tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80856728707481767262024-03-05T06:08:14.214-08:00Daisies From My MeadowLynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.comBlogger99125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-27677319311897642212020-03-22T07:49:00.001-07:002020-03-22T07:49:09.318-07:00Locked Down<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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We find ourselves locked in, locked down, and locked out these days because of the COVID-19 pandemic making its way across the world. Someone posted a photo on FACEBOOK this morning that reminded me of someone else who was also locked in, locked down, and locked out. His story should be an encouragement to us to be "locked onto" God Himself during these days. The short meditation that follows comes from <i>Divine Design for Daily Living. </i><br />
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<i><span lang="EN-US">“Then the Lord shut him in.”</span></i><span lang="EN-US"> Genesis 7:16b NIV.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"> There is a world of security in these wonderful words: <i>“Then the Lord shut him in.”</i> God personally locked Noah and his family in. People who ridiculed Noah for building a boat where there was no water weren’t laughing anymore. They were on the outside — and it was beginning to rain. People who had persecuted him for preaching to them about God’s coming judgment on their sins were beginning to feel the slipping and sliding of wet ground underfoot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"> <i>“…the Lord shut him in.”</i> Safe. Secure. Splat. Nowhere are we told that either the animals or the humans in the ark ceased to have all the normal needs that animals and humans have. They still had to eat, drink, and exercise their bodily functions. I wonder if Noah ever wished that the Lord hadn’t shut him in? Who fed the animals? Who changed the straw? Who shoveled the manure? On the other hand, short of a marathon swim, Noah didn’t have any other options. But that year of being shut in must have had moments when Noah wondered: “Why me, Lord?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"> Being “shut in” by God has a wonderful, highly spiritual sounding tone to it. Who hasn’t longed for that perfect quiet time “shut in” with God. But, even such an intimate time can get painful and troublesome. When God speaks in those moments alone with Him, it might just as often be to kick us in the backside as it is to pat us on the back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"> When God shuts us into a particular circumstance, no matter how complicated, fearsome, or wearisome, the journey gets, we can relax in the knowledge that our ark won’t leak, reek or creak, except to bring Him glory and to benefit us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"> There were challenges to be faced in Noah’s floating water world, but having done <i>“all that the Lord commanded him”</i> (7:5), having had the door locked behind him by the hand of none other than God Himself, Noah could have had nothing but confidence that this unusual, impossible voyage would end well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US">Remember:</span></b><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US">What God shuts in, He also always lets out.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-89016887312309341812019-12-09T07:05:00.000-08:002019-12-09T07:05:11.194-08:00The Worker In Wood<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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Lovingly, he caressed the smooth surface of the oak. He had carefully cut it, shaped it, and planed it until it lay finished before him—the most beautiful cradle. It was fit for a king.<br />
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Joseph remembered the stories of old, the story of Abraham sitting under the great oaks at Hebron when the Lord appeared to him. Joshua had prepared a memorial stone and placed it under an oak near the holy place to mark the covenant between Israel and God. An angel had presented himself to Gideon seated beneath an oak. Absalom had met judgment under an oak. Israel’s history was rich in references to the mighty tree.<br />
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And now, this particular piece of oak would cradle the Son of God.<br />
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Joseph suffered a moment of doubt. The Son of God? Was any cradle he could make, a lowly worker in wood, worthy of God, the King of kings and Lord over all?<br />
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But that appeared to be the plan. He’d never forget the appearance of the angel, assuring him that Mary had told the truth—the child growing within her was God’s Son, the Messiah, the Promised One. And he, the carpenter from Nazareth, was pledged to her as husband.<br />
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He brought his best skills to the table. It was all he could offer this coming King. It was all he had.<br />
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Joseph touched the wood again, running his hands over every piece, every join. He searched carefully for any flaw, any mark, any roughness that required a touch from the plane that was in his expert hands.<br />
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The great tree from which the carpenter had taken this piece of wood would renew itself. It would put out new roots and, with time, grow strong again. He remembered the prophet’s words: “But as the terebinth and oak leave stumps when they are cut down, so the holy seed will be a stump in the land.”*<br />
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That last phrase sent a shiver down his spine. Would this holy seed, God’s Son who was about to be entrusted to his care, be cut down as he had cut down the oak tree to make this cradle? What had the prophet meant?<br />
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One thought connected to another, divinely linked. As Joseph ran his hands over the wood, he also recalled another prophecy. “A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse; from his roots a Branch will bear fruit. The Spirit of the Lord will rest on him—the Spirit of wisdom and of understanding, the Spirit of counsel and of power, the Spirit of knowledge and of the fear of the Lord—and he will delight in the fear of the Lord…In that day the Branch of Jesse will stand as a banner for the peoples, the nations will rally to him, and his place of rest will be glorious.”**<br />
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This was a conundrum to be solved by more astute minds than his. He had best stick to what he, the carpenter, knew for sure—how to work the wood.<br />
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However, just as few days later, the cradle was forgotten. The order had been posted. Every Israelite was to return to his birthplace to register. It was a Roman command and impossible to ignore. Mary was close to her time. They would never be able to get back to Nazareth for the birth of the child, and there was no way to take with them the cradle that Joseph had poured his soul into. Who knew what awaited them in Bethlehem, what sort of bed would receive this King? Who knew how long they would have to linger there?<br />
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At first Joseph was angry. He had worked so hard. It wasn’t fair! Then he felt disappointment. The beauty that his skill had produced might never hold close the tender and tiny Person Who would someday rule the nations. Later, fear crept in. Had Yahweh rejected his gift, and his skill, as unworthy?<br />
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As he pulled the door to his workshop closed, the carpenter looked back at the masterpiece sitting abandoned on the workbench. Another thought collided with, and then overtook, his anger, disappointment, and fear.<br />
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The oak was also a place of worship for the pagan nations, he mused. Perhaps I have thought too much about the beauty of the cradle and valued it too highly. Perhaps I thought too much about the skill that produced it. Perhaps the cradle of oak was appreciated, but never necessary. Perhaps all Yahweh ever wanted was for me to say “Yes” to becoming step-father to a King.<br />
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Released, Joseph closed the door and turned his steps, and his heart, toward Bethlehem. As he and Mary passed by it, he noticed that the oak from which the cradle had been born was already showing signs of life. It was enough.<br />
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*Isaiah 6:13. **Isaiah 11:1-3, 10.Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-76761304755506956752019-09-09T05:57:00.003-07:002019-09-09T05:57:32.326-07:00Long-Awaited Answer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Stella pulled the letter from the narrow box in the lobby. The envelope was wrinkled and yellow. One corner, with a ragged semi-circle outlined in a thin faint gray, showed evidence of water damage.</div>
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After weeks of nothing but bills and slick, shiny promotional materials advertising pizza delivery, phone bundles, and cable deals, this thin missive looked like a pleasant diversion.</div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Miss S. Abrahamson</span>was written in a boyish hand in the center. But the address was wrong. As her eyes travelled down the yellowed paper Stella realized that she didn’t recognize the name of the street, or the town. Both the address and the name of the town had been crossed out. Someone had handwritten “<span style="font-style: italic;">doesn’t live here</span>” in pinched, crab-like letters. </div>
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There was no return address.</div>
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Stella knew enough about the post office to be fairly certain that, under normal circumstances what she held in her hands should have ended up where all the dead go—the round file.</div>
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But here it was.</div>
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The stamp was green. She looked carefully at it. It was worth thirteen cents and had an engraving of a tank on it. When was the last time stamps had their monetary values printed on them? And who ever heard of a thirteen-cent stamp? And a tank? Then she noticed the postmark, faded almost to extinction. <span style="font-style: italic;">Halifax, N.S. 1943</span>.</div>
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Stella was twenty-seven. She was Miss S. Abrahamson—with both feet on the ground and no illusions about voices, or letters, communicating with her from the great beyond, or the far distant past.</div>
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She turned the letter over and gently eased back the flap. There was a single sheet of thin paper inside. The stationery, like the envelope, was wrinkled and yellowed.</div>
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A thousand thoughts twisted and turned through Stella’s mind. This obviously wasn’t her letter, despite the name on the envelope. Perhaps she had no business opening it. But it was now open so…</div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Dear Stella,</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">I have to get this into the bag right away. The convoy is about to sail and of course, they don’t tell us ordinaries where we’re going, when we might make port, or when we’re coming back. </span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">I’m so sorry we didn’t have hardly any time together before I had to shove off. But I want you to know that you’re the only girl in the world for me and I love you, love you, love you. Don’t run off with anyone else while I’m gone. </span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Will write again as soon as I can.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">God bless you and keep you safe for me,</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Tommy</span></div>
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Stella carefully folded the letter, put it back in the envelope and returned to her apartment. She went into her bedroom, slid open the closet door and pulled out an old suitcase that had belonged to her parents. It was stuffed with old photos and memorabilia that she had kept when the family home had been broken up and sold after her parents’ tragic car accident.</div>
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She rummaged through bits and pieces long forgotten. But there was one photo that had stitched itself into her memory. The letter had torn that memory loose and dragged it to the forefront of her mind. Finally she found it.</div>
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Her great-aunt, Stella Abrahamson.</div>
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In the photo, that Stella was standing in the apple orchard of the homestead that had once belonged to the family. Alongside her stood her brother, David, and his wife, Millie. In Millie’s arms was a baby, Max.</div>
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Max had named his daughter after his favourite aunt.</div>
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“She was an amazing woman. In those days all the girls got married, People thought you were somehow lacking if you didn’t. She never said why. But something broke her heart and it never healed so she bundled up the pieces as best she could, straightened her shoulders, and took on the world by herself. Always admired that in her.”</div>
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Where had the letter been all these years? How did it finally find its way to a Stella Abrahamson, even if it was the wrong one? Had the first Stella believed that Tommy had just sailed away from her to find another girl in another port?</div>
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Stella found the most important answer after a long night of research. Only two merchant ships were lost in 1943. Ordinary seaman, Tommy Scott, died when the <span style="font-style: italic;">Jasper Park</span>was torpedoed in the Indian Ocean on the 6th of July.</div>
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Later that week, Stella leaned over the bedside of an elderly lady and whispered, “Auntie, Tommy loved only you to the end.”</div>
Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-11937836232943689652019-08-27T11:51:00.001-07:002019-08-27T15:57:22.428-07:00Nine Word Sentences<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 12pt;">Courage</b><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 12pt;"> is often measured by risk. It takes courage to live out God’s Truth. The firm, unscalable walls of God’s absolutes are not gratefully embraced. To be the weakest flame of Truth shining in the midst of blackest deception requires the greatest courage. Accepting the possibility of rejection, misunderstanding, and even aggression, requires a risk-taker. His Truth is counterculture, uncomfortable, and razor-sharp. I submit to its Divine cuts and cures in my own life, and stand up for it in a world that prefers its own lies.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Hope</b> is the expectation that what I say, and write, will find its way through the maze of fear, anger, disappointment, doubt, and rebellion that is in us all. Within me lies the hope that the Spirit of God will penetrate those walls. I hope that His word is not sullied by mine. Only His can change anything and anyone. And always there is the hope that the words He plants will change me first.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Action</b> follows direction, or desire. Procrastination is a soft bed and a beckoning pillow. It beguiles, promising a better day tomorrow. But it is the enemy of the mission. I will do what I promised God to do, not hastily, but neither laggardly nor lazily. I must do what He commands, obedience being the ultimate end of love. I will not wait for others—neither for their companionship on the journey, nor for their affirmation. I will take the steps He orders and speak the words He commands.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Leaning</b> doesn’t come easily. The past necessitated independence and initiative—a product both of heredity and environment. Now, decades later, with habits entrenched, it is hard to rest in the Lord, on the Lord, because of the Lord, and trust Him to do His work in me. It is not a question of doing nothing but of abiding in Him and allowing the “being” to morph into the “doing” that will bring Him glory.</span><br />
<br style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12pt;" />
<span style="font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Listening</b> for His voice among a myriad of other voices, including my own, might be the greatest goal of all. The world makes too much noise, as though more volume could overwhelm the sickness that eats the soul. Then comes the still whisper of the only voice that matters, the only sound that counts. He speaks, sometimes in volumes, sometimes just a word—JESUS. When peace ceases, when hate rules, when sadness overwhelms, I will listen for His voice. I will listen hard. </span><br />
<br style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12pt;" />
<span style="font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Encouragement</b>, even its smallest grain, spurs me on though I hesitate to seek it. Somehow that seems too self-centred. But as a plant needs water to thrive so does the soul need encouragement to blossom, to strive, to find meaning. It seems that every time I want to quit, God comes along and send me just a smidgen of “Keep going! Don’t be discouraged!” I am so slow to catch on, too easily distracted and too easily disheartened, too overcome by fear. But I take what He has repeated over and over again and hug those words close to my heart, plant them in my head, and fortify my resolve.</span><br />
<br style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12pt;" />
<span style="font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Nourishment</b> to my soul is Your Word, O Lord! It satisfies even the deepest needs. Yet how little time I truly spend at feeding from the bountiful table that You have laid out. I nibble when I should gorge. I pick when I should finish a full plate. I turn my nose up at the servings I don’t particularly like, forgetting that they too are all part of the same dish of “<i>Love Divine, All Loves Excelling</i>.”* Make my hunger for You more acute that my hunger for anything else.</span><br />
<br style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12pt;" />
<span style="font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Grace</b> takes me back to that spot on a hill where, shadowed by a cross, I am told everything I need to know. The debt is paid, the account is closed. I am forgiven. I am free to be everything His sufficient grace has designed for me. Grace lifts me onto my Father’s knee.</span><br />
<br style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12pt;" />
<span style="font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Excellence</b>, not perfection, is the endgame. Perfection doesn’t happen here, but excellence does. I will do my best with all that He provides. I will do my best, not to bring myself glory, but to bring glory to Him by bringing others just one step closer to Him. I will strive for excellence because He is excellent. Though the brightness of my efforts amounts to the barest twinkle of the smallest star, I pray my life will be a reflection of His.</span><br />
<br style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12pt;" />
<span style="font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 12pt;">*Charles Wesley</span>Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-29070138380270885132017-11-20T06:31:00.000-08:002017-11-20T06:31:01.881-08:00Thirteen Reasons to Keep the Doors Open<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdE0DGvmCgTiadeSrbrZzJ6CKvt0gB_GE_ihZqglzMGT4BKC60hn1nQ2LbA3CS8tZSFjLvluwvbrUZeNOiHbXBdOw4czjvPAAJnlcrCdf_mkaWdE-YqHXGqa-aq6UemyNHUvBH2nRqDfI/s1600/church-2829833_1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1063" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdE0DGvmCgTiadeSrbrZzJ6CKvt0gB_GE_ihZqglzMGT4BKC60hn1nQ2LbA3CS8tZSFjLvluwvbrUZeNOiHbXBdOw4czjvPAAJnlcrCdf_mkaWdE-YqHXGqa-aq6UemyNHUvBH2nRqDfI/s320/church-2829833_1920.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pixabay</td></tr>
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While fog wept outside the door, the air hung heavy with regret inside
the old church building. Of the dozen people gathered around the table,
only one was male. However, not even the virtue of gender could make
Thomas Stone a leader. Thomas breathed a sigh of relief when Cora Wilson
called the meeting to order. As church clerk, Cora was the last, and
highest, vestige of authority left. The pastor had departed in disgrace,
leaving a decimated congregation in his wake.<br />
<br />
Cora carefully explained the situation. She didn’t miss a miserable
detail—which was why she was the church clerk. By the time she was done,
it was painfully clear that the options were few. <br />
<br />
“So, what do we do now?”<br />
<br />
Matilda Manheim was 84. Faded blue eyes shifted slowly from one face to
another, challenge written in every glance and punctuated by her terse
words. She was a charter member of the congregation, had survived two
world wars, the Great Depression, been widowed and left destitute at the
age of 40, and still raised three fine sons on her own. Tillie wouldn’t
give up without a fight—and she still had plenty of fight left in her
despite her age. <br />
<br />
“Maybe the denomination could help us out?”<br />
<br />
This come from Sadie Waters, a quiet, tremulous voice that caused
Matilda to crank up her hearing aid so that she could catch every word.
