From Beginning to End by Mary Folkerts

 

Staring down the last
of another year
and I can’t believe
the march of time
could go this fast.
It never did when
I was a kid waiting
for the school bell
to ring.

What a life this life we live! It starts out slow and then speeds up like one of those terrifying merry-go-rounds, banned for how dangerous they are! Ok, I’m being dramatic, but this time of year, after the busyness and celebrations of Christmas and before the New Year begins, we sit in this in-between land of rest and reflection. Too much backward-looking can leave us with a melancholy spirit of regret and loss if we only focus on what is gone. Reflection, on the other hand, is beneficial if it helps us move forward with purpose and direction.

As storytellers, it’s important to remember that our lives are stories in and of themselves—a whole library full of stories, from comedies to romances, tragedies to memoirs. Some stories we have a hand in writing and others are written for us. Many are never completed until our days are done, but the stories together create a life lived.

I wrote a poem to depict this idea, but more significant than the stories themselves are the bookends that hold up the books: the One who holds all our stories with tender care from beginning to end.

The pale December light
fades outside the windowpane,
but in here, the glow
from the lamp
and the warming fire
illuminate the shelf
lined with volumes
upon volumes of books.
I run my fingers across
the spines,
my heart inexplicably drawn.

Some books fall open
wide
as I examine,
full of words, loud
boisterous, scribbles and
artwork in the margins
dog eared and creased—
those were the confident
days.

Some books have spines
that are broken,
the ink within splotched
and water-stained.
Those were the hard
days.

There are love stories—
romantic curlicues
depicting the emotions
of two hearts
becoming one.
Some books are blank,
stiff and unopened
the pages yet to be marked.

Thumbing my way through
I notice that many stories
have no ending
as of yet…
These—
the stories of life.

But it’s the bookends
holding the whole lot
together that give me
pause.

On one end, tall and strong
stands A—
the beginning,
the Alpha.
And on the other
keeping the books from
toppling is Z—
the ending,
the Omega.

I see it now,
the thread of continuum
woven through the pages,
my stories cradled
in the Father’s
Hands.

For just as He is the Alpha
And Omega, the beginning
and the end,
so He has set a hedge
around my story
from beginning
to end.


Let's keep living and writing our stories, friends, because we know God is the Keeper of our stories!

Mary Folkerts is mom to four kids and wife to a farmer, living on the southern prairies of Alberta, where the skies are large and the sunsets stunning. She is a Proverbs 31 ministries COMPEL Writers Training member involved in church ministries and music. Mary’s blog aims to encourage and inspire women and advocate for those with Down Syndrome, as their youngest child introduced them to this extraordinary new world. For more inspiration, check out Joy in the Small Things https://maryfolkerts.com/ or connect on Instagram https://www.instagram.com/maryfolkerts/

Ubiquitous Una Understands by Joylene M Bailey

 

*****

Well dear readers, I'm not sure I can be held responsible for the places my creative brain goes when given the letter U to work with. Thank you in advance for your indulgence and understanding. 

*****

To Whom it May Concern at Vogue Magazine Except for the Mail Department and any Underlings;

     Your publication is unequivocally unobjectionable. It has come to my attention, however, that the magazine could be uniformly better if you employed an advice columnist. 

     I propose myself for this propitious role since I'm veritably prolific with advice, and, I most humbly and unobtrusively admit, an expert in most things. Anyone will tell you I am upright to the utmost and undeniably urbane. People often utter that my advice gives them shivers.

     The column will be called Una Understands, for I understand the human condition and possess useful advice. I think things through, but I can also be ultroneous at times. I believe this unique quality cannot be undermined. People appreciate me. I'm there for them, anytime and all the time.

     For example, I have been there for my new young neighbours since they moved in two years ago. I drop over at least three times a week with food and life suggestions, unseasoned as they are. Ultimately, I've lived quite a long time and have garnered umpteen useful things.

