Steady My Gaze: Poetry for the Anxious Soul by Mary Folkerts

 

I did not expect that the first book I would write would be a book of poetry. Though I have written poems since childhood, I never thought it would translate into a book. Lately, though, I’ve come to realize that poetry can plumb the depths of the soul and put emotions into words that sometimes are difficult to voice.

When our fourth child was born with Down syndrome, things within me began to shift. I had been keenly aware of my struggle with anxiety and melancholy previous to her birth, but now it felt like any perceived sense of control I may have possessed was effectively removed, leaving me grasping for footing. The shock of the diagnosis and the struggle that came with learning to navigate this new world of doctors and therapist appointments, health concerns, surgeries, and the unknown sent me spiraling into depression. This began my journey of searching for help and healing from past wounds, shame, and a scarcity mindset, exposing them layer by layer.

I don’t believe that the diagnosis of my daughter’s disability was the basis for my depression, but it widened the cracks of deep need that had been there long before. It revealed my own disabilities and took me on a lifelong journey of healing and revelation.

The book I am writing is part of that healing process. I am learning that joy does not come through circumstances, but from the presence of God with us. His presence is what sustains us even when life is difficult. My prayer for Steady My Gaze; Poetry for the Anxious Soul is that readers sojourn with me from lament to praise of a faithful God who holds us in the palm of His hand no matter how deep the valley.

I did not boast innate yearnings
for horticulturist’s hands—
only that rudbeckia
and cone flower grow,
and that weeds
be shorn shorter
than the wildflower’s
brilliant petals,
hiding the uncomely
beneath.

Content to have a garden
like others,
sufficient beauty
with relative ease.

Truth be told, I demanded
a simple garden,
one that heeded
my lack of patience
and fortitude.
I was not a girl made for
plucking and digging,
nurturing and persevering.
God would duly note
my deficiencies.

But instead,
the Master Gardener
planted an exquisite rose
in my unyielding soil,
when all I desired
were daisies.

My arguments emerged—
defiance, resistance
and indignation at such
lack of consultation,
such disregard
for my insufficiencies—
I with unskilled
hands,
could not tend the tender
flower,
I bore no capacity
for thorns.

My cries of offense
He met,
with gentle reassurance
that mine was to surrender
my paltry plans,
and rely on His qualifications
to do more
with my piece of dirt
than I could have
dreamed.

Unearthing
the hidden dross
beneath wilted wildflowers,
the Gardener cultivated
my skill,
for the flourishing
and rejuvenation of my soil,
tending the rose
with infinite tenderness,
and I, in the process.

So here I plunge the blade
into resistant loam,
excavating a tangle
of tap roots
twisted and deep,
generations old.

I’m learning to plow
the fallow ground,
grasping the gravity
of fertile soil,
not only the perception
thereof.

Sometimes,
the Master Gardener
plants a rose,
when all we wanted
were daisies.

Mary Folkerts is mom to four kids and wife to a farmer, living on the southern prairies of Alberta, where the skies are large and the sunsets stunning. She is a member of Proverbs 31 Ministries' COMPEL Writers Training, involved in church ministries and music. Mary’s blog aims to encourage and inspire women and advocate for those with Down Syndrome, as their youngest child introduced them to this extraordinary new world. For more inspiration, check out Joy in the Small Things https://maryfolkerts.com/ or connect on Instagram  https://www.instagram.com/maryfolkerts/

God and the Goldfinch by Sharon Heagy (re-post)

Sometimes life happens and time goes by and your to do list is overwhelming. Then you pray and God says, 'For this month, print the one about the Goldfinches.' First published in July of 2020—the first year I began posting—this post remains dear to my heart, and birds remain a huge part of what brings me joy. May you be encouraged to carry on and know God is always near.

While picking saskatoon berries one morning, a unique birdsong captured my attention. I could hear the bird but was unable to spot it. Its song soothed my senses and blessed away my stress.

Birds have always had a special place in my heart and I watch them with keen interest. How do they fly? How do they sing? How can they eat their own weight each day and not gain an ounce? How can a sparrow stand outside in minus 53C windchill eating seeds and not turn into a ‘sparrowcicle’? They are miraculous. Perhaps it is my fascination with birds that led me to my request of God.

It was at a significant low point in my life. Terrible circumstances surrounded me. The passing of a two-year-old girl, a family friend who died in her mother’s arms, was particularly crushing.

