An Inherited Case of the Giggles - Rose McCormick Brandon

Terrence, my five year-old grandson, came to spend the night. When it was time for bed, I read a story; that's our ritual. I usually read one of the Berenstain Bears books because that's what he's been liking lately. Instead, I reached for The Adventures of Bobby Coon by Thornton W Burgess. On the first page is an inscription: Jack Brandon, Christmas 1924. My father-in-law who passed away a few years before I married his son Douglas, received the book when he was about the age of our grandson.

Bobby Coon, nesting in a hollow tree for the winter, had a bad dream. The dream turned into a nightmare. A giant was beating Bobby's log with a stick. Bobby rubbed his sleepy eyes. The dreadful pounding continued. The half-awake coon didn't know if he was dreaming or awake. He decided to bite his tail. That would let him know if he was awake or asleep. At this point in the story Terrence began to giggle.

"So Bobby took the tip of his tail in his mouth and bit it gently. Then he
wondered if he really did feel it or just seemed to feel it. So he bit it again,
and this time he bit harder. 'Ouch!' cried Bobby."

Terrence lost control of his giggle. He rolled back and forth on the bed struggling for breath. At this exact moment I discovered an awful truth. Terrence has inherited my gift of visualizing a scene into absurdity. It's a helpful ability when used in writing but one that's also caused me embarrassment. Once when I was fifteen, sitting in a church pew at a youth meeting, the teenage zealous speaker, his face red from exertion, preached to us about our sinful tendency to criticize others.

He cited Jesus' story about the man who tried to remove a speck from another man's eye and couldn't do it because he had a massive beam stuck in his own eye. A vivid picture settled in my brain. A man strode through the small downtown section of our town, a plank protruding from his eye. I saw him linger at the Sears window. Shoppers gazed at him, horrified.

As this movie played out in my mind, I started to giggle. My face turned crimson. I clamped my hand over my mouth and lowered my head below the pew in front of me. Nothing worked. The movie continued. The man in my mind strolled through town oblivious to the two by four in his eye. I laughed through the entire sermon. And the sermon was no laughing matter. My cousin seated beside me giggled too, not because of her own vivid visions but because my giggle set her off.

Now my affliction has been visited upon my poor grandson. He is doomed to visualize scenes that will undo him at the most inappropriate moments - in the middle of a wedding speech, during a Christmas song warbled to a courteous audience by an untalented singer or perhaps at a PTA meeting when a worried parent over-dramatizes an altercation between children.

For now, Terrence and I share an out of control moment thanks to Bobby Coon. I wonder if the writer of these delicious stories possessed a motion picture mind too. I wouldn't be surprised if he did.

A Found Song - Eleanor Shepherd

It seems like a random series of events.  A Norwegian friend recounted a story to comfort me in Montreal in 2009.  She tells of an incident that happened at a camp in Newfoundland in 1983.  This eventually leads to provision of music to a tornado survivor in Alabama in 2011.  God sometimes seems to orchestrate dates and events in strange ways for His purposes.

In 1983, Brynhild Pelley attended a women’s camp in Newfoundland.  The speaker at the event, my mother, had just received the news that nothing could be done to reverse the deterioration in her vision and she would eventually lose her sight.  During the camp, in introducing a song, my mother affirmed the words, though many of the women did not know the challenge she was facing. They sang,

“Pilot of souls, I trust Thy guiding hand;

Take thou the helm, and at thy blest command,

I sail straight on until, the harbour won,

I reach the glory of they sweet well done.

O man of Galilee!”

After living with and seldom complaining about her blindness for thirty years my mother, Elizabeth Pitcher died in 2009. While I was preparing the tribute for her funeral, Brynhild told me the story of this event at the camp.  I included it in my tribute, as I talked of my mother’s deep love for God. 

Shortly after my Mother’s funeral, my turn came do my Word Guild blog for that month, so I posted the tribute to my mother.  With the positive comments I received from that blog, when International Women’s Day came around in March 2010, I reposted the article on my personal blog.  I had no idea this blog would pop up on Google, a year later when Greg Ables in Alabama was looking for words of a song.

