Goals and Gleanings by Sharon Heagy

 

A friend of mine always looks great. She pays attention to the details, co-ordinating clothing, jewellery, shoes etc. It takes time and effort. It’s important to her. We are very different in that regard. The other morning I began rushing about to get some things done. My mind was unfocused and a-flutter with a myriad of thoughts. Suddenly, in the middle of making a meal, I found myself lacking a few ingredients and I needed to run down to THE store. I say THE store because we only have one grocery store in our small town. Just like we have THE gas station, THE school, THE post office, well, you get the idea. Before I left my husband called and asked if I could stop by his wood working shop on my way as he needed help to do some measuring. I grabbed my car keys from the bowl, opened the back door and shut it again. Looking down at my oil and flour-stained shirt I decided I had better change before I left. While changing my shirt I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realized I had forgotten to brush my hair during my rushed morning routine. It looked like ‘straws in a muck cart.’ I stopped and brushed my hair. It’s not like this happens all the time but since I had to write this blog post with ten goals for the next three to four months, I decided remembering to brush my hair every morning would start things off as number one. Only nine to go.

This post should be a piece of cake for list makers like me. I love writing down lists of things I need to do and then stroking items off the list as they get completed. Sometimes though, the to-do list becomes long and unmanageable. It grows like a noxious weed and turns unrealistic and overwhelming to the point where I don’t know where to start or I start 3 things at once and don’t finish even one. When a person is able to complete tasks, it yields a feeling of accomplishment which leads to completion of other projects. Goal number 2 is to give myself realistic goals which can be accomplished and to prioritize what needs to be done and when. This won’t shorten the list but it will put the chaos under control and make the jobs easier to achieve.

Goal number 3 – eat less, exercise more. Enough said.

As a writer who wants to inspire and give hope, I would like to submit a story to Chicken Soup for the Soul. Their publications are filled with stories that touch people’s hearts and give them the encouragement I too would like to give. In addition, I need to post more often on my own blog page and learn all the ins and outs or change my platform. Writing for the InScribe blog will remain a priority in my word weaving world, and I would also like to begin a major project before the end of the year. Combined, these objectives comprise goal number 4.

Wednesday I will travel to our neighbouring province, Manitoba, to attend Fall Conference. There I will immerse myself in the knowledge and faith of other writers, gleaning all I can and not sitting there like a lump. When it comes to events like these, I believe you get much more out of them if you choose to be a willing sponge. Halfway there! Number 5.

Down at THE post office there are a few hundred boxes, each one with its own little key. One thing that can brighten any day is to approach your own little box, put the key in the lock, pull back the tiny door and find an actual letter inside! But if you really want to get an actual, handwritten bonafide letter, sometimes you have to write one. Goal 6 is to be increase writing letters and to make intentional connections with family and friends across the miles. This includes phone calls too. For some reason the advent of cell phones has me calling people less. I miss my landline and the landlines of others. You could call a household and be surprised by talking to 3 or 4 loved ones. Those were good surprises.

Fall brings me back to indoor activities, one of which is quilting. We have a group that meets once a month in the basement of a local business. It’s important to me for both the creativity and the social outing. I am not the most social creature so I need to force myself to go and be with other people. It’s a healthy thing to do. As a person who dislikes sewing to the point where I gave my machine away, I am delightfully surprised that I like quilting. Seriously. When I told one of my sons that I was taking up quilting there was a long pause and then he said, “You know that involves sewing, right?” Goal number 7 will find me in that basement on the first Saturday of each month and Sunday afternoon as well.

This November will mark 2 years since we moved to town. It is time to paint. The interior of our house is a medium to dark gray and I need to brighten it up. Though it was the choice of the former owner and popular at the time, I find it depressing and dark, especially after the bright sunny exposures in the farmhouse. We need to change the lighting in the kitchen and cut off the breakfast nook from the wonderful island too. These will be the first renos since we moved. We wanted to think about what we would change before we began. It’s time to begin. Number 8

Palliative Care is one thing that I care about deeply, not wanting anyone to die alone. A few of us have started the process to create a Community Care Volunteer group in order to support things like Palliative Care in our little town and surrounding area. During this journey I have learned it’s important to celebrate the small things. A sunrise, a bird’s song, the smell of newly cut hay, a child’s handful of dandelions. The noise of the kids in the park near our backyard and the laughter that drifts to our deck as we sit in chairs and bask in the evening glow. Take nothing for granted. Number 9

The number ten is a significant number Biblically. Ten commandments, ten plagues, ten generations from Adam to Noah and again from Noah to Abraham. It is said to represent divine order and completeness. It points to humanity’s accountability to God. If I am serious about the goals above, I need to gather them up in my arms then let them tumble to the foot of the cross under the authority of the Risen Christ. He may honour the goals I have written or He may change them as He wills and for His purposes. Oh, that I may surrender each and every one to Him. Yes, even brushing my hair. Goal 10. To God be the glory.

Thanks for taking the time to visit today. God bless.

Sharon Heagy writes from the wonderful town of Rockglen, Saskatchewan, where she lives with her husband, a big dog and furry cats. She writes to bring hope and humour to a world that needs both. She can be reached at sharonheagy@gmail.com

Balance by Sharon Heagy

photo by Sharon Heagy

Wham! My side of the teeter-totter hit the ground with a thud that hurt my bottom and rattled my teeth. The person on the other end had jumped off to go and play somewhere else leaving me in the dust. Not knowing the science or thinking about the outcome I was unprepared for the jolt. It wasn't intentional and I held no ill will against the other person.... for long. (What can I say. We were kids.)

The balance in my writing life is much the same. Sometimes life’s responsibilities and crises pile up in an overflowing bag sitting on one end of a seesaw leaving writing hanging on by its fingertips at the other end, legs flailing in mid-air.

Sometimes it’s more like I’m ‘tappity tap tapping’ across the seesaw’s centre trying to find the balance between responsibility and writing but spending little time on either and doing a good job of nothing except for creating frustration.

Sometimes writing wins out and plunks itself down on one end of the board and says, “That’s it! I’m writing. You stay up in the air!” leaving the bag full of cares and responsibilities hanging by a cord from the high end. But then the wind comes up and flips the bag onto the board, the cord opens and the stuff of life comes trailing out in jumbled piles that begin to slide down towards writing. Writing sees the mess coming and types faster, knowing it is about to be wiped out as the column gets closer, creating lumpy bumpy writing.

Then there’s the sweet spot. Where life and writing meet in the middle and lean back-to-back, basking in serenity. This is usually a bubble that can’t be grasped for more than a minute. Maybe a couple of hours, maybe a day at the most. Yet recently I talked to a friend of mine who had glorious, sweet spot serenity for 5 days. The Lord’s presence was palpable, and he gave her the gift of time without interruption. It gave me hope that the sweet spot is attainable.