Other voices answered.<br />
<br />
“Fat help they’ve been. Wasn’t it them that insisted we pay the pastor a year of severance? Darn near broke the bank.” <br />
<br />
“Yah, we got to show Christian love, which was more’n he showed us with all his high jinks.”<br />
<br />
Cora could tell that the conversation was headed downhill—and quickly.
There was still a lot of healing needing to be done. The wounds were
still seeping.<br />
<br />
“No use us crying over spilt milk. What’s done is done. We have to move on; to think about our future.”<br />
<br />
“They could help us find a new pastor,” insisted Sadie.<br />
<br />
Jane Stephens sighed, still smarting from the severance issue and her
husband’s resignation some months previously from his position as
treasurer and church member.<br />
<br />
“Who’s going to come to a church with a dozen members left, most of them
women, no money, and a rotten reputation in the community?” <br />
<br />
Another nail smashed into place in the church’s coffin. In such a small
town, news traveled fast. Months of conflict between pastor and people
hadn’t stayed a secret for long, especially as members abandoned the
battle to find peace in other places. <br />
<br />
“Nothin’ wrong with women,” muttered Matilda. <br />
<br />
“Nothing at all, Tillie. It’s just that none of us are wage earners, not even Thomas. Pensioners can’t carry the church.” <br />
<br />
With great tact, Cora left out mentioning single mothers like Sadie, and
women like Jane, who were financially dependent on their husbands. <br />
<br />
Now there were lots of voices, all with problems, not a single one with solutions.<br />
<br />
“Most of our best workers are gone. We need people, even one person would be an encouragement.”<br />
<br />
“Preferably one who doesn’t know all the gory details.” <br />
<br />
“Now you are asking for a miracle.”<br />
<br />
This time it was Tillie who brought the group back to order.<br />
<br />
“Are we saying that we close the doors of the church?” she demanded. “If
one person can make the difference, God’ll deliver him. Did we lose our
faith along with our pastor?”<br />
<br />
The silence provided the answer to the question Tillie had left twisting in the cold wind of despair.<br />
<br />
Suddenly the outer door swung open and a blast of moist air swept in,
pushing an older man ahead of it. The stranger was decently dressed, but
looking a little disheveled. <br />
<br />
“I’m sorry to disturb you. My car broke down at the end of the lane. The
fog is so thick that I feared getting lost while I went for help. I’m
looking for 57 Birch Street.”<br />
<br />
He laughed as he removed his hat.<br />
<br />
“Imagine not being able to find your own house, but I just moved here.
When I saw the light from the cross on your steeple I knew that God
hadn’t abandoned this old retired preacher.”<br />
<br />
The people seated around the table looked at each other in awe. For the first time, Thomas Stone spoke up:<br />
<br />
“Welcome, Pastor. We’re what’s left of Bethlehem* Church.”<br />
<br />
He turned towards Tillie.<br />
<br />
“It looks to me like God might have just provided us with our baker’s dozen.**”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*Bethlehem means <i>house of bread</i>.<br />
** A baker’s dozen is 13. Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-90320320209433861652017-08-18T06:06:00.001-07:002017-08-18T06:06:59.527-07:00The Argument<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin3SrRAIqF_rFYdKP_npXiZ7Q31eB4hx7P-lb4BpOb-igJJGR2lTzdCuf5I3dX1s6uPje0rYoozftrvbFlvowDmjc74FGdrwO25LWvGp9sGp0IE1P9VyxuGNcUSolJSY8umI9sKaMxsQw/s1600/dogs-974547_1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1201" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin3SrRAIqF_rFYdKP_npXiZ7Q31eB4hx7P-lb4BpOb-igJJGR2lTzdCuf5I3dX1s6uPje0rYoozftrvbFlvowDmjc74FGdrwO25LWvGp9sGp0IE1P9VyxuGNcUSolJSY8umI9sKaMxsQw/s320/dogs-974547_1920.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pixabay</td></tr>
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The sounds come tumbling,<br />
Cresting the tip of the tongue<br />
With the suddenness of a Spring flood.<br />
Will the force of the argument,<br />
By its sheer volume, dissolve my banks?<br />
Or will reason sweep your detritus away?<br />
You speak. I answer.<br />
Is it you who blithers and blathers?<br />
Or could it be I who dithers and dathers?<br />
Perhaps both.<br />
<br />
There is an eddy in the mind<br />
Hidden from the swirl of verbal emoticons.<br />
It says maybe I’m right. Or maybe not.<br />
But the dam must hold against the torrent.<br />
A thought rushes by,<br />
Though, tossed by the current, it passes<br />
Before I can net, then dry it in my mind.<br />
I respond to what is already gone.<br />
Feeling foolish as soon as the words are launched.<br />
The flow has swept both thought and response far away.<br />
<br />
Why do you imagine I don’t know?<br />
Why do I think you don’t understand?<br />
Even as the tidal wave subsides<br />
I feel a malevolent current underneath the surface.<br />
Lapping gently, but determinately,<br />
Wearing away that which holds the argument secure.<br />
I resist, shoring, buttressing, sandbagging.<br />
It is no longer the argument, but the principle that reigns.<br />
Do you feel the same?<br />
Does the argument weaken even as the resolve grows stronger?<br />
<br />
An ocean is full of things the same, yet different.<br />
Each is right and none is wrong,<br />
Divine absolutes cannot be changed.<br />
But are yours divine? Are mine?<br />
I hug that truth, fearful of allowing it to surface,<br />
To face the light after the dark depths of mind.<br />
You too, I suppose, must wonder<br />
If the storm of opinion has stirred up muddy waters<br />
Disguising truth, faking fact.<br />
Do we hold tight to water in a sieve?<br />
<br />
I let my river run again,<br />
Though this time damming its flow.<br />
It is not weakness that stems the tide,<br />
But caution instead.<br />
A strategic retreat, a reversal of the tidal bore<br />
That signals, not defeat, but assessment.<br />
I know, and I think you understand.<br />
You understand, and believe I know—<br />
Something.<br />
And for the moment the waters are still. Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-65589825994018786502017-08-05T09:00:00.002-07:002017-08-05T11:15:37.959-07:00Returning Point<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU4vPspPWsaBEgjchdetOSDwAup4yc1prPjo-SSCk0UG7WOHkoMCEfzlItILH5RQtBpr1iIvqa72StjpU_NCmFuGlMSOyGcYVpkrra4mnHhI99G7peRc5A8n0Hqci4Rsfh-3dQDq_2tJg/s1600/plant-2400273_1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU4vPspPWsaBEgjchdetOSDwAup4yc1prPjo-SSCk0UG7WOHkoMCEfzlItILH5RQtBpr1iIvqa72StjpU_NCmFuGlMSOyGcYVpkrra4mnHhI99G7peRc5A8n0Hqci4Rsfh-3dQDq_2tJg/s320/plant-2400273_1920.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pixabay</td></tr>
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The wood creaked as the old man pushed the window open as far as it
would go. During the heaviest rains it had been swollen by the damp—and
kept firmly closed. Now, dried out, and with the rain stopped, the wood
yielded to gentle persuasion, allowing bright sunshine to enter.<br />
<br />
Noah shielded his eyes against the brilliant light. He’d opened the
window when his floating zoo had come, with a decisive thump, to rest
against the mountainside. He hadn’t seen peaks—or sunshine—for a long
time. The air smelt blue not green, like water not grass. The birds he
loosed came back, unable to find a place to land.<br />
<br />
So he waited, opening the window and looking out every day, curbing his
impatience. All the inmates were restless, anxious to get out, to feel
solid ground under their four feet, two feet, ten feet, three hundred
and fifty-four feet, or no feet at all. <br />
<br />
They were all that was left, too few to afford to make a mistake and
leave the safety of the ark before God had made adequate provision for
them. Everything else was gone, a world scrubbed clean by the brush of
the Almighty.<br />
<br />
They would have to start again.<br />
<br />
But the birds had kept coming back.<br />
<br />
Then the last one didn’t.<br />
<br />
Like an old hound, Noah sniffed green on the breeze, heard the Voice,
and turned toward his traveling companions bunched up behind him.<br />
<br />
“Out!” <br />
<br />
Years later another old man stood outside the entrance to the great
city, staff in hand, watching a floodtide of humans and animals flow
past, heading toward the wilderness.<br />
<br />
They carried, carted, or drove everything they owned—along with bags and
chests of items that their “hosts” for the last four hundred years had
eagerly thrust on them. Was it compensation for years of ill treatment?
Or desperation? The cries of bereaved Egyptians could still be heard
even above the tramp, shuffle, and creak of the Hebrews.<br />
<br />
When the crying stopped and the anger set in, Moses knew that they would
be pursued. He shaded his eyes, looking to see if the end of the column
was visible yet. They had to hurry, get as far as they could as fast as
they could. <br />
<br />
For Moses, what was happening on this day was a kind of redemption.
Years ago he had tried to do what God had done today—rescue his people.
He’d failed miserably. He carried that failure into the desert. Now, a
better and more humble man, Yahweh had brought him back to Egypt, to do
it right, to take His people toward a brighter day and greater
prospects.<br />
<br />
“Forward!”<br />
<br />
Forty years later Moses was dead. Joshua felt his absence. For all those
years he had followed the old man, listened to his instructions, obeyed
his orders, and seen God work through him. Now, the newly-minted leader
stood on the shores of the Jordan and wondered if he was capable of
wearing Moses-sized sandals…or if he wanted to.<br />
<br />
He’d witnessed the stubbornness of the people Moses had led out of the
Egypt. Just because those he was leading were of a new generation didn’t
mean much. They still had the same genes, and the same propensity to
want to do their own thing their own way. <br />
<br />
Across the river lay fortified cities, and people stronger and more
numerous than the Hebrews he led. He had seen them. Though he knew that
Yahweh would give them what He had promised—a homeland—he also knew that
gaining it wouldn’t come cheaply.<br />
<br />
Still, it was a new beginning. At long last, entrance into the land promised to their forefather, Abraham, awaited them.<br />
<br />
The priests stood at the edge of the river. Between them, carefully
carried, was the Ark of the Covenant that represented the promise the
great I AM had made to them—and the commitment they had made to Him.<br />
<br />
They waited for Joshua’s command. Behind them, still and silent, were the soldiers and the citizens of this new nation.<br />
<br />
He shrugged off the heavy cloak of his fears, remembering that late
night encounter with Someone much senior to him. He may have succeeded
Moses as leader but he knew he wasn’t the real commander.<br />
<br />
He raised his spear. <br />
<br />
“Cross!”<br />
<br />
Yes, cross—another new beginning. <br />
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<br />Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-35574586610960825272017-01-25T09:52:00.000-08:002017-01-25T09:52:18.851-08:00Coroner's Report on the Soul of a Nation<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgopJCPWGxnkquXTO8qvhwX4r34oF9KG2eUw_GWGMd6l-lLROiB-DLW2z6OO7xgoieSImqxcRcGHnVb3tv7csYV7Oj8OsFjZywEedFELAS3wCOLxPlvP5BWXbngnCUuyknWFgqVsRflD1M/s1600/man-416470_1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgopJCPWGxnkquXTO8qvhwX4r34oF9KG2eUw_GWGMd6l-lLROiB-DLW2z6OO7xgoieSImqxcRcGHnVb3tv7csYV7Oj8OsFjZywEedFELAS3wCOLxPlvP5BWXbngnCUuyknWFgqVsRflD1M/s320/man-416470_1920.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pixabay</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I hover, reluctant to detach myself from what has been my home for one
hundred and thirty-two years, six months, ten days, twelve hours and
fifty-seven minutes. <br />
<br />
It isn’t that there haven’t been other moments, similar events and
rebellious people just like these, who have threatened my existence
before this. Oh, there had been plenty of those! But the Soul-Giver,
forever creative and extremely patient, has always made a way to rewind
that clock, overcome those circumstances, move or remove a nation. <br />
<br />
Sometimes the adjustments have been substantial; oftentimes just big enough to keep me going for a while longer.<br />
<br />
My intimate connection to the Soul-Giver prevents me from even
considering that the Giver Himself might be cruel or unjust. I accept
that my reason for being includes abuse at the hands of those to whom I
have been entrusted. The Giver has decreed that no sacrifice is too big,
no effort too great, in the quest to restore creation. And so I have
continued to root out evil, to stand for truth and right, to promote
peace and exercise kindness in spite of every obstacle and every defeat.<br />
<br />
But this day has finally come; the day I have longed for, but dreaded as
well. The Soul-Giver enfolds and caresses me. This is the good part. He
speaks to me gently, without reproach, assuring me that none of this is
my fault.<br />
<br />“<i>Enough now, my gentle essence. You have fought bravely and
done all that you were able to do but the time has come for you to step
back, and for me to take a different tack with this part of my
creation.</i>”<br />
<br />
I shudder, for I remember only too well another time when the Soul-Giver
gravely pronounced these very same words. I know what they meant to a
wayward people He had rescued from slavery and who had thrown that
freedom back in His face in order to chase after delusions. The meaning
of the Soul-Giver’s words to this new nation and generation is the part I
now dread anew. And I weep, for I know what is about to happen to
another people who have trampled underneath their feet the heart and
spirit of the Soul-Giver.<br />
<br />
What little light that flickers against the dark of evil will soon be
gone. The sun will continue to shine, but what good is that to blind
men? The grapes will ripen; sweet and rich on their vines, only to turn
to vinegar in the cask. The harvest will be gathered only produce worm
and weevil in the storehouse. Men who dispensed injustice will
themselves seek Justice only to hear her mocking laughter as they stare
in dismay at their reflections in the cold polished marble of her halls.
