A Blast of Awe by Rose McCormick Brandon

God pulled back Heaven’s curtain for Daniel. What he saw turned his face pale and drained his strength. He gasped in amazement as the Ancient of Days sat on His throne. Daniel is the only Bible writer to use this name for Jesus. He uses it three times. The number three shows completeness, as in the Trinity.

As I looked, thrones were set in place, and the Ancient of Days took his seat. His clothing was as white as snow; the hair of his head was white like wool. His throne was flaming with fire and its wheels were all ablaze. A river of fire was flowing, coming out from before him. Thousands upon thousands attended him; ten thousand times ten thousand stood before him. The court was seated and the books were opened. Daniel 7:9,10

Writing of Christ’s birth, the prophet Micah describes Him as one “whose coming forth is of old, of ancient days” (Micah 5:2). Hundreds of years before Christ’s birth in Bethlehem, Daniel saw Him, not as a babe, but as One who is timeless, without beginning or end, One who has seen ancient times and lives eternally in the past, present and future.

Humanity creaks with age, stiffens with years and wrinkles from sun exposure. Jesus is ageless, undying, changeless, the same yesterday and forever (Heb. 13:8).

A blast of awe struck Daniel when he saw the Ancient of Days. The only appropriate response was to worship. Worship the One who takes the fear out of death, the Holy Ancient One, who was, and is, and is to come (Rev. 1:8).

O worship the King, all glorious above

And gratefully sing of His wonderful love.

Our shield and defender

the Ancient of Days,

Pavilioned in splendor and girded with praise.

Robert Grant

Ancient of Days, we are awed to the core when we think that we, like Daniel, will meet you face-to-face in your heavenly kingdom. 

* * * 

Rose McCormick Brandon lives in Caledonia, Ontario with husband Doug. An award-winning personal experience and inspirational writer, Rose contributes to denominational publications and devotionals. She writes and teaches Bible Studies, authors biblical essays and is the author of the Canadian history book, Promises of Home – Stories of Canada’s British Home Children. Her book, One Good Word Makes all the Difference, contains stories of her personal journey from prodigal to passionate follower of Jesus. She is the mother of three adult children and grandmother of four.

The Promise of His Presence by Rose McCormick Brandon

I will never [under any circumstances] desert you [nor give you up nor leave you without support, nor will I in any degree leave you helpless], nor will I forsake or let you down or relax My hold on you [assuredly not]!” Hebrews 13:5(b) AMP

My roommate from college never married. She moved west, away from me, years ago, which meant I didn’t see her for almost three decades. We shared phone calls and emails, talked about my children and her siblings. One day she called to say she’d been diagnosed with Parkinson’s. The disease ate at her life quickly, forcing her into retirement and isolating her. Frequent trips to the hospital, dependence on others for groceries and medications stole her freedom. A frantic worry about the future tinged the edges of her voice. I heard, “What will become of me?” between the lines of our conversations.

Months passed. She talked about her parents and happy childhood memories. About the Bible and how she still enjoyed in-depth study. Instead of anxious worries thoughts of heaven crept into our talks. One day through tears she quoted a stanza of a hymn:

Just think of stepping on shore and finding it Heaven.

Of touching a hand and finding it God’s.

Of breathing new air and finding it celestial.

Of waking up in glory and finding it home. ⁽¹⁾

At the end of this conversation she said, “I want you to know that in spite of my sufferings I always feel the presence of God.”

I always feel the presence of God. Those words calmed my concern for her. In my mind she had one foot in a nursing home and the other in a grave. But God was there in her apartment, sitting on the sofa beside her, reading and praying, sharing her suffering.

Not many months later she stepped into Heaven and found herself breathing celestial air in God’s forever.

“For the Lord your God will personally go ahead of you. He will neither fail nor abandon you (Deut. 31:6).” You can count on Him to be there in your tomorrow. That’s a promise. 

(1)     Finally Home by Don Wyrtzen

***

Rose McCormick Brandon writes books, articles, biographies and Bible lessons from her home in Caledonia, Ontario. She's married to Doug, has three adult children and three grandchildren. Rose is the author of One Good Word Makes all the Difference, Promises of Home - Stories of Canada's British Home Children, Vanished, He Loves Me Not He Loves Me. She presently knee-deep in writing a daily devotional book. 