It occurs to me that the most important part of the balance of writing is that I show up. Each day as the pendulum sways between obligation and composition the balance changes. There is no need to maintain it the same way every day but I must keep trying. Never give up. Why? Because He has blessed me with both sides of the seesaw. Whenever life drags me to the far end in the dirt, He beckons me back to the writing. Every single time. Even when I believe I have nothing to offer that He could use He knows I do. He created me to be creative. To spread abroad His love and message in any way He inspires me.

2 Timothy 2:13a (NIV) says, “if we are faithless He remains faithful,” always.

When the board sits perfectly balanced on the seesaw, Jesus is sitting in the middle. That’s where my focus needs to be. The writer of Hebrews encourages us with these verses, “Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.” (Hebrews 12:1b-3 NIV)

When I find myself unstable and wobbly, He is my balance. He can upend my priorities and show me the way. The only way. His way.

And as I was writing this piece, I saw myself sitting on the dirty, dusty end of the seesaw when suddenly Jesus, smiling and full of love, jumped on the other end and transformed the seesaw into a catapult. He sent me soaring to exactly where He wants me to be. I smiled at the thought. May it be so. For me, for you.

 

Sharon Heagy writes from the wonderful town of Rockglen, Saskatchewan, where she lives with her husband, a big dog and furry cats. She writes to bring hope and humour to a world that needs both. She can be reached at sharonheagy@gmail.com

Thanks for taking the time to visit today. God bless.

 

God and the Goldfinch by Sharon Heagy (re-post)

Sometimes life happens and time goes by and your to do list is overwhelming. Then you pray and God says, 'For this month, print the one about the Goldfinches.' First published in July of 2020—the first year I began posting—this post remains dear to my heart, and birds remain a huge part of what brings me joy. May you be encouraged to carry on and know God is always near.

While picking saskatoon berries one morning, a unique birdsong captured my attention. I could hear the bird but was unable to spot it. Its song soothed my senses and blessed away my stress.

Birds have always had a special place in my heart and I watch them with keen interest. How do they fly? How do they sing? How can they eat their own weight each day and not gain an ounce? How can a sparrow stand outside in minus 53C windchill eating seeds and not turn into a ‘sparrowcicle’? They are miraculous. Perhaps it is my fascination with birds that led me to my request of God.

It was at a significant low point in my life. Terrible circumstances surrounded me. The passing of a two-year-old girl, a family friend who died in her mother’s arms, was particularly crushing.

In my own family I was struggling as my kids were making destructive choices despite fervent prayers, leading me to believe I was a lousy mother and an ineffective follower of Christ rather than realizing they had free will. Spiralling down I crashed into a crisis of faith. There was no light. There was no hope. I questioned everything I believed, even to the existence of God himself. Was I just nuts? Had He ever spoken to me?

Sitting on my deck, weeping and crying I called out to God from the depths of despair, not even knowing if I knew Him anymore. “Are you there?” I railed. “Do you care? Please, God, show me. Right or wrong I am asking for a sign. I’m desperate, Lord. Please. Please just send one goldfinch to the yard right now and I will know the truth.”

In the receding wake of shuddering sobs, I waited. Waited as the sky grew dark and the birds went to bed. No goldfinch. No promise. No answer. I went to bed devastated and exhausted, feeling deserted and alone. Sleep was elusive and when it did come it was restless and short.

Dawn greeted me with puffy eyes and a groggy head. Leaden feet padded their way into the kitchen where I leaned weakly on the counter. Blankly my gaze came to rest over the windowsill.

I froze for a moment, then started to melt. There, outside my window, was not one goldfinch but an entire flock! They covered the feeders, the hedges, the guy wire on the power pole. It was an explosion of yellow. Never have I seen so many goldfinches in one place and never have I seen that many since.

In that moment I knew without a doubt that God had answered my prayer. Hope was restored, faith was resurrected and I knew the truth.

Now when circumstances challenge and test my faith I know He is with me. The following verse girds me and gives me hope:

“I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall. I well remember them, and my soul is downcast within me. Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.”

(Lamentations 3:19-23 NIV)

This is the direction I received to find my way out of the pit. And I want you to know that if you too find yourself looking for a pinpoint of light in the darkness, be encouraged. He is right there beside you and will help you find your way. And if there is any way that I can pray for you, let me know. It would be an honour and a privilege. We are in this journey together.

 

Sharon Heagy writes from the wonderful town of Rockglen, Saskatchewan, where she lives with her husband, a big dog and furry cats. She writes to bring hope and humour to a world that needs both. She can be reached at sharonheagy@gmail.com

Thanks for taking the time to visit today. God bless.

 

The Beauty of Trust by Sharon Heagy

"Get it! Kill it! Stomp on it! Hit it with a hammer! I'm not coming in until you get rid of it!" These words, uttered by many a human being have ordered the demise of what are considered to be ugly, hideous and grotesque vermin and insects. Yet ask a rodentologist or entomologist about these same creatures and they will wax eloquent on the beauty and benefits of said creatures. 

Spiders seem to hold a high rank regarding striking fear into the hearts of men, with mice holding a close second. While it may seem irrational to be filled with overwhelming anxiety by something smaller than the sole of one's foot, these fears can be deep-seated to those who experience them. But maybe as writers we can help to calm the fears of children and adults and help our fellow life pilgrims by dispelling fears before they start. Maybe.

Author E.B White's classic Charlotte's Web created an unlikely relationship between a spider named Charlotte, a runt pig named Wilbur and a young girl named Fern. Charlotte herself was a spinner of words which she placed intricately into her webs. Those kind words end up saving Wilbur.'s life.  This endearing tale of friendship, loyalty, trust and sacrifice perhaps mellows our viewpoint about both pigs and spiders, though not everyone would agree. 

Disney took the classic folktale Cinderella and used the same anthropomorphic tools as mice became Cinderella's companions and helped save the day when the wicked stepsisters ruined her gown for the ball. How can one dislike mice after that?  (Already I hear the naysayers who will never believe there is any good mouse except a dead mouse. Some of them are part of my wonderful family.) But Cinderella could trust the mice to come to her aid. 

The film Ratatouille penned and directed by Brad Bird, with input from Jan Pinkauq and Jim Capobianco, tells the tall tale of a rat who has a refined palate and an ability to cook food comparable to the best chefs in Paris. Remy the rat directs the hands of Linguini, his human partner, through a series of signals as he sits beneath Linguini's chef's hat. Remy trusts Linguini to put the right ingredients into the pot and Linguini trusts the rat's directions. Even though rats are pretty intelligent beings and got a bit of a bad rap regarding the spread of the plague, they still do spread disease and I certainly would not want one in my kitchen, or anywhere near my house and definitely not under my hat!

If we can't trust fictional animals or animated furry friends, who can we trust? What about real animals? There are abundant stories of animals who save their owners. Horses hitched to a wagon who find the way home in a blizzard when the owner can't see and drops the reins letting the horses take the lead. A friend of ours was rescued twice by his dog as he fought to save his fishing camp in a forest fire last year. Twice, when he was overcome by smoke, couldn't see and was at his limit, he grabbed the tail of his yellow lab, told her to take him to the truck up on the main road and she did, saving his life. But can we trust animals all the time? Horses can freeze and dogs can be overcome by the same smoky fires as us.