Club-footed, love twists inward. The gold standard of truth turns
green; raped of her purity, beaten and unrecognizable. <br />
<br />
My greatest desire is to stay longer. Perhaps there is still something I
can do. But I hear the voice of the Soul-Giver speak again:<br />
<br />“<i>No, no more. It is too late. Go back, my precious essence,
rest and recover. There is nothing more for you to do here. There will
be other battles for you to fight, other hearts to touch, other lives to
change. These dead can no longer hear your voice.</i>”<br />
<br />
And at that, I back slowly away, the last vestiges of light and warmth
clinging to me. For a while no one will notice that I am gone. It will
be “business as usual”. Life will go on until the smell of death grows
so strong that even the dead can no longer stand their own stench.<br />
<br />
I, the soul of this nation, distance myself from my charges. Though
bruised and battered, I am reluctant to go, but unable to stay. But I
guard within me the nature of all that is my Maker and because I know
that nature, I also know that I will return. <br />
<br />
“<i>So justice is driven back, and righteousness stands at a
distance; truth has stumbled in the streets, honesty cannot enter. Truth
is nowhere to be found, and whoever shuns evil becomes a prey. The Lord
looked and was displeased that there was no justice … so his own arm
worked salvation …</i> “ (<a class="lbsBibleRef" data-reference="Isaiah 59.14" data-version="esv" href="http://biblia.com/bible/esv/Isaiah%2059.14" target="_blank">Isaiah 59:14</a>, <a class="lbsBibleRef" data-reference="Isaiah 59.15" data-version="esv" href="http://biblia.com/bible/esv/Isaiah%2059.15" target="_blank">15</a>, <a class="lbsBibleRef" data-reference="Isaiah 59.16b" data-version="esv" href="http://biblia.com/bible/esv/Isaiah%2059.16b" target="_blank">16b</a> NIV)Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-57538353577160946092016-08-24T11:15:00.001-07:002016-08-24T11:15:27.995-07:00Jail House Rock<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggeL_qie44pnRa8qUji8DldyWQwSTFmKsaAknChflrXqPcLlQBJRTedV7rHrbQrfth1B6muJNk7nqpvHnTNws2Y4u7U4LpRBk0gvPUNf8ZhzWjl2p9_O4TTgD2t9qCSMntsFG98gXe2mc/s1600/prison-1548012_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggeL_qie44pnRa8qUji8DldyWQwSTFmKsaAknChflrXqPcLlQBJRTedV7rHrbQrfth1B6muJNk7nqpvHnTNws2Y4u7U4LpRBk0gvPUNf8ZhzWjl2p9_O4TTgD2t9qCSMntsFG98gXe2mc/s320/prison-1548012_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pixabay, Public Domain</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Sy and I were minding our own business, just shooting the breeze as we
walked. We’d landed in a pleasant enough place, met some nice people. In
fact, we were on our way to the river to meet up with some of the gals
from the church. They were into praying — the girls seem to do well at
that for some reason — and if we didn’t move it, we were going to miss
the announcements (we like to get them out of the way first so as not to
disturb the flow of the worship). I was already warming up my vocal
chords: <br />
<br />
<i>Gonna lay down my sword and shield, Down by the riverside, Down by the riverside …</i>* <br />
<br />
Not exactly a worship song, but it was my own personal favourite seeing
as how I’d spent a lot of years fighting against the followers of The
Way before God got my undivided attention.<br />
<br />
I was kind of hoping we could get through the center of town without
that crazy fortune-teller appearing. She, or her handlers, always seemed
to know where we would be at any given time. Mind you, we never made
any secret about our schedules. The whole point of being in this town
was to talk about The Way, and a public forum was the best way to do
that. <br />
<br />
Under different circumstances, the girl could have been a poster child
for our movement. For days she had followed us, but instead of saying
whatever it was she was supposed to say to earn some bread for the dudes
who skulked around behind her, she always ended up preaching. It was a
good message too: “These men are servants of the Most High God, who are
telling you the way to be saved.”** Sy joked that if I wasn’t careful,
I’d lose my job. Fat chance, says I, the Boss told me I would preach in
Rome and since I hadn’t been there on either of my previous foreign
trips, I figured I was not going to join the ranks of the unemployed
anytime soon. Besides, the church wasn’t ready for women preachers —
yet!<br />
<br />
Well, I decided if she was going to preach, she might as well do it from
personal conviction rather than against the will of the snake that
possessed her. As she appeared at the head of the street and came toward
us, I met her with a divinely inspired message of my own:<br />
<br />
“In the name of Jesus Christ I command you to come out of her!”***<br />
<br />
It seemed that no one but the girl and us was happy with the result. The
town went into a major meltdown. Next thing you know we’re being hauled
into court, beaten and thrown into jail. Sometimes, you gotta wonder
how a day can go south so fast. Personally, I call it “The Joseph
Syndrome.”<br />
<br />
Since we couldn’t think of anything better to do with our time — seeing
as how there wasn’t anything better to do with our time — we picked up
where I’d left off in the morning. <br />
<br />
<i>Gonna put on my long white robe<br />
Down By the riverside<br />
Down by the riverside<br />
Down by the riverside<br />
Gonna put on my long white robe<br />
Down by the riverside<br />
Ain't gonna study war no more.</i><br />
<br />
It was a long song, and we sang all the verses, interspersing them with
the prayers we had not quite gotten to earlier in the day.<br />
<br />
There were a few other unfortunates in the hoosegow with us. They didn’t
know the words, but by the time we got to the last chorus, they were
humming right along:<br />
<br />
<i>Ain't gonna study war no more<br />
Ain’t gonna study war no more<br />
Ain’t gonna study war no more …</i><br />
<br />
The earth shook. At first, I thought it was just my enthusiastic toe
taping despite being in stocks. The crumbling brick scattering dust on
my head, doors jumping from their hinges and chains snapping at wrist
and ankle, clued me in. God was adding a big bass to our meager melody. <br />
<br />
It never occurred to any of us to run. Besides, I had a feeling that
someone else might need help laying down his sword by the riverside that
night. As we waited for God’s encore, I wondered if the world was ready
for a new genre in music. I’d call it <i>Jail House Rock</i>. That seemed appropriate. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
* <i>Down By The Riverside</i> was originally written for the Boy Scouts<br />
**<a class="lbsBibleRef" data-reference="Acts 16.17" data-version="esv" href="http://biblia.com/bible/esv/Acts%2016.17" target="_blank">Acts 16:17</a><br />
*** <a class="lbsBibleRef" data-reference="Acts 16.18" data-version="esv" href="http://biblia.com/bible/esv/Acts%2016.18" target="_blank">Acts 16:18</a>Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-5727862262064478202015-12-23T08:05:00.003-08:002015-12-23T08:05:55.877-08:00One Little Snowflake<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo5P4f_nYE60uEJVu3ktsSRE4eRChjMBZb-4iRecB6PeDKYLfDnzpjj8av0xq9bGyR6tJyLD8X55RqW8Uq1fzLRCbnFLRcezDbxfY-Wym_nWSMK_twtfDbryOhjMGF7d9aO0Bm9jVbzhk/s1600/banner-1036485_1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo5P4f_nYE60uEJVu3ktsSRE4eRChjMBZb-4iRecB6PeDKYLfDnzpjj8av0xq9bGyR6tJyLD8X55RqW8Uq1fzLRCbnFLRcezDbxfY-Wym_nWSMK_twtfDbryOhjMGF7d9aO0Bm9jVbzhk/s640/banner-1036485_1920.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Once upon a time, long ago and far away there was a little snowflake.
She was one of many waiting her turn to announce the coming of yet
another winter season. The delicate embroidery of each flake had been
lovingly crafted by the Master Snow Maker. Still, the little snowflake
felt lost and forgotten in the presence of the bigger and more complex
designs. <br />
<br />
As her time approached, the little snowflake grew more and more worried.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered, for she was afraid of what might
await her out in the outer limits of the heavens.<br />
<br />
The little snowflake made one last appeal to the Master Snow Maker.
Perhaps he would have compassion on her and let her wait until she too,
was bigger and better.<br />
<br />
However, he shook his head, and with a wise smile, eased her out the
celestial windows along with a multitude of others whose time has also
come.<br />
<br />
“You may not become the cusp of the biggest snowball, or the cornerstone
of the strongest snow fort. You might not be the first to signal the
coming of winter, or freeze into perpetuity in the still waters of a
waiting stream. But, you’ll be exactly what you were meant to be just as
you are. You will do what you were designed to do-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o …”
and his voice drifted away as she fell further and further into the dark
night.<br />
<br />
For a time she lost sight of the rest of her companions as she drifted
down through puffy clouds. She was teased by gentle breezes and tossed
by some that were not so gentle. Now, more than ever, the little
snowflake felt small and oh so alone.<br />
<br />
As she drifted through the blackness, she tried to remember all that the
Master Snow Maker had said. “You are unique. You know that I never make
even one snowflake like any other. Only you can be you.”<br />
<br />
“But I am only one among so many,” she argued.<br />
<br />
“You are still the only one that is YOU,” he patiently insisted.<br />
<br />
The little snowflake felt her progress slow. The breezes had faded. The
night was still and silent. The air was cold. She could see more clearly
now. The clouds had drifted away leaving the skies intense with
glittering stars. One in particular drew her attention. It shone more
brightly than the rest, bathing the landscape in a warm glow that
penetrated the cold and dark.<br />
<br />
“I’ll head for that star,” she said to no one in particular. She picked
her currents of air carefully and soon found herself under the pale
light of the bright star. Below her, the little snowflake could see the
outline of hills against the dark sky. Nestled among them was a village.
Pale lights flickered from the rough dwellings, occasionally
disappearing as their inhabitants went off to bed. Against one hill, on
the edge of town, a shed rested, its tired beams sheltering the entrance
to a hollow carved out of the hillside. The star on whose mantle she
rode seemed to point the way to that unlikely spot. <br />
<br />
Closer and closer the little snowflake came. In the light of the star,
she saw that there were four-footed beasts huddled beside the humble
shelter below her. Some of her quicker companions melted themselves into
curly wool and rough hide. Others slipped through the gaps in the
roughly hewn slats in the roof and came to rest on the woolen cloaks,
weathered cheeks, and calloused hands of the sheep keepers seeking
shelter inside the shed.<br />
<br />
The little snowflake braced herself. Her end was coming. She wondered
how it could possibly fulfill all that the Master Snow Maker had
promised. She landed gently on soft and pure flesh; the tip of the tiny
nose of a Child nestled deep in the straw of the feed box. He made no
sound, no move to brush her away. She, so small and insignificant, would
go unnoticed right to the end. Or, would she?<br />
<br />
As the little snowflake melted into Him, she felt the warmth of His
smile and sensed that, somehow, He had been waiting for her arrival. In a
flash as bright as that of the star she had followed, the little
snowflake knew in her deepest being that in finding Him, she had found
everything and had discovered not her end, but her beginning.Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-75146323091020714932015-12-21T08:41:00.000-08:002015-12-21T08:41:16.629-08:00Tinkle and Clang<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ILAp61LPq93pyKFUsmKwSHuQUl0s4YbYSFuV1Ncbnn92rcDi1s16p4ZpqGJ54zzEtVDTq8AvY60r9eKq0p0ODLuHyDjr6oVRszfWrqMaziuSLPXCIpnIsRZjeztB-5KvzKu8bSWotgA/s1600/poland-393957_1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ILAp61LPq93pyKFUsmKwSHuQUl0s4YbYSFuV1Ncbnn92rcDi1s16p4ZpqGJ54zzEtVDTq8AvY60r9eKq0p0ODLuHyDjr6oVRszfWrqMaziuSLPXCIpnIsRZjeztB-5KvzKu8bSWotgA/s400/poland-393957_1920.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
A flurry of discordant sound announced the arrival of several sections of the bell choir.<br />
<br />
“Move it, you three. You’re late and we haven’t got much time,” chimed
the Bell Master from his place on the bottom rung of the carillon. <br />
<br />
“Nag, nag, nag,” whispered the D flat to his buddy, C, as they climbed
into their places on the top level. “What’s the hurry, anyway? Clang’s
got his clapper in a knot for sure this morning.”<br />
<br />
“Morning? It’s still dark outside,” protested the F major, breathlessly hauling himself up behind the others.<br />
<br />
The smaller bells finally got themselves into place, just as Clang
struck the note that indicated readiness and silence in the ranks. He
looked around, carefully checking to make sure no one was missing. Worse
than a faulty note was no note at all. <br />
<br />
“Where’s Tinkle?” he boomed from his assigned spot.<br />
<br />
Tinkle was the littlest bell of all. Her spot was high up at the top of the carillon. <br />
<br />
Like an evil wind brushing through the tower, the rustle of the bells
created dissonance as everyone looked around, hunting for Tinkle.<br />
<br />
“I’m here sir. Just polishing, Bell Master.” Her clear, high sound rang
out as Tinkle took her place at the apex of the musical arrangement. <br />
<br />
“That girl takes herself too seriously. ‘Just polishing, Bell Master.’
As if fingerprints made any difference to anyone,” mimicked the D flat.<br />
<br />
“You have something to share with us?” came Clang’s voice from down below.<br />
<br />
Everyone froze. More than once Clang had said out loud that he wished
they never had to have contact with their human counterparts—the evil
always rubbed off a bit, like fingerprints on the burnished surface of a
bell. <br />
<br />
“Uhmmmmm, no sir. I was just, well, wondering what all the rush was
about,” stuttered the offender. “It’s not even daylight yet.”<br />
<br />
“Well, if—and I know keeping time for you doesn’t usually include
knowing what day it is—you had been paying attention during rehearsals,
you would have remembered that dawn today is the biggest moment of our
year. Today we bring hope to the world.”<br />
<br />
From somewhere in the middle of the bevy of bells came the dulcet tones
of one of the G’s. “But, boss, do you really think anyone listens to us?
It’s nasty out there. Everyone knows what happened to poor Liberty.
Those humans are a mean lot and we don’t seem to be making much of an
impact.”<br />
<br />
There were a couple of chuckles from the group at G’s unintentional play
on notes. The subdued merriment stopped as Clang’s clapper sounded for
silence.<br />
<br />
“I’ll admit that I sometimes have my doubts as to whether anyone gets
our message, but that’s not the point. The point is that we have a
message that we have been assigned to deliver, we’ve been practicing
faithfully for this last year, and we are going to chime out that
message no matter what. It’s up to the Master Musician to do the rest.
