BOOK DAY: Pond'rings, a writer's memoir by Marcia Lee Laycock

We are pleased to introduce (actually re-introduce) a monthly post called BOOK DAY here on InScribe Writers Online.

It's where we highlight books that InScribe members have read and recommend—based on our blog themes of Faith and Writing. Which we hope will include some of the lovely books penned and published by our own InScribe members (you can view those titles on our website HERE).

Have you read any good books lately? Do you have any titles you'd like to recommend to our readers? You are welcome to submit a short review to Brenda Leyland to be included in our monthly roster.

Today we are pleased to highlight Marcia Laycock's newest book, Pond'rings, a writer's memoir.

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TITLE: Pond'rings, a writer's memoir

AUTHOR: Marcia Lee Laycock

PUBLISHER: Siretona Creative, 2024

WHERE TO PURCHASE:

Siretona Online Bookstore ($20.00 CAN)

Amazon ($20.00 Paperback + $9.99 Kindle)

In her latest book, Pond'rings, a writer's memoir, Marcia Laycock looks back on her writing career that has spanned three decades. She gives her readers a peek into the 'twists and turns, mileposts and detours' which include many lightbulb moments that have enlightened her path. Gathering her many memories from a life well experienced—from the time she wrote stories for her dolls to when she first felt the call to write for God's kingdom to the present day—Marcia delightfully engages readers as she shares about being a writer of faith.

It's good for us as writers to hear stories from other authors, especially those we know personally and rub shoulders with. To realize that we all face our own "Big Old Hairy Ogres" (as Marcia dubbed the grim negative voices that plagued her life). Sometimes the wisdom we glean from another's life experience turns out to be exactly what resonates for our own life. I've enjoyed sitting in Marcia's presence as I disappeared into her book. Where she courageously and candidly opens her heart and tells her tales of resilience, discipline, and sometimes-faltering but ever growing trust in a Father who loves her. And Who has faithfully led her from writing opportunity to writing opportunity to writing opportunity. His benevolent involvement is evident as she writes.

Marcia tells, from early on, how she'd often hear the voice of the Ogre mocking her with 'your words don't matter, no one will ever care about them, they're just going to fade away.' But when she began to hear another Voice, she came to realize her words were, rather, a legacy and a testimony to God's grace and mercy. She often mentions paying heed to the words of fellow writers who encouraged her and shares a few of these with us. For instance, Marcia was deeply touched by words heard in an interview done with Carrie Fountain, an American poet. The words are now starred and underlined in my copy of the book because they resonated with me. Simple steps. Beautiful instructions. 

"Just get started.

Each morning, make a little progress.

Send out a little prayer.

Take note of something.

Try to be facing in the direction of the surprise."

Carrie Fountain

If you need encouragement in your own writing journey or maybe a few anecdotes to brighten your path, or you just want to rejoice in the grace of God in Marcia's life, this book is well worth your time. I agree with Canadian author Phil Callaway when he said, 'What my friend Marcia writes, I read'. Over the years I have come to appreciate Marcia's work as a writer, knowing that what she shares has been skillfully, prayerfully, and creatively crafted to touch hearts for the Kingdom.

Review by Brenda Leyland

Marcia is an award-winning author of fiction, devotionals, children's stories and fantasies, and more. Her writing and speaking journey continues. You can find her online at:

Website: www.marcialeelaycock.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/marcialeelaycock
Substack: https://marcialeelaycock.substack.com

H is for Hurrying Never Helps by Marcia Lee Laycock

Photo by Max Fleischmann on Unsplash

I saw the flashing lights behind me and wondered why the police cruiser didn’t just go around me. When it stayed behind me as I pulled through the stop lights on the edge of town, I realized maybe it was because he wanted me to pull over. Gasp!

The constable asked for my driver’s license and registration, then asked the question I expected. “Do you know how fast you were going ma’am?”

I had to admit that I didn’t, though I did realize I was probably driving faster that the speed limit allowed. The women’s Bible study I’d just attended had gone overtime and my husband had a meeting to get to, so I was in a bit of a hurray.

“100 in an 80 zone,” the constable said. “That’s a $250. ticket.”

