How To Analyze Your Own Handwriting

As I've mentioned in earlier writing, I studied handwriting analysis for quite a few years. It's fun! It's informative! But it can also be dangerous if you decide to analyze your friend's handwriting and tell her/him all the negative qualities you see! So be careful with this "little bit of knowledge" contained in this article! It's not worth losing a friend over, that's for sure. Analyze your own handwriting.

Graphology (handwriting analysis) is like analyzing body language, only it's looking at your handwriting samples. The analyst takes a combination of strokes, slants, pressures, rhythms, and patterns in your handwriting. Then the analyst comes to a conclusion based on the combination (or patterns). But if you know just a little, you can figure out what you are projecting to the world through your own handwriting. Here is some fun information to get you started as you look at handwriting you have already done. (Otherwise, you'll be influenced by your new knowledge and write differently than you normally would.) So are you ready to learn just a bit about handwriting analysis? OK! Let's talk about what real graphologists would look at!

They look at the slant of your writing.

Right slant indicates a response to communication. You're more emotional, more friendly, loving and responsive. Those are the positives. But on the negative side, it could also mean you're more manipulative, more intrusive, want to sell them something, or more controlling.

If your handwriting is generally upright, this tells them you're pretty independent.

A left slant tendency shows emotion and reserve. This writer needs to be true to self first and foremost, and can be resentful if others try to push for more commitment from them.

So, left = self, or inward, and right = others, or outward.

They look at the size of your writing.

If your writing is large, you are an extrovert and you're outgoing. Or, it can mean that you put on an act of being confident.

Small size can, logically, mean the opposite. Small size handwriting can also indicate a thinker, concentrator, and an academic (depending upon other features in your writing sample).

If the writing is small and delicate, you are unlikely to be a good communicator with anyone other than those on your own particular wavelength. You do not generally find it easy to break new ground socially.

They look at the pressure of your writing.

If your pressure is heavy it tells them that you are a committed person who takes things seriously. But if your pressure is excessively heavy, it tells them that you can get very uptight at times and react immediately to what you perceive as criticism. In other words, you react first and ask questions later. Light pressure shows sensitivity to atmosphere and empathy to people, but can also, if the pressure is uneven, show lack of vitality. In short, the more the pressure of your writing, the more intense you are.

Think of the page in three zones. Where your vowels go is the middle (on the line). Above that is called the upper zone (above the line) and here's where you show how ambitious you are, how realistic, how spiritual you are, and how critical you are of your self.

The lower zone (below the line) shows how sensual you are, how open to relationships you are, how patient and emotionally secure you are.

Recapping the upper zone (l, t, h)

Tall upper stroke in your writing are reaching towards goals and ambitions. Or, if they are extremely tall, it means you have unrealistic expectations of yourself. But if they are reasonably proportioned, you like to think things through and use your imagination in a "sensible" way. Upper loops also tell how spiritual you are!

Recapping the middle zone – on the line writing (a, c, e, o)

These middle zone shapes are called your "communication circles." Some say it represents the ego, so the information tells them how you feel and act in public settings and what makes you tick socially and at work.

All of these features have potentially positive and negative connotations; the analyst uses the flow and facility (ease, smoothness) of the script to infer a positive or negative interpretation of who you are.

There are also several "styles" of communication circles.

If your writing is Arcade Style, this means that the middle zone of the writing is humped and rounded at the top like a series of arches. It's circular. If you write this way, you can be loyal, protective, independent, trustworthy and methodical. Conversely, you could also be secretive, stubborn and hypocritical when you choose. But the most important characteristic is group solidarity against outsiders.

Garland Style writing is like an inverted 'arcade' and is a people-orientated script. These writers make their m, n and h in the opposite way to the arcade writer - like cups, or troughs, into which people can pour their troubles or just give information. The Garland writer enjoys being helpful and likes to be involved. It is a common style among teenagers.

Angled Style in the middle zone is the analytical style - the sharp points, rather than curves, give the impression of probing. You are extremely analytical by nature. If you are an angle writer, you're better off employing your talents at work, for business or project purposes, rather than nurturing. (Nurturing is the strength of the garland writer.) I call the angled writing "spiky, or pointy."

Thread handwriting is like unraveled wool, waiting to be made up into something fresh. These writers are mentally alert and adaptable, but can also be elusive and lack patience. They are responders, rather than initiators. They can be very clever at drawing together strands of information and making something of them. Therefore they observe and bide their time, so that decisions are made at the most appropriate moment.

Wavyline Style is often a combination of all or most of the other forms and is usually written by people who are mentally mature and skillful. It shows that they can call on a variety of responses, to suit the occasion and indicates good coping mechanisms. They are adaptable and resourceful.

Tepees – Beware of Tepees! This has proved invaluable for employers and prospective daters. If your communication circles, including "c, o, a, g" have little tepees on the tops of them, you are very dishonest! Let's just take the o. If there's a line on the left of the o, going to the top, it shows self dishonesty. In other words, you lie to yourself, or you're deluded. (Remember: left = self) If there's a line on the right of the o, coming from the top down, you are dishonest towards others. (Remember: right = others) So you can see if that person you're dating has both the left and right lines coming to a tepee on the top of the o, you could be dating a pathological liar!