     When they first moved in, I urged them to update the ugly beige siding, to umber possibly, because the ultramarine shutters clashed. I gave them the name of my brother-in-law who is a contractor. I don't take umbrage when they don't follow my advice right away. (Which is a good characteristic for an advice columnist.) It's understandable. The new baby keeps them busy. There's something wrong with it, it ululates at least once a day.

     Since they're so busy, I'm helping with the garden. It became overgrown with the flowers they planted last year, and as I unfolded the value of vegetables to them, I gave them my leftover seeds. They haven't had time to plant them yet, but I've dug up the flowers for them, so the garden is all ready for planting whenever they can get away from that baby.

     They don't bring the baby outside anymore, and I can't tell if it's getting enough roughage. I know all about babies, my sister had three.

     George, my other neighbour, values my advice no end. He's always saying, "Una, you are incorrigible." But of course he means incorruptible. He's always getting those two mixed up, poor thing.

     I haven't seen him in a while, he's never home when I go knock on his door, and now there's a for sale sign on his lawn. I suppose he got fed up with that upstart Carter across the street, who used to mow George's lawn--quite the wrong way, in my view, and I told him so every time he was out there. Carter has now given up on the job, undisciplined urchin. You never can trust kids these days, and poor George has been mowing it himself, which he finds difficult with the cane, you know, but I've told him I'm coming up with an idea to make his life unbelievably better.

     Oh yes, an advice column will be no problem for me. Physically, I mean. You see, I will have my own office to work in, now that Morris has passed on. He used to spend hours working in there with Rudolf and Valentino purring away on the desk. Plumbers have so much paperwork nowadays, I can't imagine how they're expected to do the actual plumbing. But sure enough, as soon as Morris got home from work, he'd say, "Una dear, I'll take my supper in my office. So much paperwork tonight." I'd hear the papers rustling while the football game played on the office TV. How unfortunate that he couldn't just sit back and enjoy the evening. The most uxorious man who ever lived, and I miss him unmistakably.

     As you can see, my specific gifts will be significantly useful to your publication, and I urge you to undergo this change with Una Understands at the helm, to bring your magazine to its utmost untouchability.

Undauntedly,

Una Uxbridge

P.S. Undoubtedly, you noticed my competency with vocabulary. I read the dictionary regularly and have just completed the U section.  

*****

Feature Image by Oliver Kepka of Pixabay

Joy writes from lake country, Alberta, and thanks you for indulging her crazy creative brain. In case you are still wondering about two usually unused U words in this post, Ultroneous means spontaneous, voluntary. And Uxoriousness means foolish fondness for a wife. 

Find more of her joy-infused writing at Scraps of Joy, where a new post was published on Sept. 2.

   

B is for Because by Lorilee Guenter

As I contemplated what to write this month, I considered and rejected many words such as book, beautiful or becoming. These words and others are good words that apply not only to writing but to our lives. However, I struggled to pull together coherent thoughts relating to them and found myself asking why.

A few decades ago, in the early 1990s, I walked into drafting class and saw one word on the chalkboard: Why. When we answered the question we could leave. There are two simple answers to the question: "Why not?" or "Because". My questions of why and that incident led to my word for this month. B is for because.

I write because I have stories to tell. The Bible is full of stories that show God’s character. As I read them, I am encouraged and, at times, rebuked. Always, I am drawn to God. God has given me stories to tell as well. When I write, I am sharing the stories He has given me and the lessons He has taught me.

Snippets of conversation, words read, and things seen can all spark a story, a poem, or an essay. I write because some of those ideas are so persistent. They even get in the way of other tasks like sleep if I don’t pick up my pen. Because I write, I also notice things around me that I might otherwise overlook. I write because it reminds me to be present in the time and space I occupy. This doesn’t necessarily limit me to writing about here and now. I am finding more and more that, if I rush through my days or conversely waste my time on distractions, I miss living the life God has given me.

