Wow! December already?! Has it crept up on you?
Things often catch us off guard. We get wrapped up in day to day living and time slips by. Suddenly we arrive at a point we may not be prepared to face.
My eldest will celebrate her twenty-fourth birthday today. Twenty-four! A few years ago I wrote a similar piece when she turned eighteen. That was a milestone I had a hard time facing and now we’ve arrived at another – she is going to be married in July.
I’ve been expecting this for some time, but somehow I don’t think I really was prepared for those words, “Mom, I’m getting married!” I admit I'm not ready. My daughter is planning her wedding and her first day of kindergarten seems like yesterday. There are so many things I wanted to do with her, things I wanted to teach her, things I wanted to say, but now there just isn't enough time. She's an adult launching into the world to live her own life, and that's as it should be. But I can't help wishing she were only turning sixteen or fourteen. I can’t help wishing that she was still a little girl under our roof. That would give me time to get used to the idea that some day she'd be leaving. That would give me time to prepare ... or would it?
Somehow I suspect the day would still be a surprise, no matter how much it was delayed.
There is a day that has been delayed for centuries, according to scripture. When Jesus predicted his death, he also predicted his return. He tried to prepare his friends for his leaving, and tried to tell them to prepare for the day when he would come back. The words didn't sink in. When Jesus was arrested, they fled in terror. For hundreds of years since, preparations for his return have been sadly lacking.
In Matthew 24:44-51, Jesus tells a story about a master who leaves his house in the charge of a servant. He asks: "Who then is the faithful and wise servant, whom the master has put in charge of the servants in his household, to give them their food at the proper time? It will be good for that servant whose master finds him doing so when he returns."
Who is that servant? It's you. It's me. Part of the preparation for the return of Christ is to care for those around us, both physically and spiritually. We will be accountable when Jesus returns. He ends his story with a warning: "But suppose that servant is wicked and says to himself, 'my master is staying away a long time,' and he then begins to beat his fellow servants and to eat and drink with drunkards. The master of that servant will come on a day when he does not expect him and at an hour he is not aware of. He will cut him to pieces and assign him a place with the hypocrites, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth."
The day will be a surprise, to all of us. It could be today. Are you ready?
InScribe Writers Online Blog - Where members share their writings with each other and the world
November 30, 2006
November 27, 2006
The Adam & Eve Project Prologue by Donna Fawcett
Thought I'd give you a sample of the newly released novel featured in Word Alive's promotion.
In the underground bunker the voices bounced hollowly, like floating apparitions of sound. It was 1940 and the German war machine was smashing its way boldly through Western Europe. Poland was occupied. The Germans had flanked the Maginot line entering Holland without as much as a warning. Britain sat itself squarely in Belgium, like a steadfast bulldog prepared to guard new territory. Japan turned its eyes on the vastness of the South Pacific, hungering for the expansion of her mighty empire, and Itally ceased waffling between the Axis powers and the Allies, firmly deciding to join with the nearest geographical might.
But in the bowels of the earth none of this was of importance at the moment. No one knew of this particular hole in the dirt. Far below the titanic conflict that threatened to destroy all that lived and moved in this European corner of the world nestled a conglomerate of rooms tied together by narrow and dimly lit halls. The rooms were proportionate only to the ability of their stabilizing structures in the effort to keep the tons of dirt above from swallowing them, but even still, they were large enough to host small groups of scheming and heavy thinking men who enjoyed their strutting and crowing before the red and black banner of the Nazi movement. The thick language of the German people chopped through one room in particular, anger and dissatisfaction crashing against the steel walls like relentless mortar shells.
"What do you mean, you had to stop the Project? How do you know for certain that anyone is aware of the complex?"
The Fuehrer jumped to his feet, knocking the chair back in his tirade, a lock of unruly dark hair flopping across the tense forehead and spittle flecking the corners of his mouth. His eyes were wild with an instant fear and fury as he faced the possibility that his lifelong dream might be discovered by the enemy. Drawing a calming breath, the man struggled to control his infamous temper, and reached down to upright the chair. He sat slowly again, like a snake lowering itself into its coils before the strike. Glittering eyes scanned the faces in the room, noting with a strange satisfaction that no one would return his intense stare. That was good. They feared him.
