My Deal with God

My Deal with God

Journal Entry February 2015: Lord, I surrender to your will. If it is your will that I never write again, let me accept it and move forward, never looking back.

Those who follow me on Facebook know that I write down my prayers. I do so as a way of reminding myself when I am low (like now) that God is always at work in my life. Y’all also know that I’m honest. So today I must share that I kinda want this prayer back.

In 2015, my husband and I were planning to put the house on the market. We had an atypical Atlanta house, not a “white columns” type of abode. No pool. No HOA. No lawn boy. I knew selling the house would require divine intervention. I also knew my husband needed a change, but most of all, I knew that I had put writing in front of many things in my life.

On this particular date, I poured out my worries as we should. But now, over two years later, with the house sold I want my prayer back. I want to write again. (and no, blogging isn’t writing).

I have- for years- been working on an incredible novel set in my hometown of Bryson City, but now that I am almost finished with it, the words will not come. And if you read my previous blog about the conference I attended, I’m pretty sure that God doesn’t’ want me writing anytime soon.

So now I must ask, what DOES God want me to do?

That questions also comes with its own problems, for God really hasn’t commanded us to “do” a whole lot of hard things: Love One Another, Feed My Sheep, Give Thanks to the Lord for He is good.

Goodness gracious, those are easy things, aren’t they?

They why do we (meaning me) struggle so?

Why do I struggle with feelings of inadequacy, hopelessness, fear, anger, despair?

Why did I pray that prayer with all sincerity, but now want it back because I think I know what’s best for me? Which begs another questions, do I really want God’s will in my life, or do I just want my way? Did I really surrender to His will . . . or only if His will aligns with my wants.

These are the hard questions I ponder as God deals with me.

Renea Winchester is the award-winning author of In the Garden with Billy, and, Farming Friends and Fried Bologna Sandwiches by Mercer University Press. She is currently working on her novel, Outbound Train, set in her hometown of Bryson City.


Tags: , , ,

Farm to Table Flatbread: Healthy Pizza

Farm to Table Flatbread: Healthy Pizza

Note: This is NOT a Gluten Free recipe, but the amount of gluten is dramatically decreased and still produces a delicious crust. Recipe Makes Two Flatbread Crusts


(1) cup Gluten Free Flour (I only use King Arthur)

(1 ½) cup Bread Flour (that has gluten)

(1)  Egg

(1) package of yeast

(1 1/4) cup hot water 120 degrees

(1)  teaspoon garlic salt

(1)  teaspoon rosemary (or, 1 teaspoon Italian Seasoning)

(2) Olive Oil, plus an extra tablespoon added to edges of dough before baking

(1) small bunch of fresh basil

(4) small tomatoes sliced

(1) green pepper, sliced

(1) small onion sliced


Your choice of Cheese

The Process:  Note: Use Dough Hook When Mixing

Pour gluten free flour into bowl, add bread flower, and yeast. Turn mixer on and mix to incorporate dry yeast into flour. Slowly add egg, oil, and water. Add garlic salt and dried rosemary. If dough is too sticky add more flour one tablespoon at a time until dough forms a ball.20170805_120844

Remove hook from mixer and set dough aside to rise until double in size. Approximately 45 minutes.

While dough is rising: Slice vegetables. When using fresh vegetables remember to place them on a kitchen towel after slicing. This removes excess moisture and will prevent a soggy flatbread.I always precook the onions a bit in the microwave which removes the moisture, but they still need towel-time to remove excess moisture.

Shaping the Crust:

First, preheat the oven to 400.

Punch down the dough and cut it into two sections. Refrigerate one section and shape the other into the desired shape for your pan. I used a rectangle cookie sheet.

Press tomato slices into the dough. One might think this makes the flatbread sticky, but it doesn’t. Snip fresh basil with scissors, then add onions, green peppers, peperoni and any other topping you desire.

Brush olive oil around crust edges. If you want an extra brown crust, melt 1 tablespoon of butter and add a pinch of garlic salt, then brush around edges.

Bake 10-20 minutes depending on oven performance and the consistency of crust you desire.20170806_113325

A word about Basil: Because basil tends to darken when cooked. Placing it close to the dough may prevent discoloration, or, you can wait until the flatbread has cooked and garnish with basil (and extra cheese).

Renea is an award-winning author, blogger, and Georgia Writers Group Board Member . She has belonged to a phenomenal critique group for over a decade and both of her books, Farming, Friends & Fried Bologna Sandwiches and In the Garden with Billy received  SIBA nominations. She is a passionate friend of SIBA and local independent booksellers throughout the South. Renea is vested in the writing community of North Carolina and Georgia and has judged multiple writing competitions. She lives on a farm with two goats names Frosty and Oreo. Contact her here.



