Enough is Enough by Eunice Cooper-Matchett

Sometimes, enough is simply enough, and last week, I learned the importance of those words. 

A camp-out wedding approached. Being the person who offers before thinking, I’d volunteered to make a chili, a cheesecake, and a pistachio salad. Sounds simple. Shouldn’t take long at all. Except, I voiced my good intentions before I considered the wedding was on a Saturday. And that’s the day I’ve cleaned my house for over sixty years, and I’m so routine orientated that if I can’t do it Saturday, I must do it Friday, or the rest of my week goes topsy-turvy. 

The folly of my quick, unthought-out response hit me like a March wind. But I’m tough, and there is always a way. I’d just get up earlier, clean the house, then make the promised food. After that, I’d do the revisions on the next chapter of my WIP, which needed doing because if I missed a writing day, the clouds would fall. 

By ten a.m. Friday, my house, minus the kitchen, was clean, and only one load of laundry remained. I mentally patted my back as I removed all the meat the chili required from the fridge. Ground beef, steak, bacon, Italian sausage. All huge portions, because a hundred guests needed feeding. All needed precooking. 

Because of my small kitchen, and my apprehension of cooking two meats at once without burning one, I did them one by one. Time ticked by. So did my strength. But, by mid-afternoon, all ingredients were simmering happily in the portable oven. An hour later, the salad and cheesecake were setting in the fridge.

I had completed what seemed impossible the day before, but my strength deserted me on golden wings, leaving me feeling like a thin, holey dishrag that needed discarding. I slumped profusely-perspiring, heart-pounding, gasping for breath, into my recliner, wondering at what age my marbles deserted me. 

Then, my spirit fluttered, and I recognized that flutter. God was teaching me a lesson. One He had to sit me down long enough to get my attention. I’d made a wrong and thoughtless decision. Being so eager to please, I’d failed to count the costs. But God hadn’t. I heard His gentle correction loud and clear, reminding me enough was enough, and I’d overstepped my limitations once again, abusing the body He gave me to care for. 

His Word encourages us to come apart and rest. It even informs us God rested. So if God rested, how much more should we do the same? Exhausting myself is not honouring Him. Nor is allowing goals to control my life or considering lollygagging a waste of time. 

It took an exhausting day for me to learn to listen to God and my body. It emphasized the need for me to choose my commitments wisely, and it’s okay. God doesn’t want me running around trying to achieve the impossible. He needs me rested and ready to do the tasks He appoints me to accomplish. 

The Power of Words - Guest Post by Eunice Cooper-Matchett

As I mused on the suggested topic for May, my thoughts wandered to a poem I memorized in grade four or five, which is more years ago than I care to admit. It is such a simple poem, yet powerful enough to hang around a lifetime, enabling me to bring it out of its archaic brain file to use as ponder fodder.                 

God wove a web of loveliness

Of stars, clouds, and birds                                     

But made not anything as beautiful as words.

They shine around our simple world 

with golden shadowings.

And every common thing they touch

 is equipped with wings. 

If you remember different words, please forgive me. After sixty-plus years, a few cobwebs have slowed down my thought process. But not my love of words. 

Can you imagine a soundless world? After the first hour of blessed quietness? I can’t. Words are life, and really do put wings on our thoughts. And they are powerful. God warns us in the Bible to use them wisely. If I want a bad day, all I need to do is begin it grumpy, complaining over this and that, and it is guaranteed to end up a bust. But if I choose to speak good to myself, as well as others, the sun shines gloriously, even if I’m up to my neck in an impossible situation.  

Words are not only spoken. They communicate thoughts, which means they can also be written, painted, or drawn. I have friends who can speak a thousand sentences with only a few strokes of a brush or pencil, enabling these visual words to light up the saddest heart. 

Words are fascinating. Every word in our vocabulary is made up of a combination of only twenty-six letters. Yet they can create many different worlds, comfort countless people, and anger numerous others. How neat is that? 

