A Rugby Wife - Bonnie Way

“You’re not allowed to throw the ball forward, so they always toss it to someone slightly behind them...”

I smile as I listen and cast a sideways glance towards the voice. It’s an older man explaining rugby to a younger woman, perhaps his granddaughter. It reminds me of when I watched my first rugby game, and a fellow who’d lent me his umbrella talked about rucks and scrums and other things that I was clueless about. I alternated between watching the ball and watching my husband (then “just” a friend from university) and at the end of the game had to ask him who’d won.

I bend over Lilibet, tucking her blanket closer around her, and glance at Sunshine, who’s crawling across the bleachers under the legs of the lady sitting next to us. Out on the field, I try to find my husband, until Lilibet wails under her blanket. I shift her to my shoulder, adjusting my shirt and hoping everyone is focused on the game and not paying attention to a mom trying to nurse her three-week old on the sidelines.

“Potty,” Sunshine says, tugging at my jacket. I sigh, looking at Lilibet and the diaper bag and the long walk across the lawn, up the stairs, and through the clubhouse.

“You really have to go?” I ask her, but of course, she insists. I’m fairly certain that as soon as we get in there, she won’t do anything. But I pack Lilibet into her carseat, heave it up, and decide that my diaper bag (and wallet) will be safe on the bleachers.

We weave through the crowd in the clubhouse, find the washrooms, and both use them. Back outside, Lilibet stays sleeping in her carseat and I’m able to focus on the game. It’s my hubby’s first game in about fifteen months; there was no team up north, so he hasn’t played since we left the city. He’s not running as fast as I’ve seen him run in other games, but then, several of his team mates also seem really out of practice. I groan at a bad catch that results in the other team getting the ball.

Sunshine is back beside me, trying to rock Lilibet. She wants a juice. Then she doesn’t want it. She climbs up the bleachers, back down again, under the lady’s legs. When Lilibet begins to wail, Sunshine seizes the blanket that I’d tucked over the carseat. I try nursing Lilibet again, with the wind blowing the nursing cover around and Sunshine dragging the blanket around the bleachers. Then Sunshine wants to go potty again. I tell her no.

By the time the game is done, I’m exhausted. I pack the girls up and head back to our Jeep, hoping that my husband will know where to find us. In the warmth of the vehicle, I unbundle Lilibet and myself and nurse her without worrying about covering up. Sunshine plays with the steering wheel. When my husband appears, he takes Sunshine back to watch the last half of the game with him. Lilibet falls asleep and I crack open my book, breathing a sigh of relief at the chance to relax.

His next game is Saturday. I’m trying to figure out a game plan for watching rugby with a baby and a toddler. Who knew it could be so much work?

~ © Bonnie Way (http://thekoalabearwriter.blogspot.com/)

A Writer's Brain, by Janet Sketchley

Matthew, aged 5, presented me with a fantastic, multi-coloured scrawl. “It’s a ship, Mom.” He began to elaborate: for water, as opposed to space; don’t get stuck in that part, because it’s the engine. On impulse, I suggested he write a story about it. He agreed -- after all, he was supposed to be getting ready for bed.

Speaking raw material
His imagination was still primed from drawing the picture, and he started telling the story as soon as I was ready. I wrote as fast as I could, often stopping him to let my pencil catch up. He was so focused that he could pick up where he left off as if he’d never paused -- perhaps playing video games has taught him something after all.

Occasionally he would come and check my work, but for the most part he just kept narrating. Even in the flow, he was precise with his wording, but he never backtracked or tried to edit himself. The important thing was to get the story out in one piece.

I kept quiet when he repeated words or concepts, and resisted the urge to correct his tenses as I transcribed. I watched him on the edge of my vision. He was so involved with his story that he had to keep moving.

What a scene we must have made -- the little boy orbiting the coffee table as he spun his tale, and the adult parked on the couch, biting her tongue.

Itching to organize
If we were a writer’s brain, he would be the creative process: lost in the wonder of discovering the story. I’d be the editor portion, straining against my muzzle. He was speaking my raw material. If I intruded too soon, I might damage it.

When he finally wound down, he had a nice little story. Later, if invited, I could work his “first draft” into a much shorter story. Perhaps he would add some fresh bits, and we would have something “publishable.”

Why do I find it so hard to follow his example?

