J is for Junk Journals by Carol Harrison

 

 

 

Store aisles filled with journals and pens grab my attention. It is hard to resist the call of a pretty journal even when I have a shelf full at home, waiting to be used. I ask myself, at times, if I really love to record parts of my life journey in these books or do I just like the idea of it and the prettiness of the covers? Actually the answer is a bit of both.                  

 

I don't journal every day even though I feel like writing thoughts, stories, and life events should happen more frequently. When I wrote Amee's Story, I had lots of notes of bits of paper, old calendars, and journal entries that helped relive the events of her life that needed to be captured in the book. It brought memories to the surface, gave me specific incidents to write about in detail recorded at the time, and what I felt as well.                 

 

But what about these things called junk journals? They have become a new hobby which helps with my mental health and creativity too. I can take bits and pieces that would normally end up in the recycle bin, add in some odds and ends of scrapbook papers, and find decorations in stickers, stamps, old buttons, beads, or dollar store finds. But making these handmade journal books is only part of the process.                                                 

 

There are lots of blank pages waiting to be filled with writing, drawing, or photos. There are pockets and tuck spots waiting to hold memorabilia and other paper ephemera. I often make the closures to enable me to add many pieces of paper, pictures, and other bits and pieces that add to the story, growing the journal fatter and fatter, yet still able to be held together in a pretty way.                                                                                                       

But the best thing about these handmade junk journals is that they are one more method of recording story. We all know the value of a story and we all have a story or many stories to tell. These stories can be preserved for future generations. But writing in a journal of any kind also gives you that option of going back and seeing where you have been and comparing it to where you are now and God's leading over the course of time. It offers research opportunities for creative non-fiction or even a fiction book or short story which can then be shared with a wider audience.                                                                       

 

As I pull out all the supplies to make a new junk journal, creativity takes hold. Choosing the colours, types of covers, and finally what to add into each book offers the opportunity to get lost in the process. I've given some as gifts to bless others and allow them to begin to jot down their own life journey, thoughts, and story. Others I have sold with the same intention of giving others an opportunity to use them for whatever purposes they choose including recording stories, collecting quotes or recipes, hiding away an encouraging note from a friend, or coming up with ways to use it I've never ever though of.  I've kept several for myself to use. One contains Bible verses that mean a lot to me, encouraging notes, and ephemera I want to keep. My one daughter uses hers as a gratitude journal.                        

 

The possibilities extend as far as the imagination takes us for using these journals. But whether we wander the aisles looking for a new journal or take the time to make one, one thing I know is that they need to be used to record moments to remember, questions you're searching an answer for, or simply being grateful for something today. Do you enjoy journaling? Have you ever made, been given, bought or used a junk journal? What might you put in one? Enjoy the process of keeping a journal whether daily or sporadically. It might surprise us all with the benefits it brings.                                                              

 

 

Carol Harrison loves to tell stories, read them, and share them with others so they can be encouraged and inspired to tell their own. She enjoys the creative endeavor of making the junk journals as well.                                                                     

 

 

 

 

H is for Hospital by Lorilee Guenter

The past two weeks, I have spent many hours at the hospital as God writes the final pages of my dad's life. Through the journey there have been other "h" words come to mind. Words lived in the moments we have. Today I offer a reflection on a life well lived and the final pages of a life story.

As people of faith, these days do not only mark an end but a new beginning. We live each day in the hope that we have been given. Soon dad's faith will become sight.  He lived with the hope of healing, perfect healing, as he embraced life both now and the one to come. He shared that hope even in the moments of deep pain. 

He leaves a legacy of love. Day by day Dad showed us what love looked like. Staff and volunteers have commented on the love they have witnessed as we wait for the last line of the earthly story to be written. We know the first line of the sequel. I am grateful for the legacy of love that I am part of and recognize the unspoken challenge to continue that legacy.

Throughout the years, Dad lived a life of consistency. He offered help and encouragement to those around him. He knew you didn't need to write a novel for your words to have impact. He encouraged us to use our words to write for ourselves and others. He modelled kind and encouraging words to those he interacted with including cashiers and strangers put in his path. Now as we share stories with friends, family and staff and volunteers here who pause to listen, we are on the receiving end of encouragement, help and offers of help. 

