Singletasking —Lynda Schultz

Ecclesiastes tells us that there is a time and season for everything (3:1). So what’s wrong with my life? Why is it so difficult to find time for all the writing projects that sit half-done on my computer, that swirl around in my brain, and that are written down in notebooks in my very own handwriting and turning yellow with age? Why does there not seem to be a time or a season for my writing?

Duh! God didn’t say I had to do them all at once, did He? My problem is that I want to multitask when it is possible that He wants me to singletask. Singletask is not in the dictionary, but perhaps it should be. Perhaps, like so many of my generation have already done, I should add my two cents to the changing language of the twenty-first century and invent a new word.

If there really is a time and season for everything (and since God doesn’t lie, it must be true) then my daily planner needs to be seriously adjusted. Perhaps my sphere of influence needs to be collapsed instead of expanded so that I can concentrate on doing well the one thing that God has designed to fit into this time and this season.

Do I really need to be writing for four blogs, maintaining a website, writing a book, editing a magazine, writing periodic newsletters and writing up my research and study notes for the Bible studies I teach as though I were planning on publishing my own version of Matthew Henry’s Commentary or rival D. A. Carson in the production of theological tomes (as if I could)?

I think it’s time to singletask, or maybe doubletask my writing. In the end it might be a whole lot more productive than multitasking but never quite getting finished, or finishing poorly because of the other tasks that stole the time it would have taken to finish well.

What do you think?

And What About the Others?

The faces keep coming back to me.

I was scrambling to put together the last few articles for the next issue of the magazine. I had the copy for a brochure on our relief and rehabilitation program to write. Then there was the prep for that Bible study on the 6th commandment. All the pieces came together when I remembered the intense discussion our congregation in Caracas had gone through years ago when we were choosing a name for our church. We eventually settled on Isaiah 58:11 and named the church “The Spring.” Sometime after the decision was made I looked at the context of the passage and had an “aha” moment—a moment that came back as I put together the magazine, wrote the copy, and prepared the Bible Study.

Bill Hybels (and others) mentioned in his comments about the sixth commandment, “You shall not kill,” that we can kill by neglect, neglect of those who are dying of illness or hunger when we have the resources to help them live. The promise from the passage in Isaiah from which we chose our church’s name is contingent on looking after the needs of the oppressed, the poor and the naked. The article for the magazine and the copy for the brochure were about children in refugee camps in Somalia.

“The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail” —Isaiah 58:11, NIV.

“Success,” whatever we apply the word to and however we interpret it, depends on how we respond to the needs of others. God’s blessing on our lives and on the communities with which we fellowship, depends on how we care for those who can’t care for themselves.

It’s an “aha” moment. Now to respond to it.

Ponder, Print and Pass It On — Lynda Schultz

It's an obscure passage. Most people couldn't find Habakkuk in their Bibles if their lives depended on it. I'm not even sure how I ran across it though it could have been while I was hunting online for Christian wallpaper to use on the desktop of my computer. In any case, there it was, Habakkuk 2:2. It was an "aha" moment.

I've tried my hand at several genres but I always end up going back to the kind of writing that will never make me rich or famous—not that either of those is high on my priority list. The verse from Habakkuk summed things up rather nicely.

"Write down the revelation and make it plain on tablets so that a herald may run with it" (NIV).

Write the Word down, explain it so that people understand, and make it useable so that someone else can share it.

It's that simple and that complicated. I love the hunt, the research, the wrestling with ways to explain the meaning of Scripture. I look for the dots that need connecting, the "aha" moments when something I've read a hundred times finally comes to life as it has never lived for me before. I need to write it down, first of all for myself because I have such a poor memory, and then for others. Nothing gets me more excited than to share God's Word in a classroom with others. And there is no greater satisfaction than handing what I've learned to them in a sheaf of papers—their memories are probably just as short as mine. And maybe, just maybe, they'll pass on some of the knowledge they've gained to someone else.

That's it. That's all. That's lots.

A WALK WITH DAD — Lynda Schultz

Traditionally, Christmas Eve in my hometown was C.O.L.D. The first breath taken once I was out the front door just about produced lung-sicles. It was painful. The snow crunched underfoot and almost always there were a few flakes of the white stuff gently falling. My dad and I always walked the four and a half blocks between our place and the church together. He put his car up on blocks in the garage during the winter, which probably explains why a second-hand ’54 Ford lasted twenty years! But I digress.

My father wasn’t a talkative man so the walk to the Christmas Eve service was a quiet one. But that was part of its charm. The snow crunched underfoot. The air was cold and crisp. The snow was gentle and sparkled under the streetlights. Cars passed almost silently. In those days the city didn’t spread a lot of sand and salt around and turn the snow in noisy, messy slush. Then the streets were packed snow that created a great noise buffer. A lot of people put up lights on their houses and an equal number had wood stoves and I could smell the scent of wood burning and see the smoke hanging in the cold air—something I love to this day. Chimes ringing out Christmas music could be heard coming from several churches. And Dad and I would crunch along in companionable silence. I loved to walk to church with him on Christmas Eve.

