Teachers of My Writer’s Voice by Alan Anderson

 

Preamble

Here is my spin on our prompt for July. This is a brief look at how my writer’s voice of today came about through decades. This includes memories of people who helped shape my voice. I call them the teachers of my writer’s voice.

My Teachers: Those who lit the torch to light my way and who are the ink of my pen.

My Mum and Dad

Mum and Dad were my first teachers. They helped me learn about life and were the first to introduce me to the love of Almighty God.

With the passing of time and decades after my parents immigrated with my siblings and I to Canada, I remember them like two strong Scottish fir trees. I have always considered my mum as my model for life. She lived a quiet life devoted to her family and to the Lord Jesus Christ. My dad taught me a strong work ethic, emphasizing hard work to support one’s family. He also had a strong devotion to God and to serving his church.

Miss Gordon

I was born in Scotland and lived there until my parents decided to immigrate to Canada in 1964. Miss Gordon goes down in my memory as my all-time favourite schoolteacher. She taught me for only one year when I was nine years old, but I never forgot her. Miss Gordon noticed I enjoyed my English subjects. She encouraged me in this. I credit her for my endeavours to focus on writing at an early age.

Gerry

Gerry was a boy I knew in elementary school when I started school in Canada in September 1964. I have brief and distant memories of his freckled face, and red, dishevelled hair. I also remember he was always happy because he smiled a lot. We were pals for a brief space in time.

One day at lunch, I went to visit Gerry. He had been ill and off school for a few days, and I missed hanging around with him. I knocked on the door of his house and his dad answered. I asked him how Gerry was feeling. He told me Gerry was in hospital and not well. A few days later, Gerry died from his illness. I can remember thinking, “but he was only a kid. He was my age. How could he be dead?”

Rosemary

Rosemary was a girl I knew in my first year in high school. She was the person people say could light up a room. She always smiled when she chatted with me and laughed a lot. I enjoyed being around her.

My childhood relationship with Rosemary was a brief one like my relationship with Gerry. My attraction to her was innocent, but she was one I loved being with. The last time I saw her, she laughed and giggled about something. Oh my, how I loved her giggles!

Like Gerry, Rosemary also missed school a lot. One day, as our school day began, our teacher came into the classroom. He asked all my classmates to sit at our desks. He then informed us Rosemary had died. Her cause of death was leukemia. I remember her giggling face to this day.

Their Memories

I think of my parents every day. They ignited a bright light in me to help me shine for decades. I have remembered Miss Gordon, Rosemary, and Gerry for sixty years. They are among those who lit a fire of life in me. The memories of them all nurture my “voice,” as my life as a writer continues.

 

 

Alan lives in a small village called Deroche, British Columbia, with his wife, Terry, and their poodle, Charlie. He enjoys walking on the dike near his home with trees all around and where he finds inspiration to write. He occasionally writes articles for FellowScript Magazine and is a regular contributor to the InScribe Christian Writers’ Fellowship blog. Alan’s website and blog is https://scarredjoy.ca.

Love at the End of Life by Alan Anderson

 

One of our writing prompts for this month asks, “What act of love and kindness has been very meaningful to you, either as a giver or a receiver—or both?” The following is my answer in the form of reflections of my time as a chaplain. Reflections of life and love with my Teachers.

 

While participating in a unit of clinical chaplaincy training at a hospital a few years ago my supervisor asked me to meet with a family. The family consisted of a mom, dad, a grandmother and two little girls. The dad experienced a traumatic injury at a party with friends. When I entered the hospital room, I noticed the tubes and wires attached to the dad. His wife sat close to him on a chair. All the time I accompanied them she held his hand. Tears wet her face and she seemed to shiver; grief will do this to us. The wife’s mother came into the room and took the little girls down the hall to give the parents time to themselves. The gentleman’s wife told me she was tired and wanted to sit by herself with him. Forty-five minutes after I left the room the dad died.

 

My life's calling has never been an easy one, but it is a journey I loved. I had the privilege to sit by the bedside of many sick or dying people and listen to their stories. I heard their cries and their laughter. I saw the tears stream down their faces when they told me they will miss their families. I marveled at the radiance of their countenances as their hope said they would soon be with God. What a humble honour.

