Faced with a Moment by Susan Barclay

There are defining moments and experiences in all of our lives. Such events determine or set us on our course. Some are completely of our control, things that happen even when we are in the womb; others stem from the way we process things or from choices we make in response to circumstances or desires. They can lead us down good paths or very detrimental ones. Either way, we can describe them as pivotal.

One day when I was a child my mom was angry with me for being careless. I had tripped over the cord of my grandmother's hand mixer and brought the mixer crashing to the floor. My mom yelled and her words pierced my soul. Sobbing in the bathroom, I decided in my 9-year-old heart never to let anyone wound me so deeply again. I sealed myself up and steeled myself against hurt. It was years before I allowed myself another good cry. To this day I struggle to be in touch with my feelings.

The things that happen in childhood are powerful. I once read somewhere that children are excellent observers but terrible interpreters. It's true, I think. If the incident I described had happened when I was more mature, I might have told myself, "She's probably having a bad day. Being a single parent isn't easy; she doesn't mean it--she just needs help" or "She's doing the best she can with what she's been given and what she knows." I might have done what I could to assist her in what she was doing or simply gotten out of her way until her mood passed.

I remember breaking up with my first long-term boyfriend as a young adult. In my late 20s, I was eager to be married and start a family. I said to myself, "I'm getting married next year." No matter what was the subtext. I was a believer and had also decided that I was going to be myself with the next guy and not twist myself into a pretzel to be what I thought he might want. That second part was fine, of course, but being a Christ-follower, I should have had the mind of Christ and His approach: doing nothing of my own accord but seeking God's will (ref John 5:30). Instead, it was a defining moment as I set out with a goal of finding a husband. Thanks to Him, and not to me, things worked out so that I married a good man who seeks after righteousness, and we're still happy together after more than twenty-five years, but my life could have gone very sideways.

The mind is a powerful force. What we focus on matters. Where we let our thoughts travel is significant. The power of life and death are in the tongue (Proverbs 18:21) but what comes out of our mouths or shows in our behaviour first enters our minds. That's why Paul tells us in Philippians 4:8, "Fix your thoughts on what is true and honourable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable." Scripture also advises us to think of others rather than ourselves and not to be selfish (Philippians 2:3). Knowing God's plans for us are for good and not to harm us (Jeremiah 29:11) can help us to wait on His timing and trust He will provide what is best for us rather than take things into our own hands.

Moving on to defining writing moments, I remember being encouraged by my mother and teachers for my writing ability. I remember the publication of my first "book," a laminated and spiral bound collection of stories from my grandmother's childhood. Written in grade 6, it was added to the school library and borrowed by several children before I progressed out of the school and into junior high. It felt good to have a reading audience and to be asked questions about my work, and was no doubt influential on my desire to continue sharing stories with others. Teachers in junior and senior high school were also supportive and affirming--except for that one who told our entire creative writing class that we should consider a trade. Plumbing was respectable, said he! (Well, it is, but that's not what we wanted to hear).

9/11 was a defining moment in my "writing career" as well. Thinking about all those who lost their lives and recognizing the brevity of life made me ask if I was living the life I desired. I was working full-time as a librarian in a public library setting, which meant shiftwork and time away from my young children in the evenings and on weekends. I hadn't done anything really with what I felt was a gift from God: my writing fluency. If my life were to end right then, would He be happy with me? I discussed it with my husband and we decided to move an hour away from where we lived, where housing was more affordable, I could quit work, be home for my family, and write. 

It's true what they say about not quitting your day job. While I've had a few stories published and made a few dollars, if we'd been depending on me for an income, we'd be on the streets. After three years of being home full-time, I took a part-time job as a librarian in my new community. It works well for us and our children are now grown. But I do sometimes wonder if we made the right call. Though we've met some wonderful people here, we've also gone through some hard times. Would we have been better off staying where we were? Only God knows.

