Unwavering Presence - Gloria Guest

 

 

Light, Mountain, Forgiveness, Redemption

Where is the light?

The Redemption and Forgiveness?

There is only this 

Mountain.

Better if I had picked three other words, 

To accompany me through the past year

Confusion, Anger, Despair.

Now, in the waning days of November

I stare up at that Mountain,

Standing on its rocky footstool,

I have barely even begun to climb.

I take in its height and incline,

I can't climb that, I think.

But here it is

It's not moving

And so, I must

Somehow.

I know it can only be done

By holding that same hand,

That brought me this far, through this year,

Of valleys and unexpected, twists and turns,

I hope I don't fall, I think

You might, I hear

But I've got you,

I always do.

And so, I gingerly step up and out 

Perhaps, I think, those other words

Light, Forgiveness, Redemption

Will track me into this new year,

Full of the unexpected,

Yet full of God's steady hand and 

Unwavering presence.

"Man plans his way but the Lord establishes his steps."

Proverbs 16:9 (ESV)

Photo credit: Image by Kanenori from Pixabay

Gloria writes from Caron, Sk on issues close to her heart, through memoir, fiction, non-fiction & poetry. She has published many newspaper articles and columns throughout various newspaper in the province, has some pieces published in anthologies, and continues to take editing classes from SFU.

What Gifts of Love Have Influenced You Powerfully? By Sandi Somers

love hand hears by Unsplash

  “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind, and Love your neighbor as yourself.” (Luke 10:27 NIV)

 February is the month devoted to love. Our challenge this month is to consider gifts of love and kindness we’ve received and given.

 Being loved and loving—a missing ingredient in many relationships. Perhaps It begins with misunderstanding God’s love. When we don’t know how much God loves us, our love for others can go awry. We misplace our love with other people or things. We can’t forgive. We harbour bitterness. We feel rejected.

 On the other hand, loving others is a measure of how much we accept and know His love right to the core of our being.

Over this last month the Lord has been impressing on me what his love means, and to love Him and others more deeply, especially in these areas.

 Forgiveness.

A number of years ago, my path met with a former student. As we chatted, I remembered how I had been unnecessarily angry with him when he was in Grade Two. Now I apologized. He gently put his hand on my arm and said, “I don’t remember. I forgive you.” Gratitude and an overwhelming sense of peace filled me. I realized then how transforming forgiveness can be to another person when I offer it.

The speaker David Jeremiah once said, “Forgiveness is always our turn.” Forgiveness doesn’t diminish what was done, nor does it condone. Nor do we glibly forgive without working through the icebergs of hurt, pain, confusion, and voicelessness. When we take responsibility and forgive, our spirit becomes free to love.

Compassion.  

This winter I’ve been praying for a friend who is deeply grieving the deaths of loved ones. The Lord has invited me to enter more into her pain with compassion and empathy. And beyond this, the Lord has impressed on me to open up a tenderness to enter into others’ pain. (For an excellent discussion on compassion, read Alan Anderson’s January blog post here.) 

Valuing others

When I visit my nephew Tobi and his family, I’m greeted at the door by kids who hug me and tell me (all at once) about themselves. I feel valued and affirmed.

Gary Chapman’s book, The Five Love Languages, was a breakthrough for me. People, he said, feel valued in five different ways: a touch or hug; words of affirmation and appreciation; meaningful gifts; “acts of service”—having someone do something for them; or quality time and attention.  Although the Lord keeps prompting me to give more of my time and availability to others, I’m still very much a work in progress in all of the areas above.  In addition, He is inviting me to “launch out” into the unknown, as I both interact and pray for those God places in my path. As I include more of these facets in my writing, others will know Christ’s love for them, and God will be honoured.   

~ ~ ~

Challenge: Who has graced your life with love, and/or whose life have you graced with love?  

Thought: God loves us infinitely more than we can dream or imagine. Demonstrate that love as Paul loved his people: “How much I love you and long for you with the tender compassion of Christ Jesus” (Philippians 1:8, NLT).

It is Finished by Carol Harrison

      

 

It is Finished

 

Mocking crowds
Shaking earth
Crumbling rocks
      As the mid-day darkens like midnight
                               Fear strikes men's hearts. 

                                 Bruised bloodied
                              Father God
                              Forgive them
                             Jesus' final cry - it is finished
                                 Hope disappears

                               Body wrapped
                               Buried in
                             Borrowed tomb
                                    As Roman soldiers seal the entrance
                                  Followers mourn.

                                   Third day dawns
                                Women find
                                  Empty tomb
                                 As the Risen Messiah's revealed
                             Death defeated

                              God's great love
                              Mercy and grace
                            Paid in full
                                  Through Jesus the Sacrificial Lamb
                           Our penalty.