The young officer who had brough the message stood straight as a rod, but Adoph Hitler could see that the lad was terrified. He wouldn't be the first one the leader of Germany had shot for delivering an unfavourable message. Hitler narrowed his eyes and looked closely at the young man. Perfect. Beautiful. Foundation stock. Why is he not part of The Project?
He eyed the second lieutenant like a predator would assess its next meal. The man was easily six feet tall and built solidly. Deep azure eyes drilled holes in the far wall, never wavering. Hair, so blonde--almost white--and silky, covered his head in a thick and wavy carpet. His skin was fair like a woman's and his cheeks were tinted with a bright red, telling all in the room that he feared the attention of his Fuehrer.
"What's your name, Leutnant?" He pronounced the German equivalent rank as 'loy-ten-nant.'
"Eric, Mien Fuehrer. Eric Schneider," the young man said in an even, steady voice.
"What part do you have in the Project?" The words purred through the room and a few of the Generals shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
"I was in charge of security, Mien Fuehrer."
"I see." He was suddenly amused by the craftiness of The Project's chief scientist. The fat old man was a genius in diplomacy and politics as much as he was in his particular scientific field. If the French had discovered the whereabouts of the experimental laboratory, it was because of this young man's inability to do his job correctly, and the aging scientist would make certain the punishment didn't land on his own doorstep. Pity such a lovely specimen of the Aryan race had to be so incompetent. He watched as the man swallowed hard, the fine forehead beading with perspiration.
To find out how it all ends, look for the Adam & Eve Project in your local Christian Book Store through Word Alive Press. OK so I couldn't help promoting:)
Prologue
In the underground bunker the voices bounced hollowly, like floating apparitions of sound. It was 1940 and the German war machine was smashing its way boldly through Western Europe. Poland was occupied. The Germans had flanked the Maginot line entering Holland without as much as a warning. Britain sat itself squarely in Belgium, like a steadfast bulldog prepared to guard new territory. Japan turned its eyes on the vastness of the South Pacific, hungering for the expansion of her mighty empire, and Itally ceased waffling between the Axis powers and the Allies, firmly deciding to join with the nearest geographical might.
But in the bowels of the earth none of this was of importance at the moment. No one knew of this particular hole in the dirt. Far below the titanic conflict that threatened to destroy all that lived and moved in this European corner of the world nestled a conglomerate of rooms tied together by narrow and dimly lit halls. The rooms were proportionate only to the ability of their stabilizing structures in the effort to keep the tons of dirt above from swallowing them, but even still, they were large enough to host small groups of scheming and heavy thinking men who enjoyed their strutting and crowing before the red and black banner of the Nazi movement. The thick language of the German people chopped through one room in particular, anger and dissatisfaction crashing against the steel walls like relentless mortar shells.
"What do you mean, you had to stop the Project? How do you know for certain that anyone is aware of the complex?"
The Fuehrer jumped to his feet, knocking the chair back in his tirade, a lock of unruly dark hair flopping across the tense forehead and spittle flecking the corners of his mouth. His eyes were wild with an instant fear and fury as he faced the possibility that his lifelong dream might be discovered by the enemy. Drawing a calming breath, the man struggled to control his infamous temper, and reached down to upright the chair. He sat slowly again, like a snake lowering itself into its coils before the strike. Glittering eyes scanned the faces in the room, noting with a strange satisfaction that no one would return his intense stare. That was good. They feared him.
The young officer who had brough the message stood straight as a rod, but Adoph Hitler could see that the lad was terrified. He wouldn't be the first one the leader of Germany had shot for delivering an unfavourable message. Hitler narrowed his eyes and looked closely at the young man. Perfect. Beautiful. Foundation stock. Why is he not part of The Project?
