The Bush Dweller was my friend

About Father James Gray, Tim Lilburn, GG award winning poet said, “Certain few people possess a genius for friendship and for listening; they hear the stories of others in such ample, creative, liberating ways that those who speak with them are quickened.”

It was only after my friend and mentor died that I became aware of the mountain of influence this solitary monk had on the minds and hearts of so many. In one of those remarkable human paradoxes, James Gray’s hermitage became, over the years, the secret refuge of hundreds. His solitary life was lived for others. His generosity of spirit is now planted in hearts across the country.

For my part, I'm thrilled and honoured to be included in this collection of essays in memory of Father James Gray OSB—Benedictine monk, professor of literature, hermit, spiritual father and advisor…Canada’s own Thomas Merton; but above all, my friend.

In this book there are stories about Fr. James from authors and poets such as Trevor Herriot, Jane Munro, and Jan Zwicky, as well as from artists, academics, teachers, journalists, monastics, social activists and gardeners.

Here is a short excerpt from my essay:

His life came rising and shining into this world, and when it set, a corner of the world was found a better place. To those of us privileged to know him, he was a model, mentor and friend. In his loving fraternity we discovered that friendship has to do with finding refuge in each others hearts. As mentor, we found through his counsel, a clearer sense of our own calling, our own giftedness and our own possibilities. As model, we grew alongside Father James’ own deep longing for peace—St. Benedict’s watchword. And in our better moments we were able to leave the domain of fear and be angry at injustice, and pray and in our own way work for peace. He used to say that humanity is still in swaddling clothes. But because of James Gray, some maturing has occurred—because he followed his own calling with single-minded determination and charity.

The last time we had tea with Fr. James he dropped his cup—the lip broke on the floor and tea splashed over the tile. The three of us, Deb and I, and Father James in his habit, got down on our knees and cleaned everything up with Kleenex. He joked that he'd better leave before he wrecked the place. We talked some more and then he left but not before giving us one of his vice-grip hugs. From the door, I watched him disappear down the hall of the Severin guest wing.

The image endures. And with it, memories like migratory cycles glide back to me fresh as spring and I thank God for the life of Father James—still somehow alive in me—and alive in the lives of so many more.

Writing Believable Characters - Bonnie Way

In 2000, just after I discovered and joined ICWF, my grandma mentioned to me, "There's a writer at our church. Maybe she could give you some advice." She introduced me to Cynthia Post, who, it turned out, was also an Inscriber. We were able to meet at the Fall Conference 2000 (my over-protective dad let me go partly because Cynthia would be there to watch out for me) and in the next few years, Cynthia answered many of my questions by letter.

She passed away a few years ago after a battle with cancer. Some of her poems appeared in Inscribed and I still have one of the novels she wrote and self-published. She was also a talented artist. Recently, as I was going through one of my writer's binders and trying to organize, I found some of the letters that she wrote me. I thought I would share her advice on "Believable Characters" here.

Believable Characters

"A manuscript that lacks realistic characters is no more than a bunch of words."

That is a direct quote from Colleen L. Reece, who has published more than 20 novels and numerous short stories and is an instructor for the Writer's Digest School Short Story course.

Characters are the magic formula, yet they are often overlooked. If readers can't love, hate, or despair with the people who walk the pages of your novel, or short story, or for that matter newspaper article—all of the fancy writing will go for naught.

Characters must become real to you, the writer, or they cannot possibly become real to your reader. Can you allow them to become so real that they occupy your space—take on such a dimension that you can feel, see, smell, and think like they do?

You no longer have to ask yourself how they might react to a particular situation—you know. Writing becomes consistent, and much easier. You are no longer having to manipulate your characters, hoping each character is reacting correctly to the personality you have given them.

In a novel or short story your characters can become more appealing, more despicable, more understanding or understandable.

The best way I can suggest digging into each character—at least those that matter to you—is to set up a character chart for each one. Now don't panic—it will take a few days, or maybe longer to fill in all the gaps. You may ask why do all the details. "Who cares about all this stuff. I'm not going to use it in my story."—Is that your reaction? Why should you care?

No, you won't use all the "stuff" in your manuscript but you can't get to know your character if you don't know his/her history—what makes him what he is, and how he reacts to certain things. Ask yourself "why."

It is a lot easier to answer "what if" when you are writing if you know "why."