So, are we ready? It’s almost time.”<br />
<br />
The bell choir stirred, positioning themselves, clappers at the ready, all eyes on Clang. <br />
<br />
“Tinkle?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, sir?”<br />
<br />
“Don’t forget, your part is critical. Sometimes people don’t hear the high notes, so you can’t hesitate or show weakness.”<br />
<br />
“I won’t let you down, sir.”<br />
<br />
Slowly the blackness outside the tower retreated before the insistence
of the watery light of a winter sun. As it peeked above the horizon,
Clang readied himself, gave the choir one last check, and nodded to
Tinkle.<br />
<br />
The high, light sound rang out loud and clear, followed by a rolling
scale of melodious notes that reverberated across the awakening town. <br />
<br />
Far below the tower, in the manse beside the church, a pastor looked up
from his prayers. He had wrestled all night with his Christmas morning
message. What could he say that would bring hope to a world where evil
ruled men’s hearts, where even Christmas was banned with an “X”? How
could he make sense of a world where, in the name of preserving peace,
war was wrought?<br />
<br />
He listened, remembered, and smiled. Hope was in God’s final note—which had yet to be played.<br />
<br />
*************** <br />
<br />
<i>And in despair I bowed my head/There is no peace on earth I said/For
hate is strong and mocks the song/Of peace on earth, good will toward
men/<br />
Then peeled the bells more loud and sweet/God is not dead nor doth he
sleep/ The wrong shall fail, the right prevail/Of peace on earth, good
will toward men./</i> (from: <i>I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day</i>)Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-77762035908700094092015-08-24T15:51:00.001-07:002015-08-24T15:51:58.123-07:00Rock Solid<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIyGeeLGdQroofSuV8RxLSWT7E0YDxcwQGmLPiPYXTI9FMY7ZFO35F7DqZi8l9vB2iLume10yLpqdkMJpEXyzDMfyAQfk-vSP8sAbsQLcPNPrAf_P_FMYAalia29L44PF4zMyLyz54hWs/s1600/plumbing-709631_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIyGeeLGdQroofSuV8RxLSWT7E0YDxcwQGmLPiPYXTI9FMY7ZFO35F7DqZi8l9vB2iLume10yLpqdkMJpEXyzDMfyAQfk-vSP8sAbsQLcPNPrAf_P_FMYAalia29L44PF4zMyLyz54hWs/s320/plumbing-709631_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
“Bricks?”<br /><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
<br />
“Check.”<br />
<br />
“Trusses?”<br />
<br />
“Got ‘em.”<br />
<br />
“Window frames with glass?”<br />
<br />
“Check.”<br />
<br />
“Doors, front and back?”<br />
<br />
“Double check.”<br />
<br />
“Nails, various sizes?”<br />
<br />
“Ditto.”<br />
<br />
“Paneling?”<br />
<br />
“That went out with the ice age, but if you insist, check.”<br />
<br />
“Paint, several shapes of blue?”<br />
<br />
“Why blue?”<br />
<br />
“Reminds me of the sea. You know; tranquility, sea birds, setting sun, and all
that.”<br />
<br />
“Right. Anything else?”<br />
<br />
Mr. MacLean scanned his list, and seeing only checkmarks, sighed in relief.<br />
<br />
“Nope, everything is present and accounted for. Tomorrow we begin to build.”<br />
<br />
And so it was that as soon as dawn broke the next day, MacLean’s crew began
work on his fine brick house nestled among the trees by the river. Day after
day, they toiled. The weeks past as the investment of McLean’s lifetime took
form before his proud eyes.<br />
<br />
MacLean was a fine man, upstanding and well respected in his community. He gave
generously of his time, and his considerable wealth, to support charities and
worthy causes of all kinds. People commented that he deserved his new home by
the river. It was a tribute to hard work, clean living, and an open hand.<br />
<br />
The property had been his own choice, for which he had spent a great deal of
money. The sound of the current fascinated him, as it tumbled over the rocks in
the shallows of the river. The boathouse would go just to the left of the house
so as not to obstruct his view. <br />
<br />
As the masterpiece of human art and craft took shape, MacLean did have his
moments of concern. The river was not his to control, or to own. There were
others who were building nearby. Just off to the right, and higher up on the
bluff, another house was under construction.<br />
<br />
<i>Just think. I worked all my life for this land and this house, and someone
gave this guy that land.</i> <br />
<br />
MacLean had seen his soon-to-be neighbour around town. The man wasn’t ashamed
to tell everyone of the gift that he had been given. He seemed a man without
pride in his accomplishments, though it certainly could not be said that he was
any less generous than MacLean himself.<br />
<br />
As the summer wore on, the two houses rose together. The townsfolk often came
to check up on the progress of each, marveling at their similarities, and their
differences.<br />
<br />
“Well, they are certainly houses,” commented one observant individual.<br />
<br />
Doors, floors and furnishings; in the basics, they looked the same. However,
MacLean’s neighbour seemed content to let his house take the shape of the land
it sat on, while MacLean made the land conform to the blueprints he had so
carefully drawn up.<br />
<br />
Finally, the house by the river was finished. <br />
<br />
“Mr. MacLean, you got a winner here,” said the foreman as he finished gathering
up his tools and his crew. “That guy up there will be feeling some stiff
breezes while you enjoy this sheltered corner of the river bank.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, indeed, there’s no doubt about it, I have built a great house of which I
can be justifiably proud.”<br />
<br />
And MacLean entered his house; sat in the expensive furniture he has carefully
selected from the finest stores, and watched the river flow by his door.<br />
<br />
In November, cold air from the north heralded the coming of the first of the
early winter storms. The breezes, about which the supervisor had commented,
turned into stiff winds that buffeted the house on the bluff. Down by the river,
the trees sheltered MacLean, and he hardly noticed that the climate had
changed. He went to sleep in peace, with the sound of the currents filling his
dreams.<br />
<br />
He awoke to a loud banging on his front door and two inches of water splashing
across his bedroom floor. <br />
<br />
“MacLean, hurry. The river is rising rapidly. You have to get out now.”<br />
<br />
It was the neighbour from the bluff. MacLean flung open the front door. The
boathouse was already gone, and his beautiful home was creaking and groaning,
already buckling as the swelling tide of river water lashed at its walls and
posts. <br />
<br />
There was no time to save anything and in what seemed like an eternity of
minutes, MacLean found himself in the house on the bluff, watching as the river
washed away all that was so valued by him. The water never reached his
neighbour’s house.<br />
<br />
“Where did I go wrong?”<br />
<br />
His neighbour placed a comforting hand on MacLean’s shoulder.<br />
<br />
“You wouldn’t have lost anything if you had built on the Rock.”</span></div>
Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-53145632049444188572015-08-15T13:58:00.001-07:002015-08-15T13:58:14.181-07:00Cereal Killer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Hither, thither, up and down,<br />
Across the factory floor,<br />
“Where is that boy, what has he done?”<br />
Yelled Crackle with a roar.<br />
<br />
“We can’t proceed, there is no chance,<br />
Everything’s too quiet.<br />
Production’s stopped, no means to find<br />
A place in human diet.”<br />
<br />
Pop was annoyed; there was no doubt—<br />
Perhaps a bit afraid.<br />
Some evil could have entered here<br />
And made a nasty raid—<br />
<br />
To steal a third of Krispies' fame<br />
And hide it in a dungeon<br />
A ransom ask, or worse to come,<br />
To kill the sweet curmudgeon.<br />
<br />
‘Tis true Snap’s temper was quite short,<br />
But that should not require<br />
A punishment as foul as death<br />
A fate that is so dire. <br />
<br />
Crackle paced and Pop thought hard.<br />
The problem was confusing<br />
A dozen reasons came and went<br />
Each one set him to musing.<br />
<br />
“Perhaps he fell into his bowl<br />
And drowned in low-fat milk.<br />
We need to go and see if he<br />
Needs help from his own ilk.”<br />
<br />
While empty boxes stood in rows,<br />
Crackle’s ire grew.<br />
No work was done, no food produced,<br />
He knew just what he’d do:<br />
<br />
“I’ll break his neck when next I see<br />
My misbegotten brother. <br />
If he’s not dead, or locked away,<br />
Send running to his mother.”<br />
<br />
Pop grew tall and spoke his mind:<br />
“You speak in such a fury<br />
Your words are harsh, but so untrue,<br />
I hope that it’s just worry.”<br />
<br />
The factory door swung open wide<br />
A gasp was heard from all<br />
As onto factory floor walked in<br />
The cause of Crackle’s gall.<br />
<br />
“So sorry, guys, I overslept.<br />
I hope that you’ll decide<br />
To overlook this lapse of mine.” <br />
On grace, Snap now relied.<br />
<br />
Pop was relieved there hadn’t been<br />
A death, or something other<br />
But Crackle wasn’t so inclined<br />
To pardon his dear brother.<br />
<br />
“Have you no sense of what is right?<br />
You could have used your cell<br />
To tell us that you were delayed,<br />
That all was right and well.”<br />
<br />
True to form, Snap’s fuse was short<br />
No one could deny it<br />
Both brothers took to fisticuffs <br />
Thus ending all the quiet.<br />
<br />
The rice got puffed, the boxes trembled,<br />
Waxed paper tumbled ‘round,<br />
As brothers fought to a dead heat;<br />
Not ceding any ground.<br />
<br />
Pop was forced to intervene<br />
His veins about to shatter<br />
With face so red from such disgrace<br />
And nerves about to tatter.<br />
<br />
“All this fuss, and useless muss,<br />
‘Cuz Snap was late for work<br />
I must take charge, as fathers should,<br />
My duty not to shirk.”<br />
<br />
“Please understand that what you do<br />
Has many repercussions.<br />
The children want ‘Snap,’ ‘Crackle,’ ‘Pop,’ <br />
Not rice with head concussions.”<br />
<br />
“The sound they hear should happy be<br />
Not of war, but peace.<br />
So let’s forgive and move along<br />
Production to increase.”<br />
<br />
The lessons learned from Krispie sounds<br />
Within our hearts should lurk:<br />
Think the best, control your ire—<br />
And don’t be late for work.Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-70696794234383711122015-06-02T14:35:00.001-07:002015-06-02T14:35:25.438-07:00Lessons at Kilometer 2.5<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It’s said that a person can never go home. That’s not true—I do it whenever I can. <br />
<br />
Home surrounds Gillies Lake. The lake’s not as big as it used to be,
only two and a half kilometers around. If memory serves, that’s because
there isn’t a dredge stuck in the middle of it anymore, pumping out mud
from the mineshafts that run under the town. <br />
<br />
The city has turned the lake and its surrounding fringe into a
conservation area complete with walking trail. So let’s go for a walk.<br />
<br />
Most of the local ducks hang out near the picnic tables at the entrance.
They know there will always be leftover bread for them. I watch for a
while. The thermal travel mug will keep my coffee hot until I get to my
spot. The ducks remind me that God has a picnic table too. Like them, I
wait with eager anticipation for His supply. Unlike them, He doesn’t
bring me scraps. It’s always first-class with God.<br />
<br />
As I walk on, there are signposts giving directions and posters
revealing interesting information about the lake’s habitat. Their
presence reminds me of how important God’s directions to me are as He
speaks through His Word and by His Spirit.<br />
<br />
A few summers ago, a friend asked me to dog-sit. Chloe loved the walk
around Gillies. She respected the bigger pooches, but I had to watch her
around the little, yappy, ones. Their self-importance drove them to
challenge her. Given half the chance the big Lab would have been more
than happy to swallow them whole. I laughed at her but remember how
often my own insecurities have caused similar reactions. As time passes,
I’m learning just how “big” I am in my Father’s eyes and how little I
have to prove. <br />
<br />
I walk past the recently planted saplings. Each tree has been placed in
memory of a loved one who has passed on. At the base of each is a small
plaque with the person’s name inscribed on it. Memorial trees, in
various stages of growth, dot the park. God will remember me, not with a
plaque under a tree, but with a signature written in blood in His great
Book of Life. That’s even better.<br />
<br />
The path begins to climb a bit, crossing a creek that ends in a smaller
pool of quieter water where the ducks and geese raise their young. I’m
thankful for God’s “still waters” where I can rest safely. There are
lots of benches, but I wait until I get to the one at the top of the
hill. Here I sit to drink my coffee and look out across the lake. <br />
<br />
The bulrushes and long grasses whisper in the breeze. Little ripples,
scattering watery diamonds in their wake, flash across the surface of
the water, chasing each other in their race to the finish line at the
shore. The summer sun is hot on my back. It’s quiet. <br />
<br />
How strange to be so removed from all the activity taking place just a
short distance away. It’s like a world inside a world. I am reminded
that this is how a Christian lives, in a holy, hushed world of intimate
relationship with God even in the midst of chaos.<br />
<br />
I walk again. The path curves along the eastern edge of the lake. There
is another entrance on this side. A few cars are parked, their drivers
napping behind the wheel, or taking their lunch breaks at one of the
several picnic tables.<br />
<br />
Then the path curves again, moving into brush and trees on the north
end. Birds, butterflies, and bugs, flitter everywhere. There is the
sweet smell of wilderness right here in the heart of town. Here, more
than anywhere else, I feel God walking beside me.<br />
<br />
The western side of the lake, just beyond the beach I used to come to as
a kid, was the last to be developed. Here, the faded elegance of what
was once “Nob Hill” (the politer version of “Snob Hill”) overlooks
Gillies. Until recently, we still had to climb the hill and make a
detour along several blocks of city streets to get back to the entrance
to the conservation area. Today, a wooden walkway surrounded by trees
and grasses runs right along the shoreline, avoiding the houses. The
path is finally complete. <br />
<br />
Someday life’s detours will also be a thing of the past. The circle will
be complete, and I will be home, really home, in more ways than one.Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-67115466116415913702015-05-08T05:52:00.000-07:002015-05-08T05:52:03.563-07:00Pink Slipped<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Almost every student has a nightmare that features a door marked
“Principal’s Office.” I managed to avoid that door (except for one
unhappy incident in the third grade) until I was about to graduate from
seminary.<br />
<br />
The dreaded pink slip appeared in my mailbox just a few weeks before
graduation day. “See the dean” was all it said. Frankly terrified of
this austere and serious man, I was extremely nervous when I knocked at
his door and was granted permission to enter his inner sanctum. <br />
<br />
As was his custom, he got straight to the point. “I would like to ask
you to give your testimony at the graduation ceremony.” The relief that
came with the realization that I hadn’t committed some terrible sin was
replaced with the horrible thought of standing in front of a thousand
people, dropping my cue cards, and forgetting what I was supposed to
say. However, I would have agreed to just about anything to get out of
the room so the conversation was short.<br />
<br />
Two days later another pink slip found its way into my mailbox. “See the dean.” <br />
<br />
I entered with more confidence this time. After all, he hadn’t devoured me on my first visit. <br />
<br />
“The person with the best scholastic and ministry record in the
graduation class usually gives the valedictory address, but he has been
completing his studies from overseas and obviously won’t be here for the
service. You have the second best standing in your class so I would
like you to give the address on behalf of your classmates.”<br />
<br />
This was all news to me. I had never compared my grades or my service
with anyone else in my class. To think that I was even second
momentarily stunned me. If giving my testimony had made me nervous, this
possibility was many times worse. But how do you turn down the dean? So
I agreed.<br />
<br />
Several days later, the pink slip reappeared. “See the dean.” <br />
<br />
The room felt different when I entered. The dean seemed uncomfortable.
