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. 

A Memory Tree (by Peter A. Black)

Our Christmas tree stands in our livingroom, handsomely adorned with a multitude of decorations. Its limbs bear miniature lights, shiny multicoloured balls and silvered icicle spirals that gently spin when we walk by. There are also faux crystal snowflakes and icicles, among a host of cute, colourful tree decorations, too numerous to mention.

But our festive tree is more than a seasonal display of colour and dollar store trinkets, although many do lend to its glory. I reckon it’s a memory tree, for several reasons. For example: Two dainty white crocheted angels remind my wife and me of our time in Watford, Ontario, and Guide Country. ‘Grandma’ Tippel was more than one hundred years old and residing in Victoria Manor, a care residence, when she fashioned them. A cute wishing well was made by another acquaintance.

Less adorned this time,

but still lots of memories.

Several needlepoint items were the handiwork of our youngest son Jerome and his buddy Heather, when they were in elementary school, three decades ago. Heather’s now married and mother of three children. Jerome’s in his nineteenth year in school teaching. He's deeply engaged in theatre – acting and singing, and sometimes directing.

A paper pie plate decoration our youngest granddaughter Abigail made at Miss Teresa’s preschool has a manger scene and the message, Jesus: God’s Gift to the World. She’s in grade five now.

Memories. My wife recalls where many more of the tree ornaments came from than I do – such as gifts from children she child-minded or baby-sat and who are now adults. Naturally, she has a deeper connection than I with those items on the tree.

Do you associate decorative pieces on your Christmas tree or other seasonal decorations with people from your past or present? Just the other day I realized that the answers May gave to my enquiries as to how we acquired some of ours increased my enjoyment of the season. 

Memories. Our parents weren’t able to give my sisters and me fancy or expensive gifts. I don’t view this as a disadvantage now, though. Instead, I’m convinced that it taught us gratitude and appreciation for the simple, small things, and to marvel at the kindness shown to us by others. Occasionally, more expensive gifts came to us from people outside the family. Often they were people whom our parents had helped out in some way.

So much for memories associated with our tree and its pretty ornaments. Each year the Christmas tree reminds me that the One who is the First Cause of all Creation came from realms of heavenly glory and, for a time, made His home on earth amongst the poor and lowly. His first earthly dwelling was an animal shelter and His bed a manger cradle.

My grateful musings don’t end there, for the Christmas tree also urges my thoughts forward more than thirty years in the gospel narratives, to the cross. Of all the trees in Palestine at that time, one – perhaps haphazardly chosen – was honoured to bear his wounded broken body, serving as the ultimate altar of sacrifice.

Yes, that tree was no doubt growing during the time that this Child grew from his bed in manger hay to manhood; the Child who was destined to die upon the tree in gruesome agony and blood, as the Saviour and Redeemer of the world.

The apostle Paul didn’t have an ornamented Christmas tree to brag about, for the tradition began centuries later. And yet he said, “May I never boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, through which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world” (Galatians 6:14 NIV).

Paul memorialized The Tree – the spiritual reality and ideal of the Cross – and lived out its meaning.

Do you have a ‘memory tree’? Enjoy your tree and cherish your memories, but don't forget The Tree and the One who hung upon it.