Tags: ,

Finding Tomato Treasures at JW Mitchell Farms

Readers of my blog know that I am a strong supporter of local farmers, which is why I introduce you to JW Mitchell Farms located at 405 Bradley Creek Road in Franklin NC. For my Atlanta friends, this farm is three minutes off the beaten path. Trust me when I tell you the trip is worth three minutes of your time, because currently Mr. Mitchell (whom you will personally meet upon your arrival) is have a big ole tomato sale.

Yes my friends, “tow-maders? are on sale at JW Mitchell Farms.

Now for those who love salsa let me share a little secret. You can get an entire BOX of tomatoes for eight dollars! Toss in a few onions and bell peppers (also available at the farm) and you’ll have enough veggies to can an entire run of homemade salsa.

How much is in a “run?”20170725_201135

As my granny would say, Depends on how much you eat-up during the making. As for me, this recipe usually makes 7 pints. However, if you purchase an $ 8.00 box of tomatoes at JW Mitchells you’ll be able to can – at least 14 pints for $ 8.00.


10 Cups cored, chopped and peeled tomatoes.

TIP: Place tomatoes in hot water for 45 seconds to loosen skin and make tomatoes easy to peel.

4 Large Bell Peppers (discard seeds)

6 to 8 medium—sized onions

1 ½ cup Apple Cider Vinegar

3 Cloves garlic finely chopped

2 Tablespoon chopped cilantro

1 Tablespoon salt (more if necessary. . . to taste)

1 tsp hot pepper sauce (optional).

Ball Jars (I use pint jars)

Note: You will need to water bath jars to seal. Instructions follow.


Place chopped onions and garlic in a pot. Add vinegar. Bring to a boil.

Add chopped green peppers and cook them for one minute. *Vinegar is added to incorporate acidity. Because peppers are a low-acid vegetable, the additional acidity is required for safe processing. This will not affect salsa flavor.

Add tomatoes, cilantro and hot pepper sauce.

Bring Mixture to a boil.

Packing and Processing Jars

In separate pot, heat water that will be used for a water bath.

Taste the salsa first to make sure you don’t need extra salt. If so add in small quantities.

Ladle salsa into jars. Add lids and rings.

Place jars into hot water and cover with ¼ inch of water. Process them at a boil for 15 minutes.

Remove from heat.

Refrigerate any jars that don’t seal and enjoy.


Renea is an award-winning author, blogger, and Georgia Writers Group Board Member and the author of three books. She has belonged to a phenomenal critique group for over a decade and both of her books, Farming, Friends & Fried Bologna Sandwiches and In the Garden with Billy received a SIBA nomination. She is a passionate friend of SIBA and local independent booksellers throughout the South. Renea is vested in the writing community of North Carolina and Georgia and has judged multiple writing competitions. Every client she has accepted has enjoyed the pleasure of publication either traditionally, or via self-publication. Contact her here.





Lost Things

Lost Things

I lost something. Something I dearly needed. . . my keys. Specifically, my room keys with my car keys attached.

I was key-less and 90 miles from home.

On an ordinary day I would classify these items as misplaced, something found later after a diligent search; but on Saturday they were lost.

The instructor gave an out-door classroom assignment. Since the workshop was held on a college campus, and because I wanted to collect as many experiences as possible, I wedged my car keys (key fob inside pocket) with the metal room key sticking out.

Then I was off.

Outside with pen and notebook in hand, tasked with collecting, observing —and then analyzing said observations into a story.

My novel in progress features a train and since I want to write accurately about my character’s experiences, I lit out, walking at a rapid clip.

Walking while writing.

Writing while walking.

Thinking. Listening. Observing. Writing.

I wove through the campus, through the woods, off the designated concrete path. 20170715_110450

Off the designated concrete path, I found a tree house that no one else knew about. Later, I found the tracks. I touched the tracks, laid down on the tracks, collected nails and bolts from alongside the tracks.

Then I returned, carrying said bolts and nails back to class, (mercy, they are heavy). I placed them on the table with a need to wash the rust from my hands. I reached into my pocket.

No keys.

The keys were lost.

Not missing. . . lost.

Creative minds will understand me when I say that I literally felt every drop of creativity leave my body. It slipped down my arms, cascaded from my fingertips.

Dashing to the restroom, I washed my dirty hands then whispered to the coordinator, “I lost my room key. No, not the swipe card.” I double checked my name badge where the exterior door swipe card safely remained tucked inside.  “Just the door keys.”

She called facilities and ordered a spare key.

Returning to the classroom, I wrote my observations, penned them into a story I would not share with the class. Creativity tends to take Confidence with it when it leaves. From that moment forward I focused on lost keys, especially after a pop-up storm dropped an inch of rain.