Both sides doing what they do best
Today, when I sit in front of the computer, I’m going to try to apply his lesson. When I get a picture of where my story is going, I’ll let my fingers dance on the keyboard for the joy of following the muse. I hereby give myself permission to write a sloppy first draft as I explore.

My internal editor can go out for coffee. She’ll come back in a better frame of mind when I need her, and feel validated and supremely important when she sees the mess my creative frenzy has made along the trail. Once both parts of my brain have had their fun doing what they do best, my story will be as publishable as I can make it.

Will somebody hand me a market guide?

© Janet Sketchley, 2003, 2010. Originally published in Exchange, January 2003.
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For devotionals, reviews and conversation, stop by Janet Sketchley's blog, God with Us: Finding Joy.

The Mark of Magi

© Glynis M. Belec 2010

“Go to the village ahead of you, and at once you will find a donkey tied there, with her colt by her. Untie them and bring them to me. If anyone says anything to you, tell him that the Lord needs them, and he will send them right away.
Matthew 1:1-3

Magi’s chocolate-brown eyes opened wide. The baa’s and the moo’s and the cock-a-doodle-do’s were music to his long ears.

He took a deep breath and stepped out of his familiar pen.

"Be careful,” his mother warned.

“I will,” Magi smiled.

“Be polite,” she instructed.

"Always,” he said.

Magi spotted two lambs playing in the golden straw.

“Do you want to play with me?” Magi asked. They looked at Magi.

“No, we do not want to play with you. Your ears are funny and we can baa-rely stop laughing at you,” giggled the lambs. “Why does the master call you Magi? Magi means king. You are not a king. One day our wool will be spun into fine clothing. You are not like us. Go away and don’t come baaa-ck anymore.”
Magi turned away. He still wanted to find a playmate. The cow pen was just around the corner.

He pressed his nose against the rickety wooden door. It slowly creaked open.

“Do you want to play with me?” Magi asked the brown and white calf.

“No,” the calf laughed. “That strange stripe on your back is ugly. You are not like me. When I get older my rich milk will be served to royalty. Now mooo-ve away from my gate,” said the calf. “I am not in the mooo-d to play with a useless donkey like you.”

Magi’s big ears drooped. His barn world was not as he expected.
Magi walked to the back of the barn. He heard a wonderful sound.

“Cock-a-doodle-do…you mind?” said a scratchy voice. Magi looked up.

“Oh, Aw-EE, Aw-EE, excuse me,” Magi said staring at the fine, young rooster on the rafter. “Do you want to play with me?” asked Magi

“Humph! No, I do not want to play with you,” squawked the rooster. “You are just a useless donkey with an odd voice. You are not like me. I am beautiful. I am special. When I get old enough I will be the reason the master wakes up in the morning. Go away. I have to practice.”

A tear dripped down Magi’s soft fur. His barn world was not a happy place after all.
Magi went back to his pen. He was surprised to see the master standing beside his mother.

“Hurry, Magi,” she whispered “we are leaving.”

Magi followed his mother and the master through the barn. It did not bother the other animals to see Magi leave the barn.

“We won’t miss his ears,” said the lambs.

“I won’t miss his ugly brown stripe,” said the calf.

“I won’t miss the awful noise he makes,” said the rooster.

Magi thought how he might miss the barn. It was his home. Magi followed his mother and the master. He thought about his big, long ears, the ugly brown stripe on his back and the funny sound his voice made. He was sad and wondered why he could not give fancy wool or rich milk or make beautiful sounds like the other creatures.

“No wonder they don’t like me,” he sniffed. “I am not special.”

They reached a dark, quiet building on the other side of town. The master took the lead rope and tied Magi’s mother to a big metal ring on the door. The master reached out and gently stroked Magi. Magi felt warm inside for a minute but, as he watched the master walk away, he sighed.

A group of men soon approached the two donkeys.

“Ahh…these must be the animals of which the Teacher speaks,” said one.

Magi hid behind his mother. What were these men talking about? Who was…the Teacher?

Magi’s mother willingly went with the men who untied her rope.

“Come along, Magi,” she said. “The time has come.” Magi did not know what she meant but he could tell she was not afraid. So he followed her.

Back at the barn, the sheep had stopped playing. The calf was looking out the window and the rooster was not practicing. They heard strange sounds coming from the village. The voices got louder and nearer.

