 
Abundant Rain

Inspiring Words for Writers of Faith

Marcia Lee Laycock

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Abundant Rain - Copyright 2011 by Marcia Lee Laycock

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"Let my teaching fall like rain

and my words descend like dew,

like showers on new grass,

like abundant rain on tender plants."

Deuteronomy 32:2

A Bag of Fish or Jesus

My husband preached a great sermon a while ago, from John 21. The gist of it was that we are all prone to oh-so-quickly give up on God and turn back to our own resources. Just as the disciples did. Jesus had told them what to do, and where to go, but they thought He wasn't going to show up, so one of their leaders, an impetuous fellow named Peter said, "I'm going fishing." The others said, "Yeah, sounds like a good idea."

They fished for hours to no avail so when a man turns up on the shore and asks if they have any fish they all shout a resounding, "No!"

It's when that man tells them to cast their net on the other side of their boat that one of them, the well-loved John, says, "Hey - uh - I think maybe it's Jesus."

To his credit, Peter wasted no more time with the fish - he leaped out of the boat and hurried to shore. Then Jesus, who was indeed the one speaking to them, tells them to bring some of the fish they'd just caught to the fire. An interesting statement, that. Jesus already had fish roasting over the coals, yet he tells them to bring what they had just caught with their own hands, under His direction.

There are a couple of lessons to learn here. One, guard against giving up on Jesus. He will come through, He's never late, and He will always give us what we need to accomplish what He has in mind. Two, there's a principle to learn from Peter and the disciples who followed his lead. We can so easily get caught up in striving to make a living - trying to make things work out the way we want - that we can lose sight of the One for whom we are working. But as Peter discovered, when Jesus shows up, the bag of fish is suddenly of no importance. Being with Jesus is all that matters.

And there's a third principle to learn from this story. We can know that God intends to put us to work. He has given us skills - like the ability to catch fish, and write books or poetry or magazine articles - and He will use those skills to His own purposes. Part of that purpose is to teach us and bless us abundantly as we become a blessing to others. The disciples ate as much fish as they wanted that morning and had plenty left to sell. It was the fruit of their own labour but it was labour guided by their Lord, labour that taught them something about Him, labour that was indeed, life-giving.

"So, whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving." (Colossians 3:23)

A Dance Lesson in The Kitchen

"What's Grandma like, Mom?"

My daughter's question caught at my heart. I hadn't seen my mother since before she suffered a stroke and I was fearful. Had the effects of the debilitation changed her more than just physically? I swallowed my apprehensions and answered the question.

"You'll love her, girls. She loves you both very much."

I could see my response wasn't quite satisfactory. My daughters needed something more. I watched nine-year-old Katie do a pirouette. Her sister Laura, seven, did an attempt at a tap step. A friend had given us an old pair of shiny black tap shoes and both girls had laid claim to them. I smiled. "Grandma was a dancer, you know."

Two little faces lit up. "She was? Did she tap dance?"

"Oh yes. She won prizes for dancing when she was young. I think I have some pictures downstairs. Let's see what we can find."

For my daughters, the old photos were an introduction to extended family. They pointed, and giggled. Katie peered at a photo of three young girls, about 11 or 12 years old. My mother, the girl in the middle, wore a pokadot blouse, short skirt and tap shoes adorned with big bows. Her short hair was gelled into kiss-curls on her forehead and cheeks.

I didn't disturb Katie as she studied the picture. When she looked up, her eyes were hopeful. "Do you think she could teach us to dance?"

A memory flooded back - a slight, trim woman, holding the edges of her apron, her eyes twinkling as she did the "soft shoe" on black and white kitchen tile. "I'm sure Grandma will ..." I started to say. The realization hit again. After two years of fighting, Mom now walked with a cane and a heavy brace on one leg.

"Well," I faltered. "Grandma's legs don't work like they used to, but we'll see..."

When Mom arrived, Katie blurted the question that had stayed on her heart. "Grandma, will you show us how to tap dance? We have these shoes..."

My Mom beamed. "Oh, what wonderful taps, Kate!" She struggled out of her chair. With all of us holding our breath, my mother planted her cane firmly and gave my daughters their first tap lesson. "Step, touch, click, step touch click. Oh, this brace is so clumsy! But it's easy, girls. Come stand beside me and try it."

As I watched them, the taps clicking on the hard linoleum, giggles coming from all three, a scripture came to mind - "Perfect love drives out fear" (1John 4:18). I realized I was seeing that truth, alive and well, before me. In spite of pain, humiliation and fear, my mother drew on love and triumphed. In that moment I knew, though the fortress that is my mother might slowly crumble, her indomitable spirit would never die. My fear turned to joy and thankfulness for this moment, a moment that was so much more than just a dance lesson in the kitchen.

****

This piece reprinted with permission from A Second Cup of Hot Apple Cider

A Divine Appointment

"Do you know anything about these flowers?"

The young woman's eyes were hopeful but I had to disappoint her and explain that I did not work in the hospital gift shop. I was just there to stock the book rack. I pointed to two ladies at a nearby counter. "Maybe they can help," I said.

She nodded, stared at the flower display and sighed. "I'm not really sure what I want."

I took note of her dress then – a baseball cap pulled over messy hair; a thin pair of pyjama bottoms topped by a hospital issue housecoat wrapped around a frail frame; pull-on terrycloth slippers, two sizes too big.

"My friend is dying," she said, then turned back to me. "I am too."

I put my clipboard down and waited. Her story unfolded in simple language, the words slipping from her mouth almost as though rehearsed. She reached into a pocket and pulled out a picture of her seven year old daughter. I could see the resemblance. She smiled when I mentioned it and went on to say there was a surgery that she was hoping for – highly experimental, there was only one doctor who could do it and he just happened to live in a nearby city. But then her voice fell and I had to lean close to hear. Her friend had had the surgery. She was still dying.

The conversation turned to the word hope then. She had hope they would agree to do the surgery, hope that, unlike her friend, she would recover, hope that she would live to watch her daughter grow up.

She said a pastor came to visit sometimes and "we say our small prayers together. They seem small, just words, but maybe not, eh?" Again that hopeful look in her eyes.

I was praying small prayers right then. She's so young, Lord. Please. Please.

Then she was gone and I resumed stocking the rack. I do it once a month and in that hospital, the rack is usually almost empty by the time I return. As I filled the pockets with books I was acutely aware of their contents. They hold pages about the love and mercy of Jesus, pages filled with stories of courage and faith, pages of humour to lift a sad heart and inspiration to encourage a weary soul. Pages of hope.

I knew I was sent there that day to do much more than "just stock the book racks," but my job suddenly seemed important. My other job, as a writer, suddenly seemed essential, "That I may publish with the voice of thanksgiving, and tell of all thy wondrous works." (Ps. 26:7, KJV).

A Faithful "No"

There's a large church near where I live that often has large events. Thinking about selling books, I clicked into their website to see if there was anything coming up. I was hoping they might allow me to set up a book table. I was glad to see there was an event coming up almost immediately, one that I decided I wanted to attend, so I e-mailed the woman in charge with my idea.

She e-mailed back right away but the answer was no. She explained that her committee thought it might be too much of a distraction. That did not brighten my mood. Other doors had closed that week and as I looked at the total number of books I have managed to sell in the past year, I became discouraged. In fact, I was downright depressed. I sat at my computer that day and thought, why am I hitting my head against this brick wall? I was sorely tempted to quit.

But I went to the event. It was a simulcast – a live video feed - with Beth Moore, speaking from a church in Louisville Kentucky. As I walked into the sanctuary that Friday evening, I wasn't feeling in the mood – I was still angry and frustrated and, underneath, wondered why God wasn't helping me to get the word out about my books. The video began and I found it did nothing to help. The sound was a bit wobbly and the music seemed "canned." I thought, oh yeah, here we go with another hyped-up performance that will leave me cold.

Then Beth Moore began to speak. Slowly her passion and sincerity began to break through. Her humour broke the heaviness. And I began to listen for what God was saying to me. He said plenty. Then the worship group came back on and suddenly the music lifted me into that place of praise and worship. By the end of the evening I was in tears at God's wonderful grace and mercy and unconditional love. I felt ashamed at my lack of trust. I knew my discouragement was a slap in God's face.

The next day was more of the same. I don't think it was a coincidence that Ms. Moore spoke from Luke 8, which lays out the parable of the sower and talks about those who hear but don't respond, those who in "the time of testing fall away," and those who "hear, but as they go on their way they are choked by life's worries, riches and pleasures and they do not mature."

I left that place with a renewed sense of how alive my God is, how good, and how faithful. Best of all, I had a renewed passion for His Word – something that has been lacking in my life for a while. And I was so glad for that faithful 'no.' Had I been concerned with selling books I would have been distracted from what God wanted to say to me. I might not have heard Him at all.

As I read the rest of Luke 8 at home later, another verse popped out – verse 18 – "Therefore consider carefully how you listen." That's a verse to which I think we can all say, "Amen!"

A Few Good Questions

A writer/editor I greatly respect wrote: "We need to keep our own fallibility very much in mind, adopting a humble posture towards the readers we serve and God, whom we seek to honour." (Doug Koop, editor, Christian Week Newspaper).

Mr. Koop says there are some questions we need to ask ourselves, as writers – "Do they (our words) encourage better attitudes? Do they inspire better activity? Do they edify? Do they entertain? Do they strengthen the right muscles? Do they inform truthfully and graciously? Do they honour Jesus Christ and the Church He loves? Those kinds of questions matter..."

As I read his column, it gave me pause. Can I put a check mark beside each of those questions when I consider my work? I would hope so. I think Mr. Koop has encapsulated what it means to be a writer who is Christian, both in terms of motivation and practise.

It is a high calling, one not to be taken lightly, one not to be used to grow our own egos but to act as the conduit for God's purposes. He has purposes for our words – purposes that involve people we may never meet - a young woman who needs emotional healing, a young man who needs to deal with his anger, an elderly woman who needs to forgive, an elderly man who just needs a good laugh. Our words, used to God's purposes, can affect change in the lives of our readers. All we have to do is choose them wisely, put them together and then get out of the way.

All we have to do is respect our readers enough to work hard at finding the right words, praying they will understand and act upon the words we write, and honour God enough to acknowledge His sovereignty as He does with them what he will.

For "of this gospel I was appointed a herald" (2 Timothy 1:11)

A Lesson from Pompeii

The television screen flashed with images of human forms frozen forever in the throes of death. A man slumped and curled forward, his knees pulled to his chest, his face buried in his hands. Two skeletons obviously entangled in a lover's embrace. A mother, clutching her child. The people of Pompeii.

The documentary on PBS then gave a dramatic rendition of what the last days and hours of that city may have been like, as the volcano rumbled and then erupted. The program was fascinating and chilling. I was especially struck by a scene in which a family prayed fervently before the shrines of their Roman gods – gods that could neither hear nor help them.

It's perhaps tempting for us to think we would never do such a thing – never depend on that which was powerless to truly help us. Yet we do it all the time.

Writers are especially guilty I fear, as we get wrapped up in marketing hype and the advice of well-meaning experts who tell us we must bow down at the altars of 'the platform' and 'social networking.' All of us know such things are of use, and even necessary to a successful career. But what do they really give us for all our effort? They may result in more book sales - or not. They may make our name known in wider circles - or not. And in the end, what does all of that really mean? More books sold is an empty end if lives are not changed. The fame of our name is pointless if it is not connected to the only Name that matters.

I like to think of my work is terms of sowing the seeds that God can use to change lives. In order for that to happen I need to be bowing before God's altar, worshipping in spirit and in truth. I need to ensure that His Spirit is flowing through me, into the words typed into my computer. I need to be relying on Him, and Him alone to accomplish all that He ordains for my work.

And I need to mean it. Mean it with all my heart and soul, mean it to the point of weeping for my readers. This idea hit me recently when I read a scripture I've read many times before. Psalm 126:5-6 – "Those who sow in tears shall reap in joy. He who continually goes forth weeping, bearing seed for sowing, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him." (NKJ)

I confess I'm not there yet. I haven't wept for the salvation of my readers, nor for the healing of their emotional hurts and scars. But I want to be there. I want to care as much as Jesus does. But it's hard. A lot of distractions get in the way. Things like platforms and social networks. So I keep praying for those moments, moments when tears do fall as I write, and the groanings of my heart have to be translated by His spirit. Then I take heart with scriptures like Galatians 6:9 – "And let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not." (KJV)

A Life, Worthy

I once had to walk through a swamp with a heavy pack on my back. I stumbled at almost every step because of the muskeg, my legs chilled to the bone by ice-cold water that lurked beneath the hummocks we tried to walk on. But I had a friend with me who continually turned and encouraged me with words that made me believe I could do what had to be done. I finished that arduous trip only because I sensed he believed I could do it and it made me want to.

In Ephesians 4:1 – The Apostle Paul writes- "...I urge you to live a life worthy of the calling you have received." On the one hand this makes me smile and want to step forward with my head held high. On the other hand, it makes me cringe.

As Christians we have received a primary calling, to be like Jesus and to glorify Him in all things. That calling is irrevocable. And I am painfully aware that I fail to be worthy of it every day. I continually fall into sinful attitudes and thoughts. It makes me think of Paul's cry in Romans – "oh wretched man that I am!" He too knew himself to be weak and unworthy, in his flesh, yet he also says – "Although I am less that the least of all God's people, this grace was given me: to preach to the Gentiles the unsearchable riches of Christ..." (Eph 3:8).