~~+~~

The original edition of the above updated and adapted article was published in The Watford Guide-Advocate, Dec. 11, 2014.

~~~

Peter's second book is a compilation of inspirational articles on a variety of themes from his weekly column. These are interspersed with brief expressions intended to encourage. Ebook edition is available through Amazon.

 

ISBN: 978-0-9920074-2-3 (Angel Hope Publishing)

Email
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Peter's first book: “Parables from the Pond” – a children's / family book (mildly educational, inspirational in orientation, character reinforcing). Finalist – Word Alive Press. ISBN: 1897373-21-X. The book has found a place in various settings with a readership ranging from kids to senior adults.Black's inspirational column, P-Pep! appears weekly in The Standard Guide-Advocate (of Southwestern Ontario). His articles have appeared in 50 Plus Contact and testimony, and several newspapers in Ontario.

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Writing Through Emotional Upheaval by Pamela Mytroen

     Our family took a hit in March and yet I was required to continue writing blogs, articles, and to edit pieces. At first I told my husband that I would never write again. (Picture the Drama Queen). Anxiety made it impossible for me to sleep or focus. But after a few days I was able to sit down and concentrate on a piece that needed editing. I found that if I compartmentalized, I could carry on. Now, when I write, I set a timer and I block out those relentless questions of what the future holds. "If I want to dwell on it later, I can," I tell myself. While this may not be the best approach to dealing with stress, it is working for me.

     There are still times when the situation flares up and pulls me down, and I must confess that I just can't get my focus to write. This is not something that is going to go away; I will likely be wading through it for years. Somehow I need to learn perseverance and push through. There are deadlines to meet and people waiting for my words. I can't just give up.

     I recently read the autobiography of Marina NeMat, "Prisoner of Tehran" (Penguin Canada, 2007). It was a difficult season of writing for her as it meant re-opening memories that she had wanted to seal off forever. But she wrote it so that the world might see what goes on at Evin Prison in Iran. She wanted the truth to be told.

"Prisoner of Tehran". A memoir by Marina Nemat. 

     Shortly after she and her husband immigrated to Canada, she met an Iranian friend at a dinner party in Toronto and by coincidence discovered that they had been imprisoned together in Evin. After a few phone calls back and forth, and talks about their time as political prisoners, Marina's new friend said she didn't want to talk to her anymore. "I can't do it. It's too hard. It's too painful," she said, her voice choked by tears. Marina understood and didn't argue, but it was this type of silence that had held her captive. "She had made her choice--and I had made mine" (page 4).  Marina felt that her own story needed to be told. She continued to write about the atrocities she endured and survived. Some of the emotions she experienced were shame, guilt, fear, and deep sorrow as she unlocked the carefully guarded memories, yet she carried on and finished writing her story so that the world might know the truth.

     How do you persevere through life's interruptions? What techniques do you use to write under the heavy cloak of emotional turmoil?

Pamela Mytroen

My sweet grand-daughter born in April with Mama watching closely in the background!

   

     

All Things Bright and Beautiful—Carolyn Wilker

When I was a little girl in Sunday School, I learned the song “All Things Bright and Beautiful.” As a five-or six-year-old, it didn’t matter who wrote the song. Neither was it important that the song was ages old, only that it was something that I cared about.

On researching this song, I see that it was written originally as a poem in the 1800s, specifically for young children. Cecil Frances Alexander wrote about flowers that open, ripe fruit in the garden, birds that sing, and how God made and loves them all. After singing the song so often in Sunday School, much of it is deeply rooted in my memory.

One line came to me as I walked through our local farmer’s market last week: “The ripe fruits in the garden, he made them everyone.” I knew what I would write about this week. Such a wonderful array of colour—the red of apples and raspberries, the green of pears, peas and beans,  pink blush on peaches, purple eggplant and so much more.

No end to the bounty from people’s gardens. It reminded me of the garden we had when I was growing up and my first garden as a young 4-H member.

Tomatoes from my garden

It’s no wonder then that I come home with plenty of fresh fruits and vegetables. Peaches, apples, tomatoes, potatoes, red pepper and more.  No wonder my kitchen smells like a canning factory in summer. This summer it has already been filled with the scent of tomatoes and peaches as I made fruit relish, and cucumbers and dill for dill pickles. There will be peaches too, when I get to them.

Of course, it’s a lot of work keeping a garden. We have one at our home—very small compared to the one my mother kept, or even my garden when I was 13. We prepare the soil, cultivate and till until the soil is soft and friable. After marking out long straight rows, it’s time to plant seeds; then after the plants start to grow, the thinning and the weeding. I wondered some days if we’d ever get to the end of the row.

