My friend Tasra Dawson has just released her book, "Real Women Scrap." It's a creative, fun look at ways to beautify our lives as well as our scrapbooks. Using the craft of scrapbooking as an extended metaphor, she examines issues in our lives like planning, simplicity, symmetry, boundaries, embellishments, journaling, perspective, and mistakes. As the reader gathers practical ideas that help to create beautiful scrapbook pages, she also discovers how these concepts reveal wisdom for living a richer more intentional life.
Tasra is running a contest on her site beginning November 1, 2006.
And good news!
I won't give away MY copy of her book (it's a keeper!) - but I have an EXTRA copy to give away.
If you leave a comment to this post (make sure to include a way I can reach you by email), you'll be entered in the drawing to win that free copy of the book.
Here's your Comment Challenge:
In the mental scrapbook of your life, what is one of your most precious snapshots? Describe it for us!
Hugs,
Sharon Hinck
avid rubber stamper and scrapbooker
author of
THE SECRET LIFE OF BECKY MILLER (Bethany House, 2006)
5 comments:
In the photo, my dad is holding me up by the telephone--the very same telephone where, at the ripe age of about 3, I telephoned heaven and asked Jesus if I could speak with Gramma 'Kara (an elderly neighbor who my mom had told me had gone to heaven to live with Jesus.)
valerierco at yahoo dot ca
These are wonderful memories! Thanks for mentioning the contest Sharon! We already got our first contest submission...can't wait to see the rest!
My favorite mental snapshot is one of my husband and cat napping in a chair, content, happy, with a smile on their faces. Perfect harmony.
Jennie
What vivid snapshots!
Those are frozen moments of time that pack a lot of meaning.
Thanks so much for sharing!
I'll leave time for more people to share, and then let you know when I draw the name for the free book. :-)
Okay, picture this. I'm five, my older sister is seven. We are at my grandma and grandpa's house, in their multi-tiered backyeard in San Diego, actually, and Papa (my grandpa) is working on a massive rock wall that begins near the pool and ends somehere in the canyon below. He offers us a ride in the wheelbarrow to the bottom where he is working. We climb in, he leans over (he's wearing a island straw hat with a fringed edge),grabs the wooden handles and lifts. We wobble on the one wheel and squeal. He grins and takes off. It feels like we will spill over as he sails down the pathway. I know we won't but I scream anyway. I can still hear the sound that one wheel makes as it turns over the cement path. . . I love that memory.
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