And that's the thing, isn't it? God knows what is best for us but sometimes we go off half-cocked, acting impulsively or according to our feelings, rather than consulting Him, reading the Word, seeking counsel from godly people in our lives. I'm not saying my husband and I did this with respect to our move, you understand; I'm talking more generally. I tend to be someone who does my homework, who is cautious in decision-making, rather risk-averse, stability-seeking. But I can still make mistakes. I can decide to wall up my heart so no one can hurt me, pursue my own desires without seeking God's will, and put the cart before the horse, thinking I'm doing a good thing.

If I could give anyone a piece of advice, it would be this from Lamentations 3:25-26: 

God proves to be good to the man who passionately waits, to the woman who diligently seeks. It's a good thing to quietly hope, quietly hope for help from God. (The Message)

When you recognize a pivotal moment, stop, fix your eyes on the One who knows you, loves you, and has good plans for you. Ask what He says and wait patiently on His answer. He will never steer you wrong.

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For more about Susan Barclay and her writing, please visit www.susan-barclay.blogspot.com

A Comfort Zone Without a Comforter by Alan Anderson

I love the writing prompt for this month. I want to give it a big verbal kiss! It has made me think deep and to choose my words with caution. The ghost of my “comfort zone” is looking over my shoulder as I write this autobiographical post.

The theme for this month’s blog is, “Out of your comfort zone.” Here are the prompt questions I will cover. “When has God nudged you out of your comfort zone, either in your faith life or your writing life? What fears did you face? What steps did you take (or not take) to leave your comfort zone? And what were the results? (Or perhaps God is nudging you now…)”

Please allow me to set the scene a bit for you. I lived my childhood primarily in a fantasyland of my own making. From my early years I tried to escape real life and what it confronted me with. I was shy, quiet and just wanted people to leave me alone. I took each day as it came. That was life. I didn’t expect anything special to come my way. As long as I could stay within myself it was okay. My life at this early age was my comfort zone. It was a comfort zone without a comforter.

“When has God nudged you out of your comfort zone, either in your faith life or your writing life?” When I became aware of God’s love for me things changed slowly. I had to be sure God was real. That too would come slowly. My early thoughts of God were He was a big Meany! He was a Judge and I didn’t need another judge.

What fears did I face?

At first I didn’t face my fears for the most part because there were too many. I hid from them. They were bigger than me. I began to use humour to help me hide from me. In time, in years of time, humour would help me form a relationship with the world and myself. Humour slowly helped me face my fears by not allowing them to rule me anymore.

“What steps did you take (or not take) to leave your comfort zone?” I always took slow and small steps. I guess somewhere along the way of supposedly growing up, I wanted to have a less fearful relationship with life. My shyness pretty well stayed part of me into my teen years. I still much preferred my own company to that of having other people around. I worked hard at my self-awareness, at finding out about myself. That is still part of my journey today.

“And what were the results?” I began to come out of my comfort zone and saw the needs of others. To this day I resonate with those who hurt. I seem to naturally come alongside those in need of an ear and heart to listen to them. I guess in some way, I am a comforter to some.

 Even today I still have lots to learn about people, other God and myself. I think even with my last breath I will be amazed that God ordained me for good works. He ordained me? Me? I am thankful He knows what He is doing. I have a Comforter who is in the business of looking beyond my “comfort zone” and accepting me for who He made me to be. I’m cool with that now!

Blog: ScarredJoy@wordpress.com

Every Child Needs Something Big - Pamela Mytroen

The train bumps over the switches and I feel the wave as it rolls from the engine, through the sleeper cars, dining car, the coach I sit in, and continues on behind me to the end of the train snaking through the mountains of Montana. Its crossing song composed of ancient harmonies cries out to warn careless drivers or hungry deer on the tracks. For some sleeping passengers,it soothes their dreams. For myself, awake in the dark coach, it sings a song of memory and longing.

Every child needs something big in their lives. For me it was the train.

