Canyons and The Cornerstone by Pamela Mytroen

 

What do you do when you’re asked to write something that you might not agree with? Recently I was asked to interview an artist whose work is on display at a well known gallery. Usually, this is something I look forward to, but when I viewed her website my spirit stirred uncomfortably within me. While her subject matter is a rugged National park with surprising canyons, her message combines the tenets of two trendy religions, fraught with deception, albeit very popular and appearing innocuous.

What was I to do? I prayed much about this. It is my job to cover topics that my paper assigns me. Should I refuse this particular assignment so that I could honour Truth? I didn’t want to encourage potential viewers of her art to follow her over the cliff into a canyon of darkness. However, I also felt that I should try to cover this assignment to the best of my ability, while staying true to absolute standards.

The Lord answered quickly and clearly with four quotes I came across all within a few hours. I had missed one day of my Easter reading plan so I returned to that chapter to finish it off and this verse resonated with me: “For in Scripture it says: ‘See, I lay a stone in Zion, a chosen and precious cornerstone, and the one who trusts in him will never be put to shame” (IPeter2:6). I knew that I had to stand my ground on the foundation of Jesus. Then, whatever I wrote would be grounded on the solid rock of Truth. I would write well with respect to the paper and the craft and even if people didn’t approve of my writing, I also knew that I would never be put to shame.

But, that still didn’t solve exactly how I was to write this article. Within minutes, a little bamboo sound notified me I had email. It was a quote by Francis Schaeffer from his book, Art and the Bible. Curious, I opened it and it helped me discern how I should approach this article.  It said, “If the artist’s technical excellence is high, he is to be praised for this, even if we differ with his world view. Man must be treated fairly as man.” Aha, I could angle this piece towards the artist’s technical expertise, which was interesting and highly praised. I still had a niggle in my spirit, though.

Interestingly, I delved deeper into Schaeffer’s theory and found this gem: “As Christians, we must see that just because an artist – even a great artist -portrays a worldview in writing or on canvas, it does not mean that we should automatically accept that worldview. Good art heightens the impact of that worldview, but it does not make it true.”

I knew what I had to do.

 

That afternoon I had an appointment to interview the curator and to view the art. While technically it appeared well done (I’m not an artist but it truly was stunning), there was an aura of death about it, which even the curator pointed out. Every piece featured a skull, and most of them were painted over the scenic canyons and landscape. Impossible to miss. That was part of her message, that life dies and is reborn again as another creature.

I wrote the piece pointing out her engaging technique and the subject matter of the park. Rather than giving my opinion, which I am not really supposed to do, I  invited the the viewer to ask questions about it such as, “How many animals can you count in each scene? Do you see the cycle of life and death? What do you think of it? What message is the artist trying to portray? Do you agree or disagree? If you could ask the artist one question, what would it be?” Asking questions, I feel, gives the viewer the opportunity to think for themselves, and maintains freedom of expression for both the viewer and the artist.

That evening I picked up my novel, “Safely Home” by Randy Alcorn, and wouldn’t you know it, the chapter I read included a scene with people involved in this religion. My heart pounded and I chilled. God had heard my prayer and was pointing out the darkness and deception I am surrounded by. Although the artist is sweet, engaging, and even invited me to have tea with her, I feel that she has been deceived. It affirmed to me that I must speak truth and have nothing to do with innocent sounding lies. 

We walk along valleys of the shadow of death, but we fear no evil. I am learning to navigate these dark canyons as a writer. 

Asking questions and allowing the other person to tell their story and the reasons for their message is a good place to begin. Maybe even having tea with them. But standing firm on the Cornerstone of truth – by the grace of God -  is where I will remain.

 

Pamela Mytroen

 

Write Plan B First

SHAKEN by Pamela Mytroen

SHAKEN

 

In keeping with January's theme, I dedicate this piece to a member whose words in writing and in person embodied InScribe’s mission. She, like InScribe, continues to inspire me. 

 

For Bobbi:

 

Bobbi knew her place in a salt-shaker. While she may have been more comfortable hiding quietly, she surrendered her heart to Jesus, and allowed Him to shake her. 

     In her upside-down, unsettling       moments, she poured herself out in a generous pinch of thirst-creating, truth-preserving, hope-enhancing salt to her world. 

 

     Throughout membership and contest coordinating for InScribe, I leaned on Bobbi to answer scads of questions. Emails flew back and forth, mine often heavy with desperation, hers always brief with just a question or a little comment that clarified things. Between the cracks and crevices of numbers, graphs, and spreadsheets, Bobbi sprinkled the salt of encouragement. One of her last comments to me was , “One day at a time, Sweet Jesus.” She practiced that daily dependency on Jesus for everything from balancing the InScribe books to pacing herself through another hard-to-breathe day. With that little phrase, I knew her faith was still real, practical, and a light to me in the midst of deadlines. 

