The Aroma of Our Words ~ Valerie Ronald

 

The first time I worked with a new colleague, she asked me if I was wearing a certain brand of perfume. Having used it for many years, I hardly noticed its scent anymore, yet she identified it instantly as the perfume her mother always wore. A slight whiff evoked pleasant thoughts of someone she loved. The scientific explanation for why we associate memories so strongly with certain smells is an aside to what we know from personal experience. For me, the mouth-watering aroma of apples, cinnamon and pastry takes me back to my grandmother baking pies in her farm kitchen, or the strong odor of diesel fuel conjures up visits to the naval ship on which my father served.

So what does the word aroma have to do with our calling as writers? The apostle Paul uses the analogy of a pleasant smell to describe how the presence of Christ in us is conveyed to those around us.

As far as God is concerned there is a sweet, wholesome fragrance in our lives. It is the fragrance of Christ within us, an aroma to both the saved and the unsaved all around us. (2 Cor. 2:15 TLB)

Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children; and walk in love, just as Christ also loved you and gave Himself up for us, an offering and a sacrifice to God as a fragrant aroma. (Eph. 5:1-2 NAS)

As writers belonging to Jesus Christ, we are privileged to share the fragrant aroma of our Savior through our words. A pleasing fragrance is an invisible entity drawing those who experience it closer to its source. Our Father God leans near to breathe in the sweet savor of Christ emanating from how we live and what we write. He looks for the essence of Christ within us, rising as incense to those who are believers and to those searching for hope. By His Spirit He uses each of our unique writing voices, attracting readers to want to know more about His Son.

Paul’s analogy of Christ as a fragrance in our lives fits well with the way smell evokes memory. How often has someone asked you why you live as you do, or commented that there is something different about you? I surmise that as we walk and write in love, as imitators of God, the aroma of Him we carry with us stirs up memories in the people we touch. For those outside of faith, it is a primal memory of life before the Fall, deeply buried in every human. For some who have wandered from God, it is a bittersweet memory of what it once was like to be close to Him. And for our spiritual brothers and sisters, the fresh scent of Christ reminds them of how much He loves them.

Our words are not just marks on a page, they can be redolent with the essence of Jesus Christ. Whether stated overtly or communicated through value statements or narrative, the aroma of our Savior conveyed in our writing can effect life-giving change in all who breathe Him in. 

More of Valerie's work can be read on her blog:

https://scriptordeus.wordpress.com/

Christmas Singing with Our Teachers by Alan Anderson

 

 

“I thank my God every time I remember you.” –Philippians 1:3.

 

I dedicate this message to the memory of our beloved friend, Bobbi Junior. She often encouraged me to write about those I call, “my teachers.”

 

Life in a long-term care facility can be lonely, where a resident is mindful of losses and memories of family and friends. The loneliness is difficult for most residents to deal with. In my role as chaplain, I had the honour of coming alongside many elderly, ill old people. I regarded each of them as my teachers.

 

I will never forget one Christmas Eve day. Here is the memory. A practice of the leadership team at Christmas comprised visiting the various neighbourhoods in the facility. With each visit the team sang Christmas carols and songs for the residents. Our residents lived with many serious health challenges. We loved them as people and respected them for their life experiences.

Memories of walks to the neighbourhoods stay with me even now. When the team entered the neighbourhood, the residents would wait for us to begin. Their faces of smiles like bright lights drew the team to them. We sang to our elders as people entrusted to us by families who knew we cared for their loved ones.

 

The songs we sang were Christmas classics like Silent Night, Away in a Manger, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus, and catchy songs like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Residents and staff along with a few family visitors smiled, laughed, tapped their toes, and clapped their hands.

 

Occasionally residents held still by the progression of Alzheimer’s disease swayed to the rhythm of the songs. Traces of smiles brought their lips to life for a moment. One lady who had been a choir leader years ago moved her hands as if she took on the role of the team’s conductor.

 

When our Christmas song time would end, the team would return to their various responsibilities. We also had time to reflect on the honour of our call to serve our beloved elders. Neighbourhood staff had by then turned on Christmas music now heard throughout the care home. We all hoped this act of Christmas cheer helped our residents enjoy memories of the season.

