Transforming Fog Ruth Smith Meyer

This morning the world was shrouded in a dense fog. The snow and frigid temperatures that heralded the coming of March gave the impression of pulling the blanket up around its ears trying to ignore the warmer climate that was about to bring the demise of winter.

An hour or so later, when I drove out of the garage, the atmosphere was transformed once more.  The sun shone in a blue, blue sky. Against that azure back-drop, each branch, to the smallest twig was clothed in crystal white creating a fairyland of ethereal beauty. I wished I had started a half hour early and brought my camera to capture the magnificent splendor, for by the time church had hardly more than started the breath-taking splendor was gone.

Right now, at this period in my life, when I am finding my way to a new kind of life, because of the new reality of a second time of widowhood, I often feel as literally in the fog as the world was this morning. I remembered a poem I wrote when my first husband died.   

Return, Oh Spring!                                                                         

_{Song of my heart after Norman’s death.}

                                     

The morning dawns,

my consciousness aroused, 

realizes its arrival

is cloudy, damp and cold.

  

 My eyelids open slowly;

I pull the covers ‘round. 

It seems the clime

has my heart

firmly in its hold. 

Bleak February days

find echo in my heart.

-Where are the sunshine,

warmth and loving grace,

the shape and meaning,

hopes and dreams,

the touch,

the feel,

and sight

of my dear one’s face? 

Oh come,

warmth and touch

of Eternal Spring,

melt grief’s ice and snow,  

disperse winter’s chill,

and in the warming trickle

of the certain thaw,

soak the earth of promise

that lies beneath it still;

awaken slumbering seeds

and initiate new growth

of love and life,

in altered and innovative cast. 

Emerging from the earth,

facing toward the sun,

may hopes

and dreams

return to me at last.

_{Ruth Smith}

Six years later I added a few verses when Paul came into my life.

‘Twas my  earnest prayer

that February morn

when Spring seemed

loathe to come.

But slowly my heart

to resignation did succumb

to reality—life so different,

life alone,

to face the great unknown.

But life so new

and foreign now

still seemed the weight of stone.

Then blew Eternal Spring

And moved your heart to call

To melt my sadness,

Dispel my grief’s dark pall.

And in the warming stream

of your amazing love,

you soaked the arid places

that I’d been conscious of;

awakened slumbering seeds

and initiated new growth

of love and life,

in altered and innovative cast. 

 

And I emerged from earth,

My face glowed in the sun,

New hopes arose,

Dreams came true,

My heart felt at home again--

at home in your love,

at home at last.

                        _{Ruth Smith Meyer}

Now I face another time of grief.  Although there are moments when I’d like to draw those blankets up around my ears, this morning’s magic, makes me realize that even dense fogs can be the instrument to bring about enchanting beauty. And as a writer, I want to have paper and pen or computer ready to record the unexpected brief revelations of fulfillment and loveliness that surprise me as I walk this way, for I do not walk alone.

 Ruth Smith Meyer is the author of two adult novels, a children's book and her latest, memoirs Out of the Ordinary,  You can contact her through her website, www.ruthsmithmeyer.com.  She also enjoys opportunities to share inspiration through speaking engagements and women's retreats.

One Step at a Time—Carolyn R. Wilker

We have a framed print of an original painting on our wall, created by my brother-in-law, Bryan. The scene is of a lovely sunny winter day with a road that winds through some bush perhaps, shadows of the trees on either side crisscrossing the snowy road, and an ice-covered lake just to the right of where the road curves to the left around it. I don’t know if Bryan painted it from a real scene or created it from his imagination, and I don’t know where he was in his life when he painted it. I’ve never asked him, but I might do that someday.

photo by C. Wilker, art by Bryan Pfaff

 I look at that painting often and wonder what’s on the other side of the trees just past the bend in the road. Is there a cabin where someone lives? Might there be smoke coming from a chimney and a fire in the fireplace where someone is going to visit on such a cold day? Or is it simply a look at nature in its frozen beauty on a calm sunny day?