   

Salt is a tricky thing to get right. Too much and it’s revolting. Not enough and it disappoints, leaving flavours hidden. 

Thirst for Living Water

But Bobbi had a knack for seasoning her words with just the right amount. It made me long for more of her wisdom, her wit, and her grace. Just like salt creates thirst, so our words should be seasoned with faith, hope, and love, moving our readers to yearn for Living Water.

Bobbi’s words challenged the reader. She told stories simply and with an almost uncomfortable honesty. Salt can sting in an open wound, but also heals. If you’ve heard her podcasts based on “The Reluctant Care Giver”, or read her book by the same title, you would recall her unpredictable and somewhat chaotic journey with her mother as she tried to place her into assisted care. The way Bobbi tells it left me laughing and crying at the same time. She listened to God’s voice, at times turning her car around and for reasons unknown to her, driving to her mom's place. As a result of letting God lead the way in the puzzling maze of dementia, she was able to partner with her mom, and her nontraditional "method" resonated with many caregivers, professionals included. Her simple faith still challenges me to be radically obedient, like her.  

 

Salt also kills bacteria by sucking the life-water out of its environment. Before refrigeration, salt in abundance, not just a sprinkle, was required to preserve meats. Jesus called us the salt of the earth, (Matthew 5:13) possibly because it is our duty to preserve goodness in the dirt around us. While our eyes burn from the stench of hatred, greed, and injustice, we are called to prevent moral decay by packing a lavish portion of His life-giving, healing words around the muscles and tendons of those with tender faith. Perhaps He expects us to share such savoury words that they "suck the life out of" society's slimy salmonella-infused lies, and cure carnal rawness with pure Spirit. Bobbi wrote essays for our Fall contest. Her words challenged deceptive norms, and confronted ideas that threaten the value and dignity of human life. She wrapped salty truth around every paragraph of every piece, and injected a briny veracity into her books and presentations. She helped preserve the standards for which InScribe stands.  

 

The humble salt-shaker - in a myriad of shapes and colours - brings us all together at the table as we lean in and seek salt, or some variation of it. We as blood-bought believers are that salt. We are all diverse, viewing life through our own upbringing and culture, and even interpreting current laws differently, but Jesus' forgiveness and His call on our lives pulls us together into the cozy confine of the shaker. Bobbi, with her grace-seasoned spirit, often stepped out of coziness to share tidbits of truth. 

 

Our InScribe family, and no doubt Bobbi’s more intimate circle of her own family, are missing her these days. We are tasting the salt in our tears. May that be a reminder to learn from her, and to be willing to be shaken. Shaken right out of our comfortable shaker. 

May we, like Bobbi, sprinkle a little truth into everything we write, to create thirst for the eternal Spring. 

Like her, let us flavour our stories with a daring dash of hope. And let us pack a briny brightness into every sentence of every story to nudge our readers as they take one more step  - "one more day at a time, Sweet Jesus" - across the gulf of darkness and into the Light.  

 “Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone” (Colossians 4:6 NIV). 

 

 

    

 

 

  

 

 

Giving Like a Child by Pamela Mytroen

 

When I was four years old, I couldn't wait until the lights were turned out and my mom and dad had said goodnight and prayed with me. As soon as my two-year old sibling had fallen asleep in the crib beside me, I would sit up in bed, shake my pillow until the pillowcase slipped off and then pretend to pack it with food for every starving child I'd seen on TV. I would then journey to the dark nation of Africa. I tried to figure out how to sneak leftovers from the supper table but I knew that wouldn't go over well with Mom, so I just stuffed pretend potatoes, meatloaf and chocolate cake into my case and swung it over my shoulder every night. I would hand it out freely, the bag never running out. I never thought to question them about whether or not they deserved this food, or how to sustain them day after day. I just loved the smiles on their faces. Once every child had taken enough for their family, I would shove my pillow back in the case and fall asleep in peace. 

My four-year-old sense of justice became jaded as I began to listen to the "big people" talk around me. They would talk about the homeless man on the street and all agree that he didn't deserve a hand out because he wasn't working. I worked that philosophy into my children's story books and decided that the hungry bunny didn't deserve to eat the farmer's lettuce after all, and he should be chased away. I also worked it into the bible where it says to feed the poor and decided that instead of feeding the poor people, I should teach them theology, because after all, they would go to hell with a full belly just as easily with an empty one. 