And in that I am encouraged, because the calling on my life does not depend on my worthiness. It depends only on God's grace and that will be sufficient for the task, not so that I will succeed, not so that others will praise me, but so that the name of Christ will be exalted.

How amazing that God chooses to use us, chooses to give us a calling and the grace with which to accomplish it! Such awareness causes me to strive to do what Paul admonished the Ephesians to do – live a life worthy - worthy of the name God has bestowed on us. How amazing that even though we fail God continues to extend that calling and that grace, just as a coach continues to encourage his protégés even though they fall short of the mark.

The encouragement is in itself sustaining, because just knowing that He doesn't give up on us keeps us going, keeps us striving, keeps us longing to live a life worthy - worthy of Him.

A Little Help from a Friend

When my daughter decided to take a language course by correspondence I had some trepidation. Would she have the self-discipline to finish it? Could she really learn a language by listening to audio recordings and reading a book? She dove in with enthusiasm at first, but quickly got bogged down. I did my best to encourage her to keep going. We were working on an assignment together one morning when she looked up and said, "You know Mom, I really want to know how to speak Spanish. I just don't want to have to learn it!"

I've thought of that day often over the past few months. It's been a struggle to get my next novel finished. I so want it to be finished. I dream of seeing the book in my hands and on the shelves of many bookstores. But right now I have little of the enthusiasm I need for writing it.

Most writers hit this wall, when it's just not that much fun and you have to force yourself to sit in the chair and do it. I've hit this point before and I know it will pass. Like my daughter, I will persevere and the book will be written. I just have to get over this hump.

Sometimes the path of our spiritual life can have a lot of humps. We want to go church, but can't drum up the needed energy to get out the door. We want to read the Bible but there are so many distractions. Even the apostle Paul seems to have had a number of humps along the way. Hear his distress in these words – "So I find this law at work: When I want to do good, evil is right there with me. For in my inner being I delight in God's law; but I see another law at work in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within my members. What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?" (Romans 7:20-24).

The struggle to live as we should, to enjoy God as He intended us to do, is sometimes more than a hump. It can seem like a mountain.

But listen to what Paul says next – "Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!"(v.25)

Paul made it over the hump, with a little help from a friend. The good news is He's our friend too and He's very good at bulldozing the humps in our lives, both spiritually and physically. He cares about all of it and he wants to help. Just ask Him.

A Matter of Timing

Last week I watched two full grown geese land on a small pond across from my home. It was quite funny to watch, because the pond was frozen. The geese gracefully flapped their wings and extended their feet, anticipating the landing, but when they touched down they skidded sideways and plopped down unceremoniously on their bottoms. When they recovered they stomped about, seeming indignant.

When I saw them stomping around on the ice it made me think of those times when I've been impatient with God's timing. It often seems that He isn't in sync. with my estimation of when things should happen. Give me patience, Lord. Right now!

But His timing is always perfect. When my new novel, One Smooth Stone won the Best New Canadian Christian Author Award, I was thrilled that it would soon be in print. Then I discovered that the word, 'soon' is relative. There was a delay because the publisher wanted a certain editor to work with me, and she was busy with other projects. Then there was a bit of miscommunication and I was waiting for her while she was waiting for me to get in touch. Then, when it was finally begun, the editing process took time. But finally my publisher told me the books were ready to ship. I waited - impatiently - for them to arrive on my doorstep. The book launch was to be held on the first night of a writers' conference and, of course, I wanted the books in hand for that event. I was thankful when they arrived, safe and sound, a few days before the scheduled launch.

I remember lifting the first book out of the box. I knew exactly where it was going. I gave it to my friend – I'll call her Barb.

Barb has had a hard life – her husband left her with four small children to raise and no resources. The family struggled through. Then one of Barb's daughters, I'll call her Lucy, was raped when she was a teenager. Though Barb managed to hold on to her faith in Christ, Lucy has been bitter and angry with God ever since. The day after my books arrived, Barb gave that copy of One Smooth Stone to Lucy. A few days later she got a phone call.

Lucy told her that she had had no intention of reading the book – she'd thought, oh yeah, there goes Mom with the religious stuff again. But that next day she got the flu and the only thing she had in the house to read was my book. So she picked it up and started to read. She said she couldn't put it down. When she called her mom she was in tears because she said that after reading the book, she finally believed God does still love her, in spite of everything.

The timing was perfect. God's timing. Not mine. Next time I get impatient I'll try and remember how ridiculous those geese looked, stomping around on solid ice.

A Pack-rat's Epiphany

Moving day was fast approaching and it was time to de-clutter and organize my office before boxing it all up. I am an unrepentant pack-rat but I was amazed at what I had accumulated. I had a lot of old files to sort through, piles of old copies of old articles, some that had been published, some not. I had a box of writers' magazines, another of magazines in which friends had been published and one of miscellaneous clippings. There were copies of my own work and editing projects I'd done for others. On and on and on. And then I opened my closet!

I stared at a box on the top shelf. I knew what it held and I winced when I saw it, glancing furtively over my shoulder to make sure my husband wasn't about as I lifted it down. It contained an old green folder holding a manuscript hand-written on yellow newsprint. I wrote it during a long cold winter in a cabin in the Yukon many years ago. I should have thrown it away at least three moves previous to this one, but I just couldn't do it. It had 'sentimental value,' after all. It was the first book-length manuscript I had finished.

I carefully lifted the green cover. A musty smell wafted around me and I remembered the long-ago day when I had first packed it up. That cabin had had a mouse problem for a while, until I got a cat that was good at catching them. Apparently they liked yellow newsprint. The edges of the folder were gnawed. Part of the manuscript itself had a hole in it. When I lifted the sheets, some of it crumbled in my hand. But I had kept it, like a treasure, stored on the top shelf of that closet.

I glanced at the garbage pail, already almost full. I should toss it. I knew I should. But I'd spent months working on this story. I knew I'd never take the time to type it all out and work on it. I knew I would never send it to a publisher. I just wasn't good enough. I glanced at the garbage can again. Still I hesitated.

Then I laughed at myself. Why did I value this rodent-chewed, smelly pile of paper so highly that I wanted to treat it like a priceless treasure? I stood over the trash barrel and let the box, folder and manuscript tumble in. Then a scripture came to mind – something about treasures and moths making holes in things. I found my Bible and looked it up. "... but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust (or rodents) do not destroy... For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also" (Matthew 6:19-21 parenthesis mine).

I went back to the garbage can, retrieved the box and opened the folder again. I lifted out a portion of the paper where a hungry little mouse had eaten through it. I found an old frame, placed the sheet between two pieces of glass and propped it up on the ledge by my computer. That I would pack, as a reminder to find more enduring treasures for my heart. The rest went back into the trash can.

A Privileged Position

My husband and I have been doing a Bible Study with a group of young college students. They decided they'd like to have a look at the creation/evolution debate so we've been looking at all kinds of resources and information. This week we viewed part of a fascinating video called The Privileged Planet. It's about a group of scientists and astronomers who wondered whether or not the earth is unique in the universe. They have uncovered some interesting facts.

Among other things, they came to the conclusion that the earth is uniquely positioned between two arms of the Milky Way so that we, its inhabitants, can observe the wonders of the universe. If our globe were in any other place in our solar system, not only would it be uninhabitable, the exploration of the space around us would not be possible. This is an intriguing detail that leads to the logical conclusion that the position of earth was not an accident.

As I watched that video I realized that not only is the earth placed "just so," but its inhabitants are as well. Each one of us has been put in exactly the right spot to observe what is going on around us and to accomplish what God desires because of that observation. Writers are perhaps uniquely gifted in this endeavour. We seem to have an innate drive to observe and record. I've heard many writers say, "I can't help myself – I have to write about it."

I began to ponder the question "Why?" Why did God put the planet in just that spot? Why did He put me where I am, doing what I'm doing? The answer could lead me to the same conclusion those scientists reached, that I, like the planet, am indeed privileged, special in some way. And that would be astonishingly true but I believe there is something more, something deeper to understand here.

I think author and preacher, John Piper helps us find the answer. He has said that everything is meant to glorify God. It's not about me. It's not about our planet. It's all about God bringing glory to Himself, and, as Dr. Piper has said, "God is most glorified in us when we are most satisfied in Him." We are most satisfied in Him when we are doing what were created to do – drawing close to Him, getting to know Him more each day. Some of us have been called to do that through the process of writing. A privileged position indeed.

"Lord, you have assigned me my portion and my cup; you have made my lot secure. The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance. I will praise the Lord who counsels me; even at night my heart instructs me. I have set the Lord always before me. Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken. Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices." (Psalm 16:5-9)

A Sermon Just for Me

Last Sunday, as I settled in my chair at church, I prayed a quick prayer. "Talk to me, Lord."

My husband tends to be a spontaneous person and I've gotten used to him doing unexpected things. Sometimes. But last Sunday he surprised me by announcing that I was going to give my testimony that morning, in three minutes or less. He hadn't warned me about this, probably because he didn't know he was going to do it until that very moment. As I walked up to the front I was thinking, Good thing I'm good at public speaking. The testimony part is a breeze, but in three minutes? No doubt he gave me a time limit because he knows my tendency to go on and on. He did have a sermon to preach that morning. So I did what he asked and all went well. As I expected it would.

Then my husband got up to preach. The sermon was on Mark 12:41-44 – a short passage of scripture that seemed straightforward as he read it out loud. The widow gave all she had. She was extremely generous. She put the religious leaders to shame. But my husband, bless him, took a different tack when he said, this little bit of scripture is really about pride and humility. Huh?

I felt God tapping me on the shoulder. I was feeling quite self-satisfied, having just given my testimony clearly, with just the right emphasis. In fact I was thinking, 'I really am good at that.' The more my favourite preacher spoke the more I felt like crawling under my chair. I knew that what had just happened was no coincidence.

God was talking to me but I wasn't particularly happy to hear it.

Then my favourite preacher started talking about generosity. Okay, that's better. I sat up a bit. Then he said, "the core of generosity is humility." Oh. And he gave Haddon Robinson's definition – "humility is confidence properly placed." Oh dear.

When Proverbs 29:23 appeared in big bold letters on the screen I had to grin just a little. "Pride brings you low." Right. I really should remember that.

I was encouraged, when my husband acknowledged that he, and everyone else in the room, all struggle with pride. It's a big part of the human condition. The trick is to catch ourselves at it, repent of it, and put ourselves back in the place where we all need to be, at the feet of Jesus. Confidence properly placed. Right. I definitely have to remember that.

A Small Patch of Blue

The day had been dreary from beginning to end, a fine drizzle of rain falling continually, creating a thickening mist that shifted and swallowed all in its path. We were to drive to the high point on The Dome behind Dawson City, Yukon, the next morning and I prayed the morning sun would banish the fog and let us see the stunning view of the Klondike Valley. I hadn't seen it for many years and I longed for the exhilaration it had always given me. But the next morning was not sunny. The fog lingered.

"Let's go up anyway," my husband said, "at least as far as the cemetery." I knew what he intended. The cemetery held the graves of two good friends, men in their twenties who had taken their own lives in a suicide pact many years before. Their deaths had been the catalyst to the beginning of the journey that led us to faith in Jesus. We parked the car at the gate and wandered among the graves, noting some names we recognized from years gone by, noting how young some of them had been when death claimed their mortal bodies.

We found the graves we were looking for – one marked by the idler wheel of a D6 Cat, the other by the front frame of another piece of heavy machinery. I watched quietly as my husband pushed scrub brush away so we could see their names welded on the unusual headstones. Memories of that time brought a quietness to the place.

Neither of us wanted to head back to town so we continued up the dirt road as it wound its way to the top. The peak of the Dome was above the clouds so we looked down on the grey shifting mist, watching as it slowly began to dissipate. A small patch of blue appeared. Part of the Yukon River. I was puzzled at first when I saw it emerge. At this point in the river's course, the Yukon is not blue. It's a milky grey, filled with the silt from a river upstream. Then I looked up and realized the river was reflecting the blue sky above it, slowly being revealed as the clouds moved away.

I thought of all the people who had come into our lives at that time of death and tragedy, people who prayed with us and guided us toward the truth about life, death and eternity. And I smiled. They themselves were just ordinary people, living ordinary lives in an isolated place, but they were reflecting something from beyond themselves. Something that glowed with the colour of vibrancy and life – the face of God.

I pray that will be the case with everything I write. Though it may have little that is called extraordinary in its pages, though it may exist in a world filled with shifting fog, may it be a reflection of truth, flowing with the colour of true life, able to translate into healing, able to reflect the love of a holy God. May it draw my readers along, as that small patch of blue river below us did, to a place where they will meet Him and know Him, just a little bit more than they did before.

A Small Phrase of Beauty

The Canadian Oxford dictionary defines transcendent as "something beyond the grasp of human experience." My husband once defined it as "a tiny piece of wonder, a small phrase of beauty."

I've had a few of them, those tiny pieces of wonder. Often they have come in the midst of God's creation – standing on the edge of a cliff looking out at the vastness of Lake Superior, or in the middle of an evergreen forest as big flakes of snow fall into the silence. I once experienced one of those moments on the shores of a small Alberta lake, watching a friend be baptized as the sun set, and in the middle of a small prairie town, watching people walk to church.

I have also experienced those small phrases of beauty, sometimes in different versions of scripture than I would normally use. I found this one in The Message – "learning the unforced rhythms of grace." And this one in the King James Version – "The waters are hid as with a stone and the face of the deep is frozen." I have found them in quotes on the internet and buried in counseling tomes. I've found them in books written by friends and strangers.

