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 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