I began to see every homeless person as being lazy and untrustworthy, and focused on learning the truths of God's word instead so that I could impact lives from the inside out. However, that changed when I was challenged to read Jesus' words again. He commands us to care for the poor and he doesn't put any qualifiers on it. He doesn't say, "Give to the poor and demand that they buy groceries with it." He doesn't say, "Only give to those who are looking for work." He just says "Give to everyone who asks you for something" (Mt 5:42).  I began to realize that giving to the poor, or taking care of the vulnerable, not only gives them hope and nutrition, but it also teaches me a lesson. 

Working downtown in a  city, I soon found countless opportunities to put my faith into action. Or rather, they found me. Stepping out of the hotel, I would immediately be asked for money. I finally learned to carry change in my pocket. While I had no clue where they would be spending this money, I learned to leave it in God's hands. Instead, I would chat with them as we walked down the sidewalk together. I know it's not always wise to give irrationally, but maybe giving to the poor is more about what we need to learn than about what they need to eat. 

I learn to trust God when I give. I learn that He is kind and gracious to all of us. I learn that I don't deserve His blessings any more than a woman stopping me on the sidewalk and asking for money. Her hair is long and unkept and I don't know where she will go once she's out of my sight, but I can bless her and pray for her in Jesus' name. Although this is a very small action, it has opened my eyes in a big way to see that God respects and values every human being. I have learned to see past the downcast eyes or the demanding tone of some desperate people and instead to see the fingerprints of God on their lives. 

While I may not be able to affect change at government level, I can do small child-like things from day to day. I can take a container of soup to a senior who is struggling with depression during the isolation of Covid. I can call my neighbour widow and ask if she needs groceries picked up for her. I can listen to a friend share about the effects of childhood abuse and how they are still struggling with self-worth. I can sponsor children monthly through various organizations and I can write letters to my MP to protect children from trafficking. 

Maybe stuffing food into a pillowcase and sharing it with the hungry wasn't so far off after all. My heart still longs to help them, and maybe that's where God is found - in the hungry and homeless - who have so much to teach us about grace and no-strings-attached love of Jesus. While social justice issues have broadened from hunger and poverty to persecution, modern day slavery, and freedom of speech, it still comes down to individual people who need to be seen and acknowledged, and sometimes the best way to show that is by a handout, whether that hand holds a bag of food or material goods, or a handful of hope and dignity. 

While God warns governments that He will call them to account for how they've treated the poor and vulnerable, He also expects individuals to be aware of their needs and to help in whatever way they can. Giving comes naturally to children when they are raised with compassion, and God's words are simple enough for a child to understand. "Hear this, you who trample the needy and do away with the poor of the land . . .buying the poor with silver and the needy for a pair of sandals. . . The LORD  has sworn by himself, . . . 'I will never forget anything they have done. Will not the land tremble for this, and all who live in it mourn?' " (Amos 8:4,6a,7, 8a). 

   

A little salt goes a long way by Pamela Mytroen

I don’t see God’s supernatural hand when I’m in the midst of a storm; I see it after the calm. After that wounded day of 9/11 in September of 2001, I had responded by writing an article, which I had taken to our local newspaper. It was rejected. However, I was offered a job as a correspondent, which softened the “blow”. I began writing feature pieces for the paper but I was restless. I desired to share Christ with my community, to point the way to Truth.   

The world’s thinking had shifted as the smoke from 9/11 dissipated into the clouds. Christ was embraced at first as people grieved, but the thunder of suspicion and skepticism towards Christianity began to rock our world. I felt that if I didn’t quickly share truth with people, that our chances might crumble like the twin towers. The editor had assigned me to write human interest pieces and I was not allowed to venture out of that role. How could I write for Jesus in our paper now? 

Previously, the Pastors of our community had written a weekly column in the paper, but over time, as the Pastors moved on and a new editor was hired, that column disappeared. I longed to see God’s Word in print, taking on advertisements and news. I began to pray about it and God began to nudge me to take action.  

God whispers, seldom shouts, but it’s a whisper made of fire that burns deeply. I don’t like to be the one to give feet and action to my dreams, but God believes in us; isn’t that amazing? So He wouldn’t let go. I was and still am fearful about leading. A storm of doubt always rages inside me when I need to talk to people and make something happen, but God’s whisper had shot through me and I needed to obey.  

I could send an email to the newspaper office with my desire to see this column start up again. No, too impersonal. Or I could call. Again, too easy for the editor to say, “no.” I knew I had to go in person, which unsettled my stomach. I approached one pastor and shared my idea. He liked the idea of writing for the paper, but said he was too busy to help me. So I approached another pastor, who was very young, and new in his position. “Yes, of course, I’d be happy to come with you.” I suspected that our inexperience and youth wouldn’t stand a chance against this seasoned, curmudgeonly editor. I’d been told that the new editor was very secular and wanted nothing to do with Christianity in her paper. “She will run you out of her office,” one said. Another said, “She won’t publish anything Christian. I’ve been trying for 3 years.” I really hoped the editor wouldn't be there when we went to see her or that the office would burn down before we arrived. Anything to avoid being chased from her presence. Just before we went to the Times, this young pastor and I bowed our heads and prayed that God would open the hard heart of this editor. 