One of the most beautiful pictures of trust I have ever seen comes from the picture at the top of the page. A couple of weeks ago at church this little fellow slept in his mother's arms for the whole sermon. Watching him flip and flop, changing position from time to time was an illustration of absolute trust. He had no fear and did not wake knowing his mom would not drop him, nor leave him, nor abandon him. No matter how he moved, from laying on her arm to her shoulder, to her other shoulder and back down to a prone position in his mom's loving care, he never even flinched. To me, it was a picture of how we are to trust in God. No matter how we move and change direction, going ahead, falling behind, His arms are there to guide us back to His path, to His hands, to His love, grace and mercy and we can trust Him completely without flinching.  He will never "leave us or forsake us" says the writer of Hebrews 13:5. Jesus, quoted in the same book, Hebrews 2:13 states, "I will put my trust in Him." And He did even to the cross. What an example of beautiful trust He gave us. May we follow His lead in our lives and in our writing. As He guides our words we will create pieces of beauty beyond ourselves. We just have to trust Him and let go.

Sharon Heagy writes from the wonderful town of Rockglen, Saskatchewan, where she lives with her husband, a big dog and furry cats. She writes to bring hope and humour to a world that needs both. She can be reached at sharonheagy@gmail.com 


Thanks for taking the time to visit today. God bless.

 

Writing in the Sacred Space by Sharon Heagy

As I snuggled down among the bedclothes not quite ready to leave that sleepy half-awake state, a thought came to my brain. It's Mother's Day. The airwaves and social media had been bombarding our thoughts since Easter, spouting ideas and filling mothers' brains with visions of lovely Sunday brunches full of pastel colours, cloth napkins, real silverware and well dressed, perfectly behaved young children in glass walled restaurants where the sunlight beams in with heavenly rays, when what moms really want is a nap. I found out recently that many a mom would like to check into a hospital, just for a day or two, not to be sick but to have some rest and be served meals that someone else cooked. And even though that is not the reality of hospital life any more than a perfect Sunday Brunch, it gave me solace to know that I wasn't the only one who had that thought cross their mind when life with kids got crazy.

Mother's Day for many means choking down burnt toast and scrambled eggs, with a few crunchy shells thrown in for good measure, while wide eyed, expectant, flannel clad children look on as Mom, who may be riding post birth waves of hormonal instability, takes those first few bites of an almost inedible breakfast made with love. With a few gulps of coffee to wash it down and regain use of her vocal cords she announces, "It's wonderful. Thank you so much! I love it." The chubby cheeked cherubs break out in ear-to-ear smiles, relieved that Mom is loving their feast. Before she can clear her plate the kids are bringing out homemade artistic gifts from the cut and paste club, where more paint and glue stick to clothes and hair and hands than to paper. And the drawings! A wee bit Picasso and a wee bit 'what on earth is that' which, now that I think of it, is much like some Picassos. Mothers must develop an ability to discover the intention of their young artists without causing distress and unhappiness and ruining their, I mean her, day.

For many, this day of recognition is wonderful and welcome, for others it is a day to be endured and for some it is a day filled with sorrow. Yet, all these reactions come from a place of love. Whether it be a longing to share love, a love that has been lost or a love that stands beside the bed wide eyed. And all of it comes from God, who is Love.

When I popped awake that morning a few weeks ago, I realized that writing doesn't always need a specific place or time. In fact, I was amazed that my brain was firing at all in those early moments. The hamster that runs the wheel in my head hadn't even had breakfast and my desk in the basement was basking in a sunbeam dust dance.

Even as I write this post, I am not in the familiar surroundings of my own house or town but I am in the big city watching over my grandchildren. It had me a bit worried to be honest. The pressure of a deadline in the uncertainty of life on a different schedule had me slightly nervous. But what I am finding is, it is good to write in unfamiliar places with fresh perspectives. It is a good exercise, not to be feared but embraced!

The kids and I were walking home from the store and were taking a shortcut down the lane when we came across a pile of dirt and a ladder on the lane side of a fence. I asked them to make up a story about the ladder and the dirt, which both seemed to be in odd spots. Why was the dirt not closer to the gate? And why was the ladder there? It seemed to have no purpose whatsoever in the place it had been set. We could not see through the fence to see what was on the yard side that might explain this mystery. They came up with a few ideas as I encouraged them to go beyond the obvious and use their brilliant imaginations. While listening to them, my own mind was swirling with possibilities that would somehow connect to Jacob's ladder.

Heading home after walking the youngest to school, I was forced from the sidewalk by a bike gang and was almost attacked by some of the wildlife in this city! Ok, really there was just one kid on a bike and I stepped out of his way and the wildlife was a single rabbit. But the ideas were there.

The ideas will come wherever your brain goes. Recall all the places Paul wrote. He wrote while travelling, while ministering, and while in prison. The nudges and notions will come wherever Love lives, which is everywhere. He who is not bound by time or space can take whatever we encounter and turn it into a piece for His purposes. Though I know this, it still comes as a revelation after being told to set up a specific space for my creative juices to flow. It seems to me now that both are true and if both these things are possible, how many more wonderful pieces will be added to the puzzle of writing as God leads.

I still prefer to write in the sacred basement space, but I am coming to realize wherever I am is sacred because He is there. Thanks be to God.

 

Sharon Heagy writes from the wonderful town of Rockglen, Saskatchewan, where she lives with her husband, a big dog and furry cats. She writes to bring hope and humour to a world that needs both. She can be reached at sharonheagy@gmail.com


Thanks for taking the time to visit today. God bless.

Hand Me That Wrench by Sharon Heagy

The 'farmer five.' I may have mentioned this phenomenon before. It is the time frame required when the farmer needs a hand. "Can you come and help me?" he says, "It will only take five minutes." Please understand that a 'farmer five' is very rarely or dare I say ever, five minutes long. Shut off the stove, turn off the coffee, grab the kids, pack a lunch. You may, by some miracle, be gone for five minutes but the reality is that you will probably be gone all morning, all afternoon, or all day. Could be sunrise to sunset, there is no real way of knowing.

If the farmer requires help with livestock, that requires one skill set, but if he needs help with machinery, it's important to know what tools may be required and how to identify them. It took this city girl awhile to grasp a basic understanding of the multitude of tools that are out there. Take wrenches for example. There are Open End wrenches, Box-End Wrenches, Crescent Wrenches, Torque Wrenches, Pipe Wrenches, Oil Filter Wrenches, Ratcheting Wrenches, and Allen Wrenches, which do not look like wrenches at all. And that's only a few! It's of utmost importance to know which one is required when the farmer says, "Hand me that wrench."

There are hammers - claw hammers, sledgehammers, ball-peen hammers, welding hammers. Screwdrivers - flat head, Phillips, Robertson, and Torx head with various sizes for all. There are over 15 types of pliers and over 18 types of saws. Nuts, bolts, sockets and ratchets, oh my! Some use hand power, others use electricity and still others are powered by air. Air!