Recapping the lower zone – Loops or no loops! (g, y, p, q)

Those lower loops are varied and have different meanings.

A straight stroke (no loop) shows impatience to get the job done.

A 'cradle' lower stroke suggests an avoidance of aggression and confrontation.

A full loop with heavy pressure indicates energy/money-making/sensuality possibilities, when combined with other features.

A full lower loop with light pressure indicates a need or wish for security.

If the lower stem comes down and then left, you are stuck in the past.

If you have a wide variety of widths and strokes, you feel unsettled and unfocused emotionally.

They definitely look at your word spacing!

They judge the width by the width of one letter of your writing.

Wide spaces between your words are saying, "give me breathing space!"

Narrow spaces between your words show a desire to be with others, but could also mean that you crowd people and can be intrusive, especially if the writing lacks finesse.

They look at your line spacing!

Handwriting samples are always best on unlined paper, because your line-spacing needs to be obvious. Wide-spaced lines of handwriting show a wish to stand back and take a long view. Conversely, closely-spaced lines indicate that that you operate close to the action. For writers who do this and who have writing that is rather loose in structure, the discipline of having to keep cool under pressure brings out the best in them.

Page margins are important, believe it or not!

The left side margin shows the roots and beginnings/family. (left = self)

The right side shows other people and the future. (right = others)

The top is your goals and ambitions.

The foot of the page shows energy, instincts and practicality.

If you have a wide left margin, your interest is in moving on. If it is narrow, you are cautious and want to avoid being pushed before you are ready!

If your right margins are narrow, you're impatient and eager to get on with things! Conversely, if your right margins are wide, you could be harboring some fear of the unknown.

This introduction to graphology is meant only to be entertaining, and to increase your awareness of what your writing could say to a graphologist. It isn't meant to be the last word on graphology! When a qualified graphologist analyzes your writing, you will be asked to submit approximately thirty pages of handwriting. And you'll pay anywhere from $50 to $1,000, depending on their reputation.

So now you're ready to have fun! Enjoy analyzing your own handwriting with this smidgen of information!

© 1989-2008 April Lorier Perspective

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Grandma's Angels Watching Over Me

I can't think of a more inappropriate place to receive the news. Standing in a loud, smoke-filled casino, obsessively feeding money into the one-armed bandits, hope to leave Las Vegas and return to California as the richest twenty-six year old lady of 1970. 

I laugh as I watch Little Richard swish past me in his Elizabeth Arden make-up and uni-sex ruffled tuxedo. And then I hear myself being paged over the p.a. system. Mother, from her phone in El Paso, has summoned the State Highway Patrol in Nevada to track me down and give me the news. She wants me to know--right away--she has lost her mother-in-law. 

I feel tentacles of fear seize my stomach. She has lost only a mother-in-law. I have lost the only woman who ever understood me -- The only woman who touched me with tenderness. I have lost my trusted connection to God, and, quite possibly, the Angels Watching Over Me.

As I hold the phone in my hand, I am only half-aware of Mother's non-stop voice. My mind travels back to a safe place of comfort and unqualified love -- to a time when I learned about the angels: the summer of '55.

= = = = = = = = = =

Grandma lived in Shabbona, population 487, where the main attraction was a railroad track that enabled the passenger train to barrel through the village eight times a day. 

Two summer weeks out of every year were spent traveling from New Mexico to Illinois to stay at Grandma's white wood-paneled house with green shutters and green porches. The lush green lawns and bright flower gardens that surrounded her two-story house were always a welcome sight after being cooped up in the cramped station wagon for four days. 

There were dozens of family members to visit once we arrived; but Grandma was always the one with whom I wanted to spend private time.


This summer I was eleven and I had grown two inches. I knew Grandma would notice. As Daddy turned down the familiar dirt driveway and honked the horn, my skin broke out in goose bumps. I knew what was coming, and while my sister and I acted like we didn't enjoy all the "slobbering” and folderol, we both secretly enjoyed the fuss Grandma made over seeing us again. I had already decided I would be the last one out of the car this year. That way, my hugs and kisses would last longer than everyone else's.


I laughed as I watched Grandma squeal with delight, smothering everyone else with wet kisses and warm, firm hugs. When I saw everyone else had been celebrated, I jumped out of the station wagon, running straight into Grandma's arms. Even at eleven, I was taller than my short, soft Grandma, and had to bend over to receive all the kisses.


"Look, Grandma: I’ve grown!" I squealed nervously.


"Oh, sweet Jesus, you surely have!" Grandma said as she held me at arm's length to have a good look. Her eyes were shiny with tears of joy and her spectacles were all spotty. Her hazel eyes crinkled as she looked me over from head to foot, much like a mother dog inspects each precious puppy.


"Child, you have your father's eyes and Your Grandpa’s chin. You get prettier every time I see you!" she whispered as she stroked my sun-streaked hair and looked at me with too much love. I felt my body tensing and I knew I needed to change the subject quickly.