He eyed the second lieutenant like a predator would assess its next meal. The man was easily six feet tall and built solidly. Deep azure eyes drilled holes in the far wall, never wavering. Hair, so blonde--almost white--and silky, covered his head in a thick and wavy carpet. His skin was fair like a woman's and his cheeks were tinted with a bright red, telling all in the room that he feared the attention of his Fuehrer.
"What's your name, Leutnant?" He pronounced the German equivalent rank as 'loy-ten-nant.'
"Eric, Mien Fuehrer. Eric Schneider," the young man said in an even, steady voice.
"What part do you have in the Project?" The words purred through the room and a few of the Generals shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
"I was in charge of security, Mien Fuehrer."
"I see." He was suddenly amused by the craftiness of The Project's chief scientist. The fat old man was a genius in diplomacy and politics as much as he was in his particular scientific field. If the French had discovered the whereabouts of the experimental laboratory, it was because of this young man's inability to do his job correctly, and the aging scientist would make certain the punishment didn't land on his own doorstep. Pity such a lovely specimen of the Aryan race had to be so incompetent. He watched as the man swallowed hard, the fine forehead beading with perspiration.
To find out how it all ends, look for the Adam & Eve Project in your local Christian Book Store through Word Alive Press. OK so I couldn't help promoting:)
November 23, 2006
In a Safe Place - by Mary
“Can you visualize your conception?” asked the counselor. “Can you accept that you were meant to be born?”
“No,” I said. “No I can’t.” I sat in a small group recalling past hurtful events in my life, I felt able to forgive all who had hurt me and to ask forgiveness for my own wrongdoings to others, but I could not accept that my existence was planned by anyone, let alone God. After all, my birth, in England had been the result of an affair that my mother had outside of marriage, and I had recently learned she had even tried to abort me.
I was two weeks old when my mother gave me to an order of Anglican nuns. The nuns raised me along with other children in a convent. Growing up, I fantasized that I was really a princess from a faraway land. And I dreamed that one day my African father would come and take me away to live in his palace. It was the beginning of dreams where I longed to escape from reality.
As you can imagine, life in a convent was a somewhat unnatural childhood, and unfortunately even included abuse by some of the workers. I emerged from it a desperately shy and fearful teenager, but I loved the arts. My high school teacher suggested I should pursue a career in that field, and again I dreamed of escape: perhaps I could be a singer, or a painter. The Reverend Mother had other ideas however and suggested that I apply to nursing school. I protested tearfully, telling her about my longings, but art, she said, was a lofty pursuit. I had to be practical and apply to nursing school. A good and noble profession, she said. Reluctantly I obeyed.
After three years of study I graduated as a registered nurse, fell in love, married and had children. All was well for a few years but then I had surgery followed by complications, and almost died. It was then I found out that my husband was having an affair. He would visit me in the hospital and then leave to be with his girlfriend.
Upon my recovery my husband suggested we immigrate to Canada. He convinced me the affair was over and that we would start afresh. As was often the case in those days, he left England first, to secure a job in the new place, and the children and I were to join him later.
When we finally arrived in Canada, it was to learn he was living with his girlfriend and we were alone in this new country. Fortunately, I had a friend here and she came to my rescue, taking my four children and me in until I found a house to rent.
It was during that lonely and frightening time that I began to attend a church in my neighborhood. There for the first time I came to believe that God was there for me, but now sitting in a group session, I was surprised at the gamut of emotions that ran through my mind, as the counselor assured me that God had planned my existence. I had actually come to the course thinking of it as a training session to help others, not realizing that I had issues to deal with myself.
Now I sat listening to the counselor. “When you go home tonight,” he said, “ask God to show you your conception.” I didn’t know if I was prepared for that, but considered the suggestion and acknowledged its importance. I realized that subconsciously I was apologetic for my very existence and it was affecting every aspect of my life.