I groaned out loud and prayed for mercy as he walked back to his vehicle. When he returned his demeanor was a bit softer. “I see you’ve never had a ticket and I don’t want to ruin that record, so I’ll just give you a warning. But slow down, Ma’am. Hurrying never helps.”

I sheepishly said I would and slowly pulled back onto the road.

“Hurrying never helps.” I’ve heard that caution given at writers’ conferences on more than one occasion. It is usually given in regard to sending a manuscript off to an agent or publisher before it is ready. The strongest caution is usually in regard to skipping the editing steps that everyone should insist on or forwarding the wrong version of the manuscript.

Been there, done that and I can tell you the embarrassment is very humbling.

But even after the book has left our hands it is wise to be sure all the usual procedures are followed. I can testify from experience that it’s something we writers need to pay attention to.

When my first novel, One Smooth Stone won the Best New Canadian Author Award, I was, of course, thrilled and was anxious to see the book on bookstore shelves. My publisher was too, since the busy Christmas season was approaching. He kept me abreast of the how the process was going and as the Yuletide season approached sent me an email. “Usually we send out a proof for you to approve, but we’re kind of crunched for time so if it’s okay with you, we’ll skip that step and go right to print.”

I gave the okay. It wasn’t until I received another email from a writer friend that I realized we’d made a big mistake. “Does your main character have a stutter?” my friend asked. She alerted me to the fact that there were a number of strange mistakes in the first sixty pages of the book.

I groaned out loud when I examined the copies I’d been sent. It did indeed appear that my main character had a stutter and there were several other mistakes that were not in my original manuscript. My writer friend advised me to mention it to the publisher. “This should not have happened,” she said.

When I contacted the publisher, I’m sure he groaned out loud too. The mistakes occurred when my manuscript format was changed from a Word document to Quark, used in the publishing industry. He apologized and said they would do another print run of the book. He also replaced the books I had purchased at no further cost to me.

Lesson learned by us both: hurrying never helps.

So before you hit that send button, slow down, double-check that all the steps have been ticked off (it’s helpful to make yourself a physical checklist), and, Lord willing, you won’t have any embarrassing surprises.

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 Marcia is a prolific author and speaker. Find out more on her website

D is for the Discipline of Seeing ~ Guest Post by Marcia Lee Laycock

“Don’t expect me to learn to draw.” I shook my head at the art instructor. “I couldn’t draw a decent stick figure to save my life.”  

The man smiled. “I’ll have you drawing well by Christmas.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

 His smile broadened. “I love a good challenge.” 

I had decided to enroll in the small art college in my hometown while spending some time with my parents for the winter. I wanted to learn how to do pottery and weaving. I was not impressed when they told me I would have to take the drawing class as well. So I decided to be blunt with that instructor on that first day. As I recall I also told him not to expect me to be on time. The class was at 8:00 in the morning. I was not a morning person. 

But that instructor was patient and gentle and very creative in finding ways to engage his students. He started us off with some interesting still-life objects, then brought in a variety of live models – from a pregnant woman to a clown in full costume. Even when it was a straightforward still life, he challenged us to engage in the “discipline of seeing” and studying the subject that was before us. 

In time I was amazed at what I had never seen before, in the simplest of things – how the lines of a potted plant curve and reach for the sun, how a woman’s eyebrow arches in a way that is truly beautiful, how a man’s eyes change with the light and can reveal his inner thoughts. Time seemed to stand still. Three hours seemed like five minutes, and I became absorbed in the process. It didn’t take long before I began to love it. I was almost always on time for class. 

I especially enjoyed an exercise the instructor called ‘line drawing.’ In this form, we were told not to look down at the page and not to lift the pencil until we were finished. It was an exercise in seeing and I once again was amazed at what it revealed. 

It was some time later that I realize these exercises had also made me a better writer. Because I was forced to draw, I was forced to study the subject, to observe what was truly there. What I began to see began to come out in what I wrote.

For instance, this – 

Line Drawing 

Graphite feeds

a soft black line onto white.

I must never look away

but move my hand around his form

continuously, smooth reality

into art

starting with the chair, his chair,

high backed, footrest up,

my line edges his leg, bends over his knee,

unnatural angle

of one leg broken long ago.