"Do you have ginger cookies, Grandma?" Actually, I knew Grandma always had ginger cookies hidden in her cellar, but it was the only question I could think of that would divert her attention away from me. I had waited all year for her affirming attention, and now I was uncomfortable with it.


"Child, your Grandma always has cookies, but first we'll eat supper. You must be starved to death after such a long trip!" Grandma turned to go up the stairs when her gaze fell to my arms. "Child, what happened here?" she asked as she pointed to the belt-shaped bruises on my arms.


I nervously glanced at Mama before stammering, "Uh-I-I fell off my bike, Grandma. I was hurt real bad, but now I'm OK. Can we eat now, Grandma?"


Grandma looked first at Mama, then at Daddy. Neither said a word. Grandma clicked her tongue and then got real quiet as she pulled out the leaves on her kitchen table.


That night as Grandma was tucking me into her fluffy feather bed, we talked about being poor. I whispered that we were poor and I wished we weren’t.


"Oh, shush, child. There's no dishonor in being poor. Our Savior was poor, Himself. There's only dishonor in being dishonest...or lazy." Grandma looked like her thoughts were far off, and she closed her eyes like she was praying. Her eyes were still closed when she asked me a strange question:


"Do you know you have angels watching over you?"


"I do? Where are they?" I was intrigued at the thought of real angels hovering over me.


"Oh, you won't see them, but they're there. Every night before your Grandma gets into bed, I kneel and ask God to send His angels to watch over you: To protect my girls -- especially you, Child."


"Really? I've never seen any of them. How do you know they're there?"


Grandma didn't respond to my question, but started muttering to herself. I heard what she said, though. She said something inside her had always known I needed the protection of angels, but until tonight she hadn't understood why. She stroked my back and I winced in pain. She pulled up my pajama top and gasped in horror.


"How in Heaven's name did you get all of these welts on your back, child? Who beat you like this? It wasn't my son, was it? Couldn't have been my son. He was different from his brothers. He never fought like they did. It wasn't him, was it?" Grandma was getting upset now, and I felt like I was the cause.


"No, Grandma. It wasn't him, but I can't tell anymore. Mama says we're not allowed to show people our dirty laundry. If I tell you anymore secrets, God will punish me."


"Did your Ma tell you that? Did she say God would punish you if you told how you get beat?"


"She said God watches everything I do. He knows every bad thought I think, and He sees every bad thing I do. She said He'll punish me if I tell our secrets."


"Oh, no, child," Grandma cried as she put her arms around me. "I thought I was the only one."


"Did you get beat, too, Grandma?"


"Your grandpa beat on me until I was thirty five. Then one day, he just stopped hitting me. But he never quit beating on his sons till they left home -- all but your Pa. He never beat on him." Grandma held my head close to her heart and I smelled the rose water she splashed on that morning. I was scared, but I felt safe in her arms.


"Child, I want you to hear what I'm telling you," she said in a stern voice. "I don't know why your Pa isn't protecting you. If you lived closer to me I could protect you, but you don't. I can't be with you, but Jesus is always with you. Even if you can't see Him, He's everywhere you are. Not to punish you, but to protect you. He has ten thousand angels who do what He tells them to do. I've only asked Him to send four to you. 

When you sleep, they stand by your bed to protect you as you sleep. When you're at school, they walk on each side of you. Jesus loves you, Girl. He loved you even before you were born. He didn't allow Himself to be put on that cross just so He could punish you! If you had been the only person in the world, He still would have died on the cross for you so you could be accepted by God, just like you are. 

Jesus don't have a big belt in His hands, child! He has arms like Grandma's arms that reach out to accept you just as you are, with no fixing up. Do you believe what I'm telling you?" Grandma looked deep into my eyes as she waited for my response.


"If you say it, I believe it, Grandma," I whispered through my tears.


"Now look, child. You have good Dutch blood flowing through those veins of yours. You're a strong girl, and whatever you have to endure, you can endure as long as Jesus’ angels protect you. You might have to take some beatings for a while, but you will not die from them. 

I don't know why Jesus allows us to be hurt, but anyone who lives has some kind of burden to bear. Jesus won't let anyone kill you. As long as I have breath in my body, I'll be praying for extra angels to watch over you. As long as I'm alive I'll be on my knees for you. And when I'm gone, Jesus will still be there answering my prayers....."

= = = = = = = = = =

Now, standing in the noisy casino, I am once again aware of my surroundings. I hang up the phone and walk slowly through the casino, heading for the bathrooms. I walk past dozens of old women parked in front of their slot machines, nickels in their coffee cans. I bump into the cleavaged blonde hanging on the drunken bald man, and I smell the odor of stale cigarette butts and warm beer. 

I see Little Richard with his red lips and hear his red acrylic nails banging on the piano as he screams "Good golly, Miss Molly, sure love to ball." I look at the faces of the young prostitutes working the room, and I wonder if they have angels watching over them. 

I see blurred painted faces turning ugly with greed and then panic, as money is lost. I hear shrill female screams and shrieks as the dice are rolled to decide their fate. A stumbling three-piece-suit sways into my path and asks me how much I'd charge for a good time. 

