day…” becomes ”I remember when…” Background Photo Credit: Michelle Zischke WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE •5
85
1940
YEARS OF THE
SINGING CHRISTMAS
TREE 1955
6 • WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE • Issue 13•December 2017
1988
2004
2012
2013
AT
BELHAVEN UNIVERSITY
2014
WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE •7
America's Oldest
Singing Christmas Tree Celebrates 85 Years By David Sprayberry
F
Certain traditions have become expected elements to the tree. An auditioned soloist is positioned under the star located at the very top of the tree. This honored soloist performs “O Holy Night” near the Tree's conclusion. Other traditions include artificial The Belhaven Singing Christmas Tree snowfall during “White Christmas” and is the first and oldest of its kind. Since humorous “insider jokes” interposed its creation in 1933, the tree frame has into the lyrics of “Rudolph the Red grown taller, candles were exchanged Nosed Reindeer” and other Christmas for LED lights, voices and carol favorites. music were amplified and The Belhaven more singers were added Singing Christmas Ms. Bettye Quinn, Tree is the first and Associate Professor of each year. oldest of its kind. Education and Director Today, the 35-foot tall of Elementary Education, wood and metal tree has attended the event for 78 years structure holds over 100 men and and remembers seeing the tree for women. The LED lights change colors the first time. Quinn said, “I remember in various patterns and sequences when I was three in 1937 and a family according to the character of each friend brought me to see the Belhaven Christmas carol, creating a visual singing Christmas tree for the first spectacle for listeners. time. At the time the tree was a group of 50 girls on a platform between the Mignonne Caldwell, the originator of columns, they had on white robes and Belhaven’s tree and music professor, held bright lights that reflected into the came up with the idea as a way to give lagoon. It was just a glorious sight for back to the surrounding community. a little child to see. I have come every Caldwell recruited college engineer year since to see the Belhaven Singing Mr. C. V. McLain to construct the Christmas Tree.” first wooden tree frame for the choir or the past 85 years, students have readied their voices, braved the elements and climbed a 35foot tall structure to be part of the oldest singing Christmas tree tradition in the United States.
to stand on. Caldwell’s concert idea became a reality and debuted to the public in December 1933. After the success of the first performance, it became a yearly tradition.
This year marked the 85th anniversary of this special concert. Both performances are held the first week in December and are free to the public. They normally and take place at the Belhaven University Athletic Bowl. If you missed it this year, put it on your calendar for 2018.
Belhaven’s
“And he will go down in history.
Like the tennis courts!” An example of an “insider joke” added to the end of “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.”
Belhaven’s Singing Singing Christmas Christmas Tree was named Tree was named one of the top 20 events one of the top in the Southeast by the Southeast Tourism Society, 20 events in the and it continually draws Southeast by in thousands of people the Southeast each year. The Singing Tourism Society Christmas Tree tradition continues serving the Jackson community by providing a spiritually edifying, fun-filled event of visual and musical splendor.
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Note From The Designer
M
any of the stories in this month’s issue are brought to you by college students and recent graduates. They present you with memories, reflections, lessons learned, and a different spin on some common tales. Some of these stories remind us that Christmas time is not always a time of unrestrained happiness. Many people deal with depression, painful memories and harship this time of year. That is why the replayed announcement of Jesus entering the world that is remembered at this time of year is such good news. Focus on Jesus this Christmas season!
Merry Christmas! ~Michelle
The Well By Rebecca Steen
John 4:9-10 English Standard Version The Samaritan woman said to him, “How is it that you, a Jew, ask for a drink from me, a woman of Samaria?” (For Jews have no dealings with Samaritans.) Jesus answered her, “If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.” Come to the well of living water And thirst no more my sons and daughters Weak and weary, lay down your heads Come and drink, drink from my well This is my savior’s unyielding promise His uncompromising, unshakable, constant truth This holy covenant set before man Knowing we would surely disappoint you Your heavy cross, you knew we would disgrace But still you took it up with our spit wet on your face Our mocking, cackling voices boring into your head Carried you still forward For only you could be so in love with the dead Your perfect love transcends anything we could ever do Faithfulness could never forsake us though we deny you To think, in that moment…you saw our faces, knew our names, And yet, you kept walking while seeing every bit of our shame Cloaked in pain-full weighty sin You could not leave us there Dirty, bleeding, decaying, dying For as I murdered the lamb Your heart was still crying Come to the well of living water Thirst no more my sons and daughters Weak and weary, lay down your heads Come and drink, drink from my well This is my confession This is my heart’s cry I am a sinner I deserve to die I am unworthy of your holy presence
For I was born ready for the flames My first desire is to hate you Defile your cross, and deny your Name But you looked at a world in which I could not be with you And said that was no world at all So you gave up everything you held most dear To redeem man from that great Fall Even knowing I would cry out for your blood You still took those stripes for me without a word Even knowing all the evil I would do You still rescued me, before I loved you So come to the well The hopeless, the broken Those overwhelmed and bound by chains All seeking their own selfish gains Draw near to Him, those filled with hate Bitter and resentful Ready to suffocate All who have been raked across the painful coals of life Those he prayed for as he was crucified Before ascending on high, he cried out to the bride Come to me and my throne of grace Withdraw to me and with me stay Confide in me your deepest pain Relinquish the demons I have slain For the victory is your everlasting gain Come to the well of living water Thirst no more my sons and daughters Weak and weary, lay down your heads Come and drink, drink from my well
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Rebecca Steen Photo Credit: David Sprayberry Top Photo: luckybusiness/ Adobe Stock
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FROM DIRT TO DISPLAY By Joann Weathersby
W
e are delighted to share the story of Joann Weathersby, an ordained Minister, Conference Speaker, Mentor, Author, and founder of Sisters Hearts Ministry. She has been married to Johnny Weathersby for thirty-four years with a blended family of four children, and she is a proud grandmother. Here is her story: I grew up in a home with six siblings and yet felt isolated and different in ways I could never define. (Years into the future God would reveal to me why I felt this way.) I would stargaze, write poetry and journal my thoughts. I could tell my journal what I couldn’t tell anyone else.