As I reflect on the example and teaching of my dad, it is my hope that we as writers offer ourselves as a pen in God's hand as he writes our story and the stories of those around us.

E is for Everyone by Lorilee Guenter

 

Reading a Story

I write because it is one way I work out my thoughts. I draw to relax. These are just two ways of interacting with the world around us. Everyone has ways they prefer to experience this life we have been given. We have also been given a community we can share our experiences with.

Sometimes when I think of the phrase, 'everyone has a story' I cringe. It is true we have a story, however sometimes that statement is used to suggest we should all share in the same way. Everyone has a story but everyone also has a unique voice. Our experiences, our gifts, our talents and our preferences all impact how and where we share. A poet has a different audience than an essayist. I could continue to list all the variety we have in our community as writers but I would miss some. 

As writers we have opportunity to share our stories with people near and far. Some of us have been given an audience that is geographically diverse. Other have an audience close to home. Whatever place we have to share our words, we have an obligation to follow the Holy Spirit's leading and share. When we hold back, when we mute our voice, there is a gap in the greater story of God's redemption.

This week I was reading the recorded story of Lazarus in John 12. I noticed that following his being raised from the dead, people came to Bethany not only to see Jesus but also to see if what they heard about Lazarus was true. Verse 11 stood out to me "on account of him [Lazarus] many of the Jews were going away and believing in Jesus." Lazarus' story made a difference. We may never see or hear the impact that our writing and our lived stories impact people. I am confident that when we are obedient to the promptings of the Holy Spirit, they make a difference in some way. 

On account of our time with Jesus, we have something to share. Everyone who believes has a unique place in God's story. 

Home is Where it Began - by Tandy Balson

The store I work in sells a frame with the inscription Home is Where Your Story Begins.  This seemed perfect for this month’s blog prompt of who started it all for your creative spirit.

My story begins at home.  When I was growing up contact was made with people from out of town by written letters.  Long distance phone calls were too expensive and there were no computers to send email.  

I have a brother who is eight years older than me.  As I was entering my teens, he was at university in another city and sent letters home on a regular basis.  My mother looked forward to these letters and always commented that Rob had a way with words.  I remember reading them and wishing that I could express myself as well as he did.  He has since published a book of short stories and three novels.

In high school I excelled at writing essays.  I also wrote letters to pen pals.  Although I enjoyed writing, it never occurred to me that I could one day be a writer.

My mother became the provincial president of an international service organization and spent a year travelling the province and giving speeches.  She had always been a stay at home mom and I had no idea she had this kind of talent.  Her talks were inspiring and seemed far beyond anything I could ever do.  After all, in order to speak to groups she had to first spend time researching and writing her talks.

Any thoughts of ever doing this myself were quickly pushed to the back of my mind when I married young and soon had children to take care of.  Working, volunteering and taking care of my home and family left me with little time or energy to consider anything else.

When my children left home I realized that I didn’t know who I was or what I was capable of.  A series of events led me to search for and identify long lost dreams for my life.  The only thing I was certain of was that I needed to do something that would point people to Jesus.

When I slowed down enough to really pay attention I saw the signs that God had been placing in my life for many years.  He had been pointing things out to me and giving me the words to share his lessons.  A good friend encouraged me to start blogging these messages.  I didn’t have the confidence but she assured me that God would provide what I needed.

After speaking to my husband I was encouraged to start writing on a regular basis.  He has inspired, supported and prayed for me.  My creative spirit may have received its start from family in my childhood home but the writing was nurtured under the loving care of my husband in our home.  Both cases proved the saying true. Home was where my story began.

Engaging A New Genre by Bryan Norford

I generally focus on non-fiction, and, if I’m honest, I’ve always been sceptical of fiction as “telling stories” rather than “telling the truth.” You can interpret that anyway you wish! That, despite the fact that Jesus was perhaps the greatest recorded “story-teller” of history.

Jesus’ genius was finding spiritual application from the everyday things that surrounded him: sheep, seeding, and so on, and the endless variety of human foibles. In contrast, an inadequate imagination has always been my handicap.