The bolt size in relation to wrench size confused this 'nut' the most. "Bring me a 3/8 bolt and a 9/16 wrench." This sentence caused me to pause. Why would a 3/8 bolt need a 9/16 wrench? Shouldn't a 3/8 bolt need a 3/8 wrench? Not wanting to ask questions during a stressful farm fix, I kept my questions to myself. Took me a lot longer than necessary to figure out that a bolt and the head of the bolt are actually different sizes and it took me a very long time to commit to memory which size of wrench fit which bolt head or nut. I still struggle. Apparently, it is necessary to purchase an abundance of 9/16 wrenches. They were one of the most common sizes we used and often got lost in the dirt when fixing in the field. If they ever germinate our fields will be full of them and we will be able to recoup the loss.

Writing has a fantastic and expansive set of tools too. First there are the instruments; computers, typewriters, printers, notebooks, journals, page markers, labels and paper in a variety of quality and colour. There are multiple computer programs that boggle the minds of we who are less than tech savvy. Stationary stores are bulging with a plethora of different pens, pencils, markers, and highlighters. I LOVE stationary stores. I ooh and aah down the aisles and inhale the smell of fresh paper and swirl around in comfy unaffordable office chairs.

Our tools are put to good use when we fill our chosen brand of blank pages with words. Verbs, adverbs, adjectives, nouns, prepositions, conjunctions, determiners and interjections combine to make sentences and paragraph after paragraph. We can dangle our participles with the best of them. And don't get me started on punctuation! Now you've done it! Exclamation marks, periods, question marks, colons, semicolons, apostrophes, hyphens, dashes are a light offering of all that is available.

Next come genres, and sub genres. Fiction has romance, fantasy, mystery sci-fi and history in forms of novel, novella or short story. Poetry writers are not just writers of rhyme. There are writers of haikus, sonnets, odes, ballads and elegy. Non-fiction contains such entertainments as memoir, travelogues, devotionals, essays and journals. To write all the categories would take up this entire blog post.

Once you've written something worth reading, the next step is publishing; traditional, self-publishing, hybrid publishing, digital publishing, print on demand. What an abundance of things to learn. It can be incredibly overwhelming. It's all high tech now with no SASE. Now I only get bills and the occasional card in the mail instead of standard rejection letters. The world of publishing continues to change rapidly. Good thing there are wise people who keep up with it all. They are an invaluable asset to a writer's journey.

All of this information is causing me a little anxiety. How about you? Maybe you are experienced and know not to panic. (Sharon, don't panic.)

The writer's energy is fuelled by endless cups of tea or coffee and many a tank of water. It's important to stay both hydrated and awake but not shaky. Be sure to eat, take breaks and move around. Though our tools are powered by the brain and hands and even our voice, there is something much more important with which we need to engage. It's air.

Stop. Take a breath and let it out. Close your eyes. Pray. This is where the power of the writer begins. We need to allow the breath of the Holy Spirit to wrap around the synapses of our brains, and run down our nervous system to our hands to write or type. This Way is the beginning, middle and ending. Him. As the paraphrase of Proverbs 4:12 (NKJV) says "As thou goest, step by step, I will open up the way before thee." There is no need to grasp it all. No need to know all the steps. Just write. Pray, breathe and write and He will let us know what we need to know when we need to know it. Enjoy the process and don't get discouraged. Keep writing and may you be blessed each and every time you come to the blank page, or the partially finished book, or to the end of an article. Let Him be your air, your breath, your source of power and write.

 

Sharon Heagy writes from the wonderful town of Rockglen, Saskatchewan where she lives with her husband, a big dog and furry cats. She writes to bring hope and humour to a world that needs both. She can be reached at sharonheagy@gmail.com 

Thanks for taking the time to visit today. God bless.

What would Ann Landers and Abigail Van Buren say? by Sharon Heagy

In our everyday encounters with our fellow humans, we may be bombarded by recommendations and opinions offered by family, friends and neighbours, both solicited and unsolicited. Some of this advice is good and solid, based on experience and knowledge. Wise words build up and encourage, even when they may be tough to hear. Other advice can be hurtful and demeaning and leave us drowning in a discouraging puddle of tears. 

In 1943 columnist and nurse, Ruth Crowley, started writing an advice column for the Chicago Sun-Times under the pseudonym Ann Landers titled, "Ask Ann Landers." She wrote from 1943-47 and from 1952-55 when the column was taken over by Esther "Eppie" Pauline Lederer who composed the column until 2002. 

Not to be outdone, Esther's twin sister, Pauline "Popo" Esther Phillips began writing a rival advice column for the San Francisco Chronicle titled, "Dear Abby" using the pseudonym Abigail Van Buren whose name she derived from the name Abigail from the book of 1Samuel and Van Buren a former U.S. president. She wrote this column until 1987 when her daughter, Jeanne Philips, took over. She continues to pen the feature to this day. 

When "Popo" took up her pen it caused quite a competition and a lengthy estrangement between the sisters. Both women used a "straightforward, tone, practical advice and a firm but modern moral sensibility" as well as "humour, including sarcasm and one-liners, in their responses" according to the Jewish Women's Archive. But from what I remember reading the columns in the daily paper as a kid, their advice wasn't always wise or helpful and sometimes held a mean streak. But what do I know? I was only a kid and was not wise to the ways of the world or the adults in it. It's not like I spent a lot of time reading advice columns. My leanings led more towards the funny pages. Oh boy, that's an antiquated phrase. Perhaps I should say comics. Yet even the word newspaper is almost antique. 

Writing this post posed a challenge as I have received numerous good tips and some great advice from a plethora of sources on the internet, in books and in person. How do you choose the absolute best? Each one suited a particular time in my writing journey. Perhaps what has tickled and inspired my author's brain would be a yawner to you. On the other hand I have gleaned some great stuff this month from the posts of others. See, that's the thing, we all need to seek out great advice.

How do we do that? There are a few places I have found terrific motivation and would urge you to give some a whirl.

1. Attend conferences and workshops and WorDshops. Take a class. Attend events wanting to nourish and excite the writer within!  Be teachable and find out what sparks a fire in your belly. Take LOTS of notes.

2. Read books about writing. Anne Lamott, Annie Dillard, Natalie Goldberg, Stephen King, Julia Cameron & Brenda Ueland have all written inspiring books on writing. Grab one and get food by gnawing on their knowledge of the craft.

3. Don't dismiss anything, even if it seems dry and uninteresting. Dig deeper because there may be a nugget from the Lord that is worth the mining.

4. Read Scripture and let the Lord speak to your heart.  Some of my favourites regarding those called by God to write are:

Colossians 3:23 "Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters,"

1Samuel 15:22 "But Samuel replied: "Does the Lord delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices as much as in obeying the Lord? To obey is better than sacrifice, and to heed is better than the fat of rams."

Psalm 102:18 "Let this be written for a future generation, that a people not yet created may praise the Lord."

Psalm 19:14 "Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer. 

Proverbs 16:3 "Commit to the Lord whatever you do, and he will establish your plans."