As a young girl, living in Canadian Pacific Railway Stations, the sacred sigh of the whistle resonated with my beginnings, calling to conception. And its lingering cadence on the prairie horizon spoke to my eternal soul. But mostly, it defined my childhood by intrigue, and sweetness.

My morning greeting and bed-time lullaby - the sleepy serenade in the distance - reminded me that all was well with the world, at least on my side of the tracks, and when the engines grew closer and rumbled by, shaking the windows and walls of my bedroom, I felt small and humbled and hidden by God.

My earliest memories are red, roaring and rumbling. I could feel the roots of my teeth every time. But my Daddy was always in his office where the safe fragrance of bleached paper and carbon cleansed my insecurities.

I thought every child stood barefoot on the sun-warmed platform, amazed by their tall father. He stood with yellow orders clipped to a tall “P” and leaned out over the tracks as the train stormed by. The engineer looped his arm through the wooden circle, took what he needed and tossed away the alphabet letter. Didn’t every child get to chase the train as it sped away, retrieve the hoop and return it to a Dad who would toss you in the air and hug you?

And when the floor shook didn’t every child’s secrets and prayers tumble out like marbles in a game of Kerplunk, only to pick them back up again, all slippery and rolling about, and quickly tuck them back in before anybody noticed?

Big boundaries hedged me in. A red bracket in front, the CPR Engine, and a steepled bracket behind – the Baptist Church. The bustling Co-op Grocery store and my flag-poled school across town completed the parenthesis of life around me and I knew my place.

It was the in-between where I lived and found sanctuary. My back yard, just down the slope from the relentless rails, beckoned me into its garden of grass and secrecy. Tall pines watched and whispered as the train’s minor melody inspired mysteries to be acted out with friends and games to be played. And when the freight cars passed by we scuttled up to the tracks and walked on molten-steel, with arms stretched out, skinny legs balancing just so until the aroma of fresh bread wafted towards us and we raced each other back home.

Inside my house another harbor welcomed. Never mind that we didn’t have running water. We had the luxury of a freight room with an expanse of hard wood floors made just for running and sliding on sock feet. Crates of yellow chicks waiting to be transported, jiggled and cheeped until my sister and I pried open the lid and pressed the downy velvet against our cheeks.

Peering into Daddy's office with my chin resting on the smooth worn ticket counter, the dong of the large pendulum clock and the squeal of his castor-wheeled chair became the prelude of my measured days and as I worship here in the ceremonial sway of spark and steel I am thankful for having had big things in a small life.


by Pam Mytroen

Broken Things - Nesdoly

Broken Things

Often when her house is tidy
with the floors all clean and swept
she will slip into a back room
where the broken things are kept.

There she stands amid the clutter
of the puzzles, games and dolls
feels an inner sadness welling
as the tears begin to fall

on her knees to sort and gather –
finds a Ken who has no arms
someone’s pulled the head off Barbie
here’s a bracelet with no charms.

Dolly’s buggy wheel is missing
puzzle pieces need a frame
happy endings ripped from stories
dice and tokens but no game.

So she gathers parts and pieces
seeking one or two to fit.
But the chaos is too hopeless.
How does she make sense of it?

Then she feels the gentle presence
of His hands upon her own.
They are putting things together
better than she’s ever done.

There’s a piece – it goes with this one
here’s an arm, a leg, a face
there’s the ending of a story
here’s a picture of that place.

Oh how fast an hour passes
as they put a few things right
she may come again tomorrow
even slip back in tonight.

There is still so much to sort through.
Will she ever get it done?
“Do not fret my child, I’ll help you.
You and I have well begun.”

© 2009 by Violet Nesdoly

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I have read several stories lately where adult main characters have been molded by something that happened to them in their childhood. That doesn't happen only in books. I wrote this poem for a friend who shared with me some of her childhood memories and how she struggled to make sense of them. If this is your experience, my prayer is that you will bring your painful memories and confusion to Jesus.

"Broken Things" was first published the anthology River of Words, published by the MSA Poets Potpourri Society in 2009.


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