MISSIONFEST - Boge

This past weekend I had the opportunity to see a wide variety of people living out their faith at MissionFest. There’s something truly genuine about seeing people who have left everything to pursue Christ.

MissionFest involves missionaries speaking about their particular experiences and it includes booths of missions organizations, Bible schools and outreach events from around the world. Over 140 exhibitors present on how God has called them to reach the lost and encourage the saved.

It’s energizing because it refocuses my attention that Christ is all.
I met a man who runs a Christian music festival who works during the day to finance this outreach event every year for many years now. It was uplifting because this year I’m trailblazing on the Winnipeg Real to Reel Film Festival and I just felt so encouraged to meet someone who also loves the arts and is passionate about loving people through this medium.

I met a woman who is part of an organization that gives shelter to women who have chosen to keep their babies through pregnancy, but have no place to live. On one of the evenings, a man from a neighbouring town gave – I repeat – gave them a six bedroom house to use to help women who will benefit from being able to carry their child full term through their support.
Divine appointments still happen.

We heard from Setan Lee – a man who was in the killing fields of Cambodia – who saw his female friend killed right before his eyes by a female guard, and then years later met the killer in a church service and forgave her.

God doesn’t often make life easy. And when you hear the stories of how people have endured through suffering, it’s a good reminder for our Western Culture that we are really living in a unique time and place in history that very few people can relate to. We have tremendous opportunity to serve.

And when you meet the people at those exhibition booths and the speakers who have grasped this, it’s truly something inspiring. People whose passion and identity in Christ spurs us on to do the same.

What’s God been calling you to do that may seem out of the ordinary for you?

Latent Capacity Ruth Smith Meyer

In our adult Sunday school class yesterday we talked about the value of prayer. Someone asked “What exactly happens when we pray?” Saturday, I had been reading over the scripture I was to read for the service and it included Jesus’ promise that if we ask anything in his name, he would do it, so I already had been thinking about prayer and the great resource that can be to us as we face the difficulties and quandaries of life. The thoughts had been percolating in my mind even while I slept.
What exactly happens when we pray? Many answers to that question come from past experience. When we pray we connect to a power greater than we possess. When we pray, we take the focus off of our anxiety and frustration and we zero in on the one who loves us more than we can ever understand. When we pray we learn to trust. Sometimes, we are able let go of the urgency and are content to wait for the answer. That in itself can be a difficult but freeing step for one who wants to do something about it now!
Guess, though, what I found myself saying in reply to that question yesterday morning. I hadn’t even formulated it in my own mind, and I’m not sure if I have done so yet. I expect I am going to be mulling it over in my mind for some time to come. But here it is, if not in the exact words, it is the idea.
“God made me in the beginning, and he made me more complex then I have discovered even in all the years I have lived. Sometimes when I pray for strength, or wisdom, or guidance, I think in that quiet prayer-time, God just leads me in an archaeological “dig” to find what he already placed inside me. Together we find the strength, the wisdom the understanding that fits the moment—the answer to my prayer. He gently brushes off the dirt in which it has been buried, hands it to me and with a pat on my back says ‘There you go!’”
Far from putting me on an ego trip, leaving me saying, “So I have all I need within me, I don’t need God.” I am humbled to know a bit more about how God made me. That knowledge makes me even more aware of how closely I should work with my maker. Who would know better how to make something work right, how to fully utilize the inner workings and possibilities that the maker himself? To try on my own to use all that I have been given is like trying to figure out all that can be done with my computer by trial and error only. I most certainly will never find that out on my own. But if I could work closely with the maker of my Dell Laptop and with Bill Gates, for instance, I would find within its 12”x15”x 2” makeup, many applications of which I now know nothing.
Writing has been a revelation in that area. Often as I sit writing, ideas come to me and they’re formed into words as my hands operate the keyboard. Sometimes I am amazed when I read them over again. Did I really write that?

This morning, I am conscious of the need to stay in close contact with my Master so that the possibilities he placed in me can be found and released.

Squeaky Footsteps - McCormick Brandon

When it's many degrees below zero, boots squeak on snow. Breath hangs in the air like little clouds. Noses turn red, frost clings to lashes. A windless frozen day, tree branches stiff, dangerous as swords.

Feet tramp down the crispy trail, toes sting with chill. Alone in the cold. The sensation links us to nature, forces us to feel our fragility. Without a warm fire at the end of the trail, blood would turn to ice; we'd perish. Most days we don't feel our humanity; we don't remember how dependent we are on something as basic as fire. Cold draws out our primitive nature.

Freezing temperatures also have medicinal qualities. As a child, our son Carson suffered bouts of croup. My husband and I woke often in the middle of the night to the sound of his whooping gasps. We'd bundle him into a snow suit and carry him outside. While the rest of the street slept, we took turns pacing; back and forth; our steps squeaked on the front porch. Under a dark, star-filled sky, God seemed close. We looked to Him to ease our son’s laboured breathing. Step, inhale, step, exhale. Our breath-clouds hung in mid-air.

An hour in the cold. Just what the doctor ordered to open swollen passages. We return our son to his crib. Rest on little one, our squeaky steps have made you whole.

Prayer comes easy when accompanied by the sound of my boots squeaking on snow-covered ground. Cold snaps me back to reality; makes me thankful for simple things like fire.
When worry overwhelms, a winter walk can be just what’s needed. Each boot squeak draws us closer to God.

Six Signs of "Scientism" - Denyse O'Leary

Headed 2 km below to underground SNO Lab 

[Many of us must deal with "scientism" - elevating whatever current science findings as irrefutable sources of  truth, until they are replaced by more recent irrefutable sources of trut. Here is a handy guide  to scientism at work. - d.]

Non-materialist neuroscientists must often deal with the claim that their work is “unscientific,” despite the fact that, for example, the placebo effect, for example, is one of the best attested effects in medicine and the fact that there Is mounting evidence for researchable psi effects. The problem arises because, as Susan Haack puts it, "scientism" enables assessors to avoid evaluating evidence in favor of evaluating whether the evidence "counts as science". Here are her six signs:

1. Using the words “science,” “scientific,” “scientifically,” “scientist,” etc., honorifically, as generic terms of epistemic praise.

And, inevitably, the honorific use of “science” encourages uncritical credulity about whatever new scientific idea comes down the pike. But the fact is that all the explanatory hypotheses that scientists come up with are, at first, highly speculative, and most are eventually found to be untenable, and abandoned. To be sure, by now there is a vast body of well-warranted scientific theory, some of it so well-warranted that it would be astonishing if new evidence were to show it to be mistaken - though even this possibility should never absolutely be ruled out.