I loosen my grip,

loop the folds of his sweater, baggy,

over his arm, descend to the

hand, short-lined fingers curled,

pipe cradled in the palm.

one quick stroke cuts

across his stomach, belting him in

then softens again to fold the other arm

and onto his shoulder, slouched,

the chin on chest,

glasses forward, I round his nose

sweep back his hair in

one final black wave

the flow of line is over

but I dare not look away,

aware

I have begun to see.

I have created

my father.

 

I will be forever thankful for that drawing instructor, that he didn’t toss this cheeky first-year student out of his class, but persevered and taught me, not just how to draw, but how to engage in the discipline of seeing.

Marcia Lee Laycock is a Christian writer/speaker/teacher whose work has been endorsed by Mark Buchanan, Jeanette Oke, Sigmund Brouwer.  Visit her website to learn more.

A is for Abundance by Marcia Lee Laycock

 

 

Photo by micheile dot com on Unsplash

“I wish I had more money.” My friend gave a long sigh.

“Me too,” I responded. Watching my bank account dwindle after publishing my last book, Merrigold’s Very Best Home, has left me despairing of ever being able to produce a second one in the series I have imagined. Yes, a sizeable money tree growing in my back yard would certainly be nice.

“But not all things are helpful,” as 1 Corinthians 6:12 says. The apostle is talking about sexual immorality in that passage, but perhaps the principle can be applied to other areas of life.

Dictionary.com defines abundance this way:

1.  1-  an extremely plentiful or oversufficient quantity or supply.

2.   2- overflowing fullness: an abundance of the heart.

 

Usually, when we hear the word abundance, we think of #1. But consider that second definition. Overflowing fullness. That implies more than physical wealth. It implies a deep contentment, an “abundance of the heart” that does not depend on the size of our bank accounts or the possessions we can list in our assets column, or the number of published books on our shelf.

Perhaps wealth would, indeed, be a detriment to the true wealth we seek in the deepest parts of our being.

According to scripture, there is only one way to achieve such abundance. “But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.” (Matthew 6:33, ESV).

Those who spout prosperity theology would twist that scripture to mean that God will make you rich when you become a believer in Christ. All you have to do is look at the lives of the apostles to realize how faulty that claim is. None of them had overflowing wealth. Often the opposite was true. When Jesus sent them out to minister and spread the ‘good news,’ about His kingdom, He did not give them golden chariots and fine clothing. “He charged them to take nothing for their journey except a staff – no bread, no bag, no money in their belts …” Mark 6:8

Perhaps it was because they had nothing, they became deeply aware of how rich in “his righteousness” they were. Because they had nothing, they realized they had all they really needed. Because they had nothing, they learned to trust Him to provide it.

Living with that kind of abundance will indeed accomplish what Jesus said He came to do – “I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.” (John 10:10, ESV)

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Marcia Lee Laycock is a Christian writer/speaker/teacher whose work has been endorsed by Mark Buchanan, Jeanette Oke, Sigmund Brouwer.  Visit her website to learn more.

My Writing Path, to Date by Marcia Lee Laycock

 My Writing Path, to Date by Marcia Lee Laycock

Photo by Jaime Spaniol on Unsplash

Perhaps it was living in a stressful home that drove me to write, plus the space my father provided for me. He fashioned a little door and hung a single lightbulb in a room under the eaves of our house. I wrote for my dolls. They didn’t complain so I kept it up.

That space morphed into school, where I learned to fashion words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs that revealed my own story to my own heart and a few others.

A summer house on Lake Huron was the next place on my journey. There, the year I turned eleven, I was given a copy of Emily of New Moon. I determined, in some small crevice of my heart and soul, that I would someday be a writer. I expected to keep it hidden away, believed no one would ever know.

In high school teachers used the word ‘talent.’ I looked over my shoulder every time. Surely they were talking about someone else. Those “Emily words” were buried deep. How could they have seen them?

Years later, at a kitchen table, my father convinced me that you couldn’t survive writing short stories and poetry. So I abandoned the idea of studying creative writing at UBC and went to Carleton University to study journalism. It was in a professor’s office I pondered the idea of becoming a writer who was known, when he said, “You write very well.” But after two years I knew journalism was not the path for me, though I picked up some skills that have served me well.

