The Princess Bride and Psalm 22 - Arends

In On the Joke of the Bible

Why we can't get the New Testament without the Old.

Hi All - Here is my latest CT column.  As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Carolyn Arends | In the June 2012 issues of Christianity Today, posted online 07/02/2012

My kids finally saw The Princess Bride, a movie their dad and I have loved since our college days. There is something wonderful about watching your favorite people watch one of your favorite films. In this case, the added bonus was observing the light come into their eyes as they discovered the origin of several quirky things their parents routinely say. "Hey!" they shouted with a shock of recognition when Westley first said, "As you wish"—a line they've heard their father utter hundreds of times. Vizzini's "Inconceivable!" produced a similar response. By the time we got to the ROUS (Rodents of Unusual Size), our kids were grinning with the particular delight of cracking a previously mystifying code. They were in on the joke, and they liked it.

Language is much more than grammar and syntax. It is layer upon layer of collective memory and shared meaning, so that simple phrases like, "Houston, we have a problem," "Et tu, Brute?," "Remember the Alamo," or even "Yada, yada, yada" can carry worlds of meaning. You can't master a dialect without also learning the culture in which it is embedded.

In my quest to learn the "Gospel Language," I have often been oblivious to the shared experience assumed by the biblical writers. Jesus and his earliest followers were Jews; they held in their collective memory a particular story of a particular people, loaded with mutually understood points of reference. When I've read the New Testament only dimly aware of the symbolic world of the Old Testament, I've barely skimmed the surface of an ocean of meaning.

Certainly, I've grasped that Jesus' choice of 12 disciples has something to do with Yahweh's calling of the 12 tribes of Israel. But until recently, I remained oblivious to the way his baptism and desert temptation evoke the foundational story of the Israelite Exodus through Red Sea waters and into the wilderness. I've been duly impressed with the Lord's ability to command the stormy waters to be still (Matt. 8:26-27), but I've missed the Israelite shock at this man from Nazareth doing something that, according to the Hebrew Scriptures, only Yahweh can do. And although I've understood some of the significance of Jesus' transfiguration right before the eyes of Peter, James, and John, I've forgotten that the Israelites had been waiting since the Exile for the Shekinah—the visible glory of the Lord—to return.

Maybe the most significant reference I've missed has to do with Jesus' final words on the cross. That awful cry—My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?—has haunted my struggle to understand exactly what transpired (Matt. 27:46; Mark 15:34). Was Jesus, for a devastating moment, utterly alone and without hope? How that cry is processed has all sorts of implications for theology—not least for the way we conceive of the Atonement and of the relationality of God's triunity. More personally, it shapes the way I perceive my own experiences of abandonment.

I've known, in a vague way, that with his cry Jesus was quoting the beginning of Psalm 22, a passage so familiar to his friends that to utter the first line would have been tantamount to reciting the entire thing. Psalm 22 is an anguished prayer of David, spoken as a godly sufferer awaiting deliverance. It's the most frequently quoted Psalm in the New Testament. And its parallels to the Crucifixion are chilling:

A band of evil men has encircled me,
they have pierced my hands and my feet.
I can count all my bones;
people stare and gloat over me.
They divide my garments among them
And cast lots for my clothing. (vv. 16b-18, NIV 1984)

The psalm is so shot through with suffering, it's hard to imagine any more appropriate reference Jesus could have made. But it's essential to know that the only thing in Psalm 22 that runs as deeply and vividly as the speaker's pain is his unshakable hope:

You who fear the Lord, praise him! …
For he has not despised or disdained
the suffering of the afflicted one;
he has not hidden his face from him
but has listened to his cry for help. (vv. 23a, 24, NIV 1984)

Both Matthew and Mark note that some of the onlookers misunderstood Jesus' cry, mishearing the Aramaic word for "my God"—Eloi—as Elijah. I wonder if, in including that detail, they aren't cautioning us to pay attention to exactly what Jesus is saying.

The Cross is a mystery, and no human should expect to understand it fully. But if we want to be conversant in the language of the gospel, we need to be able to say at least this: At Calvary, Jesus felt the deepest level of anguish ever known, and yet he could still, in his Psalm 22 declaration, point to the presence, faithfulness, and anticipated deliverance of his Father—the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and the God of our salvation.

Copyright © 2012 Christianity Today. Click for reprint information.

 

And So I Prayed - Laura J. Davis

I have always been a writer, but I didn't realize it until I started writing full-time about twelve years ago. Up until then I had been a singer/songwriter. While my singing career started out with ideas of fame and fortune in my head, God had other plans.

When I made the move to give my life over to the Lord, I had held one thing back - my singing voice. I had been a trained coloratura soprano, who hated opera! I took the voice God gave me and chose to sing in bars instead of accepting a scholarship to Julliard's based on my opera singing. Yes ... I was a stupid 18 year old.

