The Strange Practice of House Dedication – Bruce Atchison.

During the seventies and eighties, I attended a cultic church. Not only did its self-appointed minister teach many aberrant doctrines but he claimed he received revelations directly from God. One of these was that all Christian homes must be dedicated to the Lord. He never told us the scriptural basis for this but Deuteronomy 20:5 fits it well. He added to this doctrine the superstitious beliefs that blessing homes kept out wicked spirits and that they attached themselves to evil possessions.

I described how this peculiar ritual was performed several times in my upcoming How I Was Razed memoir. In this excerpt from my manuscript, I relate how the cult leader himself dedicated my furnished room.

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Sister R, Brother H, and Sister E participated in the ceremony one evening a few weeks later. As Brother H waddled around my twelve-by-fifteen-foot room, reaching out his hands to detect demons, he pronounced blessings and rebuked foul spirits. Then he dabbed anointing oil on the corridor and balcony doorposts as well as the window frame.

After having gone over the whole room, including the closet, he hesitated. "I feel that there is still an evil presence in this room. Do you have anything here which is wicked, Bruce?"

"Well, I have some war memoirs by Spike Milligan. They do have some vulgar language in them I suppose."

"That's it then. You must get rid of those books. They're attracting demonic spirits."

My heart sank. I loved Spike's hilarious war memoirs. They contained some obscene humour, but that was how secular soldiers coped in battle. I also bought his comic novel, Puckoon, a fictional story of an Irish village divided by the Boundary Commission when the country was partitioned in 1924. As that book also contained some bawdy humour, I sighed as I dropped it and the other brand-new paperbacks in the garbage.

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How I Was Razed is the testimony of the way I was mislead by a cult church, how I turned my back on God after I felt he perennially failed to heal my eyes, and how he graciously brought me to my senses.

My previous books are now available for purchase online by clicking here. You may click here to e-mail me directly as well.

Long Live the Love - Karen Toews

Roses to say "I love you" when we can't be together on Valentine's Day.

My husband, Derryl, and I have a long love story, in spite of our young ages (honestly - our total is less than 115). It started back in elementary school, when my now-father-in-law was the pastor at our church. Our families shared many visits and meals - and though Derryl and I are the same age (whoops, now you have the age mystery figured out), I spent more time doing girl fun with the younger sisters than with the cute, cool guy who sometimes had the "older brother" attitude. There were the occasional sparks that expressed our mutual attraction and when we were about years old, Derryl gave me a Valentine's card with 6 red cinnamon heart candies taped to it. That wasn't as surprising as the fact his is the only childhood Valentine that I saved; it survived all the years of purging my cupboards and boxes of papers. I still have it.

The preacher's kids have to move when the preacher follows another church call and it was a sad day when we said good-bye to the family. Winnipeg was a world away from this prairie farm girl, and at the age of 12, Derryl's and my long distance friendship lasted about one letter's worth.

A couple summers later, surprise of all surprises, my farmer father agreed to make a road trip (albeit driving 16 hours straight through in one day) to visit Derryl's family. I had looked forward to seeing all of them - but I was definitely disapointed to get there to discover Derryl was away. He had a job picking fruit with his uncle in the Okanagan. The fact this guy had ambition was lost on me - I just thought, what a bummer.

Four years later, another summer trip to Minnesota for a family camp where the preacher and his family had moved. Was it the fact we were both sweet 16; or that I was wowed by Derryl's handsome, tanned and fit body; or that the two of us had a history which the other teenage girls didn't? It was soon evident - the chemistry was there and we spent as much time together that was allowable. It was a true sweet summer romance, topped off with a last-night kiss under a huge oak tree - and it was short - as I was soon back home in Alberta where after a couple notes in the mail our relationship again went dormant.

Three years later. After high school, to avoid conscription to Viet Nam, Derryl moved back to the country of his citizenship. Through his extended family I had heard he was living in Calgary and on my next visit there I phoned him up, cold call. He'll never let me forget that I was the one who contacted him, but this seemed to be our pattern: this time it was the set-up for the proverbial "the rest is history". Two years later we were married, which is now over 37 years ago.

