The Writer's Rat Race – Elsie Montgomery

Rush, rush. Rush through the bath and breakfast. Rush through the closet (and come out the other end looking all together) Dash downstairs. Slow down for a word from the Lord and a word back to Him. Hustle the grocery list together. Grab the latest article hot off the printer and don't forget the car keys. Rush paper to editor, to post office, to city. Do errands on the fly. Three stores later, three long lineups later, no one smiles. Speed home.

I need time to write. Can I best my own record of ten minutes transporting bags from car to front door; of twenty minutes propelling contents from front door to freezer, pantry, storage room, kitchen and bath? Then out to the mailbox, down the stairs, read the rejection letters, turn on the PC, and gush out ideas? Not a hope!

Writing is not for the fast lane. Those deadlines may require speedy spurts. Those contest closures require rapid acceleration, but the routine, the daily doing cannot be pushed like a full cart down aisle three. Savoring sounds, remembering phrases, noticing nuance takes time. Characters are not born and formed to full maturity overnight — not in life, nor on paper.

Landscapes curl slowly into view for my pen’s description. They do not snap past like souvenir slides on a Kodak carousel. Incidents long forgotten trickle into the mind and out the end of my fingers much more like meandering streams than rushing rapids.

For writers, smelling the roses might mean a fond reevaluation of an old classic, a few hours in a book of sonnets, a walk through the dark corners of the local library, or even a long chat with a regional expert who has forgotten far more about our topic than we will ever know, an expert who needs just the right questions to rouse his recall. Our roses smell like old parchment, dusty paper and long-dried ink, splendid, stimulating smells, but not for hurried noses.

In spite of all our enthusiasm, the words may refuse us when we need sleep or edibles to coax them out, or perhaps a husky hug from someone who cares. Writing is not for mechanical men and women but real people who get tired and hungry and who resist being pushed too hard and too long by life’s demands.

Slow down. The best may flow at low gear, not overdrive. Some of the greats testify that one sentence can take entire days for the birthing. Those with pen in hand and too impatient souls may never find out whether that one sentence hurriedly written could have been a touch more explosive had they only slowed down.

Rush, rush? It may have its place, but only a small place. I can scurry through the mundane, only so I have time to slow down . . . and sit still . . . and write.

Powerful Defender - Elizabeth Bunyan, Part 2 - Nesdoly

• Read Part 1
  
  
  Prudence Questions Christiana's Children - illustration from Pilgrim's Progress
  
  
  
  POWERFUL DEFENDER - a story of Elizabeth Bunyan
  

Part 2

How gloomy everything was without John, Elizabeth mused this April evening as she walked the few blocks from their home on Cuthbert Street to the County Jail in the heart of Bedford.

He had been kept in prison since the November day, almost five months ago, that he was arrested. The hoped-for baby was a long ago dream, for a few days after John was imprisoned, it had been born prematurely and died.

Though their house was only a few minutes’ walk from the jail, and John was allowed visits, she didn’t get to see him that often, for there were the children to look after. At ten years old, Mary was responsible, but because she was blind, Elizabeth hesitated to put her in charge of Beth, little Thomas and Joseph. Today, though, she’d felt the need to see John so desperately, she’d asked a daughter of a church acquaintance from Elstow to come for a few hours, so she could get away.

Perhaps today John would have word about when he’d be released. Or if not, at least he’d give her the courage to go on. He was always so full of faith and optimism, just being with him would help.

Mr. Cobb, the warden, answered her knock on the heavy wooden door. "Welcome, Mrs. Bunyan," he said. "John will be happy to see you." He took her to the jail’s tiny, dim common room and a few minutes later John arrived.

It was good to feel his strong arms again and look into his brown eyes. But today they didn’t sparkle like usual. As she told him the news from home, he seemed preoccupied and burdened. "How is it with thee?" she asked.

John gave her a long look, as if sizing up her state of mind. "It seems I won’t be freed as readily as I thought," he began. "Cobb called me in for a talk today. He was most civil. But..." John looked at her with concern, "I’m afraid the news is bad."

Elizabeth felt the familiar rise of panic. "What is it?" she asked, keeping her voice calm.

"Cobb told me that at the next assizes, if I don’t promise to stop preaching and holding meetings, they may well banish me – or worse."

