You're Going To Be OK by Bob Jones

There is beauty in brokenness. Broken things can be restored. And so can broken people.

As NJ Lindquist says, “what could be more beautiful than people becoming what God intended them to be and having some small part as a writer in their transformation.”

When holding my favorite fountain to begin crafting the stories of fighters, I hear a voice. Some Christian writers hear the Holy Spirit’s voice.  I hear Barry Manilow. The lyric, “I write the songs that make the whole world sing” morphs into, “I write the heroics that give the whole world hope.”

Hope is the anchor of the soul. What broken people have in common is a need for hope. Against a tsunami of suffering, an anchor of hope can secure one more day of life.

You feel overwhelmed.

Scared.

Fighting for air.

If your world is a mess it doesn’t mean that you have to be one.

You were in our thoughts and our prayers when Jocelyn and I wrote the book, You’re Going To Be OK. We share stories of eleven women who fight cancer, sexual abuse, mental illness and loss. The stories are true. Truth sets people free. The opening story is about a woman in her forties who has fought all four Goliaths.

A book or a short story – your short story - can be an answer to someone’s prayer. That’s why I encourage fledgling writers to start with telling their story. Just a week ago I had breakfast with a pastor in Manitoba named Jake who wants to be a writer. He told me his story.

“Writers write. Start with your story, Jake. Your experiences can be the healing words for a reader. Put your tears, the fears and the divine encounters down on paper.”

There is one thing You’re Going To Be OK offers you.

Without this one thing even the smallest tasks, let alone life and death issues are impossible.

Without this one thing couples give up on their marriage, parents give up on their teens, leaders give up on their people, people give up on their future.

You can survive for 40 days without food, about 3 days without water, and about 8 minutes without air.

You don’t want to go a single second without this one thing.

That one thing is HOPE.

That’s why Jocelyn and I envision ourselves as hope dispensers. We've experienced the power of hope in our lives and are sharing it freely with others.

Your anchor of hope is available through Amazon.ca.

I am a recovering perfectionist who collects Coca-Cola memorabilia and drinks iced tea. My walls are adorned with our sons’ framed football jerseys, and my bookshelves, with soul food. 

I write to grow hope, inspire people to be real, forge an authentic faith in Jesus, and discover their life purpose.

You can follow my writing at REVwords

Reinventing Christmas When It Falls Apart - Kim Rempel

Christmas carries pain for many of us. Loved ones can’t join us or won’t. The warmth of the memories becomes icy cold envy in the absence, and every happy commercial and smiling family is a reminder of the warm holiday you used to have and can’t have anymore.

As I’ve been navigating my own holiday upheaval, I’ve discovered how healing and re-invention is very Christmassy indeed, and how to go about celebrating even in the middle of loss and pain.

The Falling Away of Christmas

I didn’t know how good we had it. We were among the lucky ones who had multiple family Christmas gatherings every December. My family, my husband’s family, and even my aunts and uncles would have a do at Grandpa’s. Maybe I was naïve to expect Christmas would carry on as the happy family affair it was, with presents and laughter and games and so much food someone would always declare they’d have to roll home if they had another bite. It wasn’t perfect of course; the glitter and happiness often felt like a veneer brushed overtop a lifetime of unresolved issues, but we were smiling and laughing and people can still have a good time in a room full of eggshells. You just have to know where to step.

But then it all changed.

Mom died, and our family got weird out loud. In the absence of her peacemaking, we didn’t know how to get along or even seem to feel the need to try. All bets were off and the veneer was stripped away, revealing all the unresolved issues like an unprotected wound. Years of repressed strain released like a spring, piercing us; family gatherings as we knew them, ended. Children and grandchildren were no longer welcomed into the house, but invited to convene in the detached garage. Relationships fractured too, cutting one family out of the fold entirely for reasons that couldn’t be explained by anyone. All the years of food, presents, and smiling and laughing had died with Mom.

That particular family celebration had been our core Christmas thing. Now, with that space empty on my calendar and missing from the whole Christmas experience, I was left wondering how we would celebrate. How we would get back to the sparkle and splendor of Christmas when it had become so dim and empty?   

That was the most dramatic change, but every other family gathering was affected too by some invisible force I couldn’t point to. After Mom died, Grandpa died too, and the aunts and uncles didn’t invite the nieces and nephews to Christmas anymore. That long-standing gathering went up in a cloud of smoke. Piff. Just disappeared. Forever.