I experienced one the other night, but it was a bit unusual.

It was a very ordinary evening for us, as ten or twelve people crowded into our family room to begin a study on the Gospel of John. Snacks were on the coffee table along with a jug of juice and one of water. People chatted as they helped themselves. Then, as everyone settled, my husband asked, "What do you wish, for the place where you are right now? What do you envision for that place?" There was silence for a time, then one young man spoke up. "Something fantastic!" he said, "Something explosive!"

I smiled at his exuberance. Others chimed in, sharing their hopes and dreams. Then we began the study and God's word unfolded before us. As the evening was coming to a close I had a "tiny piece of wonder." I looked around at the faces of the people there and saw the shine of faith in their eyes. I saw their passion to know God more, their zeal to do whatever God asked of them, and I realized that this was something fantastic, something explosive, right here in our living room.

And that awareness lifted me above human experience, above the reality that our church is small and doesn't even have its own building, above the reality that less than ten percent of our community worships God on any given Sunday, let alone through the rest of the week. That moment of transcendence gave me a great deal of hope for this place where we are right now. It thrilled me to feel the presence of God there and to know that He has given us a part in His plan for this place. It filled me with gratitude and humbled me beyond words.

Sometimes God opens our understanding and something ordinary becomes "a small phrase of beauty." We are lifted beyond our experience and we see with new eyes. I believe this happens because someone prayed, as the Apostle Paul did for the disciples – "that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance in the saints, and his incomparably great power for us who believe." (Ephesians 1:18-19).

A Thing Called Grog

Some people seem to have an underlying belief that writing about what is painful and ugly in life is somehow denying the goodness of God.

I disagree. We do not write about the ugly, the dark things of despair, in order to glorify them, nor to question God, but in order to put them in their place and to recognize that there is something more, there is redemption of all that is ugly and evil in this world, because of what happened on a cross at the base of a hill in a tiny country then called Palestine.

Psalm 12:6 (KJV) says – "The words of the Lord are pure words: as silver tried in a furnace of earth, purified seven times. "Tried in a furnace of earth." That doesn't sound pleasant to me. "Purified seven times." That sounds like struggle and anguish and pain that has been forged into what is pure and wholesome.

As a pottery student many years ago I learned that you can't use just any old clay to make pottery. It has to be the right consistency, the right combination of elements. Some clay is too fine. When it's thrown on a wheel it won't stand up, won't keep its shape, won't survive the heat of the kiln, so a substance called grog is added. Grog is clay that has been previously fired in the kiln, then ground into fine particles. Grog sometimes hurts. As you throw a pot on the wheel you can feel it scraping your hands. Sometimes it even makes them bleed.

Our writing needs grog – that stuff that has been ground up inside us as we struggle. We must put the stuff of real life into it, or it won't hold up. It won't do what it is intended to do.

I wrote this short devotional for a local paper some time ago. I called it Hard Questions:

It seemed fitting that the sky hung heavy and low. It seemed right that the wind was bitter, howling with the fierce shriek of winter around a tiny country cemetery. There was a very small hole in the ground and a very tiny casket to be put into it. It seemed appropriate that we all stood numbed by the cold of that day.

A friend of mine once wrote a poem about Adam, Eve and God in the Garden of Eden. It was a good poem, well constructed with a strong rhythm and powerful images. One of those images often comes to mind when bad things happen to good people. It's an image of God curled into a fetal position, and the wailing sound of His weeping.

Sometimes we ask hard questions. Why did that baby have to die, God? Why is my friend suffering with a painful cancer? Why are those people in Africa starving? We don't usually get a good answer to those questions. They leave us numb and they leave us wondering if God is there.

But then there is that image and that sound. In my friend's poem God mourned the first disobedience, the first break in His relationship with the creatures He put on the earth.

The picture my friend painted with his words was of a God who cares, a God who feels our pain, a God who mourns with us, especially at the graves of tiny babies.

He is also a God who will answer. He is a God who acted to redeem all that was broken in our world. He is a God who continues to do so. The redemption was accomplished on the cross of Calvary, but it is not yet complete. As the writer of the book of Hebrews said, God "... waits for his enemies to be made his footstool, because by one sacrifice he has made perfect forever those who are being made holy" (Hebrews 10:13).

The process is sometimes painful, but the world will one day be made entirely new, entirely redeemed. The scriptures talk about creation groaning as we wait for that day. The groans do not fall on deaf ears, nor will they remain unanswered forever. One day that tiny baby will rise, whole and perfect as God intended him to be.

God's plan is unfolding. What then, should we do in those times when we groan and feel there is no answer? Again, scripture tells us – "To act justly, to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God" (Micah 6:8).

Humility before God bows the knee and continues to believe. Humility before God acknowledges His sovereignty and calls Him good. Even when babies die and the pain of this world overwhelms, humility before God says, "Blessed be the name of the Lord."

The Sunday after that piece appeared in print, the father of that baby approached me in the lobby of our church. He said he was in a local restaurant when he read Hard Questions. He said it wasn't long before tears were streaming down his face. I held my breath as he described what he was feeling. Many things flew through my mind. Was he angry with me? Should I have written and published that piece when it exposed not only my pain, but his?

Then, with tears brimming in his eyes he said, "Thank you. It was part of the healing. Thank you for writing it."

Madeleine L'Engle has said - "The discipline of creation, be it to paint, compose, write, is an effort toward wholeness."

This is our responsibility – to struggle toward that wholeness in our lives and in our work; to take our work deeper, to make sure it has enough grog in it to stand, and perhaps even to heal.

All to the Glory of God, because that is His plan for us, His plan for our work.

A Worthy Goal, A Precious Prize.

I recently read a short essay about breaking free of writer's block. The author expressed how she was energized again and proclaimed – "The goal, to write. The Prize, to publish." I felt like cheering. To write – yes! A worthy goal. To publish – yes! And it was here that I paused.

The question came to mind - what is the prize? Is it seeing your byline in a magazine or newspaper or on the cover of a book? Is it receiving a cheque for a piece of writing you have labored over? I've had the thrill of all of these, and yes, it is a thrill, but it is fleeting. The byline may not be noticed nor remembered. The cheque evaporates like mist. Surely there is more. Is the prize perhaps the process itself? Is the prize all that is learned along the way? Is the prize the life being lived as a writer who belongs to Christ?

Henri Nouwen wrote; "Writing is a process in which we discover what lives within us. The writing, itself, reveals what is alive! The deepest satisfaction of writing is precisely that it opens up new spaces within us of which we were not aware before we started to write. To write is to embark on a journey whose final destination we do not know."

What lives within us – that which is alive – is revealed to us as we write. As those spaces open up within us we discover Who will fill them. As we trust Him, not knowing the destination becomes irrelevant.

What greater prize can there be? When we focus on the Spirit of God as the giver and sustainer of the gift, it is as we write that we understand Who that Spirit is. It is as we build our stories, our articles, our poems, that we discover the depth of His wisdom and love.

That journey, that adventure is in itself a gift. I would own no other prize.

A Writer's Easter

All over the world this week writers have been sitting at their computers, staring at a blank monitor or the empty pages in a notebook as they contemplate and struggle to articulate what Easter means. I am one of those writers.

There are many things I know about Easter. I know it is the most important celebration in the Christian calendar. I know without Easter there is no effectual Christianity. I know about the cross, that torturous mode of execution that has become a universal symbol of hope. And I know about the tomb. I've stood inside one, in Jerusalem, and stared at the rough ledge where they believe our Saviour might have lain, wrapped in grave cloths, waiting for the third day.

But I'm a writer. I want to know more about this drama. I want to get inside the characters' heads. I want to feel Mary's pain and confusion, or perhaps peace, when they arrested her son and dragged him away. I want to know Peter's horror and self-loathing when he ran from the courtyard after denying he knew his friend, his saviour, his God. I want to know his catharsis when he answered the same question three times. "Peter, do you love me?"

I want to know how Joseph of Arimathea summoned the courage to openly admit his allegiance to the Christ and petition for his body. I want to know the bloom of understanding when Jesus appeared in the midst of his trembling disciples and said, "Peace, my peace I give to you." I want to know the depth of that profound comprehension when Thomas touched the wound that killed his Messiah and when the two disciples on the road to Emmaus watched him break the bread before their eyes.

And above all, I want to know the main character in the drama of Easter. I want to know that Messiah. I want to look into his face and know the depth of his knowledge of me and the incomparable love that made him drag himself to that cross as though it were his only source of life. Because He is my only source of life.

I am a writer. I am a believer in this Saviour, Jesus Christ. I count it a privilege to engage in this struggle to understand, to know more and more and more about this drama and all that it means. I count it a blessing that there is no end to the understanding of it, as there is no end to the magnificence of God. I am humbled to my core when I contemplate the gift he has given me as I am obedient to the call and struggle to articulate the story.

I pray that for all of us this Easter, that need to know drives us to our knees, drives us to His word and drives us to a deeper understanding of the meaning of the words "He is Risen. He is risen indeed." Glory. Glory Hallelujah.

A Writer's Obedience

A while ago my husband and I were surfing the channels on TV when we happened upon a biography of Henri Nouwen. I was moved by his story, by the humility he learned when he went from being an acclaimed professor and author to a care-giver for a mentally challenged adult at L'Arche Daybreak Community in Montreal.

And I was struck by Jean Vanier's words – "Henri's call was not just to be with Adam or just to care for him, it was to announce him to us, to the world."

That made me think of another story I heard Philip Yancey tell, of how he sometimes felt guilty when his wife would come home after a busy day of helping people and ask him what he'd done that day. His answer – "Well, I found a great adverb!" - made him feel less than adequate.

I've had those same feelings from time to time, especially when a member of our congregation looks at me like I'm that two-headed writer who sits at a computer all day and doesn't really "do" anything. It's at those times that Mr. Vanier's words ring with a truth I try not to forget. When I feel misunderstood or even guilty, I remember that there were those in the Bible whose only role was to sit at the King's feet and write down what He did. They were to announce the King's greatness to their world.

We are to do the same in ours. Just as Henri Nouwen announced the beauty of God in the guise of a disabled man, we are to look for those people, places, things, where God is hidden, and reveal Him.

The best place, the best vantage point from which to do that is sitting at His feet, watching, listening, waiting, and then, writing. To a writer, that is obedience.

Sometimes I envision the Lord taking my chin in his hand and turning my head so I will see what He wants me to record. Sometimes I envision him touching my eyes so they can see.

And then I write.

"Each one should use whatever gift he has received to serve others, faithfully administering God's grace in its various forms." 1 Peter 4:10

All We Have to Do

The voice coming out of the speaker was clipped and rapid. "What kind of muffin would you like? We have carrot, fat wise carrot, blueberry, fat wise blueberry, cranberry and fat wise cranberry."

My husband and I fell into a fit of giggles. Fat wise? As we waited at the second window for the goods to be delivered, he joked. "I wonder if it talks? If it's wise, it must be able to talk. What do you think a wise muffin would say?"

"I only care about the fat part," I replied. "A nice plump muffin. Yup, that's what I want."

The muffin was, in fact, small, heavy as a stone and decidedly mute. As we pulled away from the fast-food restaurant, my husband continued his banter about fat wise muffins until my daughter groaned and asked him to quit. He shook his head. "I feel sorry for people trying to learn English."

Sometimes the way we use words makes no sense. This seems to be particularly true in advertising. For instance, consider the expressions – "jeans your skin," and "my bottoms are tops," or "lips that don't quit," and "two thumbs fresh." Our culture speaks in slogans and metaphors, not to mention anagrams.

It's no wonder we laugh at the poster that reads, "I know you believe you understand what you think I said, but I'm not sure you realize that what you heard is not what I meant."

Words can obscure understanding even when intentions are pure. Words can twist meaning when intentions are evil. There are, however, words which can be trusted, words which are meant to heal and bless, words which will never die. Psalm 12:6 says, "And the words of the Lord are flawless, like silver refined in a furnace of clay, purified seven times."

Isaiah 55:10-11 says, "As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth; it will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it."

What words does the Lord speak to us? Words of assurance and comfort, words of challenge and sometimes reproach, words of guidance and warning, words that nourish and heal. Our culture lives by the words of advertisers and slogan writers, words meant to spin the coin out of our pockets. God's words are meant to bring truth, life, peace.

As writers we are charged to do likewise, to imitate Christ in this, as in all things. This can at once free us and bind us. The responsibility can sometimes overwhelm, but the good news is that we are not alone. He is guiding our minds and our hearts and when we yield to Him the outpouring will be words of life and blessing. The good news is that He has purpose for our words too, and those purposes will be accomplished by His Spirit, to His glory.

The good news is, it's not up to us. All we have to do is write.

An Act of God, An Act of Grace

The day was bright and sunny with just a touch of crispness to it. It was the kind of morning that should have lifted my spirits but as I gazed out the window, my thoughts were far away and all gloomy. I sighed and tried to prepare for the day ahead. I knew it wasn't going to be an easy one. There would be the gathering of friends and family at the church and then the funeral and a reception immediately afterward. My friend's death had been a shock to us all. As I got ready I prayed that the Lord would help us get through the day.