I spent a lot of Christmases away from my family while I was overseas, a lot of green and hot Christmases. It probably wouldn’t have mattered if Dad and I had been crunching along snowy streets listening to church bells and smelling wood smoke, or if we had been shuffling through sand on a beach listening to waves rushing in and smelling night-blooming flowers. I have a feeling that with or without the winter wonderland, the walk to church with Dad would have always been special. There’s nothing like the quiet companionship of the father you love, and who loves you, whatever the circumstances.

There are lots of Biblical characters about whom we know very little. One of those is a man named Enoch. We know he lived a long time and had lots of kids. But those circumstances aren’t what made Enoch significant in God’s story as recorded for us in the Bible. Genesis 5:24 (NIV) says: “Enoch walked with God, then he was no more, because God took him away.”

“Enoch walked with God.”

Can you picture it? God is Spirit but His presence to Enoch was so palpable that it seemed as though they were companions together as Enoch walked through life. The idea of walking with God in quiet companionship is not so improbable. Now that I am living in my hometown again, and despite the fact that my father has gone on to glory, I can still feel him crunching along beside me on the way to church on Christmas Eve.

I have a prayer for 2012. I pray that I will be more conscious of the quiet companionship of God walking beside me in this coming year than I have ever been before. Someday, someone might say of me: “Lynda walked with God, then she was no more, because God took her away.”

Now wouldn’t that be a great epitaph? And isn’t that a great aspiration?

The "Figures" Take Precedence — Lynda Schultz

History books tend to emphasize facts and figures. Although I am a history buff, particularly if it has to do with submarines, warships and airplanes, my next history book is going to focus more on the "figures" of the story than on the cold, hard facts.

Several years ago I was challenged to take on a writing project for the mission with which I have worked for the better part of thirty years. Fellowship International will celebrate its 50th anniversary next year and the senior staff thought it would be good idea to tell our story.

Rose and Mario Bruno, Italy

It's not that the story hasn't been told before—in bits and pieces. Our beginnings have been documented in This Dominion His Dominion, by Leslie K. Tarr (1968), in The Fellowship Story: Our First 25 Years, by Dr. J. H. Watt (1978) and most recently in A Glorious Fellowship of Churches, edited by Michael A.G. Haykin and Robert B. Lockey (2003). But this will be the first time that our story as a mission will stand on its own.

By next spring, the writing of the book needs to be finished so that it will be ready for release in time for our national convention, Fellowship 48, in November 2012. It wouldn't be such a daunting task if the facts and figures of history were all I needed to record. But my vision for this book is a much more personal one. I want people to experience the joys, sense the pain, work through the challenges, acknowledge the losses, and feel the heartbeat of the people who have been part of Fellowship International for the last fifty years. To do that depends, not so much on my writing skills, but on the willingness of our missionaries and alumni to be transparent and willing to share their journeys in print.

Kathryn and Rob Fleming, Japan

I've contacted every missionary and alumnus that I can find. Slowly the stories are coming in. My Thursdays and Fridays, days regularly dedicated to the work of the Communications Department of The Fellowship, will be heavily bent toward the book over these next months. There will be midnight oil to be burned I am sure.

My biggest fear? I do not want to fail my colleagues or the Lord by telling the story poorly so I pray that God will be my skill, be my words.

My greatest joy? I praise God for the opportunity to tell the story behind the movement, the story of the men, women, and children used by God to give Fellowship International faces behind the those cold, hard facts.

For Fewer Ahead Than Behind, I'm Thankful — Lynda Schultz

Our pastor resigned last week. Gone are the days (for which I am thankful) when all of the rest of the staff would have been required to resign as well. This brief descent into madness was meant to give the "new guy" a chance to form his own team. The intentions were good even though the chaos created by massive resignations was a bit hard on the church!

In any case, I mentioned to our elders that whoever they interviewed should be allowed the option of a grace period after his arrival during which he could decide whether or not the staff he had inherited was the right "fit" for his vision. I'm on staff so I was talking about myself and it was only later that I realized that the elder to whom I had spoken thought I was worried about my job security.

I'm 62—today. Given the trend in finding a senior pastor, it will likely be about two years before we find the man that God has for our congregation. If God chooses to parachute him in long before the stats say he's supposed to arrive I'll be more than happy. But supposing that we are as average as the rest of the world, I'll be 64 by the time the new man comes. It will take him a while to decide whether or not I "fit" and it may take me a while to figure out if I want to "fit." By that time I'll probably be 65 and about as unconcerned about job security as anyone can be.

I really was sincere in my concern that our new pastor, whoever he is and whenever he turns up, have the freedom to choose the people he works with. I honestly was not concerned about job security.

It sounds odd that I am thankful for being 62, and for being able to say honestly that there is a certain freedom that comes with age. It's the freedom to look back and have an "aha" moment when I am reminded of how the Lord has blessed me and kept me over all the years I have known Him. The remembrance of past privileges overwhelms me still. But with age also comes the freedom to look ahead and anticipate other blessings. I'm a year closer to eternity and that's wonderful, but before I get there I can look forward to freedom 65 (I missed "Freedom 55") and the possibility of doing some of the things that I don't have the time as a "working woman" to do now.