Did I detect a look of chagrin on his face? The answer to that was not
long in coming.<br />
<br />
“The Board of Directors met last night and they feel that since this is a
school that is trying to attract men and prepare them for ministry,
they think that a man should give the valedictory address. I’m sorry,
but would you still be willing to give your testimony?”<br />
<br />
It took me years before I thought to be offended at what his statement
implied: Seminary wasn’t really intended for girls and I wasn’t the
poster girl for attracting boys! But at that precise moment I was quite
happy to agree and escape his office.<br />
<br />
News travels fast in a small school and it wasn’t long before my
classmates knew what had happened in the dean’s office. They felt that I
had been treated unfairly but I insisted that it was scary enough to
give my testimony and I was happy just to leave the whole thing alone. <br />
<br />
A little while later yet another pink slip arrived in my box. “See the
dean.” At that point I wondered if I was ever going to graduate! Back to
the office I went. <br />
<br />
“We have a problem. Every one of the men in your class has refused to
give the valedictorian’s address. The only way any of them will agree to
do so is if you are allowed to share the honour.”<br />
<br />
At another time, in another place, and with another person, I might have
held the poor man’s toes to the coals and refused, just to make a
point. But I could tell he was already feeling pretty miserable about
the whole mess. Later I would remember that, decades before, this man
had lost his position in another seminary because he had defended his
own wife’s right, as a respected Greek scholar, to teach Biblical
languages to men. The discrimination wasn’t his. So I agreed. Two of us
would share the podium.<br />
<br />
And so it was.<br />
<br />
The following year, I received an invitation to the seminary’s
graduation service. The valedictorian—only one this time—was a girl.<br />
<br />
I smiled.Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-23954364505722828592015-04-10T06:24:00.000-07:002015-04-10T06:24:03.499-07:00A House of Prayer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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At the age of twelve, the Son visited His Father’s official residence in
Jerusalem. It seems that at that point in time it was also a place of
learning, since we are told that he was found: “<i>sitting among the
teachers, listening to them and asking them questions</i>” (<a class="lbsBibleRef" data-purpose="bible-reference" data-reference="Luke 2.46" data-version="niv" href="http://biblia.com/bible/niv/Luke%202.46" target="_blank">Luke 2:46 NIV</a>).
The picture was very different some twenty-one years later. Mark tells
the story this way: “<i>On reaching Jerusalem, Jesus entered the temple
area and began driving out those who were buying and selling there. He
overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those
selling doves, and would not allow anyone to carry merchandise through
the temple courts</i>” (<a class="lbsBibleRef" data-purpose="bible-reference" data-reference="Mark 11.15" data-version="esv" href="http://biblia.com/bible/esv/Mark%2011.15" target="_blank">Mark 11:15</a>, <a class="lbsBibleRef" data-purpose="bible-reference" data-reference="Mark 11.16" data-version="esv" href="http://biblia.com/bible/esv/Mark%2011.16" target="_blank">16</a> NIV).<br />
<br />
Jesus, upon arriving at the temple, entered first through the outer
court, the court of Gentiles. No gentile was ever allowed beyond this
point, but, here in this court, the gentiles who had converted to
Judaism were allowed to pray. At least that had been the original
intent. But the Gentiles couldn’t pray because, with the sanction of the
high priest, the outer court had been turned into a mall for the sale
of all the items necessary for temple sacrifice. Vats of wine and oil,
kegs of salt and pens of approved sacrificial animals and birds were
everywhere. In the Palestine of that day, Roman, Greek and Jewish money
was in circulation. Exchange houses had to be provided so that the
international visitors to the Holy Place, could change their money into
Jewish coin. All males, 20 years of age and older were required by law
to pay this temple tax.<br />
<br />
Praying in the outer court would have been difficult amid such a
carnival atmosphere. As well, it appears that people going about their
business outside of temple property had become too lazy to walk around
the Holy Place, so they simply carried all their merchandise through the
temple, using it as a public street. <br />
<br />
Jesus was outraged. “<i>My house will be called a house of prayer for all nations</i>” (<a class="lbsBibleRef" data-purpose="bible-reference" data-reference="Mark 11.17" data-version="niv" href="http://biblia.com/bible/niv/Mark%2011.17" target="_blank">Mark 11:17 NIV</a>), he proclaimed. The religious leaders present would have understood this quote from <a class="lbsBibleRef" data-purpose="bible-reference" data-reference="Isaiah 56.7" data-version="esv" href="http://biblia.com/bible/esv/Isaiah%2056.7" target="_blank">Isaiah 56:7</a>
that prophesied the day when Jews and Gentiles would worship God
together in one place. Even more did they understand the next reference
that the Lord quoted: “<i>But you have made it a den of robbers</i>”. The
reference to “the den of robbers” comes from <a class="lbsBibleRef" data-purpose="bible-reference" data-reference="Jeremiah 7.11" data-version="esv" href="http://biblia.com/bible/esv/Jeremiah%207.11" target="_blank">Jeremiah 7:11</a>
and was a prophecy concerning the judgment that would fall on
Jerusalem, the temple, her leaders and her people, for abandoning their
God. Jeremiah’s prophecy is scathing and condemning. He writes: “<i>Will
you steal and murder, commit adultery and perjury, burn incense to Baal
and follow other gods you have not known, and then come and stand before
me in this house which bears my Name, and say, ‘We are safe’ —safe to
do all these detestable things? Has this house, which bears my Name
become a den of robbers to you … I spoke to you again and again, but you
did not listen; I called you, but you did not answer … I will thrust
you from my presence … my anger and my wrath will be poured out on this
place</i>” (<a class="lbsBibleRef" data-purpose="bible-reference" data-reference="Jeremiah 7.9-11" data-version="esv" href="http://biblia.com/bible/esv/Jeremiah%207.9-11" target="_blank">Jeremiah 7:9-11</a>, <a class="lbsBibleRef" data-purpose="bible-reference" data-reference="Jeremiah 7.13" data-version="esv" href="http://biblia.com/bible/esv/Jeremiah%207.13" target="_blank">13</a>, <a class="lbsBibleRef" data-purpose="bible-reference" data-reference="Jeremiah 7.15" data-version="esv" href="http://biblia.com/bible/esv/Jeremiah%207.15" target="_blank">15</a>, <a class="lbsBibleRef" data-purpose="bible-reference" data-reference="Jeremiah 7.20" data-version="esv" href="http://biblia.com/bible/esv/Jeremiah%207.20" target="_blank">20</a>
NIV). And so it would be. Only a few short years later, in 70 A.D.,
Jerusalem and the Temple, were destroyed as the Roman armies led by
Titus ravaged the land.<br />
<br />
The Son came back to His Father’s official residence at the end of His
ministry with one more warning. His desire, in this moment of righteous
indignation, was to remove that which hindered the Gentiles from being
able to worship God in quietness and reverence, as God intended that
they should. He also took one more opportunity to call His people back
to Himself.<br />
<br />
“<i>My house will be called a house of prayer</i>” he shouts. It is interesting
that He didn’t say: “My house will be called a house of preaching”, or
“My house will be called a house of teaching”, or “My house will be
called a house of worship”, or a house of service, or a house of
fellowship, or a house of sacrifice. It was to be “<i>a house of prayer</i>”.
Hanging over the steeples and stained glass of today’s church is our
death sentence. Like the Temple, the majority of churches are no longer
houses of prayer. If God condemned one generation for abandoning His
prime purpose for His house, why would He not condemn another for doing
the same thing? <br />
<br />
God’s house was to be a place of prayer for the nations. Foreigners
would be welcomed — a reference to the day when the gospel invitation
would be extended to the Gentiles. God’s house would be a house of
prayer for the marginalized. Isaiah’s prophecy states that eunuchs,
those who had once been denied the right to enter the court to pray and
worship because of their physical deformities, would no longer be
excluded. There would be no room in God’s house for discrimination. <br />
<br />
It is important to the Lord that His house be set aside for worship and
instruction. But it is vital to Him that His house be a house of prayer.
The walls, floors, windows and doors are not sacred. Neither is, (dare I
say it) the pulpit or the communion table. What is sacred are the
purposes for which these things are used. We are not to use His house
for purposes other than those He intended, We are to facilitate prayer
in God’s house, and we are not to neglect to make prayer in His house a
major focus of our public worship, as well as in our private devotions. <br />
<br />
If it was so important to Christ that His Father’s house be a house of
prayer, then it should be important to us as well. To the extent that we
are “houses of prayer”, corporately or individually, to that extent God
will bless both us and our land.<br />
<br />
©2009 Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-92189731381677729312015-03-20T06:26:00.002-07:002015-03-20T06:26:43.265-07:00A Little Bird Told Me<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">wikipedia.org (Google images)</td></tr>
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The barnyard was all a-buzz. Actually, all a-twitter might be a more accurate statement. <br />
<br />
“I tell you, Sweetie, Gertie Goatbuster is in big trouble now.”<br />
<br />
Swiftness Swallowpater didn’t stop to catch his breath, not even once,
as he shared the news with Mrs. Swallowpater. All the little
Swallowpaters kept up an unceasing chatter asking impertinent questions
of their unheeding elders.<br />
<br />
“What, Daddy …?”<br />
<br />
“How, Pappy …?”<br />
<br />
“Where, Padre…?” (This particular Swallowpater was at the head of his
Spanish class. As you know, swallows vacation in Capistrano, Argentina.)<br />
<br />
“I overheard … er … heard it personally from Clarissa Cowbell herself.
Gertie got up at the Barnyard Brethren Assembly and spoke.<br />
<br />
Sweetie looked puzzled.<br />
<br />
“Gertie is always bleating about something, so what’s …”<br />
<br />
“Mama, goats don’t bleat,” admonished the Swallowpater who thought he was smarter than every other bird in the nest.<br />
<br />
“… so unusual about her speaking?” asked mother without missing a beat. <br />
<br />
“Dear, that’s Harry Horsenpfeffer’s job. Remember, he went away to
Equestrian College and learned the meaning of all the knee nudges and
the whip whaps. He’s schooled. Gertie’s a goat—garbage in, garbage out.”<br />
<br />
“Swiftness, the children are present, please watch your beak!”<br />
<br />
“Sorry, but this upsets me so. Percy Piglettington is calling a meeting
of the Barnboard to discuss the situation. You know what he’s like when
he gets his tail in a curl.”<br />
<br />
Sweetie cocked her head, ruffling her feathers at the thought of Percy on a rampage.<br />
<br />
“I don’t understand. Did Harry know this was going to happen?”<br />
<br />
“That’s what Percy is going to bring up at the meeting. Harry knew. In
fact, he encouraged the outrage. He told Percy that Gertie was gifted
and that he wanted to help her use the gift.”<br />
<br />
“Oh cool. Do we get presents too, Daddy?”<br />
<br />
“Hush, that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m saying that Harry told
Percy, who told Clarissa, who sort of told me, that Gertie has a special
ability to speak to the Barnyard. It’s a gift she got from the
Cre-itter-ator.”<br />
<br />
The mention of the Cre-itter-ator inspired silence in the little Swallowpaters, if only for a brief moment.<br />
<br />
“Padre?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, son?”<br />
<br />
The smart-beak hesitated, not wanting his question to reveal any ignorance on his part.<br />
<br />
“She’s a she.”<br />
<br />
The elders exchanged puzzled glances.<br />
<br />
“I mean; Gertie’s a nanny goat. Didn’t you tell me that nannies were not
allowed to speak in the Barnyard? The Cre-itter-ator must have made a
mistake if he gave her that gift.”<br />
<br />
Father Swallowpater considered for a moment. If he said that the
Cre-itter-ator, who held all their lives in his hands, had made
mistake—well, that was unthinkable. However, if he said that Gertie did
have the gift, he would be building his nest in the farthest corner of
the pasture next year, no longer welcome in the barnyard. Percy would
see to that.<br />
<br />
“Well, maybe Gertie has the gift so that she can tell the
Cre-itter-ator’s stories to people like Calico Caterwaul, or Penny
Heninger, or …”<br />
<br />
“Sweetie Swallowpater?”<br />
<br />
Swiftness looked at his good wife. There was a glint in her unblinking
eye that warned him that he might be building that new nest BEFORE next
year.<br />
<br />
“Swiftness, if Gertie has the gift, her stories wouldn’t be any different than Harry’s, would they?”<br />
<br />
“No, but …”<br />
<br />
“If the stories are the same, who delivers them doesn’t matter, does it?”<br />
<br />
“But, we’ve never had a she tell the Cre-itter-ator’s stories before.”<br />
<br />
“Pappy?”<br />
<br />
Swiftness turned to the littlest of the swallows.<br />
<br />
“Yes, son?”<br />
<br />
“Gertie’s been telling the kids, the calves, the foals, the chicks and
the piglets, all those stories for years. Everything we know about the
Cre-itter-ator, we know because of her. Did she do something bad talking
to us?”<br />
<br />
Swiftness’ heart was torn at the troubled look in his youngest son’s
eyes. More importantly, the question had reminded him that just about
everything HE knew about the stories he had also learned from Nanny
Gertie. She’d always had the gift.<br />
<br />
Truth triumphed over custom.<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry, Sweetie. Kids, please forgive me. I shouldn’t have said what
I did about Nanny. She does have the gift. I know it, you know it, and
Harry knows it too. I’m sure the Cre-itter-ator wouldn’t have given it
to her, if he didn’t expect her to tell the stories to anyone who would
listen.”<br />
<br />
Sweetie pecked her husband on the cheek.<br />
<br />
“What about that Barnboard meeting?”<br />
<br />
“How about we take the fledglings? Gertie isn’t the only one with a Cre-itter-ator-given right to speak.”Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-21387506916223060042015-01-16T05:12:00.000-08:002015-01-16T05:12:16.121-08:00God On Broadband<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKJZqTRIBbAKGWuR2veCNIHcDd3nsPsE8tPZhMQbPHLBykKphE7LhtDlnjXpjmT8EhYdB3gNmF50ncrzmQXU2chbawIA19gN6Vsqe9N3DkMwMx3mwiDsgzPwRVbFmFHuACyFolx8DiVfI/s1600/london-telephones-richard-newstead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKJZqTRIBbAKGWuR2veCNIHcDd3nsPsE8tPZhMQbPHLBykKphE7LhtDlnjXpjmT8EhYdB3gNmF50ncrzmQXU2chbawIA19gN6Vsqe9N3DkMwMx3mwiDsgzPwRVbFmFHuACyFolx8DiVfI/s1600/london-telephones-richard-newstead.jpg" height="210" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">fineartamerica.com (Google Images)</td></tr>
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<i>Why don’t you go home? You’ve been at this for more than thirty
years. You don’t owe anything to anyone after all these years of
service.</i><br />
<br />
I’m mulling the words over in my mind. What is it that keeps me here?