 There was time in the garden picking strawberries, peas or beans, and afterwards podding the peas and “snibbling” the beans. We relied on sunshine and rain for the plants to produce their fruits, then ate the produce fresh from the garden, and preserved even more for winter. The overflow we shared with our neighbours or friends who came to our garden to pick what we didn’t need and put extra food on their tables.

Additionally, for two summers our family grew cucumbers for the Matthews-Wells Company. We had green fingers, literally, from picking every other day, rain or shine. Every time we passed the pickle aisle in the grocery store for years afterwards, we remembered those hours in the garden.

At the end of a growing season, after all the harvest was in, my mother had the satisfaction of enough food stored up to feed her family until the next summer. Not too much, but enough in jars and freezer bags. Then in winter, my mother bought only those fruit or vegetables we didn’t grow, and we ate well until the next growing season.

 This morning after writing my column, I went out to my garden and picked fresh tomatoes and basil. We still rely on the sunshine and rain—and during a drought, our water barrels.  I feel that same satisfaction when harvest is in, and in winter when we eat peaches, tomatoes or beans, that we can enjoy the food before us.

 Indeed, we have many gifts from our creator who has good things in store for us.

 http://storygal.wordpress.com/

http://carolynwilker.ca/book.shtml

Back to the Farm

Several years before my husband died, I found under a stack of paper and bills, a poem torn from a magazine. It described perfectly not only his attitudes about his love of farming, but also the kind of man he was.

It was his daily habit to fix himself a cup of coffee then sit on our verandah facing the rising sun and the pasture in which his dearly loved purebred Holsteins began to stir at first light. He would take those few minutes to sip his coffee, get in tune with his God and gear his heart and mind for the coming day.

The poem begged to have something significant done with it. I found a large sheet of paper and wrote it in calligraphy. The capital letters at the beginning of the title and each verse I made large enough that in the outline I could sketch a picture of that verandah view across the fields--one for each season and one in the moonlight, which he also loved. When I presented the framed poem the next Christmas, he first thought it was coincidence that I used the same poem he had clipped and saved. He was genuinely pleased and truly happy with his gift.

Today, along with Todd Leuty, a Ministry of Agriculture representative, I roamed around the nut plantation my husband had begun and which he had hoped to care for in his retirement years. The trees he planted as little saplings in the mid-nineties, are now thirty or forty feel tall and have begun to yield a harvest. Carpathian Walnuts, Japanese Hart Nuts, Pecans, Almonds, Butternuts and Hazelnuts hold promise of good eating.

The crisp air, beautiful sun, blue sky and refreshing calm of nature brought back to mind the poem that still hangs on my office wall. I have tried to find the author of the poem and have been unable to do so. (If you read it and know who wrote it, please let me know so I can give the author credit and let him or her know how much joy it has brought.)

Grandpa's Farm

Why would anyone live on a farm?

My Grandpa once told me why:

"You wake up at dawn, put the coffee on,

Look out at a bright morning sky.

You start chores early, work hard and long

At planting and milking or such,

But at the day's end, when quiet has come,

You know you've seen God's perfect touch.

You've worked for him as much as for you

To plow his fields and when

You watch the harvest yield its fruit,

You thank him again and again.

A farm may not be the only place

To live, to grow and die--

But," my Grandpa said, "It's the only place

I'd suggest you try."

I had wondered what I would write about for this month's blog, but when I came home I knew I had to tell you how I sensed my husband's presence there in his nut grove and I know I've seen God's perfect touch. I know my husband worked for God as much as he did for himself. He took satisfaction in knowing he was helping to feed the world which is what farmers do. When I see those nut trees yield their fruit, I truly thank God again and again! I give thanks for the privilege of having walked with such a mand for as many years as I did and to know the same God with whom he communed on his beloved farm. I am also glad for the opportunity to walk on a farm and reconnect with the memories, the values and the wisdom I learned there.

Time-lapse summer - Nesdoly

Hubby's farm home

Ah summertime — the season of reunions.  I've been to two this year, complete with jaunts back to Saskatchewan. I usually anticipate them with just a touch of dread. But so far every reunion I have been to has turned out better than I ever expected.

This summer's were no exception. It was wonderful to reconnect with old high school friends in Dalmeny on the July long weekend. The July/August long weekend just past saw us reuniting with hubby's family.

About a hundred of us Nesdolys found our way to the Rosthern arena at some point between July 29th and 31st. We did the usual reunion things—eat, visit, play games, look at pictures, eat, visit the homesteads and the cemeteries, eat some more, then line up in families for mass photo shoots.