From a small child well into adulthood In my mind, everyone was capable and I suffered with self esteem issues. I worthy of God’s gifts and grace except believed the words spoken about me me. I was a little girl lost even after by other people, and therefore never years of marriage. I thought how lucky felt worthy enough, pretty enough, or I was that Johnny wanted to marry me. smart enough. Becoming an unwed It never entered my mind until years teenage mother coupled with a poor later that he was blessed to have me as self image led to years of depression his wife. My “inner me” was my biggest and pain. I was faithful in pushing enemy. The voice in my head was others forward and faithful to affirm forever reminding me of my failures and pray for others. I was a type of and mistakes. My “inner me” always Cinderella, who was diligent in assisting whispered, “there’s nothing special everyone else in preparations for the about you!” I allowed this voice to ball, while never override the voice I was a type of Cinderella, feeling worthy to of the Holy Spirit. who was diligent in assisting attend myself. everyone else in preparations The journey from for the ball, while never feeling then to now is one which has rooted worthy to attend myself.
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HIS IMMEASURABLE LOVE FOR ME and strengthened my faith in God and his immeasurable love for me. I accepted His call on my life in 2005, and soon after founded Sisters Hearts Ministry. I preached, taught, and ministered to others, but only God knew I ministered from a yet to be healed place in my own life. God’s truth was about to penetrate the wall of unworthiness I had built around myself.
by which a Ruby is processed the light in my soul became even brighter. This is what I had been missing! God is not looking for a perfect, sinless woman who has a snow white past. He is seeking the lost and dirty, those who have made mistakes in life. He’s waiting on those who are still making unwise life choices. God is calling the woman caught in adultery, the prostitute, the drug addict, the fornicator, etc.
This enlightenment from God would be the content of my first book. As I forestated, this was 2012. It would be four years to the month before I would overcome my fear of failure to begin writing this revelation in the form of a book titled; Proverbs 31 Woman: A Peek Into Her Past.
In May of 2012 while studying for a Women’s Day Celebration, I had no idea just how drastically I have heard many my life was about to God is not looking for a perfect, sinless woman who sermons about the change! The theme woman of Proverbs has a snow white past. scripture was the 31:10-31, but I have familiar passage from never heard anyone preach on the Proverbs 31. This scripture was difficult process of becoming this woman. for me because I felt this woman and Only God could have liberated me I had nothing in common. She was from my Inner me (enemy), to perfect and I was in pieces! I had no transform me from dirt to display. message for the women I was to speak The pain, heartbreak, and mistakes to the next day. of my past (the extraction and As I sat with my bible in hand feeling processing) were detours that did not overwhelmed, I heard in my spirit delete my destiny! the question, “Why is she compared As I sat in awe of what the Holy Spirit to the Ruby?” I responded, “I don’t had just revealed, I knew I had to share know.” The response to my reply this awesome and life-altering truth was simply- “Find out!” with others. The Holy Spirit led me to A Google search on the Ruby would Google the Ruby with full knowledge manifest the healing I had yearned for that as I read, I would see myself and my whole life. As I read the details of not the ruby. As precious and costly how the Ruby is extracted from the as the Ruby is, it is taken from the dirt! dirt and processed, it was if a light The miner does not discard this gem was turned on. Images of the Ruby because of its imperfection. No, He revealed that the precious stone taken processes and removes all impurities from the dirt looks nothing like the because He’s cognitive of its value in its Ruby displayed in the finest stores. present state. Does this not illustrate The process it undergoes prepares it the work of the Holy Spirit in the lives for the display case. You see, at the of believers? We are all dirty before Ruby’s extraction it is encrusted, dirty, we’re washed in the blood of the and not appealing to the eye. My God! spotless Lamb! This describes how I viewed myself. As I continued reading the various means
I praise God that I’m free, and being made free every day.
The Holy Spirit removed the blinders which prevented me from seeing who God saw when He looked at me. I was looking in my past. God desired to show me my future despite my past. My prayer to Jehovah Rapha is that hearts, minds, and souls will be healed to wholeness. Destiny awaits! To order Joann’s book, “Proverbs 31 Woman: A Peek Into Her Past” email joann.weathersby@yahoo.com or sistersheartsministry@gmail.com or go to https://www.createspace. com/7003288
Photo Credit: Leysan/Adobe Stock
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14 • WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE • Issue 3•December 2017
A Chance to Lift Spirits By Addela Bransford
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A
s slanted rays of morning light shone through the windows, our family gathered around the decorated tree. It stood in the center of the room, fragrant and towering, tapered toward the ceiling in a nearperfect triangle. Dozens of lights and ornaments furnished its branches; they glimmered as they caught traces of the sun. Every year, my mom oversaw the decoration of the tree. She made sure ornaments were arranged rightly: larger ones near the bottom, smaller ones near the top. She spent hours wrapping light strings around each individual branch. The result was spectacular. My eye never quite knew where to settle, so I usually admired our Christmas trees from a distance. We waited for the go-ahead. I stayed in a corner and sipped coffee. My siblings sat quiet, expectant smiles on their faces. The children, my younger nieces and nephew, fidgeted, wondering aloud if they would get all the toys they asked for. My parents walked into the room. Dad had combed his hair. Mom was still in her pajamas and smelled of vanilla. She readied her digital camera.
my attention to a mess of torn paper beside my feet. “Here, Justin!” I raised my eyes and found Mom approaching my brother. She held a gift. “It’s from me and Dad,” she said. My brother took it.” Thanks, Mom.” She watched while he removed the bow, then the ribbon, then the wrapping paper. He opened the package as if an animal might jump out. Slowly, the corners of his mouth lifted. He beamed. “Wow, Mom!” he said. “Thanks! Thank you so much.”