Sunday morning came, bringing with it the realization the keys were gone. I arose early, lit out again retracing my steps through the grass and gravel for the umpteenth time. With my aging car, I’d need a new key fob which would required an (expensive) call to a dealer.

Whatever, I thought, feeling lower than a whale’s belly. What-ever.

Then I began to pray.

Lord, I’m not going to pray for my keys because I know they’re gone.

I’m not going to ask you to return them, because I’ve already done my due diligence, retracing my steps, walking, looking, laying sideways in the gravel looking for something shiny. The keys are gone and I know that. So I’m moving on.

The catering van drove by, almost breakfast time. The driver smiled. I waived and continued praying, aloud.

Lord, thank you for everyone I’ve met here this weekend.

Thank you for the talented women at my table. I praise you that the agent is interested in Erika’s work and that Whitney might consider finding a place for her short story. Bless them both Lord. Bless our presenters, Jim, Bryn, Gary, Megan for their vulnerability and displays of raw emotion. Bless Christopher. Thank you for his honesty and that all the instructors were approachable and kind.

My walk, and prayers continued: Lord, bless Meg, Kate and Betsy who have labored in the sweltering heat to bring us a fantastic conference. May they be restored after the conference.

I made the loop, from beginning to end, praying out loud, walking, talking, and looking down at the grass, and the gravel, should the soggy keys magically appear.

They did not. I returned to the common area to the breakfast buffet. I placed items on the plate and settled in for another round of workshops.

Taking a seat, I began eating when Meg raised her hand and said, Renea, are these your keys?

From Meg’s beautiful hand dangled my room and car keys.

Of course they are my keys, I responded. I was just praying. I took the keys. “I’m curious, how did you get them?

“Someone found them lying in the concrete walkway,” she replied.


Renea Winchester is the award-winning author of In the Garden with Billy, and, Farming Friends and Fried Bologna Sandwiches by Mercer University Press. She is currently working on her novel, Outbound Train,  set in her hometown of Bryson City


Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

What Did Jesus Do ? (to deserve your denial)

This week a person dearest to me publicly denied Jesus. To say that I’m heartbroken is an understatement, but this post isn’t about me.

After two hours in the closet crying, the only words I could pray were: Lord, help.

These two words were not uttered in a flippant manner; these two words – Lord, help –were the utterance of a broken hearted woman. I’m broken because I know that without Jesus my life would be in shambles.

Without Jesus my life isn’t worth living. denyingjesus

I know that without the Grace and Mercy of Jesus, my mother would have died months after her initial cancer diagnoses, as would her sister-Della- who was given 6 weeks to live, but triumphed for eleven.

I know Jesus works in the lives of those who trust Him. He answers the prayers I pray for you. He answers the prayers you pray for me. He stopped the fire in Gatlinburg that lapped against the door of my father-in-law’s house. Jesus knows our name and He wants the best for us, always.

Jesus answers our prayers even when the answer isn’t exactly what we wished (or demanded).

There were moments in the crying closet where my face touched the carpet fibers, my lungs gasped for breath, and my heart hurt so badly I thought I’d vomit. In my despair, I reached out to Neisha, one of the strongest prayer warriors I know, whose wisdom provided comfort, but still pain stole my breath. Three days later, I weep while typing this because the word of God is clear . . . whoever shall deny me before men, I will deny him before my father which is in heaven. Matthew 10: 33-35.

Jesus, with all of his grace and mercy, will deny those who deny Him.

We don’t teach that particular truth these days, that Jesus will deny every person who denies Him.  We have led people to believe that denying Jesus is a trivial matter.

Still in the crying closet, the question came to me, Why?

Why do people hate Jesus so much?

What did Jesus ever do to generate such hate?

Why do we trust complete strangers with our lives, yet deny Jesus and his love for us?

When did Jesus ever do something so bad to you that you decided to deny His existence?

Remember if you can, the moment you denied Jesus. Was it because Jesus did something to you . . . or were you hurt and offended by an imperfect human who represented Jesus so badly that you swore you didn’t want to be like Him, nor did you want to follow his teachings or be one of “those” Christians. So you were done . . . finished.

Because if you hate Jesus based on what an imperfect human did to you, then I need to tell you a secret.

This world is full of people who will lie to you and hurt you; Jesus isn’t one of them. The Jesus I know, loves me.

The Jesus I know, loves you.

The Jesus I know has a broken heart when you deny his existence.

The Jesus I know is lonely for you.

The Jesus I know stands at the door of your heart and knocks.

Jesus is waiting for you to allow Him to love you. You are in charge. Jesus won’t barge into your life unexpected or uninvited. He only lives inside the heart of someone who wants Him there.

Jesus won’t break your heart, I promise.

You can open the door of your heart. You can trust Jesus . . . I promise.