One of the 30-somethings had put together a family photo slide show that looped throughout the three days. What fun to see the aunties and uncles—most no longer with us—in their somber 40's wedding poses, then the babies that were us, and the next generation that looked a lot like us, and on and on ...

The barn looks like some of us feel

One thing that hit me harder this reunion than any so far is how our kids are becoming the middle-aged ones and we the oldies. As parents, uncles and aunts slip away, suddenly we're the senior generation. Mind you, it's pretty obvious if you look at us, with our salt-and-pepper hair, lined and wrinkled faces, wattled necks and sagging middles. 

The summer kitchen - a deserted hazard

A visit to Grandpa Tim's farm site impressed on me even more the fact that nothing stays the same. The poor barn there looks like some of us feel.  The house is still liveable but hubby said immaculate housekeeper Auntie P. would have a conniption if she saw the current state of it. The summer kitchen is a deserted hazard.

We slogged through shoulder high grass and thistle to get to hubby's old farm home. His workboot from when we visited last ten years ago is still there but now, like too many family members, has lost its partner. The driveway has all but disappeared. It seems everything is getting covered, or stolen, or erased by time.

Farm home - a visit to the past

The boot has lost its partner

It's a sobering reminder of the brevity of life. Oh, I'm very familiar with the verses that describe man being as ephemeral as grass or smoke. But it's quite another thing to see that transience playing out like time lapse photography all around you. It's a challenge too, to fill  the days left with as much love and caring, joy and music, laughter and worship, photographs and good food as each will hold.


This post is linked to "In, On, and Around Mondays: Art is a Touchdown" at Seedlings in Stone. Come on over and join in the conversation.

**************

Website: www.violetnesdoly.com

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Happy Canada Day! - Nesdoly

Flag

"National flag of Canada
two by length and one by width, red
containing in its center a white square
the width of the flag
with a single red maple leaf
centered therein"*
flies majestic since 1965
over town squares
by cenotaphs and schools
from Cape Spear, Newfoundland
to Beaver Creek, Yukon
Alert, Nunavut
to Middle Island, Ontario.

Proudly raised at Olympics
wrapping the grim coffins of soldiers
feted on Canada Day
marched in to the skirl of bagpipes November 11th
this silk-screened symbol
stitches together
our experience and destiny
sea to sea to sea.

When so plentiful at home you no longer see
till it's reincarnated into jester caps
umbrellas and wind socks
painted on faces, stamped on T-shirts
decaled onto mugs and beaver pens

abroad even one
grabs your homesickness
like the initials of a sweetheart.
Meet someone with your flag stitched on his pack
and you know he'll understand Tim Horton's
hockey, Z that rhymes with bed
loonies, toonies, Bruce Cockburn, Diana Krall
why "insurance premiums" and "health care"
don't belong together
Air Canada, Air Farce, Red Green
How great is it to have found someone
who speaks your own language, eh?

* Official description of the flag taken from the Canadian Heritage website.

© 2008 by Violet Nesdoly
First published at Utmost Christian Writers

*****************
I was thrilled when I discovered it was my turn to post on Canada Day. July 1st has been a red-letter day in our family from as far back as I can remember. My mom, a patriotic Canadian to the core, would never let a Canada Day pass without a celebration of some kind.

The year Daddy was in hospital with a broken leg, she (not in possession of a driver's license) packed a picnic and we (she plus six kids) trotted off to the Log Cabin Bush on our Saskatchewan farm. Before we left to go back home, we carved the date into the trunk of a poplar tree. That hunk of wood is still part of our family's memorabilia.

After Mom was widowed and retired, she celebrated every Canada Day for about ten years with a brunch. She'd invite friends (as many as there were provinces and territories), set the table with all the Canadiana she owned (province and territory place-mats, glasses with provincial floral emblems, anything flag or maple leaf) and serve Canadian food (Armstrong cheese, Canadian bacon, Fraser Valley butter, eggs, and milk, Abbotsford strawberries -- that sort of thing). Then she'd round out the occasion with a Canada quiz.

One of Mom's Canada Day parties. 

Even she (right) has a maple leaf tattoo on her arm--washable of course!

She died on the eve of Canada Day four years ago (June 30, 2006). It seemed right, somehow, that her first day in heaven was Canada Day. Here's what one of her granddaughters wrote about that:

"I think, for grandma, maybe God will have a Canada Day Celebration party for her in heaven... for the best "quilting/quilling/never-quits-creating" Mother/Grandmother/ Great-grandmother

... think of all those who are already there who would be around her at that table...maybe He'll send for her floral emblem glassware and He'll make her a very special cocktail from all the fruit juices He's saved up in His fridge, maybe He'll put in an order for Krause /bros. berries 'just picked' by Jane, and Canadian back bacon, ah yes, and add Russian pancakes (Big pancakes for Big Grandma) to the menu. Maybe we should put in an order for her?!