The next Providential place was a log cabin outside of Dawson City, Yukon. As temperatures fell to -60’s, I sat by our barrel heater writing my first novel on a stack of rough yellow legal pads. I was also introduced to the work of Rudy Wiebe that winter. It was The Temptations of Big Bear that instilled in me the power of setting and poetic language and pure, sing-it-to-the-world story.

I continued to scribble on those legal pads until God took me to a place where I challenged Him to reveal Himself. He did, and everything changed. It was at Briercrest Bible College that I realized the talent I had was God-given and had a God-designed purpose. I asked God to show me how to fulfill it.

He led me to the cluttered office of a small town newspaper. The editor scanned the short devotional I’d brought and said, “Yeah, it’ll do.” That was the beginning of an almost twenty-year run of a weekly faith column. At about that time I discovered InScribe, heard stunning poetry and moving short stories written by people I rejoiced to have found.

Not long after, I met Gus Henne. He convinced me to publish my first book, a collection of the devotionals I’d written for that faith column. The first edition sold out quickly, as did the second. The third is still in demand.

I continued to write devotionals and the occasional article but I grabbed every moment I could to write fiction. That came to a screeching halt one afternoon when I was at my tiny desk, absorbed to the point of obsession. My daughter had come home from school, needing to talk. I kept my eyes on the monitor, giving her a few ‘uhuhs’ until she cried out, “Why do you never have time for me?” Struck to my core, I prayed. God said, “Stop.” I fought that answer but finally agreed on the condition that He take away all the stories that swirled in my brain. He did. I wrote no fiction for over a year.

I was in the foyer of our church when God released me from that prohibition. A fictional character took shape and would not go away. Again, I prayed and was given the gift of time to write One Smooth Stone. It won the Best New Canadian Christian Author Award from Castle Quay Books.

I was working on the sequel when I saw a link to a mentorship program at Canadian Mennonite University in Winnipeg. The Mentor was Rudy Wiebe. My heart raced. Was my writing good enough to be accepted into the program? I filled out the application. No email arrived. I did receive a large manilla envelope. I thought it was a school calendar. I almost threw it away without opening it and was stunned when I did. I had been accepted into the mentorship week. The deadline for acknowledging my entrance was the next day. I called the school immediately to say yes. Goin’ to Winnipeg!

Sitting in that bare classroom, my pulse raced. It was my turn to have my work dissected. For years people had been telling me I wrote well. But what would Rudy Wiebe, a literary icon of Canada, say about it?

The session began with students’ comments, most positive. Then Rudy began. “What do you think of this sentence?” Everyone loved it and my heart soared. Rudy looked at me. “You love it too, no doubt?” I nodded. He stood and turned to the blackboard behind him. “This is what’s happening.” He drew a line across the board. “The story is going along well.” He turned and looked at everyone. “And by the way, this is good writing.” I almost gasped. “But then this happens.” He drew a box on the line, then continued it on. He smiled at me. “It’s a lovely sentence. Maybe you can use it in something someday. But not here. You have to cut it because it takes the reader out of the story. They’ve stopped to enjoy that sentence. You can’t do that to your readers.” I nodded again, barely breathing.

“This is good writing.” Had I really heard those words? Could I truly believe them?

As reader’s responses arrived in my inbox and mailbox I realized that all those words of praise were wonderful but only one thing mattered – what God did with the words I put into sentences and paragraphs and chapters. My skill was only as valuable as His purpose in it.

As I continue to follow this path He has put me on, I strive to remember the words “Soli Deo Gloria.”

A Matter of Conscience by Marcia Lee Laycock

    A Matter of Conscience by Marcia Lee Laycock

                                                   Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

I read the notice with rising interest and excitement. There were grants available for writers in Alberta! Really? The government would pay me to write? I clicked on the icon and began reading. It didn’t take long for me to decide I needed to print out the information so I could absorb it more readily.

The printer was almost done when my husband arrived home from a ministerial meeting. I knew the pastors in our area were discussing an important issue that would have a serious effect on our community, so I stepped out of my office to greet him.

“How did it go?”

“Well, pretty well I guess. Everyone’s on board, but no one stepped up to spearhead the initiative, so I guess it’s going to be me.”