We were ushered into The Editor's office. She jabbed at her keyboard as we stood before her. She asked what we wanted while she scrolled through her screen, harrumphing and sighing. We sat down. She looked at us over her glasses and I shared how I would like to see this type of column start up again. The young pastor enthusiastically talked about his ideas of writing for the Times. 

I will always remember what happened next. The editor crossed her arms over her chest and stared at us. She said nothing. The silence condemned me – why did I think this had been a good idea? Then, she leaned back in her chair. It was one of those reclining office chairs. She kept her arms folded and continued to stare at me. My perspiring hands slipped on the plastic arms of the chair. Not only would she reject this crazy idea, but she would probably not trust me to write any more feature pieces. Her chair creaked as she leaned forward, preparing to announce her judgment. I uncrossed my legs, and planted my feet, ready to flee from her presence. 

The words she said burned their way into my imagination and seared my doubts to a crisp. “Yes,” she said, picking up her pen. “That is exactly what our paper has been missing.” 

The young pastor, who had believed all along, chatted with her and they began to put plans in place. It would be called, “Pass the Salt” The word count would be 300 and pastors from a variety of denominations in town would take their turn writing every week. About that time I began to breathe again and we left the office together. That was almost 20 years ago.

The salt is still being "passed" every single week. Storms continue to happen since 9/11, but during every one that our nation, province, or community endures, the Word of God is shared by our pastors. Like a rainbow, it arches over the fear and devastation and gives hope and light to our community. 

As I look back I see that although God’s whisper is so gentle, and can be snuffed out, that is how He guides me. He is so wise. He fought the battle in the heart of an editor. He paved the way to transform lives, and all He asked of me was that I take His hand, go along with Him that day, and watch Him do something amazing. We serve an extraordinary God who whispers calm into a storm. 

A Cage Cracked Open by Pamela Mytroen

When I envision a crack, I think of the Zoo Keeper’s wife, Antonina Zabinski, who with her husband Jan, poured her life’s work into their zoo in Warsaw, Poland. During the Nazi occupation, Lutz Heck, the top-ranking zoologist and an officer for Hitler, visited their Zoo in a façade of goodwill, and took rare animals in an attempt to re-create extinct breeds to build up enough for Nazi hunting parties. He then hosted a New Year’s Eve shooting party at their zoo. With deep sadness Antonina and Jan buried their beloved animals. That evening at sunset two hawks and an eagle circled above their garden. Their cage had been cracked open by bullets and they had flown free. However, they didn’t want to leave the only home they knew and the ones they trusted. They flew down and landed on Antonina’s porch, where she fed them.  

Sometimes a crack can open a cage and set a prisoner free, but after being confined for so long, prisoners don’t know how to navigate freedom, and they have to learn to trust all over again. 

I wonder if that’s what’s happening to us during Covid-19? For so long we have lived with certain patterns to our day, and with confident expectations. Maybe our freedom was defined by being able to meet with friends and family, schoolmates and co-workers whenever we wanted. Or perhaps our comforts consisted of travelling, whether a short trip to a Provincial campground or as far away as another country. We have defined freedom by luxury within gilded bars. Even Christians, though we sincerely trusted in the Lord and found joy and peace in Him, have been shaken. Our carefully constructed cage of comforts has cracked wide open. We weren’t expecting it. We were enjoying our short little flights inside our cage. We trusted the Lord because He brought everything to our doorstep and provided for us. Then suddenly a whole new world opened up. Would we fly and leave the cramped confines of little faith? 

Freedom has taken on a new definition. No longer does it mean leaving footprints at every retail location or laughing together over a meal with friends. No, now our freedom is internal instead of external. 

After the Apostle Paul describes the fruit of the Spirit in Galatians 5:22, he gives us this timely insight: “Against such things there is no law.” Right now there are laws against getting too close, against using playgrounds, and going to school. Against hugging and working elbow-to-elbow. Against using cash. And watch out if you cough or sneeze in public! We feel strangled, but the Spirit of the Living God is not caged-in, but rather indwells us. There is no law against love – we can and have found creative ways to love each other. A knock on our door revealed a care package from our Youth Pastor and his family – taco chips with homemade fruit salsa, and an encouraging note. People are calling or Zooming, Face timing or Skyping their loved ones more now than ever. 