In April 2011, a series of tornadoes hit Alabama, causing horrendous destruction and loss of life.  The news even made headlines as far away as Montreal and Toronto, where Canadians prayed for those whose lives were literally torn apart by this disaster.  In Toronto, I was preparing to be interviewed about my book, on 100 Huntley Street on Friday, April 29. Before the show, as we prayed together we remembered those who were hit by these dreadful storms.  I had no idea I would be involved personally with some of them.

Saturday morning, we were back in Montreal and when I opened my computer, there was a note from an unfamiliar name, Greg Ables.  The headline was the title of my book, so I assumed that it was someone who wanted to comment about it. Instead, I discovered Greg lived in Alabama where he and his wife, Paige had been cleaning up after the tornadoes. 

As Greg surveyed the damage in his yard that morning, he came across a scrap of paper. He realized it had come from the home of someone who had not fared as well as he and his family.  On that paper were the words,

“Pilot of souls, I trust

Take thou the helm

command,

I sail straight on until

I reach the glory

done.

The words on this little fragment of paper spoke to Greg and he wanted to find out more about them.  He thought they might be a hymn but he could not find any reference to them in his hymnal.  Greg’s home was still without power, but as soon as electricity was restored, he booted up his computer and searched on the Internet for the words of this hymn.  One of the references that came up was my personal blog, where I had quoted the words in telling the story of my mother.

I still have no idea why the name of my book came up on the subject line.  He wanted to know if I had the music for these words.  He managed to find all the words of the song between my blog, and other places on the web.  I was able to provide not only the music, but also a little of the history of the writers of both the lyrics and the music for the hymn.   

            Robert Hoggard, (1861- 1935) a Salvation Army officer in Australia, wrote the words of the song.  Another Salvation Army officer from England, Edward Henry Joy (1871 – 1949) composed the tune.

My husband, Glen and I are Salvationists and had a copy of the music at home that I could scan and send to Greg.

Greg could not thank me enough for sending him this music.  He told me how much our prayers for the people of Alabama were appreciated.  His words were optimistic, in spite of the situation.  He said,  “There is so much devastation, but I do believe that this tragedy will wind up bringing Alabama together (and that is something that many here have prayed for)”.

I thought the Lord weaved a beautiful tapestry with these seemingly random events.

·      My mother’s sharing at that women’s camp

·      My hearing the story from Brynhild at the time of my mother’s passing,

·      My posting the words on my blog to celebrate International Women’s Day,

·      The scrap of paper from a Salvation Army songbook landing in Greg’s yard during the tornado,

·      The fragment of paper coming to his attention in all the debris,

·      The electricity coming on so he could search the Internet,

·      The search engine taking him to my blog

Here is the fragment.

·      My having the music available in my home when Greg asked for it,

In the Master Artisan’s hands the finished product brought hope and encouragement to our new friends in Alabama, Greg and Paige Ables.  They had been going through their own personal challenges before the tornadoes hit.  However, when they became aware of what others had suffered, their trials took on a new perspective. The fragment of song they learned to sing and teach others has given them new hope. 

In the e-mail he wrote to thank me for the music, Greg attached a scan of the partial hymn he found in the yard and thanked me for helping them make it whole.  Then he said, “Paige and I will do what He calls us to do - although that is still unclear at this point. But, for now, we will learn (and teach) a new song!”

            God showed His compassion once again in giving a song in the midst of disaster.  

Winner of 2011 Word Guild Award

 

 in 

Christian Leadership

Story Winner of 2009 Word Guil

d Award of Merit

Roses an’ Chocs, Leaky Faucets an’ Dirty Socks -- Black

Roses, chocolates, cupid cards and romantic candlelight dinners... Aahh, a woman’s dream; something every woman wants, right? No, not really.

Chocolates? If none come my wife’s way at Christmas, we’ll buy some in the post-season sales, and she’ll be happy for the bargain.