“I know they do. That’s not the point. They’re still adjusting to not having their mom around. Doing all our Christmas traditions might make it worse. We should do something else.” “Honey, with all we spend on presents—” “We don’t have to do presents, Michael. Let’s not do presents this year. Disneyland can be a present for the whole family.” Again, Dad fell silent. I wondered if Mom had mentally included Eli when
“You’re welcome, dear,” she said. She sat next to him and took him in her arms, and for the first time in months, my brother regained some of his old cheer. --“Maybe we should take everyone to Disneyland this year,” Mom said. Dad shook his head. “It’s too expensive, Shawn—” “We can use Nathan’s military discount.” Dad said nothing.
“All right! she proclaimed.” Immediately, the kids dove for the presents under the tree. They laughed and shrieked and ripped open boxes with alarming strength. The adults were tired, deliberate—they queued up their gifts in neat little stacks on the floor. My second-oldest brother didn’t move from his seat. His hands were folded, tense, on his lap. He frowned. Then he exhaled. Once, he glanced up to see his daughter flinging tissue paper into the air, then he lowered his gaze. I stared at his left hand. An untanned ring of pale skin stood out at the base of his fourth finger, where his wedding band used to be. He caught me looking and gave a strained grin. I smiled back, then turned
“Shawn,” my dad interjected, “they’re fine. They love coming to our house.”
The three of us sat in the car, on our way to dinner. I looked out the window at the passing adobe buildings and farolitos. Only a few days after Halloween and every business owner seemed eager to put up holiday decorations. Above the streets and shops, orange clouds lined the lateautumn sky—the mountains turned golden in the sunset. Fallen leaves were strewn along sidewalks and patches of snow lingered on windowsills. Mom turned off the car radio. “Eli’s kids would enjoy it more.” Dad sighed. “Why do you say that?” “If we’re here and doing our usual Christmas things, it might remind them of—”
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she mentioned his kids. Eli would enjoy Disneyland. Eli would appreciate the trip since he hadn’t yet adjusted to life without his ex. I glimpsed a sign in a shop window. 15% OFF ENGAGEMENT RINGS, it read. “I agree with Mom,” I said. Dad chuckled at my reflection in the rearview mirror. “I bet you do.” “Michael,” Mom said, “just—think about it, okay?” “Okay.” A few months later, we rode on an airport shuttle that would take us to one of Disneyland’s in-park hotels. The California roads were damp from recent rain; gentle breezes swayed palm trees. In the shuttle, our bags spilled from the designated luggage area onto the first row of seats. Eli’s kids couldn’t sit for long. They kept standing, switching spots, and jumping in the center aisle. The shuttle driver was mercifully laid back, amused at our excitement. Eli quietly observed his kids. I noticed the same pale circle of skin on his
ring finger that had been on Justin’s. I couldn’t have predicted it: both of my brothers divorced.
Mom brought a present to me. “Here you go, honey.” I opened it. In a small cardboard box lay a clothbound journal with a set of new pens. I ran my hands over the cloth, thin and textured, and thanked Mom.
Eli faced Mom and Dad. “Thank you guys so much,” he said. “It’s no problem!” Mom was quick to reply. “This was a great idea. It gives the kids a break. And me. From all the drama.” Mom nodded. “Well, that was the plan.” Even Dad conceded. He stopped commenting on the price of the trip and began to point out the plants, the weather, the architecture. An unseen burden was relieved. Though December had passed, a certain warmth rose in my heart—the same warmth I felt when I saw wreaths of holly or striped peppermint candy. --Over the years, our enjoyment of Christmas has been threatened by outside circumstance. Divorce. Feuds between grandchildren. Career setbacks
I didn’t know how she did it so effortlessly, how she knew what we needed when we most needed it.
“We’re so proud of you,” she said. “We’re happy to see you pursuing what you love.”
and cancer diagnoses. But if any time is an appropriate time to set aside troubles, it’s Christmas. My mom knows this. She works to encourage us throughout the holiday season. She invites us over to bake cookies or hang garlands around the house. She maintains our traditions: annual strolls down Canyon Road, visits to the local live nativity, rows of handmade stockings tacked to wooden door frames. Through her gift-giving, and her insistence that the whole of December should be joyful, she eases the anxieties of adult life.
I sat frozen while she hugged me. She asked if I liked the pens. “I hope you get a lot of use out of those,” she said. “Yeah,” I said, “I like them. I’ll definitely use them.” “Good!” She left to take pictures. I didn’t know how she did it so effortlessly, how she knew what we needed when we most needed it.
After my first semester away at college, I came home for winter break dejected. The writing program at my university proved difficult. The humidity of the Deep South was insufferable, and I reveled in the brittle Santa Fe air. I missed my friends too much. I worried I would fail. On Christmas that year, we sat around the tree as we always did. By then, both my brothers had remarried. I smiled to see Justin hold hands with his wife. When the signal to open presents was given, I remained in my chair. I watched my nieces—taller than I remembered—mimic their parents, making orderly piles of their gifts before opening them.
I flipped to the first page of the journal. Once I could take hold of the pair of scissors being passed around, I opened the pack of pens. While everyone sang, talked, and gasped in delight at each new present, I wrote a short entry. December 25th. I can’t give up. I have to keep going. I’m inspired again, and the lights on the tree look brighter this year than they ever have.