What great memories she has created for everyone, eh?? We will so miss her but we can carry her in our hearts forever and we have the hope of joining her someday!!" - Rosie S.

Here's to her and her generation, who loved Canada and passed that baton on to us.

****************** 

Website: www.violetnesdoly.com

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Storage Bins - Ayotte

Life is like a closet full of clothes. It’s very difficult to know what you want to give away, donate or discard. It’s even harder to discard some of those items that have been given to us as gifts or those that have sentimental value. Some of these items may have little or no monetary worth but they fill our drawers and our storage bins. I have many such items that I cannot part with because they mean so much to me.

If I keep these items, will they have any special meaning to my children or my grandchildren? The last birthday card signed “with love” by my mother-in-law before she died over twenty years ago, the ripped sheet of paper from an old prayer book with my father’s signature so proudly written on it, the scribbled notes that my granddaughter left in the bathroom cupboard, the popcorn pictures and artwork from my other grandchildren, and the albums of numerous pictures that my husband so conscientiously organized...who will want these treasures that I have saved?

When I was sixteen years old, my then boyfriend was chosen to go on a school trip to Vancouver, BC. On his return, he gave me a beautiful sweater. That was over 40 years ago. That boyfriend became my husband, my friend, my lover, my confidant. Who will want that “holey” not “holy” sweater I have so carefully wrapped and stored in some box in my basement? Our children are going to have a huge laugh on us one day as they sort through our belongings and discover how sentimental we are!

If I Had a Hammer – Ayotte

If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morrrrning, I’d hammer in the eeevening……don’t you just love that song? You might, if you remember it. I hope you do.

This morning as I was walking with my girlfriends, we started to discuss how sentimental we’ve all become. As we age, we’ve discovered that keepsakes actually matter more to us than they did in our youth.

One friend was explaining this fact by sharing a story with us. She said she went through a lot of work and effort to make small quilts that she gave as presents to her children or grandchildren. After they were used for their initial purpose and as the years went by, they were eventually used in some other constructive way. The other way she noticed was that they ended up at the bottom of the dog kennel. By the pained expression on her face, it seemed to me that she would prefer her children were more sentimental. She had hoped they would cherish these homemade quilts in much the same way that they were created.

I also shared a story with my friends about my hammer. In the above picture, my hammer is the first one on the left. Many years ago when I was a preschooler, I used to work in the garage with my Dad. He was a self taught carpenter as well as a general handy man. I loved to spend time with him in whatever way possible. At that time, he gave me a small hammer to call my own. Over the years after I became a teenager, I didn’t think too much about that hammer but when I got married and left home, my Dad gave it to me.

A couple of months ago, one of my granddaughters phoned and asked if she could spend the day with us. Her dad was on the way out and he promptly dropped her off at our house. Grandpa was busy hanging pictures using my trusty hammer so I asked our granddaughter to hand the hammer to Grandpa when he needed it. I then explained to my six year old granddaughter that I used this very hammer when I was about her age. She looked at me with that quizzical look of hers and asked “really”. I’m sure she wondered if I was ever really that young.

I proceeded to tell her how precious this hammer was to me because it was a gift from my father and one day I would love to give it to her but I wanted to wait until she could realize the importance of it. I want to pass my hammer along, but as simple and as old as this gift may be, I want her to keep it and do the same. Now isn’t that silly? Well not “really”, at least not to me. My hammer signifies a lovely memory and a cherished part of my life. The words that I write have much the same meaning. My words are my hammer. It’s why I write. I want my words to be passed along down the line to all those who are willing to read them. I have a message. My message means an awful lot to me. Does yours? If so, please join me in song and pass your hammer along.

If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morrrning, I’d hammer in the eeevening…..all over this town!

Author of “I’m Not Perfect And It’s Okay”
Website - www.doloresayotte.com
Blog Site – http://doloresayotte.wordpress.com

Preserving Your Library - Smith Meyer

"When an old man dies, a library burns to the ground," is an African proverb many of us have heard. As authors, we cringe to think of such waste.

That adage came to my mind in stark reality this past month. Within two weeks, I attended the funeral of my 68 year-old brother and a 90 year-old aunt. I wondered how many stories died with them.