Words are a precious gift from God, which we seldom think about. They not only allow us to communicate with each other but add meaning to our music and expression to our heartfelt prayers. Because they are a heavenly gift, they are not a toy and need to be used with care and in a way that brings glory to God.  

- Eunice - 

An African Violet Awakening - by Eunice Cooper-Matchett

Two years ago, while on a RV vacation throughout the United States, I became seriously ill, which is the reason I’ve been silent on this blog. We cut our holiday short, and after returning home, life became a blur of unawareness, doctor visits, tests, and hospital stays. I even questioned my own survival. But God never left me. I was just too sick to notice. 

That changed two days after I was discharged from my last hospital stay. I lay on my couch, trying to concentrate on a television show to no avail. The mess in my home drove me up the wall. I needed to clean, but I lacked the strength to accommodate the emotion. Frustration overtook me. 

I shuffled to the kitchen, but on my way through the dining room, my steps froze. My mother’s African violet that hadn’t had a bud on it before I was admitted to the hospital was covered in bright, purple blossoms. 

My heart warmed. God. When my world was at its darkest, He always shone a light, reminding me, I was not alone. I returned to my couch, and the small area rug caught my attention. Although it was burgundy, so much orange, white, and gray, cat hair covered it, its color was unrecognizable.

Mustering up all the energy I could, then praying for more, I took my small cordless vacuum from the closet and went to work on the rug. Even if I couldn’t clean my whole house, one small spot looked cared for. 

Sometimes, my writing life swamps me in the same way. I set lofty goals and struggled to meet them. So many chapters sit in my inbox, waiting to be critiqued. I need go over edits on a chapter of my own, then finish the scene I was working on in my new novel. The list goes on and on. 

But that was before God caught my attention with the violets and showed me with the rug that although I couldn’t clean the whole house, I could do one small part. He taught me to pause, stop looking at the pile of commitments, and concentrate on what I can do now.

It may take me a wee bit longer to accomplish tasks now, but I’ve learned to take a deep breath and remember the violets. When I do, life falls back into perspective. 

- Eunice - 

A little bit of Scrooge by Eunice Matchett

I love Christmas. The decorations and the lights. The gifts, the traditions, the family gathering all put me in a happy place. Remembering it is Christ’s birthday we share as we open presents Christmas morning puts me in very happy place.

With fondness I look back on my Christmases pasts. My first experience happened when I was three years old. I came out of my bedroom holding my fuzzy teddy bear, and utter astonishment swept through me. So many shinny, colorful ‘dingy bobs’ hung from the tree my dad had brought into our house the previous evening. I don’t remember what goodies were under the boughs for me, only the amazing tree in the corner of the living room.

With grade school came Christmas concerts in our one-roomed school house. We rehearsed for days. Finally, the big night arrived. Dad would hitch Bud and Darky to a sleigh full of fragrant, prickly hay and thick blankets then take us to the concert. My sister, brother and I would snuggle under the blankets to keep warm. All around, drifted snow became a field of diamonds in the  flickering lantern light.  Jack Frost bit at our cheeks and noses, but we paid no attention.

 As the horses trudged along our two and one half mile journey, the jingle of their harness was music to our ears and we sang along with it. Our childish voices seemed to reach the stars as we practiced Away in a Manger and Silent Night. 

My children have a different Christmas experience. There’s  no cabin-like home where lamps were lit at sun down and running water meant running from the well to the house with a bucket of water in each hand. Electric lights and tinsel replaced much of the colorful dingy bobs. Concerts were held in the church rather than school. Christmas was now spent at Grammy and Grampy’s house instead of home, and Atari replaced dolls and board games. Still, when we opened gifts, we never forgot it was Jesus’ birthday we where celebrating.

Now, as a grandmother I see so many changes in the way we all celebrate Christmas. It is much quieter. My children have their own homes and families, and they now host Christmas, which I’m happy to pass down to the next generation.  Trees are far more beautiful, and gift cards have replaced toys and games. I still put up my own tree even if it’s far more difficult. Once it is up I love to sit in front of it, and muse over my Christmases past. Traditions, decorations and gifts are so different, but regardless of all the visible changes, celebrating Christ’s birthday is always the centre of our Christmas.