Winding roads are not new. We see them when we hike on nature paths, in photographs, and paintings like my brother-in-law’s where the artist leads the eye just beyond the present scene. Like our lives, when we wonder what lies ahead, and it’s not necessarily a bad thing. It just is.

I remember years ago asking my friend, Maryann a question, “What if we could see what happens in the future?” I was thinking near future, around the next bend in the road, but not too far.

She said, “You probably don’t want to know.”

Indeed, I probably may not like all I see. But I might want to know some things, such as a friend outrunning a cancer diagnosis, a child growing through difficult times to succeed in some way later. Those would be good to know. It might even be good to have assurance that a career that’s challenging now will work out better later on. But I don’t know until I get there.

Maybe it’s the reassurance I get from God that he’ll be with me, and you, on every step of our journey if we only ask. And the prayers of others, the hugs from friends that help as I grapple with a loved one’s terminal illness. All of these things encourage me and give me strength.

 Some moments I want to shut out other responsibilities and tasks to concentrate only on the one in hospice, even though it’s tiring. I have other family members—daughters, sons-in-law and grandchildren. I have friends, a job, and other commitments. Some I can put on hold for awhile, but others are like a fire—the right kind of fire—that need tending. Thus I reach out to others to help me through this time and I pray a lot, as I drive, as I walk, and at night before I go to sleep.

I pray for peace, understanding and to see more clearly and to treat others I meet along the way with compassion, such as a woman at the hospice who needed a hug, or someone at the grocery store, for I don’t know what others are going through either. It could be someone who’s just lost a job, their means of living, or lost a best friend or have even lost hope.

Please, Lord, be gentle with me now as I stand on this precipice, as I put in this waiting time and contemplate again that next bend in the road, even while I’m standing in the present.

 

www.carolynwilker.ca                                                                                                    

Ottawa Christian Writers' Conference

Hi from Denyse O’Leary on behalf of the Ottawa Christian Writers’ Fellowship, suggesting you join us April 2 if you are in the area, for all writerly things, at Greenbelt Church. We have a great and highly affordable conference, featuring a noted speaker:

Plenary speaker: The Honourable David Kilgour who will be speaking on Developing your Platform as a Writer

And a choice of workshops:

A1: Memoir Writing     OR    A2: Dialogue Writing

B1: Article Writing        OR    B2: Editing Fiction

C: Panel Discussion and Q & A

PLUS a special deal on critiques of your work. For $25, a professional editor will look at your work.

This year, OCWF can provide manuscript critiques (for half the usual price). For $25, you can submit the first 5 pages in advance, and book a 15-minute appointment with a professional editor. Don’t miss this opportunity to find the best writer in you! **

That could save you dozens of wasted hours learning the hard way.

Now here I am, yer humble hack, to answer three burning questions people ask about writing in general:

1. Do I have what it takes to be a writer?

That’s not the right question. Probably half a million people in North America make their living mainly by their ability to write. Whether you could be one of them depends on whether you are willing to accept a position like the ones they have. You must start by finding out what genres of writing are available and whether one would fit you. Newsletters? Fiction? Non-fiction? Screenplays? Devotions? One must research the field to see where one’s skills would fit.

2. Can I make enough money writing?

Yes. No. I don’t know. I’ve been a freelance editor and writer most of my life, and made enough money. But one needs some business skills to be self-employed, which most writers are at least some of the time. So assuming that you can find a genre that works for you, consider whether you can also be successfully self-employed. Writing is a well-developed business for self-employed persons, but one needs to learn a different skill set from that of finding a job.

3. Does it matter if I often feel discouraged, as if I am not getting anywhere with my writing?

Sure. It matters in the same way that discouragement matters to doctors, preachers, teachers, restauranteurs, and politicians. In each case, we look to the origin of the problem. Maybe we are not cut out for a writing career of any sort. But then again, maybe we are not approaching it in the right way. Maybe we aren’t dealing effectively with barriers and distractions. The best approach to those kinds of problems is to spend more time with other writers, listening to and learning form their struggles and sharing ours with them. That’s why we have an OCWF and a Word Guild.