Carol Harrison writes, speaks, tells stories and loves to help others find their voice and reach their fullest potential. She loves to share stories of God's amazing love and how that looks in everyday experiences.
                                   

Transcending Criticism by Sandi Somers

Many writers (may I daresay all writers) have received negative comments, putdowns or biting remarks about their work or talents or themselves. It hurts!

Through times I’ve been criticized, I’ve learned a lot about some of God’s ways. In addition, this question helped me focus: “What are some of your personal and spiritual developments that have helped you handle criticism?”

Forgiveness is the most necessary ingredient. It’s a choice, an act the will. ““If you forgive those who sin against you, your heavenly Father will forgive you (Matthew 6:14). Forgiveness breaks the chains of bitterness and frees us from resentment or injury.

However, as I learned while counselling, sometimes we need further measures to experience complete forgiveness.

Our spirit needs to be healed. Francis McNutt, who wrote the book, Healing, said, “Jesus eagerly desires to show us how much he cares for us by healing us of those ancient hurts that have withered or broken our hearts and spirits.”^[i] (my emphasis).

Our emotional stream is different from our will. We have received a hurt that can burrow deep into our spirits. The next step in forgiveness is to face the hurts—naming each one—and asking the Lord to heal the binding effects of those incidents.

I asked God to give me definition. What was the real issue in criticism? Was there any truth in those comments? Or was the person picking at minute points? Or did she/he have a critical spirit? Or jealousy?

Sometimes God has prompted me to intercede for the other person. This is particularly true where the person has a critical spirit in a number of issues.

Criticism is one person’s opinion, not mine. A challenge for me has been to not let their issue become mine. My attitude and behaviour should reflect who I am, not who they are.

Confide in another writer. My writer friends know me and my writing, and releasing my feelings to someone else helps me see the situation more objectively. 

God is giving me wisdom to speak into the criticism when necessary. Sometimes there is a proper time and way to confront our critics. This has become easier as I’ve gained more confidence in my writing and have a better sense of its value and worth.

Let it go. As Paul advised, “I focus on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us” (Philippians 3:13-14)

~ ~ ~ ~

Now over to you. Tell your story of how you have transcended criticism. Is it as difficult to write your story? What strategies rooted in strength have you discovered? How has God spoken to you through Scripture, to your spirit, through others, etc.? (Or if you are still wrestling with handling criticism, tell us your journey.)

---

[i] Francis McNutt. Healing. Notre Dame, IN: Ave Maria Press. 1974. P. 191.

The Point in the Story - Marnie Pohlmann

It was still pre-dawn when my companions and I were called to duty. This was my first time. I was excitedly concerned about what I would be tasked with. I was confident, though, that whatever it was I would do well. I had been held to the flame and hammered into shape. I was strong, big, and fit for duty. I was made for this day.

We were gathered at the top of a hill. The older ones among us called this hill “Golgotha” which meant “Place of the Skull” and I wondered why. It felt like a place of death, though, where spirits battled over souls. I looked at the ground on which I waited. Was that a bone fragment? Was this dirt darker than the dirt of my birthplace? Perhaps stained with blood? What did this mean for me? Why was I here?

The whispered comments and complaints of other junior consorts soon stilled as we waited. Some of the older ones had been in service here before, so if they were now satisfied to wait for action, then I would lay quiet, content as well.

We did not wait long. Soon a quiet rumble of voices became shouting and cursing that filled the air. The ground trembled with crowds pushing and shoving their way to the hilltop. A Centurion gained control of the situation with authoritative commands and the crowd parted.

I was shocked by what I saw.  A man stumbled forward, a wooden beam over his back. Blood dripped over his face from thorns that had been cruelly pushed into his brow. I wondered how the man was even standing, he looked so weak. Ah, I saw, on the other side was a strong, dark-haired man helping him bear the load.

“Close enough,” barked the Centurion.

I watched the helper lay down the rough beam and rush away into the crowd like he wanted nothing more to do with the situation. I could see why. Left with the complete weight of the wood, the blood-covered man stumbled and fell. I could see his back as he lay there; or rather what should have been his back but was only tattered bits of skin clinging to raw meat. Was he already dead? He had obviously been severely whipped.

From the crowd, soldiers led two other men. These men fought every step, pulling against the ropes that bound their hands, only to be yanked forward by the guard or pushed forward by the crowd.

Soldiers were ordered to push the wood closer to the hole it would stand in. Two other holes already had crossbeams beside them. The soldiers then laid the captives on top of the wood.