I heard the birds as I was eating breakfast. At first I didn't pay much attention. There is a large tract of bush on the other side of our street, so we hear the birds every morning. By the time I was ready to head out our front door, I was wondering why the birdsong was so loud. As I stepped out into the fresh spring air, I was astonished at the reason. The entire bush across from me was full of robins. They flitted from branch to branch and tree to tree, singing. I stood and watched and listened and suddenly my spirit was lifted. A verse of scripture that can sometimes seem so impossible came to mind. "My grace is sufficient for you." (2 Corinthians 12:9) I was witnessing an act of grace, a gift given in reply to a plea for help. The gift worked wonders.

I don't know if robins usually move about in large flocks. Perhaps it's part of their migration pattern, but I have never seen a flock like that before, or since. I've always looked for that single robin that heralds the coming of spring. I would never have dreamed of looking for a flock of hundreds.

Perhaps God knew that's what I needed that day – something unusual and delightful, something that would take my breath away. As I drove to the church I realized that it's just like Him to do something like that. He has said that He does not only want to give us life, but He wants to give us abundant life, a life full of delightful things like birdsong, to banish the gloom, a life in which the darkness of death is overcome by the blazing light of life.

"Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever! Amen." (Ephesians 3:20)

An Appropriate Quote

I read the email with a bit of anticipation and a bit of dread. It was an invitation to yet another Christmas party. That meant another pot-luck item to prepare, another auction gift to bring. And I couldn't stop sneezing and coughing, so who knew if I'd even be well enough to attend? It was almost enough to make me want to shout, "Bah Humbug!"

But the instructions in this email were intriguing, and piqued my interest. For the gift exchange, we were to bring a favourite quote, done up in some kind of creative way. The favourite quote part would be easy, I thought. I have a huge file of quotes on my computer. With the state of my health, I knew the creative part might be a bit more difficult, but I decided to try and rise to the challenge.

I clicked into my quotes file and began to read, and read, and read. Nothing seemed exactly right. I was thinking Christmas, but couldn't find anything seasonal. I thought inspirational, but nothing seemed to hit the mark. I thought humorous, but couldn't find anything that made me laugh out loud. So I gave up, swallowed some more cough medicine and went to bed.

The next day I opened the file again. A quote seemed to beam its way to me immediately. It was short but thought provoking, and when I thought about it, the words, from poet Anne Sexton, were very appropriate for the Christmas season. She wrote: "Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard."

In the midst of the rush to shop, to bake, to decorate and make it to all those Christmas parties, God is calling us to do just that. He wants us to stop and hear His voice in the tumult. It is a still small voice, but one that echoes with everything we need. It is the voice of a child crying from a manger, the voices of angels singing and shepherds jabbering about a baby born to be King. It is a voice weeping for those in pain and sickness. It is a voice mourning for those who refuse to hear Him. It is a voice shouting victory over the forces of evil and death. And it is a voice calling us to know Him, to know His love for us, love that grants us one more day of life, filled with all its challenges and blessings.

Listen for Him. He has promised that anyone "who hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me." (Rev.3:20) Not only that, He has promised to stay with us forever, to guide and protect us, and to give us peace.

So, "put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard." You might just hear the true voice of Christmas.

An Exciting Discovery

I made an exciting discovery one day. I got so excited about it I called my husband into the office so I could show him. He smiled indulgently but looked like he thought I was overreacting just a bit. I'd been critiquing and editing manuscripts for writers for some time. I would usually do the edits on a hard copy of the manuscript, then transfer them onto the computer and send the finished product to the writer. The task was laborious since it is important for the writer to see the changes I make and in some cases, understand my reasoning. I used the highlight feature as well as the font color feature on the computer, making the changes as I went, then highlighting and putting comments in red. This required continually clicking buttons and using the mouse.

Then I joined an online critique group. Each person was to submit a story and all the others critique it. As we got started someone asked how to put the changes right into the manuscript. I was about to send a message explaining my method when I read a message from another group member. He explained that all you have to do is hit the Tools button and click on 'track changes.' The computer does everything for you! I immediately pulled up an old manuscript and tried it. That's when I got excited. I knew this little discovery would save me a lot of time and 'fiddling.'

In my own defense I must explain that I am self-taught on the computer. I have never taken a course, but learned by doing. For the most part that has worked fine, but when I discovered this tracking feature it made me wonder what else I've been missing. Maybe it's time I investigated all the features the program designers put into my computer. Maybe it's time I discovered how it's meant to be used. There are probably a few other things I've been doing the hard way.

Sometimes we go through life the same way. We are self-made, self-taught and self-focused. Usually, that means we've been doing things the hard way. Maybe it's time we discovered our designer had a different plan. Maybe it's time we discovered what that plan is. God has provided everything we need to live our lives according to His purposes. The Apostle Paul knew this when he wrote to the Philippians – "And my God will meet all your needs according to his glorious riches in Christ Jesus" (Philippians 4:19).

Did you notice that last phrase? That's the important part, the part that can mean the difference between living life the hard way, and living life with abundant joy. In Christ Jesus. Why do things the hard way?

An Invitation

Someone once asked me if I wasn't a writer what would I do? I immediately thought of all the wonderful creative pursuits I'd love to indulge in. I paint a little and would love to do more. My mind sometimes seems to work like a camera so I'd love to be a photographer. My daughter has made me cry when she danced and I'd give a lot to be able to move to music like she does. And music... oh my, to play the piano or guitar or... well, I could go on. I can think of a lot of things to do and I think many of them would satisfy my need to create. But I am a writer.

Thoreau wrote: "We are continually invited to become who we are." I believe I am continually invited to become a writer. But sometimes I find that path hard. It takes determined effort and no small amount of discipline. Sometimes it seems a heavy burden. Sometimes I wish I could do anything else other than write.

It need not be so. When I trust in the God who continually invites me to be the child he created me to be, faith grows. When I draw close to Him, the effort and struggle slip away. In those moments I move into that wonderful state called grace. In those moments writing becomes a state of being rather than a state of doing.

Eugene Patterson's paraphrase puts it like this \- "Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me – watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly" (Matthew 11: 28-30, The Message).

God continually invites us to become what He created us to be, His children, designed to live a life of joy and abundance, savouring His grace and mercy. He has opened the way to achieve that by giving us all a creative process, a framework within which to work, a unique way of keeping company with Him.

No matter what you are invited to become, the invitation to do it joyfully with Him is always there.

An Ordinary Thing

I love the book of Exodus, especially chapters 4 & 5. I love the way God used an ordinary thing – a shepherd's staff - to reveal Himself to Moses and Aaron and the people who watched.

God made that ordinary thing into a divine instrument. It was a tool that became a concrete symbol of God's presence and God's power and His desire to communicate with those who would dare to wield an instrument of His choosing. Each miracle Moses and Aaron performed before Pharaoh and the Israelites was done with the staff in hand and was the means by which the people learned about God. It was also the means by which Aaron and Moses learned about Him.

I believe we writers have been given a tool, an instrument as ordinary as that shepherd's staff. God wants us to use it to set His people free, to His glory. Just as God gave Moses his staff, He has given us the gift of language that we might both speak and listen, that we might both teach and learn. He has given us the gift of the written language to show that He is present with us and to reveal His power. He has given these gifts to show us the depth of His love and His desire for communion with His people.

Like Moses, we may want to run from the amazing things God will do with His instrument. Like Moses, we may show signs of false humility, and say, my talent isn't that big; I don't expect to do such great things for God. We must learn it is not what we will do for God, but what God wants to do and will do through us when we are willing.

Like Moses, we must trust our God enough to pick up the snake by the tail. We must wield the instrument He has given us with faith and expectancy, coming before His throne boldly with the confidence that comes from knowing we belong to Him, knowing He will never spurn His own children.

The gift of language is God's instrument in our hands. May we use it wisely with humility and grace, to His glory.

An Unexpected Attack

My husband joined the air force just after graduating from high school many years ago. He trained as a radio technician, but was also trained as part of the base's defense force. That meant, during the periodic 'war games,' meant to teach the men how to defend the base effectively, his assignment was to guard the end of the runway in the event of an "enemy" or "terrorist" attack. He was a solo guard, with only the standard issue rifle with which to do the job. He was usually 'killed' very early in the exercise. When my husband told me this story he admitted that his guarding of the runway was highly ineffectual. "Had there been real invaders or terrorists," he said, "I would have done my best, but one person with a rifle standing out in the open wouldn't have been a deterrent, he would have been a target."

When I heard that story, I immediately thought, "Daah, what were they thinking?" But then I realized that the games those soldiers played back in that era were just that. They were games with no expectation of a real attack. There had been no 9/11. An attack on North American soil wasn't even a consideration at that time. When you don't really expect an enemy to attack, you don't bother taking the precautions that might be necessary.

I fell into that trap recently. I'm very close to finishing the final draft of my novel, One Smooth Stone, and I hit one of those well known walls that writers often do. It's a wall that screams back at you. "This book will never go anywhere. It's not worth publishing. No-one will ever read it. Who said you could write? Who do you think you are? Give up and get a life."

I'd forgotten that in the war being waged all around us, the work God has given me to do will make me a target. Too often we forget about the enemy that is out to destroy our souls. We don't expect him to attack. Perhaps we feel secure in our good works – all the work we've produced to date that has told us we're doing just fine. When we fall into that trap we are like my husband, alone on that airstrip with a very small weapon and, like him, we'll be 'dead' before the 'game' has hardly begun.

The Bible says that our enemy "prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. Resist him, standing firm in the faith." (1Peter 5:8-9). How do we resist an enemy set on our destruction? First, know and believe that he will attack. Expect it. Then arm ourselves with the knowledge of God, the knowledge of His Word, the knowledge of His promises that will never be broken. Promises like the one that tells us He is our protector and our refuge. Promises that tell us that His purposes for us and our work will not fail. The enemy can't roar loud enough to make a difference when we are listening and responding to God's voice. Then we know we will never stand alone.

In the spiritual battles of life, there is far more at stake than the defense of a military base; far more than the defense of an entire nation. The battle is for our very souls, which are eternal. With stakes that high, we must expect the attack and always be on the alert.

An Unpleasant Thought

W.O. Mitchell is quoted as saying – "the most constant state of an artist is uncertainty.

You must face confusion, self-questioning, dilemma. Only amateurs are confident...be prepared to live with the fear of failure all your art life."

Not a pleasant thought, is it? As writers, we all live with some uncertainty. We write an article and never really know its worth until someone reads it and makes comment. We stew about that book manuscript, wondering if any editor will think it worthy of publishing. We spend hours polishing a poem and wonder if we have wasted our time. We will, from time to time, face confusion, self-questioning and even dilemma, as Mitchell suggests, but we do not have to live in that state.

The writer of Hebrews told his readers that they, too, would face uncertainty, confusion, dilemma. They would face persecution and yes, the appearance of failure. Then he said, "So do not throw away your confidence; it will be richly rewarded. You need to persevere so that when you have done the will of God, you will receive what he has promised." (Hebrews 10: 35-36) The writer of Hebrews is not talking about the self-confidence of a much-published writer, which can lead to pride and an over-blown ego. He is talking about the confidence "to enter the Most Holy Place."

The reference here is to the inner sanctuary, the place where only a high priest could enter, and only once a year after much preparation. Even then, the priest risked death when he stepped on that holy ground. For there, there in that place, was God. And how is it we can have such audacity, to enter with confidence? "by the blood of Jesus." (Heb. 10:19)

A writer who is Christian does not have to submit to a perspective like Mitchell's. As believers, we can have confidence, not in our own talents, but in the fact that God is there. He is approachable, accessible, and He has promised to use our gifts and talents to serve others, to His glory. Therefore there is no need for fear of failure, nor of success. Our confidence is in Christ. Our calling is to work in obedience and humility.

The writer of Hebrews continues "Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds." As writers, we have all been given a spur – the gift of communication – to use for the sake of others and for the sake of our most faithful God. May He find us faithful to that task.

Bad News/Good News

I attended a seminar recently put on by the Writers' Union of Canada. The first presenter, Ross Laird (www.rosslaird.info) was obviously very savvy about all that is currently going on in the publishing world. At first the changes he outlined were rather discouraging. He stated there are now fewer opportunities for emerging writers in the traditional publishing spheres and even established writers are finding it hard to get their next book into print. Editing is no longer done by many houses, leaving it up to the authors to make sure their work is polished, at their own expense. Mid-range publishers are having a hard time staying afloat and at every turn the bottom line is paramount.

It would seem that publishing is no longer driven by the quality of the manuscript but by the marketing department. A "platform" is mandatory for all authors and they have to present a solid marketing plan of their own before a publishing house will consider their work. Add to that all the changes that are happening due to the world wide web, and things look unstable at best. Ross quoted an agent who lamented, "the sky is falling and the ground is shifting all at the same time."

But then he smiled and began to talk excitedly about the opportunities these changes are opening up for writers of all kinds all over the world. He showed us clips from YouTube and examples of web pages and blogs where people are doing creative things and even making some money while doing it.

Then he said something that made me smile. "Freedom for writers today means finding joy in the turbulence."

I like that perspective. Instead of moaning about all the changes and fearing the future, we can jump in and enjoy it as we adapt and learn and reach out to the world. Never before have we been able to reach so many people so easily and quickly. Never before has there been so much potential for creativity and free expression.

As writers who are Christian I believe finding "joy in the turbulence" is particularly apt. Who better to smile at the chaos than those who know there is One who stands firm and unchanging? Who better to embrace the changes than those who recognize the world is illusory and true reality lies beyond. Who better to step up and engage the world with all the creativity we have been blessed with than those who know its source?

Some have said the changes in the publishing industry can be compared to the invention of the first printing press. That event changed the world. The current events are taking us into worlds we didn't even know could exist. I wonder, what amazing things does God have in store for us all as we leap into them? "Joy in the turbulence." Amen.