There is no law against joy. In fact, Paul commands us to rejoice and to count it all joy when we encounter trials of diverse kinds (James 1:2). I think losing a job, and being separated from loved ones counts as a diverse kind of trial, don’t you? We are instructed to be joyful because trials will increase our endurance. To be joyful takes concentration some days. It doesn’t come pouring into my heart at all moments. I have to intentionally search for it. But joy takes the wheel when I focus on the big picture; when I look down the road a ways I see a stronger me. That makes me joyful, to think that I will be more like Jesus, and more ready to stand in His presence someday. I’m enduring this small cross and rejoicing, because of the joy waiting around the corner. “For the joy set before Him, He endured the cross,” (Hebrews 12:2b). 

There is no law against peace. I can go to my Father in Heaven at any moment and cast my care upon Him (1Pe 5:7). He offers to share the yoke of stress with me and in exchange gives me peace. I don’t have to wait in line outside on a cold windy day for His peace. I don’t have to wear a mask to approach Him. I don’t have to fear being arrested and fined for walking boldly into His throne room. I fly in, without an appointment, skid to a stop and fall down at His feet. I can even cough, sneeze, and rub my eyes and He won’t report me. The only requirement is that I come in the name of Jesus His Son, the One who gave His life for me – Jesus  – the One who gave up His freedom and be bound so that we could be free. 

Will I fly? I still hesitate. I still want my cage the way it was. My nest was comfy. Everything was predictable. My simple normal life has been cracked open. My routines have been stripped away. I don’t know what the future holds. But I would be crazy not to fly. I’ve been invited to ascend like an eagle into lapis lazuli skies of joy, dive into deep pools of peace, and glide with grace and love. 

Someday I will need strong wings. I will need endurance to keep going when dark clouds obscure Heaven’s shore. I want a wingspan that stretches wide with love, joy, and peace. I’d better step off my perch and start practicing.        

By Pamela Mytroen

   

Bread Brings us Home by Pamela Mytroen

 

It’s amusing to discover what humanity holds dear when the sand shifts beneath our feet and we scramble, searching for solid ground on which to stand. Certainly the charade of ‘Charmin’ hoarders comes to mind, but have you also noticed that flour and yeast are in short supply? We turn to the basics, the things that speak comfort and security, and what could be more universally comforting than bread? Whether rye or sourdough, Nann bread or challah, flatbread or bannock, tortilla, or pretzels, hardtack, lavash, bagel, or taboon, gluten-free or traditional, we find our rhythm as we mix and stir. During this season we are folding and rolling, gathering and kneading, around and around. The yeasty aroma swirls about the kitchen and out the door, beckoning all who hunger. Bread brings us home. And when we gather to eat, we long to be filled and satisfied. Do we realize how broken we are? Do we see ourselves collapse at the table? Do we get a glimpse of how we cannot even crawl through another day without nourishment to heal and strengthen us?  

I remember walking home from school and the yeasty aroma of fresh bread invited me, enticed me, up the driveway and into our home. The poorest of peasants is the richest of kings sitting at a table before a slice of my mom’s bread, slathered with butter and raspberry jam. Or thick cream, spooned from a quart sealer, dolloped on a steaming slice and topped with a spoonful of brown sugar. 

It is simple fare, easy to make, with a few ingredients, and satisfies the most basic nutritional need. Every culture depends on some type of grain that at the very least keeps them alive and provides a daily rhythm of feeding their souls and finding sustenance, and at the very most is styled into an elegant glazed and breaded design fit for a queen on her wedding day. 

But at its beginning, bread was never intended to be fancy, but food, just food for the famished and for the family. How like Jesus. Jesus never came to be admired, but to be broken. He is for the body and the soul. He said, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to Me will never be hungry again. Whoever believes in Me will never be thirsty” John 6:35 NLT. 

Jesus, like bread, claims to be foundational and essential for every culture and every people group. He is not fancy, but simple; not costly, but free. “You who have no money, come buy and eat! . . . Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labour on what does not satisfy?” Isaiah 55:1 NIV.  He is not gourmet but oh so satisfying. 

My mom always wanted the crust of the bread. I don’t know if she was being thoughtful and allowing us to have the softer more pillowy slices, or if she really liked the crumbly crust, but Jesus is like that, as humble and unassuming when He calls Himself the Bread of Life. He could have called Himself Chicken Parmigiana or White Fish Provencal, but instead he compares himself to what would have been like the little boy’s offering of five small loaves – almost overlooked. In his listener’s minds he was a portable lunch you tossed your child as he ran out the door. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich after school. Fare to strengthen an army, durable for every road travelled, and tough enough to last the winter. An everyday constant taken for granted. Oh how humble is our gentle Jesus, and yet what a delight He is. We feast on His loving kindness. We survive only by His lavish grace. “How great is the goodness you have stored up for those who fear you. You lavish it on those who come to you for protection, blessing them before the watching world” Psalm 31:19 NLT. 