It’s not like anyone is depending on me to stay. No, I’ve been very
careful to NOT become indispensable, not to be the tool, but to help
believers form their own tools cultivating for themselves the ground God
wants to bless with abundant spiritual growth. If they were more
dependent, I could convince myself that I couldn’t leave them.<br />
<br />
<i>You’re the author of your own redundancy. You’ve equipped them well
enough to work yourself out of a job. So, go somewhere else! Your gifts
are portable.</i><br />
<br />
I think I’ve done all I can do; all God wanted me to do. In any case, I
haven’t got another generation-of-disciples-to-equip in me. I can’t
repeat the process anymore, that spark is gone. I can no longer return
after Home Assignment and pick up where I left off. For one thing, there
isn’t anything now to pick up after. For another, the Lord has called
me to go in a different direction, to fulfill a dream.<br />
<br />
<i>So, go home.</i> <br />
<br />
I can’t. The Lord has changed the mission, but I don’t have any
indication that the place is any different. Besides, any major changes
in location for me have always come from phone calls out of the clear
blue sky at unexpected moments. <br />
<br />
<i>If you’re waiting for a phone call these days, you may wait forever —you’ve been “on hold” for a while now.</i><br />
<br />
Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t wait for a phone call — being that specific
is kind of like putting God in a box. Maybe I’m hoping for some
catastrophic event to happen: earthquake, coup, getting my pink slip in
the mail. I’d be forced to leave. The latter won’t happen — missionaries
seldom get fired — and I really don’t want to go through the former.
I’m paralyzed, waiting for something to happen, and I don’t understand
why!<br />
<br />
<i>Someone is going to be issuing you a dose of Prozac any minute now.
You must be going through a mid-life crisis. It could be too many
traumatic changes and stresses over these last few years. You’re
depressed. Remember, a general, non-specific feeling of unhappiness is
one of the signs.</i><br />
<br />
And talking to myself is a sign of … ? Anyway, I’m eating, sleeping,
socializing, and working well. I like this country as much as I like my
own — most of the time. I love this apartment with its
“view-to-die-for.” On top of all that, I have been allowed the freedom
to follow my dream and go in a new direction with the blessing of my
superiors.<br />
<br />
<i>Then why are you so unsettled? Why are you having such a hard time
getting down to making the dream a reality, to posting your mileage
signs on the highway of your new direction? Why are you waiting for a
phone call?</i><br />
<br />
I’ve waited so long for this, and now that it’s here, I’m afraid that it
won’t be what I have imagined it to be. Part of me doesn’t want it to
be as good as the other part of me dreams it will be. Maybe the wait for
the phone call is just my way of putting off the fulfilling of the
dream, so that its culmination doesn’t become a stumbling block, an
idol, or a false source of satisfaction. If I hold off the source of
temporal joy, then I can hang on more tightly to the source of eternal
joy.<br />
<br />
<i>Do you think you know yourself so well, that you can be sure you’d
dethrone God with a dream? Do you really believe He gave you the chance
to go in this direction, to make this dream a reality, if He didn’t want
you to go there, if you were going to fail Him once you arrived?
Location has nothing to do with this, does it?</i><br />
<br />
I guess not. Gifts, like dreams, are portable. I can use them, and live
them out anywhere. Also, I’m not talking to myself, am I?<br />
<br />
<i>It started out that way, but I eavesdrop a lot. A friend of mine once
said that I would never lead you where I couldn’t keep you. He was
right. Now go, enjoy living out the dream, whatever it takes you.
Consider this your phone call.</i>Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-7402814957227884132015-01-09T06:28:00.000-08:002015-01-09T06:28:18.770-08:00The Greenborough Circle Chronicles: Tibby's Tail<div style="text-align: left;">
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<td valign="top" width="95%">A winter came and went before someone moved into Number 55, Greenborough
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRDeknX3ZdDefKuEBjMR-cg1b24eFlt1dSoSMxhZCRfN1ztOdnsigmMzIgbEvmbEBXp4LzDUy-B-cVjeBFIa7TTYSVqQzMh2X4DgWMraLQekVolnEnR0x1M95A5sSJw9iaaqFx3XBc28k/s1600/l-Cat-tail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRDeknX3ZdDefKuEBjMR-cg1b24eFlt1dSoSMxhZCRfN1ztOdnsigmMzIgbEvmbEBXp4LzDUy-B-cVjeBFIa7TTYSVqQzMh2X4DgWMraLQekVolnEnR0x1M95A5sSJw9iaaqFx3XBc28k/s1600/l-Cat-tail.jpg" height="285" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Google Images</td></tr>
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Circle. At the end of June, a large moving van pulled up in front of
the house. The neighbours watched from behind shuttered and curtained
windows as a houseful of goods was unloaded. A thin, yellow tabby also
watched from the shelter of the cedar hedge behind the tool shed. The
quiet of the empty house and yard had made the shed a safe haven for the
stray. She had wintered there, sliding in and out through a gap between
the door and its frame.<br />
<br />
The house was stale with the scent of despair and loneliness. The human
who had once occupied it had been gone for a long, long time, even
before physically abandoning its rooms.* As windows and doors sprang
open to receive the new occupants, the house seemed to take a deep,
relieved, breath.<br />
<br />
“But I measured …” protested Thomas Tibbits.<br />
<br />
“…the doors, not width of the curve in hall,” finished his wife, Sarah.<br />
<br />
Their king-size bed wouldn’t make the corner. They ended up parking the mattress and the box spring in the garage.<br />
<br />
Once the truck was unloaded, the movers backed it out of the driveway
and headed out to the main road. Quiet again reigned on the Circle
though chaos still ruled in the house, as boxes and bags were shuffled
around and unpacked.<br />
<br />
The only useable beds were those belonging to Jason and Michael, the
Tibbits’ sons. As soon as the delivery pizza had been consumed, they
were sent off to get reacquainted with them.<br />
<br />
“And, what about us, dear?” said Sarah sweetly, “now that we can’t get our bed down the hall.”<br />
<br />
“We’ll sleep on the hide-a-bed. It’s set up in the guest room. Tomorrow
I’ll figure out how to get the mattress and box spring around the
corner.” Thomas was, after all, an engineer. It would be embarrassing if
he couldn’t come up with a solution.<br />
<br />
“Uh-huh,” Mrs. Tibbits said. She was already wondering how to turn the garage into a master bedroom.<br />
<br />
Exhaustion and excitement brought on deep and dreamless sleep for all
the members of the Tibbits’ household on that first night. No one heard,
or felt, the stealthy entrance of the tabby, just a bit before dawn
arrived to welcome a new day of moving-in madness. She had cautiously
slunk across the yard and entered through the open kitchen window. The
cat had never been in the house before and her natural curiosity
overcame her. <br />
<br />
Later that morning, Sarah worked at organizing the kitchen and the boys
occupied themselves in their bedrooms, making their own creative design
disaster out of the contents of their boxes and bags. Thomas folded the
hideaway up with a sigh of satisfaction. Tonight they would sleep in
their own room on their own mattress. By the end of the day, 55
Greenborough Circle looked more like a home and less like a landfill.<br />
<br />
The enclave of Greenborough Circle was made up of older ranch-style
houses, built when recreation rooms were relegated to the basement.
Sarah Tibbits had already decided that the spare bedroom upstairs could
play that role in their lives while they worked on some home improvement
in the lower regions of the house. The boys happily settled in to
watching television and playing computer games from the comfort of the
sofa-cum-bed.<br />
<br />
It was Michael, in one of those rare quiet moments in what was temporary designated as the family room, who first saw it.<br />
<br />
“Mom, come quick, there’s a snake in here.” After the words left his
mouth, Michael repented of them. Mom was not the one to call about
snakes. Happily, Thomas, still on holidays from work while he got their
new home in order, was the one who responded to the call. Sarah was
right behind him—emphasis on the “behind.” <br />
<br />
“Where’s this snake?” questioned Thomas.<br />
<br />
“There,” said Michael, pointing to the bottom corner of the sofa bed.
The tip of a long, thin, “something” was visible. It twitched, and Sarah
let out a high squeak.<br />
<br />
Thomas approached, his mind accessing stored memories. <br />
<br />
“Relax,” he said. “There are no poisonous snakes in this area.” <br />
<br />
The “something” twitched again, and Thomas drew back in horror.<br />
<br />
“It’s not a snake, and it’s INSIDE the sofa bed,” he exclaimed. It
didn’t take an engineer to know that inside a sofa bed there isn’t any
room for anything except, well, the mattress and the springs that make
up the bed part of the dynamic sleeping duo.<br />
<br />
Fearing what could await them all, Thomas carefully removed the cushions
from the sofa, handed them back to his wife, and then pulled on the tab
that released the bed.<br />
<br />
***********************<br />
Hours later, a somewhat flattened tabby purred contentedly in Michael Tibbits’ lap.<br />
<br />
“How did she get in there?” queried Jason.<br />
<br />
“I guess she came in the night your mom and I had to sleep on the
hideaway. She must have sought shelter under the sofa while the bed was
still unmade. When I started to fold it back up, she was too frightened
to come out and got stuck between the springs and the back of the
sofa.”**<br />
<br />
“Why didn’t she cry?” asked Michael.<br />
<br />
His mother raised her eyebrows in mock incredulity as she looked over at her youngest. <br />
<br />
“And, you two would have heard her with the television at full volume,
or with that silly music playing that accompanies your computer games?
If she hadn’t managed to get her tail out, we wouldn’t have noticed her
until …” Sarah voice trailed off. The thought was too gruesome to
contemplate.<br />
<br />
Jason looked over at the sleeping tabby. “So, do we keep her, or what?”<br />
<br />
Thomas rubbed his chin, exchanging a meaningful glance with his wife.<br />
<br />
“Well, we’ll have to check to make sure she doesn’t belong to any of our
new neighbours first. I doubt it, considering how thin she is, and the
absence of a tag. I guess we owe her that much since we squashed her in a
sofa bed for two days without food and water…”<br />
<br />
“…And jumped on her,” added Sarah.<br />
<br />
“…But you guys will have to look after her,” their father continued.<br />
<br />
Jason tried for a “It-really-doesn’t-matter-to-me” look, while Michael’s
enthusiasm threatened to pop him, and the cat, out of the recliner
appropriated for the cat’s “healing” process. <br />
<br />
So it was that a stray tabby found a new home at Number 55, Greenborough
Circle. They named her, “Tibby,” though Michael created a computerized
pedigree for her and carefully wrote out “Tibby Tibbits’ Tail” on the
certificate. Love is sometimes spelled with three T’s.<br />
<br />
And Tibby? Well, according to her new family, she became the best cat in
the world. She was no fool: The house was certainly a long step up from
the tool shed.<br />
<br />
“<i>Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people
have entertained angels without knowing it. Remember those in prison as
if you were their fellow prisoners, and those who are mistreated as if
you yourself were suffering</i>” —<a class="lbsBibleRef" data-purpose="bible-reference" data-reference="Hebrews 13.2-3" data-version="esv" href="http://biblia.com/bible/esv/Hebrews%2013.2-3" target="_blank">Hebrews 13:2-3</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
See <i>The Greenborough Circle Chronicles, Buster’s Bones</i> (<a href="http://www.faithwriters.com/article-details.php?id=43389">http://www.faithwriters.com/article-details.php?id=43389</a>) for details<br />
* Based on an actual happening
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Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-14542169569429202712014-12-24T04:32:00.000-08:002014-12-24T04:32:13.464-08:00Tinkle and Clang<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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A flurry of discordant sound announced the arrival of several sections of the bell choir.<br />
<br />
“Move it, you three. You’re late and we haven’t got much time,” chimed
the Bell Master from his place on the bottom rung of the carillon. <br />
<br />
“Nag, nag, nag,” whispered the D flat to his buddy, C, as they climbed
into their places on the top level. “What’s the hurry, anyway? Clang’s
got his clapper in a knot for sure this morning.”<br />
<br />
“Morning? It’s still dark outside,” protested the F major, breathlessly hauling himself up behind the others.<br />
<br />
The smaller bells finally got themselves into place, just as Clang
struck the note that indicated readiness and silence in the ranks. He
looked around, carefully checking to make sure no one was missing. Worse
than a faulty note was no note at all. <br />
<br />
“Where’s Tinkle?” he boomed from his assigned spot.<br />
<br />
Tinkle was the littlest bell of all. Her spot was high up at the top of the carillon. <br />
<br />
Like an evil wind brushing through the tower, the rustle of the bells
created dissonance as everyone looked around, hunting for Tinkle.<br />
<br />
“I’m here sir. Just polishing, Bell Master.” Her clear, high sound rang
out as Tinkle took her place at the apex of the musical arrangement. <br />
<br />
“That girl takes herself too seriously. ‘Just polishing, Bell Master.’
As if fingerprints made any difference to anyone,” mimicked the D flat.<br />
<br />
“You have something to share with us?” came Clang’s voice from down below.<br />
<br />
Everyone froze. More than once Clang had said out loud that he wished
they never had to have contact with their human counterparts—the evil
always rubbed off a bit, like fingerprints on the burnished surface of a
bell. <br />
<br />
“Uhmmmmm, no sir. I was just, well, wondering what all the rush was
about,” stuttered the offender. “It’s not even daylight yet.”<br />
<br />
“Well, if—and I know keeping time for you doesn’t usually include
knowing what day it is—you had been paying attention during rehearsals,
you would have remembered that dawn today is the biggest moment of our
year. Today we bring hope to the world.”<br />
<br />
From somewhere in the middle of the bevy of bells came the dulcet tones
of one of the G’s. “But, boss, do you really think anyone listens to us?
It’s nasty out there. Everyone knows what happened to poor Liberty.
Those humans are a mean lot and we don’t seem to be making much of an
impact.”<br />
<br />
There were a couple of chuckles from the group at G’s unintentional play
on notes. The subdued merriment stopped as Clang’s clapper sounded for
silence.<br />
<br />
“I’ll admit that I sometimes have my doubts as to whether anyone gets
our message, but that’s not the point. The point is that we have a
message that we have been assigned to deliver, we’ve been practicing
faithfully for this last year, and we are going to chime out that
message no matter what. It’s up to the Master Musician to do the rest.