But back to my non-fiction fixation. I wanted to write a book detailing the reasons I’m a Christian. I’d have no difficulty in filling many chapters. And if I did, I’d eventually have one book in ten thousand that no-one wanted to read, and perhaps exalted me well above my rank.

But slowly the ideas of fiction began to gel in my mind, partly as Ann and I started writing our war stories. It was necessary to include some fiction categories to complete the stories and make them readable. Something towards, but, I hoped, short of full dramatization

The idea of combining the virtues of the faith with a novel began to take root and make sense; something centuries of fiction writers already knew. First, I wrote a short story—about 6000 words, perhaps not so short—in response to a competition, for which I received a polite “thankyou.” Damned by faint praise!

Then I wrote a novel—about 70,000 words—incorporating my ideas. It was an enjoyable experience; with the characters and the plot often taking on a life of their own. A good writer friend read it and suggested it “wasn’t a page turner,” and I should “reduce it by a third”!

However, I was already beginning to see major problems with it, and a few fiction workshops confirmed my concerns and added a few more. I was finding out, by the writing itself, and what I learned since, fiction has a lot more constraints surrounding it that at first thought.

Surprising, for surely, here is a genre where even the sky isn’t the limit; it gives freedom to go beyond imagination, and liberty (license?) to say whatever I want. Yet even fiction must follow guidelines if its intended audience will pick it up and read. And those guidelines change constantly, decade by decade.

However, the idea of a novel lives on in my bucket list, but next time with far more wisdom and appreciation of the art. And with the numerous recognized fiction writers as mentors in InScribe and The Word Guild, it could become a meaningful creation.

I Love My Job - Glynis Belec

  by Glynis M. Belec

I love you, God - you make me strong. Psalm 18:1

I love my job. In fact, I love both my jobs. I teach and I write. My schedule is reasonably flexible and thus it allows me to do other important things, like care for my elderly poppa bear. How blessed I am. I find strength in You, Lord. Thanks for having my back.
 

Joy is the serious business of Heaven. ~ C. S. Lewis

My list is long on any given day, and in the past I was bound and determined to base my joy on what I struck off the list. Oddly, I never seemed to 'arrive.' Time to base my joy on heavenly achievements rather than how much I accomplish in a day.

 Now go, write it before them in a table, and note it in a book, that it may be for the time to come for ever and ever. Isaiah 30:8 

Today I dug out my trusty leather-book cover and tucked my new planner inside, snug and intentional. I really have tried in the past to create schedules, budgets, to-do lists and the like on my computer, but there is something comforting about pen and paper and the feel and texture of handwritten words on a page. I love recording submissions in my big, green ledger that my mother gave me years ago.

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My heart is stirred by a noble theme as I recite my verses for the king; my tongue is the pen of a ready writer.  Psalm 45:1

My decision to reduce my lengthy to-do list happened this past weekend. I sat down and realistically wrote out three major things to accomplish. I did them. I crossed them off my list. I had even done something else so I wrote that on my list and crossed it out, too. It felt jolly good. I am ready, Lord. Open the door.

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Of making many books there is no end and much study is wearisome to the flesh.  Ecclesiastes 12:12b

On those days when I feel compelled to write but cannot find the time, I jot down notes for later. I find if I tell myself to remember,  invariably, I forget. This compulsion to write consumes. I sometimes chide myself and think how much easier a 9-5 job would be. But my brain does not shut down after 5. 24/7 my mind bursts with ideas. Even when I am tired my brain continues on the journey.

Pleasant words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.  Proverbs 16:24

Words can be deadly weapons. I make it my goal to be honest and sincere with my words yet if I discovered somehow that I hurt someone with thoughtless inaccuracies, improper research, misguided ramblings, my soul would be saddened. Make my words sweet, Lord (for tomorrow I may have to eat them.)

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For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Jeremiah 29:11

I have decided to realize I am already in the middle of God's great plan and that I am not just waiting for it to happen. I do that too often. Waiting; thinking that once this is done or once that has been accomplished then God will act in my life and I will get my book published; I will have enough income to write from dusk until dawn; I will be free to work unabashedly for the Kingdom. Today I acknowledge that God is doing a good work in my life [already.]