In fun, we accuse our parents of arranging our marriage (my mother-in-law was one of the servers at my parent's wedding) and they just didn't tell us. We do feel that God directed our lives to be together. Like many long-term relationship commitments, ours has been one of challenge, adventure, fun, disappointment, growth and joys of children and grandchildren.

It's been a long love life, one I pray God allows us to continue to share for many years to come.

"Let your own fountain be blessed, and enjoy the girl you married when you were young...." Proverbs 5:18a

LOVE IS A BRIDGE CROSSED by Lynda Schultz

A tiny cry
Lustier now
One large finger reaches
Five tiny ones grasp
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is born.

A solid thump
Dignity hurt
Tears fall, wailing starts
Some comfort sought
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is strengthened.

Oh lonely walk
School begun
Strangers at each turn
Seek kindred souls
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is started.

Cross my heart
And hope to die
The pledge is given
Friendship forever sealed
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is cemented.

This sweet love
The first to be
With every intention
Of lasting past forever
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is expanded.

Long black robes
And sweaty palms
Fine speeches made as
Superior becomes equal
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is spanned.

Nine to five
Joyous terror struck
Until new minion is
Equal to old master
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is possible.

A coffee shop
Pumpkin pie
Double sugar, double cream
Eyes meet, hearts unite
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is completed.

Some angry words
Senseless battle
Second thoughts, wisdom prevails
One face turns to another
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is repaired.

Two, then one
Alone again
House empty, heart full
One thing forever sure
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is gone.

In stillness now
The bonds released
Peace fully and forever known
A nail-scarred welcome
Hand reaches out for hand.
A bridge is crossed.

A Rosy Valentines - Dorothy Bentley

I woke up early the day before Valentines Day, and the house was empty, which almost never happens.

Odd.

I wandered around, looking in all the rooms, inspecting the coat closet to see which boots were gone.

Strange.

Did they all ditch me and go to church without me?

I texted my older son, who has a habit of going to the early service at church on Sundays, with his friends, to leave time for doing other things during the afternoons. He had no idea where his dad and younger brother were.

I decided to relax and have a cup of herbal tea while I had some peace and quiet.

Without know where they were, though, my imagination went wild.

What if they went to the store and got into an accident and that is why they are gone so long.

Or maybe they did ditch me and go to church and were sitting at the back and my older son didn't know there were even there. Why wouldn't they have woken me? I love going to church!

On and on went my imagination.

A little while later, my husband and young son came home with gifts.

My son had bought several different types of chocolates, including a bag of Hershey's Kisses, given to me with his hugs and real kisses.

And
my husband brought me a dozen velvety red roses.

I felt so spoiled and blessed!

Why had I panicked? Why had I doubted their love?

When I look at the roses, a little wilted but still alive after more than week, the thought crosses my mind that each rose stands for one month that my husband loved me and was faithful to me, just in the last year. (There were plenty of years before that one!).

I am so thankful for his love,
yet it is just a shadow, a mirror of the love my Heavenly Father has for me.

He is faithful always,

Loving always.

Help me not to panic, Lord, when I am going through a time of uncertainty.
Rather, help me to remember my dozen roses, the twelve months of my husband's love and faithfulness, which in turn will remind me of You.

How to Improve Your Blog - Kimberley Payne

Lisa Wojna entered the wonderful world of blogs with her Mom Again blog. She asked other bloggers for their thoughts and advice on making this adventure a grand success.

Violet Nesdoly has been blogging for over five years and offered Lisa these five tips:

1. Focus your blog - which you've done. You know you're going to be writing about the grandparent/parent experience.

2. Decide on frequency and blog regularly so your readers aren't disappointed when they come for their expected read.

3. Do a variety of posts - always with the reader in mind. We blog readers are a selfish lot. If we don't find something of value to us (like humor, advice, news, anything relevant to us) we'll probably soon check out. In this vein, in addition to your personal experience pieces, I'd suggest things like:

- interviews of other grandparent-parents to illustrate how they cope.
- links to articles and resources designed to help the grandparent/parent.
- links to news stories that relate to your topic + your reaction to them (it's a blog, after all).
- links to web sites that offer help and resources to people in your community (to across Canada - if there are such organizations).
- reviews of books relevant to your topic.
- practical things you do to make your life as a grandparent/parent easier.
etc.