Dear Mothers, I Feel Your Pain

Dear Mothers, I Feel Your Pain

Dear Ones,

I feel your pain. . .

your dread,

the heaviness in your heart as Sunday approaches.

I weep with you,

for your brokenness,

your longing, for the call that will not come.

I weep for your emptiness.

We are good mothers,

Yes. We. Are.

Though our children are gone. We are still good mothers.

We gave . . .  too much at times.

We loved . . .  too deeply at times, and society doesn’t allow us to express our pain on Mother’s Day.

Our pain is real.

Tell me, Dear One. Tell me of your brokenness.

Fall upon me.

I promise you, you will not shock me with your words. Let me catch you as you crumble.

Let us fall upon each other in a pile of pain, because somehow, someway we must heal each other.

I see you weeping, alone in the closet, in the shower, in the garden.

I see it because I cry with you.

We are broken.

We are irreparably broken.

The children we love are gone.

Some taken suddenly by death.

Some taken slowly by disease.

Some gone from us because of drugs.

Some separated from us because we couldn’t give any more, because we said, “No.

Some are silent because they are “so busy.”

We have given everything . . . everything we had.

We taught them right from wrong.

We sang Jesus Loves Me to our Littles.

We did without . . . without food, so we could afford new shoes, a new prom dress.

We drove rattletrap cars, while our children drove better.

Some of us stayed in unfulfilling or abusive relationships for the sake of our children.

Some worked horrible jobs so our children could go to college.

We are empty from this giving.

Our bones are dry from weeping and giving.

I feel your pain my Dear Ones.

We feel alone now with our own Mothers are gone.

We are orphaned.


Silently crying as we drive to the grocery store and walk by the box of Fruit Loops we once fussed about when our children scattered them on the floor.

We long for messy floors with Fruit Loops that crunch loudly when we walk upon them.

We want to talk to our own Mother’s again . . . just once.

We doubt.

Our past decisions,

our current choices,

our role in society now that our children are gone.

We only know pain, and a longing for our children. We endure a deep searing pain that we have pushed into the deepest chamber of our heart.

We have run from this pain, afraid it would consume us, because pain will if we allow it.

We have suppressed our feelings, refusing to talk, silently whispering everything will be ok, saying this to ourselves just as we whispered it to our children years ago.

But everything isn’t ok.

Sunday will come and go without a hug, without a call, without the very thing we need, our children’s love.

Dear Ones, it is love I give to you today.

You are worthy of love.

I have wanted to comfort you all week, because my heart has been so heavy. Heavy with this brokenness, this dread. On Sunday, we will separate ourselves from social media for we dare not glance at the images of other mother’s with their children, smiling happily.

We deserve the same happiness.

We had it for a moment, a dewy bliss when we first brought our children to our breast and held them tight.

We promised them the moon.

We told them the moon was within their reach.

Some launched from the nest, pointed toward the moon and haven’t looked back. They have forgotten their mother, the same woman who urged them to be free-thinkers and independent human beings.

Our children have forgotten us.

And we as women have forgotten each other.

We have failed each other.

And so today, as we near Mother’s Day, my heart reaches out to you in love and friendship.

Happy Mother’s Day, with love.


Renea is an award-winning author, blogger, and Georgia Writers Group Board Member and the author of three books. She has belonged to a phenomenal critique group for over a decade. She is a passionate friend of SIBA and local independent booksellers throughout the South. Renea is vested in the writing community of North Carolina and Georgia and has judged multiple writing competitions. Every client she has accepted has enjoyed the pleasure of publication either traditionally, or via self-publication. Contact her here.

Leave a comment

Posted by on May 12, 2017 in Uncategorized



An open letter to The Bullies

I am not afraid.bully2

I am not afraid of you.

I am not afraid of your words.

I am not afraid of your threats.

I am not cowering. Instead, I laugh at the bully card you are playing.

Hear me well.

I LAUGH at your attempts to force me to do your bidding.

You, who took something that was not yours.

You, who have pushed, and pushed, believing me to be a weak – ignorant southerner.

This southerner has drawn the line.

Your words have no power over me.

You have not considered the consequence of the threat you have made.

I stand to lose nothing.

Here me well.

You have chosen the wrong victim.

The word “Victim” is not in my vocabulary; but Jesus is.

His word reads, “I have given you authority to overcome ALL the power of the enemy. Nothing can harm you. (Luke 10:18)

Mr. Bully, read those words.

Read them again.

Nothing can harm me.


You have no power over me.


I can walk away.

Hear me well. Listen to this little Southerner gal, because she is not stuttering.

I  WILL walk away.

Your power will disintegrate in the dust my footsteps leave behind.

bullyThen what have your threats accomplished?

Not the desired result, of that I promise.

In closing, let me end with two words you understand.

Bring it.


Posted by on February 27, 2017 in Uncategorized