Pitching a pitch By Eunice Matchett

Books, books, and more books. The brain food for introverts. Companions to loners. To write one, the temporary goal of almost every grade six student. And that included me.

My high marks in grade school language convinced me I could spin a fair tale, and over years I continued to spasmodically practice my gift.  But, as every writer knows, writing isn’t that easy. Except for the basics, most of what I learned in high school English I needed to relearn. Like adjectives. In my day, the more you used, the better. Now, I consider them verbal dysentery.  

Over the years, I continued to learn, and my stories improved. I poked my head out of my introvert shell and submitted some stories to magazines and Sunday school papers. Many were accepted, and they even paid me to publish them. I was on cloud nine, but my real dream was novels.

I rolled up my sleeves and went to work on a historical story. Research became my second name, but I loved it and learned so much. Several years later, with help from a small online crit group my baby was born. I searched my Writers Market for a publishing house only to find out it wasn’t the way to go. I needed to attend a writers conference and pitch my story to an editor or an agent.

On the suggestion of a good crit partner, I attended the ACFW conference. While I pitched my story my knees vibrated to a tune only they knew. My heart became a drum at a rock concert and my head turned into a balloon in the process of being blown up. My ‘one sheet’ stuck to my glistening fingers as I attempted to hand it to the editor. I don’t recall what the editor or I said but two hours later, as I looked at a sodden business card clinging to my still perspiring hands I realized she’d asked for a proposal.

 I came home and went to work on a proposal, but life doesn't always beat to our tune. Within a month I was a widow. My desire to write went on an extended holiday. The horror of my editor experience magnified. Just thinking about it, sends my heart into panic mode.

As time passed, I started to write again, completing three more novels, but they won’t be pitched at a writer’ conference. I’m not sure I could physically survive another editor experience. On the upside, my historical baby is being published through Kindle, and this time I’m more comfortable with the process and I don’t feel like I’m about to induce a cardiac arrest.

My Head is dead, but yet I live by Eunice Matchett

A few days ago, while we were on a wee trip through British Colombia, hidden among all the natural beauty, an evergreen tree struggled to exist.  Or so I thought. On a closer look, although its crown was brown and brittle, the lower half of the tree had branches that were lush and green. As it disappeared behind us, my mind went on a side trip.

Wind, storms, or rockslides could have battered the tree when it was tiny, and to the naked eye, killed it. But… beneath the ground there must be a tenacious root system that refused to give up.

I thought of my own life and compared it to that two-toned evergreen. Storms that buffeted me, the fallen rocks on which I’ve stumbled, came and went again. In the midst of these trials I was driven to my knees. And it was on my knees when my root system grew, and new sprouts shot up.

Regardless of the mistakes I’ve made, God provided a fresh start just as he did for that tree. Consequences of the wrong directions I’ve taken throughout my life remain as the dead crown, reminding me of the destruction my unthought out actions caused, but they don’t hinder my growth.

On my own, I know I would have ended up like that dry, brittle, treetop, but thankfully, my existence does not depend on my own abilities. My heavenly father has established an unmovable root system within me, and although I stumble and fall, when I clue in again, a new sprout shoots upward making me stronger.  

Hearts and Buds by Eunice Matchett

Winter has finally loosened its hold. The snow is gone, but behind it, is hours of work. Raking, mowing, trimming, the list goes on and on. A couple weeks back, when I was raking my front lawn, fatigue overcame me. I laid my rake down, by the forsythia tree, noting the expanding buds on the branches, and went inside to rest.

An hour later, I bent to pick up my rake, and wow, the buds on the top half of the tree had exploded into beautiful yellow flowers. I could not believe what I was seeing and stared at it like an enthralled child. In all my springs, I have never seen such a rapid transformation.