A blast of air filled the barn as the door burst open. The master ran in, laughing and dancing. The rooster ruffled his feathers and flew up to the rafters. The lambs stuck their heads in the golden straw. The calf hid behind the rickety, wooden door.

“He has come! Jesus has come as they said He would, and He rides upon the back of my very own little donkey! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!” the master shouted. He grabbed his cloak from a wooden peg and disappeared into the crowd.

Hours later, the excitement died down in the village. The barn was quiet. The rooster was still perched on the rafter. The calf was still in his pen and the lambs hid in the golden straw.

Crunch…crunch…The footsteps got closer and closer. The door creaked open. The master led Magi and his mother through the door. Magi pranced in. His ears stood straight up. His fur glistened and shimmered in the sunlight.

The master untied the rope and gently stroked the stripe on Magi’s back. Then he smiled at Magi’s mother. Just before the master left he quietly bowed, as if before a king.

“Look!” said the rooster.

The sheep and the calf looked at Magi’s back. They had not noticed the other stripes on Magi’s shoulders. It looked like a cross.

"What could it mean?” worried one of the lambs.

“Did you see the master bow to Magi?” said the calf. “It must mean that Magi - is a king after all.”

Magi looked at his mother and smiled. Then he looked at the animals.

“No, I am not a king.” Magi turned to the animals.

“But I was chosen by a King.”

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Interesting donkey fact: Most donkeys, regardless of coat color, have a dorsal stripe and a shoulder cross often described as a ‘donkey cross’.

The Day I Faced My Failure - M. Laycock

This time of year makes me a bit jittery. It’s that time when people ask, “Do you garden?” I take that question personally. I guess it’s a hold-over from my Yukon days, but I always have the feeling the person is really asking, “What are you good for, anyway?” The question always makes me squirm because I’m not good at gardening. I inherited my mother’s black thumb. I’m death to fruits and vegetables.

Not that I haven’t tried. For twelve Yukon summers I dutifully planted rows of cabbage and broccoli, peas and lettuce. Once I replanted three times when late frost hit, only to have it all wilt from an early one in August. With a season of twenty-four hour sunlight, the plants that survived grew furiously but so did the weeds. A neighbour once drove by, honked and called out – “Tendin’ the weed bed, are ye?”

I wanted to give up, but at the end of each summer, I harvested what had managed to survive. I was thankful there was a grocery store in town. We surely would have starved if we’d had to live on what I could grow.

When we moved to Alberta, I anticipated the “game” would go on. When spring arrived I dutifully got out my spade and tested the ground in the back yard. But, oh, woe is me, it was full of roots! The large old cottonwood in the corner of the yard had spread its thick underground fibers far and wide. My husband took a turn at the spade but could find not a single spot suitable to till. Such a pity.

Having an excuse eased the guilt, but I feared my failure was apparent to world. When friends asked if I wanted their harvested leftovers I always said yes, with thanks, but had that nagging suspicion they were pitying me. I knew I was a failure. So did they.

Then one day, a friend asked if I’d like some potatoes. Seems she’d planted way too many and they all grew wonderfully (of course!). My family and I spent a morning digging up her potato patch. It was one of those special times - a glorious morning with the smell of earth freshened by rain and the delight of children’s voices in the crisp fall air. But the most wonderful part was the look on my friend’s face as we loaded the boxes of tubers into our vehicle.

“I just love being able to do this,” she said. “Thanks for coming out.”

The power of her words hung in the air around me for days as a simple truth sank in. There were things I loved doing that could be a blessing to others. I don’t have to be good at everything. It’s okay to be a failure at gardening.

1Peter 4:10 says – “Each one should use whatever gift he has received to serve others, faithfully administering God’s grace in its various forms.” My friend did a great job of that the day she invited us to her potato patch. On that day I started admiring the work of people with green thumbs, without feeling guilty. They have that gift. I have another.

I cultivate words, tilling until there are no weeds, pruning away the excess so the fruit can shine through. God’s gift to me has blessed others as, like my friend with the potato patch, I’ve administered the grace and passed it on to readers all over the world. I no longer feel guilty about my black thumb, or about the many things I can’t do that others can. I feel blessed by what I’ve been given and how God has used it to bless others.

 

Marcia Lee Laycock writes from Central Alberta Canada. Her devotionals have been endorsed by Mark Buchanan and Phil Callaway. She was the winner of the Best New Canadian Christian Author Award for her novel, One Smooth Stone. Visit her website - www.vinemarc.com