War of the Weather

As published online by
Donna Dawson
Author of Redeemed and The Adam & Eve Project


A war has been waged between snow and rain in our little world. Neither has won and both have settled for a compromise. As I trudge to the barn, my feet crunch over a carpet of ice, crushing the layers with my weight into shards of rotted vegetation and firm fluid. The Manitoba maple, its massive crown sheathed in a glittering coat, bows only slightly as though this is a covering of little significance. The row of cedars that run along the southern fenceline droop and sag, green bows decorated as though adorned with jewels of great value. They look sad in spite of the splendor and I can't help but feel their effort to remain erect.

It is as though I have stepped through the wardrobe into that barren and bitter world of Narnia and I shiver against the sterile beauty. My wire fences have a scalloped appearance as they swing from one ice-glazed post to the next. Silence reigns supreme, interrupted only by an occasional tinkling as droplets of ice break free from their coniferous perches to skitter across the unending skating rinks. The apple tree sends skeletal arms outward, not quite able to reach heavenward because of its shining fetters.

I enter the barn and instantly leave the ostentatious sameness of the outdoors for the variety of sounds and smells and colours. Bubba greets me with his eager yowl and embraces my leg with the shrug of a furry side. The horses grumble their hunger and watch me as I load up the sled with the muted green hay. And then I step back into the fairy land of still giants and ice statues and I deposit my cargo in the center of the paddock. It looks out of place, the only speck of colour in this whole landscape.

The horses smell the crisp, moist air and shuffle in their haste to be out in the open. I throw wide the stall doors and allow them their freedom, watching them in return as they gingerly follow my footsteps to their meal. One last pat for Bubba and I close up the barn and head back across this foreign world to the warmth and safety of my house.

Sluggish Systems - Marcia Laycock

This is a recent edition of my column, The Spur

I had a friend over recently to have a look at my computer because I was having a few annoying problems - nothing that shuts everything down, but annoying things that get in the way of it being able to function the way it should. The whole system was kind of sluggish. Shawn checked for adware and spyware and began to clean things up. He often mumbled, "hmmm... lots of pollution here."

The programs he installed will help to keep that pollution to a minimum and make my system run more efficiently.Our lives are a lot like that - we get polluted by our own sin, the distractions of the world, etc. etc. You've heard it all before. But do we do anything about it? How often do we do a 'virus check' or run spybot on our lives? What have we installed that will help our ‘systems’ run more efficiently? The more often we do it - the more often we take the steps we need to get rid of the junk in our lives - the closer communion we will have with the Lord.

My husband preached a great sermon on Sunday that relates to this. Okay, I'm biased, but it really was.(If you’d like to hear it click here). Sometimes it astounds me how things that we have known since becoming a Christian can suddenly hit you between the eyes and you have an 'epiphany' so to speak. This was one for me - that we can have a relationship with Jesus that is the same as the relationship he has with his Father!! Astounding! Profound! And true.

Look at John 10:14,15 – “I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me – just as the Father knows me and I know the Father …”I so look forward to the day when we will be in his presence, face to face, and all the pollution will be gone. But for now we are able to move toward that kind of communion. The challenge is to get all the inhibitors out of the way so that the communion will be whole and clear.

My friend Shawn warned me that the programs he installed on my computer would help but not completely cure the problems. "None of them will catch everything," he said, "but each one has its strengths." It's a combined effort. Kind of like the combined effort of praying, reading the word, attending church, teaching Sunday School, reaching out to our friends and families, writing the words God gives us to glorify Him. Put all of those together and it's a pretty powerful program that leads to communication.

I think maybe it's time I started using the programs God has built into my life to help me reach that place of communion with Him. Some of them have been sitting idle for a while and things have gotten a little sluggish.

Blessings to you all as you strive toward that place of whole, pure, delightful communion with our Father.