Elizabeth was stunned. She’d hung on to the hope that it was just a matter of time before they’d realize that arresting John had been a big mistake. But banishment or – the gallows?

"What wilt thou do?" she asked.

"I could make them that promise," John said, looking down. Then he lifted his face and she saw in his eyes a mixture of defiance and regret. "But I can’t do it. God knows how I’ve struggled with fears for myself. For thee. For the children. By taking this stand I feel like I’m tearing down my house with my own hands. But my conscience won’t let me give in to them. I would rather be obedient to God and make Him responsible for my concerns than deny what I know is right and thus take things back into my feeble hands. But it means I must look death in the face."

"Don’t say that, John," Elizabeth said. "Surely God will send someone or something to help deliver us."

"Maybe He will," John replied. But his voice lacked its usual conviction.

Elizabeth was shaken when she left the jail. She had never seen John so discouraged. He seemed to think he really might be banished or executed. Suddenly the weight of it all – John’s predicament, the responsibility for the children, their poverty without John’s income – felt overwhelming. He had always been there, capable, ready with answers and solutions. But now he too was powerless. If John couldn’t help, then who?

There was only One. Oh God, she prayed silently, we desperately need Thee.

A few days later, friends from church stopped by her house.

"John wants thee to come," they said. "We’ll stay with the children."

Elizabeth was out of breath when she knocked on the jail door.

John’s broad smile and twinkling eyes filled the prison’s common room as he entered. "Great news, Elizabeth!" he exclaimed. "I’ve just heard that in honor of the king’s coronation, prisoners are being set free. And they can’t banish me or change my sentence in any way till the business is done! This may prove to be the answer to our prayers!"

"Are you on the list to be freed, then?" Elizabeth asked.

"No," replied John. "We must apply. I have twelve months to sue out a pardon. I’ve heard that one does that through the courts in London."

"Will they let thee go to London?"

"No. I had thought that I would send thee."

Elizabeth felt fear and resistance rise inside her. Did John know who he was asking to speak for him? She - who got all tongue-tied, flushed and choked with emotion at the smallest thing - speak to the authorities? "Wouldn’t someone else do a better job?"

"There is no one else." John replied. "Thou must go."

Continued next month...

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© Copyright 2005 by Violet Nesdoly

La Cafe Amore - Pamela Mytroen

“La Café Amore”

Is it really mine?

I stood back and admired my sign again, for the third time this morning. My left hand still embraced the lock on the carved iron door. Though I’d been open for six months my hands still shook everyday as I opened my restaurant.

Especially this morning. I noticed him again. He had driven by yesterday too, I was sure.

The little bags of cinnamon and saffron dropped and spilled on my shoes in puffs of orange and yellow. I felt, more than saw him as I brushed the spice with my mail back into the bags. He approached on the steps behind me as I hurried to clean up the first of my daily disasters.

What was that scent? Not the exotic aroma of saffron. Fear. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

“Can I help you?” I asked. My face flamed as bright as the cinnamon on my hands and under my nails.

I can help you right back to your fancy car. Men with name tags and briefcases make me nervous. I don’t need another messy rehab.

“Oh. Hi.” I left the rest of the spice and stood. Maybe I do want to get into a mess. With this guy. His thick dark hair had been finger combed to messy perfection, complementing his five-after-nine in the morning facial shadow. A quick vertical inspection and I was already singed by the heat. Mmmm. I could get cozy here.

After all, Saskatchewan winters are made for the wood stove. And this guy was putting out. Something told me though, that I shouldn’t be staring at his chiseled jaw. I focused on his chest instead.

“Come in.” My upper lip stuck to my teeth. I pried it off with my tongue. Quit being so nervous. Just runway material breathing on me. And now he thinks I’m Forest Gump’s sister.

My bright orange and red Moroccan rug greeted us as we stepped in. I flicked on the lighting. Wrought iron lanterns came to life above and on the wall sconces.

My morning routine of inhaling deeply and enjoying the ambience was dampened with the guy behind me. Instead of running my hand over the iron backed chairs and along the flowered mosaic tiles over the fireplace, I marched in rhythm to the clicking he was orchestrating. I looked around, and hoped for at least a smile but I saw a silver pen instead, and this thumb giving the clicking orders.