When I finally gave ALL of my life to the Lord, not just my heart, I committed to singing for Him. It wasn't easy. The only hymn I knew at the time was Amazing Grace. I had no idea what I would sing, how I would be accompanied and more importantly, where I would sing. So I prayed, "Lord, if you want me to sing for you, make my path clear."

One month later I received a guitar for my birthday from my parents. I knew the basics, as I had taken lessons when I was twelve, but I had the overwhelming feeling that God wanted me to use it to accompany myself. What was I to do? Sing Amazing Grace at church all the time? Besides, I could barely remember the chords. God, I thought, was joking with me. So, I prayed, "Lord, if you want me to play the guitar and sing for you, please teach me how to play this thing." Within one year I had written over 22 songs and was proficient enough to "take it on the road."

But where would I go? I knew absolutely no one in Christian music ministry. So, I prayed, "Lord, show me what to do next. Where do I go?"

The following day I received a phone call to come and sing at Teen Challenge. I  was so incredibly afraid that I would have to play my guitar in front of people, that I said no! God gave me another chance and I received a call from Teen Ranch to come and play for the weekend. I made lots of excuses - I'd never played my guitar in public before, all the songs were my own, etc., they said, "Come anyway. We'll be your sounding board." So, I went and from that day forward I never lacked for places to sing. I never called anyone or promoted myself in any way. God was my "booking agent". 

The songs also kept flowing and before I knew it I was on 100 Huntley St. debuting one of them. Some were even recorded by other artists and played on the radio. I recorded an album and appeared on 100 Huntley St. again. I continued singing until the the fall of 2000 when a tumour was discovered in my abdomen. During its removal something went wrong and I almost died. When I woke up, my throat was very sore. I was assured it was due to the tubes that had been stuck down my throat and it would go away. The doctors were right. The soreness did go away, but whenever I attempted to sing my voice would crack. I could no longer hit the high notes I loved. The power in my voice was gone. This continued on for months, until I realized I would never sing again like I used to.

My depression and anger with God over losing my voice was overwhelming. I felt like one of my arms or legs had been cut off. I now had no purpose. Sure, I was a wife and mother and I loved those jobs, but for me it wasn't enough. I had nothing to offer back to the Lord. I was like a ship without a rudder. The creative side of me needed an outlet, the spiritual side of me needed to share the gospel. I didn't know how to do this anymore. So, I prayed, "Lord, what can I do now?"


He said, "Write about me." 


Little did I know what a healing process that would be. Until next time!

GOOD, AND LOST -- Alan Reynolds

Jesus told a story of a lost coin. The coin was not a bad coin.  It wasn't counterfeit.  It was just lost. He told the story of a lost sheep. The sheep was not defective in any way as far we know.  The sheep was just lost.  You can, after all, be good and be lost. (Read Luke 5:1-11.)

You have perhaps heard people say, “I’m not a bad person.  I don’t need to be saved. I don’t need religion.”  No need of grace, or faith, or church.  But it’s not where you are that’s important; it’s where you’re heading! Said Oliver Wendell Holmes, "The great thing in this world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving."

So many people in our society today, as long as they're getting along alright, as long as life is good, don't stop to think about where they're going.  As long as they can keep the party going, they don't have to think about the future.  Remember the “Prodigal Son” Jesus told about.  As long as he had the money, and the friends that money brought, it was pretty difficult to convince him that he was going the wrong way.  But sooner or later the party comes to an end.

Being a member of a church doesn't mean that you're better than anyone else.  It means that you've set yourself in a certain direction -- to seek and to find the "Kingdom of God," God's will and rule in your life and for all creation.  And you enter into a certain relationship with God and with the people of God who call themselves "Christian."

That's what the New Testament means when it talks about "salvation." It's not a matter of whether you're a good person or a bad person. It's the direction your life is going, and how you maintain the right direction.

The word used most commonly in the New Testament for sin means literally "to miss the mark."  It's not where you are that's important.  It's where you're heading.

Faith is not a mechanical thing. It is a relationship, our relationship with God – daily walking with a sense of God’s presence and in the knowledge of God’s love, the love we know in Jesus Christ.
And "repent" means a turning, a change of direction -- a re-turning to the relationship with God. If you are walking with God, there is little doubt that you are heading in the right direction, to the Holy City, the Peaceable Kingdom. By seeking to live our lives in God’s presence and love, we will tend to seek the right direction for our lives and return to that relationship when we have strayed from it.


It’s a frightening thing to be lost.  Remember, perhaps, that time as a child when your mother or father took you to the fair, or the circus, or the park, or even a big downtown department store.  You wandered off and for a minute or two they didn’t notice.  And then you noticed.  You didn’t know where they were.  You didn’t know where you were.  Remember the fright you got.