Perhaps I'm still a bit naive—astounding at this stage of my life—but I think the best is yet to come. I don't know what it will look like but I believe that on this side of heaven there are still mountains to climb, experiences to savour, a less hectic pace to enjoy, and maybe even some books to write. Aging doesn't signal the end of the road; it marks a different road. And the best thing about it is that, thanks to Christ, all the roads, whatever they end up looking like, will lead home.

The Real "Real" Thing - Lynda Schultz

The recent news that it really isn’t necessary to good health to drink eight to ten glasses of water every day brought joy to my heart. It’s tough to swallow that much water (and not spend your life in the bathroom). Even better: Coffee was off the hit list of things that didn’t qualify as liquid. As long as it’s wet it makes the list of acceptable fluids. The rule now, apparently, is to drink when you’re thirsty and to replace liquids that you lose through whatever might cause dehydration. Ah, blessed relief!

Has the red flag gone up in your mind yet?

No matter what the new “evidence” may declare, there is still no substitute for pure and unadulterated water–and plenty of it.

The same is true in the spiritual realm. The popular trend has been to dig other “cisterns” in an effort to satisfy our spiritual thirst. We take courses, attend seminars and read books by the most popular authors. We seek the spiritual sages of our modern world and listen intently to their stings of stories lightly brushed with a verse or two of Scripture. Odd that the more we “fill up” the thirstier we seem to be. Perhaps the psalmist felt the same way when he wrote:

“As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. Where can I go and meet with God?” (Psalm 42:1, 2, NIV).

As good as all the substitutes might be, there is nothing that can compare with the pure and unadulterated spiritual water that comes from seeking, finding, and communing with God through His Word and in prayer.

God doesn’t hide Himself from those who look for Him. The psalmist would not have been thirsty for long. Like the Samaritan woman in John 4, he would have soon discovered: “…whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed the water I give him will become to him a spring of water welling up to eternal life” (4:14, NIV).

Thirst-quenching, life-changing, and no plastic bottles left behind.

Passing It On

Posted by Lynda Schultz

Almost fifteen years ago I began to journal the thoughts that came to mind as I meditated on Scripture. It had been my habit to read through the Bible once a year and it occurred to me that it would be a good exercise to write down what I was learning. For three years I added to my notes, amazed that each year something new came out of the same passages I had read so many times before. I had such rich, wonderful, passionate hours with the Lord and His Word over those years. My devotional time had never been so exciting. At the end of those first three years I had hundreds of pages of notes—my own personal commentary on the Bible.

"My own personal..."

Why was it my own personal commentary? If studying the Scriptures from cover to cover every year was so exciting to me, shouldn't it be that exciting a journey for every believer? How could I encourage others to take their own journey through the Word and discover the riches I had found?

Devotional books are plentiful—in North America. But at the time I was working in Venezuela and like so many countries outside of English-speaking ones, Christian books weren't plentiful or inexpensive. Added to the problem was the government's insistence on controlling the American dollars that were necessary to buy translated books that come from outside the country.

So, I thought, I could share what I discovered, encourage the journey in others, and meet a need if I published my material in Spanish from inside Latin America. The Lord gave me an obscure verse from Habbakuk as confirmation: "Write down the revelation and make it plain on tablets so that a herald may run with it" (2:2, NIV).

Thus began a fourth year reading through and editing all my notes and reducing each day's discoveries to three hundred words or less. In 2009 the Spanish edition of the book was published. Later that year a limited edition was published in English. The Spanish edition has circulated in several Latin American countries, in Central America, in the U.S., Canada, and in Spain.

I'd have to say that the discipline of keeping that spiritual journal was a turning point in my writing. Nothing has been quite as satisfying. Though I am no longer working in Latin America I feel especially blessed that God has allowed me to leave a small legacy behind for the glory of His Name.

Two Minutes Before Dawn

posted by Lynda Schultz

My father's birthday was this month. I remember him with love. This story I wrote several years ago in his memory.

"We all knew it was only a matter of time before night fell. The signs were unmistakable.

'His arteries are like lead pipes,' said the doctor. I had never seen the inside of a well-used lead pipe, so I could only imagine.

Everyone slows down with age, but the first time I noticed life was taking an irrevocable twist was when I caught him staring at me as though I were a perfect stranger.

Who are you, and what are you doing in my living room? He didn’t say it, but I could read it in his eyes, distant and puzzled.

In the beginning, the changes were subtle, causing concern but not panic. Later those changes would become more marked, sometimes frightening. Moments of madness when hours twisted. Morning became night. Night turned into afternoon. Anger and aggression kindled in his eyes. Some other person had taken possession of a man once irritatingly mild and meek. He would not have recognized himself, known himself. He would not have liked what he saw. I was glad he didn’t know.