4. Publicize your blog in places where people of your age group and interest gather. By publicize I mean read and comment on other blogs that speak of similar things. Join blog carnivals, and networks, and generally do some hanging out where the grannies with kiddoes are found. Become one of them. Because blogging is as much about community as it is about getting people to read your posts.

5. There's lots of advice out there about blogging. One of the best blogs on blogging is written by Darren Rowse from Australia - Problogger. He talks a lot about making money with a blog - but also about getting and keeping readers, blog etiquette and a whole slew of things.

Janet Sketchley agreed with all the tips Violet provided and added this tip, “If you register your blog with Facebook's NetworkedBlogs application, then each time you make a new post it will show up on your FB profile. The setup instructions are simple.”

Karen Toews offered some more thoughts on blogging, “As writers we strive for literary excellence with our work - but sometimes the only way a blog gets done is to just write it and get it out there. This two-edged sword can be a deterrent for consistent blogging (speaking to myself) but on the other hand, I've seen other bloggers' writing improve by that very exercise. Blogs often include photographs - one of you sitting cross-legged on the floor, or doing your workout would add some real punch to your post!”

Do you have any other suggestions on how to make a blog a grand success?

1,200 More Planets? By Bryan Norford

The Kepler space telescope has apparently found 1,235 potential planets orbiting faraway stars. So what’s really new? Simply expanding our knowledge of the universe may be interesting, but is a fool’s game—at least until we find the edge of it. The distances are so completely unbridgeable, it’s about as helpful as finding more pebbles on the beach or more water in the sea.

It seems evolutionary speculation drives the interest. After all, dispensing with a Creator leaves many questions unanswered, so science must provide them. Here is a letter I sent to Maclean’s today in response to its report of the euphoria that has erupted at the latest discovery.

Sirs:

Re: Tracking Down Other Earths, Maclean’s, February 21, 2011

While we may wonder at the technology that is probing farther in to the reaches of the universe, I frankly wonder what all the fuss is about.

If these planets are “a few hundred to a few thousand light years away” (mostly the latter), then we are looking at where they were a few thousand years ago. Who knows where they are now, and if they had life, perhaps atomic warfare or global warming has eradicated it. Even if intelligent life exists, several thousand years is too long to wait on the telephone.

What is even more dismal, we have yet to find life even the size of a grasshopper, or one blade of grass for it to hop to. Every planet seems to be a gaseous ball or a lifeless rock more akin to our moon than our beautiful earth. Perhaps the most the Kepler telescope can tell us is our incomprehension of the Mind that conceived this vast cage we exist in, or the immense Power that flung it all into space.

We need to seek life on earth. Our planet already has aliens on the edge of starvation, facing mutilation, or dying of disease. How will history judge us who have spent billions on seeking drops of water beyond our reach, yet allowed life to ebb away within our walls?

Bryan Norford, Lethbridge, Alberta

The Sappy Sentimentalist - Tracy Krauss

If someone was to ask you what the largest fiction genre was in terms of sheer numbers of books printed each year, what would your answer be? Mystery? Historical? How about Romance? The latter would be my guess, and judging by the category lists on Amazon, I'd say I am probably correct. What is it about LOVE that keeps readers coming back for more? I mean, how many times can the same plot line be reworked?

At the risk of sounding cynical, I have to bite my tongue when it comes to yet another cover featuring a woman in a bonnet, laces blowing in the breeze. At least that's better than a swooning damsel clinging breathlessly to a half naked swashbuckler. You see, I've almost prided myself on the fact that I am not typically 'sentimental'. To me, sentimental is synonymous with another 'S' word - 'sappy'. This has been a continuing source of frustration for my oh-so-romantic husband. Don't get me wrong. I like flowers and I like chocolates and I enjoy a romantic comedy on occasion - but I'd much prefer a good Sci-Fi/ Action/ Thriller with a crazy twist at the end.