I feel how much Grandma would hate this place, and my stomach begins to heave. I need to be alone. I need to escape the insanity of this brightly-lit insane asylum. I run to escape the inmates and find sanctuary in an empty stall just in time to puke into the toilet.


Alone in my stall, I am not alone. For the first time, I actually feel the presence of Grandma's angels. Two of them stand guard at each corner of the stall as liquid escapes from every orifice of my body. Oddly, nobody knocks at my stall for hours. 

Unable to cry for fifteen years, I open the backed-up floodgates and it is hours before they close again. This time they will not stay closed forever. This time I feel the angels protecting me, and I know Grandma’s prayers are still being answered. Now I can trust God.

(c)2001-2012 April Lorier Perspective

Please note: This is an excerpt from my book
God's Battered Child and is copyrighted.

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Is There Anyone of My House He Can Bless?

Winner of SearchWarp.com Writer Award 2007

Mama felt as if her life was over when Daddy dropped dead at the age of 46. What was her role if she couldn't be a pastor's wife anymore?

But, in true form, she persevered, carving out a ministry for herself in the poorest areas of El Paso, Texas, though she spoke no Spanish.

Decked out in her fuzzy slippers, she went door-to-door, inviting prostitutes and drug addicts to Sunday Morning Worship Service at the Spanish-speaking church where she was pianist.

She was a sight to behold in her already-wrecked 1978 Dodge two-door coupe. Designed to fit five comfortably, it often arrived at the church with a dozen people cramped like sardines. Mama would yell, "Skinny ones have to sit on the laps of the fatter ones!"

No one knows how many people Mama brought to Jesus, but in 1995, I had a good idea when I spoke at her funeral. Even before I arrived in El Paso, people were calling me at my home in California to tell me how their lives had been changed because my mother had introduced them to Jesus.

Once in El Paso, hundreds were coming to her house to hug the daughter of "Hermana Alicia" who had told them how Jesus could raise them up out of their dissolute lifestyles.

Mama was afraid of dying a prolonged cancer death as her own mother had, so the way she left this earth was a blessing from God.

She left church after choir practice on a Sunday Evening, and crossed the road to get to her car when a vehicle without lights hit her and left the scene. I thought it somewhat appropriate that she would go straight from church to Glory.

During the last ten years of her life, Mama had serious money problems. As her health failed and the rent went up, she couldn't offer as many piano lessons as she wanted. Her tiny Social Security check just couldn't be stretched far enough.

She needed trifocals, but couldn't afford them. I kept sending money, but with three children of my own, money was scarce even for me. Finally, God showed me, through His Word that I was to tithe to Mama. And so I did.

From California , I developed the habit of calling Mama every Sunday night at 8:00 as the "Murder She Wrote" theme music began. Mama always mentioned another life that had been changed through Jesus, so she was always in a good mood. And she always bragged about her great car that could hold a dozen sardines! But one night she seemed despondent.

She had learned that my sister had $50,000 stolen from her teacher's retirement fund. Mama felt terrible because she had nothing to leave the two of us after she was gone. She said she felt "tacky". I heard her pain, but more importantly, God heard her.

Mama's funeral was so big it had to be moved to the largest church in El Paso, which could hold five thousand people. There were relatives, Christians from the churches my father had pastored, and then there were hundreds of spiritual children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren whose lives had been changed because of Mama.

The sea of transformed faces thrilled me as I spoke on behalf of my mother. Afterwards, I heard story after story of how "Hermana Alicia" had ministered to them. I felt as though I was soaring on wings of eagles.

As my sister and I were disposing Mamas belongings, I found years of calendars on which Mama had written every detail of her life. My sister wanted me to throw out all the calendars she had saved, but something stopped me.

Mama had written down every time I had called her, every score from every Chicago White Sox game, and numerous other details. Her writing was minuscule, so I used a magnifying glass to read the 1995 calendar.

She died March 20, so I flipped back to February and felt a chill creep up my back. There, under the month was written my name in large letters, followed by Psalm 32:8 . Quickly, I got out my Bible and read, I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will guide you with My eye upon you.

Chills consumed me. What was she saying? It was then I saw Mama's notation under the scripture reference. Good for two months only . Underneath it was an 800 number.

Imagine my shock when I called and was told that Mama had accepted one of those offers, through her tiny Visa, for accidental death insurance. Visa paid the first two months, and if she decided to keep the insurance, the monthly charge would be placed on her credit card.

She never planned to pay for it, but because she had grown up during The Great Depression, Mama never turned down anything "free".

Insurance paid my sister and me $100,000! My sister replaced the $50,000 that had been stolen from her teacher's retirement fund, and I was more than repaid for all the tithes I had sent to Mama.

In addition, Mama's car insurance paid $50,000, which let me give a large amount to The Gideons (all who work for free supplying Bibles to hospitals, prisons, military units, and hotels), plus I had money left over to help the down-and-outers Mama loved so much.

There's no doubt in my mind that Mama was greeted with, "Well done, My good and faithful servant".