I suddenly realized what I was going to be part of. No! This is not what I dreamed of doing with my strength. This was degrading, disgusting work. A crucifixion of criminals was the lowest job I could have been given. Had I done something wrong? Was I not one of the best?

I stayed back behind others as some of the old and new with me were grabbed and taken to the wood. Screams and pleas of mercy filled the air, causing me to tremble in fright. I could see the feet of one thief held tightly as the commissioned spikes were ordered in. The thief was in excruciating pain and twisted his upper body trying to hit anyone nearby. Then his arms were caught and held tight as the rope was removed from his wrists. His head was forced back, so he lay on the beam and his arms were forced out from his body, stretching along the crossbeam. As the nails were pounded through his palms his screams became whimpers. There was no longer any hope for him.

The cross was lifted by a group of strong soldiers, the bottom falling into the hole with a heavy thud, jarring another scream of pain from the thief on the cross. Quickly the soldiers braced the cross in place and hurried away, their job done.

So intent was I in watching this horror I did not see the soldier come to grab me from among those of us left in the pile. I tried to slip out of his grasp, but he gained a strong hold on me. One of my mates began a tinny, high-pitched wail as he clung to other nails. I prayed I would be strong in fulfilling my duty, no matter how distasteful it became.

And then I was given my task for the day.  I was directed to secure the man’s right hand. Odd, I thought, as I was led to my post at the center cross. This was the man wearing the crown of thorns, yet he was not screaming. I could see he was conscious, aware of what was happening. I looked into his eyes and saw the pain, yet there was also compassion as he looked at me. I reached for his hand and it was as though he reached toward me, offering to be held by me. I shook and wished I could pull away, but he nodded ever so slightly like he was reassuring me that this was my duty and I needed to do it well.

I turned to stare at his hand and pressed my chiselled point into his weathered palm. Then the hammer fell. It struck my head, driving my newly forged body through the man’s flesh, sinking my point deeper and deeper through the hand with each blow and continuing until I was buried deep into the wood behind it. My head was exploding with pain and could not grasp what the man was experiencing. My racing thoughts stopped enough to register that he still held no hate in his eyes toward me for what I was doing, so I tried my best to give support to this man in his final hours.

A soldier climbed a ladder and tapped a sign on the cross above the man’s head. “King of the Jews,” he mocked loudly, laughing. “Crowned and standing above us all. Let’s see his power now.”

I felt a stirring in the air, as though angel guardians were rushing to the man’s side to defend him. He stretched his fingers, signalling for them to stop, to stand down and hold themselves still even in the face of this abuse.

I had heard the man’s name was Jesus. Some said he healed blind men and made the lame walk. Some said he was the Messiah. I heard that he himself said he could raise the temple of God in three days. Most mocked him, challenging him to prove he was this King the Jewish people waited for.

Suddenly darkness descended and the air grew chill. Yet it was only midday! How could this be? Strange things were happening. I knew they were significant, but I did not understand how.

In the dark, throughout the afternoon, I watched as the people who berated this man began to disperse. Only the soldiers and a few stragglers remained. Some religious men were clustered part way down the hill, not wanting to watch but apparently not able to leave, either. They seemed fearful this man would somehow free himself from my grip and leave the cross. A few women were sobbing at the foot of the cross and a young man tried to comfort them. The Centurion had ordered the soldiers to let them be, as one was the man’s mother.

 Jesus, whose hand I held, spoke only a few times. He told the young man to take care of his mother. He requested God’s forgiveness of all around him. I was amazed.

Only once were his words to question his place of punishment. He looked to the heavens and groaned, “My God. My God. Why have you forsaken me?” Seeing his distress, the Centurion sent a soldier to offer the man a wine-soaked sponge to deaden his distress. Jesus refused, seemingly at peace again, and spoke once more in a tone of acceptance.

“It is finished.”

At that moment the sun burst through the darkness and the ground trembled. I held firmly to the hand of Jesus as he gave up his spirit.

The soldiers started to run from their posts, frightened by the earthquake, but the Centurion’s authority halted them. I watched as the Centurion gained control in the only way that worked with soldiers. He gave them an order, a task to complete. He ordered them to break the legs of the men on the crosses so they would die quicker. Their broken limbs would not be able to hold them up to take laboured breaths and they would soon suffocate.

The soldier who approached Jesus noticed he already appeared dead. To make sure, he thrust his sword into the side of the limp body and noted the fluid that poured out. I could feel the weight of Jesus pull against the secure hold of my position. Yes, he was dead.

