From Fast Track to Splat...In Olympic Gold-Medal Time
Nonfiction, Religion & Spirituality, Christianity, Christian Life
| Author: | Lois Duble | ISBN: | 9781681977911 |
| Publisher: | Christian Faith Publishing | Publication: | January 18, 2017 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Lois Duble |
| ISBN: | 9781681977911 |
| Publisher: | Christian Faith Publishing |
| Publication: | January 18, 2017 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
Being new to the world of publishing, I feel it is only fair that I allow you to get acquainted with this quirky person known as Lois Duble. Up front, I confess that my writing style is “Christian Erma Bombeck”—she being one of my all-time favorite authors.
At age sixty-something, I felt I had reached my stride—good health (just a few twinges in the hinges), flexibility in my daily routine (routine?), immensely enjoying a two-year-old child protégé with strawberry-blonde curls and a passion for transforming into a ballerina upon donning a tutu dress and sparkly “triara”—all the while, serving the Lord in numerous ways. The two key words in that lengthy sentence are “my stride”—also lengthy—my friends remind me—despite my short stature.
Everyone around me noticed that I walked rapidly through my days, and often admonished me to “slow down.” “Why?” I wondered. “Life is too short to waste time strolling through the park,” I thought.
Besides, I knew that the Lord was not finished with me yet since I was still alive and active versus, well . . . the opposite.
I wonder sometimes if, when the Lord decided to form such a creature as Lois Marie Schneider (Duble), he didn’t throw in a few cat-like features—one being possessing nine lives. To date, I can identify at least five instances when by natural-world standards I should have ceased to exist on this earth.
Actually, I surmise that the enemy of my soul tried to snuff out my life even before entering this worldly . . . world. You see, my twin brother, Mitch, butted in line right from the start. Seems I was poised to enter this world that dark and stormy last day of July when, lickety-split, my twin wiggled his way to the head of the line.
After unceremoniously pushing me out of the way, he exited the womb hale and hearty, using up the precious oxygen available in that tomb-like space. Meanwhile, I struggled to breathe during that five-minute interval.
When finally I slipped out into a hostile world in my Mom’s bedroom, I was what they termed a “blue” baby. The doctor had no choice but to lay me aside and wait to see what would transpire. Well, apparently, the devil and the Lord both wanted me, but finally I heaved a shuttering breath and the Lord owned the victory (whether or not Mitch subsequently saw my life in that light).
Throughout my early and mid-life adulthood, I suffered several debilitating episodes of depression resulting in hospitalizations and, each time, a tenuous hold on life. Only by the grace of God did I escape self-destruction.
Then there was the incident involving a telephone pole. Due to effects of medication, I drifted off to sleep at the wheel while winding my way down a country road on a balmy May day. Instead of snuffing out my life, the pole I hit broke in two, resulting in nothing more than a bruised right hand from the air bag deploying on impact. (The alternative scenarios were, one, leaving the road by a stand of trees much less givable than a telephone pole and, two, careening down an embankment into a swollen, roiling creek.)
By far the eeriest escaped-with-my-life incident was the non-accident. While stopped at the bottom of a hill on a town street, a monster truck barreled toward me from the rear, braked with ear-splitting squealing tires, swerved to the right, and skidded to a stop parallel to my car beside an iron railing—the space being much narrower than the width of the truck—defying several natural laws.
So on a normal day in October 2013, I had “used up” at least four lives. What follows is the extraordinary account of my fifth escape from almost-certain death, thanks to the mercy and power of my Lord, Jesus Christ.
Being new to the world of publishing, I feel it is only fair that I allow you to get acquainted with this quirky person known as Lois Duble. Up front, I confess that my writing style is “Christian Erma Bombeck”—she being one of my all-time favorite authors.
At age sixty-something, I felt I had reached my stride—good health (just a few twinges in the hinges), flexibility in my daily routine (routine?), immensely enjoying a two-year-old child protégé with strawberry-blonde curls and a passion for transforming into a ballerina upon donning a tutu dress and sparkly “triara”—all the while, serving the Lord in numerous ways. The two key words in that lengthy sentence are “my stride”—also lengthy—my friends remind me—despite my short stature.
Everyone around me noticed that I walked rapidly through my days, and often admonished me to “slow down.” “Why?” I wondered. “Life is too short to waste time strolling through the park,” I thought.
Besides, I knew that the Lord was not finished with me yet since I was still alive and active versus, well . . . the opposite.
I wonder sometimes if, when the Lord decided to form such a creature as Lois Marie Schneider (Duble), he didn’t throw in a few cat-like features—one being possessing nine lives. To date, I can identify at least five instances when by natural-world standards I should have ceased to exist on this earth.
Actually, I surmise that the enemy of my soul tried to snuff out my life even before entering this worldly . . . world. You see, my twin brother, Mitch, butted in line right from the start. Seems I was poised to enter this world that dark and stormy last day of July when, lickety-split, my twin wiggled his way to the head of the line.
After unceremoniously pushing me out of the way, he exited the womb hale and hearty, using up the precious oxygen available in that tomb-like space. Meanwhile, I struggled to breathe during that five-minute interval.
When finally I slipped out into a hostile world in my Mom’s bedroom, I was what they termed a “blue” baby. The doctor had no choice but to lay me aside and wait to see what would transpire. Well, apparently, the devil and the Lord both wanted me, but finally I heaved a shuttering breath and the Lord owned the victory (whether or not Mitch subsequently saw my life in that light).
Throughout my early and mid-life adulthood, I suffered several debilitating episodes of depression resulting in hospitalizations and, each time, a tenuous hold on life. Only by the grace of God did I escape self-destruction.
Then there was the incident involving a telephone pole. Due to effects of medication, I drifted off to sleep at the wheel while winding my way down a country road on a balmy May day. Instead of snuffing out my life, the pole I hit broke in two, resulting in nothing more than a bruised right hand from the air bag deploying on impact. (The alternative scenarios were, one, leaving the road by a stand of trees much less givable than a telephone pole and, two, careening down an embankment into a swollen, roiling creek.)
By far the eeriest escaped-with-my-life incident was the non-accident. While stopped at the bottom of a hill on a town street, a monster truck barreled toward me from the rear, braked with ear-splitting squealing tires, swerved to the right, and skidded to a stop parallel to my car beside an iron railing—the space being much narrower than the width of the truck—defying several natural laws.
So on a normal day in October 2013, I had “used up” at least four lives. What follows is the extraordinary account of my fifth escape from almost-certain death, thanks to the mercy and power of my Lord, Jesus Christ.