Or have you ever been lost in the woods?  I remember a friend telling me of his experience – starting out in what he thought was the right direction, and after tramping for a couple of hours, ending us back at the same tree.  Doing that four or five times, with night coming on, and the cold; and he was all alone.


Faith is like a compass. It gives you a point of reference, something outside yourself that keeps you in the direction you should be going.

A few years ago, while on vacation, my son Peter and I went fishing for a few days off the south coast of Vancouver Island.  Twice we were caught in a dense fog.  Fortunately we did have a compass.

The first time, it was a beautiful, clear morning.  Peter noticed the fogbank in the distance.  We thought it would burn off in the morning sun.  It didn't.  It settled in around us so thick that you couldn't see another boat fifty feet away.  It was our first experience out on the saltwater in a thick fog.  We decided we better "head in."

It was an interesting experience.

We knew that we should follow the compass, keeping the boat in a certain direction, but we had an urge to veer a bit to the north so that we would be closer to the land.  It was almost irresistible, and we kept running onto the shore or into kelp beds which were stretching out from the shore.  It was eerie.  We couldn't see or hear a thing. There was only the rolling sea, and the fog completely encompassing us.  We soon realized we had to steer strictly by the compass or we'd be in trouble.


It’s bad to be lost in the woods, or in a fog, but in a sense, it’s worse to be lost in a city, in the middle of thousands of people who don’t know you and don’t care.  For when you’re lost in the city, it’s usually because you’re not just physically lost, but spiritually lost. It’s bad to be lost physically, but it’s worse, much worse, to be lost spiritually.

When you're lost, you don't know where you're going or how to get where you want to go. Or perhaps you don't even know where you are. But that's where we are now as a culture, in many ways.  There was a time when we believed we were the children of the Creator, who looked down on us and cared for us.  Now commonly we see ourselves as sitting on this microscopic planet, swirling through empty space, in an illimitable and expanding universe devoid of life or meaning.

Way back, a hundred years ago, people of our culture had a great confidence in our human ability to conquer all of humanity's problems. Science and reason would be our deliverers.  Swinburne could sing, "Glory to man in the highest, for man is the master of things."

Two world wars, a world-wide depression, the ensuing Cold War, and problems of population and international injustice, with the economy and the environment, have robbed us of our self-assurance. We’re not sure who we are, or where we are going.


What kind of person do you want to be in twenty years time?  What kind of person do you want to be as you grow into your senior years? Do you know how to get there?  Are you heading in the right direction?

The most important thing in life is not where you are, but where you're heading.  


What direction are you going in and where is it going to take you?

His Strength is Made Perfect

Questions asked at Write Canada 2012 drew old stories from half-buried memory banks. The questions brought me to tears more than once. “Those stories need to be shared,” she said, while I struggled to maintain my masculine dignity. I had told her, half laughing, that when men first learn how to cry, they have no idea where to find the “off” switch. Twenty-two years later the “off” switch remains uncooperative.

Jail time had never been on my radar. I grew up in a strong Christian home. I knew my Bible well. I respected the law. I respected the police. As a husband and father of three young daughters (I have grandchildren as old now) I had good reasons to stay on the right side of the law. This isn’t the place to argue the strengths and weaknesses of the Pro-Life Movement. But I think it fair to point out that my time in jail suggests more than a half-hearted belief.

My first several arrests felt like triumphs. We were doing what was going to change the world. We sang, we prayed, we celebrated. Then the police released us and we returned home. They were great days.

A reality check had to happen sooner or later. You only deliberately put yourself in the place of arrest so many times until charges are laid.

I thought I had the strength. I thought I could face anything you could throw at me. I deliberately moved myself into the place of the toughest opposition. We were committed to non-violence, but our opponents had a different agenda. I took as much of the kicking and elbows on myself as possible, protecting those around me.

I’ll spare you most of the details of my first three days behind bars. But a high tolerance for physical pain is not sufficient preparation.

Clang of bars.
Great gates of steel.
Metallic crunch of massive locks.

The movies play it well
but . . .

Different . . . the sound falls on the ears
from the inside,
from the wrong side,
when the keys
by other hands are guarded.

Different . . . the eyes search
old, heavy steel,
pitted and painted,
drab and cold,
hard and cruel.
Steel that forms the cell
or outer range.
Still barred.

Different . . . the nose tastes stale air,
sour bodies,
hatred breathed,
innocence damned,
The curse more natural than breathing.

Clang of bars.
Great gates of steel.
Metallic crunch of massive locks.

(An excerpt from an unpublished poem titled “Not This Christmas” by the author.)