In the early days and later, in those moments when dad returned to visit himself, he appreciated the humour of the situation. One afternoon he came home from his walk with his face all battered and bruised.

'What happened to you?' is a silly question to ask a man who doesn’t remember those seconds when the mind turns off. We asked anyway, to which he replied with the classic: 'You should see the other guy!' He didn’t always collapse from those mini-strokes. Usually he’d simply stand there, a blank look on his face as though he were far, far, away. Perhaps he was.

One Sunday, still dressed in his Sunday best, dad left the dinner table to go to the bathroom. He hadn’t been there long when we heard a loud thump and crash. I jumped up and ran. Dad was sitting sideways, rear in the bathtub, head resting against the wall, and feet waving in the air. He was laughing uproariously. He’d missed every sharp and potentially damaging object in our small bathroom—certainly a miracle in anyone’s book.

Public Health sent nurses in regularly to check on seniors still living alone in their own homes. I was visiting on one such occasion when the nurse came in to check blood pressures and to cut dad’s toenails. It was summer. The light was much better in the porch so they went out there. I followed. Something clicked in dad’s mind as the nurse worked on those yellowed, thickened, nails. He turned to me and smiled that impish smile that was a characteristic precursor to some quip.

'I’m tough,' he said proudly.

Yes you are, dad, I thought.

When he was growing up, everyone had to be tough. He’d had to leave school before finishing the eighth grade to help out on the family farm. He’d worked in an asbestos mine, fixed cars, and looked after his now growing family on the meager income of a unlicensed mechanic. There were no extras. We wore hand-me-downs, and didn’t have a car until dad managed to pick a cheap one up at a police auction—one he drove for the next twenty years. He loved us in his own quiet way, provided for us, disciplined us when we needed it, and was a faithful husband. For a man who had worked all his life, retirement was punishment. He soon returned to work, pumping gas in freezing cold weather until he was seventy-five years old.

However, it was back to his roots that dad returned during his last years. When it was no longer possible to look after him at home, he went to live in a nursing home. By then the lights of his mind were very dim, like the kerosene lamps of his childhood.

I found him fingering the hospital bracelet that he carried on his wrist.

'What’s that, Dad?' I asked.

He looked up with that same quirky smile that time never seemed to fade.

'Pa made it for me,' he said, fondness and pride lifting his voice. He was back on the homestead, surrounded by brothers and sister, mom and dad, rather than doctors, nurses, and strangers. He smelled freshly cut hay, not the odor of disinfectant and stale age. His mind was free even though it was confined to another time and another place.

It was twilight, the grayness before the night, and only two moments before eternal dawn."

On Daddies - Lynda Schultz

I had a friend who refused to go to church on Mother’s Day. Her mother was dead. She had never been a mom and somehow she couldn’t bring herself to “rejoice with those who rejoice” (Romans 12:15).

That experience gives me pause for thought when Father’s Day rolls around. Many people have had “daddy damage” and Father’s Day must be clouded with pain and bitterness for those who haven’t been able to deal with those issues.

As much as we’d like people to focus on the qualities of God the Father rather than on Daddy the Dastardly, it’s often hard to take the leap from the physical to the spiritual. When you need a hug from dad you need, well, a hug from dad.

My father was not abusive. He was simply not demonstrative. I don’t remember a lot of hugs or words of affirmation from him. But I am thankful for other signs that remind me of who he was behind that wall of detachment.

He worked hard to provide for his family.

He only spanked as a last resort and never raised his voice except in defense of his family.

He made sure we got safely off the train when our sleeper car was set on fire by a careless smoker.

He played Crokinole with me.

He never complained about mom’s cooking (He never complimented it either—much to mom’s disgust!) but he ate everything on his plate.

He went to church every Sunday and people say he had the best handshake of any of the ushers.

He cried when I graduated from Seminary, but not in front of me!

No “biggies” but a lot of little things that add up to a good dad for whom I have always been grateful to God, especially since there once existed a possibility that he wouldn’t be my dad at all. Before mom began to get serious about dad, she dated his brother. I’m sure Uncle Eddie’s daughters thought he was wonderful—but I’m glad I wasn’t one of them. If I had been, this story would have been a whole lot different.

Sometimes God my Father is like Dad my father. He goes quietly about the business of looking after me without my being necessarily aware that He’s there. It’s not up to Him to make me aware of that presence; it’s up to me to count on Him being present and to remember that His thoughts about me are a numberless as the sands of a thousand beaches (Psalm 139:18).

I’m grateful for both of them.

A Distant Green — Lynda Schultz

Sometimes we don't see the fulfillment of our dreams or the results of all our work. In the end, it doesn't really matter. The best is yet to come. Take Moses for example…

A DISTANT GREEN

Horeb, Sinai, Nebo—I’m glad this is the last mountain I’ll have to climb.

The old man chuckled to himself as he picked his way through the rocks. His breath was ragged, but anticipation gave him strength as he took the last step that would bring him to his destination at the summit. Tomorrow would be a new day and he wouldn’t be complaining about mountains. He doubted that he’d even have to worry about coming down off of this particular one. He sensed that this would be his final trip, as surely as he sensed the presence of God around him.