And finally, take all those suggestions, throw them in the tub and bathe them with prayer.

Write on, my friends, write on and may God's hand be upon your words.

Sharon Heagy writes from the wonderful town of Rockglen, Saskatchewan where she lives with her husband, a big dog and furry cats. She writes to bring hope and humour to a world that needs both. She can be reached at sharonheagy@gmail.com 

Thanks for taking the time to visit today. God bless.

Gonna Write Myself a Letter by Sharon Heagy

Dear Sharon,

What a challenge to write this letter. When you think of the past, your autopilot goes to the mistakes you've made and the 'woulda, shoulda, coulda' moments that may have changed the direction for your life and the lives of others. For some reason you must choose to ponder the abundance of blessed days of your existence, and there are many. Even the grand errors of your life are filled with "good and perfect gifts" (James 1:17) and led to the most amazing one of all - the grace, mercy and agape love of God.

If you think of the future, you realize your rope is getting shorter and you no longer entertain the illusion of youth that assures you will live to a ripe old age. There are no guarantees for anyone. Yet that realization fills your heart with thanksgiving for the years and adventures you've had. The course of the life you are living today can change in an instant.

(Well, Sharon, so far this letter is not a letter of encouragement. What else have you got?)

What else have you got? You have today. This moment in time. This precious, remarkable, exquisite moment. Turn it over in your hands and see it glow. Appreciate its brevity and fragility like a soap bubble resting in your palm for one brief nanosecond. Are you going to waste it? There will be another won't there? Another and another, all popping into your life like popcorn in a pot. Slowly they start pop.....pop....pop. Then suddenly they are popping like crazy! Popopopopopopopop until just as suddenly they are gone.

Treasure the moments, but don't hoard them. They don't belong to you. They belong to Him. Seek His wisdom and use them wisely. This life is not all about you. It's about Him, it's about others and then it's about you. We are all in this together, in that order - first, second, third. At least that is what I think you should strive for in all the moments you have left, however many that will be and however quickly they will pass. As John Wesley said,

"Do all the good you can,

By all the means you can,

In all the ways you can,

In all the places you can,

At all the times you can,

To all the people you can,

As long as ever you can."

Discover the miracle of God's creation in each person you meet. They are "fearfully and wonderfully made." (Psalm 139:14) Witness the beauty of a sunrise and let the crashing waves of the ocean take your breath away. Listen to the whisper of wheat waving in a field of grain. Let your heart warm and giggle as you hear the laughter of children, new life. "Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn." (Romans 12:15) Embrace the sacredness of silence. Seek the awesomeness of God in every day. Be obedient to His beckoning voice.

Print out this letter, Sharon, to read for the next few days then store it away in a place you are sure to discover later. Soak in these directions until you are overflowing with grace into the lives of others. Building, encouraging, nurturing. Sharing the love He has so freely given to you. Share through written word or physical deed. Through prayer and supplication. In any way His limitless creative way chooses. This is what you have. As the Gaither song says, 'We Have This Moment, Today.' (YouTube link here)

With love,
Sharon

Sharon Heagy writes from the wonderful town of Rockglen, Saskatchewan where she lives with her husband a big dog and furry cats. Their kids have flown the coop and made lives for themselves and their families, as it should be. She writes to bring hope and humour to a world that needs both. She can be reached @ sharonheagy@gmail.com Thanks for taking the time to visit today.

 

Journals by Sharon Heagy

 

Once upon a time there was a young girl who was whisked away to a land far away and she didn't find the time to get her blog post done ahead of time as she had planned. Now she is scrambling to put something together as her thoughts swirl around like the ocean waves in the picture above. 'Bad little blogger, shame on you!' she thought. But this gray-haired lady, who was only young at heart, realized the grace and mercy of the One for whom she wrote and the extended grace from those she wrote with, would cover this transgression, and she was grateful. 

While thinking about the subject of journaling, I realized my thoughts had been very linear. I supposed a true journal was done daily, with discipline and was a bundle of random thoughts and feelings to be worked through or day to day activities, more like a diary. With this in mind, I thought I was a true failure. I would start and stop and was very tentative to write my inner most struggles for fear that upon my passing my family or friends would read the words meant only for my eyes and be hurt or take them the wrong way. I have burned and tossed pages that fit into this category.

But then I realized journaling comes in many forms and I am not doing so badly, though there is massive room for improvement. I do have a daily journal that I rarely miss writing in and this is my prayer journal. Every day, in addition to other prayers, I pray for 3 specific people and write those prayers down on paper. I have just started my 16th prayer journal, so I guess I am not doing as poorly as I thought. I don't keep them when they are full, but I have kept track of how many I have filled for my own knowledge. 

When on a holiday, I always keep a written record of our day-to-day activities, knowing I will not retain all the details of the journey and will have to go back and take a look. It's kind of amazing how you forget the wonder of things experienced when you are back in the world of daily life. I think of the Israelites in the desert, guided by God every day, heading to the promised land, walking through the Red Sea on dry land, having escaped the tyranny they experienced in Egypt and then decide they want to go back. We are not unlike them in so many ways.

Pulling open file drawers, I found many notebooks and scraps of paper that could be collected and correlated into a journal. These little bits and bobs are my 'organized chaos journals.'  They are closely linked to my 'fits and starts' journals that I write in one day and then not again for months. Then there are my 'restaurant napkin' journals. Thoughts that come when a notebook isn't available. 

Beside my living room chair, I have a 5-year sentence journal that I love. Each day you write a few lines about the happenings of the day and on that same page are sentences for that day for previous years. It's helpful to look back. My husband keeps a similar journal for one year and we have often looked back in them to find out what occurred on various days of a given year. 

When my husband and I have suffered some illness, it has been necessary to keep a journal of meds or drains or other things relating to recovery and often a record of our food and liquid intake. I don't like these journals so much, but they are super helpful to map recovery and to give accurate information to the health care team. 

Upon reflection there are oodles of methods and forms for journals, and I guess I am doing ok with a few of them. Thanks for spending a few minutes to read about my journal journey. I have certainly enjoyed, and hope to continue to enjoy, reading about yours. God bless.

A Blue Christmas Story by Sharon Heagy

 

(I have been asked to supply a 'Blue Christmas Story' for an upcoming interdenominational service. What follows is the result. Constructive feedback welcome. Details at the end.)

The world faded away that day and became a foggy jumble of indiscernible voices and blurred vision. People walked around me in the days and hours after the accident but I couldn't tell you who was there or what they said. The odd little snippet would float by my brain like a clip from a movie but I was unable to discern if it was real and or fantasy. 

The exhaustion consumed me as a dark cloak of heaviness descended upon me, making it hard to even put one foot in front of the other. Slowly the house emptied of the shadowy figures of fellow human beings until there was only deafening silence and my own roaring thoughts of confusion. The nights I did sleep I'd awaken thinking it was all a dream. But it was a nightmare that greeted me instead.

Dragging myself through the motions of some semblance of daily routine, I'd brush my teeth and run a comb through the tangled mat of hair on my head and try to have something to eat. Tea and toast, tea and toast. Often I'd just go back to bed and try to remember to breathe.