 

As I would come alongside residents, especially those who were dying, they often reminded me of their precious memories. Most of their memories were of times with family and loved friends. The elders, my teachers, confirmed life is a gift we are to live and love. There were a few each year who knew this Christmas would be their last. This made singing for them more than Christmas cheer. This would be a time of farewell and memories of precious people.

 

I conclude this post with a personal note.

Bobbi is a precious person to me. I only met her once in person. What a wonderful memory I have of meeting her at our 2019 InScribe conference. My wife, Terry, and I met Tracy first as we entered the room at the conference. I turned around and there was Bobbi. She had a big grin on her face, and she said, “We finally get to meet each other.” We then shared a hug. I still remember her hug and I will always remember Bobbi.

 

Merry Christmas, Bobbi!

 

Alan lives in Deroche, B.C. with his wife, Terry. He contributed stories to Good Grief People by Angel Hope Publishing, 2017 and Story by Story: The Power of a Writer, Unstoppable Writers Publishing, 2018. Alan has also written articles for FellowScript Magazine. Blog: https://scarredjoy.ca. Alan is the Provincial Rep. Liaison and BC rep for InScribe.

The Heart of the Story by Nina Faye Morey

Many of my stories are based on events in my life. My stories aren’t driven by these experiences, but by the emotions they elicit. Writing about these memories from the heart means my feelings will form the heart of the story. If I can tap into these emotions, then my tales will touch my readers. They may not have experienced a similar event, but I know they will have experienced the same emotions.

My readers want to be immersed in my fictional world. They want to identify with my protagonist—or perhaps, they favour the antagonist. Therefore, I need to create characters my readers can become emotionally invested in. Then what touches my characters’ hearts will also move the hearts of my readers. They will see the world through her eyes; feel what she feels. For instance, they may never have experienced skydiving, but they want to feel the adrenaline rush, the emotional high, the heart-pounding fear my character feels as she steps out of the plane into the void of space, putting her faith in a skimpy piece of nylon.

Whether my readers will be drawn into and emotionally satisfied by this scene depends solely on my skill as a writer. You see, I’ve never actually parachuted from a plane, but that needn’t stop me from creating a spellbinding scene. Remember, it’s not the events but the feelings that are at the heart of the story. So to make it believable, I’ll need to mine memorable events in my life for those strong feelings of excitement, fear, and faith. I can’t be afraid to relive and reveal my personal memories and heartfelt emotions. They’re vital to my success as a writer.

Therefore, I’m pleased to share “the story behind the story” of “Isabella’s Green Shamrock Sweater” (Canadian Messenger, March 2010, pp. 24-5). The inspiration for this story was my memory of being bullied by classmates for wearing green to school the Friday before St. Patrick’s Day. Managing to free my heart from the pain of hurt feelings through forgiveness is what forms the heart of the story. Here is an excerpt:

“Why are you wearing that sweater with green shamrocks?” Jenna demanded to know in a haughty tone as she came up behind Isabella.

“My grandmother knit this sweater for me to wear on St. Patrick’s Day,” Isabella replied proudly.

“Today isn’t St. Patrick’s Day, stupid!” Robin sneered.

“Yeah, St. Patrick’s Day isn’t until Saturday,” Jenna added with her usual air of superiority.

“And you’re not Irish, anyway! So why are you even celebrating St. Patrick’s Day?” Robin taunted Isabella as she shoved her into a corner of the cloakroom. Isabella recovered her balance just in time to feel Jenna shove her from the other side.

A crowd of students began to gather around the threesome. Isabella felt her face flush and tears welled up in her eyes as she turned to see that some were merely staring, while several others were laughing at her.

When Miss Fran, Isabella’s history teacher, learns of her classmates’ bullying, she uses it as an opportunity to teach her class the story of St. Patrick. They learn how he was captured by Irish marauders as a teenager and sold into slavery. Relying on prayer and a vision from the Holy Spirit, he escapes after six years. He eventually forgives his captors for the hardship and hurt they caused him and returns to Ireland as a Christian missionary and bishop. Miss Fran urges her class to honour him on St. Patrick’s Day by following his example of forgiveness.