The day was clear. He looked out, shading his eyes from the glare of the sun. He could see it all—all that Yahweh had promised the Hebrews from long before he was born. It was so…green.

Ah, now I know I’ve spent too long in the wilderness—to be so impressed by something as simple as a colour!

A millisecond of regret clouded his thoughts. The impatience of his youth, that rashness he’d thought had been left far behind him at the foot of a dead Egyptian, had caught him unprepared as an old man. Two blows, and unwise words that were an affront to God’s holiness, had cost him his walk through this beautiful land another generation would now enjoy.

Still, it would have been something to walk over there in all that greenery, to touch the ground You promised to give to our Father Abraham’s children.

“Moses, my friend.”

The old man wasn’t startled. Once upon a time he would have jumped at the sound of God speaking to him. Not anymore. After all this time he heard God’s voice even when Yahweh wasn’t speaking out loud.

“Yes, my Lord.” Moses waited. It was not for mere man, even the friend of God, to speak before his Maker had his say.

“This is it. This is the land I promised to give to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. They were all men of faith, my friend, in spite of their frailties. They roamed around, living in tents, all the while believing that this day would come. I told them their descendants would return to this land, build houses, plant crops, found cities.”

His audience of one nodded his head slowly.

“I wanted you at least to see it, even though you won’t cross the Jordan with the others.”

“I appreciate that, Lord, I honestly do.”

It was an end, but it was also a beginning.

“So, they’re going to make it this time?”

Israel’s soon-to-be-ex-leader could almost hear God chuckle at the hint of doubt in His servant’s voice.

“This time they will.”

With just the tiniest twinge of envy, Moses thought about two men who had been with him from the beginning of this journey who were going to be especially delighted to see the end of this journey.

“Caleb and Joshua are finally going to get their vindication. They told the others that giants and fortified cities wouldn’t be any problem for You,” he remarked as he mentally annexed: And now those “others” won’t get the chance to find out how true that is.

“I heard that, Moses.”

The old man smiled.

It was as though two men stood side by side perfectly attuned to each other and each comfortable in the presence of the other. Anyone observing would think he saw only one old man who seemed to be talking to himself. Moments passed in silence until…

“It’s time, Moses.”

A wind, like the breath of angels’ wings, stirred around the old man’s head. He took one last look at Canaan and then turned his eyes toward what he couldn’t see, but what he knew was there. The brilliant green of the Promised Land faded and gave way before the overwhelming glory of another place.

Face to face this time, Lord?

"Truly face to face this time, my friend."

Hallelujah! — Lynda Schultz

This weekend I watched the classic movie Ben Hur, starring Charlton Heston and filmed in 1959. The only scene I really remembered about the movie was the famous clip, so often shown, of the chariot race between Ben Hur and his enemy, the Roman tribune. But though today's movie goers might prefer the body parts flying in all directions during the racing scene, and though the majority of us might find the acting of that era somewhat stilted, the epic tale still speaks volumes even more than fifty years after the movie was made.

We, the audience, never see the face of the actor playing the role of Christ. But we can tell by the look on Ben Hur's face that each encounter between the two men is incredibly significant. In fact, I don't think Ben Hur and the Lord ever actually exchange any words, just looks. But it is through the look that the real story is told.

As I was searching through an old hymnbook later that same day I came across a hymn that so perfectly wrapped up, for me at least, what the movie was intended to be about.

John Newton wrote these words, and I share them with you during this Easter season with the prayer that they will instill in you praise to God for that incredible gift that Christ provided for us on that cross and guaranteed through that empty tomb.

I saw One hanging on a tree,
In agony and blood;
He fixed His languid eyes on me,
As near His cross I stood.

Refrain:
O can it be, upon a tree,
The Saviour died for me?
My soul is thrilled, my heart is filled,
To think He died for me.

Sure never to my latest breath,
Can I forget that look;
It seemed to charge me with His death,
Tho' not a word He spoke.

My conscience felt and owned the guilt,
And plunged me in despair;
I saw my sins His blood had spilt
And helped to nail Him there.

A second look He gave, which said,
"I freely all forgive;
This blood is for thy ransom paid,
I die that thou may'st live."

This, while His death my sin displays
In all its blackest hue,
Such is the mystery of grace,
It seals my pardon too.

And it is in knowing, through a personal encounter with Christ, the forgiveness purchased on the cross, and through experiencing the new life gained through the empty tomb that our hearts are filled, today, tomorrow, and always, with heartfelt hallelujahs.

The Perfect Companion — Lynda Schultz

“A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother” —Proverbs 18:22, NIV.

Try pushing him away. He may put a little distance between you and him because of your choices, but he’s always within reach and never out of sight. A whisper will reach him in a jiffy, a sigh will bring him running. He winces when you call him names and accuse him of not caring, but he never stops caring. You can try to replace him, but an army wouldn’t fit in the hole he has made in your life. Anyone else would be uncomfortable in his place—it’s not “one size fits all.”