To this day, if I was asked to describe Hell, the holding cells beneath the courtrooms of Old City Hall in Toronto would be my starting place. Ten hours. It feels like a life-time. The toilet, out where everybody can see it, is smeared with excrement. The only tissue in sight is in a puddle of urine on the floor. Endless hours later a mattress on the floor makes me the 3rd body in a two-man cell. Hand-cuffs, leg-irons, court appearances and strip-searches.

We knew the strip-searches were coming. We tried to prepare mentally, but the experience defies preparation. Six strip-searches in three days. . . It somehow becomes cumulative, a toxic build-up. In one of those searches a 76 year old Roman Catholic Priest stood naked beside me. His nakedness brought pain beyond anything of my own, and my own humiliation was more than I knew how to bear. Crying was foreign to me, but I cried for most of the last 24 hours.

I went back. I felt I had to, though I knew what waited me this time. About half-way through a 31 day stint behind bars I came back from court to Remand 2C in the Mimico Correctional Centre of Toronto. I’d expected physical and emotional exhaustion. I’d watched others coming back from court head direct to their bunks. Only three of us from the last “Rescue” remained in jail at the time, two of us in Mimico.

We’d let it slip that we only had to sign conditions to walk away. That painted us as religious nut-cases, too stupid to use the “Get-Out-Of-Jail-FREE” card we held.

It was a weekend and the TV stayed on late. I slept, but woke about 1:00 A.M. Most of the time I was spiritually and emotionally armed. More than 1,000 people across Canada were praying daily for the three of us still behind bars – but my mind was sluggish with sleep.

The TV seared my brain with a rape and a murder-suicide. I couldn’t keep it on the screen. It became real. All these years later I can still see the blood pooling on the bed and dripping on the floor.

I spent much of the night sitting on a ledge in the bathroom, Bible in my hands, trying to flush those images from my mind.

Jail’s a world of steel, concrete and glass. Everything echoes. Mid-morning, the TV and radio were both blaring. Men shouted over the din. Several calls to “turn it down,” were ignored. I turned it down, then yanked the cord when it was immediately turned up again.

Most fights I saw in jail followed brief moments of shouting and cursing. The guards got inside quickly, before I faced blows – or gave any. My “non-violence” commitment had been pushed to the recesses of my mind. Then I added a second violation by pleading with them to put a limit on the noise. You DON’T ask guards for favours in front of other inmates.

I knew I’d blown it. I didn’t know at the time that people in jail die for less.
Fifteen minutes later I asked permission to speak. The prisoners astonished me by giving me the opportunity to apologize.

I climbed to my bunk then—and cried. Did I say something earlier about men not knowing where to find the “off” switch? The tears simply refused to stop. I used my towel to mop them for more than an hour.

Everyone knew I was there as a “Christian.” I had tried so hard to be strong. I had tried so hard to watch every word and action.

I stayed in my bunk and refused to come down for lunch. By the evening I had cried myself out. Convinced I was failure personified, I forced myself to choke down a bit of the meal.

I’ve spent my whole life in the church. I’ve read through my entire Bible many times. Yet I’ve always found some verses hard to understand. His strength is made perfect in our weakness, is one of those verses.

A good night’s sleep gave me a bit of emotional balance, but didn’t ease the sense of failure. I knew my apology couldn’t undo the damage. I’d failed myself. I’d failed them. I’d failed the Pro-Life movement. I’d failed the people who consistently prayed for me. And mostly, I’d failed God.

Yet a subtle change had somehow happened.

They had seen that I hurt like they hurt in this place of incessant noise and no privacy—where somebody else held the keys.

My failure made me one of them.

I hadn’t seen a Bible in that range, other than my own, a Gideon New Testament. But they began appearing. Men began cornering me to ask questions, sparking small, brief Bible studies. My failure—my weakness—allowed a door to open in that maximum security section of a minimum security jail—that I could never have forced open in my strength. My breaking in front of those men, and the raw pain of that breaking, opened lines of communication.

To this day I find no possible explanation except, “Look what God did!”

Clang of bars.
Great gates of steel.
Metallic crunch of massive locks.

BUT – GOD. . !

Standing Alone - Meyer

When you lead a charge into battle

Don’t be surprised

When you find yourself

Manitoba Launch of A Second Cup of Hot Apple Cider

Standing alone

There’s times they’ll be with you

And times when they won’t

It’s not really a betrayal

But just the way things are

It was your idea in the first place

You who rallied the troops

You who convinced them

The cause was worthwhile

They seemed to be with you

Eager to help

Eager to join in the fight

But when the chips are down…

And you lead the charge into battle

Don’t be surprised

When you find yourself

Standing alone

I wrote this poem a while ago, and although there are times when this is very true, I want to share with you today some cases where I have not stood alone.

The Word Guild recently celebrated their 10^th year as an organization that gives support to Canadian Christian authors.  I have been a part of this wonderful organization for the past eight years. I recently returned from Write!Canada, a conference that unites writers from all across Canada. I plan my year around this conference. I have had travel grants from the Manitoba Arts Council which have enabled me to attend in previous years.