“In Him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God’s grace that he lavishedon us” Ephesians 1:7 NIV. 

Unadorned is the loaf that sits central on a table scarred by the trials and tragedies of its people. They come desperate, and the bread will see them through. There is no other way to take that which saves us from certain death; we must come starving if we want to be filled.  We live and breathe by grace alone, through the gut-cleansing fibre of forgiveness, which washes from us the cancers of our soul. 

This Easter I remember my Lord, broken for me. My sin crushed Him. There was no other way that I could be made whole. I stumble Home now, to that scarred table, and I take Jesus. I come desperate for forgiveness, starving for grace, and I stay for the Feast. I never want to leave, for He, the Bread, brings me back to Life.  

“He took some bread and gave thanks to God for it. Then he broke it in pieces and gave it to the disciples, saying, ‘This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me,’ ” Luke 22:19 NLT. 

by Pamela Mytroen

A Shelter in the Time of Storm by Pamela Mytroen

 A Shelter in the Time of Storm 

My phone vibrated in my pocket and whoop, whooped. "Tornado Watch. Funnel Clouds are in the area and could develop into tornadoes. Stay alert and take cover as danger escalates." I swivelled my shopping cart back to the entry of the store and parked it. Bursting out into the open area of the mall I searched for my husband. Where would we go? Where could we take cover? We were in a mall in Branson, Missouri and there was no basement. I paced back and forth in the corridor looking for him, going over my options. We could go down into the theatre, I reasoned, since it was a few steps below ground level, but still not far enough below ground to be protected from a tornado.

Finally I spotted my husband in a store across the way and I zoomed over to him. He chatted with a salesman. They had their backs to a huge window. Wind whipped the trees into arches that touched the ground, but they seemed oblivious to it all. I tugged on my husband's coat sleeve and mentioned the tornado warning that had blared through my phone. The salesman chuckled. "Oh we don't pay much attention to those warnings. They are non-stop at this time of year."

I looked at the trees bending beneath the fury of the wind, and then I glanced across to the store I had just stormed out of. People chatted, picked up merchandise, set it down, and strolled around like they were enjoying a walk in the park, even though their phones were also spewing warnings like popping corn in a theatre.

"But where would we go if there was a tornado?" I ventured, always the cautious one.

"Well, we would just crouch down, I suppose," he said in his slow drawl. He returned to his sales pitch.

I relaxed a little, seeing everybody go about their business like they were at the fair. But the next day we learned of several tornadoes, one that had left fatalities in its wake and of another one close by that had devastated a city.

It's true that when you live in Tornado Ally, you don't heed the warnings until it's too late. They are too common, too everyday to stop and take notice. On one hand people do not pay attention to warnings of imminent danger, and on the other hand, I seem to create imaginary situations to worry about as I think about my family, my job, and my health.  My pendulum swings to the worry extreme while other's pendulums swing to the careless and carefree side. While some people die of a tornado by not heeding the dire warnings, I might die of high blood pressure by worrying about situations that are barely a fist-sized cloud in the sky.  


The stress from my job and family situations had been building like black angry clouds, and swirling into tornadoes of anxiety. After much prayer, the Lord showed me that I was trying to meet everyone's expectations, which was impossible. He showed me that I needed a new mind-set. He whispered that it was okay to fail, to do my best and to stop striving. While I still tend to shoulder people's troubles, I'm learning to push my computer chair away from the desk, and take a break from the never-ending lesson planning. I'm learning to stop thinking about what could happen to my job with a new manager coming on board; I am learning to let go of the sky-high expectations my students place on me; I'm learning to fail and accept that I can't be perfect and I can't please everyone. I'm learning to stop worrying about my family, and their health, and be thankful instead. Switching one set of thoughts for another takes  self-discipline. I am amazed at the freedom and the space in my mind that was once taken up by stress and anxiety.

My daughter texted me as I was writing my blog and said that her two-year old dropped a can of Pepsi on his bare foot. She thinks his toe might be broken. Off she goes with her children into town on unplowed gravel roads while the snow is coming down. I could worry but I'm letting it go. I can't take on the burden. Instead, I find myself saying, "Thank you Lord for my daughter being a good mother. Thank you for doctors being available and for the wisdom they have. Thank you for watching over them."