I knew having another thing on his agenda was not what he wanted right now, but I also knew that he was passionate about doing whatever he could to slow or perhaps even stop the installation of video lottery terminals (VLT’s) in the hotels and bars in our town. We’d seen the devastating effects of gambling addiction. The idea of our government sanctioning the terminals that would make it even easier to fall into that addiction was high on our list of things to fight against.

“How about you? How was your day?”

I remembered the document I’d just printed out and explained that I was pretty excited about it. “From what I’ve read so far, I think I might qualify.”

He smiled and nodded but I could tell the other topic was heavy on his mind and heart. I headed for the kitchen. A hearty lunch and a good cup of tea might help.

It was a couple of days before I found the time to read that document about writers’ grants. My excitement built again as I read and ticked off the criteria for applying. Then I read the ‘fine print,’ and my excitement was quickly dampened. Part of the funding for these arts grants came from gambling proceeds collected by the government. I groaned and almost tossed the sheets of paper into the recycle bin. I stared at them for some time before placing them on the corner of my desk. I’ll have a look again later, I thought.

A few weeks went by. My husband was interviewed by local media, both print and radio, about the problem with VLTs, explaining that though it looked like the money raised would stay in the community, the opposite was true. He detailed the devastating effects of gambling that got out of control, telling the story of a friend who had lost his home and his family because of the addiction. It noted that it seemed ironic that part of the government’s plan was to set up more facilities that would deal with gambling addiction, while still installing more and more terminals.

As time went on we began to realize that we were fighting an uphill battle that we probably would not win. But we kept trying. My husband gave one last interview just before the first VLT was installed in a local hotel. On that same day I found that pile of paper that detailed the opportunity for writers to acquire grants for pursuing their careers.

I mentioned my dilemma to a writer friend. She did not seem to understand. “Why not redeem that money?” she asked. “You’ll be using it to promote the gospel, so I wouldn’t worry about where it came from.”

I could see her point of view. Truth be told, I wanted to agree. But as I prayed about it, something niggled at the back of my mind. How could I accept money that came from the very thing my husband had campaigned against? What if someone discovered that I had received one of these grants and pointed a condemning finger, accusing us of hypocrisy? Christians were often ‘called out’ for such things and I knew how damaging it could be to a person’s Christian witness in a community. As a pastor’s wife it could be even more serious.

In the end I tossed the document into the recycle bin. As I walked away, I felt the burden lift. The money would have been nice, but I knew God would provide in other ways. My conscience was clear and I could now focus on doing the work He had called me to do.

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 Learn more about Marcia's writing, teaching, and speaking ministries on her website.

 

Ears that Hear by Marcia Lee Laycock

 Ears that Hear by Marcia Lee Laycock

                                                    Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash

I watched an interesting movie some time ago, called August Rush. It’s a story about an orphaned boy who is a musical prodigy. He believes that if he follows the music he hears all around him it will lead him to his parents. As he realizes he can make music, he believes that his parents will hear it and they’ll find him. So he sets out to follow the music he hears and to use the gift he was given. He wanders the streets of the city and is taken in, (in more ways than one), by a street musician (Robin Williams) who sees the boy as a ticket to fortune.

After watching the DVD we clicked on some of the deleted scenes. One in particular struck me. Robin Williams, the street musician who is exploiting the boy’s talent, cries out in anguish as he admits, “I can’t hear it – the music – I can’t hear it anymore. But you can – so play! Play!

The scene moved me because I believe we have all, to one degree or another, lost the ability to hear, the ability to see, the ability to feel in the way God intends. I believe the premise of the movie is right – if we hear, see and feel what God has put before us, and use our gift to express it, it will lead us to where we are supposed to be. But the corruption of the world has robbed us of the ability. Our own corruption prevents it.

The good news is that it can be redeemed. We can come alive again through the power of Jesus Christ and the indwelling of His Spirit. We can learn to hear His voice in the very air around us, to see His face in the creation He has given us, and to feel with compassion and grace as He created us to do. And we can continually find ways to express it by honing our talent and skill.

