Quenched from Within

J.M. Harris

Description

J. M. Harris encapsulates the life of a young adult, Samaria, through her perilous experiences as a strong-spirited woman who feels she is ready to take on the world until vivid dreams elude her mind. Visions of a single thriving red rose grab her attention as the petals transform into a blackened state and then begin drifting away into turbulent winds. In reviewing her past, she finds the rose is a haunting representation of her own existence, realizing she is becoming dried from within. Parched, but the waters she drinks leave her thirstier than before. The emergence of dreadful scars appears from her thorny reality as she continually moves forward in life without healing. Frightened by her drying existence, she runs from yet another failing relationship, but this time she stumbles upon a mysterious abandoned mansion finding Mr. Harrison in a forlorn state, leaving her wondering who this man is and how he knows her troubled past. As her petals flow faster into the winds, he offers her the solution to restore her soul in exchange for her fallen petals. Join Samaria as she faces major decisions to live a life beyond pain or to keep running as she takes life into her own hands. Time is running out as her final petals threaten to fall. Will her decision allow her soul to bloom again or lose her lingering petals, thus becoming a rose no more?

Sujets

• Within
• Quenching
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris US
• Date de parution: 28 avril 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781669871583
• Langue: English

Extrait

Quenched From Within







J.M. Harris



Copyright © 2023 by J.M. Harris.

Library of Congress Control Number:
2023908074
ISBN:
Hardcover
978-1-6698-7160-6
Softcover
978-1-6698-7159-0
eBook
978-1-6698-7158-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture quotations marked KJV are from the Holy Bible, King James Version (Authorized Version). First published in 1611. Quoted from the KJV Classic Reference Bible, Copyright © 1983 by The Zondervan Corporation.
Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved. [Biblica]



Rev. date: 04/26/2023


Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
852138



CONTENTS
Grace and Mercy for a Beautiful Rose
Thorny Memories
Fallen Into Dormancy
A Wilted Spirit
Morning Dewed Petals
The Renewal in the Pruning
Stolen Blooms
Thorns and Stained Blood
Surrendering to Sweet Scents
Drying of a Rose’s Soul
Sun Kisses After Dew Drops
Rainbows over Crushed Petals
Rose Mosaic Dreams
Heartache-Forced Blooms
Springing Rose Beds
One to a Dozen
Bare Roots and New Beginnings
Encouraging New Growth
Let Long Stems Rise
Bee Stings and Butterflies
Arose of a Miracle



He who met me at the well, quickened my dried soul. He breathed the Truth into every area of my life taking me from the darkness into an incredible light. I can never thank or praise Him enough for I was the rose who was quenched from within at the well. Forever I will love Him, my eternal provider and Rock, Jehovah – Jireh.
Our powerful testimonies lead others to believe. In this troubled world, let’s be brave and bold in telling our stories to break free God’s people from shame, past mistakes, and the lies the enemy spews that holds nations in bondage. Show others what overcoming feels and look like. Always let kindness open conversations that can break barriers just like Jesus did with the woman at the well. Never turn from offering someone spiritually deprived the opportunity to drink from the Living Waters turning many to the One who promises they’ll never thirst again. Thank You Jesus
Holy Spirit, you’ve showed me how to live like Jesus, you didn’t have an easy task, nor is your works complete in me. Thank you for how you love and lead me.
An extra special thanks to Laura N. Craft-Eummer, Jeffrey Eummer, and William Eummer, who in my time of need were there. Just one call brought an amazing blessing into my life that will stay in my heart forever. Lori, never forget our days under the stars. The beautiful welcome to the state of Arizona will never be forgotten, God’s blessings is placed upon each of you. Again, I Thank YOU.
My sons John Stokes II, Sean Stokes (Donna), John Dorsey (Janelle), and Jacob Harris.
My two precious grandkids, Nathan E. and Katelynn M. Stokes. Finally, my grandma, who held my first book close to her heart; she’s gone to her heavenly home on this one but guided me every step of the way.
Her love has always been amazing: Dorothy Richardson.