Addela Bransford Photo Credit: LiliGraphie/Adobe Stock 2nd Page Photo: Brett/ Adobe Stock WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE •17
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Sainthood By Kade-Mica Battles
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C
hristmas, children, is not a date. It is a state of mind.” - Mary Ellen Chase
There are beings among us. Natural aspects to human life that exist right beside our everyday thoughts and actions just out of sight, but we do not see them. Elder abstract creatures in forms non-recognizable to logic, but quite familiar in feeling. They meet when great decisions are to be made. Decisions that shape the path of history as we know and feel in the bones of life. They are known as Father Time, Mother Nature, Daughter Death, Friend Fate, Son Soul, Sister Service, and Friar Fear. Their appearances and personalities often change depending on the moment, the day, and the season. They sit now at the table between realms of reality and fantasy in their thrones of clocks, trees, and bones waiting for someone to talk. While they were all ready to get the meeting started, Father Time sat quietly and stared off into the vast expanse of all life. “Why have you called this meeting, Father Time?” Sister Service asked. She was currently in the form of a field medic from Afghanistan, which war she couldn’t remember, but her job was to serve not question. “I have places to be.” “Patience Sister,” Friend Fate said, wearing the attire of a 1920’s flapper with a pair of Dolomiti lenses that covered her one eye. “Time will tell.” “Easy for you to say,” Friar Fear snapped. He was nothing but bones under his holy robes these days. “You know what happens.” “Calm children,” Mother Nature scolded. She wore her best summer dress. “You know what comes first.” “First the
minutes,” Daughter Death said drearily. She wore her mourning robes, but she always wore her mourning robes.
this a bit more before—” Sadly Sister Service could not finish her sentence before Father Time was done waving his hand.
“First the minutes,” Father Time repeated with a smile. “Son?” Son Soul pulled out a scroll from his throne made of scrolls.
In an instance a small man in a coat made of red fur that carried a sack half-filled with toys stood in the middle of the giant table.
“It has been five seasons since we last met for such a decision,” He read. “Last meeting we discussed giving the man named Patrick Sainthood, Daughter Death made a case against and I made a case for, the vote ended in the positive, but only for a day and on the condition that it mainly affect the land of Ire with chance of spreading slowly and inaccurately to others.”
Nicholas had seen many strange things in his life. Born an orphan raised by the spirits of the forest in the cold lands of Lycia. Most children stopped seeing spirits after the age of fifteen, but he was able to see them even now at age twenty-seven. He also met the tiny citizens that were the low elves of the north that had been abandoned by their kin. He’d even faced a monster or two like the giant red bear his coat was made from, but all of those palled in comparisons to the beings that surrounded him now.
“And people will get drunk,” Friend Fate added with a ditzy laugh. “Indeed, a great decision,” Friar Fear rolled his eye sockets. “And I’m to believe we’re here to vote for another such individual.”
Nicholas smiled. “Hello, nice to meet you.”
“Exactly,” Father Time said. “His name is Nicholas.”
“What a handsome young man,” Mother Nature said. “Handsome brown beard too.”
“And what does this Nicholas do?” Mother Nature asked.
“You flatter me, madam,” Nicholas bowed. “I am Nicholas, adopted son of Pan and his consorts. Brother to wolf and man alike. Humble leader of the low elves of the north. Carpenter, blacksmith, and inventor of the rocking horse.”
“He designs tiny figures and devices with the help of those tiny people to the north and delivers them to children in nearby villages during the darkest time of the years,” Father Time explained. “He does what?” Mother Nature asked.
“Humble indeed,” Friar Fear, mumbled. Annoyed by the sincerity in the man’s voice. “Right Daughter Death?”
Friar Fear frowned. “He makes toys.” “Toys?” Daughter Death asked.
Daugther Death was looking at the man, with a look she had never given before. She found him, his posture, and smile, in front of the concepts of the world, interesting.
“Toys!” Friend Fate exclaimed. “Like dolls and trains?” Sister Service asked. “Indeed,” Father Time smiled. “Shall I summon him now?”
“And might I ask whom I have the pleasure of speaking to today?”
“Maybe we should discuss
Sister Service sighed. “Who we are
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doesn’t matter— “I’m Father Time, this is my wife Mother Nature, our daughter Death, a family Friend Fate, our son Soul, his sister Service, and the inscrutable Friar Fear.” “Ah, I see,” Though honestly he could barely comprehend, but he was here and they seemed nice enough. “And why have you summoned me here?” “We are to gift you with a
“Well?” Friar Fear sighed. “We can’t wait forever.” “We could,” Friend Fate said and Father Time shrugged. Nicholas looked up at this odd gathering and gulped. He made eye contact with Daughter Death and unlike those before him, he didn’t see the end or darkness or light, but a girl who never got a doll from her father growing up. He saw Father Time and thought he’d love a train set.
Nicholas saw images of his entire life flash before his eyes. From his childhood in the wilds to finding the elves to fighting the red bear to meeting the magic reindeer to his endless fights with the Snow Queen and so on. By the end death was solemn and Mother Nature was crying. They all gave her a moment to compose herself. “Begin,” Father Time said the second she was ready. Death began. “This is no normal man,” Death said. “He has faced trials and tribulations from demons to sorceresses and so on, and he has faced them with a smile. Not because of some foolish bravery like Heracles or Beowulf, but because he believed not in himself, but the idea he represented, hope.” Nicholas smiled. “Rebuttal,” Father Time asked.
sainthood,” Friend Fate said. “We have to vote first,” Sister Service said. “We must debate first,” Son Soul said. “Who will speak pro and who will speak against.” “Not yet,” Daughter Death said. “First, he must make his proposition.” “My proposition, for what?” Nicholas asked. “For sainthood,” Mother Nature said, as if the idea was obvious. Father Time leaned down and whispered. “Just tell us what you wish to do.” “To do with what?” Nicholas asked. “Your life,” Father Time explained vaguely, then sat back up.