I remember reading how King David asked, Is there still anyone who is left of the house of Saul, that I may show him kindness for Jonathan's sake ? I knew in my heart that my sister and I were blessed because of Mama's faithful service with the little that she possessed on this earth.

Now I ask myself: Will God be able to bless my children, based on my service?

(c)2001-2008 April Lorier Perspective

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Families: Only God Can Make A Tree

I have not met anyone who has not experienced violence or loss within their family tree. And yet the tree survives! This poem is dedicated to all those family members who keep on loving, helping, and praying for their members. God will grow your tree!

1994 Winner of Inspirational Poetry Award from Texas Poets Society (Dallas)

Our Battered Family Tree

How wide our tree, how deep its roots!

We have known neglect, drought, floods,

tornado's efforts to uproot us, steel blades'

attempts to chop us down, and still, we stand!

Long ago--whether deliberate or accidental, I do

not know--we were planted in the soil, warmed

and scorched by the sun, refreshed by God's rains.

Birds built nests of life in our branches.

Critters brought seeds from other trees

and dropped them in our soil. Branches were

grafted in, adding to our divergent foliage,

while others, damaged, fell to the ground.

Soon we bore not only nuts and berries, but

succulent fruits and prickly cones and thorns.

Oh the history that could be told by our tough

bark, strong trunk, and hardy branches!

Taller trees tried to deprive us of warm rays,

tepid showers, and room to spread our branches;

Bushes tried to crowd us from the bottom, while

strong-toothed critters chewed on our wood.

We have survived acts of man, beasts and God.

We have reproduced, though often infested,

and our tree stands taller and generations wider.

Truly, the poet knows the secret to our strength:

Only God can make a tree.

Copyright 1994 - 2008 April Lorier Perspective

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My Morning Choice in the Quiet

It's quiet. It's early. My coffee is hot. The world is waking up. The day is coming. In a few moments the day will be as bright as this east window.

The stillness of the morning will be exchanged for the noise of the day. The calm of the solitude will be replaced by the pounding pace of the human race. The refuge of the early morning will be invaded by decisions to be made and deadlines to be met.

For the next twelve hours I will be exposed to the day's demands. It is now that I must make a choice.

Because of Calvary, I'm free to choose. And so I choose.

I CHOOSE LOVE!

No occasion justifies hatred; no injustice warrants bitterness. I choose love. Today I will love God and love what God loves.

I CHOOSE JOY!

I will invite my God to be the God of circumstance. I will refuse the temptation to be cynical...the tool of the lazy thinker. I will refuse to see people as anything less than human beings, created by God. I will refuse to see any problem as anything less than an opportunity to see God at work.

I CHOOSE PEACE!

I will live forgiven. I will forgive so that I may live in freedom from bitterness.

I CHOOSE PATIENCE!

I will overlook the inconveniences of the world. Instead of cursing the one who takes my place, I'll invite him to do so. Rather than complaining that the wait is too long, I will thank God for a moment to pray. Instead of clinching my fist at new assignments, I will face them with joy and courage.

I CHOOSE KINDNESS!

I will be kind to the poor, for they are alone. Kind to the rich, for they are afraid. And kind to the unkind, for such is how God has treated me.

I CHOOSE GOODNESS!

I will go without a dollar before I take a dishonest one. I will be overlooked before I will boast. I will confess before I will accuse. I choose goodness.

I CHOOSE FAITHFULNESS!

Today I will keep my promises. My debtors will not regret their trust. My associates will not question my word. My husband will not question my love. And my children will never fear that their mother will not come home.

I CHOOSE GENTLENESS!

Nothing is won by force. I choose to be gentle. If I raise my voice, may it be only in praise. If I clench my fist, may it be only in prayer. If I make a demand, may it be only of me.

I CHOOSE SELF-CONTROL!

I am a spiritual being. After this body is dead, my spirit will soar. I refuse to let what will rot rule the eternal. I choose self-control.

I will be drunk only by joy.
I will be impassioned only by my faith.
I will be influenced only by God.
I will be taught only by Christ.

LOVE, JOY, PEACE, PATIENCE, KINDNESS, GOODNESS, FAITHFULNESS, GENTLENESS, AND SELF-CONTROL...

To these I commit my day. If I succeed, I will give thanks. If I fail, I will seek God's face. And then when this day is done, I will place my head on my pillow and rest.

Galations 5:22-23a But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control...

(c) 2007-2008 April Lorier Perspective

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Releasing Your Prodigal Child To God

It takes every ounce of fiber in you to refrain from intervening. You must be willing to let go of her as she self-destructs because it's what she wants. Out of love for her, you behave in the very manner that is so repugnant to you: you do nothing.

For eighteen years it has been your responsibility to do: with her, for her, because of her. Your duty, as you perceived it, was to stay involved in her life. Your duty, now, as she perceives it, is to stay out of her life.


When did it all begin to change? When did she suddenly decide that she didn't need the very mother to whom she used to cling? That child that would rather die than hurt her mother-- where is she now?