Borrowed Words

"When you were out in the workforce, where did your paycheck come from?"

I frowned at the teacher and immediately thought of my previous employer. As a first year student in Bible College, and a brand new Christian, I thought it was a ridiculous question, not the stuff to stimulate deep spiritual thought.

The professor gave us a moment, then said, "If you're thinking of an employer, you're wrong. Your paychecks came from God and they belong to God."

I was stunned. Of course he was absolutely right. That point marked a dramatic shift in how I thought about everything I considered "mine."

Too often I think of the words I tap out on my computer as mine, especially when I have worked hard for them, when I've re-written and edited and re-edited until I'm absolutely certain it's right. I claim it for my own. But it all belongs to God - every word.

There is a wonderful old hymn about Christ's suffering and death, called O Sacred Head, Now Wounded. It is often sung during the Easter season, and I've often been moved by it, but singing it once in the company of a group of writers gave the last verse new meaning for me, especially these words – "What language shall I borrow to thank Thee, dearest Friend, for this, Thy dying sorrow, Thy pity without end?"

When I sang those words the reality of God's gift to us amazed me. Our very language is borrowed from God! He gave it to us that we might use it to glorify Him. As I sang the words of that hymn, it struck me again, what an awesome responsibility we have as the stewards of language and of words. We are the borrowers, the users, but not the owners.

If we are true to that stewardship, we must acknowledge the struggle of life and of faith by using words we have struggled with, to convey it. I have become aware of this in my own writing in the past while, especially in my poetry. I've always put poetry in a 'second class citizen' category. Poetry has been something I've done when the mood strikes me, something I did not take very seriously. But God has impressed on me that I have no right to relegate any words to a second class level. They are God's gift. I am in grave error if I treat them as anything less. We borrow language, words, images, the stuff of writing. It is up to us to acknowledge the original owner, to offer back to Him what we have done with that which we have borrowed, and glorify the One who spoke the first word into existence. "Now it is required that those who have been given a trust must prove faithful" (1Corinthians 4:2).

Carrying the Cheese

I heard a well-known story recently, about David, the future king of Israel. As I listened, I pictured David as a young man, eager for adventure, eager to take his place beside his brothers on the battlefield. I wonder if David schemed a bit, when his father called him home. I wonder if he didn't fantasize, just a little, about wearing armor and carrying a sharp sword. Imagine his disappointment when his father placed a donkey's lead in his hand instead. He was not being sent to the front lines to fight the great battle and win the victory. He was being sent to give nourishment to those who were.

Perhaps David's cry to God went like this – "But Lord, You've given me strength enough to kill lions and bears. You had the prophet anoint me king. So why, Lord? Why do you ask me to only carry the cheese?"

But David obeyed. It was later he discovered that submitting to the role of the servant was God's way of putting him where he would do the most good. God did have bigger things planned, and David's journey to get there was part of his preparation for an even bigger picture. God was making David not just into the boy-hero who slew the giant, but into a King worthy of his anointing.

Sometimes writers dream and scheme as David did. We know our gifts, we see the needs and are eager to do great things. But often the path God tells us to walk does not seem to lead to the place where we think we would do the most good. We would do well to remember that God knows the bigger picture. He knows the plans He has for us, "plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope." (Jeremiah 29:11) Like David, we are being shaped into useful tools. And like David we are best shaped when we are serving others.

Is there a donkey's lead dangling in front of you? Perhaps God is telling you to get up and carry some cheese.

Changing the World

"If you have changed a life you have changed the world."

My head jerked up when I heard that sentence. It was at Inscribe's Fall Conference and our speaker, Kathleen Gibson, was doing a great job of speaking to the hearts of all the writers there. But that one sentence really hit me. I'd thought about changing lives before. I've had emails and letters and even phone calls telling me that God has done exactly that through the words I've put on paper. But changing the world? Really?

Then I thought about another speaker we'd had at one of our conferences. He told us that not very far back in his family line, someone read a book and became a believer in Christ. He told us that now there are many branches to his family, many are preachers of God's word, there are missionaries and others serving in their churches across North America. None of it would have happened but for one book.

I began to consider all the ripple effects that one book has had – not just in the lives of his family members but in all the lives they have touched. I thought about the book I was given just as God was softening my heart toward him. It was a copy of Josh McDowell's Evidence that Demands a Verdict. It was put into my hands at exactly the perfect time. It convinced my head that Jesus was who He claimed to be – the Son of God, a man who came to earth to change the world by changing each one of us.

And I was stunned into awe and gratitude for what the Holy Spirit did in my life through that book. Words are such small things. They can be simple or profound, plain or eloquent. But when God takes them and bends them to His purposes, He changes hearts with them and those hearts change the lives of others and those touch others and on and on.

Who knows how far our words will go. If you have changed a life, you have changed the world.

Yes. Really.

Christmas Memories

One of my most cherished memories has to do with a Christmas grade school project. I worked hard on it, along with the rest of my class, each of us making one character or animal in the nativity scene. Using wire frames and paper slathered in paste, we shaped wise men and shepherds, the baby Jesus and his parents and various animals. I picked a camel.

It seemed like an easy project until I got to the legs. I had trouble with the legs. They wouldn't support the heavy wire, glue and paper body. Every time I propped it up, it fell down. So I took the legs off and made a camel lying down. I thought it was wonderful and brought it proudly to my mother. She oohed and aahed, of course, then asked, "What is it, a duck?"

I was crushed, but eventually we both fell into fits of giggles that lasted....well, let me see, it's been about forty years. Perhaps because my mother felt guilty for crushing my budding artistic talents, she put that camel under our tree every Christmas, even when I groaned in protest. At some point during the season, she'd say, "Do you remember that day...?" and we'd giggle again.

Many years later, my husband and I began another tradition with our children – an evening drive to see the lights and decorations. On one such wintry night, as our van turned into a snow globe moving slowly through huge fluffy snowflakes, my husband decided to find some Christmas music on the radio, to help set the mood. He flipped the dial from station to station and came to rest on CBC, Canada's national station.

A carol was just ending. Then a familiar voice filled our van as Alan Maitland, a well-known Canadian broadcaster, began a recitation of The Gift of The Magi, that wonderful story of giving from the heart. Our girls leaned forward to listen. An unusual stillness descended and the real meaning of Christmas engulfed us as we listened and drove through falling snow and twinkling lights. It was a night we will all remember, perhaps even as long as forty years, because someone, at some point says, "Do you remember that night...?"

That's the point of Christmas. It's a time when we should all say to one another, "Remember...." Remember the long trek to Bethlehem. Remember the star and those men from the East who followed it. Remember the humble place where the Savior was born. Remember the angels announcing Joy and Peace on Earth. Remember why He came.

Although none of us were there, it is very much our story, our tradition, our unique moment. The story belongs to us all because His birth was God's gift to us all, as the angels announced, "I bring you good news of great joy that will be for ALL the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born TO YOU; he is Christ, the Lord." (Luke 2:10-11, capitals mine)

The true meaning of Christmas lies in the remembrance of that birth. As we get caught up in the flurry of the season, it would be well to say to one another, "Do you remember that night...?"

Commitment and Providence

"Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative there is one elemental truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help that would never have otherwise occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents, meetings, and material assistance which no man or woman would have dreamed could have come his way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic to it. Begin it now." Goethe

Let's play what if. What if Abram didn't pull up the tent pegs and set off from Ur. What if Noah didn't pick up the hammer? What if Moses didn't pick up the staff? What if Gideon didn't climb out of the winepress and break down the altar to Baal? What if Joshua didn't march around Jericho? What if Ruth didn't go with Naomi? What if David didn't take the provisions to his brothers on the front lines? What if Solomon didn't build the temple? What if Shaphan the secretary didn't read the book of the Law to Josiah? What if Josiah didn't tear his robes? What if Esther stayed home? What if Daniel didn't pay attention to his dreams? What if Matthew didn't walk away from the tax collectors booth? What if Peter didn't put down his nets?

What if you don't take up your pen?

Confession

Some time ago I heard that a friend had signed a book contract. I wish I could say I jumped for joy. I confess I didn't. I confess I complained to God. You see, it seemed too easy for her. She didn't have to jump through all the usual hoops. It seemed she hadn't really paid her "dues" yet, but now was having a measure of success.

A while later I happened to read a little book called Lying Awake by Mark Salzman. There is a wonderful scene in the book when the main character is in the office of a young doctor. She perceives him as being rather cold and clinical and very very young. Then he asks her to remove her shoes, kneels down and takes a cotton swab and runs it across the sole of her foot. This is how the author explains what happened then - "She pictured the doctor kneeling before patients every day, holding their feet and listening to their complaints and struggling to cure their diseases. How could she have taken so long to welcome the Christ in him?"

I'd also been reading the familiar passage in the book of Luke, chapter 10, verses 38-41, where Martha complains to Jesus. "Why do I have to work so hard while my sister just sits at your feet?" (my paraphrase).

I read that passage and suddenly I saw my sin. I believe it was Martha's sin too, her failure to welcome the Christ in her sister, her failure to truly see and know Him for who he was. I don't believe Jesus rebuked her because he wanted her to stop the serving she was doing. I don't believe he wanted her to be exactly like Mary. I believe he just wanted her to see him, really see Him.

It wasn't what Martha was doing with her hands that was the problem. It was what she wasn't doing with her heart and mind.

I have been guilty of this same sin. I've been too caught up in the work and failed to understand what it was really all about. I have failed to see the Christ in my midst, in the souls of other writers who follow where he leads, in the hearts of readers who cherish their words. I have failed to see Jesus when he was standing right in front of me.

The good news is that there is "now no condemnation..." (Romans 8:1). I can confess my sin and know that it is forgiven. I can start again on a new day, with a new understanding, a renewed awareness of His mercy and grace.

I can continue to learn how to "welcome the Christ."

Confidence Properly Placed

Some time ago a woman sent me this message - "Not very many people publish books in the area where I live. If they find out you have, they think you're bragging when you mention it. I've been brought up to be humble and it's hard to break away from the traditions of family and culture."

I think many artists within the church feel this way. Many of us have experienced those blank looks when we've tried to talk to people about our work, whether it be writing, painting, or some other artistic endeavour. Or worse, we've experienced the silent disapproval, even shunning. I have a friend who describes it as feeling like a peacock among penguins. So we stop talking about it. We don't promote our books in our own churches. We feel that promoting our work is blowing our own horn and that seems to go against all we've been taught as Christians.

But, does it go against what a Christian is meant to do? Does God want us to remain silent about the work He has given us to do? I don't think so. If you are an artist of any kind you might be saying, "But people don't want to hear it." Did they want to hear what Jesus had to say? The majority didn't. "But they don't understand." Did they understand Him? The majority didn't – not even His best friends really understood what He told them. Did He keep silent?

Well, at times He did. There were times when he healed and told the recipient not to tell anyone. He rebuked spirits and told them to be quiet when they tried to shout about who He was. The time was not right. But the time did come and when it did He preached and healed and let the people cry, "Hosanna to the King of Kings."

Can we learn a lesson or two from Jesus here? Jesus is the supreme example of humility, of confidence properly placed, as Haddon Robinson defines it. He knew who He was, He knew where He was going, He was constantly listening for His father's voice and when He heard it, He obeyed. That's how He knew when it was time to be silent and when it was time to speak.

There will be many times in our journey as writers, as artists, when we will be reluctant to speak, to tell people – strangers, friends, church family – that God has given us a talent, given us a particular something to do and we have been working hard at it. They will reject us. They will not understand. We will want to keep silent.

Who can blame us, we say. Well, God can. Holding back from using what God has given us is something He's not likely to reward us for. Read Matthew 25:14-30, the parable of the ten talents. What happened to the one servant who buried his talent is not a pretty picture.

So what are we to do? Deuteronomy 31:7-8 gives us the answer. "Be strong and courageous." That's what Moses told Joshua. Some translations say bold and courageous. Joshua knew a little about humility – confidence properly placed. He knew who he was, he knew where he was going, he constantly listened for God's voice and when he heard he obeyed.

Nelson Mandela is quoted as saying, "Your playing small doesn't serve the world." It doesn't serve God either. Know who you are as a writer who is Christian, know where God wants you to go, constantly listen for His voice and when you hear it, obey.

Be bold. Be courageous.

Consider Carefully

"Therefore consider carefully how you listen." Luke 8:18

It never ceases to amaze me how you can read a passage of scripture that is very familiar and suddenly see - or hear - something that you've never seen or heard before. Such was the case when I read Luke 8:16-18. It's a familiar passage, one often quoted in the context of gifts and talents. But that is not the context. The context is talking about hearing and receiving God's word.

It comes immediately after the parable of the sower – that wonderful and somewhat convicting passage about those who were hearing the word but received it in different ways, under different circumstances. For a while I wondered how these two passages were connected. They seemed isolated – one about hearing, the other about sharing. But as I pondered it, the light began to dawn. You cannot have one without the other.

You will not have a light to put on a lamp stand or anywhere else if you are not receiving that light from a pure source. If you are not hearing from God, you have nothing worth saying.

Now I'm not talking about divine revelation in the same terms as we would consider scripture divinely revealed. I am talking about the everyday, ordinary way God speaks to us. I'm talking about how we listen. That is a difficult thing to do in these days that are so full of busy-ness and stress, but it is an essential thing, especially for those who would dare to be writers.