Always remember that Ptolemy’s model of the solar system was used successfully by astronomers for 1200 years, even though it had Earth in the wrong place.

2. Adopting the manners, the trappings, the technical terminology, etc., of the sciences, irrespective of their real usefulness. Here, Hack cites the "social sciences", quite justifiably, but evolutionary psychology surely leads the pack. Can anyone serious believe, for example, that our understanding of public affairs is improved by the claim that there is such a thing as hardwired religion or evolved religion? No new light, just competing, contradictory speculation.

3. A preoccupation with demarcation, i.e., with drawing a sharp line between genuine science, the real thing, and "pseudo-scientific" imposters. The key, of course, is the preoccupation. Everyone wants real science, but a preoccupation with showing that a line of inquiry is not science, good or bad - apart from the evidence - flies in the face of "The fact is that the term “science” simply has no very clear boundaries: the reference of the term is fuzzy, indeterminate and, not least, frequently contested."

4. A corresponding preoccupation with identifying the "scientific method," presumed to explain how the sciences have been so successful. " we have yet to see anything like agreement about what, exactly, this supposed method is." Of course, one method would work for astronomy, and another for forensics. But both disciplines must reckon with evidence, to be called "science".

5. Looking to the sciences for answers to questions beyond their scope. One thinks of Harvard cognitive scientist Steve Pinker's recent claim that science can determine morality. Obviously, whatever comes out of such a project must be the morality of those who went into it.

6. Denying or denigrating the legitimacy or the worth of other kinds of inquiry besides the scientific, or the value of human activities other than inquiry, such as poetry or art. Or better yet, treating them as the equivalent of baboons howling for mates, or something. It discredits both arts and sciences.

Here's Haack's "Six Signs of Scientism" lecture: .

Denyse O'Leary is co-author of The Spiritual Brain.

Practical Applications of Listening - Eleanor Shepherd

In my book, More Questions than Answers, Sharing Faith by Listening, I have tried to illustrate the value that we demonstrate in our relationships with one another by offering the gift of listening. I found this to be true from personal experience.

I have always been fascinated by psychology that helps me learn something about why people do the things they do. As a woman, I have discovered the power of enabling problems to assume their proper proportions by sharing them with my friends. As a result, it has always made sense to me to talk about how we feel about the experiences that life brings our way and why. I know that at stake is more than just giving expression to how I am feeling, but being able to hear and understand my own verbal explanations of reality in the light of a larger context.

Let me give you some concrete examples. After we had been married for over twenty-five years my heart came to understand what my mind knew was true through the intervention in our lives of a good counsellor. There was no doubt that my husband, Glen truly loved me. But, there were many barriers between that reality and my perception of it. Encumbrances included the problem Glen had with anger management, and my perception that I was responsible for his emotional well-being. It was as we together visited a counsellor, who helped us to be able to express our deepest feelings to ourselves and to each other, that we discovered that there were ways that we could help each other deal with these problems and be freed to explore the underlying realities. The most significant discovery for me was that Glen and I both wanted to remove these encumbrances. In being enabled to do so, my heart came to truly understand how much he loved me. What a gift that was!

A result of this counselling was the development of skills that Glen learned to enable him to manage his anger and the freedom from a self-imposed responsibility for his emotions that helped me to learn how much he loved me. These discoveries rekindled and strengthened my love for him and our relationship moved to a never before imaged depth.

Little did we both know how important this development was going to be a few years later, when a new challenge was thrust upon our family. In 2003, our son, John became a quadriplegic as a result of a motor accident when the vehicle, he was driving hit black ice. We were plunged into a sorrow we never could have imagined. The grief was too profound for us to be able to talk to each other about it, so there it sat at the centre of our lives. We were forced to skirt around it fearful of its power to destroy the strong relationship we had been able create together.

As humans, when listen to the affliction of another we are offering them an invitation to help carry their grief. It is one of those unwritten human laws that we all understand. Our own emotional well-being complicates the situation. When we are in a reasonably healthy state this can happen and good can come for both the person bending under the load of grief and the friend who comes alongside to help bear that burden. When we are in a place where we risk being submerged under the weight of our own grief, we find it impossible to invite on board the raw pain of another. This is where another kind of counselling can prove so life-giving, as was the case for us. Together we visited a grief counsellor.

When we came into the office of the counsellor, he would ask Glen, “How are you doing on your grief journey? Where are you?” Glen could tell him how he was feeling about what had happened, knowing that the counsellor was able to bear the weight of his agony. Not being obliged to take on that responsibility, I was free to listen to the conversation with empathy for Glen, but know that my listening did not require me to take the weight of his grief on my own laden shoulders.

Then it would be my turn. The counsellor would turn to me and ask, “How are you doing with this?” I could express my feelings and reflections about it all, without any threat to Glen and his emotional stability. We both knew that it was the counsellor who by his listening was offering to help me to carry the load. From our conversation, Glen could glean whatever he needed to know about what was happening in my life and know it was not up to him to fix it.

The freedom to think about and express our feelings about what had happened to us without creating a crushing load for each other, helped us to be able to struggle with the burden of grief individually with the help of the counsellor until it assumed proportions that we were then able to handle. Then we were able to talk to each other about how we felt and instead of our grief becoming a powerful force that could rip us apart it became a challenge that together, we were able to confront and learn new ways of coping, thereby growing in our understanding and appreciation for the strength to be found in each other.

Kaleidoscopic View - Whassat? - Black

I recall my sense of wonder and amazement at the beautiful designs I observed as a four or five-year-old looking into a kaleidoscope for the first time. All I had to do was gently turn the end of the tube and voilà – a new colourful design instantly formed! Wow!

The changing colourful patterns intrigued me. How does it do that? I eventually discovered the secret of this magical tube. It was a miniature tunnel of mirrors, containing translucent coloured chips of various shapes and sizes. I came to realize that the components making up the continually-changing and perfect designs, in fact, fell into place in a random process when the tube was turned.

Those coloured chips only became distinguishable as a pattern, because the mirrors inside replicated the image several times. Of course, I should confess that the discovery was made because an intrigued little boy took the thing apart to investigate the phenomenon. Hmm, the problem he had was in getting it put back together again!

As I look back, I realize that I understood how the ‘scope worked, even at that young age, once I examined what comprised it, although I could not have expressed it then in the way I have just done.

Ah yes, the wonders of the kaleidoscope. And what is it, but a tube containing a jumble of coloured chips and mirrors. However, the contraption’s images would remain meaningless and chaotic were it not for several additional factors:

There has to be light, since light illuminates and reveals what’s there. One must have sight to observe. And the observer must have a brain and mind with the capacity to register what is seen and to recognize the apparent order and beauty in the image. The reflected replication helps the mind make sense of the chips where they lie.