Friends and family offered well-meaning advice with none of it making sense to my coddled brain. My face forgot how to smile, my spirit could not recall how to laugh, or to live and I didn't care because, really, what was the point without you.

I prayed and cried out to God. I railed and screamed and sobbed. Why, why, why? The word fell like a continuous waterfall from my lips but there was no answer. 

And now it is Christmas, a season I used to embrace but this year I have no energy to celebrate, or decorate....or....anything.

My mind drifts to Christmases past. Feasts with family, beautiful music filling our house, carols sung, candlelight services at church. Wait. What was that? Something stirs inside me briefly. The flicker of a warm glow in the centre of my being and then it's gone again. Snuffed out.

A further journey into the past leads me to ponder that first Christmas. The difficulty for a woman nine months pregnant to travel the 90 miles from Nazareth to the small town of Bethlehem. Did she walk? The Bible doesn't mention her riding on a donkey but it was possible. What an arduous journey either way. And once they arrive there is no place for them to stay. No room in the Inn and Mary is in labour. There's shelter where the animals are kept. A place filled with the mixed odours of hay and straw and dung and the animals too. But it's time for the delivery and the birth of the One sent to deliver us. A holy babe, laid in a manger. I can feel the beat of my own heart as I consider the magnitude of this moment and close my eyes.

As they flutter open again my eyes are drawn to a newsletter published by the town. It came with yesterday's mail. I flip through, absently scanning the pages until I freeze focus on an advert for an evening church service at the local church. A candlelight Christmas service, 7 p.m. Do I have the courage to go? Maybe. Nobody knows me in that congregation and the lights will be dim. I can slip into the back if I arrive just before the service starts, and that is what I do. 

There's a spot right on the end of the pew near the aisle, in case I need to escape, and I slip in. It isn't until the service starts that I realize the back row is reserved for parents with young children. A practical solution for those who may need to leave for a time to quiet an upset or hungry child. Or to take their kids on what seems to be rotating bathroom breaks. 

Beside me sits a young, sandy haired boy about 4 years of age. His dark eyes are alive with adventure and he's got the cheeks of a cherub. His warm smile is infectious and I smile back at him, almost automatically. He is very well behaved and understands what's expected of him. As the service begins I can feel his eyes on me from time to time and it makes me shift uncomfortably in my seat. Those big brown eyes, so honest, uninhibited and full of life are such a contrast to my own downcast gaze. My peripheral vision catches a glimpse of him as the service continues.

After the Christmas story is read from the scriptures, candles are handed out to each person there, young and old alike. A tall, well dressed man lights his own candle from the large candle on the altar, the Christ candle. He goes to the first row and lights the candle of another who turns and now lights the candle of her neighbour. The room begins to glow softly and then more brightly as each shares their flame with another. It will take a minute to get to our row at the back. 

The boy is staring at me now and I meet his gaze. It's like he is peering into the very depths of my soul. He kneels on the pew and then pulls himself up to his feet and stands beside me. Close. Laying his head on my shoulder he wraps his chubby arms around my neck and whispers into my ear, "Everyone needs love." He is in no hurry to let go and snuggles in. With tears brimming in my eyes, I find myself hugging him back with thanksgiving and love. My tears are different than my tears of grief. They are a gift. A gift given by a 4 year old boy, the spark to live, to step out into the faded world and find the colours once more. 

As the candle comes round, he oh so carefully lights my candle with his and for a moment we bask in the hope that came to the world on that very first Christmas night. Hope for life beyond loss, salve for the pain and the courage to live again. All delivered this night by the Christ child and one small boy who let his light shine.

Sharon Heagy writes from the wonderful town of Rockglen, Saskatchewan where she lives with her husband, a big dog and furry cats. Their kids have flown the coop and made lives for themselves and their families, as it should be. She writes to bring hope and humour to a world that needs both. She can be reached @ sharonheagy@gmail.com 

Thanks for taking the time to visit today.

Don't 'Dis' Encouragement by Sharon Heagy

Sunset at Pike Lake Saskatchewan

 "Oh give me a home, where the buffalo roam,

Where the deer and the antelope play,

Where seldom is heard a discouraging word,

And the skies are not cloudy all day."

(B. Higley - lyrics. D. Kelley - Music. Public domain)

Looking at the lyrics of the song above, I wondered, 'Does such a place exist this side of heaven?' I was tempted to point out all the things that may be wrong with the picture of serenity these lyrics create but then I considered the frame of mind of the composer. What a sacred space and a peace filled span of time he must have been experiencing. He had just moved to a cabin near West Beaver Creek and was inspired by his surroundings. My words would have been anything but encouraging.

When I was young I played a few sports including hockey and briefly baseball. My coach was the same for both hockey and baseball and she was quite committed as her daughter played on both teams. Being an average player myself,  any encouragement would give me a confidence boost and keep me going. She was a wonderful hockey coach and spoke words that increased the morale of the whole team, winning or losing. But when it came to baseball the story changed. Any mistake was pointed out and players were berated rather than corrected. Such a different environment than on the ice. We were all trying our best and many of us were just learning how to play.  It got to the point where those who had just joined ended up leaving the team after just a few practices and a couple of games. Please don't misunderstand me, she was a terrific lady who was dedicated to her family and their activities, but her encouraging and discouraging words had differing effects on the teams she coached.

Feedback on my writing has included both positive and negative comments. Negative comments are not necessarily discouraging. Pointed critique and criticism is valuable and improves my writing as long as it is presented in a constructive way with a little splash of grace and kindness. While it may give a little sting to my ego or a pinprick to my pride it is always profitable. It is encouraging! 

When writers of experience give you validation it helps you to continue. At an InScribe event in Saskatoon years ago, I was overwhelmed by the creativity and production of those in attendance and I wondered why on earth I was even there. By the end of the weekend I had learned a great deal and had some uplifting words to tuck in with my scribbled attempts which were asked to read out loud. Lingering a bit as people left I approached a table where a couple of the organizers sat, resting after their long couple of days. My plan was to thank them as I knew what it took to put together an event of that size and to keep it running smoothly. As I thanked them unbidden and surprising tears came to my eyes. They had given so much in time, knowledge and inspiration. They turned my heart from "I don't belong here' to 'Maybe I can write.' As I tried to regain my composure one of the women turned to the other and said, "This is why we do this." Those, like me, beginners floundering around looking for direction were worth their efforts. My heart filled to overflowing with gratitude. 

At a Saskatchewan Writer's Group experimental workshop event that ran once a month for a number of months and ended with a public reading with a payment. As I received my cheque I told the co-ordinator I felt like a real writer. She boldly looked me straight in the eye and said, "You ARE a writer." What a lift and confirmation that gave me.

Though many people have helped me dare to go beyond my comfort zone in InScribe, there is one lady whose continued faith in me has helped me to have faith in myself and I am sure she has done the same with others. 