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For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us, so that through endurance and the encouragement of the Scriptures we might have hope.
Romans 15:4

I love to write. I love to write short stories. I love to write short stories because I have trouble keeping my mind focused for long periods of time. I love to read. I love to read short stories. I love to read short stories from God's word because they are timeless and meaningful and a holy communication with God, the Father.

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Teach me to do your will, for you are my God! Let your good Spirit lead me on level ground!
Psalms 143:10 

Somewhere I read that we need to keep in mind that there really are only two days in one week - today and tomorrow. I laughed when I heard that statement but the more I contemplate it, the more I appreciate the wisdom of those words. I surely don't want to waste my today and tomorrow by living in  yesterday. Teach me to do Your will, God. My soul yearns for the tomorrow that you will so generously bestow upon me once again.

Five Questions that Need an Answer, by Bryan Norford

A young friend asked me recently whether a certain profession was good or evil. Obviously some are clearly evil: prostitution for one. But most jobs are neutral, that is, they are neither good or bad in themselves, but we can use them for good or evil.

Television was regarded by many to be the evil eye, but it has no moral virtue one way or the other; how it’s used makes it good or bad. Similarly money. Money is not the root of evil, love of it is; our attitude to it and what we do with it.

At the recent Write! Vancouver writers’ conference, one of the speakers was Iwan Russel-Jones (a Welshman!) recently recruited by Regent College, after serving twenty years in the religious broadcast department of the BBC in England.

Well, there’s a den of liberalism, you might think. There would be some truth to that, but it included members of other religions, as well as atheists! Was this outfit good or evil? As a committed evangelical, should he be there, and if so, how could he cope?

Not only did he cope, but served faithfully over two decades of producing radio and TV programs including documentaries and discussions on various religious topics. As long as the program was unbiased, he could be sure the Christian voice was heard.

His biggest problem when starting the job was not coming to grips with people and material from other points of view, but following some simple guidelines for every piece he produced. He listed these out for us at the conference, and I found they applied to every written or spoken creative concept—fiction and non-fiction.

1.    What’s the story?

“This is a discussion group, there’s no story!” he would argue. But the question came back: what’s the story? Even in a round table discussion, there was a story.

2.    Who’s the cast?

Who are the people involved in this story, and why are they involved? Unless they have a specific role in the story, they shouldn’t be there.

3.    Where’s the jeopardy?

There is conflict to be resolved in every story, or there is no story. What is the nature of this conflict, and how will it be resolved? Sometimes it can’t.

4.    What’s the golden thread?

What is going to keep you on message? How are you going to avoid the conversation wandering from your goal. Because finally . . .

5.    What are you trying to say?

This is your gig, your picture of the subject at hand. Is there a specific point to you want to make?

These questions are all about ownership, and a rigorous response to these questions is critical if your work is to have meaning and impact. Perhaps these are old hat to you, but they helped to answer the young friend’s question. A trade or profession is neither good or bad until you make the impact.

Careful answers to these questions can ensure a robust response for virtue in a fallen world.

Writing Advice from Authors of the World’s Best Selling Anthology - Pamela Mytroen

What is the most common excuse for not writing? For me it is this: Why spend months, and even years in researching and writing when I have no guarantee that my work will be published? What a waste of time. Shouldn’t I invest all that effort into pursuits that produce results I can see?

What if the authors of God’s Word had had this same attitude? If Abraham had said, “No, that’s ridiculous. I’m not packing up my wife, my servants and my thousands of animals and trekking off to some unknown land.”

If Moses had said, “Forget it, I’m not climbing that mountain to seek a God I cannot see.” He would not have written the Ten Commandments, which is some of the earliest writing ever discovered, and has shaped the policies of every developed nation for over 3000 years.

Instead, Moses persevered because he chose to see the invisible. (Hebrews 11:27).

Noah also chose to listen to God’s warning about things not yet seen, and to build an ark to save his family (Hebrews 11:7).

Rahab chose to see victory for the rag-tag Hebrew army against her walled city. While Jericho was guarded by soldiers equipped with the latest weapons and backed by the military strength of Egypt, she chose instead chose to see that which was invisible. Her story has endured for centuries.