The Manitoba Writers Guild recently celebrated their 30^th year. I’ve been a member of that organization for the past eight or so years as well. There is a bookstore in Winnipeg, McNally Robinson Booksellers, that is VERY supportive of Manitoba (and other) authors hosting book events almost every night of the year.

As the owner of Goldrock Press, I have had the privilege of being the editor to various anthologies. Each time, there is a bond of friendship that grows between the writers. On July 1^st, I will be doing a joint book signing at “The Forks” in Winnipeg with a writer from my Prairie Writers anthologies, volumes 1 and 3. Recently, this writer, Barbara Becker went on to be the editor of her own anthologies and I was privileged to be part of one of these: Measured Words, volume 2. On July 1^st, Barbara and I will have a table with both of our anthologies on it. Also on that table will be some copies of A Second Cup of Hot Apple Cider, another collaborative effort between authors from across Canada.

And yes, there are still moments when we will feel alone. The picture above is a case in point. A Second Cup of Hot Apple Cider has sold over 5,000 copies across Canada but I had only ONE person show up for the “Manitoba launch of A Second Cup of Hot Apple Cider.” Some days are like that. And I wasn’t truly alone even then. That one person and I had a very good, long overdue, visit. And the carrot cake and hot apple cider were quite yummy.

And although there will be times when we FEEL alone, we are never truly alone. Jesus promised “I will be with you always.” Anytime… anywhere… in our good days and in our bad, He is always with us.

Dorene Meyer

Editor of Northern Writers volume 3

www.dorenemeyer.com

www.goldrockpress.com  

Write it! by Ruth Smith Meyer

Write It!

Elsa was a storyteller supreme.  When she started relating a tale from her childhood exploits, she riveted the attention of staff and fellow clients alike.  Her nonchalant manner was negated by the twinkle in her eye.  You knew something comical was coming, but she kept you in suspense until the last moment. Elsa (not her real name) lived with her son and his family in a few rooms built especially for her. When Elsa spoke about her family, she glowed with love and pride.  

When she died after a short illness, I wanted to convey to her family the gratitude for being so supportive of their elder.  When I spoke about the love and pride she had in them, they looked at me strangely.  

“Are you sure you’re at the right visitation?” one of them asked. 

“Why would you say that?” I questioned.

“We never experienced those sentiments from her.  She always complained and we thought we weren’t able to please her no matter what we did.”

Too often we hear, at someone’s death, the wish that the living would have done or said more while the departed were still alive.  It can work both ways.  We need to express our deep-felt appreciation to people while they are still alive, but we also need to do our part while we still are here on this earth. 

How sad if we feel it but don’t say it to the ones for whom we have tender sentiments or if we tell other people instead of the ones who would benefit the most from hearing it.

Last fall, I took advantage of my husband’s 75^th birthday to give opportunity for some of those word gifts to be made to him.  At a dinner and open house I had slips of paper made up with “Characteristics of Paul that I enjoy” and “Memories” with space for people to fill in their personal responses.  Those were to be their gift to him.

My dear wise one, like many, has been a giver most of his life, but hadn’t realized the influence and effect he had on others.  He certainly didn’t have an over-inflated opinion of himself. We had a lovely day as we celebrated him.  He was amazed at how many turned up for the occasion.  Afterward as he read through the comments people had written, I sensed a change in his demeanor—a level of contentment, comfort and acceptance of self-worth more pronounced than before. That has been a lasting effect that I believe has helped sustain him through several difficult months of pain, surgery and recovery since.  I am now putting those comments along with pictures of the day in a book that he can read and reread. 

 When I was growing up, whether it was just in my family or whether it was society in general, there seemed to be a reticence to affirm children for doing well or for their strengths, for fear of making them too proud.  In my personal experience, that left me with two tendencies I’ve had to work hard to overcome.  First, I am so apt to doubt myself, even when I’ve done my best—I always think I should or could have done better.  Second, when I am affirmed now, for doing well, I find it hard to accept or know what to do with those expressed sentiments. It has been difficult to just say, "Thank-you!" It seems to me, that a child will be much better adjusted if given affirmation, from day one, when they genuinely deserve it. 

How often do we appreciate something someone has done, or a gift they freely share, a strength they display, and just keep our feelings of appreciation inside?  How often are we apt to mention it to a friend or spouse, but not to the person?  Why not write a note to the one we admire or appreciate and tell them so?  What do you think it would mean to them if we told them?  What could the loss of that affirmation mean if we don’t?

Saying it is good, but for writers, putting it on paper is even better!  For then those words can be read over and over.  I dare say that some of those notes will be kept for years and treasured in the hearts for whom they were meant.