The Christmas Guest - Donna Dawson

As Written in the Journal Argus' column 'Out of the Blue'

Donna Fawcett
Author of Thriving in the Home School--A Parent's Guide
Author of the Donna Dawson books Redeemed and Word Alive Press's 2007 feature novel The Adam & Eve Project. www.inscribe.org/donnadawson

The Christmas Guest

I’ve been asked many times what Christmas means to me and have always been able to sum it up in one incident that happened many, many years ago.

I was quite young and had already enjoyed the excitement of unwrapping my gifts. Being the youngest of six children, you can well imagine the mayhem in our household on Christmas morning. But as the noise of the gift exchange faded and the preparation of the feast ahead commenced, the old bell chime at our front door rang.

Anyone familiar with our family knew that the front door was never used so when the shrill ring announced a guest, we crowded into the front hall curious as to who it could be.

Dad opened the door, welcoming onto the narrow carpet of the hall the blast of a winter storm and a ragged figure. The strong smell of an unwashed body told us instantly that our Christmas guest was a homeless wanderer and I was sure that she would be quickly sent back out into the bitter blast from whence she had come.

She carried a covered bird cage that held a thin, shivering rabbit—her only companion—and she was clothed in bits and pieces of cast-offs that had seen better days. Grey, greasy hair hung in limp and stained ropes around a thin, wrinkled face. Her eyes had that watery, faded essence to them that comes from living too long in the streets and she hunched into her scraps of clothing as though to shoulder off the wild winds.

As young as I was, I wondered why my parents didn’t just tell the old woman to be on her way. After all, it was Christmas Day—our family day—and she really shouldn’t be bothering people—so I thought. She had come to the door, fingers blue with the cold, asking only for a bit of lettuce for her bunny, and I watched in amazement as my parents ushered her in and settled her near the fire. Their kind gesture became a lesson of true Christian love stamped firmly into my youthful mind—one that I will never forget.

My mother, as tired as she was, asked the old girl if she had eaten.

“Not in awhile,” was the timid reply amidst the chattering of teeth.

“Come join us for dinner, then. It would be our privilege.”

I was floored. My parents were inviting this dirty, smelly, strange woman into our home for Christmas dinner? And so I watched with fascination as Mom and Dad settled this new guest at the head of our table and treated her to a feast such as she had probably never had. They would have offered her a bed for the night too if she had agreed to stay, but the old woman had her fill, warmed herself by the fire for a bit longer, then creaked to her feet again and headed to the door.

As I watched her thank my parents, tears in her faded eyes, I understood what shame was for the first time in my life. I, who had been taught about a God who loved me enough to send his Son to earth as the child of a poor carpenter, hadn’t thought enough of that love to pass it on to someone who desperately needed it. And as young as I was—I knew better.

My parents had taught me of the love behind the first Christmas. My church had taught me of it. But until that Christmas Day, when a vagrant landed on our doorstep, I hadn’t really understood it. As I watched my Mom and Dad fuss over society’s outcast, I began to see what sacrificial love really was. In that brief span of time, my parents showed me the true spirit behind Christmas—a giving of one’s self with no thought of gain—a helping hand to those who are without help—a demonstration of love for love’s sake alone.

Since that time, I’ve seen many Christmases come and go. None have affected me as that one did but all have reinforced the beauty of that one moment in my own history. And that single moment reminds me every year to look beyond my safe, warm cocoon and remember the reason for the season. May God bless you with a very Merry Christmas!

January, February . . .

It's January, all must change
my resolutions cry it!
I'll clean the cupboards, shine the glass
completely change my diet.
The constant list of things I need
has changed from Christmas treats
to organizers, storage boxes
and a set of sheets.

It's February, nothing's changed
the bathroom scales decry it
(that frozen stash of Christmas treats
has sabotaged my diet).
The hopeful list of things I pledged
discreetly tucked away --
ten months to do just as I please
until next New Year's Day!

c. 2004 - Violet Nesdoly

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Happy New Year everyone! Hopefully you'll do better with your resolutions than I usually do with mine.

This bit of light verse was first published in a Faithwriters Anthology and also in the poetry journal Time of Singing.