I heard the Centurion speak in awe as he gazed at Jesus on the cross. “Surely this was the son of God.” His men looked at him, concerned at their leader’s strange reaction. The Centurion quickly regained his composure and commanded that the hillside be cleaned up.

A fresh group of soldiers were tasked with removing the men from the crosses. The crucified were dead, so these soldiers did not try to be gentle. They climbed ladders and tore the hands and feet of the men free of the wood, not even bothering to remove the other nails first.

When the soldier approached me and tried to pull Jesus’ hand free, I gripped it tightly, unwilling to let go. I would not allow this man, strange as he was, to be disrespected in that way. Exasperated, the soldier finally grabbed me in a choke hold and pulled me away. While still upset, instead of tearing Jesus’ other hand and feet free, he pulled my cohort nails from the cross as well.

Jesus’ arm fell to his side as I lay on the ground in the bloodied dirt, spent from my day of work. I watched as they wrapped him in a rough blanket and a rich man claimed his body, assuring the mother he would be buried as a king and not in the field of criminals. I tried to roll onto the blanket, to remain with this man who even in death had a spirit about him that attracted me.

I had done a distasteful job, but I had done it to the best of my ability, and with compassion for the man placed in my care.

The woman, mother of Jesus, instead gathered me to her chest. I was covered in her son’s blood, but she seemed not to mind, and for some reason, I did not mind either. I was covered in Jesus’ blood and because of that, I knew I was forgiven for the part I played in the crucifixion. Somehow, I knew this day was important. This event would change the world and I had been a part of that. I remembered the look on Jesus’ face as he urged me to my duty.

Yes, Jesus truly is the Son of God.


*pictures CCO courtesy of Pixabay.com

Our Lord's forgiveness, mercy, and sacrifice truly changed the world on that day of crucifixion. As we come to terms with our responsibility for that day, and our role in the need for Jesus' sacrifice, may we also claim the hope that the resurrection day provides to us.

The Heart of the Story by Nina Faye Morey

Many of my stories are based on events in my life. My stories aren’t driven by these experiences, but by the emotions they elicit. Writing about these memories from the heart means my feelings will form the heart of the story. If I can tap into these emotions, then my tales will touch my readers. They may not have experienced a similar event, but I know they will have experienced the same emotions.

My readers want to be immersed in my fictional world. They want to identify with my protagonist—or perhaps, they favour the antagonist. Therefore, I need to create characters my readers can become emotionally invested in. Then what touches my characters’ hearts will also move the hearts of my readers. They will see the world through her eyes; feel what she feels. For instance, they may never have experienced skydiving, but they want to feel the adrenaline rush, the emotional high, the heart-pounding fear my character feels as she steps out of the plane into the void of space, putting her faith in a skimpy piece of nylon.

Whether my readers will be drawn into and emotionally satisfied by this scene depends solely on my skill as a writer. You see, I’ve never actually parachuted from a plane, but that needn’t stop me from creating a spellbinding scene. Remember, it’s not the events but the feelings that are at the heart of the story. So to make it believable, I’ll need to mine memorable events in my life for those strong feelings of excitement, fear, and faith. I can’t be afraid to relive and reveal my personal memories and heartfelt emotions. They’re vital to my success as a writer.

Therefore, I’m pleased to share “the story behind the story” of “Isabella’s Green Shamrock Sweater” (Canadian Messenger, March 2010, pp. 24-5). The inspiration for this story was my memory of being bullied by classmates for wearing green to school the Friday before St. Patrick’s Day. Managing to free my heart from the pain of hurt feelings through forgiveness is what forms the heart of the story. Here is an excerpt:

“Why are you wearing that sweater with green shamrocks?” Jenna demanded to know in a haughty tone as she came up behind Isabella.

“My grandmother knit this sweater for me to wear on St. Patrick’s Day,” Isabella replied proudly.

“Today isn’t St. Patrick’s Day, stupid!” Robin sneered.

“Yeah, St. Patrick’s Day isn’t until Saturday,” Jenna added with her usual air of superiority.

“And you’re not Irish, anyway! So why are you even celebrating St. Patrick’s Day?” Robin taunted Isabella as she shoved her into a corner of the cloakroom. Isabella recovered her balance just in time to feel Jenna shove her from the other side.

A crowd of students began to gather around the threesome. Isabella felt her face flush and tears welled up in her eyes as she turned to see that some were merely staring, while several others were laughing at her.

When Miss Fran, Isabella’s history teacher, learns of her classmates’ bullying, she uses it as an opportunity to teach her class the story of St. Patrick. They learn how he was captured by Irish marauders as a teenager and sold into slavery. Relying on prayer and a vision from the Holy Spirit, he escapes after six years. He eventually forgives his captors for the hardship and hurt they caused him and returns to Ireland as a Christian missionary and bishop. Miss Fran urges her class to honour him on St. Patrick’s Day by following his example of forgiveness.