Grace and Mercy for a Beautiful Rose

W ho sits at an old, battered vanity with a mirror shaped like a shield and writes in the middle of the living room? Clanking my fingers on the glass top, bringing on memories of my only adventure of ice skating. I was horrible at it. He grabbed me. “Baby girl, repeat after me and believe it. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” The whisper of those words has never been forgotten. That was ten years ago, yet I hear it as if it was said yesterday.
I shook my head at his remembrance. He was my mom’s brother and came to spend time with us every chance he got. With no kids of his own, we reaped the rewards of his generosity that he would have given his own kids, wondering why he never had any. I went back to thinking of the event. A guy rolling past me shouted, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
When he heard those very words, Uncle shared with me.
“I ain’t talking to you, crazy man—gone on,” he shouted.
Uncle James gripped tighter as my body wobbled less. He commanded, “Say it again,” and I did but this time with greater confidence. “One mo’ time,” he said, and then he let me go.
I flew past a few people before I noticed the confidence those words gave me. They were powerful words. Sliding one foot forward and then the next, my stature straightened up, then I was rolling like a pro until this small kid fell at my skates, and I flipped over him, working like a jointed mannequin wanting not to roll over him. Looking back as I slid into the wall, I noted that he was getting upward and skating again. Then I realized that my leg had a heated coal-like sensation radiating from my butt to my thighs. Massaging the highlighted areas, I laughed like I’d lost my mind. “I can skate,” I shouted.
My uncle ran over, grasping my arm, dragging me to my feet. “Dang, this ice hurts.”
“You think?” He laughed. “You are no baby—right?”
“Sure ain’t,” dusting myself off.
“That’s what I wanted to hear, pretty girl.” He laughed.
“Thank you,” I said smiling.
“Remember, don’t let those words go to your head. It’s true! Rebuke vanity.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Now get to skating.”
Those words of encouragement didn’t stop the limp that came from the famous slide. That happened days before he passed. I am reminded that the things I enjoy most in life never last, but I haven’t forgotten the scripture he shared that gave me strength many times in my life.
Dang, there go the neighbors again. My body shook fiercely. Their robust thirst for loud shouting matches forced its way through the thick plaster through our marbled, yellow-stained ceiling. Quickly the broom made its way into my hands and then the chair. Searching. I found the perfect spot to throw the chair, hopping on top and then thrusting the broom into the spot from where the annoying screams came. Quite a few times I tried to stop their madness, only hearing them argue more as to how much of a jerk face I was. It never fails that their bickers left me dreaming of freedom from this horrid place. Then my fingers tapped the glass again, reminding me of the question at hand. “Who sits at a vanity in their living room and writes ‘I do’?” I yelled, giving off a sound of laughter that even stopped the bickering above me.
It only lasted for a minute, and then they began as though they only took a breather. Then my mind took me to the day I saw this vanity. Its beauty was enough to buy it instead of a desk, obeying my flesh, which talked enough smack that it drowned out all the sanity left in me that day. Its huge exitance takes up too much space, yet I love the glass drawer that’s situated in the middle. Running my fingers across the edges, fondling the curves, brought out the strong feminine side of me. Not just a woman but one who loved being all the things that were grand about being one. My dark slender legs stretched far. Using this space produces potent emotions as I write because I’m using much time, becoming vain. Besides, who has a vanity table and doesn’t wear makeup? It’s dreadful because it makes me want to wear something that has no use for me. Caking on creams, powders, and oils have become appealing to the other side of me and have taken over the one God made me be. The lights illuminated brightly, so I broke every other one to relieve the pain in my eyes. Moved to tears, and the burning sensation made it hard to focus, which became a good excuse never to write. This has happened even after I shattered them. Besides, the imperfections that reflected made me insecure at times when I needed as much security as I could get. Frankly, that was needed every day of my life, but I’ve struggled to feel safe even with the absence of love. It absorbed much of my time in figuring out my distinct faces in response to my writings. Was I happy or sad as my pen stroked the paper? As the words emerged, they formed my desire for the answer I sought most: What makes me happy? What will make me feel good inside again? Finding that even my own words gave no genuine answer, just ideas that strike an emotion that only lasted until the next thought came. My desire for words was increasingly disappearing to the lover of self. I was barely getting anything done. Many days I just want to cast it out onto the street. I know I’ll go fetch it and pray it works the same. Funny how one who does not wear makeup would have such, but I always wanted it, and now I have it.
Then the conversation of madness begins, and productivity really comes to a halt. That’s when the support begins even when I didn’t want it. But she kept me on track, and I d