I write because God placed us in a beautiful world. It is a gift to us and a responsibility that He charged us with at creation. In my writing, I can remind others of the beauty of God's creation and the amazing detail He included. 

Even though though that creation has been broken because of our pride and rebellion, He didn’t give up on us. For some of us God gives us words and asks us to share them so others can see the beauty He created. He asks us to share our words so others can know His patient love, His mercy and His grace. 

I write because God is good. He made me who I am. He walks with me through the pain. He shelters me in the storm. God gave me words and asked me to use them. Sometimes the words are for me as I wrestle to understand what is happening around me. Other times the words are for others. If I don’t write, I am not being a good steward of this gift God has given me.

I create because God created and made us in His image. He uses our flawed creations, our inadequate words and our lives to show His character to bring glory and praise Him. My art and my writing are part of my offering to Him. They are the imperfect works of a student of the craft. My Master is a patient teacher. Because He loves me, He adds polish to my life and my work as He writes my story.

B is for Bibliophiles and Bookworms by Carol Harrison

B is for Bibliophiles and Bookworms

Is there a difference between these two types of people? According to the Cambridge dictionary, a bibliophile is a person who loves to collect books. Bibliophiles love books for their looks, the feel of the book cover and pages, the smell of paper, as well as the history of the book. They may collect first editions, simply to own them and display them on their bookshelves, Covers become an important choosing factor as does the age of the book with the content remaining secondary to the avid collector of books.

A bookworm loves books primarily for the content. They devour the stories and collect the ones they enjoy the most. Their shelves will be filled with favourite content as opposed to what the book looks like.

I love books and the stories they contain. Learning to read opened a whole new world for me as a child. But we couldn’t afford to buy more than a few little story books, some of which I still own. The one large, hard cover book in our home was a book of Bible stories with coloured pictures in it. I spent hours just looking at the pictures before I learned to read. I waited for my mom to read the stories at bedtime every night.  It’s never read anymore. There are no young children here at bedtime to share it with and yet it tugs out memories and continues to occupy a space on my bookshelf.

The local library, the bibliotech, became a favourite hangout. I checked out as many books as I could each week and would rather hide away and read than do my chores or even go out and play some days. The stories within the books transported me to other times and places. By the time I was in fourth grade, I added non-fiction books to my list of books to sign out of the library or read at school. Researching topics for class projects and assignments allowed me to learn so many things. My parents splurged and bought a set of World Book Encyclopedias. Oh how I enjoyed the look of these cream and white books sitting on the bookshelf next to the red covered Bible story book. They added the set of Childcraft books with their cream and red colored covers as well as the two volume dictionary. Each year they purchased the year book with the updates of important events that happened during that year. I thought these beautifully bound books looked amazing. I felt so rich with all this knowledge at my fingertips instead of having to do research in the library. But I also enjoyed reading them. I was a book loving bookworm with a huge curiosity to propel me into researching a variety of topics.

Those encyclopedias are long gone but I hung on to them for more years than I probably should have. Parting with the antiquated form of information gathering meant letting go of books which had cost my parents a lot of money, and still looked great sitting on a bookcase but I didn’t have the space for a huge library in my home, filled with books to read, books to look good, and also books to help me study and learn.

Downsizing to an apartment a number of years ago meant paring down the books we owned which proved difficult. Yet we found homes for what we couldn’t take with us. Now I borrow books, read e books more often, and stack books instead of having them sitting in library order on the one bookshelf that remains. But I can still read to my heart’s content.

In writing this, I reflect on these two words and the definitions of each. Which one am I? In all honesty, I think I am a bit of both. If I had a huge house, it would be a dream to have a library room with floor to ceiling bookshelves filled with a variety of books with beautiful old spines and more modern stories that captivated my attention. Non fiction books to study would have a section of their own. The room would need several comfortable chairs to curl up in while I lost myself in a captivating tale. A desk to match the décor of this library room would also be a necessity to allow for a place to study and write. I dream of visiting a place that has a library room like this where I could hang out, browse the shelves, read, and even have a writing retreat.