I remember a day some time ago when I realized how important it was. The day couldn't have been more perfect. The sky was clear, the sun dancing off the water. The beach slowly filled with parents and children, out to enjoy a day at the beach. After an overnight camp out, my friend and I had brought a few girls from our church's Kids' Club to have a swim and a picnic. We stretched out on the sand and chatted as we watched the children play. Little ones were busy making sand castles. An older pair tossed a Frisbee above their heads.

A little red-haired girl caught my attention. She had wandered in front of us a few times, as she dashed from the edge of the lake to her mother, sitting in a lawn chair not far away. I watched as she stood still, her small head bent studiously over something in her hand. She turned and started toward us, stopped and peered at her hand once more, took a few more steps and stopped again. Her progress was slow as this pattern was repeated. As she approached, I could see a moth cupped in her palm. She tilted her hand each time it moved, stopped when it crawled dangerously close to the edge and moved slowly forward when it was secure again. Eventually the little girl reached her parent, holding her hand out for her to admire the precious treasure.

My delight in watching that little girl deepened as I heard God's voice. "That's how I carry you, to my Father's delight." The depth of Jesus' love overwhelmed me in that moment.

I know I could have missed His voice that day. I could have been anxiously watching the little ones under my care. I could have had my mind on all the stresses that come with being a pastor's wife and mother. I could have let all of "life's worries, riches and pleasures" get in the way. But somehow He broke through. I heard and was blessed and several times I have used that story in written form to illustrate God's care for us.

We must take time to listen for God's voice, consider the circumstances in which we have placed ourselves and see to it that we find a place that is conducive to hearing God's voice. Then we will indeed, have something worth writing about.

Delivering a Soliloquy?

"You are merely a player about to deliver a soliloquy on the septic system to a couple dozen poplar trees and a patch of pale blue sky." "Gravity" by Louis Jenkins from Just Above Water.

If I believed that I'd quit writing. But I don't. I believe God designed me, talents, warts and all, "to do good works which he has prepared for (me)." That includes writing the stories from my life that will touch the lives of others, the poems that creep up on me and arrive unbidden on the page and the articles about other people who have allowed me to tell their stories so that others may be inspired. It includes, too, the fiction I struggle to release from my brain and heart.

As I look back at my writing career, which spans (gulp), almost a quarter century, I see God's hand guiding and directing. Some might say it was all coincidences but really, who but God could have done this –

Not long after becoming a believer, a friend asked me to go with her to a seminar called Speak Up with Confidence. The teacher, Carol Kent, talked a lot about writing as she taught about speaking. And the burning desire to write, which had been simmering in me all my life, suddenly ignited.

A few weeks later we arrived at the small church where my husband was taking over as senior pastor. He was told he had to write a weekly column for the local paper. Feeling overwhelmed he asked if I would do it. That was the beginning of six years writing a faith column for that paper. When that one closed I approached the other newspaper, but they declined the offer. As I was leaving the office, I felt a strong nudge to tell the editor my husband and I were about to leave for a year-long mission adventure in Papua New Guinea. "Would you be interested in a couple of articles from there?" I asked, pretty sure he'd say no thanks. Perhaps he felt sorry for me, since he'd turned down the column, but he shrugged and said I could send him one or two and maybe he'd run them. I sent him two and he requested more, with a short note, "Ever considered a career in journalism?" When we returned home he called and asked if I'd not only be interested in writing the column but also doing some other work for him. That was the beginning of almost 15 years of writing for that paper.

When we arrived in Papua New Guinea we went to see the personnel director. My husband had been assigned to a job but I had not. The man asked what skills I had, what talents, what strengths that might be useful there in that very foreign place so far from home. I stuttered and stammered and finally told him I was a writer. He beamed. "We've been praying for you!" he said, and assigned me to the "non-print media" department where I began writing radio scripts that were broadcast all over the South Pacific, and then the video script detailing the mission's forty years in the country.

When I returned home I saw a small ad about a Christian writers' group meeting nearby. I signed up right away. Discovering that fellowship was a huge encouragement. That year I won first place in their short story competition. The next year I was asked to join the executive. That was the beginning of over twenty years of active involvement with Christian writers.

During that time people started asking me to compile my column into a book. I dismissed the idea, but people kept asking and then someone said that maybe God was prodding those people, so I prayed about it. A few weeks later I met a man who worked for a small independent Christian publisher. A few months later The Spur of the Moment was released, selling out the first edition quite quickly. That was followed by an emailed column that went out to over 5,000 people. Then a second book evolved, along with more articles in magazines, and short stories in journals.

I'd always loved writing fiction and had won several contests and prizes over the years. I'd written five full length manuscripts but had never done anything with them. I'd just finished my fifth manuscript, One Smooth Stone, when a new Canadian publisher launched a contest to find the Best New Canadian Christian Author. I sent my manuscript to a couple of writer-friends to see what they thought. They said go for it so I did. One Smooth Stone won the contest and was published.

Coincidences? There are too many to be called chance, too many to mention. All of them evidence that none of us is "merely a player." We are Christian writers with value to God and those around us. We are not delivering a "soliloquy to a septic system" but words with heart and meaning that are not floating out to "poplar trees and blue sky" but to people who need to hear them.

Delusions of Grandeur

It was a silly, pre-adolescent movie. The plot involved a group of misfits who wanted to be super-heroes. They dreamed about it, dressed like it, talked the talk and even tried to walk the walk. In the end they do save the day, of course, in a manner that would make all those who love underdogs cheer wildly. But in the end, one of the characters has learned that it's okay to be "just Roy." It's okay to be just a guy with an ordinary name, living a normal life.

We all have delusions of grandeur. We all have dreams of doing something great someday, something that gets noticed, something of significance. We all would like recognition, even a taste of fame. And of course the fortune that comes with it would be nice too. Deep down inside, we all want to be "somebody." This common human trait goes back to man's earliest days. There's a record of it in the first book of the Bible. The writer of Genesis tells us the descendants of Noah disobeyed God and began to scheme. It seems they wanted to be super-heroes. "Then they said, "Come, let us build ourselves a city, with a tower that reaches to the heavens, so that we may make a name for ourselves..." (Genesis 11:4)

The desire for grandeur is part of us because in fact, we were created to be grand. We were created in the image of God, meant to be as glorious as a reflection of Him can and should be. So it's natural that we long for it. But like the descendants of Noah, we try to achieve greatness in ways that God does not support. He tells us to serve but we want to be the masters. He tells us to seek spiritual food, the knowledge of God, but we want burgers and fries and everything else the world offers. He tells us to care for the poor and the oppressed but we struggle for prosperity on our own behalf. He tells us to praise and honor Him but we have better things to do with our time. Like the descendants of Noah, we want "a name for ourselves" and it is not the name God has given us.

All the things God tells us to do are meant to bring us the grandeur we seek. They are meant to make us more like Him. The irony is that we will achieve that grandeur only when we submit to Him and be content with who we are. When we discover that it's good to be "just Roy," a person living an ordinary life in obedience to God, we make a grand discovery. We realize we are growing into the image of God. Then the grandeur we seek falls in line with the grand creatures we were created to be, creatures who act justly, love mercy and walk humbly with their God. (Micah 6:8)

Dropping Rose Petals

"Publishing a volume of verse is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo." (Don Marquis)

These days, you could substitute the word book for the phrase, volume of verse. The quote makes me think of a cartoon I saw once and wish I had copied. It's of a writer sitting at a desk surrounded by thousands of volumes in a library. An eager fan holds out a copy of his book for the author to sign. The caption reads, "Being a writer must make you feel so...so significant!"

The puzzled looked on the writer's face made me laugh out loud. I know how he feels, and I'm sure you do to. In the face of the plethora of written work we often wonder why on earth we are driven to write. Hasn't it all been said? Haven't better writers already captured our thoughts on the page?

The answer is, 'no.' Your thoughts, said in your voice, have not been heard and yes, they are significant. They are significant not just because you have done your apprenticeship and reached a level of skill and expertise, but because God wants to use them. You are His child, unique in the universe and He has a purpose for you – all of you, including the words in your mind and heart – those unique words that you put into a computer and send out to a publisher. The expression of that uniqueness, when done with pure motive, is honoring to our Creator. Therefore it is not only fitting that you do it, it is commanded.

1 Peter 4:10 says – "Each one should use whatever gift he has received to serve others, faithfully administering God's grace in its various forms." What we write is a form of God's grace to be extended to others, no matter how insignificant we feel, no matter how small the audience may be, no matter the state of the economy,.

Don Marquis' quote could leave us with a sense of futility unless we know there is an echo, even the infinitely small sound of a rose petal falling in the Grand Canyon. The smallest of echoes has meaning when it is an echo of our Creator's purpose. So toss your rose petals to the winds, scatter them with prayer and thanksgiving! They are significant in God's economy. They may even change a life.

Endorsements

I stared at the financial statement I'd just taken out of an envelope. I've never been good with numbers so I went on to the second sheet, a letter from my publisher. He started off by saying that my novel, One Smooth Stone "experienced light sales," but said, considering the state of the economy in the last year, he is hopeful the next one will be better.

Yeah. Me too.

In the next paragraph he notes that "Your annual statement includes earned royalties of that have been applied to your advance." Seven hundred and fifty odd dollars to go. Wow. I could have been depressed. Okay, I admit, I was, for a moment or two. But then I had another thought. This statement is dismal, yet my publisher wants me to write a sequel to that book. I'm working on it now. I was suddenly greatly encouraged by his support and faith in me as a writer. The bottom line isn't looking good, yet he is telling me to keep going. Wow. What an endorsement!

There have been times in my life when God has done the same thing, times that looked bleak yet God said, "keep going." I'm reminded of Joshua's story in the book of Deuteronomy. In chapter 31 Moses is handing over the leadership. Joshua is the chosen one. Both of these men have been through some hard times, times when they were discouraged and wanted to give up. Joshua is about to lead a hard-hearted rebellious people into a land that is occupied by mighty armies. So Moses tells him, "Be strong and courageous, for you must go with this people into the land. The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged" (Deut. 31:7-8).

I'm encouraged by a couple of things in this passage – number one, Joshua had no option. Note the word, "must." It was his calling, his destiny, the thing God had created him to do. Number two, it wasn't all up to him. Note the words, "with this people." Moses did not say Joshua was to lead them. That was God's place. God himself would go before them and remain with them forever. What an endorsement!

As writers I believe we are in the same position as Joshua. We are pitted against a mighty army (just read Ephesians 6:12 if you don't believe me). We will face huge obstacles and at times things will look hopeless. But God is going before us. He's given us a job to do, one uniquely suited to each of us, and He will stand beside us to see it accomplished.

So I'm not going to let myself be discouraged. The God of the universe has put his endorsement on the cover of my life. He's standing beside me and He has a whopping big check waiting for me in heaven – in fact, it's a crown of gold inlaid with precious jewels and one day I'll get to lay it at His feet. Nothing could be better than that.

Epiphany at a Writers' Conference

The audience leaned forward, their expressions intent, their eyes never wavering from the speaker. It was Inscribe Christian Writers' 30th anniversary conference and the speaker, well-known author Sigmund Brouwer, did not disappoint.

As I scanned the group I smiled at the synergy. Sigmund had just talked about the fact that we hear so much about how Jesus told stories but forget that to tell the perfect story at the perfect time, He had to have listened.

I'm sure I wasn't the only person there who received those words as an epiphany. Of course. Jesus knew his audience because he'd been living among them, working, eating, playing, laughing and crying among them. He was constantly listening, not just to their words but to their hearts – to the longings of their souls. He knew them intimately from the perspective of both God and man.

Sigmund referred to the well known story in Luke 10:25-37 – the story of the Good Samaritan. He talked about how the Pharisees had questioned Jesus' authority and tried to trap him and how the story had, in a searing flash, revealed their sin and pointed the people in the right direction. Jesus knew they all needed that story. He knew many were ready to hear it but some were not. And He knew He was the one who had to tell it.

As writers who are Christian it is imperative that we follow this example. It is imperative that we:

1 live among the people we write for. Work, eat, play, laugh and cry among them, sharing our lives as they share theirs with us. Be engaged in our culture, though not of it.

2 listen to the people. Listen between the words, strain to hear their hearts and the longings of their souls.

3 be brave and courageous. Write the words we believe God has given us to write, eschewing the trends and fads and industry demands.

4 listen for God's voice moment by moment as we live each day in the midst of our culture yet in His presence.

I believe if we strive to do these things and listen as Jesus did, we will not only live abundantly full, rich lives, we will become the writers God wants us to be.

"Let my teaching fall like rain and my words descend like dew, like showers on new grass, like abundant rain on tender plants." Deut. 32:2

False Starts

Anyone who has watched an Olympic race has probably seen a false start. An over-eager competitor leaps from the starting gate a moment before the gun goes off. An official is usually quick to call the runners back to start again. Everyone feels the loss of energy, the sudden let-down and the need to immediately refocus and settle in for another try.

I was once in an old house that looked like a false start. Walls and windows had been knocked out and only partly replaced. A doorway had been sealed up with gyp-rock, but not painted. The walls in the kitchen too, were bare and unfinished. The man who owned the house obviously had big dreams and expectations at one time, but somewhere along the way he had run out of steam. He had started well but finished poorly.

It can often seem that our lives are made up of false starts. We graduate from school and set out in a direction we are sure will lead to success, only to find there is no future in it. We launch into a business venture we are sure will reap benefits, but find before long it is leading to financial ruin. We start a writing project but run out of steam before it's finished, leaving us with nothing but spent energy. It can feel like failure.