It took me back many years, to a little country school house that served as a church on Sundays, where I gave my heart to Christ. Although no buds exploded into blossoms that day, something awoke inside me that made me want to jump and run. Sadness that gripped my eight-year-old mind disappeared. I had a brand-new friend who loved me and lived right inside me.

Church became an adventure, rather than boring as it had before. Each week I learned a fresh dimension of my new life. At first the lessons were simple. David and Goliath, Esther, Ruth and Boaz. and how their experiences related to my own life. Later, I learned about the Paul’s life and how relevant his teachings are today.

No, life didn’t remain on such a high. I was eight years old and continued to get myself into trouble as I explored my boundaries. But my conscience sharpened. I grew a respect for ‘do not enter’ commands. Most of the time. Those times I ignored the silent red flags I suffered the consequences of my foolish actions. And regretted them, but not alone. Jesus stayed with me, offering forgiveness, and strength to refrain from making the same mistake again.

As years pass, the trials I encounter change. Some, I wonder how I survived, but no matter what happens, I am very aware that I’m not alone. Jesus is with me.  Regardless of how many times my own limited thinking has led me onto unstable ground, Jesus never turns away or gives up on me. All I need to do is ask Him for help.

Capturing Moments by Eunice Matchett

For me, a new year is an open, brand-new journal. A pretty one, because I like pretty. The prettier my journal the harder I try to make each story or poem unique. At the end of each year, I have a treasure house of my thoughts to read. Sadly, the more recent the journals, the emptier the pages. Somehow, I’ve allowed myself to get off track. My direction and discipline have packed up and gone on a trip.

I need a plan. One to keep me on track.  I though back over the previous year. My well-intended writing time had been crowded out by other things. Feeling ashamed of myself for allowing this to happen, I asked God to help me in these areas this year.  An element of peace crept into me.

 Then, alas, life set in. 

The phone rang. My son had suffered another medical episode. I grabbed my coat and keys and was out the door in minutes. Hours later, I returned, totally exhausted. My laptop remained on the ottoman right where I left it. The discipline and direction I’d promised myself earlier shriveled up, and I flopped across my bed, only to be woken a few hours later. My son needed care. This went on for three days. The following three days I flat-lined. Now, six days later, I retrieve my laptop from the ottoman where I’d laid it all those days ago.

Prepared to continue with my thoughts, I re-read what I’d written, but the discipline and direction no longer felt so important or possible. I prayerfully stared at my screen wondering if my writing days were withering. Self pity popped in to join me for a cup of tea. The tea was delightful, and the conversation was all one-sided. Mine. But, as the conversation moved on, little spots of light appeared and grew. Self-pity excused herself for another appointment, and my mind kicked into gear.

I have less control over my life than most people, so direction and discipline can be no more than an illusive dream. Or I can dwell on them, and turn into an old hag. But I choose not to. My prayer for this year has changed to, “Lord, help me recognize the small openings in my life in which I can sit and write, and please enable my mind to kick into its writing mode instantly.”

Painting a Sentence by Eunice Matchett

Spring is such a lovely season, but along with all its loveliness comes a truckload of work. Each year I do one major project beyond the normal planting and weeding. This year, my major undertaking was painting the fence.

As I evaluated the weathered boards, my mind wandered to my writing projects that were weeks behind schedule. From there, my thoughts zoomed into sentence structure and my unpainted fence morphed into a sentence.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with the fence. It served its purpose by offering privacy, keeping the neighbourhood dogs out, and most of the time, my cats in. But it was drab. And boring. Just like a first draft sentence.

I went to work pulling out branches that had grown through the cracks between the boards much the same way I slash goes without saying words in a sentence. The fence appeared taller, but dry leaves and brittle pine needles littered the two-by-fours to which the boards were nailed. As I brushed away the dead foliage it reminded me of how the over use of fluffy words and words ending with ing or ly cluttered a sentence, making it difficult to comprehend.  This done, I checked all the boards to make sure their nails were still holding them fast. It made me think of how necessary conjunctions are to hold a sentence together.

