Random Thoughts of Amy Potts

 “Wiz-z-z-z-z ploop”, was the sound I heard as I neared the water’s edge. A man stood several feet from where I was walking with my dog, casting his fishing line into the water. The water was gently splashing against the rocks moments after a group of rowers passed by in their kayaks and I could hear their faint voices bouncing on the wake as it came rolling in. I wondered, as I watched them, if I will ever get over the fear of deep water. Since I was a little girl, I have had a fear of being in water that is over my head. Because I am only five feet and a couple of inches tall, most water (aside from the bathtub) is over my head. I need to know for certain that at any point, I can put my feet down and feel the ground beneath.   Floating on the water would be relaxing if I could get over the fear that I would simply tip over and drown. I have faith, I really do. But the very human part of me often wrestles with fear. (Adobe Stock Image) T here are many fears that I have overcome i

“I’m going inside now”.  These are the words, as a child, that I said when my parents called me in for dinner or the end of the day bedtime routine.  Sometimes I said these words simply because I was mad at my playmate.  I was tired of being called dumb, ugly or any of the harsh words that are often spoken in child’s play.  I thought that if I went inside, I would not be bothered and would maybe find some reassurance in the shelter of my home.  What I didn’t often plan on was the disturbance of any one of my six brothers.  So if I wanted to go inside and not be bothered, I would go a little farther and head upstairs to “my room”.  I was the only girl and my room was all my own.  It was there that I could think about anything, I could play with dolls and draw pictures.  I think my first drawing was of an egg plant.  I fell in love with this vegetable/fruit because of it’s brilliant color.  The picture I drew was magnificent but misunderstood by my mother because it was on the wal

Kauffman Center view from Broadway Street A typical Sunday morning for me these days is usually spent on the rocky trails in my favorite park. I love to hike and pray and think and dream. Because we can't attend church in person these days, I have been attending "worship service" in nature. I like to stop and stand still to listen to the birds singing and the distant conversations of other hikers carrying on the wind. Is God speaking to me through it all? Sometimes I think so. Other times I think he stands still over it all just to listen. The harmony of the birds with the sound of the wind through the trees must be quite pleasing to the one Kauffman Center view from Wyandotte Street who created it all. This week I decided to do something different. I wanted a different view of life. I packed up my camera and headed into the city; Kansas City. I admire architecture and there is plenty of beautiful pieces of art in our City. I spent the majority of my time

A family of four once lived there.  Mother, father and two children both boys.  Every day for several years the father went to work in the fields by summer, and at the local grain elevator by winter.  He was hard working.  Steel hands, they called him because his hands were so hard and calloused from his work.  When he came home at night he made sure there was always plenty; plenty of wood for the fireplace, plenty of food on the table to eat, plenty of love for his wife and children.  He did his best.  Mom stayed home and cared for the basic needs of the family.  She cooked, mended the torn knees in active little boys trousers, and made sure there was enough time to read stories and always did everything with love. As time went on the boys grew to be men and moved away from the family farm.  They came home often, bringing laughter and laundry for their mom because she had the magic touch.  Eventually their visits became fewer and farther between.  The home that was once f

Several years ago a speaker filled in for our Pastor on Palm Sunday. The first thing he said was, "your Pastor said I didn't have to talk about Palm Sunday but I'm going to anyway". He lifted his hand and glibly stated, "here's my palm, happy Palm Sunday".  He then began his sermon, of which I remember not. I was offended and couldn't really listen after that. I stayed for the entire service because I was part of the worship music team.  The particular denomination I was in at the time didn't formally recognize the season of Lent like some do. For example, there wasn't an emphasis to give a sacrifice during the 40 days leading up to Easter and the Resurrection. You know, like giving up something that you really enjoyed for 40 days. I have always had friends and family that did observe the practice of giving something up during this time. Admittedly, to me it seemed more ritualistic than heartfelt sometimes. But I had a friend who was in reco