So how is it that I've come to write 'Romantic Suspense'? (I much prefer to call my writing style 'edgy inspirational with a twist of romance' but somehow that doesn't come off so well in a category listing!)  Perhaps I'm not such a cynic when it comes to romance after all.  You see, I have come to notice that even Sci-Fi/ Action/ Thrillers usually have a romantic element woven in there somewhere, and I'm sure without it, I would feel like there was something missing. There is something inside of us that craves LOVE, perhaps because we were created that way by a loving Father. God is, after all, the author of love, and He made us in His own likeness. Now there's a thought! Created in the image of a God who is LOVE embodied - so much so that He was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice to demonstrate that love, in that "while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us."

LOVE  is a powerful force. In its human form it has been driving mankind for millenia. How many wars have been fought for the sake of love? How many epic poems written or materpieces of music composed? And even more powerful, in its Godly form, love changed the course of all human history.

So, back to my original question: How many times can the same plot line be reworked? Let's see . . . I guess as many times as there are human beings on this earth and as many times as there is a loving God who watches over us.

Thanks for the aopportunity to share my ramblings here at 'Inscribe Writers Online'. P.S. I hope you all realize that I'm really not as cynical as I pretend to be when it comes to love. I have been known to sneak a romance novel into the bathroom and even snuggle on the couch with my husband while crying my eyes out over a stupid 'sappy' movie. :)

Posted by Tracy Krauss

Wanted: Broken Hearts - Pamela Mytroen

by Pam Mytroen

Having resigned from my position as director of a children’s ministry in our church, I had the most uncomfortable task of opening my resume and taking a hard look at it.

Re-entering the work-force is about as comfortable as re-entering the atmosphere after being in another world for so long. I’m out of touch with reality, according to my credentials, and I just might burn and fizzle up to nothing as I realize the gravity of the situation.

I played with the variety of experiences I’ve had over the years. Let’s see, what should I put at the top of my resume? That I raised four children? No, the initials M.O.M. behind your name aren’t valued like they used to be. Scrap that. Sorry, kids.

How about my job as a night operator at the Canadian Pacific Railway? Hmmm. I used a telegraph and a computer the size of a refrigerator. The first thing the employer would do is take my pulse and ask if I’m carrying nitroglycerin. Scratch that off my resume too.

I did counsel at camp way back when. I have training in piano and voice – I could play you Amazing Grace in several different keys. Or I could teach a spellbinding flannelgraph story...

Should I list my Bachelor’s Degree in Biblical Studies? They might be afraid that I’d wonk them over the head with the family bible, or worse – that I might be ‘intolerant’. I highlight and delete that most wonderful time of my life, the foundation of who I am, and pretend it never existed.

Hmmmm, that leaves nothing on my list. Once I take away everything I did, that only leaves my character values. I’ve got “honest, responsible, and reliable.” Will they believe that with no initials behind my name, and no ‘experience’ to back it up?

Guess I’ll work as a waitress if they’ll let me. Or go back to school and get a ‘real’ bachelor’s degree. One that will get me a ‘real’ job.

It’s left me feeling rather deflated and worthless, like a balloon that squeals and takes off once the air is released. I’m a piece of colorful rubber that’s no good to anybody.

But there is One who values the inner life. One who takes the world’s idea of shriveled waste and sees far past its outer shell.

God says, “Tear your heart in half...and come back to me” (Joel 2:12, 13).

Well that shouldn’t be too difficult. I’m feeling somewhat broken already.

There was a time after the Hebrews conquered the land of Canaan when they fell away from the God they trusted. Once they were settled and began enjoying the olives and figs and the well-watered valleys they no longer needed to depend on God for courage to enter the land of the giants.