And so, a kaleidoscope provides a way of seeing what is there in that tube, and what it would look like if the arrangement of the chips were actually replicated in the same order.

Do you have a kaleidoscopic view? Do we see patterns and find meaning in what is otherwise chaotic in situations around us, or elsewhere in our world, making sense of what sometimes appears meaningless? Yeah, and perhaps it takes more that brain and mind; a sensitive heart (in the spiritual sense) goes a long way.

In creative writing we are engaged in viewing, as it were, the random, coloured chips of events, situations, and scenes – the delightful (the brighter coloured chips), and even the tragic (the darker ones) – that occur in our lives or in the lives of others, and finding a way of ordering and reflecting them.

Those of us who write from a Christian world-view may intentionally – or perhaps unintentionally – so order our words, that the minds of our readers (who, after all, are made in the image of God, regardless of how distorted and fragmented that image may be) will view life and the world around them in a way that makes sense. And further, through our writing they may even be enabled to see beauty arise from the ashes of disaster and despair, or perhaps be inspired to see the glory of God in the innocent face of a child, or in the wizened countenance of a centenarian.

Let me suggest that the kaleidoscopic view is a cosmic view, since the word from Greek kosmos means order, beauty, and / or arrangement.

I hope that these rambling, random thoughts make sense to you, my writer friend/s.

~~+~~
Peter is a freelance writer living in Southwestern Ontario.

He is the author of "Parables from the Pond" (Word Alive Press),

and writes a weekly column in The Watford-Guide Advocate.

www.freewebs.com/authorpeterablack

Surrounded and Wrapped - Derksen

God shows His love for us every day and in many ways. He created us as individuals so treats us accordingly. What sends one person to his or her knees in awe, doesn't turn the head of the next person. 

But yesterday, I looked out my window to see a dense fog. More importantly, it was what the fog left on everything in sight that caused me to stand and stare, hardly taking a breath as I enjoyed the sight. The white flakes that covered everything were so large that when I took my camera out later for some exclusive shots of this Manitoba morning, you could see individual flakes on the branches. God had done some decorating while I slept and my world couldn't have been prettier.

Trees brimmed with white flocking, trees prettier than anyone could manufacture. Chain link fences had white wire instead of the standard galvanized steel color. Everywhere you looked, nature was coated as if it had been decorated for the perfect Christmas card.

Once in a while I like to strap on some scuba tanks and take a horizontal stroll through God's underwater world, especially in the tropics. Pink sea fans wave to their own rhythm while black barracuda hang upside down watching all the funny looking humans who invade their territory. Colorful angel fish swim nearby in vibrant hues of blue, yellow, and green with tinges of red. Sting Ray wave their tails as they carry on in their hunt for food while nurse sharks squiggle by looking for their next feast.

Ocean currents bring schools of fish in a variety of sizes who look through my face mask wondering what this strange creator will do next. The water in the tropics is clear most days, unless a storm is within a five hundred mile radius, so visibility allows me to see other divers nearby, gracefully moving through this underwater kingdom.

My husband and I do some traveling every summer and it doesn't matter where we go, there is plenty of beautiful scenery to enjoy. From barren, sandy badlands in South Dakota to tropical alligator swamps in Florida, God has decorated our world for our pleasure because He loves us and wants to give us the desires of our heart.

On a recent, rather fruitless trip to capture some of Manitoba's winter landscape, God placed some graceful deer in my path. I watched as they nibbled on plants nearby and they watched to make sure all I was doing was taking photos. God knew how much I enjoy wildlife so there they were. His love for me knows no bounds. That's why I choose to seek Him before making a decision or before beginning my day.

God placed His mark on us before we existed. On a recent trip to the Creation museum in Kentucky, I listened to a lecture about the glue that holds all our cells together. It's called laminen, is microscopic, and is shaped like a cross.  Imagine! I love that we are branded, even if it's microscopic, telling all of creation that we belong to the King of Kings and Lord of Lords. Don't you?

A few books that have turned me around..- Hall.

Continuing Donna's post of Friday on her favorite books, I want to mention a book that I have not been able to put down - literally - since a friend loaned it to me on Thursday. This book is The Gospel of Ruth: Loving God Enough to Break the Rules by Carolyn Custis-James. When I come across a book like this, a book that literally spins my thinking around, I want to share it. I hadn't gotten through half of it before I was ordering three copies - two for friends and one for me to keep. She writes about widowhood and barrenness with a sensitivity and realness that is rare in Christian non-fiction where we are often told to 'trust in God and all will be well.' She goes deeper. What if it's not well? What happens then? We all think we 'know' the story of Ruth and Naomi and Boaz, but the fresh insights she brings to that familiar story will never have me looking at it the same.

I love the writings of Custis-James, anyway. Her Lost Women of the Bible was so startling to me that I went through the book with my senior ladies Sunday School class, just in case I missed something the first time.

I know that my last two postings here have been about books - and mostly nonfiction books, which is odd for me, since I write fiction and read probably a novel a week. I promise that in my next blog posting I will mention a few novels that have changed my thinking or spurred me on to better writing.

Making Sense of the Remnants/Mann

Books! Books! Books! I’m downsizing my library big time because of a future move. Unlike this neat and organized bookshelf to your left, mine looks totally abandoned. Some of my beloved books are in designated piles across the floor or packed in boxes to be placed in loving hands for others to read. I am thankful for the many I can place on my new book shelves - some to wait for that rainy day.

As I look over the titles, they remind me of the many different stages in my faith journey. I can see seasons of my life: decades where I searched new truths from the old story; studied certain scripture; experienced particular academic settings; celebrated emotionally hyped and quiet meditative worship. The books tell the story of the journey.

I love my seminary years: they gave me opportunity to sit with the scholars of the time and give place to new understandings. Those were the years I lived out the Yentl of the 70s and wouldn't trade them for riches. And then in communities where I served, I met both lay and clergy who shared their faith in meaningful ways. I especially remember a Presbyterian minister who had studied in a Jewish seminary – how I loved to sit at his feet to hear his interpretation of scripture. I am thankful for opportunities for spiritual growth and for the people I met along the way. The books verify the process.


Dates on the front pages often determined the length of time that I stayed with a particular author and their perspective of the truth. Books, whether novels, non fiction or theological treatises portrayed certain faith doctrines – all of them revealed individual world views, although sometimes couched between the lines and not visible. Yet, they helped me to distinguish between the kind of Christian I want to be and the kind I don’t want to be. Hindsight is usually 20-20 – a good practice to continue.