When it rains on your life, he’s there with the umbrella and the galoshes. When it’s cold, he has the warmest mittens and the fuzziest wool socks. On sunny days, he brings flowers and cool lemonade and walks with you on the trail through the woods. He’ll walk beside you if you let him; if you’re angry at him, he’ll walk behind you. He’s already walked ahead to check for rough spots in the path even if you didn’t appreciate it. When the leaves begin to change colour and there is a sharpness in the air, he directs your attention to the flock of geese heading south and the harvest moon rising in solemn splendor.

You can ignore him, but he never ignores you. When you wrap yourself in his warmth and delight in his companionship, music takes on a sliver sound, colour reflects a different hue, pets seems more precious, and the sharp edges of people seem softer somehow. The world changes as your friendship with him deepens.

His touch is better than a band-aid on the scratches that life leaves on our soul. His voice brings comfort and counsel in ways that defy the brightest and most prepared minds. His smile lights up your world.

Other friends are good, but no one does friendship better than Jesus.

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.

Ink Spots on My Shirt — Lynda Schultz

Have you ever had an itch in the middle of your back that you simply could not reach? Or a craving for that "something" that you could not quite name? The word is on the tip of your tongue but somehow your mind can't capture it and fling it out? How about a project whose whose finish can't even get to the start point?

One of my dreams while I was overseas was to be involved in a writer's group once I got back to Canada. I couldn't find an already established one here in Timmins, so last fall I asked  Marcia Laycock to send me all the information available for beginning my own group. In the meantime, I had discovered a gal in our church who is a writer and who has, in fact, published a book. She mentioned that she was working on a second book but was stuck and really wanted to bounce the material off of someone who might be able to help her with the ending. I had an "aha" moment.

The trouble has been that I haven't been able to string together enough of those moments to even read the materials Marcia sent me, let alone start a group!

This month we began a women's ministry as an outreach from our church. As part of the larger events, we are beginning smaller and more intimate, special interest groups. I sent out a survey to poll the women in the congregation in an effort to discover their interests. Writing and journaling turned out to be quite high up on that list. Another "aha" moment.

So, what's my desire for this new year?

1. Read the material.

2. Call together the interested women and discover our common ground.

3. Determine a time and place when we can meet.

4. Do it!

Oh, and maybe I'll buy a backscratcher.

TINKLE AND CLANG — Lynda Schultz

A flurry of discordant sound announced the arrival of several sections of the bell choir.

“Move it, you three. You’re late and we haven’t got much time,” chimed the Bell Master from his place on the bottom rung of the carillon.

“Nag, nag, nag,” whispered the D flat to his buddy, C, as they climbed into their places on the top level. “What’s the hurry, anyway? Clang’s got his clapper in a knot for sure this morning.”

“Morning? It’s still dark outside,” protested the F major, breathlessly hauling himself up behind the others.

The smaller bells finally got themselves into place, just as Clang struck the note that indicated readiness and silence in the ranks. He looked around, carefully checking to make sure no one was missing. Worse than a faulty note was no note at all.

“Where’s Tinkle?” he boomed from his assigned spot.

Tinkle was the littlest bell of all. Her spot was high up at the top of the carillon.

Like an evil wind brushing through the tower, the rustle of the bells created dissonance as everyone looked around, hunting for Tinkle.

“I’m here sir. Just polishing, Bell Master.” Her clear, high sound rang out as Tinkle took her place at the apex of the musical arrangement.

“That girl takes herself too seriously. ‘Just polishing, Bell Master.’ As if fingerprints made any difference to anyone,” mimicked the D flat.

“You have something to share with us?” came Clang’s voice from down below.

Everyone froze. More than once Clang had said out loud that he wished they never had to have contact with their human counterparts—the evil always rubbed off a bit, like fingerprints on the burnished surface of a bell.

“Uhmmmmm, no sir. I was just, well, wondering what all the rush was about,” stuttered the offender. “It’s not even daylight yet.”

“Well, if—and I know keeping time for you doesn’t usually include knowing what day it is—you had been paying attention during rehearsals, you would have remembered that dawn today is the biggest moment of our year. Today we bring hope to the world.”

From somewhere in the middle of the bevy of bells came the dulcet tones of one of the G’s. “But, boss, do you really think anyone listens to us? It’s nasty out there. Everyone knows what happened to poor Liberty. Those humans are a mean lot and we don’t seem to be making much of an impact.”

There were a couple of chuckles from the group at G’s unintentional play on notes. The subdued merriment stopped as Clang’s clapper sounded for silence.

“I’ll admit that I sometimes have my doubts as to whether anyone gets our message, but that’s not the point. The point is that we have a message that we have been assigned to deliver, we’ve been practicing faithfully for this last year, and we are going to chime out that message no matter what. It’s up to the Master Musician to do the rest. So, are we ready? It’s almost time.”

The bell choir stirred, positioning themselves, clappers at the ready, all eyes on Clang.