~ © Cynthia Post, September 1994

Think back over the books you've read. What characters do you remember? What characters did you love or hate? What made them so loveable or despicable?  Have some characters made you wonder why they would do something?

~ © Bonnie Way, aka The Koala Bear Writer

We've Only Just Begun -- Janet Sketchley

My best mornings begin with a special time alone with God. These days it’s once the kids are in school. When they were small, desperation had me setting my alarm early enough to fortify my spirit before getting into the breakfast chaos.

In the shelter of my bed (sitting up to keep awake) I’d enjoy a quiet time of prayer and Scripture. It was like a spiritual snuggle with my Divine Parent before I faced my own parenting role.

The Bible has so many images of the parental aspects of God’s heart. One particular morning, I was musing on the description of Him as “Father to the fatherless” (Psalm 68:5)

I’d been raised by wonderful parents, who were still an integral part of my wellbeing. But I was in my mid-thirties, with a husband and children of my own. I had grown up.

Still, part of me often felt like an orphaned child, cowering alone. I ached for God to be that Father – and Mother – to me now.

I poured out my fears and loneliness to Him in prayer, longing to rest in His love – the same way I had rested in my parents’ love as a child. Abba… Papa… help me to stay in the shelter of Your care. Grow me under Your watchful eye.

After a while, I felt in my heart that it was time to get up. Lord, I sense our time together is over now….

I meant it as clarification – am I really supposed to get up? I’d neither read His Word nor listened for His leading. I’d done all the talking – again.

A gentle reassurance interrupted me: Oh, no… we’ve just begun.

Could I really have heard His message, inaudible but understood? It resonated in my soul, a wonderful, warm, loving promise.

What followed was the mental equivalent of that little scoot that a parent gives a toddler to send her out to play after a hug. With a smile for the future, I scooted.

© Janet Sketchley, 2011

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For devotionals, reviews and conversation, stop by Janet Sketchley's blog, God with Us: Finding Joy.

After the Storm - by Glynis M. Belec

©2003

God sent me a message of hope this morning. The fleece that I had begged Him for was hopping daintily amid the rotting apples at the base of the ancient tree. I saw a robin. A downy, red-breasted creature, with feathers fluffed, pecking in earnest at the decaying fruit. It was a brilliant contrast to the milky, white snow.

The storm had passed. For two days, the buses were halted. Roads were closed and virtually all modes of transportation had been postponed.

Today the sun-kissed snow banks cover any hint that spring will soon be making her obligatory debut. It is February. Spring does not usually happen here for another two months.

I gaze upon my lovely-feathered friend as it samples the fallen fruit. I think about my visit with God. Divine appointments, I have discovered, rely not on my own schedule but solely on God’s timing.

Earlier this morning I felt that old familiar 3am nudge. I fought at first for the night was chilly and I did not want to forfeit the warmth of my cozy bedclothes.

Another prod from God startled me into consciousness. I immediately knew that I had to pay attention. I had been struggling with some issues on trust and spiritual surrender. I was experiencing a despair that seemed insurmountable.

I managed to maneuver my way in the darkness and avoided the pile of newspapers that had slid haphazardly from my bed. My husband’s rhythmical, inspiratory wheezing indicated that I was not interrupting his slumber.

My Bible lay, beckoning on the kitchen table. The scriptures that I was led to read were about taming the tongue, and Proverbs 12:25 – An anxious heart weighs a man down, but a kind word cheers him up.

“But, God…” I begged, “what does this all have to do with trust and spiritual surrender?” Then I deliberately turned to one of my favorite verses, Matthew 11:28 Come to Me all who are weary and burdened – and I will give you rest. And then another – Psalm 46:10 – Be still and know that I am God.

Suddenly it fit. My tongue was making me anxious and my tongue was blocking my vision of God. This was impeding my ability to trust. If I could not trust how could I surrender? However, I told God I needed a sign. I cupped my hands in request. A warm blanket of anticipation covered me and I returned to bed.

This morning I gaze in awe at my little scarlet-breasted friend and think about the significance of its untimely appearance. I hurry for my binoculars and lament that I have no battery in my camera. Who will believe me? Then I remember that it doesn’t matter. The robin is for me. The robin is a sign of hope for me. After the storms, spring will come. I sit here caressing the rim of my china mug and sipping my tea. I decide to be still and know that He is God.