A nice, but not too fancy restaurant or expensive dinner? That’s OK too, but it doesn’t have to be on Valentine's Day.

Roses? Well, they wilt so quick that she’d rather I didn’t spend money on them. We usually shop together and pick up some annuals or perennials at the garden centre in the spring, for a fraction of the cost.

My Beloved—ever pragmatic—welcomes a little touch of romance, but slavish extravagance, she doesn't. I’m grateful for my “low-maintenance” girl! However, I don’t get off the hook, altogether; she does have expectations!

Have you ever heard or expressed something like the following (it reflects the sort of things that matter to my spouse)?:

"There's so much happening all at once ... I'm completely overloaded with so much to do that I hardly know where to begin!" The statement may be intoned with frustration or a sigh. (One learns to tell the difference.)

Shortly before my retirement, my wife, looking weary and sounding peeved, took a deep breath and said, "Look, we've only got a few weeks left before we move, and we've got so much to do between now and then. Peter, you just have to take the time to help me get it done!"

Her frustration over my slowness to reduce the size of my library and an abundance of tools before our move into a downsized home, showed. But even her frustration was overridden by a momentary sense of helplessness—a sinking feeling of being overwhelmed and falling behind, expressed in a sigh. Ah yes, a woman’s voice, along with her actions, can tell us men so much about what matters to her.

Wise are the husbands and fathers who learn to hear and heed the voices of the womenfolk in their lives. The female voice can convey more than words alone; its intonation can reveal the feelings of the heart.

I still have to work at honouring my Beloved through applying thoughtful sensitivity; that means much more to her than sentimentality. After 45 years of marriage, I’m still not there. My capacity for active listening has improved in some respects, but is developing way too slow!

Truth is, my brain-box behaves like a bird hopping around on a hot tin roof, these days, and I have to try harder than ever to focus on what my Beloved (or anyone) is telling me. I really do need to pick up on the voiced request or mild sigh—long before the emotional dynamic leads to extreme frustration.

My wife doesn’t ask for much, but she does want me to listen attentively—to hear her heart and be aware of how she feels about what she says and requests, and to act accordingly. This is expected of men who follow Christ (1 Peter 3:7 abbrev.): "Husbands ... be considerate as you live with your wives, and treat them with respect ... so that nothing will hinder your prayers."

Fellas, just think: Some of our significant other’s requests may seem ever so insignificant to a man, but may mean a great deal to her. What do expensive dark chocolates, crimson roses, cards and candlelight dinners mean to the woman whose guy won’t pick up his dirty socks, or fix the leaky faucet (or sort out those boxes of books and tools!), eh?

~~+~~


This piece is an adaptation and expansion of my guest post to the blog, “A Woman’s Voice,” under a series “A Man’s Voice,” June 20, 2010.

Peter A. Black writes a weekly inspirational column for the Southwestern Ontario newspaper, The Watford Guide-Advocate, and is the author of "Parables from the Pond" (a Word Alive Press finalist, 2007)-- a book finding a readership from school children to senior citizens.

Fruit of the Spirit: Kindness - Lawrence

The fruit of the Spirit as named by St. Paul in his letter to the Galatians are: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. I have been looking at each one in turn and, this month, I will meditate on the spiritual fruit of kindness.

…be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ has forgiven you. Ephesians 4:32

What is kindness? I think of kindness as a leap of the heart towards another person. Kindness can be manifested in a pleasant word or action; perhaps a gesture of love, like a smile or a small offering to another person.

Kindness is something that lifts the heart of the one who receives it by its thoughtfulness. It is, indeed, tender-hearted on the part of the giver of the kindness and causes the one who receives it a feeling of tender-heartedness also.

Kindnesses are usually small but are remembered for many years by the recipient. Gestures of kindness may be so minute that the one who performs them may not have any recollection of them.

The spiritual fruit of kindness is small but beautiful. It is like the non-cultivated variety of nature’s fruit—the wild strawberry, raspberry, blackberry and blueberry—growing quietly under the plant’s leaves, small in size and sweet to the taste.