One of the growing areas for me, especially since my retirement, is finding theological books that stretch my thinking. In doing this, I promptly remember the richness in the discovery of new truths. I often wonder if ministers have miles of books to learn better ways to tell congregations what they want to hear, or if these books serve to create a safe haven to explore areas of new understanding, and the courage to step out of the acceptable circle to find new and refreshing experiences of God’s love.


And so I continue reading titles, thinking about the impact they had on my life and wondering if I will give then away to influence someone else’s life or put them back on the shelf for future use - some of both, I hope. I liken this in some ways to a recent incident where good friends sifted through the ruins of their house after a fire, in search of family wedding rings - a symbol of identity and heritage. I will continue to sift through the many books collected over the years and find that which is meaningful in this season of my life and what clearly identifies who I am and to whom I belong?


Donna Mann
http://www.donnamann.org/ Check out Aggie's Dream (September, 2010)
http://meadowlane.homestead.com/ (Children's Farm Stories)

My Beloved on Valentine’s Day - HIRD

By Rev Ed Hird

Valentine’s Day’s full title is St. Valentine’s Day, because it was named after two St Valentines. They were both Italian clergy martyred in the 3rd century AD for their Christian faith. Because of their sacrificial love, it has become one of the most popular annual events celebrated by hundred of millions around the world. It has become a traditional date night where a wise husband remembers to take his wife out for dinner, followed perhaps by a movie or theatre production. (Husbands, please note that such dates are much less expensive than divorce lawyer’s fee; so put Feb 14th in your IPhone or Blackberry).

Nineteen years ago in a Deep Cove Crier article about marriage, I wrote the following words: “Inside the heart of each and every one of us there is a longing to be understood by someone who really cares. When a person is understood, he or she can put up with almost anything in the world.” After being posted (unbeknown to me) on hundreds of Romance websites , I ended up writing a chapter for the upcoming Canadian anthology “Hot Apple Cider 2’ about this romantic quote. In Hot Apple Cider 2, I commented that my beloved wife “Janice and I are learning afresh the joy of ordinary pleasures: taking regular time together for peaceful walks, chatting over a cup of tea, listening to each other’s daily experiences, watching a video together, going out for dinner, and even reading together.”

Recently I picked up the North Shore News, read Martin Millerchip’s article about Presentation House, and on a whim said to Janice: “Let’s go out on a date night to see Antony Holland’s St Mark’s Gospel.” Being remarkably adaptable, Janice agreed. What a wonderful evening. Unplanned, unexpected, and totally memorable. Happy marriages need to have that sense of adventure, of the unexpected. Boredom in marriage is the devil’s best tool. Sadly many husbands stop dating their wives after they marry them. “What happened to the man I married?”, many wives wonder. Why was he so attentive before marriage, and now he would rather hang out on the golf course or stay late at work? Our wives deeply need to be romanced, pursued, won over every week. That is one reason why the romance novels are a Billionaire dollar industry, because we husbands are not always putting our wives first. My wife Janice needs to know that she is more important than my work, my hobbies, my writing, my sports. She needs to be Number One under God in my life.

I love to hold my beloved Janice’s hand when we are out on a date. Sitting there in Presentation House, watching Antony Holland perform St Mark’s Gospel, I often reached out to her and gently squeezed her hand when something was really moving. Many people don’t know that Mark’s Gospel is high drama, and when done by a gifted artist, can bring you to tears. Antony Holland, at age 91, is literally North America’s oldest leading actor. If I have half as much energy when I am in my nineties, I will be deeply grateful. As Martin Millerchip of the North Shore News put it, Holland's 'hard to resist, perhaps like Jesus'. Holland directed plays throughout the Middle East for the WWII Allied forces, and founded Studio 58 at Langara College where my parents attended his plays for many years. (My mother tells me that Studio 58 initially rehearsed its play in our St. Matthias Oakridge church basement.)

I first became aware of Antony Holland from watching his phenomenal acting in 'Tuesdays with Morrie'. No one dances quite like Holland in the final ‘Morrie’ scene. Antony Holland is the quintessential actor. He loves what he does. At age 91, he has just started. Love is what motivates him. Love of acting and love of people. In both St Mark’s Gospel and Tuesdays with Morrie, the love of God overflows through Holland.

This Valentine’s Day, may I love my wife even more deeply than Holland loves acting and loves his audience. May my beloved wife know that she means everything to me, that she must never come second, that my heart is still aflame with tenderness for her, thirty-three years after I said ‘I do’. May this gift of tender romance be real and life-changing this Feb 14th for our marriages across Canada.


Rev Ed Hird, Rector
St. Simon’s Church North Vancouver
Anglican Coalition in Canada
http://stsimonschurch.ca/

-published in the February 2011 Deep Cove Crier

-award-winning author of the book ‘Battle for the Soul of Canada’

http://www.battleforthesoulofcanada.blogspot.com/

p.s. In order to obtain a copy of the book ‘Battle for the Soul of Canada’, please send a $18.50 cheque to ‘Ed Hird’, #1008-555 West 28th Street, North Vancouver, BC V7N 2J7. For mailing the book to the USA, please send $20.00 USD. This can also be done by PAYPAL using the e-mail ed_hird@telus.net . Be sure to list your mailing address. The Battle for the Soul of Canada e-book can be obtained for $9.99CDN/USD.
-Click to download a complimentary PDF copy of the Battle for the Soul study guide : Seeking God’s Solution for a Spirit-Filled Canada
You can also download the complimentary Leader’s Guide PDF: Battle for the Soul Leaders Guide

Sharing without Condition - Belec

Last night God taught me another lesson. I was [somewhat reluctantly] helping one of my students with a project. Admittedly I was a little annoyed with my sweet young charge for he had once again procrastinated and left his assignment to the last minute. My original intention and my lesson plans included helping him focus on studying for an upcoming exam, not running around last minute trying to help him find articles and symbols for his religion project.

"I just need a cross and a bible," he said.

 I racked my brain trying to remember where I saw my wooden cross last. We recently moved and not all the boxes are unpacked yet. The wooden cross on a strip of leather used to hang on my bedroom mirror.I was niggled at having to depart from my plans. Besides, I didn't know where I could find it. And as for a Bible, didn't he have one he could use?

I assigned him [and his brother] a sheet of review questions to go over while I ransacked a few unpacked boxes. Soon I found the cross. I gave it to my student, albeit a little reluctantly.

"Make sure you take care of it." I dished out my orders.

I headed to my 'Christian/Religious' book section in my classroom. Then I saw them. An entire row of assorted translations and options. Good News. King James [new] King James [old] The Living Bible New International Version; The Holy Bible for the Deaf and more.  I selected a nice red King James Holy Bible and handed it over.

"Make sure you take care of it," I said once again. "I want these back."