Unfortunately, it’s the traumatic events in our lives that form our most indelible memories and trigger our most intense emotions. That’s the reason I chose this childhood incident of bullying as “the story behind the story.” 

Photo Credits: Pixabay

Oh Canada, Home and Treasured Land by Joylene M. Bailey

I wrote the following for my own blog in celebration of Canada's 150th.  And it is perfect for the topic this month:

We camped.

That’s what we did every summer when I was growing up.

My birthday is at the end of July and I don’t remember many birthdays at home. Our temporary home was a used tent trailer.

I didn’t know it at the time, but my parents were giving my brothers and me a priceless treasure. We traveled from coast to coast. And as I look back on it now, I understand where my love of this great country – Canada – comes from. It comes from those summers of traveling with my family.

Every year, Dad would plot our trips. He usually started a month in advance. I remember him at the kitchen table with maps in front of him, and that camping reference book – I think it was from CAA.  It listed campgrounds, how many sites they had, how much they charged, whether or not they had flush toilets and showers, etc.

Back in those days we couldn’t go online to check it out or to register. We didn’t call ahead.  We just showed up, expecting a good spot. And we usually got it. I remember only one time when we arrived to a completely full campground, and we set up in a gravel pit instead. I also remember many times that Dad would leave our cash payment (anywhere from $6 - $12 over the years) in an unlocked wooden box when we left. I doubt if you could do that nowadays.

(Mom tells me that our first year of camping we bought a National Park sticker for $7 and the total camping fee we had all summer was $20.)

Mom didn’t relish getting ready for camping. When we got older, my brothers and I had to pack our own clothing, and entertainment for car travel, but she had her same lists from year to year … everybody’s clothing, toiletries, kitchen gadgets, linens, bedding, pots and pans, games, first aid, food. And she spent about a week shopping, gathering, and packing. But she did enjoy the camping once all of that was taken care of.

I am so grateful they took the time for this because as I look back now, I understand. I understand it was a great undertaking, but also a great privilege to experience my country. I understand now that not everybody had this chance. When you’re a kid you just assume everybody does what you do. But I’ve learned that not everyone grew up with the amazing opportunity I had to absorb my own vast country. Thanks, Mom & Dad.

Barkerville, BC

Drumheller, AB

What wonderful memories we made:

Panning for gold in Barkerville, BC

Riding a dinosaur in Drumheller, AB

Visiting the RCMP training grounds in Regina, SK

Touring the International Peace Gardens in Boissevain, MB

Feeling the spray of Niagara Falls, ON

Roaming the halls of the Parliament Buildings in Ottawa, ON

International Peace Gardens

Exploring in Old Quebec City and the Plains of Abraham, QE

Watching the Reversing Falls Rapids in Saint John, NB

Climbing up Citadel Hill in Halifax, NS

Marching at the Fortress of Louisbourg on Cape Breton Island, NS

Pretending at Green Gables, PEI

These were fun tourist attractions full of history and fascination. But more than that, I learned to appreciate the geography of this wonder-inspiring country.

Columbia Ice Fields, AB/BC

I’ve clambered over the smooth stoned Pacific coast and listened to waves lapping the shore. I’ve wandered the red sand beaches of Prince Edward Island and breathed in the healing salty air. I’ve played in cool lakes that were so clear I could see the bottom through four feet of water. I’ve run screaming through long grassy fields scaring up grasshoppers, squinted across sun-skimmed ice fields, and splashed in hot springs surrounded by mountains whose crowns disappeared into clouds.

All before I grew up and left home.

What a gift!

Rushing River Provincial Park, ON

And what a treasure, this country.

Oh Canada! I am so blessed to call it my home and native land.  


                          ***************************

Joylene remembers childhood summers from her home in Edmonton where she lives with her Cowboy, Babe, and a cat named Calvin. Find more of her writing on her blog, Scraps of Joy.