The Hebrews continued to practice their own religious rituals. They would sit in the dust and tear their clothes to show sorrow before God. But God saw their hearts and He knew that they were not sorry for their sins. In fact, they kept right on indulging in prostitution and idol-worship. The tearing of their robes was only a showy ritual.

So God invites them to rend, or tear, their hearts instead of their clothing. He valued their inner brokenness far more than their outer decorum.

We can do all kinds of valuable and good things, and have meaningful letters behind our name, but what God really wants is for us to ‘be’ somebody more than for us to ‘do’ something.

Whatever stream of education I enter, and whatever career I take up, what God longs to see is the laying down of my heart, more than the taking up of my hands.

My resume is in God’s hands – the best place it can be – and He is my ultimate employer. He puts a high price on what really matters.

My first day of classes will start soon. Now where did I leave my zippered briefcase and type-writer ribbon?

Treasure hunt - Violet Nesdoly

Francine Prose relates this incident in her book Reading Like A Writer:

"When I was a high school junior, our English teacher assigned us to write a term paper on the theme of blindness in Oedipus Rex and King Lear. We were supposed to go through the two tragedies and circle every reference to eyes, light, darkness, and vision, then draw some conclusion on which we would base our final essay.


It all seemed so dull, so mechanical. We felt we were way beyond it. Without this tedious time-consuming exercise, all of us knew that blindness played a starring role in both dramas.


Still, we liked our English teacher, we wanted to please him. And searching for every relevant word turned out to have an enjoyable treasure hunt aspect, a Where's Waldo detective thrill. Once we started looking for eyes, we found them everywhere, glinting at us, winking from every page.


[...] It was fun to trace those patterns and to make those connections. It was like cracking a code that the playwright had embedded in the text, a riddle that existed just for me to decipher. I felt as if I were engaged in some intimate communication with the writer, as if the ghosts of Sophocles and Shakespeare had been waiting patiently all those centuries for a bookish sixteen-year-old to come along and find them" - p. 4-5.

Did you catch that: "...I felt as if I were engaged in some intimate communication with the writer..." Aha! isn't that exactly what happens when we read the Bible and begin to see the patterns, crack the code, understand the schemes of God — how all that ceremony and sacrificing in the Old Testaments culminates in Jesus, how themes like blood and water, bread and sheep, yeast and fire are woven through the Bible in a sort of "wink, wink - get it?" message?

The wonderful thing is that unlike the reading of dead playwrights, when we read the Bible we have the Writer beside us, in us, "opening our eyes" as we read. It's interesting to note Bible passages that describe moments of sight.

• In the case of Elisha's servant, it came after Elisha's prayer for God to open the servant's eyes to the angelic army that surrounded them - 2 Kings 6:17.

• From his pit of suffering Job declares, "I have heard of You by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees You" Job 42:5.

• Jesus pronounces the blessing of the sight of God to the pure in heart - Matthew 5:8.

• His words "A little while longer and the world will see Me no more but you will see Me," show that such sight is the possession of believers: faith is necessary - John 14:19.

• Jesus further taught His disciples that sight and insight would come to them through the Holy Spirit - John 16:5-15.

Let's continue to look for and expect to find treasure in the Bible as we make the psalmist's prayer our prayer: "Open my eyes that I may see wondrous things from Your law" - Psalm 119: 18


© 2011 by Violet Nesdoly


(A version of this post was first published January 8, 2011 on otherfood-devos.com.)

The Bush Dweller was my friend

About Father James Gray, Tim Lilburn, GG award winning poet said, “Certain few people possess a genius for friendship and for listening; they hear the stories of others in such ample, creative, liberating ways that those who speak with them are quickened.”

It was only after my friend and mentor died that I became aware of the mountain of influence this solitary monk had on the minds and hearts of so many. In one of those remarkable human paradoxes, James Gray’s hermitage became, over the years, the secret refuge of hundreds. His solitary life was lived for others. His generosity of spirit is now planted in hearts across the country.