I found out some paper and embellishments that my student would be able to use for decorating. We tucked it all in the shoebox and we agreed he could finish it at home that evening.  Right now we needed to study for science.

I handed out an assignment sheet to both boys. As they worked on the first two questions, I felt a nudge from God.
"Look at all the Bibles on your shelf."
I looked over at my shelf. Then I thought about the Revised Standard Version beside my bed and the other NIV Devotional Bible in the bookshelf in my bedroom. [It's large print so that I can see it if I don't happen to have my reading glasses handy.]

Our tutoring session drew to a close. Binders closed. Backpacks zippered. Both boys donned their coats and boots.

"You don't have to hurry to return the Bible or the cross," I said. "In fact if you want to keep them..."

The boys looked at me and without acknowledging my words, said their farewells and high-tailed it in the general direction of home.
I leaned against the door and thought about what had just transpired in my heart. God had pointed out there was no need for me to be stingy with my possessions. My irritated self stood silent before God as my heart softened. I realized that I really did not want to lend a Bible to my student because he had not lived up to my expectations.Mistake number one.

By lending one of my Bibles, I would miss it from my shelf. There would be a hole and I might need the version for something.  What if he did not bring it back? Mistake number 2.

I would lend out one of my [many] Bibles as long as he took care of it and returned it to me as soon as the project was over. Mistake number three.

Hmm...sharing conditionally. I resolved to try harder.

And just as God would - God did. Confirmation of my spiritual lesson for the day came a few hours later when I received an email from a new writer friend. And to add a little icing on the cake, my new writer friend happens to be the educational assistant who works with my students in their religion class!

This gal sent me a video.
Never before have I witnessed such joy and gratitude as the people in this video receive the Bible in their native language. As I watched the people hunger for the Word of God, I was reminded about spiritual passion and how I need to step out and share unconditionally - just as Jesus did. And if that sharing means a little wooden cross on a leather strap or  one or more of my Bibles...then I should hesitate, not. Ah yes, God. Yet another lesson learned.


Kimyal New Testament launch in Indonesia from United Bible Societies on Vimeo.
If you can find a few minutes to watch this video, you will witness joy unabandoned. Sheer, blissful, joy. No reluctance; no condition. Just grateful bliss...

Animal Is as Animal Does—den Boer

Cat gives blood to save hemophiliac kitten declares the headline. The newspaper story out of Lethbridge Alberta goes on to describe how Boris, a homeless cat, saved the kitten’s life. What does our world have in store? Are we looking forward to more such headlines?

Dog wins Citizen of the Year award. Pack of coyotes jailed for killing deer. Zoo animals go on strike. Ape applies for driver’s license. Cow-eater charged with cannibalism.

Will we decide to share our newspapers, our roads, our hospitals and our government with animals—equal rights for all?

Our textbooks define us as animals. As a society, we’ve stopped recognizing ourselves as created in the image of God, our Creator. We’ve even stopped recognizing our Creator.

It has all been done before:

“You will be driven away from people and will live with the wild animals; you will eat grass like cattle. Seven times will pass by for you until you acknowledge that the Most High is sovereign over the kingdoms of men and gives them to anyone he wishes.” Immediately what had been said about Nebuchadnezzar was fulfilled. He was driven away from people and ate grass like cattle. His body was drenched with the dew of heaven until his hair grew like the feathers of an eagle and his nails like the claws of a bird. Daniel 4:32-33 NIV

Marian den Boer is the author of Blooming, This Pilgrim's Progress

Each Life Can Change the World -- Gibson

So now we have four.

The news rushed in just before Christmas was all put away. Grandbean #4 has arrived.

I stood at my kitchen counter, chopping up vegetables for dinner. In the living room—open to the kitchen—the Preacher sat in his recliner, looking a point or two below prime. Our first three beans (as we call our grandchildren, age five and under) bounced around him like tennis balls, paying no attention to the jangling phone.

I shushed them and picked it up.

“Is that Daddy?” yelled one of the beans. Our daughter’s labour had gotten off to a dawdling start the evening before and we’d waited long for news.

“We’re still in the delivery room,” our son-in-law said. “We’re holding the baby right now.”

I hit the speakerphone button. “Say that again, okay?” He did.

Amidst the raucous happy dances came their mother’s voice. “Hi, kids!”

“Mama,” asked Tabatha, “do you still have a baby in your tummy?”

“No, she doesn’t anymore,” said Benjamin. “Mama, what is it?”

“Come and see,” said his Daddy.

The eldest bean clarified his query. “Daddy. Is it female or male?”

In the kerfuffle at our end, neither parent heard. He tried one last time.

“Mama,” he yelled. “DID YOU HAVE A HUMAN BABY?”

Two hours later, we trooped to the hospital, down the hallway, and into their mother’s room. To see.

Amanda sat upright in bed, holding a folded towel. I looked again. The towel had a perfectly cherubic face, and wore a pink-striped toque. “Kids....come and meet your sister!”

Tabatha ran forward, her smile wide. “A baby! A baby!” she said, patting the bundle repeatedly.

But Benjamin approached the bed almost reverently. He touched his mother’s face, then placing both hands on the white bundle, looked long. Adoring.

“Her name is Sherah (Shay-Ra),” said her mother.

Dinah Jane, not yet three, processed all this from Daddy’s arms. Then she said, her voice firm. “Da baby tummed out. Mama pushed the button and the baby tummed out.”

Her father laughed so hard I thought he would drop his now second-youngest child.

“What button did I push?” asked her chuckling Mama.

The tyke leaned out of Daddy’s arms and tapped Amanda’s hospital wristband. A small white button held its two ends together. “Dat one,” she said firmly.

Later, as we prepared to leave, I realized something. “Honey,” I asked our daughter, “What’s Sherah’s middle name?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” she said. “It’s Kathleen.”

The honor stunned me so much I had to sit down suddenly.

It’s dancing time again, people. And why not? Though “sin and sorrow grow, and thorns infest the ground”, every new birth brings a perpetual reflection of Christmas—God, once again, blessing the earth with the hope and promise of tomorrow. A child through whom God can change the world.

We old children often forget: God longs to do the same through us.

***

For the visually-minded, Sherah's mother created this lovely Smilebox of introduction to our newest Bean...enjoy:

http://smilebox.com/playBlog/4d6a49794e7a67774d446b3d0d0a&blogview=true

***

Kathleen Gibson is a faith and life columnist and speaker

Visit her website at www.kathleengibson.ca

This Sunny Side Up column was published in various newspapers during the third week of January, also online at www.kathleengibson.ca/sunnysideup

The Poetry of F.R. Scott — Martin

The following post, about Canadian poet F.R. Scott, is taken from my blog, Kingdom Poets, where you can become more familiar with dozens of the finest Christian poets and their work.

