The Case of the Missing Gun Cabinet Keys; Based on a True Story by Sandra Rafuse

The gun cabinet keys were missing. Bob had looked for them in the safe place where he kept them, but they weren't there and they should have been. He needed to use two of his guns to teach the Hunter Safety course to the registered students in a couple of weeks; the students would handle them one on one (one instructor/one student/one gun) under strict supervision with no ammunition anywhere in sight. Where were the keys?

So began the search: a most unusual occurrence. Anyone who owns guns knows the guns have to be kept locked up in a gun cabinet and the keys put in a safe place somewhere away from the cabinet. Drawers were opened and cleaned out. Floors were thoroughly swept with all the swept-up stuff examined carefully, shelves were searched and items rearranged, pockets were checked, and when all that was done, the process began all over again. How could the keys be missing? They were so important and were never moved from their safe place until they were needed to open the gun cabinet door. Bob was becoming worried that he would have to break open the door and then the gun cabinet would no longer be able to be used. The search went on daily.

It was the middle of the night. The room was dark and I was awake. Lying on my side I stretched out my legs and moved my head higher on the pillow, lifting my eyes to look out the open bedroom door, out into the blackness of the hallway. I was thinking of...what?...nothing. There was only stillness and silence in the room.

Then...'They're on top of the door jamb'. A clear, calm, and peaceful voice spoke in my mind. I knew immediately what the voice was telling me. Raising my blanket and tossing it aside, I carefully and quietly slipped out of bed and stepped out of the bedroom into the hallway. Searching with my eyes through the dimly lit area, I took three steps forward to the doorway of our boys' room. Lifting my right hand to the top of the door frame, I deftly moved my fingers along the top of the wood until they bumped into something hard. I knew what it was...there they were...the missing gun cabinet keys!

The memory of a day a couple of weeks ago came rushing back. I had been planning to clean out a few drawers in a secretary and when I opened the top drawer, I saw the keys lying in a corner.  Knowing they needed to be kept in a safe place while I cleaned, I turned and looked at the nearby door frame to the boys' bedroom.  And what thought came into my mind? The most logical one of course. 'What safer place to put the keys than up on the door jamb?' Right there and then I put them on top and promptly forgot about them until this night.

Oh joy! Just like that, the missing gun cabinet keys were found. The case was closed. I wanted to wake  Bob up right away but I knew he needed his sleep so I let him be. As I lay there, with the keys safely under my pillow, I anticipated the look on his face in the morning when I would tell him they had been found. And I thought about the voice that had spoken to me. I thought of how good God is to be concerned about everything that happens in Bob's and my life. In his own timing, he gives us the answers we are looking for and we are helped.

 

Sandra Rafuse lives in the small town of Rockglen, Saskatchewan with her husband, Bob, a Gordon Setter named Sadie, an old and much loved cat named Kitty, and a Peregrine falcon named Peet. She is a retired teacher and an amateur writer and is enjoying having the opportunity to share what God has been teaching her through all her life experiences very much.

 

 

P.S. It was while I was contemplating which genre I should try to write in this month that I recalled the missing keys situation. 'I'll try and write a short mystery story', I thought to myself. 'Maybe I will become another Agatha Christie'. So I checked out "mystery" on the internet and found out I would need to have a murder take place in the story to make it a real mystery. Oh dear. That wasn't going to happen here. Well, I figured that this was a mystery anyway and decided to go ahead and give it a try. I now have even more admiration and respect for all those great mystery writers out there. Kudos to them!

They Call Me Pastor by Bob Jones

The July prompt invited us to explore a genre we have never written in. Mine is poetry. I researched the various types of poetry: free style, haiku, ode, elegy, epic, ballad, acrostic, sonnet, and limerick to name a few.

Here’s my attempt at my own definition of freestyle poetry.

Being a pastor is not something to which I aspired.
It certainly wasn't a childhood desire.
By nurture, I'm a people person.
By nature, I’m the opposite version.

See a turtle on a fence post?
It didn't get there on its own
someone placed it there alone.
My fence post is a platform
that is not the norm,
of pastoral dare
for people under my care.

My most common connections with people occur
Sundays in the church foyer, which I prefer.

Preaching, teaching, praying, and meetings that are kept short,
Or officiating a wedding, a baby dedication or a celebration of some sort.

My most enduring connections are with people in crisis,
careening through a divorce,
facing debilitating distress,
suddenly bereaved,
with a loved one in need of help,
or diagnosed with a terminal illness,
not knowing where else to turn, who call for help.

We cry together,
struggle together,
pray together,
mourn together,
heal together.

Those circumstances create timeless connections.

We bond because of the shared pain and grace,
and thrive through the things we face.
We become warrior, sisters, brothers,
because our light has not been smothered.

It's easy to pick up a conversation after many months of separation,
renewed connections need no preparation.

Every so often, one of those connections does not stand the test of time.
Or trouble.

Seemingly out of the blue there is a change.