 

The countless books and articles I read from so-called death and dying experts were helpful. None of these, however, can take the place of sitting with a dying person, the genuine expert of his or her own dying. Remarkable, moving, humbling, real, powerful, sad, joyful, enlightening, final, sobering. These and other terms have become settled in my mind heart and soul as I reflect on the narratives of my Teachers of life.

 

Here is a personal philosophy I follow. I'm not saying or even encouraging others to follow this philosophy. I allow my heart to be broken, but not in front of my Teachers. I try to feel their spiritual or emotional pain as I reflect on my time with them. This does not interfere with my ability to listen to their words. If I do not listen, I will not know what, if anything I am to say. To listen must come first.

 

My chaplain visits focused on "being with" people rather than a mutual discussion with them. To "be" with a teacher is much more fruitful than talking a lot. To be, is being present. In being present I am opening my heart and mind to learn from my Teachers. A broken heart does not leave me a soppy mess or overwhelmed. A broken heart nurtures a relationship of two people that may bring healing to both.

My faith in God has kept me focused. Focused on a calling rich in the memories of people. People not afraid to allow one to listen to their private thoughts on the end of their lives. My calling devoted energy and love for them. They gave my work and ministry purpose. I worked for them. I now write for them, my Teachers.

 

Beloved reader, who are the Teachers in your life? —Love them!

Alan lives in Deroche, B.C. with his wife, Terry. He contributed stories to Good Grief People by Angel Hope Publishing, 2017; Story by Story: The Power of a Writer, Unstoppable Writers Publishing, 2018. Alan periodically writes articles for FellowScript Magazine. Blog: https://scarredjoy.ca. He has written posts for our InScribe blog since 2015.

Quiet Words Listen by Alan Anderson

 

After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper.—I Kings 19:11-12 (NIV)

 

The posts this month are words of life to me as a reader. The prompt for May causes me to ponder even as I write my post. The simple yet profound statement of our own, Lynn Simpson, has me recall a personal experience with the intimacy of words. In her post of October 3, 2020, Lynn noted, “Yet, I have now learned, our voices don’t have to be loud to be a role in change.” I love her line and resonate with it in a big way. As I continue here, please allow me to explain.

https://inscribewritersonline.blogspot.com/2020/10/what-breaks-your-heart.html.

 

A Brief View of My Depression of 1997

 

The fog came down first and gripped me. Before long, the grey of the fog led me into the black of a tunnel. I am trapped. No, I am lost.

 

I look at my words, and they look at me. None of us speak. There is no urgency, only stillness. I smile, and my words wink at me. A thought keeps going through my mind. “What do I do? Where do I take these words and care for them?” Suddenly they move. My words sit beside me, then embrace me. Their embrace sweeps over my thoughts and emotions. I realize my words care for me. They listened to me in the stillness. My mind clears and I know what to do. I too must listen. My words came to me unhurried, quiet, gentle, and changed me.

Depression Taught Me to Listen

The fog, the tunnel, the loneliness, and the darkness taught me about myself. This time of depression allowed me to confront my insecurity, fears, and doubts in life. I realized I had given too many years to them. I listened to the wrong words.

 

In my experience with depression, I also experienced the intimacy of words. This time where I withdrew into myself taught me to listen. I learned to listen more to who I am as a person. As I learned more about the art of listening, it helped me to listen to other people.

 

One’s ability to listen shows a more personal and helpful approach to come alongside people. Listening skills proved essential in my work as a chaplain. To listen to people who live with a progressive or terminal illness taught me about life. I call them “my teachers.” My teachers taught me to use words in a quiet manner.

 

Please allow me to recall one precious visit. The person lived with Alzheimer’s disease. She no longer spoke in an audible voice. She did, however, like to hold hands. This is how we spoke to each other. No words. I learned to listen with my eyes as well. Her eyes smiled. Her eyes told me she would die soon. A lesson I will never forget.

 

Here are a few humble lessons to share with you. 