I read and am grateful for every comment in response to my posts on the InScribe blog. Knowing how much those comments buoy me, I try to leave encouraging comments on the blogs of others and try to be mindful of specific parts that speak to me as Brenda Leyland has encouraged us to do. 

Having been encouraged in multiple and varied ways, there is a need and a duty to pass on uplifting and inspiring word to others. Just as our writing gift comes from God, steadfast encouragement, no matter the source, has the heart of God behind it. Like anything else God gives us, we are not to hoard it to ourselves but we are to share it with others. As I have been encouraged, so I should be encouraging. 

May you know that the words you write make a difference and touch hearts for God. 

"A man has joy in giving an appropriate answer, and how good and delightful is a word spoken at the right moment-how good it is!" Proverbs 15:23 AMP

"Like apples of gold in settings of silver is a word spoken at the right time." Proverbs 25:11 AMP

Sharon Heagy writes from the small but vibrant town of Rockglen, Saskatchewan, nestled in the valley near the Burning Hills. She writes to inspire and give hope with a chuckle or two along the way.

Superpowers and Dr. Seuss by Sharon Heagy

 

photo by Sharon Heagy

Once upon a time in a land called radiology, I was injected with some spectacularly blue radioactive dye so a surgeon could find what she was seeking. It worked too, because when I woke up parts of me were missing! But the most disappointing thing was I neither glowed in the dark nor had superpowers. How I had looked forward to buying fabric and designing a cape and mask for my alter ego. (I once tried to convince my grands that I was Batman, but that's a story for another time)

My superpower expectations were awakened once again this fall when three wasps injected me with their venom on three separate occasions. The toxic combination of their venom, which contains a variety of chemical components, should have succeeded in producing at least a little zap of something to fight evil in the world. But alas, none has been forthcoming. I live in hope that something will eventually show up. However, having had this experience three times, I would strongly advise against getting stung by a wasp as it is incredibly unpleasant and hurts more than you might think.

There is some benefit that comes from these two tales of my lack of extraordinary powers. Both provide fodder for some fanciful or inspirational writing. Perhaps I could encourage those who are facing the same surgery I had. Maybe I could calm the fears of those who encounter wasps and inadvertently get stung, including the difference between a regular reaction and one where it would be advisable to carry proper medication. Or, I could write a tale of a Super Granny who gets miraculous powers to fight bad guys or who uses her power gift to provide for those in need. The possibilities are endless.

These everyday occurrences can be reused and recycled many times over into wondrous tales that lead the reader into an extravaganza of adventure, or into calm waters in the midst of a raging river of fear, or something in between.

Once upon a time I was recycled. I truly was injected with superpower. It brought me to my knees and keeps me there because it is a dynamic and powerful force. Words fall short to describe this Infinite power infused with infinite love, grace and mercy. And just like the wasps, it came in three parts; Father, Son and Holy Spirit. They are my superpower and the guiding beacon for my life. I don't need a cape or mask because as I spend time with them, focus upon them and surrender to them, I will glow in the darkness with their light, fight evil with their weapons and bring comfort to the lost with their compassion. They will infuse my writing in the same way.

As we pray before we write, God takes what we may consider the mundane everyday things of our life and transforms them into brilliant pieces of writing. He is the key that unlocks the doors to worlds we never considered, stories beyond our ken and phrases beyond the thesaurus. Oh, the thoughts that will be awakened in the depths of our soul and the words we will pen for His glory.

Sometimes we think like the writer of Ecclesiastes 1:9-10 "What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun. Is there anything of which one can say, 'Look! This is something new?' It was here already, long ago; it was here before our time."

We have this inkling in our mind that it's all been done before, and it has, but never from your perspective in God's hands. Like Dr. Seuss says, "Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You!" God created us, each one of us, as an individual. It's spectacular to fathom. The world is currently filled with over 8 billion individuals created by God. Just pause and think about that. Awesome.

It is absolutely in the realm of possibility for God to use our words in a new way to reach those of His choosing. "See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland." (Isaiah 43:19 NIV)

Let Him take your ideas and inject them with His supernatural power. Let Him amaze and astound you. Let Him tickle the musings flowing through your brain, adding depth and dimension as only He can. Then write. Write and write and write. You have His superpower to do it

 

Sharon Heagy writes from the small but vibrant town of Rockglen, Saskatchewan, nestled in the valley near the Burning Hills. She writes to inspire and give hope with a chuckle or two along the way.

Begin Again by Sharon Heagy

Some of the hills on my walk with Norman the dog.

"There once was a man named Michael Finnegan

He grew whiskers on his chin-egan

The wind came up and blew them in again.

Poor old Michael Finnegan. Begin again.

(public domain)

This is the tune that popped into my head when I read the prompt and began to think about writing this piece. That lead to making sure the song was under public domain, which somehow led me to listen to some new worship songs, which led me to thinking about the song my friend wanted to have played at her funeral, which led me to text her and ask her for the name of said song because I was drawing a blank, which led her to ask me if I knew something she didn't. I said no. Then I took the dog for a walk.

Then I came home and avoided sitting down to write this post, doing menial tasks and cleaning up loose ends I'd left undone for a while. Then I sat down and began again, out of excuses, and here we are.

The last eight and half months to a year have been a lot like that. Off and on, stop and go, up and down. Yet sitting in my favourite writing spot with pen and paper or keyboard and screen, remains one of the happiest places on earth to me. I am examining why I tend to avoid it.

Often writing seems like a decadent indulgence due to the immense joy I find while scribbling down the ideas, phrases and words that swirl around in that wrinkled walnut looking part of my brain. Even the more challenging parts of the writing process bring me joy. The joy, true joy, has a single Source yet it is twofold. The One who created me gave me the gift, and, He writes with me. No decadence there, only sacredness. And it's all grace.

The scrutiny of my avoidance will continue and perhaps provide fodder for a future post.

One thing I have accomplished this year was to write down some concrete goals. For a while I had more goals than a famous NHL hockey player. They needed to be narrowed down and attainable. I'm not going to write the great American novel. I'm not even American! Maybe a great Canadian novel, someday, but that's not one of the current objectives.

Some goals on the list have been accomplished. One was to continue monthly submissions to this blog as it fuels my fire. The realization that this December will be my 60th blog post kind of blew me away. I still feel like such a rookie!

Two writer's groups, both InScribe inspired, have kindly accepted me into their folds. Both help me to keep trying and to never give up. They give me accountability as well as encouragement.

The guardians of FellowScript have graciously published several columns I have submitted. I would encourage all members to submit their work. It is a wonderful venue for publishing experience and the folks that read it are writers just like you. It's been very good for me and I highly recommend it. My thanks to all who work to make each issue a reality and special thanks to Tracy Krauss for her steadfast encouragement.

Then I did a thing. A scary thing. It's not pretty but it's out there. I started a blog of my own. For others to read if they happen to stumble across it, but more for experience and discipline. Both are lacking in my writing life lately. The process has left me a little lost as I am befuddled on how to navigate the site. Next goal is to find a tutorial. Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

There seems to be some forward motion in my writing life that I didn't even realize was there until I started reflecting on this month's prompt. Thanks, Lorrie and Brenda. This is a good thing. A God thing. Praying He will continue to lead me and to lead you as we forge ahead together.