When my leadership,
spiritual insight,
ministry,
vision,
friendship,
are no longer adequate for their,
preference/need/circumstance,

and a close friend/co-worker/congregant
chooses to no longer be an ally,

I have to say,
“Ouch,”
and then,
“Grace and peace to you.”

…and continue to nurture and focus on the people still in my care.

I'd like to say that I have learned not to let such experiences of loss affect me, but I haven’t.

I’ve concluded that pain is the price of caring and vulnerability.
Jesus understood that.

After all,
who was it that experienced the first, “Judas Kiss?”

My pastoral ministry has spanned forty-four years, however in many ways I feel like a rookie.

I suppose that’s good because it means that each day brings new,
challenges,
complexities,
opportunities,
ways of doing things, and
ways of dealing with life.

The newness compels me to lean hard into Jesus.

No two days of ministry are EVER the same.

Variety is the spice of life,
and my pastoral experience is 5-pepper spicy.

There is nothing I would rather be than a pastor,
Even though other careers

To hear someone, someday say
that my life helped saved the day
or inspired them to pursue pastoral
would be my highest commendation.

Til then,
I will keep the faith,
fight the good fight,
run with perseverance,
long for His appearing,
forget what is behind, and
press toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me.

And there you go. How did I do?

Thank you for reading all the way through.

Exploring Poetry by Sandi Somers

 

First Limerick 

During my second year of teaching, I introduced limericks to my Grade Five class. We studied the rhythm and rhyme scheme. Then before asking each student to try writing one, we composed one together. Chuckles and laughter filled the classroom, and my chest filled with pride for my creative students. I’ve never forgotten it.

 

There was an old car without tires,

Who always ran over those liars.

When the liars got caught,

The car said, “O gosh!

I’ll never be sold to the buyers.” 

                            

There are times I’m inspired by poetry and spin off a well-known (to me) poem. To give a background to the poem below, my InScribe local writers’ group was practising alliteration, onomatopoeia, rhythm, and repetition, using as our model Alfred Noyes’ “The Highwayman” (read it here). One morning, with a sudden inspiration, I began to write my own spin off. I composed half of it in a few minutes, and the rest needed to be thought out carefully day by day. I submitted it to FellowScript, and it was published. You may have read it there. 

The Deadline

 (Apologies to Alfred Noyes’ “The Highwayman”)

 

The moon was a missile of motion

Sailing through starlit skies

And the shaft of light through the window

Shone as I typed through my tears

 

My mind lay bare in the moonlight—       

          Blank and bare in the moonlight

And the blood of my veins in the moonlight

Throbbed at my sweated brow

 

There was pressure at every keystroke

And cross-offs on every dark line

For I couldn’t see through my tears

The direction I should take.

 

Then softly a whisper I listened

And then I heard the Lord say

Look to me for insight

          Watch for me for insight

I’ll inspire you ‘fore midnight

And nothing can bar your way.

 

I whispered a prayer of great thanks

As I swirled words and phrases

T’was only God who had done it

Had given me words that I needed

 

My mind shone with brilliance

My thoughts flew like flickers

And this writer kept writing—

          Writing—writing

I kept writing to the dreaded deadline.

 

And now ere the stroke of midnight

Soft ere the stroke of midnight

The tip of my finger touched “Send”

The submission at last t’was complete.

 

And there you have it. Poetry brings images and vividness to life that sometimes can’t be expressed in prose. Poetry elevates our language. I might say that I was inspired to write a poem, but the psalmist began with these wonderful words: 

 

My heart is stirred by a noble theme as I recite my verses for the king;

my tongue is the pen of a skillful writer. 

Psalm 45:1 (NIV)

 

Sandi Somers writes mostly non-fiction, but has explored fiction, particularly historical and Biblical fiction. Most of her poetry learning has come from poets in her InScribe local writers’ group. 

Image by Tea time reading poetry

No Zombies Here by Brenda J Wood

I started out with cookbooks. They suited my time frame.

Several years went by. I upped my writing game.

Columns in newspapers. Dabbles in low-cal food;

Potato menus yearly for Potato Festival brood.

And then I found my Jesus. Devos then my game;

Because, you all know it. I really wasn’t the same.

Heart-to-Heart, a devo. God, Gluttony & You - Bible study rage.

Others all soon followed as I wrote page on page.

The numbers kept on rising. Two books on grief alone.

Bible studies gathered. All of them my own.

Christmas, children, poetry. I wrote them all, my pets.

The Slightly Murderous Christian - that’s what old age gets.

Books on fat and eating. Cheering You Up on Your Weigh Down.

What’s left? I ask politely, as I write in dressing gown!

What’s left to challenge? On this one you can bet.

I haven’t written horror or Zombies. No, not yet.

Those all die a perfect death. My heart denies them breath.

And do remember friends. Keep writing unto death.

(Top)Image by NietjuhArt from Pixabay

Brenda J Wood has authored more than fifty books. She is a seasoned motivational speaker, who declares the Word of God with wisdom, humour, and common sense.