That puts my writing into another perspective. Many of these authors never saw their work published and they never saw the things they prophesied come true. They died, in some cases, hundreds of years before they were affirmed.

“All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance” (Hebrews 11:13).

God cradled their words close to his heart. He cherished them until the timing was right and then released them to the world – first in his Son, the living Word, and later through the scribes as they transcribed the ancient scrolls and, running for their lives, hid them. A shepherd boy discovered original parchments from the Hebrew Bible in the caves of Qumran nearly 2000 years after the life of Jesus.

God cradles our writing too. Our words, though they are not the inspired and infallible Word of God, are inspired by Him. Do you ever feel like you’re swept along when you get into your writing? So did the ancient prophets.

“...Men spoke from God as they were carried along by the Holy Spirit” (2 Peter 1:21).

I can choose to see the invisible. I can welcome the affirmation of my words from a distance, as these Godly people exemplified. I must push through my mistakes, the rejections, my self-doubt, and press on in faith, knowing that the writing I do now will have a purpose later.

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a cloud of witnesses, let us throw off every thing that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith...” Hebrews 12:1,2a.

by Pamela Mytroen

Notice, Remember, and Tell - Jack Popjes

We are pleased to have Jack Popjes guest post for us today.
 

I am rarely stuck for words, but this great-grandmother’s reply left me gaping like a dying codfish.

I had just finished leading a writers’ workshop based on Psalm 78:3-4 for several dozen retired people who wanted to leave a legacy of written “Family God-stories”. One elderly lady briefly told a fascinating story of how God had answered the prayers of her family during the beginning of the Great Depression.

She was just a small child but prayed earnestly for her Daddy to get a job. And he did, as a construction worker on the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. When, after four and a half years, the bridge was opened on May 27, 1937, she and the rest of the family rode in the first motorcade to cross the bridge.

After the workshop I asked if she had already written that story. “No, I haven’t,” she replied, “this is the first time I have ever told this story to anyone.” Huh? Never?! The first time!? Codfish time for Jack.

I discovered she had not even told her late husband, or any of her kids, grandkids or great-grandkids. For 75 years, two generations of her family born after her had been driving across that huge orange bridge regularly, never realizing it symbolized God’s provision for their grandfather’s family during those dark, desperate depression years of the 1930s.

As I drove home that day I wondered how many thousands of other Christians are failing to tell God-stories such as these, and thus robbing Him of thousands of opportunities to receive glory and praise.

Throughout the Bible God commands people to remember—147 times in the Old Testament and 70 times in the New Testament. “. . . things we learned from our ancestors, and we will tell them to the next generation. We will not keep secret the glorious deeds of the Lord.” Psalm 78:3-4. When the Israelites stopped telling the God-stories, their descendants fell into sin, over and over again.

We live in chaotic times. It is hard to notice and then remember. We are overloaded with information and have no time to think. That is Satan’s work. Our work is to stop, think, pray, and note the answers to our prayers. Keeping a diary is a great tool to help us think, reflect and remember. The weakest ink lasts longer than the most powerful memory.

Then, we need to tell and retell the God-stories in our lives: the answers to prayer; the protection from harm; the amazing provision—all the things that God has obviously done for us. Our kids, grandkids and great-grandkids need to know these things.

If we don’t notice them, we will forget. If we don’t remember we can’t tell the next generation. Through our negligence we keep secret what God has done and rob Him of the glory and praise due to Him.

Who wants to do that?


Jack Popjes
originally posted on Jack's blog InSights and Outbursts

Fabric, Tissue, Dresses by Brenda Leyland

Me and Little Sis,1963

The whir of a sewing machine was a familiar sound when I was child growing up in our little farmhouse in rural Alberta.

Mom seemed to always have some sewing project under construction. But of all the garments she made, it was the pretty Christmas dresses I remember the most.

With the arrival of each December the anticipation would begin to swell. Mom would study the Eaton's catalog and bolts of fabric. It was time to make Christmas dresses for her three little girls. Amidst scissors, tape measure, and stick pins, sheets of ecru tissue rustled with anticipation as each pattern piece was carefully laid out on the fabric. It was always an exciting moment when we’d hear the first snip of scissors crunching their way through tissue and fabric. Soon threads littered the floor and we’d hear a whoosh as the hot iron pressed the wet cloth on a newly sewn seam.