Unfortunately, it’s the traumatic events in our lives that form our most indelible memories and trigger our most intense emotions. That’s the reason I chose this childhood incident of bullying as “the story behind the story.” 

Photo Credits: Pixabay

But I Can't Forgive... by Bobbi Junior

Bobbi Junior shares this powerful guest post today:

“I know I have to forgive,” I said to my friend with a heavy heart, “but I can’t. I say the words, but my heart isn’t anywhere near engaged.”

“You don’t have to forgive them, “ she told me.  “Ask Jesus to forgive them instead.”

I was taken aback. “Isn’t that a cop out?”

“Not a all. On the cross, Jesus was in agony from his tormentors, and he said, ‘Father, forgive them.’ Why can’t we do the same?” 

Well, okay! If Jesus could shift the burden of forgiveness from himself to God, then so would I.

So that became my prayer. When the anguish and anger of remembering what had been done to me rose up like bile in my gut, I passed the responsibility to Jesus’ shoulders.

“Lord, I can’t forgive them, but if you think they deserve it, maybe you can.”

As months, then years went by, the fire’s fuel seemed to dissipate. Gradually my prayer changed to a simple request. “Jesus, please forgive them.”

Until eventually it came to this. “Lord, you love them as much as you love me. Just as you forgave me, forgive them too.”

One day I realized the familiar resentment that had always smoldered just beneath the surface of my conscience was gone. That place was empty. Clean. No fuel was left for the fire to burn.

That’s when my writing began to flourish, take on a new freedom of depth and insight.

But why?

This time a farmer from our church gave me the second truth in solving the mystery of personal forgiveness.

“If someone has hurt us badly,” he said, “we can’t see the good in them until we’ve fully forgiven.”

A light flashed on. In that moment I realized that now, as I wrote about the hurts and offenses in my life, I saw my tormenters as whole people, not the one-dimensional characters they had always seemed to be. With the Lord’s help, I began to identify what was good in those who had hurt me. I recognized the good intentions some had had, intentions that sadly had gone terribly wrong. We all, like sheep, have gone astray. Isaiah 53:6

For years my writing was tethered to unforgiveness. Today, as those bonds are broken, my writing is able to stretch further than I thought possible.

What about you? Is there someone in your life you can’t forgive? If Jesus could defer the responsibility, you can too. “Father, forgive …. “

Bobbi Junior’s passion is to use story to show how God brings value for our suffering. Through memoir, Bobbi explores caregiving, grief, disability, and other life experiences, told with an honest sharing of mistakes made and victories won. Visit Bobbi’s blog to download samples of her award winning publications. www.bobbijunior.com

Valentines Day: Love or . . .

A serious decline in the meaning of love is making Valentine’s a day to be forgotten rather than remembered. In concert with the decline in the Christmas message, love has become a hollow shell that cannot withstand the stresses laid upon it. Just as many lonely people wish they could sleep from December the first until the New Year, too may women would gladly skip Valentine’s Day and the memories it evokes.

Time magazine reports that to celebrate Valentine’s Day, a San Francisco zoo is letting people adopt a cockroach or scorpion in the name of their ex. My guess is more women than men will try it. My experience is that, as a general rule, women give more to a marriage than men—thanks to a compelling nurturing nature. Someone has said that there are no frigid women, only inattentive men.

As long as love and marriage is seen as a place to be served instead of a place to serve, where men need to give their lives daily for their wives, true love will be replaced with a veneer that, husbands hope, gives sufficient incentive to get what they want. Valentine’s Day, like Mother’s Day, easily becomes a substitute for three hundred other days of neglect.

Well, now I’ve let the dogs out, how do I really feel about my Valentine? Inadequate is the first word that surfaces. Why did I take so long to understand what a husband’s love really is? That’s as much an upward learning curve for Christians as its decline is for an unbelieving culture. 

For me, even sixty years of marriage is insufficient. Although I sense it, I doubt I’ll ever show my full appreciation for her years of selfless service. Not a lack of desire, but lack of ability and the distraction of other things, however necessary. That has something to do with my fallen nature—not an excuse, any more than a fallen nature is an excuse for sin. 

But I hope recognition of my inadequacy will at least explain my failure. All parents in later years regret those ways they failed their children. Can I ever shake off a similar regret of failing my wife? That leads me to seek forgiveness from my Valentine—a broken expression of my love. 

Come to think of it, perhaps that—forgiveness—is the real meaning of Valentine’s Day.