Library Love Story by Kimberley Payne

As a child I loved libraries. I loved the smell that rushed me as I pulled open the double doors at the top of the entrance stairway. I loved the hushed quiet with only muted whispers between book lovers.

I loved the colours. Always seasonally decorated, I could enjoy oranges in autumn and pinks in spring. The book spines were a feast for the eyes with varied print sizes and multiple colours.

I loved being treated with respect. When I produced my Library Card, the librarian would smile with her eyes, acknowledging me as “one of ours”. I was only limited by the number of books my bicycle basket could carry. I did not need to justify my choices – they were all good. Everyone knew they were good, just because they were in the library.

I loved the cozy chairs I could crawl up into and get lost in comfort. I loved the round tables, perfect height for me, with chairs to share my discoveries with another “one-of-ours.”

I felt comfortable. I felt at home.

I still do. I love the library. I feel especially called to the children’s section. I still love the inviting places to sit. I still love the fun colours. I still love the joy of discovery, of learning.

I want to be part of this world still. I want to “Peter Pan” my library past.

Today’s librarians may frown at a full-grown adult sprawled on her belly in the middle of the reading carpet, giggling at a picture book. But if I were the one who wrote that book, that would be another story right? And if I read that book to a group of children on that very same carpet, and we all sprawled together, and we all giggled together, that would then be okay, right?

I want to stretch out on the floor and laugh as I read. I want to share this joy with children. I want to create magical memories for them, just as my memories are kept alive with each visit to the library.

Can anyone relate?

Of Whom the World is Not Worthy - by Lynda Schultz

His name was Robert Moffat, (1795-1883) and I "discovered" him while researching an article on Africa. When we think of the so-called "dark continent" the name of David Livingstone often comes to the fore, as it did with me. But it was Moffat who captured my attention in the end.

He came from humble Scottish roots and would always look back at the teaching he received at his mother's knee as pivotal in his spiritual growth. As a lad he took to the sea—something which caused his mother great anxiety. She was much relieved when Robbie took on the safer, and dryer, profession of a gardener. It would be in this context that he discovered his calling to missions, and met his bride-to-be, Mary.

Mary's parents were willing to give their consent to the marriage, but they were not happy with allowing their daughter to go off to South Africa. So Moffat, along with several companions, took that first voyage alone at the age of twenty-one, under the auspices of the London Missionary Society.

Travel in Africa was dangerous business. Moffat, stranded in the desert without water on one such trip, despaired that he would ever see a fruitful, spiritual garden in the midst of his chosen wilderness. But he was not a man to be easily discouraged. In 1817, to the great concern of his friends and colleagues, Moffat headed to the kraal (village) of an tribal leader by the name of Africaner. This man was feared throughout the region for his cruelty. He was well-known as a murderer and thief. But God gave Moffat favour in this man's eyes, and Africaner became one of Moffat's first converts.

Mary's parents finally relented, and allowed her to make the journey to South Africa to marry Robert. By this time, Moffat's vision was directed to a tribal group called the Bechuanas. Among these people, Robert and Mary would minister for many long and difficult years. Before the first tribesmen came to Christ, small inroads in character and conduct occurred. The Bechuanas gave up calling on their rainmaker one year, at Moffat's insistence. That was a time of terrible drought and the Bechuanas eventually came to Moffat's house and threatened him at spear point with death if he didn't leave the area immediately. Mary, with their first child in her arms, watched from the house. Her husband undid his vest, exposing his chest to the armed warriors, and basically told them to take their best shot. Stunned by his bravery, the warriors walked away declaring that this man must have many lives if he was so willing to give up one of them to their spears.

It was twelve years before the first fruit of Moffat's labour was seen among the Bechuanas. When it came, it came in abundance. Robert Moffat dedicated much of his time to language learning and the translation of the Scriptures so that these people could hear and read the Word of God in their own language.