As writers who are Christian I believe this is essential. And it’s something we have to work at. The corruption around us and even in us will do its worst to prevent that connection with God that will lead us to Him. It will prevent us from hearing the Holy Spirit and using the gift He gave us, the gift that will lead those who need to hear our words, to us and to our work.

The good news is that God always wins. His purposes will be fulfilled and He will be glorified. As we listen to His voice, feel His Spirit rise within us and see his glory in the world around us, and express it in our work, His purposes for our lives will be fulfilled. We will be fulfilled in the truest sense of the word.

The street musician in that movie was a tragic character – one who has lost what he was given, through his own sin and the sin of those around him. May we guard our hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. May we all have ears to hear and eyes to see.

"You will be ever hearing but never understanding; you will be ever seeing but never perceiving. For this people's heart has become calloused; they hardly hear with their ears, and they have closed their eyes... but blessed are your eyes because they see and your ears because they hear." (Matthew 13:14-16, NIV).

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 To read more of my work visit my Website

 

Thoughts on the Pandemic by Marcia Lee Laycock

Photo by Elena Mozhvilo on Unsplash

I remember my mother telling me about the Spanish Flu that struck the world on the heals of World War 1. She was an infant, brought to Canada at the age of two months in 1919, so the memories are not hers, but repeated stories her mother had told her. My mother was born prematurely so she was considered at high risk of catching and dying from the virus. That kept my grandmother totally isolated for long stretches of time, venturing out only when they ran out of food. Fear was rampant and no wonder – it is estimated that somewhere between 50 and 100 million people died during that pandemic, most over a two year period, though the pandemic was still in evidence ten years after it began.

The current numbers for Covid 19 are approximately 6 million deaths worldwide, since tracking began in 2020. We all are aware of the hording that took place at the beginning of the pandemic and the supply chain issues currently causing problems across the globe. For most of us seeing bare shelves in the grocery stores was a shock. Chicken livers were the only meat in our local stores at one point. I went home empty-handed. I have lived in the third world so such things weren’t entirely new to me, but seeing it happen here, in Canada, was enough to rattle me.

And the isolation from friends and family had a profound effect. Though I am an introvert who loves my alone time, the longing to be with my children was an ache that was new and not at all welcome. I wept to see seniors peering through windows at their loved ones who were not allowed in to visit.

All of these things have given me a new appreciation for the privileges we so often take for granted. I treasure my time with family and friends much more now and make an effort to be deliberate about pulling myself out of my hermit-like lifestyle.

I savour my favourite foods and thank God for them in a way I never had before, knowing even the basics could disappear at any moment.

The world has now become a much more tentative place – a place where things could change quickly and without remedy. That does create a certain insecurity in us all, but it also has benefits.

We acknowledge the source of all our benefits more now, I believe. We turn to Him more, the words “thank you” more likely to be on our lips. In a sense, many of us have become more like those in the third world, whose dependence on God is in evidence moment by moment. Though that lifestyle can be stressful, it can also drive us to bow before God as we see his provision for our needs. We turn to scriptures like Matthew 6:25-34 where we are admonished not to be anxious but to “seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.” (Matthew 6:33, ESV). And we learn to trust.

Yes, the pandemic has been hard but as it has pushed us out of our comfort zones it has put us on a kind of pilgrimage. And the scripture says, “What joy for those whose strength comes from the Lord, who have set their minds on a pilgrimage … (Psalm 84:5, ESV).

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For information on Marcia's writing/speaking/teaching ministry visit her website

 

Be Mine by Marcia Lee Laycock

 

Be Mine by Marcia Lee Laycock

Photo by Gaelle Marcel on Unsplash

I ripped the cellophane wrapping off the small package with delight. The cards my mother had bought that morning were perfect. They were bright red with hearts all over them and short funny sayings appropriate for Valentine’s Day. I spent all that evening addressing the envelopes and signing my name to all the cards. All, that is, but one.

There was one card in the package that was larger than the rest. It said, “Be Mine,” and the verse inside was not funny. In fact, to me, it was so serious that my heart beat faster. This card was going to someone I thought was deserving of something so special. His name was Darryl. I was ten years old and I was “in love.”