"Silver-Haloed Clouds and a Golden Orb" by Peter A. Black

Publ Domain Photography

The air was cool and the sun bright, although beginning its descent of early evening, during my drive home one day. And the sky, reaching ahead of me towards the horizon in the West, displayed a colourful array of cloud clusters, from deep purplish black to grey, to violet, pink and blue. Many of them were bathed in striking, shimmering silver haloes. 

It was a sight that seemed just right for the crispness of the now cooler weather of fall. And yet, within twenty minutes, before the sun settled below the silhouetted landscape, it had taken on the appearance and visual warmth of a huge golden orb, characteristic of gorgeous Canadian sunsets. 

GoogleFree Italian Holiday

Had the sun really changed its colour? No. Had the clouds changed substance appreciably? Probably not. However, the position of the earth and the clouds had changed in relation to the sun. In practical terms, the earth did the moving, as it does in its daily revolutions and annually in its circuit around the sun, and so, things appeared different. This, of course, makes for the contrast between night and day.

Is that not how it sometimes is between us and THE Sun (God’s Son) of Righteousness?  Sometimes God and Christ may seem cold and distant to us, while at other times we view matters of faith more warmly, sensing that God is closer and Jesus is with us, and that life has a golden touch. 

In our seasons of life, as well as from day to day, may we be kept by the grace of God in proper relation to our Lord and recognize the silver lining of His mercy, when the cool of life’s evening begins to draw near.

On my journey towards home that day I was careful to keep my eyes on the road ahead, even while viewing the glories of the sky above. May we keep our spiritual eyes on Jesus who is the Way – that is, our path – to God, the Truth of God and the Life of God to us. Let us keep our gaze on Him, until we can view our lives and those around us in a kinder, warmer light – bathed in the gold of His grace.  

And, just as I reached home safely that night, may we each arrive safe at the eternal home prepared for us in the heavens (John 14:1-3). God grant us to be included among His faithful ones: “. . . for you who revere my name, the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its rays. And you will go out and leap like calves released from the stall” (Malachi 4:2). The “sun of righteousness” is personified in Jesus, our Lord.

A Prayer:  Heavenly Father, Thank You for the glories of your handiwork written in nature and the skies, and for the parallels to our spiritual lives of which they serve to remind us. Amen. 

~~+~~

Peter A. Black is a retired pastor – well, sort of retired – and lives in Southwestern Ontario. He writes a weekly inspirational newspaper column, P-Pep! and is author of Raise Your Gaze ... Mindful Musings of a Grateful Heart, and Parables from the Pond – a children's / family book. ~~+~~

The above post was adapted from one of Peter's column articles published in October 2018.  The sunset pictures are courtesy of free online sources.

No More Goodbyes by Rose McCormick Brandon

Goodbyes don’t come easily for me. When moving meant saying goodbye to co-workers, I feared being swept away by sentimentality, weeping uncontrollably like I did at my graduation. In photos of that event my eyes match my bouquet of red roses.

I come from a long line of crybabies and I blame them, especially the Irish, for the maudlin gene. I need a dose of my Scottish friend's favourite rendition of goodbye - "Shove off!" Nobody at the office told me to shove off. They dripped kindness all over me. The memory of their hugs clings to my shoulders, a reminder of how blessed I am to have people in my life who make saying goodbye so hard.

Snoopy summed up my feelings about the word goodbye:

“Why can’t we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together? I guess that wouldn’t work. Someone would leave. Someone always leaves. Then we would have to say goodbye. I hate goodbyes. I know what I need. I need more hellos.”

Goodbye is a useful word, a short form of "God be with you." We use goodbye when we fly out the door to run an errand or to end a telephone conversation. We wave it, blow kisses with it, and even slam doors with it.

Goodbye always brings up questions: Where are you going? Can I come with you? How long will you be gone? When will you come back?

These are the same questions asked by Jesus' followers when He was making his goodbyes. (John 14:1-14) Jesus answered: I'm going to the Father. Yes you can come but not yet. Don't worry, I won't leave you alone. The Holy Spirit will be your constant companion. I'll get a room ready for you so you can come and live with Me. I'll be gone for what I consider a short time. When we meet again it will be forever.

Goodbye is an earthly word not an eternal one. We won't use it in our forever home with Jesus. No more goodbyes. Only hellos.

"I'm on my way to get a room ready for you. and if I'm on my way to get your room ready, I'll come back and get you so you can live where I live." John 14:3,4

 Rose McCormick Brandon is the author of four books, including One Good Word Makes all the Difference and Promises of Home - Stories of Canada's British Home Children. She writes personal essays and devotionals for several publications.