Yet the pull of story remains strong, no matter what format it shows up in. E books allow my eyes to see the words more clearly as cataracts grow and have many books in a small amount of space. Borrowing from the library allows me to read more books than I have room or budget to own. Yet I still collect books by authors I know, reading their words with even more anticipation because I know the author.  

But one book remains the greatest of all time. The Bible occupies a place of importance in my life. God, the Author, longs for me to know him better. It is a never ending opportunity to learn and grow in my spiritual life, allowing him to help me discover the gifts and abilities He has given me.

Psalm 19: 7-10 reminds me of the importance of God’s word.
“The law of the lord is perfect reviving the soul. The statutes of the Lord are trustworthy, making wise the simple.
8. The precepts of the Lord are right, giving joy to the heart. The commands of the Lord are radiant giving light to the eyes.
9. The fear of the Lord is pure enduring forever; the ordinances of the lord are pure and altogether righteous.
They are more precious than gold, than much pure gold; they are sweeter than honey, than honey from the comb
10. By them is your servant warned, in keeping them there is great reward.”

In Psalm 119: 18 I read, “Open my eyes that I may see wonderful things in your law.” and in verse 105 it says, “Your word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path.”

I realized, as I wrote this post, that I have tendencies and dreams of a bibliophile who collects books just to have them. But in reality, I am a bookworm, devouring stories almost every day. Yet deep inside, I crave to know more and more about the Bible and the One whose story it contains. This is the greatest story of all.

How about you? Are you a bibliophile or bookworm?

  

Carol Harrison loves to read, write, study, and dream about a library room from her home in Saskatoon. Her love of stories continues stronger than ever and she has a passion for sharing the greatest story of all time - the story of Jesus.

Stories from the Front - Marnie Pohlmann

Even though the sun will soon rise above the horizon, the blackness deepens in preparation for a last battle. It is always darkest before the dawn. The last moments of night fight to keep control, to allow sinister events that can only happen in the darkness more time to destroy those who cannot sleep.

I just need to hold on, to not give in or give up, until the light wins the battle and brings a new day. My battle will continue then but in a different way. The night brings shadows from every direction that whisper pain and lies. In the day, I will be able to see the enemy more clearly, allowing me to know where to run for safety and where to stand and fight.

When I was first sent to the front lines I didn’t know how to fight. Scars testify to how death tried to claim me.  Just in time, God-given instinct provided me the ability to parry and thrust to protect myself enough to survive that initial battle. I then learned, sought answers, studied, and practiced with the Commander to recognize the attacks and how best to counter them. It took years, but little by little I made progress. With every small victory, my skin thickened and my muscles grew stronger.

Sometimes new weapons are forged and surprise me with the unknown. In those times I may lose my footing and must retreat to tend to fresh wounds. I have learned that retreat is not the same as defeat. When the enemy seems unbeatable and I go into the battle anyway because it is what I am asked to do, it is not without fear and could be described as either foolhardy or brave. But knowing when to rest and recover is sometimes even more difficult than sacrificing myself. Being still in the darkness is not for the faint of heart. However, in time I also learned that darkness can also provide comfort with the promise of light.

Like tonight, I am worn out and wounded. I lay in the shadows, on alert to every sound and brush of the wind that finds my hiding place. My instincts say to sleep, or to run, or to surrender. I am learning to consider, instead, what the Commander has taught me. How to wait, to heal, to allow the night to pass and the light of day to come. The light will show the truth despite and beyond the shadowy whispers of the past.

Perhaps in the morning I will discover I am hunkered down behind enemy lines rather than near the safety of the fortress. But when the light once again shines, I will also see my options. I will see the steps I must take to follow my orders.