“God,” I said, as I lay in bed that night, “please show me in some way that my conception was okay with you.” With eyes closed, I waited then watched in amazement as a bright yellow flower shaped in the form of hands cupped together appeared before me. It was like a giant tulip viewed from the side, with the head flexed forward. The head was made of thousands of slender petals overlapping one another in waves. The flower swayed fiercely in a strong wind that tore some of the petals off, but it remained resolute and tightly closed. Then I saw a tiny fetus curled up inside and I knew it was me. I realized the strong winds represented my mother’s efforts to abort me.
God had not allowed my destruction and I marveled at the knowledge. If he could protect me then, surely my life now, was in his hands! As I watched the bright yellow flower swaying, I thought: ‘My favorite color, yellow!’ Had I seen it then, even in my mother’s womb?
I cried at the wonder of it all and in the crying was healed.
------------------------------------
Published in Beyond Ordinary Living magazine June/July 2006
“No,” I said. “No I can’t.” I sat in a small group recalling past hurtful events in my life, I felt able to forgive all who had hurt me and to ask forgiveness for my own wrongdoings to others, but I could not accept that my existence was planned by anyone, let alone God. After all, my birth, in England had been the result of an affair that my mother had outside of marriage, and I had recently learned she had even tried to abort me.
I was two weeks old when my mother gave me to an order of Anglican nuns. The nuns raised me along with other children in a convent. Growing up, I fantasized that I was really a princess from a faraway land. And I dreamed that one day my African father would come and take me away to live in his palace. It was the beginning of dreams where I longed to escape from reality.
As you can imagine, life in a convent was a somewhat unnatural childhood, and unfortunately even included abuse by some of the workers. I emerged from it a desperately shy and fearful teenager, but I loved the arts. My high school teacher suggested I should pursue a career in that field, and again I dreamed of escape: perhaps I could be a singer, or a painter. The Reverend Mother had other ideas however and suggested that I apply to nursing school. I protested tearfully, telling her about my longings, but art, she said, was a lofty pursuit. I had to be practical and apply to nursing school. A good and noble profession, she said. Reluctantly I obeyed.
After three years of study I graduated as a registered nurse, fell in love, married and had children. All was well for a few years but then I had surgery followed by complications, and almost died. It was then I found out that my husband was having an affair. He would visit me in the hospital and then leave to be with his girlfriend.
Upon my recovery my husband suggested we immigrate to Canada. He convinced me the affair was over and that we would start afresh. As was often the case in those days, he left England first, to secure a job in the new place, and the children and I were to join him later.
When we finally arrived in Canada, it was to learn he was living with his girlfriend and we were alone in this new country. Fortunately, I had a friend here and she came to my rescue, taking my four children and me in until I found a house to rent.
It was during that lonely and frightening time that I began to attend a church in my neighborhood. There for the first time I came to believe that God was there for me, but now sitting in a group session, I was surprised at the gamut of emotions that ran through my mind, as the counselor assured me that God had planned my existence. I had actually come to the course thinking of it as a training session to help others, not realizing that I had issues to deal with myself.
Now I sat listening to the counselor. “When you go home tonight,” he said, “ask God to show you your conception.” I didn’t know if I was prepared for that, but considered the suggestion and acknowledged its importance. I realized that subconsciously I was apologetic for my very existence and it was affecting every aspect of my life.
“God,” I said, as I lay in bed that night, “please show me in some way that my conception was okay with you.” With eyes closed, I waited then watched in amazement as a bright yellow flower shaped in the form of hands cupped together appeared before me. It was like a giant tulip viewed from the side, with the head flexed forward. The head was made of thousands of slender petals overlapping one another in waves. The flower swayed fiercely in a strong wind that tore some of the petals off, but it remained resolute and tightly closed. Then I saw a tiny fetus curled up inside and I knew it was me. I realized the strong winds represented my mother’s efforts to abort me.
God had not allowed my destruction and I marveled at the knowledge. If he could protect me then, surely my life now, was in his hands! As I watched the bright yellow flower swaying, I thought: ‘My favorite color, yellow!’ Had I seen it then, even in my mother’s womb?