You wonder if you held her too closely. You doubt your judgment in telling her how special she was: maybe it was too much for her to live up to. Loneliness covers you like gauze as you wonder who it is she tells her secret dreams to. You hope she still has dreams.


You think you must have felt it coming: that time when you would have to set her free; but you thought it would be more amiable. You agree that every person has the right to self-determinism; but as you watch her acting out her lack of self-respect, you realize you only believed that in theory.


You remember how you talked of her future with expectant hearts. She had so much going for her. You thought you had happy productive days planned. Did she find something more desirable -- something she was more comfortable with than success? You search for clues that would have allowed you to see how much she hates herself, but none come forward.


You try not to show your repulsion as you look at the sleazy dress that almost covers her amply endowed breasts and buttocks. A lump lodges in your throat as you try to find those beautiful soft, brown eyes amidst the purple and green eye shadows packed on her lids. You're repelled by her tattoo-covered legs, and you're relieved she doesn't offer to kiss you with those blood-red, over-lined lips.


You remember how she used to sit on the floor with her head in your lap so you could stroke her soft, shiny brown hair. What provokes this memory is looking at the teased, gelled, punked-out mess that sits atop her head in flagrant defiance.


She informs you she has a right to live her own life no matter how shabby it is. Her declarations of independence spew out like venom and head straight for your heart. You wonder who is this person is as her once-radiant face now contorts into the ugliness of anger.


Is this the same child whose face lit up as she sang "Jesus Loves Me," who memorized scriptures voluntarily? Is this the same girl who seemed to understand spiritually mature principles of scripture at a young age?


Friends who hardly spoke to you before, now find it necessary to report when and where they've seen her--and with whom. What makes them think you want to be reminded of her dissolute lifestyle?


Now you know what a cornered animal feels like. You cannot step in and fix things as you've always done -- she won't allow it. For her sake, you won't even try. It would only make her more dependent on your judgment, on your experience, and you cannot deprive her of her own experience.


You dare not send her any messages that cause her to believe she's incapable of being her own person.


No, any intervention at this point, would only prolong the inevitable: she would find it necessary to tear away from you later, perhaps then, tearing bigger pieces of both your hearts.


Now you wait for her to find herself -- to find you again. You pray it happens before she destroys the child you love. You wonder how long it will take, and if you'll still be alive.


And then you remember that Isaiah 54:13 promises that your children shall be taught of the Lord.


And you are reminded in Philippians 2:6 that He who began the good work in [her] will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ.


And you realize that, like Hannah who kept her promise to God and turned her only son over to Eli and his wicked sons, you have to trust God to protect your child, even in the midst of a wicked world.


You ask yourself if God is still in control, and you determine He is even if it doesn't feel like it. You lie down and sleep the sleep of peace knowing you have planted The Seed, and God is able to do the rest.


You rest in the Sovereignty of One who loves her even more than you do.


(c) 2008 April Lorier Perspective

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Meaning of Life: A New Thing!

(Winner of SearchWarp.com Writers' Contest 2007)

When I came to Jesus whole-heartedly, it was at the age of thirty. I had made a mess of my life and from the bottom I reached out to the same Jesus I had known and loved at the age of six. I knew I had no one else to turn to but Jesus. And, true to His character, He met me at my point of need.

I soaked up the peace and joy He gave like a parched desert plant welcomes refreshing rain. I hungered for His Word to the exclusion of all else in life, and scriptures I had memorized as a child began to take on whole new meanings for me. It was a honeymoon I'll never forget, and my Groom was generous with grace, mercy, and need-fulfillment.

As happens with all honeymoons, the cares of life began to creep in, and I began to grieve over my wasteland past. What bothered me the most was that I had known Jesus, accepted Him as my Savior, and then through the years had distanced myself from Him and His children. Sure, I had been hurt by family members, and by Christians, too; but the bottom line was that I had chosen to walk away from the Lordship of Christ.

I believed that everything done by a person before salvation was forgiven, but I had made a decision as a child to follow Jesus, and then I had reneged. I allowed myself to be tormented with condemnation and accusations until I could no longer sleep at night. Nightmares of laughing demons pointing fingers at me terrorized me in my sleep. For months I suffered with night terrors.

Then one day, tired of being tormented, I took out my Bible and opened it at random. I asked God to speak to me in a special way. The Bible fell open to Isaiah 43:18-19, and as I read the words they seemed to jump off the page and right into my spirit.

Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland.

Peace flooded my soul and I understood that God was the Redeemer of my past, present, and future. I knew He would cause all things (even my mistakes) to work together for His good. I couldn't go back and change anything I had done. All I could do was be part of the "new thing" God was doing on my behalf. He was the only One Who was able to make streams in the wasteland.

The way He quickened that scripture to my spirit had shown me that was what He intended to do: make streams in my wasteland -- do a New Thing with my mind, soul, spirit and life!

This was my first step toward moving out of the past into the glorious future God had planned for me. He reclaimed my life, showed me He was not the "accuser of the brethren," and started healing painful memories. Even though I had changed, God had not. He had been waiting there for me all the time, and it gave Him great pleasure to reclaim one of His lost sheep.