The in-law’s gathering had also been changing. There, time has slowly eroded the celebration a piece at a time. The long-standing tradition of exchanging gifts disappeared for no particular reason. Sorry, kids. No more presents. I don’t know why. Come to your own conclusions, I guess. One family withdrew slowly over the years, leaving everyone guessing each Christmas about whether they’d come at all. And maybe it was just me, but somewhere between eating peanuts and playing games over the years, I felt a layer of veneer settle over us. An undiscovered crack had appeared somewhere, I thought, that seemed to be expanding with time. Before you know it, our long-standing day of getting together was suddenly moved to January; the month where all the thrown out wrapping paper and leftover holiday obligations collect in neglected heaps.  

In short, all the pomp and splendor and gleeful anticipation of Christmas had shriveled and gone. 

Re-Inventing Christmas

The temptation, when our Christmas falls apart, is to feel envious of all the smiling people clustered together, chattering about the gifts and gatherings they still get to enjoy. It’s harder, I think, if we’ve known the joy of celebrating together; we know what we’re missing and feel the emptiness and the loneliness and the lack. It’s pretty easy to feel sorry for our children and for ourselves even as we look around our own homes at the twinkly lights and the decked out tree, because we know and miss the ‘more’ it could have been.

Job 1 – Heal

Fair warning, this part gets touchy feely. But hang in there; this is good stuff. So, as someone who’s been there (heck, as someone who is still hip-deep in this stuff!) I want to tell you a critical truth I’ve discovered on the path to re-inventing Christmas. Before you can move forward at all, your number one job is to mourn the loss of Christmas as you knew it. Maybe that sounds weird, but if you’re anything like me, you’d rather ball up those sad feelings, flush them, and move on with your life, thank you very much. 

Here’s the thing; we can’t heal from hurts that we don’t admit exist.

Face your loss. Let yourself feel the feelings. It’s okay to cry about not being able to play Scrabble with your family anymore. It’s okay to cry that your kids don’t get presents from Grandma or Grandpa, and never will. That IS sad. Admit the hurt and ache and emptiness. Cry it out. Punch a snowman right in the belly. Then, as you feel those feelings and let yourself ache for those things, you can mourn the loss and, in your own way, let go of those expectations.

Job 2 - Reinvent

And then, and it took me a couple of years to realize this, is that there comes a point where we need to shake off the dust from our imploded holidays and begin rebuilding. And that new, re-invented Christmas can be just as filled with joy and warmth as any from the past.

Here’s the thing about rebuilding something: we are not trying to rebuild the same thing. The old is gone, and the new must come. Let the old be gone; let it continue to exist as a memory. Cherish it. Appreciate the good in those times. And now, make new ones.

This is a process by the way, so give yourself time to figure out what the new normal will be. 

For our own family, we’ve added a celebration with friends, decided to count other things we do in December as a legitimate part of the Christmas party (like getting a live tree at a local tree farm, attending the kids’ concert, or joining friends at a city tree-lighting event). And we’re still figuring out what kinds of things we can do or add to make Christmas our own. Maybe our son will play a tune on his trumpet and we’ll all sing along. Maybe we’ll attend a Christmas Eve concert at a local church, now that our Christmas has freed up. Maybe we’ll deliver hampers or invite friends over for a night of chips and board games. We’re still experimenting.

Re-inventing Isn’t Resurrecting

Here’s the thing; reinventing is about making new, not about resurrecting the old.

That’s pretty cool, when you think about Jesus’ coming – that’s exactly what he was doing.  He came to make things right, but he didn’t make things the way they were in the beginning. He didn’t resurrect the Garden of Eden, as ideal and perfect as it was. He also didn’t come to affirm the existing religious rules of the day, intent on keeping things how they’d always been. Jesus came to re-invent life; to make it new. (which, by the way, didn't mean it was all peace and sparkles. It brought discomfort and disillusionment and frustration, too. He didn't come to bring peace. Not yet... His newness brought upheaval, and that was fine by him. Just sayin'. You know, in case you feel, as I did, that all this newness should bring peace to all my relationships and a general feeling of happiness.)

Sometimes I feel like the Pharisees must have – resentful of the changes I didn’t want and had no control over. I wanted our family Christmases to continue as they were with all the board games, candies, and the warm sounds of laughing together.

But Christmas isn’t about staying the same. Actually, it’s about looking forward. God is in the business of renewal. Change. Movement. This is good and exciting and something we can embrace with joy.

So I just want to encourage you, from one sufferer of loss to another, to appreciate the past, but to let go of those expectations that the future has to look like that. Then set to work with anticipation and even joy as you figure out with Jesus and your family what your renewed, re-invented celebration will look like.

Share below some Christmas celebration ideas to include. 