Now, I’m ready for the paint. But what kind of paint? Just as a sentence requires precise words, my fence needs the right paint. The clerk in the local hardware store showed me exactly what I needed. Then, dressed in old tube top and shorts, a can of paint in one hand and a brush in the other, I began my task. Hours later, my arms ached, my skin burned, but I’d finished one side of one side of my fence. I stepped back to admire my handiwork. My throat throbbed. All my loving swishes had left light spots all over the fence.

Just like your sentence crept into my thoughts. Those light spots are weak words you allowed to remain in a sentence rather than taking time to search for stronger ones. I took a deep breath and returned to the spot where I started. Before laziness could overwhelm my thoughts, I dipped my brush into the paint and applied another coat.

In half the time it took to apply the first coat, I’d completed the second. My arms ached twice as much, and I think the sun had removed the top layer of my skin, but I’d finished. Again. I stepped away, gingerly this time. But it wasn’t necessary. A perfect fence section stood in front of me. Not one light spot. Not one knot hole exposing naked wood. No loose boards or painted-over pine needle. My fence sang. Just as well thought out and strategically placed words make a sentence dance, properly applied paint to my weathered fence gave my whole yard a fresh, new life.

Praise in the Storm - Eunice Matchett

This morning I awoke to a Neuralgia flare-up, a neurological condition that has taken up residence in my brain for many years. My head throbbed, feeling like a giant pimple not quite ready to be popped, but regardless, something or someone was squeezing it. Waking up in this state is not new or surprising, but what makes today a trifle different is, I must write a blog post on thankfulness.

As I stared at my screen trying to gather my thoughts the letters and icons across the top turned into bright stars doing a square dance all over the page. My eyes drifted closed and I leaned back in my chair. Within seconds a beautiful old hymn floated into my thoughts—I see the stars—I hear the rolling thunder—Thy power throughout the universe displayed. Immediately I was reminded of how small and insignificant I am, yet my Heavenly Father took time to nudge me into refocusing my mind. Gratitude overflowed, and I recalled a few of the many blessed moments in my life.

It overwhelms me knowing that our great and mighty God gave me the privilege of growing up in a home where godliness was a way of life. Sunday School was not an option, and I am thankful for those Sunday afternoons because it was in that small group I committed my life to Christ.

I am grateful for my children and grandchildren, my brothers and sister, my church family and my writing family. I am thankful I live in a country where freedom is a reality. It may be cold at times, but I have a warm house and my cupboards and fridge are always full. When I’m lonely, friends or entertainment are only a click away. My eyes don’t work very good anymore, but I have an active imagination that can fill in details I can not see.

 It would be nice to say that throughout my mini praise the pain in my head lessened but that is not so. It hurts big time but it no longer controls my feelings. For this I’m grateful because by changing the direction of my thoughts I was able to complete this post. I am also grateful for my soft comfy bed I’m about to curl up in until my head returns to normal. While I’m being thankful for big things, I’m reminded of the small day to day blessings I find myself taking for granted. For example, my four kitties, Beebins, Oliver, Athena, and Bentlee who will curl up around me, their soft purrs and unconditional love always bringing me comfort.

Satisfied I’d done all I could for this post, I clicked on the save icon and that beautiful old hymn once again filled my thoughts. Then sings my soul—My Savior God to Thee—how great Thou art.

Something Fresh and Beautiful -- Eunice Matchett

 



Thank you, Eunice, for joining InScribe Writers Online as our Guest Blogger today.   


As I jogged along the trail today only one thought came to mind. Spring is here. Yes, snow still covered the landscape but beneath it, water poured into ponds and low lying areas. Naked trees still shivered in the breeze, but the breeze no longer bit. I slowed down as I jogged passed the willows, noticing tiny buds on their stems. A promise of pussy willows. A bright yellow sun shone from a cloudless sky turning my hoodie into a sauna. I removed it, tied it around my waist, and without the extra weight on my shoulders, my speed picked up.