As much as it takes concentration and hard work as I pour myself into my jobs and ministries, I find it takes far more focus and strength to shut down my OCD brain, to back away, take a break, call my friends, take time for coffee, and to intentionally focus on beautiful and praise-worthy things.

So today, in the midst of storms because there is always a storm brewing somewhere, I choose to be thankful. To be balanced. To hunker down and "take cover" when need be  - whether my grandson's toe is throbbing or my job is in jeopardy - and then to continue on my way, with His peace and joy. He is my shelter in the time of storm.


"Be transformed by the renewing of your mind," Romans 12:2b.

Pamela Mytroen

   

Renewal in 2020 by Pamela Mytroen

Renewal in 2020

My biggest desire this past year was to have a daily coffee break. Stellar, I know. I’m not sure how my engine cycled down to park, but halfway through teaching English last year I started sputtering and smoking and ended up with no desire to get into gear again. This is quite unlike me, the girl like Josephine in “Little Women” full of boundless energy, whose life goal was to “do all the things”. I haven’t finished “doing all the things” yet, but I feel like Bilbo Baggin who said, “I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.” As I prayed and searched the Lord for a word from The Word, I knew it couldn’t be an action word where I actually had to “DO” something, heaven forbid, like “Love” or “Trust” or even “Seek”. Instead, in my present lethargy, it had to be something that the Lord would do for me, so I finally landed on Renew and it feels just right. Here’s what I’m asking the LORD to do for me in 2020, or more accurately, since he’s already done it all on the Cross, I’m asking Him to help me access that which is already available: I need him to renew me, spirit, mind, and body.


RENEW my spirit and heart.

  Isaiah 57:15b, NIV says, “I live in a high and holy place, but also with the one who is contrite and lowly in spirit, to revive the spirit of the lowly and to revive the heart of the contrite.”

 King David prayed in Psalm 51:10, NIV, “Create in me a clean heart, Oh Lord, and renew a right spirit within me.” A “right” spirit is also translated, “a steadfast spirit”. Yes, I need that Lord. I can’t quit yet. Help me to endure. With your right spirit in me, I can do all things. More importantly, I can BE the person you want me to be. I can be loving, kind, and patient. I can always trust, always protect, always hope and always believe with your spirit renewed in me.

Proverbs 4:23 Berean Translation says, “Guard your heart with all diligence, for from it flow springs of life.” I need those springs of life to flow again, so I’m trusting you Lord to guard my heart, to renew it and fill it with You.

Luke  6:45 NLT says, “A good person produces good things from the treasury of a good heart, and an evil person produces evil things from the treasury of an evil heart. What you say flows from what is in your heart.” Oh Lord, fill up my heart with the treasure of YOU, so that from my heart will flow grace and goodness.

RENEW my mind.

“Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind,” (Romans 12:2a NIV). Transformation is what I need right now. I need an about face in my thinking so that I can do and be what’s required of me. I need God to do this for me. As I focus on Him, I trust that I will be able to get moving again, and get unstuck from this not-wanting-to-do-anything. Isaiah 26:3 says, “People with their minds set on you, you keep completely whole. Steady on their feet, because they keep at it and don’t quit” The Message.


RENEW my strength

I want to soar again like I used to. Isaiah 40:31 says, “But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint,” King James Bible.

Oh Lord, please renew my strength. I want to rise up over the situations around me and fly, I want to get the big picture, your perspective on things, and be able to quickly dive down to where I’m needed and do what’s required of me, but I can only do that Lord if I’m soaring.

“Awake, awake, Zion, clothe yourself with strength! Put on your garments of splendour,” Isaiah 52:1 NIV. This verse caught my interest, and maybe it’s because I am not a pyjama person. I fear being caught at the door in my pjs so I quickly get dressed every morning. I can picture myself pulling on some nice clothes while I also pull on the strength of the Lord every morning.

Habakkuk 3:19 The Sovereign LORD is my strength, he makes my feet like the feet of a deer, he enables me to tread on the heights. We have a lot of deer where I live, and at times they sleep and graze in our yard. If frightened, they will leap over the six foot fence from a standing position. Oh, Lord, how I need that kind of ease, grace, and spring in my step again!

Psalm 84:7 NIV says, “They go from strength to strength till each appears before God in Zion.” This Psalm describes the pilgrims as they ascended the hills to Jerusalem. They needed strength to keep going and to finish the climb. I need the Lord to renew my strength to finish the journey so that I can worship Him.

Oh Lord, I want to love you with all my heart (spirit), all my strength, and all my mind. Please renew me so that I can love you, serve you, and worship you in 2020, Amen.

By Pamela Mytroen

How Do Writing and Faith go Hand-in-Hand? by Sandi Somers

Faith feeds writing and writing feeds faith.