Many dresses passed under the pressure foot of that old sewing machine. I remember the holly red velvet dresses and the one with the peacock blue velvet bodice and skirts of whispering chiffon (my all time favourite). As well, there was the jumper outfit made from bright red velvet and paired with a crisp white blouse. My fifth grade dress was a royal blue shift with three-quarter sleeves, offset by a white pleated organdy collar.

My little sisters and I would sigh, while Mom pinned and twirled us around on the chair, checking hems and seams. The final overview had to be made. It sure was a proud moment to stand in our newest finery on Christmas Eve with the rest of our Sunday school class to recite mostly memorized recitations and warble through partly familiar carols.

It doesn’t matter how many Christmases come and go, recollections of pretty handmade dresses and annual concerts in the old country church are as carefully wrapped in filmy memories as any treasured holiday ornament. The wonder of it is that these gifts of love were wrapped up in the celebration of the One who came to express the love of a generous Parent to our world. Who would have thought that the whisper of tissue paper on velvet would echo that great love to three little girls?

Wishing you a Happy Christmas... God bless us everyone!


This essay was written for my mom, Christmas 2006

My Great-Uncle's Story - Bonnie Way

Every year when Remembrance Day approaches, I think of my great-uncle and tell myself that this year, I will get around to asking him for his story. He was the only one of six brothers who fought in World War II, serving somewhere in Italy—but that’s about all I know of the story. It is not something I’ve heard him speak about often, though I’m not sure if that’s a cultural or a personal reticence.


I’ve seen a plaque on his wall—put together by his artistic granddaughter, I think—that shows off some of his papers, medals, and memorabilia from the war. At one time, he handwrote four pages of notes for my younger brother, who was working on a project for his English class. My brother lost those notes. They were only the story in a nutshell, but they would have been a great starting place.

My great-uncle is ninety-nine this year, I believe, and still sharp as a spike. I saw him this summer, when I dropped in on my grandparents while he was there playing cards. He had no problem remembering me, though it had been a few years since I had seen him last, and I think he was walking himself back to his room at the lodge when he left.

Because of his age, I realize that time is running out if I want to tell his story. He and my grandpa are the only ones left of the six brothers. At the same time, a shyness holds me back. Despite the fact that he lives in the same town as my grandparents, I see my great-uncle only every few years. It’s hard to sit down with someone you don’t really know—even if they are family—or maybe especially if they are family—and say, “Hey, tell me about the time you fought in the war.”

Maybe this Christmas—with the skills I’ve learned in interviewing in Writing 100, some ideas from the other profile pieces we’ve studied, and a newfound confidence in my own writing abilities—I’ll find a time to sit down and chat with him, to ask him the questions that I’ve been wondering, to record his story not only for myself but for my daughters and his grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Who do you remember at this time of year? Whose story do you wish to tell? And what holds you back from remembering or telling?

~ © Bonnie Way
http://thekoalabearwriter.blogspot.com/

Small Gestures - Karen Toews

Saturday afternoon I often listen to DNTO (Definitely Not the Opera) on CBC Radio One. October 23rd's program highlighted stories about the small gestures people send each other: their significance, intimacy, peculiarity. Typical of these kind of programs that focus on the regular stuff of life that most of us don't give a second thought to, the host invited listeners to contribute their own stories about small gestures.

Contrary to the many times I've heard this offer with nary a thought that related to me, this time I immediately knew I had a story to share.

Of my parents, my dad is the quiet one: always a diligent and steady worker, a kind and gentle man who deserved my respect. He's someone I've never wanted to intentionally hurt - from the days of youthful testing-my-wings through to the present when my visits with him are an occasional and precious treat. Though Dad is soft-spoken, he has a sure conviction about important things of life; like integrity, compassion, respect; and his way of communicating those values has been in keeping with his personality.