He looked at Friar Fear and thought he’d appreciate a spooky wolf mask. Son Soul would want some marbles, Friend Fate a jump rope, Sister Service would like a basket, and Mother Nature wanted a puppy. He reached into his sack and pulled out a tiny blond rag doll that he made with leftovers from the shop, then walked up to death and laid the toy before her. “I want to bring hope to children.” Death smiled. “I will argue pro.” Nicholas smiled too, then Friar Fear leaned down and whispered. “Don’t get to excited. She’s terrible at this part.” “Who will argue against?” Father Time asked. “I will,” Mother Nature said. Father Time raised his hands, “Witness!”
22 • WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE • Issue 13•December 2017
“I can describe this man in one word,” Mother Nature said, her smile as warm as summer, but winter had reached her eyes. “Childish.” Nicholas frowned. “He is a foolish fellow to think one man could bring hope to children. It’s an unrealistic expectation to think hope could light the way, nature will form those that are fittest to survive without little trinkets to accompany them. He is young and inexperienced and the world will show him the errors of his youth.” “Hmm…” Father Time pondered. “Proposals?” “He should be made an immortal that will bring joy to this hope to the world,” Daughter Death demanded. “He should be sent to live his
life out in his little cave with the tiny people and do what he can until our Daughter meets him at the end in his cold home,” Mother Nature said.
“Friend Fate?”
Father Time nodded. “Compromise?”
“Yes.”
“He should be…” Daughter Death started, unsure what to say. Father Time, in a not so subtle fashion tapped his bald head. “An idea!” “What?” Mother Nature asked. “Like us, but weaker. A story that is told and retold. Give him his regular life, but allow him to live through others ideas.” Mother Nature pondered a moment. “But, only if the stories are spread willingly.” “Yes,” Daughter Death said. “But during the time of year where people are at their worst.” “Which is?” Father Time asked. “Most deaths occur in winter,” Daughter Death said. Mother Nature frowned. “Excuse me?” “It’s true,” Son Soul said.
“Spoilers… yes.
“Mother Nature?”
Mother Nature leaned closer to her long bearded husband. “Will he succeed?” He smiled. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Friar Fear?” “Give me a moment,” He said, scratching his jaw bone. “I will vote yes, but only if the gifts are given to those that are deserving.” “Agreed,” Father Time said. “Those who are unworthy shall get severe punishment instead… torture… waterboarding…” “How about a lump of coal?” Nicholas suggested, in hopes of avoiding having to water board children.
Mother Nature huffed. “Fine, I’ll ignore the insult. Shall we vote?”
“Then he shall be Saint Nicholas of Lycia, Kris Kringle the toy maker, the French will call him Père Noël, the British will call him Father Christmas, the magical beings of the earth will call him Sinterkind and to those closest to him he will be simply called Santa,” Friend Fate said.
“Sounds lovely.”
Father Time smiled.
Mother Nature smirked at that.
“And how do you vote Father Time?” Sister Service asked.
“Son Soul?”
Mother Nature said. “That’s my way sometimes, for better or worse.”
Nicholas nodded. “I never dared to understand a lady.”
“Honey please, we both know that you can be…” Father Time tried to think of the best words. “Cold in those times dear.”
“I see no flaw in a little gift giving.”
“You were too mean,” Father Time said.
“I vote no,” She looked at the tiny mortal, that figured in some part of his mind that this was all an odd dream. “No, offense dear. I’m just cruel sometimes.”
“Hmm…” Father time pondered. “Sounds fine to me.”
“Alright,” Father Time nodded. “Sister Service?”
Then the newly sainted Nicholas was sent away and the gathering slowly disbanded until none remained except Father Time and Mother Nature.
“Daughter Death?”
A chill grew around them, thankfully Nicholas was dressed for the cold. Mother Nature was angry.
“Aye,” Daughter Death agreed.
“Mean?” Father Time repeated. “Why whatever you want.”
“Agreed,” Friar Fear said.
“Oh, yes of course.”
“What does this mean?” Saint Nicholas asked.
Kade-Mica Battles Photo Credit: olly/Adobe Stock 2nd Page Photo: Thaut Images/ Adobe Stock WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE •23
24 • WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE • Issue 3•December 2017
MOMENTS FROM MISSISSIPPI’S SNOW STORM 2017
These were taken after a few hours of melting took place. ~Michelle
26 • WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE • Issue 13•December 2017
WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE •27
Not A Cookie Cutter Christmas By Lydia Martin
U
ntil last Christmas I had spent every December at home in Laurel, Mississippi in the house I grew up in surrounded by my family. I got to be a part of all the holiday traditions that help my heart remember that it’s Christmas. I would hear my mom say “there’s ole blue eyes” every time Bing Crosby first came on screen to sing his opening song in the timeless movie “White Christmas”. I would hang hand-made ornaments on the tree with my family while we drank sparking grape juice and stuffed our faces with Little Debbie Christmas Trees. Last year was the first time that I spent most of the Christmas season living on my own in my Jackson apartment and working as many hours as a waitress that I could get. I had just turned twenty and had decided to drop out of school that Fall and pursue a career in freelance photography. Of course anyone who has ever attempted being their own boss in a creative field knows that usually you have to work a job on the side to pay the bills when you’re first getting started. So there I was, working every weekend serving food that I couldn’t afford and missing my mom’s cooking as I ate canned soup and oatmeal on the
daily. Before you start feeling sorry for As Christmas drew nearer I found me, I want to tell you that this is going myself feeling at home in the midst of to be a happy story and I’m even going the Christmas lights that I drove by on to leave out the part about Over the month of my way back from work each my apartment being infested December I found night. They reminded me of by mice over Christmas. You unexpected joy in the ones in the park around see, it took me being outside making my own my family’s home in Laurel and holiday traditions that thought kept me warm. of my family traditions to be reminded that Christmas with friends. This city doesn’t always feel like doesn’t have guidelines for home to me, but at Christmas “home” what makes it “good” or “bad”. I was is where you make it and because of the in a new time of life and I had to tell people I had around me I felt like I was myself that change was an opportunity celebrating with my family again. for me to be hopeful for the new. I stood up, buttoned up my wrinkled striped waitress shirt and told myself to stop throwing a pity party. It was one of those “adult” moments that was painful but helped me in the end.