A New Road - Marnie Pohlmann

I walk down this road of life.

I trip and fall into a dark hole.

I get up and continue walking.

Again, I trip and fall into a dark hole.

I climb out and continue walking.

Once again, I trip and fall into another dark hole.

Deeper this time, it is difficult to climb out.

But I pull myself up and walk on.

And again, I fall into a deep hole.

But I decide to stay awhile.

Eventually, I climb up the wall and back onto the path.

I fall into a hole.

I realize how dark, dreary, and lonely it is.

I decide to decorate, to make it cozier.

I hang a picture of me as a child, and I write in my journal.

I scream pain onto the page in silent words.

No one hears, so I stay in the hole.

Time goes by.

Though I believe I am secure and comfortable in my hole,

I begin to notice light up above.

I continue to write in my journal.

Then I hear a voice, calling to me.

He says he will help me get out of my hole,

He says, if I choose, he will walk with me on my path.

I think about it, but am frightened.

I know my hole.

I don't know outside, or down the road.

I am not sure I can trust the voice.

Yet he continues to call.

His words appear in my journal.

Finally, I agree to meet him.

He reaches down and helps me out of my hole.

I bring my journals.

He walks with me.

Just when I am about to trip into a deep hole,

He catches me.

We continue walking.

I sometimes almost fall into other dark holes,

But as I trip, he holds me.

I still skin my knees sometimes and he lets me cry,

but he comforts me.

We walk on.

And now He guides me down a different road.

I based this story on a poem I read many years ago. That poem did not have the journals or God calling to me, but it did end with learning to walk a new road. I have not been able to find the original author's name or even the original words. Over the years I have seen this idea of repeatedly falling into the hole, decorating the hole, and eventually choosing a new road, become a picture of my life.

I have a love-hate relationship with the journals I have kept on my journey. On one hand, they contain pain, struggles, and rebellion; times I do not wish to relive. On the other hand, they contain answers from God to my pleas, and they show how He has been at work in my life all these years.

My goal a while ago was to read through those journals to see what I could use in my writing. I was nervous about this project so decided this would be an exercise in research, not a reliving of the past. An emotional detachment was the key, or so I thought. I knew God was with me, holding my hand and ready to point out the gems of what He wanted me to share through writing.

And then I found myself again in a dark hole. Not because of my journals, but because of life circumstances which I found overwhelming. I returned to childhood coping methods I know do not work and once again believed the old messages of shame and worthlessness. Then I began to decorate my hole with pictures of everything wrong with me and my present life. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder once again settled into the corners of the darkness, bringing alive all the negative emotions of childhood, the work I do, and cancer.

I was depressed, yes, but I was not afraid - I am not afraid. In the dark times, God is present. When I am struggling, God is at work. He will not ever leave me, Scripture says, and He never has, so I know He won't this time. He calls to me and reaches down to help me out of the hole again.

Emotion is part of the past as much as it is part of today. If I am to read and write from my life journals, I must do it acknowledging and including all the feelings and emotions, not as a dry research paper. Memories in my journals may be dark, but I believe I will also see where the Sonshine drew me out of the holes. Rather than being nervous about this project, I am now excited to discover and re-discover God's presence in my life and how He so gently leads me to walk with Him on a new road.

I have been sporadic in my journaling lately. Writing ideas are strewn about in various pretty journals, church bulletins, Bible Study notebooks, and even in my phone. Personal woes and joys are dated with months between the entries. I have found I miss having (making) the time to journal.

This month's posts have been inspirational, showing me how journals are a gift. I now realize that organizing the thoughts, lessons, and ideas in those journals is also a gift. 

I think I'll start (another) new journal.

Photos courtesy of CCO License: hole - pexels.com;  girl, journal - pixabay.com

Marnie struggles and journals in northern BC. Visit her blog, Phosphorescent, to read her adventures in absorbing and reflecting God's light in dark times.

God Cares About the "Small" Things - Ruth Snyder

image from http://clickartonline.com/

"Mom, why are we turning around?"