Sharon Heagy writes from the small but vibrant town of Rockglen, Saskatchewan which is nestled in the valley near the Burning Hills. She writes to inspire and give hope with a chuckle or two along the way.

Seasons of Life and Writing by Sharon Heagy

Photo collage by Sharon Heagy

Seasons have existed since the creation of the earth when God created "lights in the expanse of the sky to separate the day from the night, and let them serve as signs to mark seasons and days and years." (Genesis 1:14 NIV). In Canada, we have four very distinct seasons which is one of the reasons I wouldn't want to live anywhere else. There is a gradual awakening in the Spring, when plants and animals stretch and yawn and come to life again. Summer brings continued growth of vegetation and creatures alike until the daylight hours begin to dwindle. As winter approaches, autumn leaves give a farewell party and don their most brilliant colours in a final dance. Some leap from the tree and get caught in tiny, joyful whirlwinds, while others float gracefully yet reluctantly to the ground. Animals begin to look for cozy dens to curl up in during hibernation, and the skies are filled with the sound of south bound birds honking like they're caught in a traffic jam. The cold frosty winters force plants to shrink once again beneath the surface of the soil. Some beasts slumber and some grow thick winter hair. Winter is a season of rest and rejuvenation and the only energy expended is to keep warm.

Human beings have seasons of life, and seasons within those seasons. Our first season is defined by age. Baby, toddler, youth, tween, teen, young adult, adult, old adult, really old adult, and geezer. The latter four are defined from the perspective of those under thirty years of age. We have seasons to be educated, earn a living, have children, have grandchildren. Seasons of health and happiness, seasons of sickness and despair. Seasons of loss. Seasons when we wish we could, like the animals, hide in hibernation until the world is set right again but we know this won't happen this side of heaven. We learn to adapt and morph and change and the seasons pass.

The writing life has seasons too. There is a time when everything is fresh and new, exhilarating and exciting! We are beginning our journey and absorb all we can like an unsaturated sponge. The structure may be a little wobbly but strong foundations are being formed.

As we gain a little knowledge we become intermediate writers. We're still intimidated and hesitant to share our work with others but the foundation has become firm and the structure needs less help. We learn about the art of editing and the thrill of turning a phrase just so or finding the word that means precisely what we are trying to express. Added to the initial excitement of the beginner, the intermediate writer develops a deeper affection for the craft.

What follows the intermediate writer is a writer of experience. One willing to share freely, knowing God has something to say through them in a way only they can say it. They walk in obedience, seeking Him for inspiration. Everything they work on is girded with His foundation and built brick upon brick like a Lego castle, reaching beyond anything they have ever done. They know they will get past any writer's block or interference. These writers are willing to do the work, the daily grind, stretching themselves and their skills towards perfection. Though skill and talent exude through their pores, they know there is always more to learn. Writing is such an integral part of life they cannot give it up any more than they could stop breathing. It is a sanctuary, a sacred endeavour. Affection turns to adoration.

Part of the challenge of this month’s prompt was to examine the season we are currently undergoing. When I look at my own writing life, I would consider myself a little bit of a beginner who is well into the intermediate season and one who may someday become one of the experienced. I have the privilege of knowing some accomplished writers, and I listen to their words and encouragement with hope. They are amazing people who mentor and instruct others without even knowing. You probably know some of them too. Many are within the InScribe family. Writing is seldom a totally solitary endeavour. We need each other. As the stretching and shaping of my writing life continues, I think I will stick around and stick to it until God calls me to another level beyond myself. I hope you do too. It only gets better and richer and there are many seasons yet to come.

Sharon Heagy writes from the small but vibrant town of Rockglen, Saskatchewan which is nestled in the valley near the Burning Hills. She writes to inspire and give hope with a chuckle or two along the way.

Redemption Writing by Sharon Heagy

 

My new muse who sits above my desk. (I love bears)

Wow. What a challenge this month's prompt has been, at least for me. I decided to try writing some flash fiction as it is something I have tried only once. For those who may not have discovered the world of flash fiction it is a short piece, often a narrative, which still has character and plot development. They can be anywhere from 6 to 1000 words. When I took a gander to remind myself of what constituted flash fiction, I found out there are all kinds of labels for the craft. There is the six-word story, the 280 character story, also known as twitterature, the dribble which contains 50 words and is also known as the minisaga, the drabble, a.k.a. microfiction with 100 words, sudden fiction which can be composed of up to 750 words, flash fiction up to 1000 words and microstory. Some of you may be familiar with the story "The Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry. It is considered a piece of flash fiction and not just a short story. It appears some writing form definitions may cross over with this style of writing. When I had first tried this genre I found it to be inspiring. This time not so much.

My first foray into the world of flash fiction was the story of a young couple whose child was in the hospital. The wife had fled into the park across the street from the medical centre thinking her child was dying when in reality the doctors had made a mistake. The husband, learning of the error, searches for his wife and finally gives her the good news and they head back into the hospital. It was a story of breaking hearts and sorrow that turned into a story of hope and encouragement.

The second story began with a young girl living in the Yukon who dreams of a glamorous life beyond the bush. She wants to be considered a one of a kind rarity. Someone special. But her dreams are interrupted by the reality of survival as her mother reminds her she needs to get out and pick berries to be canned before the early snows come. They need to get all the food they can because game is scarce that year. The girl leaves with a couple of buckets to get both berries and various mushrooms which are growing in abundance near her home. The story was going to end with her being eaten by a grizzly which would fulfill her dream of being a rarity as there are very, very few instances where bears of any kind have eaten human beings. I stopped in the middle of the story.  It was a tale so dark and grim and it kind of shocked me, even though my sense of humour is not always light. I thought of people who might read this story. There was no redemption, no hope, nothing to lighten the heart or bring a healing balm. I put down my pen, closed my folder and walked away upset. 

Feeling I had no fodder for my contribution to the blog, I began aimlessly scrolling around the internet. That's when I came across this quotation: "The difference between a good writer and a great one isn't raw talent. It's the willingness to tear their own work apart and stitch it back together - better, stronger and a little less embarrassing." (Sabyasachi Roy - The Art of Rewriting: Where Good Writing Goes to Die (and Get Resurrected)  I've never read this volume on writing but now I'm curious. This quotation, however, quickened my heart and planted a spark. Not that I am a great writer, but I do have the ability to re-work the story, change the direction and outcome and try again as I ask God for help. 

That's the plan. To try again. To redeem a grim tale into a beacon of hope.

 

It's also one of my prayers for all Inscribe Writers - to be beacons of hope and light as we hone our craft together. You have all been such an encouragement to me, and I am privileged to be witness to your encouragement for all. For that I am forever grateful. God bless.

Sharon Heagy writes from the little town of Rockglen, which is nestled in the hills of southern Saskatchewan. Her kids have flown the coop so she and her husband have retired to town. She writes to inspire and give hope with a chuckle or two along the way.... though maybe not in today's offering.