“Tinkle?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t forget, your part is critical. Sometimes people don’t hear the high notes, so you can’t hesitate or show weakness.”

“I won’t let you down, sir.”

Slowly the blackness outside the tower retreated before the insistence of the watery light of a winter sun. As it peeked above the horizon, Clang readied himself, gave the choir one last check, and nodded to Tinkle.

The high, light sound rang out loud and clear, followed by a rolling scale of melodious notes that reverberated across the awakening town.

Far below the tower, in the manse beside the church, a pastor looked up from his prayers. He had wrestled all night with his Christmas morning message. What could he say that would bring hope to a world where evil ruled man's heart, where even Christmas was banned with an “X”? How could he make sense of a world where, in the name of preserving peace, war was wrought?

He listened, remembered, and smiled. Hope was in God’s final note—which had yet to be played.

*************** 

And in despair I bowed my head/There is no peace on earth I said/For hate is strong and mocks the song/Of peace on earth, good will toward men/

Then peeled the bells more loud and sweet/God is not dead nor doth he sleep/ The wrong shall fail, the right prevail/Of peace on earth, good will toward men./ (from: “I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day”)

Motorcycle Mama by Lynda Schultz

In my book of remembrances the exploits of Leola shine through. She's gone now, safe in the embrace of the Heavenly Father she loved and served so well.

Leola lived with her husband, two children, and elderly mother-in-law on a small vegetable farm about 60 km outside of Timmins, Ontario. They faithfully came into church every Sunday and after Leola's husband died, she took her life into her hands and learned to drive their old car herself. She worked in our Sunday School until she could work no more. When the car finally gave up the ghost, Leola bought herself a set of leathers and persuaded her son to come out to the farm on his motorcycle and pick her up for Sunday services. By this time she was well past retirement age. Always prim and proper, she'd change from her leathers into a dress and hat when she got to church.

Leola kept working the farm for as long as she could, even after the cancer diagnosis. But she quietly went about other business as well. She prayed through the church directory every day. She wrote regularly and faithfully to every missionary the church supported. During my years overseas it was no surprise to receive care packages from Leola–she was known among the MKs (missionary kids) as the "Kool-Aid" lady. Considering that her resources were very limited, those care packages, and the postage it cost to mail them all over the world, represented a sacrifice.

This amazing little lady also successfully completed a number of correspondence courses by mail from a seminary in Toronto, including several years worth of New Testament Greek. God had blessed her with a first-class mind.

Cancer became her shadow but she never allowed it to rule her life. In the letters I received from her she often joked about the various stages of the disease and how they, or their treatment, was affecting her. She would come into town for doctor's appointments, stop off at the church to rest between sessions or to practice Tai Chi in one of the rooms. We'd sometime catch her napping.

My last remembrance of Leola was the corn roast she hosted for the church family at her farm. I was home on Home Assignment that year. Her frailty was obvious, but she continued with her positive spirit though now it was tempered with that faraway longing for "home" in her eyes.

A friend recently told me that Leola, knowing that Lil loved teacups, had given her a beautiful pair edged in gold that she had received as a wedding gift fifty years earlier. Lil visited Leola in the hospital just before she died. Leola was unable to speak by that time. Lil worried about those teacups and wondered if perhaps Leola might have wanted to pass them on to her daughter. When she asked Leola about it, this plucky little woman gave Lil a huge smile and bravely nodded her head. "No" she indicated.

When I think of Leola I think of the widow that Jesus used as an example of faith and generosity in Luke 21. This dear woman gave everything she could to the Lord and he commended her for it. Just as she is remembered for her quiet walk of faith, so some of us remember Leola and endeavor to walk in her footsteps. And for such a little lady she left us big shoes to fill.

It's More Than Charity That Begins At Home—Lynda Schultz

Today is my birthday. I'm one year closer to heaven. Today also marks the beginning of my fiftieth year of knowing the Lord. That's the birthday I really find amazing. It seems like such a short time ago when, at the age of eleven, I asked Jesus to be my Saviour and the Lord of my life.

It happened one Friday night at a children's program and the first thing I did when I got home that evening was to tell my mother and father what I had done. As I was reading in Mark this morning the idea of telling those closest to you about your spiritual decisions impacted me once again. The story is about a demon-possessed man. When Jesus cast out the demon and the man was once more clothed and in his right mind, all he wanted to do was to follow the Lord wherever Jesus was planning on going. Most leaders would love to have a few more followers in their entourage but in this case the Lord told the man: "Go home to your family and tell them how much the Lord has done for you and how he has had mercy on you" —Mark 5:19, NIV. And so it was.

Family is sometimes a "hard sell" because no one knows your wrinkles better than those closest to you. On the other hand, sharing your faith with family, new-found or not, is a logical step. My parents didn't say much when I told them that I had accepted Christ—they never were very demonstrative. But those few words did have an impact. A short time later I went forward in church when the pastor gave the invitation at the end of his sermon. He had encouraged me that Friday night to testify to my new faith in front of the congregation and to express my desire to be baptized by this public declaration. As I stood at the front of the church I sensed someone beside me. I turned my head slightly to see who was there. To my eternal surprise, there stood my mother.  As usual, she hadn't said a word to me about what had been going on in her own life—it wasn't her way. She'd been a believer for many years but had never publically declared that through baptism. My decision proved to be a catalyst for hers.