The Moffats returned to England only once in over sixty years of ministry. On that journey, Robert persuaded David Livingstone to go to Africa as a missionary, instead of to China. Livingstone would later marry Mary, the child that Mary Moffat had held in her arms as her husband faced the Bechuana ire on that significant day in their missionary journey.

As I read the story of Robert Moffat, a small part of which I have shared here, I was impacted by the courage and faith of those early missionaries. I fuss at the small sacrifices I make to serve God overseas, only to be shamed when I realize what others before me have endured for the sake of the Kingdom of God.

Has the mold been broken from which the Robert Moffats of the world were made? I hope not. We desperately need humble and faithful servants like him today more than ever.

The Voice of Truth - by Janet Sketchley

Gentle instrumental music and soft lighting drew me into the massage therapy room, and I felt my muscles loosen slightly just because of the atmosphere. A book on a side table drew my eye: Listening.

Soothing title. I walked closer and read the subtitle: “How to increase your awareness of your inner guide.”

Suddenly I didn’t feel so relaxed. I climbed onto the massage table with the sense of being in dangerous territory, and began to pray.

Lord, thank You that I dwell in the shelter of the Most High, and the Spirit of the Most High dwells in me. I’m safe in Your presence.

The Spirit of the Most High dwells in me.... I guess in the language of generic spirituality, that means the Holy Spirit is my “inner guide.” And yes, I do need to learn how to hear Him better.

We have lots of voices that try to direct us, and most are anything but helpful. Selfish desires are bad enough, but we’ve let even worse things in. As the Lord has been teaching me to listen to Him, He’s been evicting the lies I’ve accepted, the fears that have grown bold and vocal.

Father, please continue to silence the voices that would lead us astray. Tune your children’s ears to hear Your still, small voice. You see the souls reaching out for some kind of spiritual contact, looking everywhere but at You, and You love them. In Your grace and mercy, please help them recognize who You are. Give them faith to believe in You.

© Janet Sketchley, 2009
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For devotionals, reviews and conversation, stop by Janet Sketchley's blog, God with Us: Finding Joy.

To the Top

I leaned the full weight of my body on a huge rock. My heart pounded furiously. I needed a few minutes to catch my breath before continuing on toward my goal, the peak of Guagua Pichincha, 15, 729 feet above sea level in Ecuador, South America.

As I rested I looked around me. To my left the steep walls of a volcanic crater fell sharply. There, swirling mists hid bubbling springs of hot water rising from a seething active volcano deep in the earth. The rotten egg smell of sulphur wafted upwards. It would be much easier to walk down into the crater as many people did, than to continue the upwards climb to the mountain peak. There was a well-marked route. But the return climb is a killer. That wasn't for me.

To my right was an awesome sight - green pastures, a peaceful village, more mountains, and the enormous city of Quito. This view was much more tempting. Down in the city, in the villages, people lived in beautiful houses with fragrant gardens. And I wondered what I was doing gasping for breath in the thin air.

I began thinking about my life in Christ. Thanks to God's grace the descent into an evil lifestyle has not appealed to me, but worldly beauty and comfort certainly do. Even good things, gifts of God, can pull me away from the pursuit of God himself.

My heart had slowed somewhat and I started my climb again. This narrow path I was on was the only way to get to the top. If I went into the crater, or down into the green valley, I wouldn't make my goal. I needed to remain focused. But I needed something more than determination. I needed a guide. Our son Travis had been this way before - he was ahead of me, showing me the route. I also needed encouragement. My husband Tim was climbing this mountain for the first time, too. He was behind me, encouraging me, helping me place my hands and feet in the best positions.

In life too I need a guide - Jesus. He's been this way before and He knows the way to the top. And with me are many others; we encourage each other other, cheering each other on, helping each other to place our steps.

Finally, huffing and puffing, we stood in full sunshine on the mountain peak. Waves of mountains undulated in the distance. Rivers trailed their way through valleys and over plains. We turned slowly, enjoying the 360 degree view. Was the climb worth it? Yes, without any doubt!

Lorrie