F.R. Scott (1899–1985) was a “first mover of Canadian poetry,” according to Louis Dudek. He was born in Quebec City, and went to Oxford as a Rhodes scholar. Scott studied law, and later became Dean of Law at McGill University. During the depression he became leftist in his political views, and became influential within the Canadian socialist movement. In 1970 he was offered a seat in the Canadian Senate, which he declined.

His credentials as a poet are equally impressive. F.R. Scott was the editor of such publications as McGill Fortnightly Review, The Canadian Mercury, and Preview — which helped him to initiate new poetry in Canada. He won the Governor General’s Award for poetry in 1981 for his Collected Poems. (In 1977 he’d already won the GG for nonfiction for his Essays on the Constitution.) Leonard Cohen recorded Scott’s poem “A Villanelle For Our Times” for his CD Dear Heather (2004) with musical accompaniment.

Unison

What is it makes a church so like a poem?
The inner silence – spaces between words?

The ancient pews set out in rhyming rows
Where old men sit and lovers are so still?

Or something just beyond that can’t be seen,
Yet seems to move if we should look away?

It is not in the choir and the priest.
It is the empty church has most to say.

It cannot be the structure of the stone.
Sometimes mute buildings rise above a church.

Nor is it just the reason it was built.
Often it does not speak to us at all.

Men have done murders here as in a street,
And blinded men have smashed a holy place.

Men will walk by a church and never know
What lies within, as men will scorn a book.

Then surely it is not the church itself
That makes a church so very like a poem,

But only that unfolding of the heart
That lifts us upward in a blaze of light

And turns a nave of stone or page of words
To Holy, Holy, Holy without end.

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the award-winning author of the poetry collections Poiema (Wipf & Stock) and So The Moon Would Not Be Swallowed (Rubicon Press). They are both available at: www.dsmartin.ca

A Small Patch of Blue - Laycock

The day had been grey and dreary from beginning to end, a fine drizzle of rain falling continually, creating a thickening mist that shifted and swallowed all in its path. We were to drive to the high point on The Dome behind Dawson City, Yukon, the next morning and I prayed the morning sun would banish the fog and let us see the stunning view of the Klondike Valley. I hadn’t seen it for many years and I longed for the exhilaration it had always given me when I lived there.

But the next morning was not sunny. The fog lingered.

“Let’s go up anyway,” my husband said, “at least as far as the cemetery.” I knew what he intended. The cemetery held the graves of two good friends, men in their twenties who had taken their own lives in a suicide pact many years before. Their deaths had been the catalyst to the beginning of the journey that led us to faith in Jesus.

We parked the car at the gate and wandered among the graves, noting some names we recognized from years gone by, noting how young some of them had been when death claimed their mortal bodies.

We found the graves we were looking for – one marked by the idler wheel of a D6 Cat, the other by the front frame of another piece of heavy machinery. I watched quietly as my husband pushed scrub brush away so we could see their names welded on the unusual headstones. Memories of that time brought a quietness to the place.
Neither of us wanted to head back to town so we continued up the dirt road as it wound its way to the top.

The peak of the Dome was above the clouds so we looked down on the grey shifting mist, watching as it slowly began to dissipate. A small patch of blue appeared. Part of the Yukon River. I was puzzled at first when I saw it emerge. At this point in the river’s course, the Yukon is not blue. It’s a milky grey, filled with the silt from a river upstream. Then I looked up and realized the river was reflecting the blue sky above it, slowly being revealed as the clouds moved away.

I thought of all the people who had come into our lives at that time of death and tragedy, people who prayed with us and guided us toward the truth about life, death and eternity. And I smiled. They themselves were just ordinary people, living ordinary lives in an isolated place, but they were reflecting something from beyond themselves. Something that glowed with the colour of vibrancy and life – the very face of God.

I pray that will be the case in my life and in everything I write. Though it may have little that is called extraordinary in its pages, though it may exist in a world filled with shifting fog, may it be a reflection of truth, flowing with the colour of true life, able to translate into healing, able to reflect the love of a holy God. May it draw my readers along, as that small patch of blue river below us did, to a place where they will meet Him and know Him, just a little bit more than they did before.

"And as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we shall also bear the image of the heavenly Man" (1Cor.15:49).

Marcia Lee Laycock is a writer/speaker from Central Alberta. She was the winner of The Best New Canadian Christian Author Award for her novel One Smooth Stone. The sequel, A Tumbled Stone, will be released this fall. Her devotional book, Spur of the Moment is available on her website - http://www.vinemarc.com/

A praying-the-Bible prayer for writers - Nesdoly

I have, over the years, collected and memorized Bible verses that encouraged me as a writer. I'm also a great fan of praying Bible words back to God. For today's post, I have combined those two things into a prayer for writers. Pray it over yourself and your work in 2011 — and be blessed!

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

Dear God, as the One who created words and who came as Word, we acknowledge that You are the creator of our tongues (the urge and ability to communicate) and the source of all wisdom about words. Today we bring to You our work of producing and spreading written words.


Help us, first, to hear from You. May Your words sink deep into our own hearts. Help us to listen to them carefully for ourselves and then afterward go and tell our blog, e-zine, magazine and book readers, "This is what the Lord God says."


Help us not only to write but to be bold to submit what we've written, for You have told us to cast our bread upon the waters with the promise that we will find it after many days. May we steward our time, talents and opportunities wisely, for from everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded, and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked.


Help us to resist the urge to draw attention to our successes and praise ourselves, choosing instead to wait for You to lift us up and make us great.


May You be the one to expand our influence, the place of our tents, the curtains of our dwellings, the numbers of our blog readers, book buyers, friends, and followers. May we spare no effort but rather lengthen our cords and strengthen our stakes in excellence so that the good news of Your kingdom will spread to the left and right. As a result of our words may followers of Jesus inherit the nations and make desolate godless cities alive again.


We roll our writing work on You. May You cause our thoughts to become agreeable to Your will so that our plans will be established and succeed. We need You to guide us continually, to satisfy our souls when we feel dry, and to strengthen our bones when we are tired. Help us to be as productive as watered gardens, our words as refreshing and life-giving as springs of water.


May the beauty and delightfulness and favour of the Lord our God be upon us: confirm and establish the work of our hands, yes, the work of our hands, confirm and establish it. Amen. 

You might also like "A Blogger's Prayer" by Ann Voskamp

**********

The verses (using various translations - though the RefTagger widget displays NKJV) in the order which they appear: John 1:1,14; Exodus 4:11; Ezekiel 3:10-11; Ecclesiastes 11:1; Luke 12:48; Proverbs 27:22; James 4:10; 1 Chronicles 29:12; Isaiah 54:2-3; Proverbs 16:3; Isaiah 58:11; Psalm 90:16-17.