See you at the conference, I hope! – Denyse O’Leary

Writing Your God Story by Rose McCormick Brandon

I’m teaching Writing Your God Story at my church, the second go-around for this six-night workshop. No one gets more out of these classes than I. As prophets of doom condemn the world and one is tempted to believe that nothing good is happening, stories of redemption pour forth from my students and fill my soul with hope. Their stories remind me that God is always working in human hearts.

One tells his story of a life of addiction to food and alcohol. Until three and a half years ago. That’s when he met Jesus and His life began to change. Today, he’s one hundred pounds thinner and sober. And eager to tell his story.

A young woman born in a refugee camp in Rwanda to a praying mother tells how God saved her life more than once. As a child she stood on the bridge over the river as thousands of bodies floated by. I recall this image as it appeared on the news. She was there, present, viewing this horrific scene. Today, she’s the founder of an organization that supports Rwandan children.

A man writes of his healing from cancer. Another writes in creative non-fiction style about the darkness of his past. The big stories of forgiving abusers and God’s intervention in hopeless cases should be told. But so should the small stories, those everyday miracles of finding a lost item, obeying a nudge from God to call a friend, a check appearing in the mail box on the day the rent is due – this is where people live and they want to know that God cares.

It’s important to tell our stories. Tell where we came from, where we’re headed and what has happened along the way.

Personal stories remind us of God’s goodness. They inspire faith. 

Keep all God’s salvation stories fresh and present. Micah 6:5 (The Message)

Our stories are important because they intersect with God’s story. View your life story as one page in God’s massive book.  God is still writing His story, and He’s writing it in our lives. C. H. Spurgeon wrote, “On a small scale, we have repeated a portion of early church history in our own personal stories. The life of the believer is the life of Christ in miniature.”

If we only speak our stories, they will be forgotten. But, if we write them, they will remain.

Our God stories are our best witnessing tools. Let’s keep telling them.

***

Rose McCormick Brandon is the author of four books, including, Promises of Home - Stories of Canada's British Home Children. Visit her blogs, Listening to my Hair Grow and Promises of Home. Her books are available at http://writingfromtheheart.webs.com

A Tale of Two Clocks by Peter A. Black

By the time my parents and sisters arrived home the clock was still in pieces. I reckon this was the inception of my ‘fix-it career,’ when as a nine-year-old I was off school with flu’ (at home alone – yep, that was both common and allowed then).

The clock’s demise came once I’d begun to feel better and my eyes alighted on the wind-up alarm clock. A sudden brainwave: That clock needs fixing! It keeps losing time. . . Yeah, and the bell inside  sounds dull, as though something’s blocking it? And so, I started the job that ended in disaster.

A brand new wind-up Westclox “Baby Ben” alarm soon took its place. Fifty years later in 2004, my sisters entrusted it to me following our Mom’s death – and it still works!

I’d win no prize for best fixer-upper and handyman. Even so, I’ve tackled various fix-it tasks around the numerous homes my Beloved and I have shared over almost half a century. My attempts haven’t always worked out well, but good advice from experienced folk has rescued quite a few projects.

Recently I was at it again. We have a small glass-mounted Seth Thomas clock bearing an “In Appreciation” plaque inscribed to us; a gift from a former congregation. It always lost time but had no control for increasing its pace. We fed it quality batteries, yet the thing would stop after only a few days. Lately my Beloved suggested we scrap it.
 
Reluctant to do that, and curious, I decided to give the clock one more chance by opening it up. No harm done if I couldn’t make it work or get it back together; it was otherwise doomed, anyway. However, my layman’s eye couldn’t spot anything wrong with the innards; everything appeared pristine. I couldn’t even see a speck of dust inside. To be sure though, I air-blew then reassembled it.

My heart sank. Left on the bench was one small cylindrical pin, three millimetres long by about one millimetre wide. I’d no idea where in the clock that tiny piece belonged. With resignation I put batteries in and set the hands to the time. That clock has kept perfect time ever since and is still going – I just checked! Perhaps that piece had been an obstruction.