11. Practice stillness. There is no need to rush through every day.

22.  Listen to stories people may speak from their darkness. The darkness can be crippling. They may need help to find God’s light.

33. Be gentle with those in the darkness. Listen to their words even if they stumble. This may open them to hearing your quiet words.

44.  We listen to show we care. Your words don’t have to be loud to make a difference.

55.  My depression had a purpose. God did not leave me.

 

 

Alan lives in Deroche, B.C. with his wife, Terry. He contributed stories to Good Grief People by Angel Hope Publishing, 2017, Story by Story: The Power of a Writer, Unstoppable Writers Publishing, 2018, and Easter Stories & More, by InScribe Christian Writers’ Fellowship, 2021. He has also written articles for FellowScript Magazine. Blog: https://scarredjoy.ca. Alan is the Provincial Rep. Liaison and BC Rep for InScribe.

 

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.

Heading Into New Territory by Alan Anderson

Isaiah 46:4: “Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.”


I’m heading into new and unknown territory for me. Some people refer it to “old age.” I don’t know when one is supposed to know old age has been reached. All I know is I have never been there before but I know it’s just around the corner. It’s seems natural to be growing older. I wonder what being “old” will be like? I sense eternity is on the horizon and I find comfort in that future.

My years of being involved in ministry have caused me to listen to my teachers, those older than I. They have taught me challenges and blessings of old age. As one older lady said to me “Old age ain’t for sissies!” I believe her. The blessings include doing life on a more unhurried basis, especially if one continues to enjoy good health. These days with spring drawing closer I spend time outside just watching the birds eat from the old coffee maker I turned into a birdfeeder. No reason to rush from this simple pleasure.

I believe spending time with my elders, my teachers, has helped pave the way for me, as I grow older. The time with them was a study in aging. I saw the joy of old age in their eyes and the cries of old age from their hearts. The loudest and most heartbreaking cries came from those whose beloved children had died before them. As they told me, that’s not supposed to happen. Crushing yet humbling words, I pray I never experience such a sorrowful loss.

I remember being invited to a birthday party for a lady who turned one hundred five years old. She was the center of attraction and she loved it. She was a library of stories going back decades. She taught me of the enduring love for our parents we may enjoy even to our old, old age. One day when I visited with her we both realized Mother’s Day was not far away. She turned to me and said, “Here I am over one hundred years old and I miss my mom. In fact I miss both my parents.” I will always remember that sweet endearing statement.

As I get older I am aware I have more years behind me than I do ahead of me. As a Christian I also know life does not end with my earthly death. I guess I am at a point in life where such a thought is acceptable to me. Such a prospect as a life after this makes this one even more worthwhile. It’s like living in the here and now is giving me practice for the life to come.

I find comfort in my faith in God as I walk into the later stage of my life. I am reminded from the Bible that God loves me. Wow, what a precious truth to embrace. His Word also assures me He has prepared a place for me and I will be in this place forever. Such assurance is humbling. You see, faith in God means I am not earthbound. My citizenship is not confined to this life.

And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.—John 14:3 (NIV)

If you read this rambling blog post to the end I thank you. As I write it is like I am chatting with friends. You are the kind of friends who make life less lonely and more meaningful for this aging writer. I mean, where would life be without writers or readers? We are in this life together my friends. Thank you for being my companions.

You can read more by Alan Anderson on his blog Scarred Joy.

The Story Behind the Story by Alan Anderson

I was honoured in early 2017 to have four of my stories published in the book “Good Grief People.” It was such a thrill to write this anthology on grief with Carolyn Wilker, Barbara Heagy, Ruth Smith Meyer, Glynis M. Belec and Donna Mann.

The story behind the story I will highlight here is “You Can Go Now, Sweetie.” In short it is a love story of a married couple over the years. The story was my way of saluting some special people in my life.

The special people I am referring to are those I call “my teachers.” I have mentioned them before on a post or two. Through my years of coming alongside people in situations of grief, serious illness and death and dying experiences, I came to love this area of work. It was one of the biggest honours of my life.