Holy Spirit Whispers - Gibson

Inez the Mexican, God-lover and Jesus-follower, stands before me. Red plaid shirt, graying hair, beard. A burly man, with gentle mannerisms and eyes like dark pools. We have not met before, but those eyes tell me something: this man has a story.

I want to hear it. Even more, I feel I’ll want to tell it.

We have a common acquaintance, Inez and I. A man named Doug. Almost every time we meet, Doug brings me a story, and sometimes the people they belong to. True stories. Hard stories. Sad, sad, happy. Happy sad, sad. Like life. This one spins out long. Moisture gathers in the big man’s eyes as he tells it.

Inez and Veronica own a nursery business in Mexico. It makes a little; but not enough. To supplement  their income, Inez works as a long haul trucker.  They have four children, or did until a few years ago.

“God told us,” Inez says. “He told us our son would die two weeks before he did.” On that day Adrian, three-and-a-half years old, the youngest, attended a funeral with his family. At the cemetery, he asked an unusual question. “Mama, do they only bury adults here?”

Shocked, she responded, “No, children are buried here too.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m going to be here soon.”

I wait for the main character to enter the story. God. He always has a part in the stories Doug brings me. I don’t have to wait long.

In the next weeks, little Adrian often climbed onto his mother’s knee. “Hug me, Mama,” he whispered each time. “I will not be long with you. “

We’re on holy ground now. The hurt, the heart, the humanity, and yes, the hope bleeds through his words. One by one, Inez continues to list God’s gentle nudges; the things he used to prepare Adrian’s family for the ending of his short life on earth.

“I recognized the premonitions,” he told me. He begged. Prayed. Agonized. Pled with God, “Please, do not take away my son.” But when the end came, in the form of a horrific vehicle accident, Inez looked back and realized that the Holy Spirit, in love, had repeatedly assured them that God would take care of their beloved Adrian from that point on.

After the accident, Inez, who had not been nearby at the time, had the difficult task of shopping for clothes in which to bury his son. With heavy heart, he selected a checkered shirt and pants.

After the family re-united, his eleven-year-old daughter showed him her latest artwork, inspired by the reassuring words of Psalm 23, which she had copied beside the picture. “The Lord is my Shepherd…”

“Jesus watches over us when we rest,” she had titled it. The picture showed her beloved brother, sleeping. Flowers and loveliness surrounded him.  A blanket covered him. A checkered blanket, very like the fabric in the shirt his Papa bought.

But she had drawn the picture days before her brother died.

God knows. God cares. Adrian is safe, and Inez has peace.

 

************  

Among other places, author, newspaper columnist and broadcaster Kathleen Gibson ponders faith and life in her newspaper column, Sunny Side Up. The above Sunny Side Up column ran in various Western newspapers earlier this month.

 

October by Rose McCormick Brandon

            There’s a park on the shore of the St. Mary’s River, a short walk from my office. When weather permits, and sometimes even when it doesn’t, I spend my lunch hours there writing, reading and praying. When staff moves the tables and benches inside for the winter, I’m forced to make other plans. Until then, I get full value from my mid-day breaks by spending them in this naturally refreshing place.
            On a late October day I sat at a picnic table in the park surrounded by books, paper and lunch. A north wind sent chills through my too-light sweater while noisy geese congregated nearby, planning their southbound flight. The sun peeked from behind the clouds every few minutes but not long enough to take the shiver from my arms and back.
            Others drifted away, driven from the park by the cold. I knew my days there were numbered so I stayed and watched a tour boat make what might be its last trip downriver. Understanding my sadness at saying goodbye to my lunch hour retreat, a little blast of sunshine blessed me. I wilted with pleasure and thanked God for it.
            As I nibbled at my sandwich and let my senses drink in the grandness of my surroundings, from a stand of thick pines came the distinctive whine of bagpipes. After a few priming notes, an invisible piper filled the air with Amazing Grace. Its notes drifted over the water. Quickly tourists gathered on deck, arms wrapped tightly round their trembling bodies. A few walkers broke stride to stand and listen. I didn't speak with the other lookiers but I shared with them a sacred moment on a bleak October day. Tears flowed behind my sunglasses as I remembered the generosity of His grace to me. In my notebook, I wrote -

O limitless grace

Grace that saved my soul from sin

Grace that healed the brokenness within

Grace that brought my loved ones in

Oh Grace, awesome, limitless grace.