In my own family I was struggling as my kids were making destructive choices despite fervent prayers, leading me to believe I was a lousy mother and an ineffective follower of Christ rather than realizing they had free will. Spiralling down I crashed into a crisis of faith. There was no light. There was no hope. I questioned everything I believed, even to the existence of God himself. Was I just nuts? Had He ever spoken to me?

Sitting on my deck, weeping and crying I called out to God from the depths of despair, not even knowing if I knew Him anymore. “Are you there?” I railed. “Do you care? Please, God, show me. Right or wrong I am asking for a sign. I’m desperate, Lord. Please. Please just send one goldfinch to the yard right now and I will know the truth.”

In the receding wake of shuddering sobs, I waited. Waited as the sky grew dark and the birds went to bed. No goldfinch. No promise. No answer. I went to bed devastated and exhausted, feeling deserted and alone. Sleep was elusive and when it did come it was restless and short.

Dawn greeted me with puffy eyes and a groggy head. Leaden feet padded their way into the kitchen where I leaned weakly on the counter. Blankly my gaze came to rest over the windowsill.

I froze for a moment, then started to melt. There, outside my window, was not one goldfinch but an entire flock! They covered the feeders, the hedges, the guy wire on the power pole. It was an explosion of yellow. Never have I seen so many goldfinches in one place and never have I seen that many since.

In that moment I knew without a doubt that God had answered my prayer. Hope was restored, faith was resurrected and I knew the truth.

Now when circumstances challenge and test my faith I know He is with me. The following verse girds me and gives me hope:

“I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall. I well remember them, and my soul is downcast within me. Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.”

(Lamentations 3:19-23 NIV)

This is the direction I received to find my way out of the pit. And I want you to know that if you too find yourself looking for a pinpoint of light in the darkness, be encouraged. He is right there beside you and will help you find your way. And if there is any way that I can pray for you, let me know. It would be an honour and a privilege. We are in this journey together.

 

Sharon Heagy writes from the wonderful town of Rockglen, Saskatchewan, where she lives with her husband, a big dog and furry cats. She writes to bring hope and humour to a world that needs both. She can be reached at sharonheagy@gmail.com

Thanks for taking the time to visit today. God bless.

 

Hear the Forgotten Voices by Alan Anderson

 

"[B]ut Jesus said, “Let the little children come

to me and do not hinder them, for to such

belongs the kingdom of heaven.”

Matthew 19:14 ESV

A Brief Background

Since retiring from my work as a chaplain in healthcare in 2017, God has blessed me as a writer. I had the honour of contributing stories and poems to four books plus a series of articles to FellowScript Magazine. This honour continues as I am privileged to be a monthly contributor to our InScribe Blog.

My intent in stating this is not pride, but thankfulness toward God and the writers who encouraged me. I have yet to publish my first solo-authored book. Lord willing, I will.

I wrote my InScribe blog post of June 22, 2021 with a particular group of people in mind. They are grandparents who grieve the death of their grandchildren. They will also be the focus of my first book, Lord willing. Grandparents who grieve continue to be those whose voices have gained little attention from society. The idea for this book germinated in 2017 when I co-authored the book, Good Grief People, published by Angel Hope Publishing.

A Determined Focus

In June 2008, when my wife and I attended the Scottish Highland Games event in Coquitlam, B.C., our daughter told us devastating news. While bagpipes played in the background and Scottish dancers entertained nearby, our daughter approached us. She said, “Mom and Dad, I lost my baby.” The news stunned us into silence. We hugged her as she cried.

My daughter “lost” four babies altogether. One of my daughters-in-law also suffered a pregnancy loss. Numerous women, both young and mature, have recounted tales of infant loss to me over the years.

A common theme I gleaned from grandparents, especially grandmothers, is that they believe they must be “strong” for their families. Their view is by being strong, they will not give further upset to the grieving parents or other family members. They remain strong, but in reality, suppress their own honest expressions of their grief. Grandparents tell me they grieve in private, and their voices are often silent. People do not hear silent voices.

Regardless of what our grief-fearing or grief-evading culture says, to be “strong” in our grief is to express it in an honest manner. Grandparents possess the right to express sorrow openly. Society and especially other family members must not forget their voices and their utterances of grief.