In my contribution to Good Grief People I wanted to pay homage to the people I met who trusted me with their experiences. Most were experiences of suffering that became part of their lives. Often times my teachers were people who experienced the death of their spouse.

In “You Can Go Now, Sweetie,” I capture some of the healthy emotional attachment long married couples have for each other. The couple in the story showed that love need not wane in one’s older years. It becomes stronger even in the face of terminal illness. This couple was not unique from my perception in regards to the strength of true love. Many couples I have ministered to or served had an abiding love for each other.

Not all of my teachers consisted of married couples. They were also people who never married or people who had been without a spouse for decades. My teachers were people who knew and lived with the pain of the death of a child. They were people suffering from a mental illness who heard voices in their heads that would not be quiet. My teachers were those who grieved the murder of a sibling due to hanging out with the wrong crowd.

I have come away with part of them all. I have their stories in my heart. As they have taught me I am humbled by the strength of human tenacity and the ability to move forward in life. They were not defined by their experience of suffering. They lived life with their physical or emotional scars intact yet determined now to live one day at a time.

Many of my teachers have died. There time came. If you, dear reader, have people you regard as your "teachers," I would suggest you love them while you can. Hold them close. Listen to their words. Cherish your memories with them for all too soon they pass from the scene.

I have reached a time where I am honoured some people consider me to be their "teacher." I never take this or these precious people for granted. We are in this life together and can help each other along the way.

My final day of work in healthcare was one I will always remember. The leadership team I worked with hosted a retirement gathering for me. A number of staff including my boss attended. Even more special was the fact they invited some of the residents of the care home. They were some of my teachers. When the gathering was almost over and I was getting ready to leave my teachers hugged me. I knew I had touched their lives and they had touched mine. I didn’t need anything else.

Blog: scarredjoy.wordpress.com

Mending Hearts & Loving People by Alan Anderson

The writing prompt question for this month’s blog post is an interesting one. It asks, “In what way do your writing, speaking, music, publishing and/or other ministries bring hope and redemption to others?”

I have spent a lot of my ministry or work years with people who are grieving a loss, seriously ill and those who are dying. I call them my teachers. I now include them in my writing. I believe I’ve written about them in this blog before.

I protect the privacy of my teachers by being cautious with how I write about my experiences with them. If I use names they are fictitious. I may also combine their stories with others or summarize them.

For the most part my teachers are like me, ordinary people. Like me they are not world famous and they seem to be content with that. They had childhoods, attended school, grew up, worked, raised families and some reached a retirement stage in life. In time their health was compromised and life experienced a major adjustment.

As my teachers came to trust me I was allowed into their lives to hear their stories. Their stories are real. They are stories glowing with pride as they talk about their families. They are stories of remorse as they mention regrets. Stories that include the stinging pain of loved ones no longer with us. My teachers remind me through their stories that life is precious and is to be savored.

My approach when serving people is to come as an ambassador of God’s love. I have always given my teachers a piece of my heart. To approach them as if I want to fix them would come short of showing compassion. My teachers have primarily been people who are broken in some way. I come alongside them as one also broken, yet living in hope.

I summarize my writing and work/ministry by one simple phrase. My phrase is “Touched by grief and held by hope.” It identifies me with other broken people. I have experienced grief. I live embraced by hope. This phrase found me after years of coming alongside people and listening to them.

Listening to hurting people is an act of healing that brings hope. I don’t mean it cures them from their suffering. It allows them to know someone cares about the pain in their hearts. Through the years a number of my teachers have said, “thank you for listening.” That “thank you” is a beautiful expression from someone perhaps lonely or held captive by suffering.

I cannot think about my teachers without being emotional. They taught me how to be present, to truly listen without the need to speak. I tell myself if I don’t listen to people, I don’t have the right to speak into their lives.

Do you have teachers in your life? Who are they? Relish them. Hold them close to your hopeful heart. Let them know how much you appreciate and love them. They will accept this with grace.

Beware of taking your teachers for granted. Realize that they may not always be with you. Treasure your time with them. These are the people who make the world a better place. Be one of them. That will be your greatest gift to them.

Blog: scarredjoy.wordpress.com