"We're going back to Edmonton. To get your iPad, Levi." I fought to keep my tone even, though I felt like screaming. I kept telling myself it was only an iPad. 

"Mom's not very happy with you right now." Between checking for other vehicles, I glanced at my fifteen-year-old son. His eyes were on vehicles approaching, no doubt identifying each one. He had absolutely no clue about my inner turmoil. All he knew was that his iPad was missing.

We had left Edmonton half an hour before. Since we were later than I thought we would be, I had phoned the lady who was staying with our other children to make sure she could stay until we arrived home. Just as we were reaching the outskirts of the city, Levi reached down to grab his iPad so he could take a picture of a vehicle that was approaching. It wasn't there. Keeping my eyes on the road, I groped around, thinking it had fallen out of his reach. My hand came up empty too. I found a safe place to pull over and Levi and I both looked for the iPad. Nothing.

I knew I had given Levi's iPad back to him after our visit to the toy section in Walmart. "Did you put your iPad down somewhere?" It's never easy to get information out of Levi. Between his speech difficulties and developmental delays, facts come out garbled at the best of times. I talked him through events and we both came to the realization that his iPad had probably been left on the bathroom counter of Walmart.

Most of the way back I was praying. Hoping the iPad would be where Levi left it. Asking God to help me maintain my perspective. Reminding myself that it was only an iPad, costing about $1,000 to replace, but nevertheless only a piece of technology. 

When we arrived back at Walmart, we went to the bathroom. No iPad. My heart sank. 

"Excuse me. Is there a lost and found in the store?"

The security guard nodded. "What are you looking for?"

"An iPad."

"Go check at customer service."

As we walked through the store I continued praying. Trying to prepare myself to deal with the reality we'd never see the iPad again.

"Hi. I came to see if you had an iPad turned in."

The clerk smiled and reached behind her. There it was! Levi's iPad. Safely back in his hands.

"Thank you!" 

I felt like shouting. Instead I thanked God and Levi and I headed home.

Even as I write this, there are tears in my eyes. God cares about you and me! Have you thanked Him for something today?

Rose-Coloured Glasses by Marnie Pohlmann

Since last January when the year’s lists of prompts for this blog were shared, I have been dreading this month. The prompt is to choose a memory connected to our writing, and tell how it is a memorial for us, which is an appropriate subject for the month we commemorate Remembrance Day. However, memories are difficult for me. Childhood trauma buried most good recollections along with bad. As an older teen, some of those good memories began to return, as did flashbacks of pain. Stories told by my siblings also raised reminiscences, however good times were often bracketed by confusion. So while I could try to tell a story of how books and writing provided escape from pain, I believe it’s more helpful this month to share that God heals pain.

Shared on Facebook recently was a meme with a picture of blankets thrown over a table and chairs to make a tent. The sentiment was that as an adult we want to go back to those simple days of playing in such a shelter. I was reminded that seeing my own children play under the dining table many years ago, and not recognizing what they were very naturally doing, was the impetus for me to focus on healing from my past. And so began a journey from darkness, through memories, to learning to wear rose-coloured glasses.

If you read my post last month, you may wonder how a girl who sees most situations as glass half-empty can also wear rose-coloured glasses, but I don’t mean seeing life outside of reality. My rose-coloured glasses are God-given, developed by building memorials.

I love memorials! They are different from memories. Memorials are monuments of when we recognize God at work. Memorials can be built in celebration or in the midst of troubles, or even in the blank spaces of memory - because God is sovereign in all these times.

A definition for memorial is “a written statement of facts presented to a sovereign,” so we can take our understanding of the facts of our past or present situation to our Sovereign God. When I write a memorial like this to God, He faithfully shows me His presence and speaks into my heart.

God’s presence makes it possible for me to see not just the pain of the past, but also the blood of Christ that redeems that pain. When we know Immanuel, “God with us,” He helps us make sense of life, providing bloodstained truth about our struggles. As we take the time to build this kind of memorial, facing the hard things and testifying to God’s work in our life, the memorials become guiding lights, shining when we again find ourselves in darkness and pain. Memorials provide Hope for God’s good plan. 