Kindness does not overwhelm the recipient; kindness is unassuming; kindness is simple in its manifestation and expects no thanks. Kindness is like a ray of sunshine that pierces the clouds on an overcast day, giving light and warmth to all who see it.

© Judith Lawrence

This meditation was first published in June 2008 on the meditation page of my website: www.judithlawrence.ca/monthly.php

Highway of Holiness: Soul Journey

Highway of Holiness: Soul Journey may be purchased at my website: www.judithlawrence.ca

The Work of Christmas has Begun/MANN

It’s the end of January. I took my Christmas tree down yesterday and put away all the visible evidence that Christmas even happened at our house. However, in Jim Strathdee’s song, “I am the Light of the World”, he claims:

“When the song of the angels is stilled, when the star in the sky is gone, when the kings and the shepherds have found their way home, the work of Christmas is begun."

How then do I work, or facilitate someone else, to carry out the work of Christmas?

Looking at my list of errands on Monday morning, I realize that opportunity is within reach. Over Christmas, our church had collected homemade mittens, scarves and socks for kids who have to leave in the night, and head for a shelter with their mother. Every time I ring the bell on these doors, I think of these words:

"For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me" (Matthew 25:34).

Also on my list is a visit to our local school to take two bags of healthy snacks—gifts from our church’s outreach. A child, perhaps not hungry in the early hours of the morning, will enjoy a snack later in the day.

As a recipient of someone giving me information about a person with whom I’d lost contact, I’m able to visit an 85 year-old-woman in a local extended-care facility to renew a friendship. And later in the week, I’m given the free time to take an old friend a scarf I’d knit.

I’m aware that not all situations are geographically close enough to personally continue the work of Christmas: a woman from a nearby community is being held by Mexican officials; a family grieves the eminent death of a daughter, mother and sister; a grandchild is lost on city streets. The list is endless, and for some I can only pray.

The cruise ship tragedy is a story that I’ve been following. When I read the words, ‘As shaken survivors speak of a “mad rush” to evacuate the ship, and criticize the crew’s preparedness and slapdash emergency procedures . . . (Internet news account), I am left trying to imagine the feeling of overwhelming panic and crushing fear that must have consumed the passengers: children, women and men alike. Perhaps my only way of continuing the work of Christmas here is to shy from judgement, wait for justice and pray.

In all of the situations mentioned above, perhaps our greatest challenge is remembering Jesus’ words of relationship in appreciating women who learn to be strong in their personal situation, men who work to fulfill their individual responsibility and children who grow up watching them both.

Language of Letting Go-- Carolyn Wilker

Our Toastmasters meeting theme the day I write this post is Letting Go and the Language of Letting Go. There’s multiple meanings to that phrase "letting go", whether it’s allowing children to grow up and live their own lives, someone in our circle of friends who has moved away who seems to have broken ties, or a loved one who has died and for whom we must say goodbye.

I once read a poem comparing children to kites. The kite flyer, the parent, lets out a little string at a time, such as the day a child goes to school for the first time. The kite, being the child, may fail to rise, get caught in a tree, or rip and tear in the process. A child learns what worked or didn’t work and, with guidance from a loving parent, is willing to try again, until the day when the kite rises and flies freely, that is, a child leaves home.

As each child leaves, the home feels a little emptier, and parents hope that they have taught the necessary skills. I remember having to refocus when our last child was about to leave home. I wrote a poem entitled, Letting Go (pub. 2007, Tower Poetry).

Letting go

you implore

with tear-filled eyes that mirror my own

that I neglect my preparation

for the day of release

when the kite flies free

the mist clears and I see again

the young woman before me

be brave my heart!

you will fly as you were meant to

free and strong

and by letting go

I will have all that matters:

your love

There are exceptions to that rule, such as the child who needs support for a longer time, maybe indefinitely. I also think of a young woman who lives in a group home for intellectually challenged adults. She works at tasks in the community that are appropriate to her challenges. She has been involved in Special Olympics, with her parents’ blessing and support, even before leaving home. She has won many medals in those events and is about to go off to Nationals to compete in a winter sport. Hard as it was to let her go, her parents allowed her to move on. She shines.