I did not sign my name to the card addressed to Darryl because I was afraid. I did not want to admit my feelings for fear of being rejected. What if he just laughed? What if he threw the card in the trash and someone else saw that it was from me? What if he left it behind on an empty desk for anyone to see? No. I would not put my name on that card, but I would pray that Darryl would know who it was from.

Giving your love and affection to someone is a risk. You become vulnerable to being hurt, to rejection, perhaps even to ridicule. Jesus knew all about that when He agreed to be born as a tiny babe on earth. He knew that many would spurn His love. Many would scorn his affection. Many would just laugh. And then a mob would demand His death. No one would understand. None of it would look like a fairy-tale and the ending was anything but happy. It would look like defeat and it would stink of death.

But it was the greatest act of love this world has ever seen. Christ gave up the glories of heaven, took on the physical limitations of a human body and then allowed that body to be tortured and killed. He did it all so that we would be able to live in the presence of His Father’s love eternally. He did it with an anguished cry of, “Be Mine!”

Jesus was neither afraid nor embarrassed to sign his name on the card that revealed His love for us. His card was a cross erected on a hill outside the city of Jerusalem. He signed it with His own blood and when it was delivered to the world at the moment he died, all the barriers between us and God were torn down. Forgiveness was ours for the asking and hope became a reality.

It was therefore true when the apostle Paul said to the people in Rome – “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:38-39, NIV)

That is a Valentine worth cherishing.

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Thank you for taking the time to read. My name is Marcia Lee Laycock and I invite you to follow me if you’d like to read more of my work about finding your way home, into the arms of Jesus. 😊 You can find me on Medium at Pond’rings and Words on the Wing and a few other publications along the way.

For more information about my writing and speaking ministry, check out my website 

Sign up for my newsletter to receive sporadic updates and a free short story. 😊

 

Photo by Megan Johnston on Unsplash

The Lamb by Marcia Lee Laycock

I shivered and pulled my cloak tighter around me as I peered at the fire where my father and uncle and the other shepherds sat. I thought of trying to get closer but knew I’d only get a clout for my efforts so I remained where I was, cold and miserable with not even a dream to warm the night.

Father was still angry with me. I was thinking of relenting, letting him take back the lamb he’d given me. But it was a pure, unspotted lamb, so unlike all the others in the flock, that were marred in some way. This one was good enough to be taken to the market and sold for a good price. That’s why father wanted to take it back.

But it was my lamb. He’d promised it to me, for working with him for so long with little recompense. He’d been promising me a lamb of my own for some time and I kept reminding him of his promise until finally, he’d said, “Yes, yes, the next one born is yours.” I think he only said it to be rid of me and my pestering, but I was thrilled. I was there when the ewe gave birth and reminded my father again, of his promise, just in case he’d choose to forget. He nodded his head without examining the tiny thing.

Later I saw his eyes light up when he realized what a prize it was and he wasted no time telling me he wanted to sell it. But it had become precious to me and I refused to give it up, even though I knew the shekels would mean food in our bellies for some time to come. Father was furious but I still refused. I wanted my own flock one day and this spotless lamb would be a good start. I didn’t trust him to keep his word, so I kept the wee thing tethered to me, day and night. No, I would not give it up. It was mine. I tugged it closer for warmth and was just about to lay my head down to try and sleep when a strange light made me sit up.

A tall man stood there, his very clothes bursting with white light. I could not see his face clearly, for the brilliance of it. My father and uncle and the other shepherds were on their feet, clustered together, some of them starting to back away from the strange apparition.

Then it spoke and we all fall on our faces.

“Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.” (Luke 2:10-12, NIV)

When it vanished the whole sky blazed. Angels! My mouth dropped open at the sight, my ears rang with the sound as they glorified God and bestowed peace upon us, we dirty, ragged shepherds.

When they were gone my father and the others all agreed – and that was an unheard of thing – but they agreed there was only one thing to be done: find the child! I lifted my lamb onto my shoulders and followed them, stumbling in the darkness but eager to see the wonder of an infant Messiah.

I expected he would be in a palace of some kind and despaired of ever getting close enough to see him, even if my father did allow it, but when we found the place it was as humble a dwelling as any you could discover. The child’s father was a bit hesitant at first, when such a rag-tag group arrived, but when my father told him about the angels he waved us closer. I stuck my head between my father and my uncle, expecting to get a swat but my father moved aside, put his arm across my shoulders and, drawing me close, spoke quietly in my ear.