Seeing life through rose-coloured glasses does not mean ignoring pain or insisting our glass is only ever full. The frame of our glasses may be coloured by the pain we have experienced, but Christ’s blood tints the lenses through which we view life. 

Our memorials light not only our own path, though. God’s light can shine from our path into the lives of others. There has been a lot in the media lately about the effects of trauma on soldiers, first responders, and refugees. When those affected are struggling in darkness, our memorials show them there is hope. Writing is how I build memorials, knowing God can use them to light the journey of others.

So I wear God-given, bloodstained, rose-coloured glasses and write memorials of God’s work in my life.

REMEMBERING THE PAST by Bryan Norford

Knowledge of the past is essential to living in the future. The quote above is the reason history repeats itself; even our personal lives bear this out. If we fail to learn from others’ mistakes, preferring to learn from our own, we risk re-inventiing the wheel with its attendant disadvantages and trauma.

So what mistakes did I make that I could have avoided if I’d listened to God’s wisdom from his Word and others’ experience? What memories now haunt and bless me as I approach my eightieth birthday?

With sadness, missed opportunities that I will never have again, come to mind. Fear, laziness, ambition, all contributed to life decisions that undoubtedly reduced the quality and joy of life for my family. I believe it is only by the grace of God that they had a less serious effect than they could have.

Following God’s will provides the most meaningful life. My personal desires, and less than enthusiastic embrace of the Christian faith earlier in life, took me in a different direction. It’s just too bad we end life with the experience we need for life and start our life without it!

But these memories are counterbalanced by looking back to see God’s hand in my life and in my family, despite my waywardness. The goodness and graciousness of God are overwhelming. We still face challenges, but the knowledge and experience of God’s care continually overcomes fear and uncertainty.

Now as age and health issues catch up with me, I have decided to reduce my commitments to a lesser number, so that I can give better attention to those issues important to Ann and our growing family. As a result, I regret I will no longer be a regular contributor to this blog.

Participating in the InScribe blog has been a worthwhile journey, as every writing experience contributes to personal skills. But particularly, to share faith and experience together is strengthening for all of us. I’m grateful for the many experiences shared by all of you, and also the kind comments in response to my own.

However, thanks to Tracy’s gracious invitation, I may meet you here on occasion as guest blogger. I will also share our ongoing experiences on my personal blog at Norfords’ Ramblings, where I can achieve a broader, if more irregular, expression. Perhaps we can also meet there occasionally.

And to all of us—for time and eternity: “To him who is able to keep you from falling and to present you before his glorious presence without fault and with great joy—to the only God our Saviour be glory, majesty, power and authority, through Jesus Christ our Lord, before all ages, now and forevermore! Amen.” Jude 24–25.

Receiving God's Love at Christmas by Terrie Lynne

As I sat quietly on the pew in the balcony, my eyes were captivated by the candlelit lanterns that were dimly glowing along the aisles of the sanctuary. My ears were tuned to the sound of the piano softly playing Christmas carols in the background, but my mind was still busy thinking about the preparations yet to complete for the Christmas gathering with my family the next morning. It was Christmas Eve and it was time to set everything aside and focus on the true meaning of Christmas, the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. Yet even though I knew in my heart that I should relax and enjoy this moment, my mind still could not join in with the rest of my senses.

My son as a child in his Christmas outfit

Then the moment came when a little boy walked in front of me dressed in black pants and red vest with a white shirt and a little black tie. I smiled at him as he proudly walked on by. Seeing that little boy brought back memories of a time when I dressed my own small son just like that for Christmas. My eyes suddenly filled with tears and the door to my heart swung wide open, receiving the love from my Heavenly Father, who was there waiting all along for me to open my heart to Him. He knew that it would take the simplicity of an innocent child to bring me back, not only into the present reality of that special evening, but into His presence.

Yes, it was Christmas and time to celebrate and remember that God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son that who ever believes in Him shall not perish, but have everlasting life. The wonderful news of peace on earth, good will to men!

photos compliments of family photo album and photopin.com