Growing up in a devout Christian family, we faithfully attended church together: at least two times a week, often more. Church was a place of worship and biblical learning - and a gathering place to visit. When I was about nine or ten Mom and Dad let me sit with my friends, but I just knew I was in my Dad's sights, regardless of where we sat. We did the normal kid things like writing notes, comparing the contents of our purses, whispering when we thought nobody was watching and when something would strike us as funny, trying hard to make ourselves stop giggling. Every once in a while I could feel my Dad's eyes on me and I couldn't resist a look to see if he was watching. If we made eye contact and he had one eyebrow raised and the other lowered, I knew I had better pull myself in line - right now. Mercifully, he never embarrassed me by getting out of his pew to come and ensure an improvement in my behaviour. All I needed was that one small, but meaningful, gesture to smarten me up in a hurry.

I've been given a lifetime of gestures from my Dad. Just a few months ago, grasping my hand to say good-bye and slipping me a $20 bill. On my wedding day, his gentle tug on my arm - my soon-to-be husband singing as we walked down the aisle wasn't a surprise to Dad. The little endearments shown to my children - and some not so little, like sitting in a rocking chair with babe in arms for two hours so as not to wake her up.

Actions speak loud and clear. The small intimate ones can sometimes be the most powerful.

Of Whom the World is Not Worthy - by Lynda Schultz

His name was Robert Moffat, (1795-1883) and I "discovered" him while researching an article on Africa. When we think of the so-called "dark continent" the name of David Livingstone often comes to the fore, as it did with me. But it was Moffat who captured my attention in the end.

He came from humble Scottish roots and would always look back at the teaching he received at his mother's knee as pivotal in his spiritual growth. As a lad he took to the sea—something which caused his mother great anxiety. She was much relieved when Robbie took on the safer, and dryer, profession of a gardener. It would be in this context that he discovered his calling to missions, and met his bride-to-be, Mary.

Mary's parents were willing to give their consent to the marriage, but they were not happy with allowing their daughter to go off to South Africa. So Moffat, along with several companions, took that first voyage alone at the age of twenty-one, under the auspices of the London Missionary Society.

Travel in Africa was dangerous business. Moffat, stranded in the desert without water on one such trip, despaired that he would ever see a fruitful, spiritual garden in the midst of his chosen wilderness. But he was not a man to be easily discouraged. In 1817, to the great concern of his friends and colleagues, Moffat headed to the kraal (village) of an tribal leader by the name of Africaner. This man was feared throughout the region for his cruelty. He was well-known as a murderer and thief. But God gave Moffat favour in this man's eyes, and Africaner became one of Moffat's first converts.

Mary's parents finally relented, and allowed her to make the journey to South Africa to marry Robert. By this time, Moffat's vision was directed to a tribal group called the Bechuanas. Among these people, Robert and Mary would minister for many long and difficult years. Before the first tribesmen came to Christ, small inroads in character and conduct occurred. The Bechuanas gave up calling on their rainmaker one year, at Moffat's insistence. That was a time of terrible drought and the Bechuanas eventually came to Moffat's house and threatened him at spear point with death if he didn't leave the area immediately. Mary, with their first child in her arms, watched from the house. Her husband undid his vest, exposing his chest to the armed warriors, and basically told them to take their best shot. Stunned by his bravery, the warriors walked away declaring that this man must have many lives if he was so willing to give up one of them to their spears.

It was twelve years before the first fruit of Moffat's labour was seen among the Bechuanas. When it came, it came in abundance. Robert Moffat dedicated much of his time to language learning and the translation of the Scriptures so that these people could hear and read the Word of God in their own language.

The Moffats returned to England only once in over sixty years of ministry. On that journey, Robert persuaded David Livingstone to go to Africa as a missionary, instead of to China. Livingstone would later marry Mary, the child that Mary Moffat had held in her arms as her husband faced the Bechuana ire on that significant day in their missionary journey.

As I read the story of Robert Moffat, a small part of which I have shared here, I was impacted by the courage and faith of those early missionaries. I fuss at the small sacrifices I make to serve God overseas, only to be shamed when I realize what others before me have endured for the sake of the Kingdom of God.

Has the mold been broken from which the Robert Moffats of the world were made? I hope not. We desperately need humble and faithful servants like him today more than ever.