So, are we ready? It’s almost time.”<br />
<br />
The bell choir stirred, positioning themselves, clappers at the ready, all eyes on Clang. <br />
<br />
“Tinkle?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, sir?”<br />
<br />
“Don’t forget, your part is critical. Sometimes people don’t hear the high notes, so you can’t hesitate or show weakness.”<br />
<br />
“I won’t let you down, sir.”<br />
<br />
Slowly the blackness outside the tower retreated before the insistence
of the watery light of a winter sun. As it peeked above the horizon,
Clang readied himself, gave the choir one last check, and nodded to
Tinkle.<br />
<br />
The high, light sound rang out loud and clear, followed by a rolling
scale of melodious notes that reverberated across the awakening town. <br />
<br />
Far below the tower, in the manse beside the church, a pastor looked up
from his prayers. He had wrestled all night with his Christmas morning
message. What could he say that would bring hope to a world where evil
ruled men’s hearts, where even Christmas was banned with an “X”? How
could he make sense of a world where, in the name of preserving peace,
war was wrought?<br />
<br />
He listened, remembered, and smiled. Hope was in God’s final note—which had yet to be played.<br />
<br />
*************** <br />
<br />
<i>And in despair I bowed my head/There is no peace on earth I said/For
hate is strong and mocks the song/Of peace on earth, good will toward
men/<br />
Then peeled the bells more loud and sweet/God is not dead nor doth he
sleep/ The wrong shall fail, the right prevail/Of peace on earth, good
will toward men./</i> (from: <i>I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day</i>)
<br />
<hr color="#cccccc" size="1" />
Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-69081568443458096312014-12-19T05:52:00.002-08:002014-12-19T05:52:32.953-08:00No Light, No Tunnel, No End<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBxiD_Zhwu4UwhjFkopdZa8yyWTtcFMj3-NFJ9qlSQQKXjKVEQay6oB7xInb6_MOn14bc3Qic54aZn-W1QX_DZJxJwg9B3UNYvvQbukcjADEJMJKh-JxW8CftovipfOncNaieCd_CSyUI/s1600/39258.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBxiD_Zhwu4UwhjFkopdZa8yyWTtcFMj3-NFJ9qlSQQKXjKVEQay6oB7xInb6_MOn14bc3Qic54aZn-W1QX_DZJxJwg9B3UNYvvQbukcjADEJMJKh-JxW8CftovipfOncNaieCd_CSyUI/s1600/39258.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">stocksy.com (Google Images)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I linger in the blackness, seemingly invisible to passersby. My night is
cold and lonely, devoid of the warmth of human touch. There is only
God, and though He speaks, I do not hear from Him what I desperately
want to hear. He begs me to trust His will, but that will lies heavily
upon me, like a shroud. His will is solitary. His will is hard. He bids
me to be patient, but the fruitless, empty, years pass me by, heaping
their rewards on others. <br />
<br />
Shared laughter mocks me, as groups of two, three, and four, walk by.
Their eyes seem to meet mine, but then slide past unseeing. I follow
them, heading toward the open doors ahead that they are passing through.
I long to cry out after them: “Look at me. See me. Hear me.” I don’t.
They are busy with better, more productive, things. I bless the Lord for
all their successes even as I envy them those blessings. Like a swift
running current, they flow past my stagnant pool. It seems pointless to
call out to them. Even if they saw and heard, there is nothing they can
do. My path is beyond their reach. Only God can change the unchangeable.<br />
<br />
My present darkness is His will, so I cannot pass through the doors that
are open for others. At least I can press up against the windows and
watch. The room they have entered is ablaze with light and resounds with
music. It is crowded with people, laughing and chatting, making
contact, sharing information, planting the seeds of ideas; a mutual
admiration society. My aloneness deepens.<br />
<br />
I should walk away. Why punish myself by remaining so close, but never
close enough? Like the starving child with nose and palms pressed
against the bakery window, I still need the crumbs that occasionally are
tossed my way, even though they create in me a greater awareness of my
deep hunger. So I linger.<br />
<br />
<i>How long, O Lord?</i><br />
<br />
God says wait. He is carefully putting all the pieces of my life
together. This solitary, shadowy corner is coming together just as He
planned. Patience is not my strongest character trait. Sometimes, during
the darkest moments of my night, I rail against Him and weep bitter
tears. As quickly, I repent of the failure of my frail faith. Trust is,
at times, an Everest that defies my best efforts to reach its summit. I
know He makes no mistakes. I understand He has reasons—and good
ones—for leaving me here. Like Job, I present my case and cry out for
God to explain His. <br />
<br />
Chattering voices and the chinking of glasses reach my ears. Toasts are
being offered in celebration. A persistent voice whispers: “And who
celebrates for you?” I push the thought away. I know it will return the
next time some small victory comes my way and there is no one to share
my happiness.<br />
<br />
I shiver. There it is again, that subtle rejection of God’s will and
presence. How often I have prayed that He would take away this desire
for what isn’t part of His plan for me. He neither takes me from this
darkness, nor does He remove my desire to be taken from it. That too is
part of the plan. <br />
<br />
I am ashamed. I turn back from the lighted window and look out into the
darkness. As the Spirit of God adjusts my spiritual night vision, I weep
again. The music from inside the room fades, replaced by the hoot of a
nearby owl, the chirp of crickets, and the soft rustle of wind through
barely visible trees. The air is heavy with the fragrance of lilac and
gardenia. A million stars gleam overhead. I missed them in the glare of
the light streaming from the windows. There is such beauty in the
darkness. My shroud, whose folds hide the arms of God, embraces me. He
is always good, and never as good as He is right now. I weep over my
sins. Not content with the bounty of my night, I wanted more, even when
He has given me so much. Thoughtless and unappreciative, I threw it back
at Him.<br />
<br />
Someone once said: “<i>Never doubt in the dark what God told you in the light.</i>”
Not one promise He has made me has failed. Though they don’t disappear,
the voices are muted, overtaken by the sounds of the night. The grass
stirs at my feet. God walks here in the dark.Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-37692121650562953342014-12-12T05:47:00.002-08:002014-12-12T05:47:37.991-08:00Mildred's Mouse House<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLB6DHFE9JmEElQqrdh_-CpdlwwdHc2hTFgLiQEovSg4h2RUp2qA_bLTQUeMtqsFY5RZLIY_G1yUg_KlvXZkNWbSzGwpykRZsLSnEJPPLZbVrRgOEoGRTFqluH_vFMVlRShnshO4TOWao/s1600/tumblr_mdhq23SfoA1rkq10eo1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLB6DHFE9JmEElQqrdh_-CpdlwwdHc2hTFgLiQEovSg4h2RUp2qA_bLTQUeMtqsFY5RZLIY_G1yUg_KlvXZkNWbSzGwpykRZsLSnEJPPLZbVrRgOEoGRTFqluH_vFMVlRShnshO4TOWao/s1600/tumblr_mdhq23SfoA1rkq10eo1_500.jpg" height="229" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">plus.google.com (Google Images)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Synopsis:</b> Millie discovers a unique way of giving Jesus the birthday present He could have used two thousand years ago. <br />
<br />
<b>Characters:</b><br />
Mildred, a child of about 7<br />
Robin, Mildred’s 12 year old brother<br />
Mom<br />
<br />
<b>Location:</b><br />
A kitchen with a back door leading to the yard.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Scene One</b><br />
Mom is in the kitchen cooking. Robin is working on homework at one end
of the kitchen table. Mildred is at the other end, elbows on the table,
holding up her head with her hands, looking very glum.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Robin (looking up and across at Milly):</b><br />
"Mr. Henderson paid me yesterday. Now I have enough to do ALL my Christmas shopping."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"That’s nice. If you like, we can go to the mall on Saturday. Milly can come with us."<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"Don’t want to."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"Why not?" <br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"Don’t have any money. Can’t buy anything for anybody without money."<br />
<br />
<b>Robin:</b><br />
"I’ll lend you some. Course, I’ll have to charge you interest."<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"What’s “interest”?"<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"Don’t pay any attention to your brother. He’s being silly. Maybe you
could make some Christmas presents out of things you already have."<br />
<br />
<b>Robin:</b><br />
"I don’t want some of her homemade junk." <br />
<br />
<b>Mom (with warning in her voice):</b><br />
"Robin, that’s enough. With that kind of attitude you don’t deserve any
kind of present from Milly. Maybe we could make things easier for all of
us this year. How about we write down the names of all the people we
are going to give presents to and put them in a hat. Then each of us can
draw a name and buy a present for just that one person?"<br />
<br />
<b>Robin:</b><br />
"Hey, then I only get one present."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"Robin, Christmas isn’t about how many presents YOU get, remember?"<br />
<br />
<b>Robin:</b><br />
"Okay, okay. Actually it’s not a bad idea. Then I only have to buy one present and I’ll still have money left for me."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom (signs and shakes her head):</b><br />
"Sometimes, I wonder if Scrooge didn’t somehow get trapped in a twelve year old’s body."<br />
<br />
<b>Robin: </b><br />
"What?"<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"Who’s Scrooge?"<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"Never mind. It’s not important."<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"I ALWAYS wonder about Robin. But I don’t even have money for one present. What if I get Grannie’s name?"<br />
<br />
<b>Robin:</b><br />
"That’s easy. Grannie says she’s going to heaven soon and there isn’t a
thing that she needs. You wouldn’t have to buy her anything."<br />
<br />
<b>Milly & Mom (horrified)</b><br />
"ROBIN!"<br />
<br />
<b>Robin:</b><br />
"Well, that’s what she said."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"You know, I think I have the solution to this problem. How about we don’t buy any presents for anyone this year?"<br />
<br />
<b>Robin and Milly:</b><br />
"Mom!"<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"No, I’m serious. Whose birthday is it anyway?"<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"Jesus’ birthday."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"Right. So, why are we buying presents for everyone except the person who is celebrating the birthday?"<br />
<br />
<b>Robin:</b><br />
"Cause we have to. We’ve always done it that way. We need to. I NEED Christmas presents."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"Look at it this way, Robin. Think of all the money you will have left
from your paper route if you don’t have to buy any Christmas presents."<br />
<br />
<b>Robin (thinks for a moment):</b><br />
"Well, there is that."<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"But, Mom. I still don’t have any money to buy Jesus a Christmas present either."<br />
<br />
<b>Robin:</b><br />
"Jesus is like Grannie. He doesn’t need anything either cause he’s already in heaven."<br />
<br />
<b>Milly (throws something at her brother):</b><br />
"Mom, tell him to stop."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"Yes, Robin, please stop being disrespectful. You are right…"<br />
<br />
<b>Robin (interrupting):</b><br />
"See, I told you."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"…to a point. How about we think about doing, rather than buying?" <br />
<br />
<b>Robin:</b><br />
"What good stuff doesn’t cost money?"<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"If we had been around when Jesus was born, we could have done lots of
things for him with what we already have. Robin could have given up his
bedroom so that Mary could have her baby in a warm and safe place." <br />
<br />
<b>Robin:</b><br />
"Why my room?"<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"Milly, you could have given him your doll’s bed so that he would have a
nice place to sleep. I could have given some of this nice chicken soup
to Mary and Joseph and warmed a bottle of milk for the baby". <br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"But Jesus is in heaven, and he doesn’t need me to do anything like that for him now."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"Well, you could do something for him, by doing something for someone
else, just as if you were doing it for Jesus. He’s like that kind of
present. Think about it for a while. Meanwhile son, you and I have a
date upstairs with your room. We clean it or we condemn it." <br />
<br />
<b>Robin:</b><br />
"Aw, Mom. You can’t be serious."<br />
<br />
(Mom leads Robin off protesting all the way. The lights fade with Mildred still sitting at the table deep in thought.) <br />
<br />
<b>Scene Two</b><br />
The lights come up as Milly closes the door leading out into the back yard. Mom enters with Robin.<br />
<br />
<b>Robin (complaining):</b><br />
"Four hours, I can’t believe it took us four hours to do that room. I’ll
never be able to find anything ever again. I’m wiped. I’m starving.