Over the month of December I found unexpected joy in making my own holiday traditions with friends. We were all broke, but decided that celebration could come in spending time together. I stayed up late painting Christmas presents because living on a budget forced me to look at what I did have to give. I had a creative spirit and a heart that wanted to show people that I loved them and that was enough to remind me that joy didn’t cost a dime.
28 • WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE •Fall Issue 2•2017
Lydia Martin Photo Credit: littlehandstocks/Adobe Stock Website spareroom.studio Instagram spareroom_studio
WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE •29
Portrait of a Midwestern
Christmas By Claire Verdoorn
Christmas morning, 2011: In
the kitchen, a white coffee-pot spits out coffee, and Grandma, in a dressing gown and curlers, is microwaving Casey’s doughnuts. She offers me orange juice and coffee, so I sit on the ancient bar stools until the seven members of my family are ready to go. We feed the golden retriever, Maggie. She has been barking for twenty minutes, and makes a mad rush to get inside and socialize. After shepherding her out, we wrap up in scarves and wool sweaters. We drive past the Dollar General and the flower shop, and past the Bomgaar’s Farm Supply store (I have never met a local who doesn’t call it Bumgaar’s) and to Hawarden Dutch Reformed. The frost has gathered on the tips of the grass, and across the road prismatic sheets of ice glisten on the
barren cornfields. In the first light of morning you can hear it crinkle and crack on the tree branches as the sun comes up. Now I watch a mounting sunbeam strike the silver grain bins; serenity and quietude are under every stalk. In a few blocks, we pull into the church parking lot. The gravel crunches and the air is fresh against a grey sky; against this sky too, lining the road, are the festive pendants so familiar in rural locales, reading: Merry Christmas Hawarden! It is Christmastime in Northwestern Iowa. Inside, Grandma introduces us to sundry acquaintances in her blunted, roundabout Northwest Iowa manner – they are friends from the church potlucks and Firetruck Support Dinners. At ten o’clock, a presageful hush falls over the sanctuary. Even the chipped faces of the sentinel angel
30 • WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE • Issue 13•December 2017
statues look up. Like Caesar entering Rome in regal estate, Pastor VanFynart processed down the aisle. Grandma is in awe of such a man; the “min’ster” is her only appellation for him. My family takes a seat six rows back. Ahead of us is a row of Carhartts and chapped faces, reddened by sun and wind. The man next to me has hands as red as new hamburger – perhaps he works at the slaughterhouse on the Minnesota border. I have an uncle who worked there for fifteen years. He learned food processing and enough Spanish to, as he says, sell cars across the border. Now he spends his days marketing the cars and conspiring against bureaucracy, fulfilling his duty as such an uncle should. At first glance, many of these men could be my uncle – missing teeth, the remaining few stained with tobacco, bleary
eyes. (Everyone in the congregation repudiates smoking and drinking out of hand – so they typically cut it off Saturday night before twelve.) We stand as the minister prays an impressive prayer, befitting the season. He never forgets to pray for the fire department. Then we settle down as VanFynart nears the pulpit, opens his Bible, and spreads out his notes. Instantly there is a deafening crackle of candy wrappers as boxes of Dutch mints circulate through the assembly. Christmas candy Grandma elbows me gently, nearly knocking me off of the pew. Taking the mints she proffers, I pass them down the line. The sucking and crinkling continues for ten minutes or so until Pastor VanFynart has ventured into lofty tales of obscurity and analogy and it seems futile to follow along. I spend the service spying out the people around me. An old lady whose brown wig is creeping down her neck. A young woman with rings of black make-up on her eyes, holding a newborn. I consider how Grandma’s birthday falls just after Christmas; her dearest wish to commemorate eighty years was to see all of her posterity in church. This meant respect, and on a level, justification. We sing two hymns and take the Lord’s Supper and go outside. For ten minutes I hear little strains of “O, Come All Ye Faithful” in my head and think about how there is a kind of faithfulness in this dogged pursuit of justification; faithfulness, to a Northwest Iowa farmer, mainly means filling the trough and starting up the combine even on cold winter mornings. I hope sometimes these simple acts become sacramental and that the farmers can ask: will not faithfulness give birth to joyfulness and triumph at Christmas time? The air in the churchyard is clear and bright, a breeze rattles the flowers in the church graveyard and carries along the distant lowing of cattle. Back at Grandma’s house, I go to the
backyard to check on the dog. “Maggie, come! Lunch!” Blowing on my hands to warm them, I peer around the garage to find her, but see only an open gate. “Maggie!” I call in vexation. She has often fled before; she has a thirst for travel that rivals Lemuel Gulliver’s. I circle the house and hurry inside to rally some forces. My parents are concerned. Hawarden, Iowa is microscopic but it exists in a vast plane of dry fields, combines and trash fires. Soon we get out both cars and drive around whistling and calling. Past the Dollar General, the flower shop, the Bumgaar’s. As hour passes, then two. No sign of the golden tornado. The highway is close – I’m not going to think about it. There is something a little terrible about the essence of happiness –a golden retriever – meeting her end in a dusty farm town. Perhaps she went back to the house? We go back to Grandma’s to check. Grandma hangs up the phone as I come in.
And he runs into Nelma and she says if he knows Gert’s grandkids are in town. He knows my brother you know. So maybe them grandkids – yours, that is – know this dog?” “Is it Maggie, do you think?” I ask eagerly. “Well, he says so, them dog tags says so.” “Wonderful! That’s great! Who has her then, was it Norman?” “No, Norman gave the dog to him – Pastor VanFynart, who found him first.” (Grandma could not, for any money, remember dogs do come as girls.) Smiling in relief, we get into the car and drive across town (about a mile) to the house of the minister. Grandma stays in the car as we collect Maggie and thank him profusely. His grin is wide. No doubt this is not the strangest of his ministerial duties. “Thank you!” I say, “I can’t believe you happened to find her!”