I don’t know about you, but I want my family to hear my love, pride and appreciation from my own lips and pen before I die.  What about a note for each of my family members, for my diligent, committed co-worker, my faithful fellow-church members, my caring pastor, the friendly clerk at my usual grocery store…

Transformed - Rose McCormick Brandon

At 14, I was a disgruntled church-goer. I went because it was one of Mom's compulsories. As young as 5, I couldn't wait for Sunday School to end. By the time I was a teenager my dislike for church was in full throttle. I sat with ears closed impatient for the benediction.

Two months before my fifteenth birthday, a young couple came to pastor our shabby little church. (The people weren't shabby, only the building.) My cousin, who loved church almost as much as I hated it, asked me to go to a Sunday evening service, something I'd never done. Since we were joined at the hip, I went. The sermon went in one ear and out the other. Afterwards, the pastor invited the congregation to join him in the prayer room. Everyone filed out of the pews and downstairs to a squat little room with wooden benches. I went because not going would've drawn attention to myself.
On my knees at a bench, the pastor's wife, a 22 year-old newly-wed, came and knelt beside me. Her name was Bev Friesen. She whispered, "Would you like to receive Jesus Christ as your Savior?"
I said, "Yes" because I knew it was the right answer. I repeated after her a simple prayer. The meeting soon ended and I went home. When I opened my eyes the next morning, something stirred in my chest. I felt new inside, as if I was breathing different air than I had the day before. On the way to school, everything around me seemed re-born - sky, grass, sounds. Over the next few days, people I hadn't much cared for became loveable. I'd stepped into a fresh world.

My attitude toward church changed. I, who had no use for Sunday School, became a diligent teacher of a young class. By praying a simple prayer to receive Jesus as my Savior, I experienced a spiritual birth.
One night a rabbi, Nicodemus, came secretly to Jesus to ask what he thought were deep questions. Jesus answered him, "You must be born again." A simple answer for a scholar who didn't want his colleagues to see him conversing with Jesus.
Nicodemus remembered Jesus' words. After the crucifixion, he became a daylight disciple. Along with Joseph of Arimathea, another night follower, he went to Pilate and requested Jesus' body. They lovingly wrapped it and laid it in a new tomb. Like me, Nicodemus was born again.
As I ponder my youthful transformation, I still feel awed by Jesus, still see the world through His eyes. Two thousand years after his death and resurection, Jesus is still birthing people into His kingdom.
The young pastor's wife led me in a prayer that went something like this: 
 Lord Jesus, I believe you are the Savior of the whole world and that no one can experience spiritual birth except through you. I invite you into my life today.

Rose McCormick Brandon writes faith articles, devotionals, personal experience, biographies and fiction. She has two blogs: The Promise of Home (stories of British Home Children) and Listening to My Hair Grow.

Changed Plans: Pivot Points of Destiny -- Peter Black

Large trunks and packing crates appeared in the house, and over time clothes that were not in season were packed away in them.


The kids in this large family bounced through the door each day after school to find it barer and less like home. A table-lamp that sat over here had disappeared, and the boxed silver cutlery set and Mom’s best china were no longer on the sideboard over there – these and much more were now packed in blankets, hidden from
sight in those crates.


The location – an industrial town, about 20 miles from Glasgow, Scotland. The destination – Australia. How exciting for the kids! What an adventure. They’d soon
be embarking on their long voyage to the other side of the world in a huge ocean liner. That family was my wife’s. The time – the early 1950s.

Alan, my wife’s youngest brother, became ill, requiring hospitalization and surgery. The sailing date passed and the whole Australia venture was called off. The family had already given notice on their house, so had to find another home. She and I met over 10 years later at a church near the home they’d moved to.

Elsewhere, in the mid-1960s, a young couple living in Glasgow had pursued emigration to New Zealand. They had two little girls – a toddler and a baby, just months old. They didn’t have a lot of stuff, so they wouldn’t have very much to pack. That was my sister and husband and family.

My brother-in-law was an officer in Glasgow’s fire department, but learned that it may be some time before being accepted for emigration to New Zealand, since he had no one to sponsor him. The immigration officer suggested that with his firefighter’s experience and his former trade he could obtain entrance to Canada, and urged that the family get their medicals and start the process. They did and were accepted.

Bill flew out several months ahead of Marg and the girls in order to find employment and a home. He initially boarded with a Canadian military veteran in Windsor, Ontario. This man had boarded with Bill’s grandparents in Glasgow during WWII. Bill's family joined him in early 1966.

We were married later that year, and eventually came to Canada to serve in ministry with them eight years after that, with two little boys and a third on the way. The rest is history, with much water under many bridges; and now you’re reading about it.

If those two families’ plans had not changed it’s highly unlikely that you would be reading this article today. It’s unlikely that my wife and I would have met and that she would’ve been the girl I married. Unlikely that I would have the same kids and grandkids. Unlikely that we would have immigrated to Canada.