I cried at the wonder of it all and in the crying was healed.
------------------------------------
Published in Beyond Ordinary Living magazine June/July 2006
November 20, 2006
InScribers Review: Winter Birds by Jamie Langston Turner
Title: Winter Birds
Author: Jamie Langston Turner
Publisher: Bethany House - 2006, 400 pages
Genre: Contemporary Christian fiction
ISBN: 0764200151
“At eighty I knew I must not delay. The branches of the tree were nearly bare. My method: I sent letters to nine people, family acquaintances, five of whom responded, to apply as Providers of Winter Hospice for Sophia Marie Langham Hess.”
The wealthy widow Sophia chooses, finally, to live with her nephew and his wife in a modest bungalow in Greenville, Mississippi. Winter Birds, Jamie Langston Turner’s third novel, is the story of Ms. Hess in that winter season and the tale of the gradual unthawing of her heart in the home of Patrick and Rachel.
The time period spanned in this contemporary novel is about one year, though through Sophia’s flashbacks and memories we are able to piece together the entire life story of this intelligent but embittered octogenarian. The setting is spare. Mostly we’re in Sophia’s room which looks out over a playground, has in view a mortuary and, just outside the window, a bird feeder.
This book majors on characters. Sophia, the main character, who tells the entire story in first person (present tense, no less), is rich and complex. As a former English teacher and the widow of Eliot Hess, a noted Shakespeare professor, she shows herself to be intelligent, cultured and perceptive. She is also sneaky, funny and at times a less than reliable narrator, colored as her outlook is by low self-esteem, betrayal, disappointment and cynicism.
Other main characters Patrick and Rachel as well as secondary characters Terri, Steve and Potts are seen and interpreted through Sophia’s eyes in satisfying physical and psychological detail. Sophia’s penchant for people-watching leads to some amusing reflections - like this one at the Christmas dinner table, when most of the guests are gushing about the pin Sophia got as a gift and Sophia, catching the look on teenager Mindy’s face muses:
"Mindy is eying the pin, frowning slightly as if wondering how such a small thing, something she would never be caught wearing, can evoke such emotion from adults. Perhaps she will tell her friends about it later: “And this fat old woman was wearing this weird-looking bird pin that everyone was having a cow over!”
Langston Turner’s prose style is simple. In one place she has Sophia overhear aspiring writer Patrick report to Rachel “in painstaking detail” (Sophia thinks Patrick is an incredible bore) something his teacher has said about “two kinds of simplicity – one producing art, the other banality.” As I read this book, I got the feeling that simplicity producing art was the effect Langston Turner was after and, in my opinion, achieved. But if the prose is simple, other stylistic features like Shakespearean lines as titles and the descriptions of bird behavior under those titles, both of which are then woven into the story line of the chapter, make the book satisfyingly thoughtful and layered.
Death is a theme that runs through the entire story. That’s probably not surprising, as Sophia is 80 and feels that her own is imminent. This theme is underlined again and again as Sophia watches the goings-on at the mortuary across the street and obsessively reads the "Milestones" columns from old Time magazines, paying special attention to the obits. Other themes that emerge as the back story unfolds are betrayal and deception. What finally transforms this often pessimistic story into a hopeful one is the message that love has the power to heal and restore.
The Christian aspect of the novel is handled with a light touch. Sophia, herself a skeptic throughout the book, does a good job of articulating common objections to belief. These are countered not with platitudes and sermons but with actions. Rachel, Patrick and others do a good job of showing in their own imperfect ways, what it means to serve and love the way Jesus taught.
This book is easily one of my favorites of 2006. The beautiful writing full of wisdom, literary allusions and stylistic elegance give it the moodling possibilities of poetry. Its quiet but compelling plot, realistic characters and sly humor made me wish it were twice as long. It reminds me of Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead and, like that book, it’s one I’m planning to read again, this time with highlighter always at hand.
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