“Why we have been chosen, my son, I cannot fathom, but we must study this scene, commit every detail to memory so that we can tell everyone we meet. The Messiah has come!”

I clutched the spotless lamb to my breast and did as he said, noting the soft features of the young woman holding the child who was wrapped, as the angel had said, in bands of cloth. He looked so ordinary, cried so like any other child, but I knew, deep in my soul that he was no common infant.

The lamb bleated in my arms. I looked down at it and knew what I should do. Without hesitation I loosed the tether from my wrist and laid the lamb before him. The woman’s smile widened and she nodded. But when she glanced down at the animal again I noted the smile faded and a sadness lay in her eyes. I wondered at it then.

It would be many years before I would understand. My gift no doubt reminded her there would be pain and sorrow ahead.

For this child was, indeed, a pure and spotless lamb. The lamb of God who would be sacrificed to take away the sins of the world.

 

Growing Into It by Marcia Lee Laycock

Photo by Marcia Lee Laycock

                                                        

They called him “Corner” because whenever anyone went near him he’d run into a corner and quiver. When I saw the grey husky-shepherd cross for the first time he was outside, running through the bush, low to the ground like a wolf on the prowl. My friend told me he was going to have to shoot him if someone didn’t come along and take him away. So I decided to try. It took me a week to get close enough to touch him and another few days before I could get a collar and leash on him.

Once at home I began a rehabilitation program – good food, lots of soft words and kind pets. And a name change. Corner became Klondike. He took to his name well and was eager to please me as I began to train him. My neighbour said he looked like a cartoon character, with ears that were too big for his face and paws that told us he was going to be a big dog. As time went on, Klondike grew into his ears and his paws and his name. He became my constant companion, ever obedient and extremely protective. Klondike became my guardian angel and I know he saved me on more than one occasion.

As I saved Corner, giving him a new name and a new life, Jesus did the same for me. Shortly after I yielded my will and my life to Him, I opened my new Bible and read this verse: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name; You are mine” (Isaiah 43:1, NKJV).

That was a significant moment for me because for much of my life people had called me by a name that was not mine. My mother, whose heritage was British, named me Marcia, pronounced Mar-see-uh with the accent on the first syllable. At home I was Marci. But when I went to school my teachers began calling me Marsha. I was too shy to correct them and although I disliked it, went along with that name and that identity until I was out of high school. At university I insisted that everyone call me by the name my mother had given me.

To this day people often mispronounce my name, either using Marsha or putting the emphasis on the last syllable. But now it doesn’t bother me so much, because I know the One who created me knows my name. That’s all that matters.

It matters, too, that I live up to the name I’ve been given. I don’t want to be like Abigail’s husband, Nabal, whom she said lived up to his name, which meant stupid. (Read the story in 1 Samuel 25). I’d rather be like Simon whose name was changed to Peter (the rock) and who grew into that name as God strengthened and guided him into his new identity as a leader of His church. Or Abram, who became Abraham and Sarai who became Sarah. They grew into their names too, as they fulfilled the destiny God had planned for them.

So what’s in a name? Identity is wrapped up in it. As we grow into the identity we were meant to have, we grow into the name we have been given – Children of God.

“… that you become blameless and harmless, children of God without fault in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, among whom you shine as lights in the world ...” (Philippians 2:15).

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Visit my website to learn more about my writing and speaking ministry.

 

 

 

Deliberate by Marcia Lee Laycock

 

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Deliberate by Marcia Lee Laycock

 

You chose the way, crawled toward that day,

destiny drawn in blood before time began,

designed the way of sorrows,

staggered down that Via Dolorosa.

 

You forged the nails

for your own crucifixion,

grew the tree hewn

to bear your bloodied body, 

the bush that thrust out thorns.

 

You guided the hands that wove

the robe on which they gambled at your feet,

knew the Centurion who stabbed your side,

before his mother spoke his name.

 

You created the rocks that split,

the light that became darkness,

the angels who

turned their faces away.

 

You did it all

Deliberately.

 

To rescue me.

 

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https ://marcialeelaycock.com