By Violet Nesdoly

(This prayer was first posted on the Inscribe Writers Online blog January 12, 2011)

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

Website: www.violetnesdoly.com

• Personal blog promptings  
• Writerly blog Line upon line  where I'm running a series based on the excellent book Beyond the words (by Bonni Goldberg) -- good insights on the writing life and writer self-care. Please drop by!
  
• Daily devotions for children Bible Drive-Thru
• Daily devotions for adults: Other Food: daily devos
• A poem portfolio

Can't Get No Satisfaction - Arends

Here is my latest Christianity Today column, addressing our propensity towards addiction.  Can you relate?

Can't Get No Satisfaction

Addiction is the spiritual disease of our time.

I've never met a potato chip I didn't like. Actually, I've never met a potato chip that didn't call my name from behind the pantry door until I was forced to eat it and every one of its salty companions. So when I heard the phrase "carbohydrate addiction," I knew nutritionists were on to something. It turns out there are foods that can actually increase your hunger when you consume them, creating an escalating, recurring need for the very substances that intensify the problem.

The reality of carb addiction is accepted more widely in popular culture than in scientific communities. But most people can verify anecdotally that some food only makes them hungrier.

It seems to me that this phenomenon symbolizes much of what plagues the human condition. We drink liquids that dehydrate us. We buy objects that require us to buy more objects. We make some money, ratchet up our lifestyle in response, and find we need more income to sustain us. The harder we work, the more work there is to do. And the harder we play, the more elusive the fun. Ask anyone working in Hollywood special effects, or in extreme sports, or in the sex trade industry, and all will tell you the same thing: Yesterday's thrill is today's old news. We always need more.

One of the hallmarks of addiction is "tolerance"—the experience of requiring an ever-increasing amount of a particular substance or behavior in order for it to satiate us. We recognize that dynamic indisputably in chemical dependencies. But it's harder to spot for those of us who are compulsive about work, food, approval, ministry, possessions, intimacy, social media, security, or any other number of more culturally acceptable addictions.

Gerald May was a psychiatrist whose work with chemically addicted people convinced him of two things: Addiction is, at root, a spiritual issue; and every human is addicted to some variety of substances, behaviors, and thought patterns. In his classic Addiction and Grace, May argues that each of us has a profound desire for God. When that desire is inevitably frustrated or misdirected in a fallen world, we experience pain. We deal with that pain in two ways. We repress the longing, or we attach it to something else.

According to May, attachment "bonds and enslaves the energy of desire" to certain people, things, or behaviors until we are obsessed by unworthy masters who can never truly satisfy. Tragically, our attachment to anything other than God (even to things that are not themselves bad) uses up our desire for God. It truly "wastes" us.

May calls addiction "the spiritual disease of our time," but it's not an exclusively modern phenomenon. There's a passage in Haggai that seems so shockingly current that it's hard to believe it was written over 2,500 years ago. The Israelites had returned from their Babylonian exile to find the temple in ruins. They intended to rebuild it, but had their own places to fix and fields to replant; they were too busy.

"Is it a time," God asked through the prophet, "for you yourselves to be living in your paneled houses, while this house remains a ruin? … Give careful thought to your ways. You have planted much, but have harvested little. You eat, but never have enough. You drink, but never have your fill. You put on clothes, but are not warm. You earn wages, only to put them in a purse with holes in it" (Hag. 1:4-6).

Work that is unproductive, food and drink that don't fill or quench, money that doesn't last. The Israelites, to quote a much later poet, can't get no satisfaction. God tells them that life is a treadmill of diminishing returns because they have neglected the temple, and the only way to enjoy the sort of productive, satisfying existence he intends for them is to spend time in that holy place once more.

Throughout Scripture, God continually develops the concept of the temple as the place he meets with his people. By the New Testament, it's clear that the temple is now inside of us. So I read Haggai and begin to understand: Satisfaction comes only when I spend intentional time with God. It comes when that original longing for God—a desire that's been mutated into a thousand splintering directions—gets redirected back to him.

Six hundred years after the Babylonian exile, Jesus addresses every problem Haggai describes. Crops don't grow? Christ is the Vine, and we are the branches. Food and drink don't satisfy? Jesus is the Bread of Life and Living Water. Clothes don't warm? The Messiah alone can cover our sin. Wages disappear? Store up your treasures in heaven.

The desire for fullness, wellness, wholeness, productivity, security, and satisfaction turns out to be a desire for … Jesus. All substitutes, even salty, crunchy ones, only intensify the hunger.

Copyright © 2010 Christianity Today. Click for reprint information.

www.carolynarends.com
www.feedthelake.com

Tuning our Harps - Lawrence

As for our harps, we hung them up on the trees in the midst of that land. / For those who led us away captive asked us for a song, and our oppressors called for mirth: “Sing us one of the Songs of Zion.” / How shall we sing the Lord’s song upon an alien soil? Psalm 137: 2 – 4

We can sing the Lord’s song at any time and in any place, and it is even more important that we sing it when we are on alien soil. When we are captives in a strange land, we need to sing songs of praise—the very singing of these songs of praise releases us from captivity. What is captivity for us? It does not necessarily mean being behind bars in a prison cell, it may mean being captive to negative thinking about a situation in which we find ourselves.

We may not feel like singing God’s praises when things go wrong in our lives, we may want to wallow in our misery. However, a difficult situation is not the time to hang up our harps but a time to sing the Lord’s song with even more vigour. It is a time to strengthen our faith; a time to sing a song of praise and of thanksgiving for the lesson the Holy Spirit is presenting to us.

If we hang up our harps in times of trouble, we are captive to the events in our lives; but if we retune our harps at these times we are free to receive other gifts that God is offering us—new vistas, new horizons, new adventures. When our captors say sing, we must ask, “How loud and in what key?”

If we hang up our harps they will go out of tune and be useless until someone else comes along and takes them, tunes them, sings the Lord’s song, and reaps the benefit. When we sing God’s praises in tough times the Holy Spirit is able to move into our events and give the fruits or seeds of a new harvest. We must listen to what the Spirit says and tune our harps and sing with joy.

© Judith Lawrence

Silence - Reynolds

Silence is golden, our grandmothers used to say. And though we don't often remember it, it is true. Silence is golden!

I stand on my skis on Hollyburn Ridge where two ski trails cross. No one else is around. Around me the air is thick with fog, and heavy. The mountain is socked in with heavy cloud. Everything is not only quiet, but completely muffled, absolutely still. Green trees fade into grey ghosts twenty or thirty yards from where I stand.