So I wait. Even as the darkness deepens and time stretches toward certain death, I am not idle in my waiting. I stay still, but I put pressure on the bleeding. My breathing calms and my heart quiets.  I watch. I know from experience that if I can hold on a little while longer daylight will come.

This battle is not about my own survival. It could be, but there is no point in saving only myself. It often feels like I am the only one fighting, but this war is much bigger than me.

I carry scars from struggling to claim this land for the Lord, so others may live in peace with Him. I am often wounded and hurt but never defeated. The wounds show scarred paths leading toward victory. They are maps to share with others who also feel trapped and afraid in the darkness. This is a war worth waging.

I close my eyes for a moment and when I open them, I can see it. A slight difference between the varied shadows, a graying of the deepest dark. The light is coming. While I wait, I repeat to myself the wisdom these battles have taught me, that I may live today to share with others once again tomorrow.

“It is possible to overcome darkness because the Light is present, no matter how dark life seems. I can keep going because Light gives hope. No matter how tired, afraid, hurt, or alone I feel I will fight, because I am never alone, and I will be given the time needed to rest and heal. So I will sharpen my weapons and polish my armour to reflect the Light so others can know the way to victory. This battle, and my life, belongs to the Lord.”

This is my command—be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.                                  Joshua 1:9 (NLT)

Marnie Pohlmann writes about learning to be Phosphorescent, absorbing and reflecting the light of God no matter what darkness surrounds life. She believes that life's struggles can be overcome and redeemed because God is present.

*photos courtesy of Pixabay.com with CCO license.

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

A Hope To Yet Realize by Alan Anderson

“Okay you abcs keep the noise down. I’m trying to write my blog post for our InScribe blog.” Oops, sorry reader friends, I was using my inside voice talking to the words in my head who are eager to get out. The little rascals can get a bit over rambunctious.

The writing prompt for this month asks writers to “Tell us about your first book.” My first book hasn’t been published yet. I guess I could end this post right there but readers may want to know more. Well, ok, since you asked I’ll say more.

Like I said my first book hasn’t been published yet. Did you catch it? I used the word “yet” at the end of the previous sentence. It is indeed a hope to have my first book published as a sole author. Did you notice my tricky use of wording in that last sentence? Okay, I’ll explain.

I had the honour of having four stories published last year in a book I co-authored called Good Grief People (Angel Hope Publishing). I mean it was an amazing experience to have wordy babies of mine sent into the world. It has motivated me even more to persevere in having a book, short stories and articles published.

When I was a healthcare chaplain I remember sitting by the bedside of an elderly woman. During a visit she told me about her life (I’ve heard a lot of life stories from people) including her love of writing. When she informed me she was a writer I became even more excited about her story. In a matter of fact way she said, “I used to love to write but now the words in my head are all muddled. I can’t put them together anymore.”

After hearing those sobering words I realized I must keep on writing. My calling to write is sweet and I love it as much as breathing. My dear writing friends I hope you agree with me. Perhaps you say with me, “I must write!”

I write for a particular audience. They are those who feel hard pressed by the burdens they struggle with in life. They are those screaming at God for the unfairness that has violated their lives. I write for those who grieve everyday that their children have been robbed of life. I write for those trying to make their way through the tunnel of depression. They deserve a voice to encouraging them to know they are not alone.

Without trying to sound melodramatic or heroic, I am one of their voices. I am acquainted with grief over the loss of children. I know the darkness of the tunnel. I know that God loves us even when we believe we are lost and without hope.

Hope without cleaning up the muck of life is what I write. That’s what my blog, Scarred Joy, for instance, is all about. That is what the voices of the words in my head and heart are all about. They are the stories often not heard in this crazy world and society we are part of.

My writing as I persevere may not be the most endearing to people. On the other hand, I know some will resonate with such a voice. It is for those I have mentioned that my hope to be published again will be realized.

Blog: scarredjoy.wordpress.com