Continue strong, continue long

Until that appointed time when all who’ve partaken of grace

Will fall in wonder before your face.

- RMB

            Ten blissful minutes later the phantom piper emerged from nature’s closet of pine. We clapped, this sprinkling of strangers and me. Thank you for warming our souls today by reminding us of God’s never-ending kindness. The piper took a bashful bow.
            One day I will stand with throngs of people I don’t know and together we’ll applaud His amazing grace.

             What message is October sending you?

Jerusalem Road on the shore of Lake Mindemoya

I couldn't write about October without sharing with you my favorite fall photo. This is the road our cottage is on - this stretch of it is called Jerusalem Road. My sister, Brenda, a gifted photographer took this photo in 2008 and every member of our family has a framed copy.

Visit Rose McCormick's at The Promise of Home and Listening to My Hair Grow. Watch for her new book, He Loves Me Not . . . He Loves Me, the story of a transformed marriage, co-authored with Sandra Nunn.

Rehearsal for Heaven - Eleanor Shepherd

Walking into the sanctuary of our church on Sunday mornings reminds me that I am living in a global village. It really begins at the coat rack, where I quickly put my coat on a hanger so I can give a hand to my new friend, Natasha from Moldova as she tries to removes her snow suit of her wriggling little three year old, Elizabeth, whom she calls Lissa. As we walk through the door of the chapel Stephen from Nigeria greets us. Heading to my accustomed spot to drop off my bag and my Bible, I just have to stop to greet Siphe from Zimbabwe with her two darling little girls. I cannot believe how the oldest one has grown so tall. Her red glasses give her the look of a real scholar.

Although there is still ten minutes for us to greet one another before the service starts, the announcements are already scrolling on the screen in both English and Spanish. About a third of the congregation has their origins in Latin America. Colombians, Venezuelans, Mexicans and Cubans all join me at the translation equipment table, where we go to pick up the headphones. These enable our friends to understand all that is happening by hearing it in their own language. Since I am trying to learn Spanish, this service provides a great opportunity for me to listen to how it should sound.

Meanwhile the ushers are distributing the Bibles in English and Spanish, according to the choice of the worshipper. In addition, announcements in the weekly bulletin are also given in both of these languages. We want our Hispanic friends to know that this is their church.

Just as I am heading back to my seat, with the headphones, I spot my friends Asher and Suha arriving, along with Ramesh and Hema and their two little girls Suhanna and Nyanna. They find a place to sit, just behind Raj and Sushma with their two children. The Indian singing group is going to participate in the service today so the women in their blue and red flowing saris and the men in their colourful costumes add to the richness of the cultural mosaic.

When children’s’ time comes, in the middle of the service, all of the children gather at the front of the church and the scene resembles a playground at the United Nations. Action songs give all the children a chance to participate, where gestures fill in gaps in their understanding, so words are not always necessary. The important thing for the children and indeed for all of us to understand is that here is a place where we are loved and accepted, no matter what our origins or customs. We are learning to appreciate each other and the richness of what each one brings. As I watch the children, words from an old Sunday School song run through my mind.

“Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world.

Red and yellow, black and white, all are precious in His sight.

Jesus loves the little children of the world. “

The children that I sang about in that song, as a child, existed mainly in storybooks that I read. I saw very few in my church that were not just like I was. Now that has all changed and the song has become more real for me.

While some things have changed significantly, there are other parts of our worship that remain consistent. Just as in our youth, we enjoyed the lively music of the brass band as we marched down the street; we still enjoy that toe tapping rhythm, not so much outside now, but certainly as we enjoy times of praise and worship, and as accompaniment to the old hymns.

As well as the many new friends who have joined us we continue to nurture friendships with those who have been there for us during the good days and the challenges that have come our way. Worship has become a unique blend of the comfortably familiar and the stimulation of innovation and new ideas propelled by the infusion of those from other cultures.

Who knew that as one of the senior members of the congregation I could learn to appreciate samosas? Gone are the days of the church chicken dinners. A highlight of our church year for me recently was the fellowship that we enjoyed a couple of weeks ago at our international potluck dinner. My shepherd’s pie and my friend’s scalloped potatoes were as novel to some of our friends as the tortillas and rice dishes were to us. Each of us brought something that we enjoyed eating from our own cultural background and we had the chance to try some dishes we had never tasted before. Those of us working in the kitchen had to ask instructions about what to reheat and how from those who brought many dishes we knew nothing about. It was a unique dining experience!