So much in life seems to turn on small decisions, as well as large. Like a well-timed watch, the cogwheels of life have a way of pivoting according to a plan that’s not quite what we would have chosen. A master watchmaker understands perfectly how the timepiece he has designed and created works inside, but most of us only see the numbers on the watch-face and the hour, minute and second hands going round. The Almighty has His plan, too.

Hmm, what if Alan hadn’t been sick, and the family had gone to Australia? What if Bill and Marg had gone to New Zealand . . .? What if . . . ?

The Master Designer has plans and our times are in His hands.

“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the LORD, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future’” (Jeremiah 29:11 NIV).

~~+~~

Peter A. Black writes a weekly inspirational column in The Watford Guide-Advocate, and is author of the children's / family book "Parables from the Pond" (Word Alive Press ISBN 1897373-21-X)

OPEN OUR EYES - Eleanor Shepherd

As Glen and I bowed our heads for prayer together before leaving the breakfast table at the beginning of our day, I prayed.  "Lord, open our eyes to the ways that you choose to show us Your love for us today."

After work, I picked up Glen and we drove to Dorval airport where we planned to have supper together before he boarded his flight to London’s Heathrow airport.  Since it was early for supper but the line for security was long, we decided to skip supper together and we would each eat later.  After waving him off at the gate to go through security, I headed to the parking garage stopping at the automated machine to pay for my parking.

I put the parking ticket into the slot and when the amount I owed, six dollars, showed up, I pushed my credit card into the machine to pay.  When after a short wait no transaction took place, I withdrew the card.  I had been having some problems with the magnetic strip on that card.  Sometimes automated machines did not recognize it on the first try.   Not too concerned, I tried again.  On the second rejection, I wondered if I might have put the card in the wrong way.   I turned it over and tried again. Words came up on the screen telling me that I had inserted the card incorrectly and I needed to insert it in the way indicated by the pictures on the machine.  I tried again, inserting the card according to the diagram, as I understood it.   Again, the machine spat out the card, unable to read it.  Clearly, I had to find another alternative.

By now, I was certain that the next customer standing in line behind me was becoming impatient.  My best option was to cancel the operation and take the time necessary to search through my handbag for another credit card. The second one, I sometimes used, had not been in the pocket where I customarily kept it, when I had reached for it after my usual card did not work.  I ran into a problem.  I could not figure out how to cancel the transaction. Trying to get out of the way, so the line could proceed, I panicked when what I thought was the cancellation button produced no results.  After pressing several buttons, I finally hit on the right one and out came my unpaid ticket.  In the meantime, I continued rummaging in my bag for that second credit card.  I knew it had to be there somewhere. 

“Go ahead,” I said to the person behind me in line, so he would not have to wait, while I was searching for the elusive card.  I emptied the pockets of my purse, where I kept all of my cards to no avail.  I unzipped my wallet and rifled through the cards in it.  No credit card. As I kept searching, trying to consider what other options I might have, the man who had been behind me in line, having paid for his parking, stopped and stuffed a ten-dollar bill in my wallet.    He said to me, "I saw the amount on the screen and this will cover it."

"Thank you!" I was so surprised I could not think of anything else to say. Besides, there were others joining the line behind me waiting to pay for their parking.  I quickly put the cash in the machine and l out popped my paid ticket as the change rattled into the cavity at the bottom of the machine.  I grabbed the change and looked around for the donor, so I could return it to him.  Then, I realized that I had been so distracted that I had no idea what he looked like.  I did remember that he did not strike me as someone who was particularly wealthy.  However, he seemed to have disappeared, so I could not give him his change.  I headed out to find my car, saying repeatedly to myself, “What a sweet man!  What a sweet man!

I was so excited about this unexpected kindness that when I stopped at the bank on my way home to order a replacement card, I had to tell the service representative there about this kindness.  I think she was as pleased as I was to find that there are kind people around who will do things like that. 

From the bank, I went to my Weight Watchers class.  As I weighed it, I had to tell the person who was weighing me about my good experience at the airport.  I could not seem to keep quiet about the kindness I had been shown.  As I sat down for the class, I remembered my prayer that morning, asking the Lord to help me to see the evidence of His love during my day.  I had seen it, in a kind deed done to me by a stranger and I had shared it.  My prayer now was that those with whom I shared it would come to understand Who prompted such acts of kindness.  Maybe, like me, they were praying for eyes to be open to see God’s love that day.  

|Winner of 2011
|Word Guild Award

Winner of 2009
Word Guild Award

Any Loose Ends?

I went to the theatre

With the author of a successful play.

He insisted on explaining everything;

Told me what to watch;

 details of directions,

The errors of the property man,

The foibles of the star.