Sometimes even our spiritual lives can seem like a series of false starts. We get enthused about prayer, resolving to spend hours at it, but after a while it takes all we can muster to take a few moments to concentrate. We determine to set aside a regular time for Bible study, and for a while all goes well, but life seems to conspire against us. That discipline too, is left in the dust. It feels like failure. Like the athlete who has just burst from the starting line only to be stopped short, we sometimes find we have expended all our energy but have had to go back and try again. And again. Like the athlete, we must refocus. We must persevere, with the goal in mind.

Perseverance is the mark of a winner. It is through perseverance that races are won, houses are renovated and books are written. It is through perseverance that spiritual growth also occurs. The writer of the book of Hebrews gives us the key - "... and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith..." (Hebrews 12:1&2). The goal in the spiritual life, is not to keep trying harder, but to keep focused on Christ. When we focus on Jesus, prayer becomes as natural as breathing and Bible study a joy. When we focus on Jesus the false starts don't matter. It is Jesus who will perfect our faith.

Have you had a few false starts in your life lately? Don't focus on the "failures." Focus on Christ, "who for the joy set before Him endured the cross..."

Fantasy Football

My daughter sent us a YouTube video recently, featuring the prowess of a few NFL football players. They were 'strutting their stuff' to prove they were worthy of being picked for the Fantasy Football Team. My husband loved the video and even though I don't follow the sport much, I was impressed. The young athletes were able to do amazing things. One even leaped through two open windows of a car, landing unscathed on the other side, with a football in his hands of course.

As I watched it I thought of the pressure these young men are under to perform. They have already achieved amazing things as athletes. They have trained every day, honed their skills until there is very little left to learn and then been able to put it all on display on a football field in front of thousands of fans. No small accomplishment. Yet they are still trying to prove they can do it. The refrain in the video was, "Look what I can do. Pick me."

It reminded me of times when I have been in a classroom full of fourth graders. They are anxious to prove themselves too, waving their hands energetically at every question. (Even when they don't know the answer!). Often they would come to me with the work they had finished, looking up with hopeful eyes for the teacher's praise. Even those who were able to do excellent work never ceased to try and claim the approval they were never totally confident they would receive.

I have talked to many writers who are a lot like these football players and fourth graders. Even when they have accomplished amazing things – many articles published in magazines, or books circulating all over the country – they still have doubts about their work and feel they have to continue to prove they can do it.

Some time ago I discovered I had fallen into this group. Though I have managed to accomplish what many do not – publication in several areas – I am plagued with self-doubt. I hold my breath with every submission. I also discovered I was using my writing like those football players and fourth graders – as a means to gain approval. I realized I was waving my hand to try and attract God's attention, then holding out my accomplishments and saying, "Look what I can do. Pick me."

Sometimes I forget that God isn't looking at how many by-lines I have in how many magazines. He isn't keeping track of the number of books published and sold. He's not looking at what I've accomplished at all. He's looking at what Jesus did. For some unfathomable reason He showered His grace upon me and opened my eyes to what happened when Jesus died on a cross more than 2,000 years ago. He did pick me. And now the Father sees a heart changed and His Holy Spirit living in me. And now He's smiling.

"For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith – and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God – not by works, so that no one can boast"( Ephesians 2:8 &9).

Finding the Words

Several years ago I heard Eli Wiesel speak at a writers' conference. He told the story about the catalyst that made him write his prize-winning book, Night. After WW2, he had gone to Paris to try and find surviving members of his family. He got a job as a journalist and on one occasion had to interview Francois Mauriac, the famous writer.

Mauriac spoke about Jesus and Wiesel finally could stand it no longer. He exploded and told him to stop "talking about your Jesus." He said that not far from where they were sitting atrocious things had happened to his people. "And we have no words," he said. "We have no words."

Mauriac was deeply moved and responded – "You must find the words. You must write this story." Wiesel began to write and the result is some of the most profound work ever written about the Holocaust. He was fortunate. Some did not find the words and the result was depression, mental illness, even suicide.

My father was one of those who had no words. He talked very little about the war. I learned more about his military service from my mother than from him. But once, late at night when we were having a rare father-daughter talk about faith and religion, he told me how God met him in an old church in Germany.

He spent the first years of the war in Canada, working as a clerk in the RCAF, because he "made the mistake of telling them I could type." We have a picture of him in uniform, brandishing a rifle, smiling proudly, the Halifax harbour behind him. Then he was moved to England where he again worked at a desk. We have another picture of him on a golf course in Ireland. Then the war was over, and somehow – he always thought it was a mistake of paper-work - my father was sent to continental Europe with the occupation forces. He found himself moving with the liberation army through France and Germany. One day he found himself at the gates of Bergen-Belsen. It was at that point, after the allies had won and the Second World War was over, that my father's war began.

He would never say what it was specifically that caused it to happen. Perhaps he looked too long into the face of one man, a man his own age, whose eyes were glazed with hunger and shadowed with pain, a man who looked a hundred years old, 'though he was only twenty. Perhaps my father looked into another face, one without any sign of emotion, of anguish or compassion, a face which, though living, was dead. Perhaps he could not stop staring at the piles of dead bodies, the bones and skulls (Bergen Belsen did not have a crematorium. The prisoners starved to death, their bodies left to rot in the yards). Or perhaps he was required to record the numbers, the unfathomable numbers. Perhaps he could not bear the smiles, the smiles of survivors who welcomed their deliverers in silence. He would never say what it was, but something that day, in that place, made my father's mind stop. It stopped and could not go beyond the horror, the fear, the guilt.

I don't know how long he was in the psychiatric hospital. I know he was afraid to leave it, afraid even to go for a walk beyond the doors of the building. Until one morning when one of his nurses brought him his clothes and told him to get dressed. She walked him down the hallway, outside and to the front gate. She unlocked it, pushed him gently beyond it and closed it behind him.

My father told me he didn't know how long he stood there, afraid to move, afraid that someone would walk by, afraid most of all, that he would hear the German language spoken. Then he said he was filled with a desire to find a church. He started walking and soon stood in the centre of a huge cathedral. He sat in one of the pews and stared at the stained glass windows all around him. Then he fell to his knees and wept. When he looked up the light was streaming through the windows above the altar. He said it was like watching a movie – the life of Christ flowed by in brilliant colour. When it was over, the fear was gone. He never returned to the hospital.

When he returned home he was not the man my mother had known six years earlier. He could not sleep and loud sounds made him shake. He had not conquered his fears but buried them in a shallow grave. Many times they were resurrected and continued to plague him. I know in some ways he remained an unreachable stranger, even to those who had been closest to him. I know my father never found the words.

And I know Francois Mauriac was right. We must find the words to express those things that are ugly and even evil. We must find them and write them down and then allow them to go out into the world. We must find the words, words that help us remember, words that help us to heal. Lest we forget.

Future Tense

2010. It seems like future time. Wasn't it just yesterday that 1984 was so far away we thought we'd never get there? Then came 2000, a new millennium. And on we go. The years race after one another as though they are competing in the Indy 500. And I can't keep up. Maybe I'm feeling my age. The big '60' is looming and I just can't wrap my head around the idea. I'm also conscious of wanting to "do something" with my life, wanting to make my life count with the remaining time I have left. I want to write the best novel I can and see it widely read. I want to speak to as many audiences as I can reach. I want to accomplish what God's will is for me in the coming year. It makes the future seem a little tense.

But then I read a verse like "Whoever believes in the Son has eternal life..." John 3:36, and John 3:16 – "For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life."

And I am encouraged. It's all so simple, really. Just believe. Suddenly the pressure to perform, the pressure to "do something" fades. God has a plan and it's a good one. He knows what books I'll write and what He'll do with them. He knows what audience's I'll speak to and how he'll direct my words to their hearts and minds and accomplish His purposes.

And then he has a greater future planned for me – eternal life.

Eternal life. I can't wrap my mind around that concept, either, but I know it's a promise I can count on, because my God is faithful and merciful beyond knowing.

And I know it's not going to be a boring life. It's going to be so full we'll have to be glorified to contain it. Wow. Now that's a concept! Glorified, as he was - like Jesus Himself. Able to stand before God almighty. Able to talk with angels. Perhaps able to write words that will flow directly from his heart to mine and on to my readers. The mind boggles.

There are a lot of dark clouds looming in the future, according to almost any forward looking "seer" you might choose to listen to. But the concepts mentioned above blow them all out of the water. There is no need to stress over what to do with our lives when we know He is in control. There is no reason to fear a future in which our bodies will be transformed, able to walk on water and slide through solid walls, as Jesus did. There is no need to shudder at a future where God's Spirit, His unconditional love, grace and mercy will be poured out on his people in ways that will astonish even the most skeptical. There is no logic in trembling at a future in which God's own Son will invite us to join him in ruling a new earth and a new heaven.

Sound fantastic? Sound too good to be true? I agree. But I have chosen to listen and believe what God has declared – "For I know the plans I have for you... plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future" (Jeremiah 29:11). 2010. Hallelujah, here we come!

Getting There

"Done! Done, done, done!" My husband smiled as I did an excited dance around the room.

I had just finished the structural edit on my manuscript. It was a long haul and a challenge to my "little grey cells." You see, this book came to me in flashes, in scenes and bits of dialogue. Unfortunately those bits and pieces did not come in any kind of order. In fact, they were a chaotic mess. So it has taken some time to put them into an order that will make sense and create the necessary tension and flow in the story. I think I have finally succeeded in doing that, without leaving any misplaced details or dangling threads.

When I finished I had a great sense of accomplishment, a sense that I am one step closer to being completely finished with this particular piece of creative work. But there is much more to do. There is more setting to be described and more dialogue to be fine tuned. There may be additional scenes to write and details to change. The work of editing, it seems, is never done if I want the work to truly shine. I'm willing to do that work because I've learned from experience that the end product will be much better for it.

As I worked on that manuscript this morning it made me think of the work God does in my life. It's a work that will never be done until I am in His presence and that thought encourages me. He never gives up, never says, "Oh well, this is good enough." He keeps on editing my life – nudging me to do this or that, putting people in my way who will sharpen me, books that will enlighten me and His Word that drops me to my knees. Some of the process isn't easy but I'm willing to receive all of God's editing in my life because I've learned from experience that the end product is much better for it.

A wise writer who had just given me a lengthy critique on a short story told me that "It's impossible for me to edit bad writing. This writing is worth the effort." In the same way it encourages me that God deems me worthy of His refining work. Some day it will be done and on that day I look forward to seeing what the final product will really look like.

"... we will all be changed – in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet." (1 Corinthians 15:51-52).

Giving

I read a blog a while ago that illustrates an old truth extremely well. It's a story about a man who had a story to tell and needed an illustrator. He contacted a well known artist and told him his idea. The man did a few drawings to show what the characters could look like. The writer was astonished and asked how he could be so generous with his time and talent. The man's response was telling. He listed a number of 'giving opportunities' that had come his way – times when he used his talent to help others with no thought of compensation. In each instance it had led to other opportunities that helped grow his career and his life experience. It was obvious in the tone of that response that it was the man himself who had been blessed.

We all have to eat, pay bills, "make a living." But we all have to give to others – give of our time and talents and person. I learned this lesson many years ago but sometimes I forget. Sometimes I grumble when the fee paid for a speaking engagement doesn't even cover the cost of gas or when I wonder if I will ever see a royalty check from my novel. Sometimes I groan when a novel I think is poorly written hits the #1 spot on a "Best Sellers" list.

But then I give something away – some time, some money, some writing – and it does something to me - I feel a little lighter. That book on the best sellers' list doesn't bother me so much. I smile more. There's something about giving that strengthens us, gives us that extra measure of grace we might need in a tense moment, provides the compassion needed to show someone that there is love in the world. It's in giving that we are tied to one another. It's in giving that we learn what being human really means. And it is often in giving that we learn the value of the gifts we have been given.

There's a popular commercial on TV these days that shows various circumstances and then quotes the cost. Cost of taxi to the airport, $50.00; cost of flight to Italy, $1500.00 ; cost of camera to record the event, $450.00; cost of the look on your best friend's face when you are arrive, priceless. That's a wise commercial. It plays on the idea that we all know the best things in life, the most important things, cannot be measured by money. They're measured by what we give without reservation, just to benefit someone else.

Jesus knew this better than anyone. He spoke of it to tax collectors and thieves, men who were motivated by greed. He explained it to men more concerned about 'making it' on earth than expanding God's kingdom. He changed their hearts and when they obeyed, they reaped the blessings. Look at Peter, for instance. His main concern was fishing, making enough to live. Until Jesus said, "follow me." Then he became a man who healed a lame man with the words, "Silver or gold I do not have, but what I have I give you" (Acts 3:6).

What I have I give you. All of us have time, talents, gifts that we can share with the world. May we all remember the Lord's words – "It is more blessed to give than to receive" (Acts 20:35b).

Hibernation isn't an Option

The process of writing a novel is exciting but labor-intensive. When I finished the first draft of my novel, I was elated – for about five seconds. Then it dawned on me how much work was still ahead. The task of editing and revising lay before me like a long uphill climb. I knew I'd need help, so I joined a critique group.

Having my work dissected and evaluated by strangers was daunting, but it proved to be invaluable. Others saw things I missed, pointing out the errors as well as inconsistencies in the story. In the end, the work was much improved.