I asked Him that day to give me opportunities to help in the restoration of other discouraged, lost sheep, and He has done so. God's healing process goes on.

(c) 2007-2008 April Lorier Perspective

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Attitude-Changing Prayer: Looking at Hannah

Who was Hannah and why is her prayer important? Hannah was a barren woman in a time when not only the wife's worth, but the husband’s esteem was measured by how many sons they had. She was the wife of Elkanah, a man who had two wives.

Because Hannah was barren, he took a second wife, Peninnah, who bore four sons. Hannah was treated contemptuously by Penninah because of her barrenness. Penninah jeered and mocked Hannah relentlessly until Hannah could not even eat. It was not long before Hannah became, in her own words, bitter of soul. But she believed God answered fervent prayer! So in I Samuel 1:10-11 we read her prayer:

In bitterness of soul Hannah wept much and prayed to the LORD. And she made a vow, saying, "O LORD Almighty, if you will only look upon your servant's misery and remember me, and not forget your servant but give her a son, then I will give him to the LORD for all the days of his life, and no razor will ever be used on his head."

Sure enough, that night God "remembered Hannah"! (1 Samuel 19-20)

Early the next morning they arose and worshiped before the LORD and then went back to their home at Ramah. Elkanah lay with Hannah his wife, and the LORD remembered her.
So in the course of time Hannah conceived and gave birth to a son. She named him Samuel, [literally "heard by God"] saying, "Because I asked the LORD for him."

Now Hannah had promised God that if He would give her a son, she would give the son back to God. By this she meant when the son was weaned at the age of three, she would make the long journey back to the Temple and leave her son with Eli, the Priest.

I've done considerable pondering over why a mother who was so grateful for the one son she had would be willing to leave him with Eli the Priest. But as I've dug deeper into the unhealthy family dynamics of that whole family, I have to say she was a very wise woman. She knew her son would be better off serving the Priest than he would be fighting off his half-brothers who would treat him as their own mother had treated Hannah.

The big day comes, and Hannah and three-year-old Samuel make the long walking journey to the Temple. She leaves her precious son with a Priest who, unbeknown to Hannah, had two evil sons living with him. In effect, Samuel was left in an even more sinful environment than the home into which he was born. And instead of crying, Hannah prayed a prayer of rejoicing. I will include only a small part of her prayer, taken from 1 Samuel 2.

Then Hannah prayed and said:
"My heart rejoices in the LORD;
in the LORD my horn [strength] is lifted high.
My mouth boasts over my enemies,
for I delight in your deliverance.
"There is no one holy like the LORD;
there is no one besides you;
there is no Rock like our God."

I don't know about you, but I'm wondering if I could have been so joyful as I left my only son behind. Nevertheless, it provides a beautiful model for prayer, in my opinion.

Years ago, I began writing my prayers. I concentrate better when I write, and it enables to me reread my prayers many times. Also, I thought it would be a wonderful legacy to leave behind for my children. I looked at Paul's exhortation in 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18.

Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus.

So I determined to begin my prayer with praise. Who is God? Why is He worthy to be praised? Next would come gratitude. What are at least three things for which I am grateful today? Next would come my petition. What exactly was I asking God to do? This was not a time to speak in generalities! And finally, thanks for God's faithfulness to His Word and to me.

A funny thing happened when I disciplined myself to stick to this format: I began to become more positive in my thoughts, actions, and words. I expected less of people and more of God. It was similar to a reformatting of a computer's hard drive: negative out, positive in! An added bonus was that it made me hungrier to dig into the Word to learn all of the attributes of God Almighty! What a blessed Bible Study that became!

So, to recap, the format - this is great for a journal! - is:

1. Praise for Who God is
2. Gratitude for what He's blessed me with
3. Specificity in my petition
4. Thanks for His faithfulness to His Word and to me

Try it for a month and see if it makes a difference in your attitude! It's how Hannah prayed, and she's a wonderful example of humbleness and faithfulness to The Lord.

©2008 April Lorier Perspective

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With Love for Clarissa

This is the way it goes, honey. Hold him close and enjoy every second. Soon he'll be a man!

You were six months old and full of fun.
With a blink of my eye you suddenly were one.
There were so many things we were going to do,
But I turned my head and you turned two.

At two you were very dependent on me,
But independence took over when you turned three.
Your third birthday, another year I tried to ignore,
But when I lit the candles, there weren't three, but four.

Four was the year that you really strived,
Why look at you now, you're already five.
Now you are ready for books and rules.
This is the year you go to school.

The big day came; you were anxious to go.
We walked to the bus going oh, so slow.
As you climbed aboard and waved goodbye,
I felt a lump in my throat and tears stung my eyes.

Time goes so fast, it's hard to believe
That just yesterday, you were home here, with me.
And tomorrow when the bus brings you home and you jump to the ground,
You'll be wearing your cap and graduation gown.

So I'm holding to these moments as hard as I can,
Because the next time I look,
I'll be seeing a grown man.
~Anonymous~

Submitted 2008 by Grandma April

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Older Women, Younger Men - Ain't No New Thing!