Over these fifty years of celebrating Jesus I've had many opportunities to share him with others. But no reaction to my words has been as special as that demonstrated by my mother so many years ago. When the now not-demon-possessed man returned home to tell his family and friends what the Lord had done for him, the Scriptures say that: "all the people were amazed" —Mark 5:20, NIV. I can't help but believe that this amazement produced much spiritual fruit for the Kingdom.

If charity begins at home so does telling how much the Lord had done for us, and how he has shown us his mercy. You just never know how the Lord will use even the words of a child.

Letting Go of the Good—Lynda Schultz

I want to do it all.

When I took my present position on staff in my church I immediately saw a myriad of things that needed attending to. Some projects, like cleaning out the junk collected under the stairs leading to the fire escape, had been waiting to be done by someone for a long time. Somehow when we plan church building projects no one thinks of appropriate storage places. The task wasn't on my job description, but as a member of the church community (and having had some experience with frowning fire department inspectors) I was concerned. So I went to work.

There were other tasks that caught my eye and they got added to the list.

I also work at writing, both as a staff member with the communications department of my mission, and as a personal interest. Like the church position, the writing part of life also gets cluttered with good things that need doing.

And I really want to do it all.

However, even though the tasks are all good ones needing to be done, I simply can't do them all. I may be smart, but I'm not that smart. I may be fast, but I'm not that fast. When I do the good things, I often find I don't have time to do the best things and the day ends without having accomplished what really needed to be done.

It's a question of discovering priorities. I recently read Andy Stanley's The Principle of the Path. The basic premise is that the paths we choose, good as they may be, might not get us where we want to go, or where God has designed us to be most glorifying to him or where we can be the most fulfilled.  As much as I want to do it all, I also want to do all that is the God's best for me. I please him most when I am within the boundaries of his perfect will.

Perhaps each day needs to begin with a prayer about priorities: Lord, what's on your agenda for me today? Just as I ask you to deliver me from evil, deliver me from good things that aren't the best things. Keep my eyes on your path and off of the bunny trails that pop up each day. And when the good becomes the best help me to do even those tasks for your glory. Amen.

The Blessings of "Early Garage Sale" — Lynda Schultz

Late last night I posted the story of this picture on my website. Alex and Alicia were married last week in Caracas. Circumstances didn't permit my presence at the wedding but that wonderful Sunday afternoon when they came to my apartment to look at the furniture I was planning on leaving behind was proof enough to me of the depth of Alex's feelings for Alicia.

I never doubted how Alicia felt—she was obvious! But Alex is the "strong, silent type," and even a little shy, so I was never quite sure about him and thought that perhaps Alicia was just being her dramatic self when she overwhelmed me with adjectives even time she talked about him.

My furniture was well-used. I have always jokingly said that my decorating style is "early garage sale." Neither Alicia nor Alex had a lot of money to spend but they both work and had been saving for this moment for a long time.

Alicia comes from a very dysfunctional family. Her mother always made a huge effort to degrade her daughter in private and in public. In spite of her difficult ealy years Alicia blossomed, particularly after meeting Alex. That Sunday afternoon showed me why.

The "kids" were renovating an annex for their first home and needed just about everything. She was reluctant to get too excited about the washer and dryer, the dining room set, the bed, the crystal, and the Royal Minton china I was leaving behind. Some things were essential; others were not. She and Alex had talked about the washer and as Alicia ran her hand over it, she looked a little longingly at the dryer. Alex saw the look and told me that he'd take that too. Alicia couldn't believe it. The whole afternoon was like that. She'd look at something, half afraid to want it because maybe they didn't need it, and Alex would tell her to add it to the list. By the time the "shopping" trip was over, their house was furnished and Alicia was in tears.

She could not believe that anyone, even Alex, would be so good to her. The scars of her past experience forbade her to trust that someone saw her worth and valued her enough to give her whatever would pleasure her—even if it was second-hand!

As God's children we are often a bit "Alicia" in our relationship with God. We are afraid to ask Him for certain things because we fear the rejection that we have sometimes been handed by others. We can't believe that God values us enough to bring into our lives whatever good thing will give us pleasure. Alex loved satisfying the desires of his wife-to-be. He didn't give Alicia everything she eyed, but he certainly gave her more than she had thought to ask for. And I suspect that as these two become more established in their lives, Alex will be just as delighted to pleasure his wife with a few new things to replace my "early garage sale."

To my great surprise, it isn't only Alicia who is overwhelming cyberspace with adjectives about her new husband from their hotel room on Margarita Island. Alex's FACEBOOK posts are almost as descriptive about how much he loves her as hers are descriptive about him. Isn't love wonderful! Is God wonderful!