My brother’s funeral came first. He was a busy man, always looking out for others, often to the detriment of his own work. We became more aware of how many and how much as we stood in line for the visitation and when well over 600 paid their final respects at his funeral service. Many spoke of him as their spiritual father. Community and business people told of his kindness and concern for their welfare. Many stood when asked to do so, if they had spent time in his class room, and some spoke of the great influence he had on their lives. I feel sure there were many more stories that could have been told.

Aunt Bernice’s funeral was a glorious triumphant home-going for a faithful saint. The funeral was almost completely conducted by her family--sermon and all. Stories were told of her as a trustworthy companion to her husband, a watchmaker, her dependability as a mother--her encouraging ways and her gentle reprimands. Her grandchildren recounted happy times they spent with their grandparents and the lasting influence on their lives. It was a heart-warming day

Both of these occasions were indeed full of story-telling and as usual, I hoped those who this was all about were told at least some of those stories while they were still with us. However, I believe those tales were just the proverbial tip of the iceberg and only what others knew about them. How many insights, how many personal experiences could have benefited those left behind, had they been put on paper? I cringed at the waste!

Soon the Haiti earthquake struck—more libraries burned down in the space of minutes! And yet out of the rubble miraculous stories arise. Accounts of bravery, or self-giving, an outpouring of money, materials and energy in this impoverished country—some survived and others didn’t, but their story will go on and perhaps inspire others to give their time and money in similar ways.

These happenings renew my desire to write, write, write. Not that I have that much wisdom, but I have been taught valuable lessons in my years of living—many coming from learning through mistakes. I know that, through reading, I have gained much from others’ experiences. Some have guided me through my own life-happenings and some have helped me avoid more of my own blunders, steering me through the obstacles to a clearer path. Some have inspired me to give more in whatever way I can give. I owe them a debt of gratitude and an obligation to pass on my own stories and those of others. God gave me the desire and ability to write and I want to use the gifts given to me in the best way I can. Is it coincidence that my children's book, Tyson's Sad Bad Day just arrived? It is a book helping children and their parents deal with death and grief. Check it out at http://www.wordalivepress.ca/authors.html

And if God has called you to write, don’t wait any longer—write!

Yesterday – Lawrence

I close my eyes and dip my cup into the bowl of overflowing memories. Faces of children, parents, uncles and aunts come to my mind; events and objects—picnics, merry-go-rounds, donkey rides, and Sunday school trips bring a smile to my face; snippets of remembrances, good and bad, float by as if in a dream. Sadness comes with thoughts of illness and deaths in the family; joy pours in with remembered holidays away and visits from relatives and friends.
Into my cup, pours a memory of a young 24-year-old woman, eyes wide open with expectation and hope as she rides, all alone, on a train to Portsmouth. She wonders if she will meet her true love on the big ocean liner, as she’d seen in romantic movies. She was leaving England and immigrating to Canada; a new world was opening up to her and she was so ready for what was to come.
I think of that young girl now. It’s almost 50 years ago and a lot has happened in the intervening years. Each day since then is another yesterday and another memory in the overflowing bowl. I have no regrets about coming to Canada—as soon as I landed I knew I belonged. Memories are still being made and, tomorrow, these memories will be yesterdays; they’ll join with all the others and become inspiration for short stories and fireside conversations.
© Judith Lawrence

Read and listen to Judith’s monthly meditation on her website at www.judithlawrence.ca
Visit Judith at www.authorsden.com/judithlawrence

My Mother's Memoirs - Dawson

Recently, my daughter came across an old cook book that belonged to my mother. Some of you may know that my mother graduated into heaven a few years back. Our family felt the void of her home going and it was with pleasure that I received the phone call from my daughter saying that Mom had left a little note in the cook book. I'd like to share that note with you.

"Memories of youth
by Freeda Dawson

Each year drops a thin veil over the preceding year and as you get farther away from the years of youth the accumulation of veils becomes a thickness substantial enough to conceal and hide. Only in certain moments when some memory stirs will that thickness slit through with a look at youth and then the slit in the veil closes again. Veils, some bright, some sombre, fall together and lose all particular colour, merging into a gentle grey."

I have often wondered where I received my love of writing. And I have dearly missed the connection with my mother. In one fell swoop, my daughter gave me two gifts. I now know where my use of the pen springs from and that connection, through my writing, is re-established. We truly are an extension of our ancestors. My only regret is that my mother didn't write more of her musings. Many blessings as you pass on parts of yourselves to your children, your extended families or your readers.