For my part, I'm thrilled and honoured to be included in this collection of essays in memory of Father James Gray OSB—Benedictine monk, professor of literature, hermit, spiritual father and advisor…Canada’s own Thomas Merton; but above all, my friend.

In this book there are stories about Fr. James from authors and poets such as Trevor Herriot, Jane Munro, and Jan Zwicky, as well as from artists, academics, teachers, journalists, monastics, social activists and gardeners.

Here is a short excerpt from my essay:

His life came rising and shining into this world, and when it set, a corner of the world was found a better place. To those of us privileged to know him, he was a model, mentor and friend. In his loving fraternity we discovered that friendship has to do with finding refuge in each others hearts. As mentor, we found through his counsel, a clearer sense of our own calling, our own giftedness and our own possibilities. As model, we grew alongside Father James’ own deep longing for peace—St. Benedict’s watchword. And in our better moments we were able to leave the domain of fear and be angry at injustice, and pray and in our own way work for peace. He used to say that humanity is still in swaddling clothes. But because of James Gray, some maturing has occurred—because he followed his own calling with single-minded determination and charity.

The last time we had tea with Fr. James he dropped his cup—the lip broke on the floor and tea splashed over the tile. The three of us, Deb and I, and Father James in his habit, got down on our knees and cleaned everything up with Kleenex. He joked that he'd better leave before he wrecked the place. We talked some more and then he left but not before giving us one of his vice-grip hugs. From the door, I watched him disappear down the hall of the Severin guest wing.

The image endures. And with it, memories like migratory cycles glide back to me fresh as spring and I thank God for the life of Father James—still somehow alive in me—and alive in the lives of so many more.

Writing Believable Characters - Bonnie Way

In 2000, just after I discovered and joined ICWF, my grandma mentioned to me, "There's a writer at our church. Maybe she could give you some advice." She introduced me to Cynthia Post, who, it turned out, was also an Inscriber. We were able to meet at the Fall Conference 2000 (my over-protective dad let me go partly because Cynthia would be there to watch out for me) and in the next few years, Cynthia answered many of my questions by letter.

She passed away a few years ago after a battle with cancer. Some of her poems appeared in Inscribed and I still have one of the novels she wrote and self-published. She was also a talented artist. Recently, as I was going through one of my writer's binders and trying to organize, I found some of the letters that she wrote me. I thought I would share her advice on "Believable Characters" here.

Believable Characters

"A manuscript that lacks realistic characters is no more than a bunch of words."

That is a direct quote from Colleen L. Reece, who has published more than 20 novels and numerous short stories and is an instructor for the Writer's Digest School Short Story course.

Characters are the magic formula, yet they are often overlooked. If readers can't love, hate, or despair with the people who walk the pages of your novel, or short story, or for that matter newspaper article—all of the fancy writing will go for naught.

Characters must become real to you, the writer, or they cannot possibly become real to your reader. Can you allow them to become so real that they occupy your space—take on such a dimension that you can feel, see, smell, and think like they do?

You no longer have to ask yourself how they might react to a particular situation—you know. Writing becomes consistent, and much easier. You are no longer having to manipulate your characters, hoping each character is reacting correctly to the personality you have given them.

In a novel or short story your characters can become more appealing, more despicable, more understanding or understandable.

The best way I can suggest digging into each character—at least those that matter to you—is to set up a character chart for each one. Now don't panic—it will take a few days, or maybe longer to fill in all the gaps. You may ask why do all the details. "Who cares about all this stuff. I'm not going to use it in my story."—Is that your reaction? Why should you care?

No, you won't use all the "stuff" in your manuscript but you can't get to know your character if you don't know his/her history—what makes him what he is, and how he reacts to certain things. Ask yourself "why."

It is a lot easier to answer "what if" when you are writing if you know "why."

~ © Cynthia Post, September 1994

Think back over the books you've read. What characters do you remember? What characters did you love or hate? What made them so loveable or despicable?  Have some characters made you wonder why they would do something?

