Little by Little, Every Day - Susan Barclay

If you attended church a few decades ago, you probably remember the little chorus on which my title is based:

 Little by little, every day
Little by little, in every way
My Jesus is changing me

Well, if our writing habits follow this model, little by little, through Christ, we can change our world one word at a time.

"Let my teaching fall like rain, and my words descend like dew..." (Deuteronomy 32:2). Dew falls every morning, doesn't it? And dew is part of the hydrologic cycle that sees every molecule of water cleaned and purified so that life on planet earth continues. Dew drops are delicate, gentle beads that refresh the earth daily.

With all of the demands that life places on us, it can be challenging to write on a daily basis. But this is what is needed if our words are to "descend like dew." One author, whose name I've forgotten refers to it as "bum glue" - you must apply the seat of your pants to the seat of your chair. A crude, "un-dew-like" way of putting it perhaps, but effective. If you want to succeed in the call that God has placed on your heart, you must make the commitment to apply yourself daily to the task He's placed before you.

There are many writers who've made it a habit to write every day, whether their target is a certain number of hours, pages, or words. Graham Greene apparently wrote 500 words a day and then considered his work done; Frederick Forsyth is said to have written 2,000 and Anthony Trollope 3,000. We know the volume of work these men put out over the course of their careers, and the mark they left on the literary scene. Should those of us who belong to Christ do less? Not for the sake of our own fame, but for His, let us work diligently as unto the Lord (Colossians 3:23).

Little by little, every day, let our words descend like dew, and may God use our words to change and heal others - and ourselves - for the glory of His kingdom.

Labour Naught by Lynda Schultz

Author's Note: This is in honour of the leaf-cutters. Though they almost destroyed my garden, I admire their industry. God does good work.

‘Twas a warm sunny day in the Vale of Naught;
Birds, bugs, and beasties resting were caught,
As a breeze from the west arose to uncover
A plot to disturb a nest of young plover.

“Oh my goodness, my gosh, what a terrible lapse
To awake them from sleep, to unsettle their naps!
Such a breach of good taste, of etiquette true,
To wake up the birds, oh what will I do?”

No harm and no foul; except those that had wings,
For the babies stayed settled, such somnolent things.
The zephyr of air planning malevolent deed,
Convinced all the fauna to follow their lead.

While all were in slumber, not a witness in sight,
The breeze went to hunting that horrible blight
That sought to reverse his nasty design
To keep everything quiet, lazy, benign.

He ruffled the hedgerows and lifted the leaves,
Tossed up the moss and bent down the sheaves;
All the while cursing under whispery breath,
He was doing exactly what he hated to death.

“Someone will pay,” he muttered, distraught,
“For disturbing my peace, for stirring the pot.
It’s better to rest, to sleep, to stretch out,
To be at your ease, neither murmur nor shout.”

No reason to cool, refresh or revive
If the world was asleep, right down to each hive.
The breeze wouldn’t work unless there was need;
To serve the Creation wasn’t part of his creed.

Around the old Oak, the breeze took a tour
For the leaves by the nest held the secret for sure.
From under the mulch at the foot of the tree
A flick of a leaf and — “I’ve got them!” What glee!

A family of ants; cousins and brothers,
Uncles and nieces, sisters and mothers
Were carrying food to their winter retreat
In spite of the sun, the hour and the heat.

They worked with a will, in lines tidy and true,
Collecting supplies to see winter right through.
They looked not to the right, nor gazed to the left
But kept right on moving, focused and deft.

There was plenty to eat now that summer was here.
But winter they knew would lack in good cheer
If they didn’t ensure there’d be plenty of fodder
To keep them in clover, green leaves and water.

The wind drew his breath, all set to let fly
The blast of his lungs that would cause them to die,
Or blow them to somewhere so far away
That they couldn’t return to cause disarray.

To this very day rumours course through the dell;
Whatever the ants heard, they never did tell.
Who stole the bluster from the lips of the breeze
And caused him to cower and fall to his knees?

No one was present, no one was there
To witness the end of that scene of despair.
They all were asleep, so none could explain
Why the sky turned to clouds and it started to rain.

How the wind got the message direct from the Chief
To remind him of Who might come to the relief
Of a million poor ants working hard to survive
At the command of the Master of all things alive.

I’m told from that moment the wind was unswerving
In doing his best to be constantly serving.
His example was such that all nature, convinced
Worked like the ants from that time ever since.


“Go to the ant, you sluggard; consider its ways and be wise!” Proverbs 6:6 NIV