“This here Nelma called,” she begins, “She says this here Norman VanDyke was at Bumgaar’s this morning. Nelma, for she knows Norman for that because them VanDykes used to live on Mag-nol-i-a. And she lives there, next door, you see.” “What did she say?” “Well, Norman was at Bumgaar’s to buy paint to fix this here fence that got blown down. I don’t suppose you know this, but Aunt Bernadette hired him to fix it. Twenty-five dollars, I think, for the whole – for the thing, but it is what it is, you know, says Norman.”
“I had a golden,” he commiserates, “I know how ornery they are, but you wouldn’t part with them.” He walks over to the car. “Merry Christmas, Gert!” he says, waving. “Merry Christmas,” Grandma says while Maggie howls jubilantly from the backseat.
“Yeah.” “Well, Norman was at Bumgaar’s and he runs into Nelma, see, and mentions that they found a dog out behind the building who was real sort of friendly. So Norman tells Nelma he sees him pet this dog and he takes him into the truck and holds on to him.
Claire Verdoorn Photo Credit: Vera Kuttelvaserova/Adobe Stock WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE •31
32 • WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE • Issue 13•December 2017
First Christmas
“Christmas is doing a little something extra for someone.”
By Kade-Mica Battles
- Charles M. Schulz
Kris was not dressed for the desert. The deer refused to fly in the sandstorm so he landed on the edge. He reached into his endless bag for the presents along with some sturdier attire for this terrain: boots, jacket, goggles, and a nice red turban to keep the sand out of his hair. He left Blitzen in charge of the others while he continued his journey to the observatory, slightly annoyed that even in this day and age some people didn’t have a chimney. “Come they told me, pa rum pum pum pum,” He sang as he walked. The winter air was cold, as usual, but Kris was used to that. He wasn’t used to the pelting bits of sand that came at him from all sides with sharp hisses, so a cold coming was the least of his worries. Winter is the worst time of the year, when the Snow Queen rages and Mother Nature removes her Fall gown for that dreadfully tight dress with ice tipped heels. But this was an important journey, the first of many to come, and such a long journey. “A new born King to see, pa rum pum pum pum” The ways were deep and the weather sharp, and sore-footed he went on. There were almost times when he regretted becoming an idea. The countless gifts to make and deliver: Cabbage Patch Dolls, Darth Vader action figures, and T.S. Eliot poetry collections. “Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum” He passes a city of camel traders, liquor stores, and brothels. Mentally jotting down a name or two for his list. One merchant comes up to him, taking him for a tourist in his red turban. “Hello sir, can I interest you in a gift for the missus?” “Haven’t got a missus yet, Khalid,” He told the man he’d never met before. “But stop selling those flea infested rugs or come the twenty-fifth you’ll get nothing, but a lump of coal.” Background Photo Credit: lindacaldwell/Adobe Stock
Khalid cursed at Kris in his native tongue as he walked away and Kris added his name to the others. “To lay before the King, pa rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,” Kris made camp in the desert that night. The fires kept flickering out, and the lack of shelters made him wish he brought the sack with him, but he was still new to this and didn’t want to rely on such magical gifts all the time, and the nearby cities felt untrustworthy and the towns unfriendly. Plus, the villages were charging high prices for the inns.
“I am a poor boy too, pa rum pum pum pum”
In the end Kris decided to travel all night, the rest of the way to the observatory. Sleeping in snatches here or there when the sand died down and his feet grew tired. Voices of old Friar Fear singing in his ears, saying that this was all folly. “So to honor Him, pa rum pum pum pum,” At dawn, Kris came down to find a hidden valley, somehow wet in this dry desert, smelling of edible vegetation with a clear running stream, and three trees shaped like crosses on the low sky. A respite from his long journey to catch his breath and wash his feat, but he kept the presents near him at all times. He was never one to assume how Mother Nature worked. “When we come.” The next day Kris came upon a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel. People spoke of their holiday plans and family frustrations. One man looked at Kris and whispered to his companion. “Doesn’t he look like a foreign Santa Claus?” “Who’s to say that’s not how Santa Claus always looks?” His companion said and Kris was inclined to agree given his current state. “Little Baby, pa rum pum pum pum”
Photo Credit: EMrpize/ Adobe Stock
How long had he been on this journey to the observatory? The tavern was abuzz with talk of many kinds of news including the laster toys for their children: an OFFICIAL DAISY RED RYDER RANGE MODEL 1938 AIR RIFLE BB GUN and the like, but there was no information on the observatory, and so Kris continued his journey.
He arrived at evening, not a moment too soon. He had checked the Inn nearby at first to no avail. Kris found the place satisfactory, an observatory with many lenses and such to study the stars. He met the three men called wise: Melchior, Caspar, and Balthazar. They were very excited to receive the three-part gift, but planned on regifting, which was a bother at first till they told him who they were regifting too. He didn’t know what a baby would do with a piece of metal, an aromatic resin, and a natural gum. “I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum” All this was a long time ago, Kris remembered, and he would do it again, but set down… set down was how he led all that way for Son Soul or Daughter Death? There was a Soul, certainly, he had evidence and no doubt. Kris had seen Soul and Death, but had thought they were different; this soul was hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, his now nonexistent or very unlikely death. He returned to his sled, to go back to the cold with snow instead of sand, but there was an ease, he didn’t quite understand. A task, now completed that he will need to complete again and again for the rest of his existence. “That’s fit to give the King, pa rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum…”
WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE •33
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Where Shepherds Gather
By Hannah Olson t is Christmas 1997 and the usual pass of early winter storms have blanketed the gentle fields around our home in sun-dazzled snow. Standing on our living room couch in rural Colorado, I reach for the window above me. My mother hands me another translucent decal of a shepherd to press against the window pane. I am four years old and the magic of winter afternoon sunlight is not lost on me. It illuminates the manger scene above me in rich hues of purple, red, green, and royal blue. The holy family is gathered at the manger in a quiet bliss. Mary and Joseph tend to their infant son who is half-swaddled in a crimson cloth. The wise men and the shepherds gather in small crowds at either side of the manger to worship the birth of their Savior Jesus Christ. Two decades later, I still remember the beauty and wonder of that Christmas in vivid detail.