The snow lies on the ground and on the trees about me. Flakes that are almost rain softly, silently, fall. There is not a sound.

I stand and listen. The silence seems so good. It feels so right. In the words of the twenty-third psalm, it "restores my soul."

So much of modern life is noise. The radio is blaring. The television is on, constantly it seems. People are always talking. And around us, in our homes, there is always the sound of a motor -- the refrigerator, the furnace, someone's electric razor or hair dryer. We don't hear them consciously, but something is usually buzzing. Always noise.

Many years ago, far away from here, I stood on a country hillside, beside a farmhouse, in the chill darkness of a winter's night. A clear, still night. A night when you could hear the stars. On the slope the other side of the valley were the lights of distant houses and the occasional bark of a dog. I still remember, years later, the silence of that night, when every sound was audible.

"Be still and know that I am God," the Bible says (Psalm 46:10).
Sometimes it's only in the silence, in the stillness, that, listening, we can hear, and know!

Anonymous but Known and Loved - Austin

An excitement grows in me as A Second Cup of Hot Apple Cider moves through the final stages before typesetting. I've just had a taste of the articles in it, but that taste leaves me thirsting for more. I'm honoured to be named among the authors of such a collection.


The piece that will open the book turned my mind back some 20 years. Passionately involved in the pro-life movement at the time, and in and out of jail, I wrote constantly with passion and intensity. Re-reading those pieces now, I see a heavy overdose of religious and ideological jargon. Still, many of them gained publication. Yet one message eluded me.


Even 20 years ago, a disturbing statistic about abortion numbers was the lack of difference between professing Christians and non-believers. I believed I understood one key reason for that lack of difference, but every effort to articulate that reason came up short. I finally asked my oldest daughter, 17 at the time, if she could write from the perspective of a daughter coming home pregnant to a proud father who has been outspoken in his opposition to abortion, but whose religious pride could not accept his daughter in this situation. Can I confess that I cried when I read her story? Alanna did exactly what I asked. Too much of the father was recognizable, and I did not like him.


This piece (below) appeared anonymously in The Interim in 1997. It was my daughter's first published work. A testimony to the sense of authenticity is that the editor called me, feeling his way very carefully, asking if this was something we were going through as a family. It is shared with permission of Alanna Rusnak, now married and the mother of three of our grandchildren -- and still writing as well or better than her father. It is shared because it still articulates a far-too-common double standard within the Christian community. For more up-to-date samples of Alanna's writing, visit selfbindingretrospect.blogspot.com. Her post titled, "What You Do Unto the Least of These" reflects on a nine-year-olds response to her Daddy going to jail.

Daddy's Pride

by Alanna (Austin) Rusnak

My Daddy's a proud man. Strong in his convictions, devoted fully to everything he believes in. He's a kind of 'John the Baptist'. . . not screaming salvation, but, "SAVE THE CHILDREN!"


I've always thought he was for real, always believed he meant what he said. . . now I'm not so sure. The devil has been pulling his strings -- hard!


He believes in himself and people respect him a lot. They look up to him as the perfect father and husband. I hear people say all the time, "Why can't we have a perfect family like them?"


Perfect?

We may have been close to it then -- but now. . ?


Daddy used to sing a cute little song for me. It was his way of telling me he loved me.

We used to do silly things together, father-daughter bonding times.

We used to put on old records and bring back the disco era.

We used to have such fun.


Not anymore.

Nothing has been fun since it happened.


Daddy broke our favorite record in half last week. He hasn't sung or whistled in days.

Daddy doesn't love me anymore.


He always said that both he and Mom would support me if it ever happened. But now he's going against everything he's ever said.


"Just get rid of it!"


You say it so calm, like it's just a bug or something. You went through so much pain trying to save those lives, and now you want me to kill it. You're not my father.


I could have run away. I could have gone and hid until it was all over. Is that what you'd want me to do? Would that protect your precious reputation?


Daddy. . . who are you? I don't know you anymore. I thought you loved me. I thought you'd always be there for me.


It was a mistake -- I know. We didn't want it to happen. John's parents weren't home and we had a bit to drink. It just happened and now I'm pregnant. I told you and you just sat there all stony faced and hard. Mom started to cry and you told me to leave. I had nowhere to go. I couldn't go to John. He said he never wanted to see me again. To be rejected by John for a mistake that was his too -- hurt more than anything I've felt before. But my own father. . ?


"You're not my daughter!"


How can you say that? Daddy. . . look at me. Can't you recognize your own little girl? I haven't changed. I'm still young, vulnerable and naive, maybe more than before. You can't just pack it in, call it quite and not think about me. I can't get through this on my own.


Look at me. . . I'm crying. This is so stupid!! The very person who should be here helping and supporting me wants nothing to do with me right now. Have you any idea how that makes me feel? I'm already going through enough. I don't need all this on top of it. Where are your getting your ideas from anyway? I don't think you understand anything! You've never been pregnant! You can't know how terrifying it is! You've never told all your friends you were going to save yourself until marriage, then blew it! You don't know what it's like. Think about what I'm going through. What's everyone going to think when they find out? I'm the good Christian girl -- never done anything worng. Now look at me. . . Laura Ingils Wilder turned Madonna.


My reputation will be totally shot. All the guys will think I'm easy and I'll probably have to drop out of school. My life is totally destroyed! I have nowhere to go, no one to turn to and no way to support the baby when it does come.


But I'm going to do everything I can to make its life good. I will feed it, nurture it, and I will love it unconditionally -- even when it makes stupid mistakes.


My baby is more important than my reputation. But you! YOU!! You're terrified aren't you? Completely freaked out!


What if the Church finds out?


What will the elders think?


Who cares? Is that really more important than a human life? You're disgusting! Who cares what people think? This is your grandchild! It's not your mistake anyway -- it's mine and I'll take full blame for it. Just don't force me into an abortion.


And what if I did anyway? What if I did have an abortion? How would that change things? You'd still hate me, wouldn't you? You still couldn't watch me walk from the house without thinking I'm going out for sex. You wouldn't trust me. You'd have no sympathy.


You're not a father to me. . . I don't know what you are.


Why can't you just hug me? -- pat me on the back and say, "I love you. We'll get through this together."


Why can't you just forgive me? Why can't I be Daddy's little girl again?


How can I live without a father, knowing there was a time when I did have one -- one who loved me, but now hates me because I made a mistake?


I am a daughter to nothing.

I am nothing!

Flesh -- holding the baby of a guy I didn't even love.

Garbage -- rejected and disowned.

Ugly and dirty.

Empty -- alone.


DADDY!! I need you to love me!