Even if they’re something you’ve just thought of doing. In this time of re-invention, let’s brainstorm together!

Conversations will Begin Again by Linda Aleta Tame

I’ve always loved writing poetry. For years I neglected the craft, and now the joy of returning to it is indescribable. It makes me so happy! Sometimes it makes me sad too, and that's okay.  It’s all good.

I’m currently working on a book of poetry, entitled Rim of the Visible World. The collection will include several sections, a few of which are entitled: “Here We Come A Ghazaling,” “Echoes,” “A Bit of Ham” and “Rim of the Visible World.”

The idea for this book came about during a poetry class I attended. For homework, my professor assigned the exercise of simply sitting in silence, doing nothing, for at least an hour a day. Admittedly, I didn’t always do my homework, but when I did, I felt tranquil and able to sift my thoughts. No small feat in my world!

I've tried to continue this process of quieting my spirit, during which bits and pieces of memory, beauty, humour, faith and so on surface and eventually find their place on the page. I think the goal of writing this particular book is primarily to indulge myself, take the liberty to explore a realm that seems mystical to me. Though somewhat selfish, I think it's a good place to start. I’d be delighted if others enjoy my explorations too, so another goal would be publication. I hope to have the manuscript completed by the end of this year.

The piece I’ve included here was written as I grieved the loss of two brothers and a sister to cancer.  The loss is beyond words, no matter how poetic, but in a measure the words bring comfort, and perhaps they'll unite other grieving hearts. 

There is Not Silence

after John Thompson’s Translations of René Char’s –

Eternity at Lourmarin Albert Camus

We have ceased to speak

with those we love,

but there is not silence.

And there will never be.

The rhythm has not changed,

of song and step,

or that simple smile

consisting of one sustained beat. 

A bond so close never falters.

The power of love 
transforms insolent darkness 
into glorious light. 

When that hovering menace

has once and for all,

victimized its last,

love will overwhelm

the perceived severance,

into harmony

with all the parts

of the whole, 
and the conversations will 
begin again.

In memory of three beautiful people who were incredibly loved:  

Clark McCrae, Terry McCrae, and Karen McCrae

Do Words Fly Away? by Sharon Espeseth

"Scripta manent," our elderly friend, Father Croteau, recently said to me for no apparent reason. My Latin rusty, I asked what this meant.

"Words remain," he replied.

Father C. wrote the expression down so I could google it later. I set his hand-written note on my pile of jottings for further investigation.

The full phrase, "Verba volant, scripta manent," I discovered, means "Spoken words fly away, written words remain." This proverb is attributed to Caio Titus, a past Roman orator. But what does this have to do with me? I wondered.

In the same pile of jotted ideas was my published story about losing an almost-full journal. Under the heading, "Three months of life in lost journal," the Edmonton Journal ran my story ten years ago when my loss was fresh. I had recently converted my journal writing from the “burn-them-when I’m gone” status to “treasures I want to keep”

In my article, I wrote passionately about my loss, and my readers responded with empathy. Although I appreciated their understanding, my chronicles didn’t reappear.

All I could do was buy a new journal and continue recording my thoughts, experiences, and concerns. My journal was still willing to listen to me, even though I had let a past volume slip through my fingers.

For my November blog in inscribe.org, I planned to revisit this episode, hoping the marvelous vision of hindsight would add new perspective. New reflection, however, didn’t come up with anything good to say about my misfortune and I still found no reason to be thankful about it.

I still can’t recall what I had written; nor can I replicate the book in any way. Again, I let released the book like a child releasing a helium balloon, even though it contradicts the principal of the written word remaining.

Close to the due date for my Inscribe blog, I clipped Father's proverb to the front of the file about my journal and went to bed. What was the connection between my missing journal and Father Croteau's phrase offered without context or meaning at the time?

The next morning, I awoke with the thought that the act of analyzing and putting my thoughts down on paper still has value. These words do remain in my heart and mind. They may have physically flown, but they are a part of me. Writing clarifies my thinking. Writing teaches me about life and about faith.

A biblical story from John’s Gospel came to me. The Pharisees and religious scholars dragged an adulterous woman before Jesus to see what he would say to, or about, her. Recognizing the potential trap, these learned men had set for him, Jesus said, "If any of you is without sin, let him cast the first stone." Then he bent down and wrote on the ground with his finger.

Recording this story, John doesn't say what Jesus wrote or why he wrote in the loose dirt. I picture the ground being sandy. Jesus knew the waves would wash over the writing and people would walk over the words. Materially the words would be gone, but the story was recorded and the woman was forgiven.