Even without snow, this season fills me with a bittersweet nostalgia. Twenty years ago, on November 6, 1997, our family lost my two-year-old brother, Samuel, to complications associated with Down syndrome. In addition to having Down syndrome, Sam was diagnosed at birth with a Complete Atrioventricular Canal defect. His heart was patched four months later, which curbed many of the symptoms of the CAC defect. The problem of core blood pressure, however, never went away. Sam’s blood pressure would periodically spike, causing fluid to build in his lungs. He relied heavily on external oxygen tanks to supplement his shallow breathing. The doctors thought it unlikely he would ever be able to stand or walk on his own. I like to imagine that, if he had the chance, Sam would have proven them wrong.
This year I will celebrate Christmas for the first time away from my childhood home. Newly transplanted to Mississippi, I am not expecting any December blizzards. My ski jacket is still packed away with my snow boots in the closet. The only sleigh bells to speak of are jingling on the radio next to Frosty the Snowman. I drive around town with the windows still rolled down and do all my Christmas shopping in the same sleeveless top I wore last summer.
Losing a loved one in the holiday season tinges every holiday after with a sadness that feels sharp at first and gradually dulls each year with wellrehearsed emotion. After so long, people do not know what to say. At the point of crises there are supplied chains of casseroles and grief counseling and extended prayer meetings. When these are exhausted, flowers are brought to the graveside each year and quiet memorial services held, hand-in-hand,
I
Hannah Olson Background Photo Credit: .shock/Adobe Stock
for the few who need to remember. After that, the loss is mourned privately over the dinner dishes and during the evening commute home. If there is an expiration date for sadness, it has yet to be reached. The night Sam passed away I was taking a nap on my mother’s bed. I woke in darkness to the loud thrum of a Flight for Life helicopter beating the chill night air outside our house. Four weeks later, I stood on my tiptoes on our couch helping my Mother arrange the first Noël over the snowbright hills that sparkled in our living room window. That night my mother set up her tea light candle nativity on the china cabinet and helped me light them. I stood on a step stool, mesmerized by the silhouettes of shepherds kneeling at the feet of Mary and Jesus. I wonder now if any of those gathered around the manger could have guessed what would become of the child King wrapped in swaddling clothes.
Photo Credit: Konstantin Yuganov/ Adobe Stock Photo Credit: iostephy.com/ Adobe Stock
WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE •35
36 • WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE • Issue 3•December 2017
Hand-by-Hand,
Children Can Change THE WORLD By Kyleigh Kyleigh Moore Moore By
Woman To Woman With Joanne The project came to fruition after Mrs. The Magazine was introduced to Wilson made contact with Neshoba Kyleigh Moore and her project in Central High School graduate Sakina November and we are so happy to Hoskins Brandford, a leader with the share her heart with you. We all know Texas State Teachers Association. the devastation that Hurricane She says “not Mrs. Brandford helped to Harvey caused in the state of connect Ms. Wilson with only adults Texas and even though it’s not on can be heroes another Neshoba County the front page anymore, families but children native, Cicely Kelly Ward, are still trying to rebuild from the can be too.” who is the Assistant Principal storm. That’s why we were so at Paul Revere. Ward went excited to learn about the sweet to Neshoba Central until efforts of a Philadelphia Mississippi her sophomore year when she moved native, Kyleigh Moore and her efforts to the Jackson area. This connection to help the children of Texas affected was a blessing because they wanted by the storm. Take a minute to read someone to ensure that the money about her project and consider backing wouldn’t be misused. her and her efforts to help other There are 425 6th grade students at children in need. This is her story: Paul Revere Middle School and these yleigh Moore is a 6th grade gift cards will help assist the students student at Philadelphia and their families with the purchase Elementary School in Philadelphia of supplies, school clothes, and other Mississippi. While out sick from school items they need to regain some of the back in September, she saw on the things lost to the storm. news the destruction and devastation Her goal is to raise $10,625 which will of Hurricane Harvey in Texas. be enough to give each student a gift Seeing all of this and hearing about card. With the help of her school and how children were missing, and some community, she has raised $565. Now even lost their lives, she told her mom she needs our support to help reach she wanted to do something to help her goal. the survivors of this storm. She says The gift cards as well as cash donations “not only adults can be heroes but are being accepted in the Philadelphia children can be too.” Elementary School Office and can be With assistance from her mom, mailed to 406 Stribling St, Philadelphia, Shandra Wilson, this precious little girl MS 39350 or by contacting Shandra decided to start a project, 'Hand-byWilson at 601-575-1128. Hand, Children Can Change the World.' There is also a GoFundMe Account Kyleigh’s goal is to be of assistance set up at https://www.gofundme. to students who suffered loss during com/svg96-hand-by-hand-projectHurricane Harvey. Through this by-kyleigh organization, she decided to collect donations in order to send a $25 Walmart gift card to each 6th grader at Paul Revere Middle School in Houston since she is a 6th grader herself.
K
Kyleigh Moore Photo Credit: antic/Adobe Stock
WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE •37
38 • WOMAN TO WOMAN WITH JOANNE: THE MAGAZINE • Issue 13•December 2017
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