Why do I find such joy in this multicultural setting? I think it is because every week when I go to church I am reminded of Heaven. There we will join in celebration with our brothers and sisters from every country and every language. I feel like I have the privilege of participating in a weekly rehearsal for that.

In Praise of Transitions - Schneider

Experienced writers will tell you that one of the key components of good writing is the transition. The way in which a story moves the reader between scenes, time frames or points of view is crucial to its success. The best transitions are those of which the reader remains unaware.

I’m discovering that I want the transitions in my “real life” to be just as subtle. The transition between winter and spring here in Northern Alberta lasts for two to three months, and always puts me on edge. One day will be sunny, beautiful (and sloppy) and the next several a repeat of winter weather. I want to stamp my feet and just whine. “Sunshine already!”

Both of my children are in transition phases, as well. (Are children ever not in transition in some way?) There are days when it seems the lessons and values we’re trying to pass along are actually making a difference. There are other days when we seriously wonder if anything we’ve said has made an impact.

As a military spouse, a huge transition comes my way about every third year, as we prepare to move to a different community, often even a different side of the country. Much preparation goes into the move, leaving me with a “neither here nor there” feeling for weeks at a time. I just want to go unconscious until the whole process is over.

However, if I’ll let them, these transitions can be vivid pointers toward Heaven. Scripture tells us that we are just travellers on this earth, that nothing we see, have or experience here is permanent. We are in the ultimate transition. In fact, the Apostle Paul wrote that all of creation groans and travails with us until we’re all renewed together in the likeness of the One who created us.

Travail ... yes, that word brings to mind the most dramatic transition of my life, one which I’ve experienced twice, and which many women will tell you is not even remotely enjoyable. It’s the phase of labour just prior to the baby actually being born. It follows hours of pain (for many of us, anyway), and is the prelude to the incredible intense physical effort of pushing. I remember my prenatal instructor telling me, months before the experience that “transition” is when the labouring mother most wants to give up, when the job of getting this baby into the world feels endless and unendurable. She said those feelings were supposed to remind me that the job was almost done, that very soon, I’d be holding my little one. And she was right. I did want to give up. I did feel as if I couldn’t handle another moment of agony. And I was within an hour of meeting my child face to face, an hour away from all the struggle and pain fading into insignificance as I cuddled my little one close.

That’s what I need to remember when the other earthly transitions make me want to weep with frustration or give up the effort to stay true to the path my Father puts before me. Transition means change is happening, even if I can’t see it. Transition means the really good part is almost here. Transition reminds me that Heaven is but a whisper away.

Janelle Schneider

When Imagination Isn't Good Enough - Schneider

I've reached the point in my current work-in-progress where I realize the written story will not be as amazing as it was when it existed in my imagination alone. Somehow the written word puts limitations on the story that make it less than what I envisioned.

I know I'm not alone in this experience. Many of my favourite authors have referred to this moment of disappointment. The only cure is to just keep writing, and make the story as good as it can be.

How many things in this earthly life are like this? We envision the perfect holiday, only to have the experience lack that unnamable "something". Oh, the holiday is a wonderful experience, but it's missing something we can't define.

Or we have the sense that if we can just ________ (insert activity or goal of your choice) life will be without flaw. Yet when we achieve or experience whatever it was, we find it's less than what we hoped for.

I call this the "taste of heaven". Our hearts, and our souls, long for Heaven. We know it will be perfect. It will be beyond what we can even imagine. I Corinthians 2:9, 10 "No eye has seen nor ear has heard, no man has conceived what God has prepared for those who love him--but God has revealed it to us by His Spirit."

In other words, pure logic can't figure this one out. Yet, deep within, God's Spirit has whispered to us what we can expect to experience when we see God face to face. It will be amazing. It will satisfy every longing we ever had for companionship, for beauty, for joy.

These thoughts are particularly poignant to me as I consider Ruth Bell Graham, who lies at the threshold of Heaven, if she hasn't already crossed over. I've admired her from afar since I was a teenager. My heart aches for her family as they face her absence from their earthly lives.
My soul envies her. She's on the verge of experiencing the undiluted, uninterrupted Presence of God, on the cusp of tasting that for which we all long.

Ruth, thank you for what your earthly life showed us of God's grace, for letting us watch you serve your God with faithfulness and complete devotion. We'll miss you.