While Jesus wrote, the crowd dispersed and Jesus was alone with the woman. No one had condemned her. "Go and leave your life of sin," Jesus told her. Those forgiving words would remain. So do the words I wrote in my journal and the story I wrote in the "Voices" column of the Edmonton daily. What seems gone still exists.

I wrote. Scripta manent.

Wounds Heal All Time - Pam Mytroen

It’s backwards but more true than the original idiom, don't you think? I am thankful that I have not suffered extreme loss, yet for my past hurts, time is merely a thin skin that covers each one.

When I was seven years old I had a cold sore on my lip. It finally began to heal and scab over. But I couldn’t leave it alone. I would pick at it until the fresh warm blood oozed out. Then it would sting all over again and the healing process would resume.

It seems that our afflictions are like that cold sore. All it takes is a memory or a touch and those old wounds start to bleed again. The gash is still there, just under the surface.

If only we could erase the pains we’ve endured and the ugly scars that remind us. Wouldn’t life be so much easier? We’d have no regrets, no flush of shame, and no painful stab at the recall of such memories.

We could wake up each day and carry on as if nothing ever happened, as if we’d never been abused or betrayed.

Ted Dekker has some wise advice that he shares through one of his characters in his novel “Kiss”.

He says, “...your history is no less important to your survival than your ability to breathe. In the end, you can only determine whether to saturate your memories with pain or with perspective.

Forgetting is not an option. I tell you the truth now; Pain was not God’s plan for this life. It is a reality, but it is not part of the plan.

“Pain or perspective. ...That’s all that’s within your control.”

It’s a difficult pill to swallow. Fresh bruises blind us. Time gives us distance from them and some perspective, yet it does not heal.

There are hurts in my life that I still do not understand. Why did God allow me to go through that awful scrape? I ask. I never did feel his presence in certain valleys. Yet that does not change God. He was there.

Someday He will guide me back through those memories with sagacity and I will become a stronger person because of the perspective He gives me.

God does not take away our memories. He does not wipe our minds clean of loss. In fact He asks us to purposely revisit those aches. He says, “Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt,” (Deuteronomy 5:15). He wants us to recall the snap of the whip on our bleeding backs? God doesn't stop there. He finishes, "and the Lord your God brought you out of there by a mighty Hand...”

The Lord wants us to remember the things of the past. He instructs the children of Israel again just before they enter the land of promise: “Remember the days of long ago.”

However, we are to focus not on the darkness, but on our Deliverer. Not on the hurt, but on the Healer.

The words of Jeremiah may resonate as he was honest in his recall of suffering. “I can never forget these awful years; ...Yet there is one ray of hope: his compassion never ends...Great is thy faithfulness” (Lamentations 3:20-23).

“That’s the point of holding onto memory,” continues Dekker, “delivery, not darkness.”

Pam Mytroen

Losses - Lynda Schultz

Loss dogs the steps of our daily lives, darkens the corners of our minds, and squeezes our hearts. Seventeen years ago, on September 26, my father passed into eternity. After such a long time, the date usually passes without too much notice but since I am reading through my father’s devotional book this year, I couldn’t help but be reminded.

Interestingly other events occurred this weekend to heighten the impression. On Saturday morning, I learned that my friend, Nancy, had lost her father the night before—the same date on which I had lost my own dad. Her experience brought back memories of my own.

On Sunday, I got word that another friend of many years had finally succumbed to cancer and was in the presence of the Lord. As I read the glowing words of praise for her life, I was reminded again that those dark corners in our life’s journey need desperately to be tempered by faith, hope and love.

The reading in my father’s devotional book for September 27 gave me a perspective on loss that sometimes gets overwhelmed by loss’s gloom. The author, James Hinton, writes: “Suppose you are bewildered and know not what is right nor what is true. Can you not cease to regard whether you do or not, whether you be bewildered, whether you be happy? Cannot you utterly and perfectly love, and rejoice to be in the dark, and gloom-beset, because that very thing is the fact of God’s Infinite Being as it is to you? Cannot you take this trial also into your own heart, and be ignorant, not because you are obliged, but because that being God’s will, it is yours also? Do you not see that a person who truly loves is one with the Infinite Being — cannot be uncomfortable or unhappy? It is that which is that he wills and desires and holds best of all to be. To know God is utterly to sacrifice self.”*

The style of writing takes a bit of analyzing to make it understandable, but the essence of the message is a reminder that trust in the dark places, as well as those places blessed with light, is essential and is evidenced not simply by a resignation to His plan, but by the embracing of it.

*Daily Strength for Daily Needs, Little, Brown & Company, Boston, 1920