He anticipated all my surprises

And ruined the evening.

Never again! And mark you,

The greatest author of all

Made no such mistake.

Christoper Morley, No Coaching; (Still Waters, Deep Water Devotional: 1989)

Sometimes it would be easier for me if everything was laid out before me, defined and interpreted, explained and revealed. I wouldn’t have to think, just accept what is said and press onward. It would certainly save me a lot of time and keep me in good stance with other like-minded people. In the case above, I could leave the theatre having learned enough of what to avoid the next time, especially if I hadn’t read the author’s last lines.

Imagine getting a message everyday in my INBOX from the resident co-ordinator inviting me to upcoming activities with a promise that I’d get a list at the door of all the things that might hinder my enjoyment. I wonder if that email would jump-start my initiative to begin the day?

It is obvious the author was a bit miffed. He might have liked to be challenged, to explore, to question and to use the mind God gave him to fully assess the given situation. That didn’t happen.

I always find it interesting to read between the lines of authors’ work. In this case I wonder how this might read if the author of a successful play had encouraged his guest to enjoy, see the goodness in the event and take away with him the parts that strengthened him in his life.

In writing blogs there is usually an event that starts the process for me. I recently visited a friend who spends most of her time in a wheelchair. She invited me to walk down to her garden, built on rather a steep hill with several curves. She was unable to work in it anymore, but enjoyed other people’s impressions. As I pushed the sliding door open, she said, “Don’t expect too much from the roses; the heat got them. And by the way, the Ivy has got away on me; don’t let it spoil your view.”

When I returned I told her about the red peonies and white clematis and, oh yes, the spectacular fish pond. “You went that way?” she asked, and then added, “Oh, yes, I’ve always loved that path. I’m so glad you had a pleasant walk.”

Blessings
Donna Mann
http://www.donnamann.org/

Running the Race--Carolyn R. Wilker

Carolyn R. Wilker

If you’ve ever engaged in any kind of sport, you know that just going out and doing it produces one result. If you were to prepare for the sport, warm up your muscles, learn the right way to do it, and get in a lot of practice, you may get a different result—perhaps success. 

When I was a young school girl, I found running races and doing the high jump challenging. My legs were shorter than many of my classmates, and I didn’t have the same amount of energy. With practice, I ran faster and jumped higher and further than before. I gained strength and became a better runner, more able, for example, to make it to first base in a game of softball, without being tagged out.

For those who don’t write, such comparisons may lack meaning. “Can’t you just write?” they ask. And my answer is that writers pay their due. Linda Hall, novelist from New Brunswick, practised on shorter news pieces first, probably writing words in the thousands and honing her writing ability even further before beginning a first long work. Likewise, N. J. Lindquist, author of young adult fiction and mysteries, began writing as a young girl, submitting stories to the newspaper. And perhaps Jayne E. Self, winner of the mystery category in the recent writing contest sponsored by The Word Guild, has always read mysteries and later began to write Murder in Mum Harbour.

Coming to writing a little later in life, I discovered that there’s much to learn, which helps me understand why an author can be preparing for many years before sending out a first book-length manuscript for publication. Just like practising piano or learning to hit a ball and run fast so I wouldn’t be tagged out. Getting the muscles in tune, warming up, and focusing on improvement.

Soon after I attended my first writer’s conference, The Word Guild came into being and made it possible for members to learn all they can about writing, using gifts given to us and being responsible in using that gift by presenting our best work.

Being part of a writer’s organization, I met other writers, had access to learning tools and workshops, conferences and mentors—writers who may not have necessarily known they were mentors. All good models for a novice to learn from. 

The Word Guild has grown too and expanded its writing contests, stressing excellence in writing, that we as Canadian Christian writers may be taken as seriously as our writers south of the 49^th parallel, and that we as Canadian Christian writers in our own country have as much opportunity to share our messages as our fellow Canadians, whether we write for secular or Christian markets.

In 2011, after much writing practice, editing and revision, my first book, Once Upon a Sandbox, was published. I cannot say I’m done running this race, if one can even call it a race; there’s always more to learn, and yet in submitting my book to the Life Stories category of the contest, I sucked in my breath and let my book go into the nether regions to be judged by people I did not know. To see where my work stood among so many others. I was delighted that my book was shortlisted and to be part of that anticipation on the gala evening.

Whether we call it a race or not, we’re developing our writing muscles and focusing energy on our craft, as a pianist or a ball player would work toward the best use of their talents. Using gifts we were given and developing them further, we strive to do our best so that our message reaches the world in its best possible form.

So if you’re a writer, exercise those muscles; sit down and write. The world waits. 

The Word Guild Awards Gala, June 13th, 2012, Mississauga, Ontario-- shortlisted books

Author of Once Upon a Sandbox

Editor of and contributor to Big Ideas for the Big Stage