Thoughts zoomed through my mind as if on steroids. The Easter story rose above the rest. What Jesus did for me all those years ago. Sure, I was a good girl. Going to church on Sunday was what we did. Do for others what you want them to do for you was not an option. Yet, my life wasn’t much different from the snow banks hugging the trail I jogged upon. On the outside I was like the clean white top layer of snow that glistened in the sunlight. Those millions of snowflakes huddled together, suggesting softness and purity. They begged me to lie down in the midst of them and make a snow angel. But the wisdom I’d gained from living through many springs dismissed the invitation. These snow banks, like many other things in life were not what they appeared to be.

Beneath that pure white surface, skulked layers of deteriorating snow and filthy water. As the water flowed across gentle inclines in search of a place to pool, debris of all descriptions hitch hiked a ride, changing its course, slowing its progress, making it filthier. A far cry from the sheet of driven snow it started out to be.

My heart ached. Tears blurred my vision. I had been born pure and clean as a fresh snowfall, but years of disobedience and wrong choices made my life personify a March landscape. Until I met Jesus for whom He really is. The Savior of my soul. The forgiver of my life-threatening sins. The healer of my aging body.

I stopped jogging, my gaze sweeping my surroundings. It came to a rest on a small knoll rising above its frozen surroundings. Brown grass and dead leaves covered it, making it appear drab against the snow. Almost unsightly. Picking my way through the snow, I walked toward it, and squatted. Beneath the rotting foliage tiny, green blades of grass reached for the sun.

A small discovery as seen through my human eyes. But my spiritual eyes saw so much more. It reminded me of how often Christ had brought something fresh and beautiful out of situations I had written off as wasted.

For me a walk/jog is not just an exercise to keep my physical body in shape. It is a time I meet with God. Sometimes, through earnest prayer, but more often, small things like new grass, dandelions and melting snow whisper to me How Great is my God.



Eunice, a longtime InScribe member, is a storyteller and is InScribe's current exchequer.
 

A New Toy for Grammy - Storyteller

For the past few days I visited my daughter and her family. I had no reason to justify taking the time away from other tasks that needed completing, but I just wanted to go.

The first evening, Joshie, my 12 year old grandson sat beside me, his big blue eyes reading my face. “Grammy, have you ever ridden a Quad?”

Flashes of newscasts on the dangers of such toys swept through my mind. My face must have registered my fear and that I knew exactly where this question was going, because he instantly started to laugh.

“Grammy, there is rules. When you follow them nothing happens.”

Hesitantly, I rose from the soft comfy couch and forced a smile. “Let’s go.”

My sixty year old leg had a wee bit of difficulty swinging over the passenger seat to reach the footrest on the other side, but after a few wiggles and pushes I got to where I belonged.

Joshie climbed in front of me, squeezed the hand throttles until they roared, then turned back to me. “Don’t you just love that sound.”

“Of course,” I lied. “It has an excited tone to it.”

“Good. Are we ready?”

My fingers closed around the handles on either side of me and I nodded with all the gumption I could muster up, which wasn’t very much at all.

Joshie turned his attention back to the controls.

The quad jerked, then moved forward, slowly picking up speed.

My stomach lurched, much the way it used to do when I was brave enough to ride the tilt-a-whirl at the local fair. I gripped the handles tighter, wondering how I got myself into such a mess.

Then, in the midst of my dilemma, I felt the wind blowing through my hair, and smelled freshly baled hay as we flew across the empty field. My stomach found a safe spot and settled down. I leaned against the back of my seat. Wow. This was more fun than I’d had in years! And because of preconceived fears, I nearly missed a wonderful experience with a very special young man.

The Storm - The Storyteller

Saturday afternoon I lay on my lounge chair in the backyard, basking in warm sunbeams. My cats stretched out purring in the shade beneath my chair, letting me know they kept me company. A perfect summer day.
Then a shadow swept across my closed eyes and I opened them. The sun had slid behind a cloud. Just a big white ice cream cloud. I rolled off my chair. Enough tanning for one day. Might as well put everything away.