~ © Bonnie Way, aka The Koala Bear Writer

We've Only Just Begun -- Janet Sketchley

My best mornings begin with a special time alone with God. These days it’s once the kids are in school. When they were small, desperation had me setting my alarm early enough to fortify my spirit before getting into the breakfast chaos.

In the shelter of my bed (sitting up to keep awake) I’d enjoy a quiet time of prayer and Scripture. It was like a spiritual snuggle with my Divine Parent before I faced my own parenting role.

The Bible has so many images of the parental aspects of God’s heart. One particular morning, I was musing on the description of Him as “Father to the fatherless” (Psalm 68:5)

I’d been raised by wonderful parents, who were still an integral part of my wellbeing. But I was in my mid-thirties, with a husband and children of my own. I had grown up.

Still, part of me often felt like an orphaned child, cowering alone. I ached for God to be that Father – and Mother – to me now.

I poured out my fears and loneliness to Him in prayer, longing to rest in His love – the same way I had rested in my parents’ love as a child. Abba… Papa… help me to stay in the shelter of Your care. Grow me under Your watchful eye.

After a while, I felt in my heart that it was time to get up. Lord, I sense our time together is over now….

I meant it as clarification – am I really supposed to get up? I’d neither read His Word nor listened for His leading. I’d done all the talking – again.

A gentle reassurance interrupted me: Oh, no… we’ve just begun.

Could I really have heard His message, inaudible but understood? It resonated in my soul, a wonderful, warm, loving promise.

What followed was the mental equivalent of that little scoot that a parent gives a toddler to send her out to play after a hug. With a smile for the future, I scooted.

© Janet Sketchley, 2011

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For devotionals, reviews and conversation, stop by Janet Sketchley's blog, God with Us: Finding Joy.

After the Storm - by Glynis M. Belec

©2003

God sent me a message of hope this morning. The fleece that I had begged Him for was hopping daintily amid the rotting apples at the base of the ancient tree. I saw a robin. A downy, red-breasted creature, with feathers fluffed, pecking in earnest at the decaying fruit. It was a brilliant contrast to the milky, white snow.

The storm had passed. For two days, the buses were halted. Roads were closed and virtually all modes of transportation had been postponed.

Today the sun-kissed snow banks cover any hint that spring will soon be making her obligatory debut. It is February. Spring does not usually happen here for another two months.

I gaze upon my lovely-feathered friend as it samples the fallen fruit. I think about my visit with God. Divine appointments, I have discovered, rely not on my own schedule but solely on God’s timing.

Earlier this morning I felt that old familiar 3am nudge. I fought at first for the night was chilly and I did not want to forfeit the warmth of my cozy bedclothes.

Another prod from God startled me into consciousness. I immediately knew that I had to pay attention. I had been struggling with some issues on trust and spiritual surrender. I was experiencing a despair that seemed insurmountable.

I managed to maneuver my way in the darkness and avoided the pile of newspapers that had slid haphazardly from my bed. My husband’s rhythmical, inspiratory wheezing indicated that I was not interrupting his slumber.

My Bible lay, beckoning on the kitchen table. The scriptures that I was led to read were about taming the tongue, and Proverbs 12:25 – An anxious heart weighs a man down, but a kind word cheers him up.

“But, God…” I begged, “what does this all have to do with trust and spiritual surrender?” Then I deliberately turned to one of my favorite verses, Matthew 11:28 Come to Me all who are weary and burdened – and I will give you rest. And then another – Psalm 46:10 – Be still and know that I am God.

Suddenly it fit. My tongue was making me anxious and my tongue was blocking my vision of God. This was impeding my ability to trust. If I could not trust how could I surrender? However, I told God I needed a sign. I cupped my hands in request. A warm blanket of anticipation covered me and I returned to bed.

This morning I gaze in awe at my little scarlet-breasted friend and think about the significance of its untimely appearance. I hurry for my binoculars and lament that I have no battery in my camera. Who will believe me? Then I remember that it doesn’t matter. The robin is for me. The robin is a sign of hope for me. After the storms, spring will come. I sit here caressing the rim of my china mug and sipping my tea. I decide to be still and know that He is God.