Maybe my lemon meringue pie would appease Mr. Silver Pen. Or perhaps a glass of bubbly mint tea. Nah, he didn’t look the type. He looked French. And I could do French. I do have chocolate filled pastry, I thought, as I meandered through a Moroccan salon, set with a knee high mosaic table and iron day beds.

Click. Click.

Freddie, focus. I’m stable. I’m past the depression. I will keep my job this time.

I stopped and re-arranged a group of silk embroidered pillows. Somebody had left them all in a row on a day-bed. I tossed the pillows until they resembled a windswept pile of autumn leaves. One fell on the floor. Perfect.

This is my café. And I’m going to hang on to it. I’ll never go back again.

Mr. Savoir Faire slapped his briefcase on the counter beside my till.

Now my legs were shaking too, in rhythm to his pen.

What does this three piece suit want?

I stepped into my tiny kitchen and stood behind the till. He had blue eyes. And they were round and soft. But his voice betrayed them.

“Coffee?” I asked. I knew what he’d say. ‘Chai Tea Latte.’ Of course he’d want real tea, not syrup for this Da Vinci. And skip the whipped cream. Cinnamon maybe.

I thought I detected a smile but it faded when he pulled a business card from his jacket. I grabbed the till, determined not to sign a contract for overpriced laundry service. What’s that phrase Marsha has been trying to teach me? NO. That’s it. No, I’m not interested. But I was interested. I was. In his eyes. There was something hiding behind them. He needed me.

“Cooler.”

“Pardon me, sir?”

I glanced at his business card lying on top of his briefcase. “Health Inspector”.

I stepped back. If only it was a chai latte he’d wanted. I’d even talk laundry service. A cold chill crawled up the back of my neck. I pictured the kitchen behind me. I had bleached the countertops and sinks last night. Breathe. I had changed the filter on the drinking water. But the cooler? Could rigamortisis grow at 40 degrees? I had enough dead cilantro in there to feed a herd of camels.

He pointed his chin, that perfectly sculpted chin, at the door to the cooler. I could get distracted. Wish he could. No, Mr. Professional was fixated on my cooler door.

Just when I’d thought he couldn’t complete an entire sentence, he said, “I’d like to see the thermometer from your cooler.”

The hair on my arms lay back down. Ahhhhh. No need to worry about the ufo’s, those unidentified fuzzy objects, growing on the carrots. I'll just pluck the thermometer from the back wall and bring it out. But of course I opened my mouth and discovered a new meaning to the word stupid. “I’ll take you right in.”


Pam Mytroen
(First scene of a little romance I'm working on)

Everlasting Orchids — Lynda Schultz

My thumb is blackish-green. I used to have a couple of beautiful Christmas Cacti that lasted for years—emphasis on the “used to.” My Anthuriums are doing wonderfully, as are the Hibiscus, Geraniums, Aloe, Palm, and Spider plants. At the moment, the African Violets are perky—but that could change suddenly, and for the worst.

Feeling quite “green” about things, I decided to try my hand at orchids. One of our pastors is quite knowledgeable on the subject and offered to give me a couple of starter plants when he next divided his impressive stock. He also gave me detailed instructions on how to care for my new “babies.” These I have followed almost to the letter.

Then I “stole a march” on him, as they say. A friend and I were looking for potting soil in one of the many gardening shops here in Caracas when I spotted the Lady Slipper. I asked the price and knew immediately that this was a steal of a deal. Pastor Rocky’s thumb was not the only thing that was green when I told him about the newest baby in my orchid nursery.

For a long time I mistakenly referred to orchids as parasites. In my ignorance, I wondered how anything so beautiful could attribute its splendor to the ability to suck the life out of another living being. The truth is that the varieties of orchids that grow on trees simply use those other living beings as anchors and take nothing from their hosts. They draw their life from the air.

One spiritual lesson strikes me from this tiny bit of information.

In ministry I look for the “orchids”—those who want to know God, not just take from me the information I might be able to provide about Him; those who need support from me, but understand that they are sustained by their relationship to the Lord.

Plants come and go. My black thumb may kill my Lady Slipper one day (though I will work hard to prevent that), but my eternal consolation is that my spiritual orchids are guaranteed by God to flourish forever.