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Journaling - Healing from the Inside Out

I studied handwriting analysis, or graphology, as its known, for several years. Handwriting is a science, and is as unique as the science of fingerprint analysis. It is commonly used by businesses to weed out unwanted individuals during the hiring process. Investigators of crime will often bring in graphologists to determine forgery, or even character traits in a suspect (like the likelihood of dishonesty). Handwriting has always fascinated me, especially when I learned that even alcoholics are trained to write differently in order to change brain patterns.

So, when I was in therapy and my counselor asked me to keep a journal, and to make sure it was handwritten, I had an understanding of why she did not want me to type it on a computer. Handwriting changes the brain!

She gave me a leading sentence to start with, like all the men in my life have been…

Of course, I thought the subject was too broad, and I objected. But I did it because I wanted to break old patterns and become emotionally healthy.

She made it clear that this journaling was for my eyes only, and I should never share it with anyone. That gave me a perception of safety that enabled me to start.

She told me not to plan what I was going to write, not to second-guess or edit myself - a seemingly impossible request at the time - and to keep writing for at least fifteen minutes without stopping.

Something mysterious happens when you're writing automatically, without censoring yourself. As the hand writes, buried feelings and opinions come to the surface and you are genuinely shocked at what appears on the page! I'm not a brain specialist, so I can't explain what happens, but suddenly you're writing memories and feelings you never knew you had. Here's an example.

In the all the men in my life have been… exercise, my mind started in the present and worked backwards. Of course, Daddy was the one I finished with because he was the first man in my life. I was amazed at the number of men who had been in my life in one capacity or another, so a mere fifteen minutes per time was not enough time.

The conclusion I came to, as I saw definite patterns evolving on paper, was that most men in my life were weak in character and had used me to their own advantage. Wow! I had never seen that before! So what was the next logical question?

What has caused me to settle for weak men in my life?

What was the need *I* was trying to fill?

Do you see how this could turn into an autobiography? The only difference is that I would be the one learning about myself! One discovery leads to another, and another, and so on.

That's why I am now a believer in journaling. I'm not talking about a diary or an appointment book where you write what you did that day, or with whom, or what you need to do tomorrow. It's not about doing. It is more about being. It reveals the why of how you've always been, and the how of how different you can be with this new insight.

For example, I've taught my daughter to keep a journal of all the times God has provided for her in miraculous ways. It doesn't even have to be full sentences, just enough dated phrases to jog her memory down the road. That way, when she is discouraged, she can reread the “Blessing Journal” and regain her attitude of gratitude.

I will write more on journaling. This is just to introduce you to one of the blessings I have personally experienced in my life. There's plenty of data to back up what regular journaling does for us on all levels. We benefit physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. We even sleep better, and reduce our anxiety levels; but more about that later.

For now, it is enough to say journaling is one way to allow God to heal us from the inside out. And it costs only the price of a notebook or journal.

©2008 April Lorier Perspective

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The Most Dangerous Place in the World for Christians

Canon Andrew White, known as the "Vicar of Baghdad," says Baghdad is the most dangerous place in the world for Christians. He says while conditions in Iraq's capital may be better, overall, he says they're still terrible.

"The two largest Christian neighborhoods of Dora and Karada are now void of all Christians," White said. "They had bullets put through their doors, they had letters warning them to leave, and they were given a choice - either you pay the Jizya tax or you convert to Islam, or we kill you. Of my church in Iraq, I have 1300 members in my church in Baghdad and we have only six men left. All the rest have been kidnapped or killed."

He says they serve Jesus in the midst of dismal circumstances.

Many Christians have had to leave their homes. They're now sleeping in churches, including the major Assyrian churches in Karada. They do not have food, they do not have water. They do not have rent money, and so being part of church and the work of church is not just providing a place for them to worship the Almighty. It is providing every need in life.

A Call to People in the West

White points out many Christians have returned to Baghdad simply because they're no longer allowed to stay in Syria or Jordan.

"People in the West should know we cannot survive without their help and their support. We need them at this time," he said. “We are brothers and sisters in Christ. It doesn't matter where you are in the world, these Christians belong to you. They love you and they see that they're part of a community and sometimes they say to me, 'why don't our brothers and sisters in the West help us?' And I say to them, 'I don't know.'"

A Bright Future Ahead

Despite the hard road, White sees a bright future for the Middle East. He says in Isaiah 19, the Bible predicts a holy highway will one day stretch from Egypt through Israel all the way to Assyria or modern day Iraq.

"I think that God is so involved here in this region, and the fact that God in His Son Yeshua Ha Mashiah will come back to this holy city of Jerusalem, we see that this whole region is intrinsic to God's plan and His purpose," he said. "Even though everything is terrible, even though everything we see is awful, I know that ultimately it's in the hands of The Almighty, and it's glorious."

In view of this situation, I urge all of my readers to pray for Christians in Baghdad. They know what it means to suffer for the cause of Christ in a way none of us do. Watching this interview with Chris Mitchell of Christian World News made me realize how easy we Christians in America have life in comparison to those in Baghdad.

2008 April Lorier Perspective

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