A Voice Forgotten No More

In my experience of listening to grandparents who grieve over the death of their grandchildren, their words are poetic utterances. They are honest, although few in their expressions of their grief.

The original title of the book was Plant Them a Garden: A Reflective Work of Grief, Faith, and Poetry. A number of InScribe members liked the title, as did I. As time went on, however, and I heard more grief stories, I kept hearing, “We don’t have a voice.” After consulting with a few people, including other writers, I proposed another title. I am calling the book Forgotten Voices: Poetic Utterances of Grandparent Grief. This title is direct and concise.

While scanning through book topics and titles on Amazon.com and Amazon.ca I noticed there is not a lot written about grandparent grief. I pondered this reality, but the words, the voices of grandparents, encouraged me to persevere. Such platforms as Amazon seem to say grandparent grief is not marketable. Regardless, I focus on the voices of grandparents. Society overlooks their mourning and forgets their voices. I don’t.

I pray that the forgotten voices of grieving grandparents will soon reach someone's ears. Someday, only God knows when, I'll see my five grandchildren in heaven. Until then, I hope and pray, in my little way, to be one voice of those too often forgotten.

In Deroche, British Columbia, Alan shares his home with his wife, Terry, and their poodle, Charlie. Alan and Terry are grandparents of six grandchildren plus five grandbabies in heaven. Alan enjoys walking on the dike near his home, with trees all around and where he finds inspiration to write. He has occasionally written articles for FellowScript Magazine and is a regular contributor to the InScribe Christian Writers’ Fellowship blog. Alan’s website and blog are https://scarredjoy.ca. He also writes on Substack.

My First Book by Steph Beth Nickel

 

Not That First Book

When I read the prompt for this month's posts, "tell us about your first book," I, like many writers, thought of my first (and as of yet, only) published book.

But then I thought, "No, the first book that I shared with others goes back many, many, many, many years."

When I was in school... (I can't remember if it was elementary or secondary school.) Way back then, one of our assignments was to write, illustrate, and produce a board book for young children.

I can still remember how I felt when my book was chosen as one to be displayed in our school library. It still brings a smile to my face decades later.

Books & I Go W-a-y Back

My mom loved books. Although my dad didn't read as much, he, too, was a reader.

It's no wonder I can remember many of the books I read as a child and some that my mom read to me.

Each Christmas my mom would read The First Noel and 'Twas the Night Before Christmas to me. I'm sure she read many others throughout the year, but I remember those two distinctly.

P. D. Eastman books, such as Go, Dog. Go!, Sam and the Firefly, and Are You My Mother were among my favourites. They were part of the "I Can Read It All By Myself" series, published by Dr. Seuss. I also had several more books in the series.

And like many young girls, I read a plethora of Nancy Drew books. This is where I first learned about including cliffhangers at the end of a chapter. It was also where I picked up the just-one-more-chapter philosophy of reading.

As the Years Went By

Reading (and writing) remained an important part of my life until, ironically, I attended Bible College. Because our Required Reading List was so long, it was over a year and a half after I left college that I picked up a book just for the sheer pleasure of doing so.

Over the years, I've written several articles; dozens of blog posts, poems, and devotionals; a number of unpublished picture book manuscripts; and at least a couple of partially finished fiction manuscripts. Additionally, I coauthored Paralympian Deb Willows' first memoir, Living Beyond My Circumstances. We are currently working on a follow-up volume, tentatively titled Keep Looking Up.

Currently, I post to Substack one to two times per week. On Mondays, I publish a chapter of the YA (young adult) manuscript I'm working on, and on Fridays, I post devotionals based on the gospel of John that I originally wrote for HopeStreamRadio.

From Board Books to...

While some writers "stay in their lane," this isn't in my nature. And that's okay.

Do I plan to publish my YA novel and a selection of the devotionals I've written? I do.

Would I like to publish some children's books? I would.

Will I continue to write blog posts and other short pieces? I would imagine so.

Whatever I end up writing and putting out into the world, it had its foundation in a little purple board book displayed in a country school library way back when.

Steph Beth Nickel is the former Editor of FellowScript and the current InScribe Contest Coordinator. Steph is an editor and author and plans to relocate to Saskatchewan from Ontario to be close to family in 2027, Lord willing. (Headshot Photo Credit: Jaime Mellor Photography)