I showered away my suntan lotion and headed back outside, but stopped in my tracks in the doorway. All around me angry, churning, black clouds rolled into the sky from two directions. After calling the cats inside, I watched from my dining room window. Lightening flashed and thunder shook my house. The sky turned green.

Thoughts of how to protect myself in a tornado ran jumbled through my mind. Basement. Bathroom. Do I face the storm so the house blows away from me or do I just curl up in the bathtub? No, I can’t do that. There is only a shower downstairs.

Before my mind could sort out the jumble, a powerful wind struck the house, shaking it. Curtains flew out from the windows. A picture fell from the wall. My mouth dropped open but not a sound followed. But I ran. Closed all the windows.

Outside rain fell so hard I couldn’t see the houses across the street. Trees bent, their upper branches almost touching the ground. Another sheet of wind and rain swept past, ripping smaller branches off trees, sending them sailing down the street in a torrent of water.

For several minutes life was a vacuum. Nothing felt real. Then it was over. The angry clouds rolled away. The sun broke through. I slipped on my runners and headed down the walking trail.
All around me, debris clung to the edges of the streets and walks. I came upon a huge poplar branch laying on a lawn. As I stared at it some pretty serious thoughts poked their heads into my mind. Like a few minutes ago, this tree was whole. Now it’s deformed or maybe even worse. It may have to be cut down. I marvelled at how fragile our life really is. Realized that tomorrow may not always be just another day. And it made me thankful. Thankful that the storm passed without more damage, but more so, thankful that God had protected us from the full blast of the storm.

A Little Pink Phone

Yesterday I received a cell phone advertisement in the mail, displaying a little pink blackberry. I had not seen a phone this pretty before and instantly, my heart beat faster. What could it entail to exchange my plain silver job for something far more attractive?
Advertisement in hand, I hurried into our local dealership. A young lady with a pleasant expression sat behind a desk and I made my way to her, still clutching my paper. "I’d like this phone," I said setting the ad down in front of her.
For the next five minutes questions assaulted me. "What is your present number? What type of phone do you have? Oh, this account isn’t in your name. It’s in your husband’s name. He must cancel it before I can transfer it to your name or give you a different account."
I hung my head. Same old explanation. "My husband passed away. He cannot cancel this account. My name is on the account as well. Doesn’t that automatically make it mine?”
“No. He must cancel it.”
“I can’t see that being possible.”
Finally, after several phone calls, a pile of instructions I had to write down so I wouldn’t forget, she informed me I could purchase the pretty pink phone, then left to get one. Several minutes later, she returns wearing a downcast expression. “I’m sorry madam, we just sold our last one. You’ll have to wait five days until our next shipment."
Leaning back in my chair, I considered my options. I could smile, thank her for her help, then drive to Edmonton. A pleasant thought except Edmonton is two hours away and if anything went wrong with the phone, I would have to return it to the dealership I bought it from to get it replaced or repaired. Not a good option if it went catawampus during a blizzard. I sat up straight in my chair, ran my hand across my perspiring brow, then wrote down my phone number and handed it to her. “Would you phone me when your shipment arrives? I will come back.”
All the way home I fumed at the 'shop locally' promotions hanging in business windows. That would be a lot easier to do if such a thing were possible. A suggestion of guilt crept in, and tightened my chest. Even if nobody else saw my ill-tempered attitude, God did. And I wasn’t being very charitable. Romans 5:3 came to mind. And not only so, but we glory in tribulations, also, knowing that tribulation worketh patience. I forced my thick throat into action and swallowed. "Forgive me Father. I totally messed up an opportunity for You to work Your will in my life."
At home, I went to work. Half of me remained sad because I had allowed my emotions to rule my heart. The other half rejoiced because my spirit had been sensitive enough to hear that still small voice.
The phone rang. Without thinking I answered it.
“Hello, Mrs. Matchett.”
I recognized the voice of the girl in the communications store. “We just received our new shipment and we have a phone for you.”
I lowered my red face. If I had of voiced my thoughts— no, I wouldn’t go there. But God had showed me, once again, His goodness. Regardless of my bad attitude.