When’s dinner?"<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"Soon. Clear your things off the table. Milly can set it and we’ll be ready to eat."<br />
<br />
(The children begin those chores. Mom reaches for her pot holder only to discover that it’s missing.)<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"Milly, have you seen my pot holder? I thought I left it right here
beside the stove when Robin and I went up to clean his room."<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"I took it."<br />
<br />
<b>Robin:</b><br />
"Well, give it back so we can eat."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"You took it? What for?"<br />
<br />
<b>Milly (hesitatingly):</b><br />
"I got thinking about what you said, you know, doing something to help
someone else, just as if I was doing it for Baby Jesus. I needed the pot
holder."<br />
<br />
<b>Robin:</b><br />
"I knew it. Too much thinking and she’s flipped out."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom (in a warning tone of voice):</b><br />
"Robin. You did want supper, didn’t you?"<br />
<br />
<b>Robin:</b><br />
"Sure. (Pause) Oh, I get it. Zip the lip."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"Right. Now, Mildred, explain to me what the pot holder has to do with what we talked about?"<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"Well, Jesus doesn’t need a bedroom or a blanket or chicken soup or
milk, but I found someone else who does. But my blanket didn’t fit in
the bed, so I took the pot holder to use as a blanket." <br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"You used the pot holder for a blanket. What person do you know who would need a pot holder for a blanket?"<br />
<br />
<b>Mill: (beginning to look a little worried):</b><br />
"I don’t know any babies like Jesus that I could do something for, so I thought maybe helping other babies might be okay."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"Other babies? What other babies?"<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"Um. Dad plugged the hole going into the basement last week so that the mice couldn’t get in the house."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"Yes?"<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"Well, He took the mice out of the basement before he plugged the hole."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"Yes?"<br />
<br />
<b>Milly</b><br />
"It’s cold outside and they can’t come into the basement, or live in the house."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom: (slowly)</b><br />
"Y-e-s?"<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"The mice had babies. I saw them in the shed."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"Okay."<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"So I took my old doll house out to the shed. I put it down flat and
filled all the rooms up with those wood shavings that dad had in the
basement. But I didn’t have any blankets to put on top to keep the
babies warm. So I took the pot holders."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"All of them?"<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"Mostly. I’m sorry."<br />
<br />
(Milly begins to cry.)<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"Milly, honey, don’t cry."<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"You’re not mad at me?"<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"No honey, I’m not angry with you. You did for those mice what you would
have done if Jesus had needed a warm place to sleep, didn’t you?"<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"I wanted to. I thought that if the mice were happy and warm, Jesus would be too. But I am sorry about the pot holders."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"I really do want those pot holders back. But don’t worry. I think I can
find something that will work just as well to cover up the babies’ beds
and keep all of them warm." <br />
<br />
<b>Robin:</b><br />
"Can we eat now?"<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"Mom?" <br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"Yes, honey."<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"I did something else too."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"What did you do?"<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"I took the mice some chicken soup."<br />
<br />
<b>Robin:</b><br />
"You did what?"<br />
<br />
<b>Mom (laughing):</b><br />
"Did you leave enough for us?"<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"I think so."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b><br />
"Good. Put the bowls out and then you can give thanks."<br />
<br />
(Milly puts out the bowls and Mom serves the soup.)<br />
<br />
<b>Milly:</b><br />
"Dear Jesus. Thank you for Mom and Dad. And Robin too. Thank you for
giving us a warm place to live, and food to eat. I’m sorry no one was
there to give you those things when you were a baby but I hope you like
your birthday present even if you can’t enjoy it yourself. Amen."<br />
<br />
(Pause)<br />
<br />
"And, Lord, please make sure the mice are careful with Mom’s pot holders." Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-9203606068933465582014-11-28T06:36:00.001-08:002014-11-28T06:36:59.679-08:00A Glorious Christmas<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKQd2QuF01mucGmYzol9AhEE8O8B5VPvUx5PLJNEZAN1cdfA4L2Uqg8HdciCsliGirrzFouLCNtIafM8H7Kl46Ed0PUCvihzDghLQ5JAPlDsYdZbbuwRYcFnPkOPAp9Q_wNFsmeCGPfsU/s1600/Scanned+Image.tif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKQd2QuF01mucGmYzol9AhEE8O8B5VPvUx5PLJNEZAN1cdfA4L2Uqg8HdciCsliGirrzFouLCNtIafM8H7Kl46Ed0PUCvihzDghLQ5JAPlDsYdZbbuwRYcFnPkOPAp9Q_wNFsmeCGPfsU/s1600/Scanned+Image.tif" height="320" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Erna Elizabeth Schultz (Blaedow)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I held her hand, as if by doing so I could prevent her from slipping
away. A little more than twenty-four hours before, I had been in my
kitchen baking as though my own life depended on it. I was determined
that this Christmas was going to be a good one. Less than three months
had passed since my father’s death. For the first time, there would be
only three of us to sit down to Christmas dinner. Then came the phone
call.<br />
<br />
“Mom’s had a massive heart attack. It’s bad.”<br />
<br />
My brother had already made the journey north. On Friday night, mom had
complained of chest pains. She’d had a mild heart attack several years
earlier, so Wayne took her into emergency. By the time the medical
personnel checked her over, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong, but
they decided, as a precaution, to keep her in overnight. Saturday
afternoon, the big one everyone dreaded, struck. <br />
<br />
I had planned to travel north with some friends. Now other arrangements
had to be made, and just a few days before Christmas there weren’t too
many options. There were no flights available. The trains were booked
solid. The only chance I had was to take an overnight bus. That was at
least a nine hour ride, often longer if the weather was bad.<br />
<br />
All the way home, I sat on the edge of the seat, willing the bus driver
to go faster. I was terrified that I wouldn’t get home in time. My dad
had died alone, suddenly, in his hospital room the night before he was
to be released. I couldn’t bear the thoughts of not being there for my
mother. I prayed that she would hold on.<br />
<br />
The hospital was only a few blocks from the bus station. When I got
there, my brother was waiting in the hall outside of ICU. We went in
together. Mom was sitting up and she actually looked quite well. <br />
<br />
“I’m sorry I’ve spoiled your Christmas,” she said.<br />
<br />
Later, we met with the doctor. There really wasn’t anything more that could be done. It was only a question of time. <br />
<br />
And later that afternoon, the time came. My brother and I sat holding
her hand as she slipped away from us. Three days before Christmas, 1991,
Erna Elizabeth was escorted into the living room of heaven.<br />
<br />
We decided not to have the funeral before Christmas. That would allow
any family that wanted to attend, to make the journey from southern to
northern Ontario. Several people from the church that I had grown up in
invited us to spend Christmas with them. But neither of us could face
that. Nor did we want our grief to cloud the Christmas celebrations of
others.<br />
<br />
But what could we do? I remembered what mom had said when I entered her
room that Sunday morning. “I’m sorry I’ve spoiled your Christmas.” No
way was I going to let that happen. <br />
<br />
Mom had bought the turkey, the potatoes, the turnip, and all the other
things that we traditionally enjoyed for Christmas dinner. <br />
<br />
“I’m going to cook the turkey, and we are going to have Christmas the
best we can, just as mom would have wanted,” I told my brother. I’m sure
he thought I was crazy. Perhaps I was. <br />
<br />
On the twenty-fifth of December, we sat down to a turkey dinner with all
the trimmings. We raised our glasses in tribute to those absent from
us. We opened the presents that Mom had so carefully chosen. And we
mourned, each in our own way.<br />
<br />
Later, with dishes washed and food put away, there was time to think. If
mom hadn’t already been in ICU receiving care, chances were that I
would not have gotten home in time to talk to her for the last time. I
thanked God for that favour. I had planned to make this Christmas
special for mom. God had also planned to make this Christmas special for
mom. His plan for her was better than mine and, after all, wasn’t that
the point? She spent it dining with dad. And best of all, they shared
the table with Jesus.<br />
<br />
Into the shadow of grief, there came a little ray of sunshine, and with
it, a voice that seemed to say: “I answered your prayer, but not the way
you would have chosen. I know it hurts, but it will only be for a
little while. There will be an eternity of Christmases for all of you
together one day soon”. <br />
<br />
Lynda Schultz, December 2005Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-8902272831039134802014-11-21T06:13:00.000-08:002014-11-21T06:13:07.535-08:00Wait a Minute While I Put My Other Foot in My Mouth<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHjCHlX1_rixBfxZs_N-3GRJjRUNpr3R06nMj4KsWkvxD1kCnFMgqwgQErkZZN-1Vd2YT44USgb2j8D6IFzwPFHt-magFBkCLV0IW2jut_NXn5uh8ezOq875Yxab3VLuvcwK-aWnbSxIY/s1600/language.learning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHjCHlX1_rixBfxZs_N-3GRJjRUNpr3R06nMj4KsWkvxD1kCnFMgqwgQErkZZN-1Vd2YT44USgb2j8D6IFzwPFHt-magFBkCLV0IW2jut_NXn5uh8ezOq875Yxab3VLuvcwK-aWnbSxIY/s1600/language.learning.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">skyscanner.net (Google Images)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
At one point in my career, the mission director asked me if I would
consider serving in Japan. We knew each other well enough for him not to
take offense at my answer.<br />
<br />
“Are you kidding? I had enough trouble learning Spanish. I could never
manage Japanese even in my wildest dreams — and Spanish is one of the
easiest languages to learn.”<br />
<br />
There were plenty of times in the painful process of language learning
that I despaired of ever being able to communicate. If I had a dime for
every mistake I’ve made in speaking, or writing Spanish, the taxman
would be laughing all the way to the government vaults.<br />
<br />
However, I’m not alone in my tales of language faux pas.<br />
<br />
One of the first stories I was told in language school centered on a
foreign missionary who was waxing eloquent in Spanish during a Sunday
morning service. He was preaching on the evils of sin. Naturally, that
word came up often in the course of the sermon. So engrossed was he in
his message that he was completely unaware that the audience was not
only paying attention, but was trying very hard to keep their collective
faces straight. When the missionary quoted <a class="lbsBibleRef" data-purpose="bible-reference" data-reference="Romans 6.23" data-version="esv" href="http://biblia.com/bible/esv/Romans%206.23" target="_blank">Romans 6:23</a>, they simply burst out laughing. <br />
<br />
You see the word in Spanish for "sin" is <i>pecado</i>. The word for "fish;"<i> pescado</i>, is very similar. Fishing, and fish, took a terrific beating that Sunday morning.<br />
<br />
Worse yet, was that awful moment when a missionary preacher (a different
one, I hope) thought he was inviting the congregation to pray. The word
for "pray" is <i>orar</i>, the word for what you do when you desperately need to go to the bathroom, is <i>orinar</i>. You can imagine what the response to that invitation was.<br />
<br />
Most of the time, mistakes in language don’t have such humiliating
results. I have trouble rolling the “r” in some words. I have learned to
avoid referring to <i>Los Chorros</i> (the river rapids) when I am
asking friends about their relatives who live there. When I don’t
“roll,” I end up asking about the family members who live “among
thieves.” Oh, what a difference an “r” makes. It’s a good thing that
they are my friends and are very understanding about my language lapses.<br />
<br />
It seems like the little things are those most likely to trip up
language learners. In those early days of struggle as students, we were
always tired. The stress of language learning was exhausting. However,
we also learned to be very careful when telling people how tired we
really were. When I said, <i>Estoy tan cansada</i>, everyone understood that I was very tired. But, with one slip of the tongue, I have just as easily said, <i>Estoy tan casada</i> or, “I am SO married.” <br />
<br />
If I could speak Spanish without using verbs, I’d be extremely happy.
Even after so many years working in the language, some tenses still defy
me. In the beginning, a language learner is tempted to translate
English thoughts directly into Spanish and hope for the best. However,
you can’t say, “I am hungry” by direct translation, at least not if you
don’t want people to look at you as though you were some kind of
ignorant language student. In Spanish, the equivalent to the English
comes out as, “I have hunger.” The same rule applies for being thirsty,
being cold, and being hot. Mind you, if you did happen to say <i>yo soy caliente</i> instead of <i>tengo calor</i>,
you’ll probably get lots of invitations issued by strange men (or
women) to do things that you might not want to share with your mother,
or in my case, with your mission director.<br />
<br />
I can’t count the number of times that I’ve referred to a woman as a
man, or a man as a woman because I didn’t think fast enough before
adding the appropriate gender specific ending to a word. Thankfully,
doing it correctly is mostly automatic now. By the time I retire from
overseas service, I’ll speak Spanish like a native and will never have
to go looking for a hole to crawl into because of some language mistake
I’ve made. How wonderful it will be not to ever have such a mortifying
conversation as this one:<br />
<br />
“I am so embarrassed!<br />
<br />
“Oh, I’m delighted for you. When do you expect the baby?”*<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*I used the word <i>embarazada</i>, which means "pregnant" in Spanish, when I should have used the word <i>apenada</i>.Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8085672870748176726.post-57115372092135113682014-11-07T06:32:00.001-08:002014-11-07T06:32:42.127-08:00A Question of Trust<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin0naxXYec9HmRHSfck_FpYnVCBiyODybGD6zCOcSxGmjUv_yoM3pNlaSL6aqYubp7iORMuNky1jF_d2KG_3vv7CQKt20ehnmGFk_OzGKYvn1idmYTRps525xHFnB0gg_pA-iy1HTpFjQ/s1600/buzzards-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin0naxXYec9HmRHSfck_FpYnVCBiyODybGD6zCOcSxGmjUv_yoM3pNlaSL6aqYubp7iORMuNky1jF_d2KG_3vv7CQKt20ehnmGFk_OzGKYvn1idmYTRps525xHFnB0gg_pA-iy1HTpFjQ/s1600/buzzards-3.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Google Images</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
“It looks dead to me.”<br />
<br />
The larger of the two buzzards circled once more, keeping a sharp eye on
both today’s object lesson and on the younger bird pacing him just a
short distance away.<br />
<br />
“It’s not moving,” offered the junior of the two.<br />
<br />
“That’s usually the first symptom of what dead looks like, son.”<br />
<br />
“Should we go and get it?”<br />
<br />
“How about you go and get it, and I’ll watch?”<br />
<br />
“But Dad, I’ve never gone by myself before.”<br />
<br />
“There has to be first time, and I think this looks like a good first time.”<br />
<br />
“What if it’s not dead?”<br />
<br />
“You’ll soon know if it’s not—we have that effect on other creatures. Go
on. Give it a try. You have to do it on your own sometime. I’ll be
right here, circling. Don’t worry.”<br />
<br />
If pop said he’d be there, well then, he’d be there. The smaller bird
gently banked, carving spirals in the sky as he lost altitude. He kept a
close eye on his prey, willing it not to move, wishing it to be well
and truly dead.<br />
<br />
There were two ledges below. The outer one was festooned with flowers
and on its rim perched a bird feeder. That was of no interest to either
of the buzzards. They had no taste for birdseed. However, immobile on
the inner ledge lay lunch—at least that was what the younger of the two
scavengers hoped.<br />
<br />
He made one more circle and then came in for his landing, claws reaching
out to grab the ledge, wings beginning to fold like flaps to slow, then
stop, his forward motion at the perfect moment.<br />
<br />
<i>There, I made it.</i><br />
<br />
The buzzard turned a bright eye toward the object of his desire. It was
still there, but his heart sank. This was going to be a little harder
than either he or his dad, still circling high above him, had thought.
The creature, tantalizingly close, turned two huge eyes in his direction
and flattened its ears. It seemed to grow in size as the young bird
watched.<br />
<br />
<i>Drat it. It’s not dead after all.</i><br />
<br />
It was then that he realized something else. There was a third ledge,
the back edge of the second, and it was on this that the cat, for that
was what the creature was, rested. The sharp eyes of the buzzard noticed
yet another thing. His dreams of lunch died as they made contact with
ultimate reality. In the middle of the two conjoined ledges was a closed
window that separated the young bird from his prey.<br />
<br />
The cat let out a fearful, anguished cry, as though it felt the claws and beak of its enemy digging into furry flesh.<br />
<br />
The young bird cast a beady bright eye on its non-prey. The barrier was
inviolable. He could see lunch but there was no way he could touch it.<br />
<br />
The cat continued to cry. It did not run, seemingly paralyzed with fear. <br />
<br />
With a disgusted look backwards, the young buzzard launched himself off
the ledge, caught a passing current of air, and returned to where his
father was circling, far above the building.<br />
<br />
“You knew about the window, didn’t you, Dad?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, I did. I once landed on that same ledge myself.”<br />
<br />
“So why did you send me down there if you knew?”<br />
<br />
“It’s all part of what dads teach their kids—what’s worth going after
and what’s not. Some prey we can’t touch, dead or alive. You did good.”<br />
<br />
“But I didn’t get any lunch.”<br />
<br />
“No, but instead of banging your head against that window wasting your
time trying to get at that cat, you were smart and flew away.”<br />
<br />
“Why did it make such an awful sound, like it was already in my claws?
It must have known that it was safe and that I couldn’t touch it.”<br />
<br />
The two birds turned in unison, in perfect harmony with the gentle
updraft that wafted through the valley, while the big one considered his
answer.<br />
<br />
“Trust, son. It’s all about trust. Sometimes these creatures just don’t
seem to understand that what limits their freedom, also keeps them safe.
Sometimes when they are afraid, they forget about the barrier
protecting them.”<br />
<br />
“Dad?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, son?”<br />
<br />
“I’m hungry.”<br />
<br />
The big buzzard would have smiled, if he could have.<br />
<br />
“Let’s go then. Now that you know what not to bother with, I show you
where some of the best pickings in town are. Watch and learn, son, watch
and learn. This time we’ll find something unprotected—and dead. Trust
me.”Lynda Schultzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18219094035739537261noreply@blogger.com0