On the second aspect, I think of a friend who moved away and after a short interval of communication, even a trip to visit her there, has made no attempt to stay in touch. I admit that this one has been hard, one that I’m still not over. She was one who encouraged me to write, brought me the first brochure for God Uses Ink conference that I attended in 2001.

Thirdly, letting go of a loved one who has died, but not forgetting. I miss those who have been dear to me and who have invested in my life: an aunt, special uncle, a friend, a neighbour, or a grandmother. I have not lost a child, a different heart-wrenching grief that I have witnessed among friends and family. We hurt deep on our losses, like flesh cut from flesh. We feel the comforting arms of friends, the kindness of friends and neighbours. We’ve let the person go, because that life would no longer be a healthy life. We commend that person to God and try to go on. In time, we begin to live again, exchange memories and even to laugh again.

It will be interesting to hear the responses to this theme. I, for one, have learned who my real friends are, the ones who are there to comfort me when I need it most, who understands how it feels to have a child leave the nest, or someone has moved away and dropped connections, or my grief when I have lost one I loved.

What does “letting go” mean for you today?

Author of Once Upon a Sandbox.

www.carolynwilker.ca

Upcoming events:

Storyteller at Steckle Heritage Homestead Farm, 811 Bleams Road, Kitchener, ON, Winter Fun Day, 11-12am

Book signing, March 10 at Waterloo Chapters store, Waterloo ON, 1-3pm

Wasn't That a Party? by Glynis M. Belec

My brain dances all over the place some days. Today I attended an interview regarding three of my students who are scheduled for a psych assessment. As I sat in the office with two psychologists and the parents of my students, discussing various reasons for the assessments and sharing information, I realized something.

If it wasn't for the first party requiring the services of a second party (although that first party is already receiving services from a third party) then that second party would not have a purpose or be able to use her gifts and then the first party would be without direction and then the third party, who passionately wants to help that first party, would have also been without purpose and likely would not have had sufficient fodder for life and therefore would have nothing to write about.
(Phew! That's what happens when I sit with psychologists for a significant length of time)

Loosely translated, God has gifted us all in various and wonderful ways and He expects us to use these gifts but He also puts 'all things' in place and just at the precise time, he works it all for good. I know God has called me to write. My bones long to do so full time; my heart yearns to sit long hours at my computer and simply string together the trillion words that seem to be stored somewhere deep in my soul.

But then I remember all of my remarkable students.  I also realize the incredible privilege I have had over the years to work with every one of these uniquely created souls under the guise of helping them to hone their numeracy and literacy skills. I remember two special lads were 'labelled' borderline 'mentally handicapped' when they were six years old.  Now I grin with pride as I see these (twin) boys - presently in high school - rhyming off their multiplication tables better than any of my other students and jumping to the head of the class in parts of their modified program in areas like spelling and reading. I share their joy. And all these years later, I still get to work with them. There are so many similar stories that I would not have missed for the world! God has me where He wants me.

There seems so many interruptions (caring for my aging father, teaching my students, looking after my home, charity work, church work, health concerns...) but when I stop and consider my life, I inhale and remind myself that my timing is not God's timing and those interruptions are part of God's plan.

Trust in the Lord, and do good;

dwell in the land and befriend faithfulness.
Delight yourself in the Lord,
and he will give you the desires of your heart. Psalm37:4

I admit that I fuss and flutter thinking that if I don't soon get writing, I am going to be too old to write anything of any value. I hear of other writers who have oodles of time to write and speak and create so I ride the envy/pity train for a while until God pulls the chord and reminds me to focus on the haves not the have nots!

 

Then I give thanks and grin from ear to ear as I consider how thick and wide and deep my idea files are getting!


For the vision is yet for an appointed time and it hastens to the end [fulfillment]; it will not deceive or disappoint. Though it tarry, wait [earnestly] for it, because it will surely come; it will not be behindhand on its appointed day. Habakkuk 2:3