My boyhood inquisitiveness has never left me. A child’s inquisitiveness must have suitable outlets for learning and creativity to blossom. Of course, monitoring to ensure safety may be necessary, depending on the activity. Even so, it often seems that life randomly casts many of its best, if not risky, learning opportunities. Still, inquisitiveness can lead us into trouble, as our human progenitors found out; the rest is history.

Credit: Free Google Images

Humpty Dumpty was all head. He sat high, perched on the wall, but then he had his great fall. For him there was no recovery, for “all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.” Pride is an obstruction. Wisdom tells us, “Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall. Better to be lowly in spirit and among the oppressed than to share plunder with the proud” (Proverbs 16:18-19 NIV).

Now is the time.

The pre-Easter Lenten season offers a spiritual space and time to acknowledge our own prideful falls, our weakness and brokenness.

My hope and prayer is that you and I will experience more fully the forgiveness and healing of our hearts and minds, and the wholeness God has secured for us through our Lord Jesus’ sacrificial death and His blood shed for us on the cross.

 

~~+~~

Peter is an author, inspirational columnist and songwriter living in Southwestern Ontario. He enjoys singing and playing sacred music and praise songs – especially for his friends in a number of residential care facilities and in area congregations.

~ Raise Your Gaze ... Mindful Musings of a Grateful Heart

~ Parables from the Pond

raisethegaze@execulink.com

 

Realistic Expectations - Eleanor Shepherd

           

Expectations can determine whether an experience is positive or negative for us. When we are expecting an event to be exciting and uplifting and it fails to meet our expectations we are disappointed. On the other hand, if we participate in a social event out of a sense of obligation our expectation may not be that we will be enriched by it. Yet if we enjoy some stimulating conversations and make some interesting connections with people we will find that this affair exceeded our expectations and created positive memories for us.

           

            In our spiritual lives our expectations can determine our progress in learning to internalize those things that we believe. If we expect that we will never be able to overcome the character flaws that we become aware of in ourselves, we may come to a point in our journey where we either conclude that the Gospel is powerless or that it does not work for us. The spiritual disciplines enable us to chisel out realistic expectations of who we are and who we can become as we gain and apply knowledge of who God is and base our relationship with Him on that understanding.

            When I was in my twenties the Charismatic Renewal was rapidly gaining steam within almost all denominations. The church was gaining new converts as those who were filled with the Holy Spirit boldly spoke of the power of God and how he transformed lives and gave evidence He did. As an avid reader, I read all about this and my expectations were ignited. If I were filled with the Holy Spirit I would speak in tongues and do all sorts of dramatic things that would give concrete evidence to others that God was alive and well in my life. I could be a successful Christian in every sense of the word. 

            I turned to books about the infilling of the Holy Spirit to discover how I could 

be a part of this great movement. As a disciplined individual, I took the books and followed their instructions to the letter with the expectation that I was going to at last become a first class Christian. However, nothing happened.

            There were no supernatural manifestations of God’s presence in my life.  I did not receive the gift of tongues. I did not become capable of seeing instant miracles in answer to my prayers. I began to wonder if I really was in tune with God at all. Instead of becoming the joyous Christian that I wanted to be, I became miserable. 

            God in His grace has blessed me with those around me who have more wisdom than I do. First my husband, and then a friend assessed my situation accurately. They noted that I was so unhappy about what I did not have, that I had completely lost the joy of what I had. The problem was expectations.

            I expected God to give me what I felt I should have. However, He is not required to perform according to my expectations. He is the sovereign God and knows what is best for me better than I do.  What I had to do was surrender my expectation to Him, so that He could align them with His purposes for me.

            That is what I finally did. In a time of intimate prayer, I admitted that I had been expecting God to equip me in the way I thought He should. In humility I had to admit that I wanted Him more than I wanted what He might choose to give me. I decided to appreciate all that He had done for me in giving me His forgiveness and unconditional love. I would choose to love and serve Him whether or not He ever gave me any spectacular gifts.

            The result was that my life was inundated with an incredible joy that has never left me. What do I now expect from God? I expect that He will give me exactly what He knows I need for every situation and He has proved 100 per cent faithful in that.

Word Guild Award
2011

Word Guild Award
2009