The interconnection between faith and writing is so simple that the answer is, "Spirituality and creativity always go hand-in-hand!" And at the same the topic is so complex that books have been written to engage the intricacies. 

Read these excellent blogs/articles:

“How writing can be a spiritual discipline,” and “11 ways writing has helped me grow” by our own InScriber Pamela Mytroen.

I’m often reminded of the Flannery O’Connor character, Asbury, who said, “The artist prays by creating.” I saw this so clearly this spring when figuring out a complex counselling case and treatment plan. As I wrote, I felt as though my words were a prayer.

Writing has become an outpouring of the growing edge of my relationship with God. God is continually teaching me new things, speaking to me through His Word, concepts I can translate into writing. This in turn opens the way to meet the needs of those who read my writing.

In another area, wrestling with a life/faith issue is an incentive to write. Conversely, while wrestling with a writing issue, I ask God for His guidance. He often answers, “I will help you.”

I’m currently reading the book: The Soul Tells a Story: Engaging Creativity with Spirituality in the Writing Life, by Vinita Hampton Wright. Here are a few quotes and paraphrases which may be an inspiration to you.

·        “Treat your creative and spiritual journeys as one…spirituality and creativity are closely connected.”

·        “Creative work…happens in that interior place where spiritual life forms… Your spiritual beliefs and your creative drive reside in the same place—deep within you where everything important is stored.”

·        “(Your spiritual life) harbors the possibilities for growth, forgiveness, honesty and true change. Often what you are working out creatively is in part an expression of what is happening in your spiritual reality.”

·        “Spirituality can offer depth and direction to creative work…” Your work can become a transcendent story.

·         “Our creative gifts provide means by which to infuse our theology and philosophy with real life.”

·        “Creativity can give to your spirituality the unique stamp that is your personality. This is the story only you can write.”

* * *

Tell us about how faith and writing go hand-in-hand for you. Perhaps these questions will jump-start your thinking.

How intentional am I in developing both my creative and spiritual life and life with God?

What does my life look like when I engage my emotions, senses and spirituality when I write?

Where and how is God nudging me to new opportunities and new challenges in my writing and faith?

Stretching for Atrophied Writing Muscles - Pamela Mytroen

I've been on a mission to get some of our former contributors to do guest posts this year. In many ways, it's like these contributors never left. Here is a 'guest' post by Pamela Mytroen. Enjoy! 

Have to admit, I'm a wimp. I shy away from reading or writing non-fiction because it forces me to take a close-up look at my life and I don't always like what I see. Ever wear those little make-up glasses and see all the wrinkles on your face as you are applying eye-shadow? Yeah, I stay away from those too. Who needs to be reminded of your own mortality? Writing is like that for me. It exposes the scary stuff in my life. 

But I have to write truth. I must address what I see happening in society. I can't walk away from the blind people at the edge of the cliff. God and I have had a few conversations about this "calling", and I remind Him often that I am not equipped to point out the downward trends of our broken world - it depresses me. I am not brave enough to take on the powers of darkness - it scares me silly. And I am not strong enough to be transparent about my current heartbreaks - they crush me. Yet I cannot get away from the constant niggle in my noggin that I must write about these issues. It follows me everywhere and meets me before I get there - this notion that I will regret these years if I don't fight the fight, and that my little sprinkling of salt needs to be shaken out out of me. It just might create a thirst for Living Water. 

Forgive me, but it just hurts so much to write and now my writing muscles have atrophied because writing is so much more than a clatter of words on a keyboard - it is all about surrender. It is putting on the glasses, facing my downfalls, my 'wrinkles', and allowing God to have His way. I still feel intimidated by my own fear and shortcomings but God is gently working on me. It appears that He has not given up on me and now He's telling me to start stretching. 

This is my goal, therefore, for 2016: I will stretch as far as the first two letters, S and T. 

I will Show up and I will Trust. That is a stretch for a seized pen. I plan to Show up to my long-neglected blog at least once every week, and I Trust that God will meet me there. I am not prepared to fight any great fights or wield any amazing words or expose the disappointing details of my life, but I will show up and Trust that God will enable me to spell out life, and light, and shake me up just enough to sprinkle a little salt on the page. 

And if I see the wrinkles or shake with fear, at least I will be in a community of Truth-Seekers and Salt-Shakers. Maybe they will help me keep that posture of Surrender as I begin Stretching once again. 

Check out my blog at pamelamytroen.com and see if I am showing up!

Pam Mytroen

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If Pam could spend all day in her kitchen baking pies, brownies, and making turkey dinner for friends, she would. But Murray Pura once told her to write first and then bake—advice that she is trying to stick with these days, except, of course, when her grandchildren stop in for milk and cookies.