There are times when I think about trying to live my life like a true Christian and it too looks like a long uphill road. I know my weaknesses are many and my stubbornness rooted deep. I know I need help, from friends who understand and most of all from God himself. It can be daunting to ask for the kind of help I need from time to time. My pride gets in the way and I hesitate. But in the end I know it will be worth the effort.

I don't know where I would be today if it weren't for the help of other believers, mentors and friends who were able to say and do the right things to put me back on track or encourage me to keep going when things got a little tough.

I'm reminded of something a friend said to me once. He was a trapper and fisherman, living alone in the Yukon wilderness until he gave his life to Christ. Then he moved to town and committed his life to serving this God he was getting to know. When I asked him if it was hard to give up his old life, he said, "The bush would have been the death of me. I can't follow Christ in a spiritual vacuum."

Living with people can sometimes be hard. There have been times when I've wanted to walk away from the church and other believers, times when I've wanted to curl up and hibernate. But that, as my friend said, would lead to death – the death of social skills, the death of a vital connection to one another and to God. He designed us to live in communion with Him and His people. When we do, in the end, the work of our lives is much improved.

So I take to heart the scripture that says, "let us not give up meeting together... but let us encourage one another..." (Hebrews 10:25).

Let's also celebrate the families He has given us – the gatherings of believers – whether they be critique groups or church groups, they are families all, given to us that we might grow and accomplish God's purposes on this earth, "and all the more, as you see the Day approaching" (Hebrews 10:25b).

I Saw The Angel

"I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free." (Michelangelo)

"Don't you dare bring that thing into the house!"

I can hear my mother's voice as this memory races through my mind. I was a scavenger as a child. I'd collect bits of crayfish –"but look how orange its belly is, Mom!" – pieces of driftwood – "can't you see? It's a bird!" and even colourful stones – "I wonder how it got to be so blue?" I dragged a lot of things into our house.

But my brother was the worst. He collected wood of all shapes and sizes. When he couldn't sneak them into the house, he'd stack them under the porch. Sometimes he'd point out what he was seeing in them, to my parents or to me.

It was when he was given a carving knife one day that we began to understand. With a skill that amazed us, Terry fashioned animals, birds, and people out of those bits of wood. He wasn't Michelangelo, but he made beautiful things out of what had been discarded. Even my mother started collecting driftwood.

We in a sense are to do the same with words. They are the knives that can cut away at ordinary, mundane things and make them into works of beauty and significance. All the great writers have done it – it's the words of Les Miserables that carve out the story of forgiveness and redemption from a common tale of theft, the words of the Lord of the Rings that carve out the meaning of friendship and faith from a flight of fantasy. It's the words in T.S. Eliot's poetry that carve out images of truth and grace from the analogs of human existence. These and many more have seen the angel in the stone and worked until it was released.

What angels have you seen lately?

"May the favor of the Lord our God rest upon us; establish the work of our hands for us – yes, establish the work of our hands." Psalm 90:17

In The Midst of Darkness

I was reading the account of the burial and resurrection of Jesus in the Gospel of John this morning. I've been blessed with the opportunity to go to Israel so as I read I pictured the garden tomb. The day I went there was grey with a fine drizzle of rain that made me shiver. There weren't many people about, so the garden had a lovely stillness about it, a somber atmosphere that kept me from speaking. Even our tour guide seemed to feel it, as she spoke in almost a hushed tone. A young man sat alone amongst rows of benches. He was hunched over, praying.

As we stepped down toward the tomb our feet made soft scraping sounds on the limestone. I glanced back toward the spot where some believe Jesus was crucified, then stepped through the opening in the rock. It was much smaller than I had envisioned it, the low ledge where his body would have laid, a narrow gouge in the rough-hewn stone. I shuffled forward with the others, then moved slowly back toward the opening. I touched the edge of the rock as I stepped over the lip of the entrance and heard a soft voice behind me say, "It's empty." As I stepped outside, beams of sunlight were streaming through the trees. The rain had passed.

I remembered those images as a small phrase in the first verse of John 20 struck me. It's a phrase I hadn't noticed before, a simple description of the time of day. But the image of that garden, of the greyness of the day and that beam of light made it suddenly have meaning. The phrase – "while it was still dark."

The unfathomable mercy of Christ suddenly overwhelmed me. For it was into the darkness of this world that God sent His Son, it was in the midst of the ugliness and cruelty that he lived, it was while surrounded by His enemies and those who had betrayed Him that He died.

While it was still dark. "While we were still sinners..." (Rom. 5:8) He loved us enough to endure the torture and humiliation of the cross. "for the joy set before Him..." (Heb.12:2). He knew the darkness would not last. Light would stream through that garden and He would be its source.

While it was still dark, Jesus rose.

And now, in the midst of the darkness of our world, we are able to shout Hallelujah!

In The Practice of Our Trade

The Jewish Talmud says, of craftsmen: "Their prayer is in the practice of their trade." Each time we take up the tools of our trade, we are in prayer. Each time we write, therefore, we would be wise to be listening. For it is as we write, as we work at our craft, that we learn about God.

You have heard it said that all art is autobiography. From the Greek – autos – meaning self, + bios – meaning life + graphein – meaning to write. I believe all art is also deo-biography. The art, the words that are in us, come not only from our experience of life, but from that inner core, from our spirit. When Christ is resident there, and when we write from the depth of that place, we are writing the life of Christ. What an awe – inspiring challenge! What a privilege! What a gift!

Maurice Blanchot has said - "To write is to make oneself the echo of what cannot cease speaking." I believe it is not a what, but a Who. I believe that because of the depth of His love for us, God cannot, will not, cease speaking to us. As we become echoes of Him, we will know He has given us our writing not only as a means to speak, but as a means to hear and understand.

I have three daughters who have taught and continue to teach me much. My eldest, Kate, is now 25. She's a wonderful young woman, whose path through adolescence had, as many do, a few rough spots. She was going through one of those times when she was asked to sing at our church. She knew it was scheduled, she knew it was up to her to make all the arrangements. When the Sunday morning came this is what happened –

I titled it Singer.

On our way to church, my daughter and I:

"Did you arrange for a pianist?"

"No."

"You're doing this a capella?"

"Yes."

"What song..."

"I don't know yet."

My voice, rising a decibel or two. Or maybe three:
"Then maybe you'd better postpone..."

"No. I want to sing."

"But you should have arranged..."

"I know, Mother. But it will be fine. I just want to sing."

I sighed. Oh, my daughter.

Between Sunday School and the main service:

I found her in an empty classroom, her finger in a hymnal, her face turned toward the light of a far window. I opened my mouth, closed it again. Her eyes were open, but it felt like the room was full of prayer.

Later, in the sanctuary:

I watched her, sitting at the end of the pew, one long leg thrown over the other, the hymnal in her hand, finger still in it. She took a bulletin, scanned it, opened the hymnal, moved her finger to a different spot. I sighed, again.

They called on her, just before the sermon.

On the podium:

She took the hymnal with her, left it closed, and sang: Joy of Man's Desiring. And the room filled with it, her voice, her face, her body yearning for it, drawing us up with her, up into the presence of our God. I held my breath.

Oh, my daughter.

And in the end:

I prayed forgiveness on myself, my need to work all things into my plan. I prayed release for all of us, to His will, His Spirit. I wept. And then I smiled.

Oh, my daughter.

When that incident happened, I did not understand it. I did not know what it was I had learned. I only knew I had been deeply moved. Something in my spirit had responded to something in that song, and more, to the attitude in which it had been sung. Because I had been moved, I needed to express it, I needed to write it. As I began to write, I began to understand what it was God wanted to teach me.

When we are moved deeply, when we then attempt to express that moment, that experience, we move toward wholeness, the wholeness that is in us because Christ is in us. And we learn more about Him. Prayer, in the practice of our trade.

Incongruent Things

Some time ago I was struck by an image on our church's Sunday bulletin. It was a picture of a clay pot, with a scripture verse below it. I think I liked it and was moved by it because I love incongruent things - things that somehow just don't fit.

You see the pot in the picture is quite ugly - it's wrapped in burlap and has a twist of jute around its neck. It has no handles, and the neck looks a little too tall for the rounded base. But these are the words that go with it - "He shall be a vessel unto honor, sanctified and meet for the Master's use, and prepared unto every good work" (2Timothy 2:21). The context of the scripture is well known. The Apostle Paul is warning his apprentice, Timothy, not to associate with "ignoble things." He is telling him to avoid "godless chatter." He goes on to exhort him to "preach the word." All good advice for us to follow.

But that's not what struck me when I saw that picture and read that scripture. (Which I suppose goes to show that we must be careful how we handle the Word). What struck me was another truth that I believe all of us can testify to. We've all heard the expression, God uses cracked pots. The pot in that picture does not look like a "vessel unto honor" or an "instrument for noble purposes," as the NIV reads. The pot looks very common, very un-noble. It also looks well used.

Many of us tend to think that God will only use the 'giants' of Christendom to accomplish His purposes - those who are especially gifted - those who can speak well, write well and present themselves well. But God is not limited by our perspectives. He sees the heart, and looks for one that is humble before Him. That is all He needs to work mighty things.

We see this principle over and over again in the Bible. David was the youngest in his family, a mere shepherd boy when God chose him to be king of Israel. The woman at the well was an outcast in her town when God chose her to lead many to Jesus. The apostles were ordinary fishermen when He called them to be the leaders of His church.

Though we do not always look nor act 'noble,' God can and will use us to accomplish His purposes. Though we often fail and have motives that are less than pure, God can and will continue to teach us and lead us into places of amazing discovery and profound service. As a writer that fact gives me great hope. It also makes me want to bend my knee before a Savior who extends such amazing love and grace to us all.

He is, indeed a God who loves the incongruent things in life. In fact, He created them - things like you and me.

Is Your Life a Joke?

"Your life is a joke." Heads jerked up when Alton Gansky, the speaker at our Spring WorDshop said those words. He smiled and went on to suggest that our writing careers were a joke too. Then he defined the word: a story that has an unexpected twist. He went on to talk about his own life and career and the many twists and turns both have had. It made me take a walk down my own memory lane.

I thought of all the "what if's." What if I'd gotten that job as a radio host (the manager wouldn't hire me because he didn't feel the audience was "ready for a female voice"). What if I'd enrolled in the creative writing program at that university when the door opened for me, instead of staying in the Yukon? What if I hadn't attended that seminar many years later, that lit a fire inside me to write for the Lord?

So many choices, so many roads not travelled.

I was reminded of the time my middle daughter, Laura, called to ask my advice. She was at an "in- between" place, working in the city while waiting to leave on a mission trip for a year. Hence, her quandary. Should she stay in the city where rents were high, or come home for the next few months so she could save some money as the process unfolded? The mission had given her a choice - should she choose Kenya or Bangladesh?

As a mom I wanted to jump right in and tell her to come home. But I restrained myself. I advised her to keep praying and wait for God to give her peace about the decisions. The next morning I read Psalm 84. I e-mailed Laura and typed out verses 3 and 4 because they had struck a cord.

"Even the sparrow has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may have her young – a place near your altar, O Lord Almighty, my King and my God. Blessed are those who dwell in your house; they are ever praising you."

As I read the words I pictured those tiny birds flying high over the temple in Jerusalem. I thought about all they would have seen and heard – the priests and believers coming and going to offer sacrifices, the songs sung in praise and worship, and above all, the presence of God in that place. I thought how true it is, even today, that we must nest close to the Lord and his people.

So many times God has told us this – stay close, let me gather you under my wing, hide yourself in me, abide in me. I think he said it so often because He knows how prone we are to not do it. We pull away so quickly; we find reasons to stay away. We make choices that prove to be to our detriment.

It's interesting that the very next verse talks not about resting in one place, but about those "who have set their hearts on pilgrimage." The principle is clear: You don't have to stay in one place to stay close to the Lord. Whether my daughter stayed in the city or came home, whether she went to Africa or Asia, as long as she stayed close to the Lord, depending on Him for strength and guidance, praising and thanking Him, she would be in the right place.

Our careers and lives are a joke – they will take many unexpected twists and turns. We will make many choices, some bad, some good. But as long as we stay close to the Lord, it's all okay.

"O Lord Almighty, blessed is the man who trusts in you" (Psalm 84:12).

Just the Right Word

I'm one of those people who love words. Sometimes I'll say a word in my mind over and over just because I love the sound of it. So I always open my e-mail with anticipation because I receive a new word from dictionary dot com each day. The other day it was actually an expression rather than one word, and it was French - our second language here in Canada. It's an intriguing phrase that relates directly to writers – "mot juste" – literally, word just or just word. The meaning given was "a word or phrase that exactly fits the case, as in - The poet's concern for the mot juste nearly always makes his prose a thing of interest and beauty."

Mot juste. I began to wonder, if I had to find a mot juste for God, what would it be? I quickly realized it would be a difficult task, perhaps an unending task. He has, of course, described Himself and perhaps that is where we should start. He gave himself many names – to Abraham he was El Shaddai, God Almighty, and El Olam, the God who has no beginning and no end. To Moses he was Yahweh, The LORD, "the God of your fathers." (Exodus 3:14). David called him Yahweh Tsebaoth, the Lord of Hosts when he faced Goliath. When he built the temple, Solomon called him "Hashem," The Name, and rejoiced that God had promised His Name would reside there and receive the prayers of the people. To Jeremiah He was Miqueh Yisrael, the Hope of Israel. In the New Testament Jesus offended the religious rulers by telling them to call God by the familiar, Abba, Father or Daddy.

Finding just one word for God is, I think, an impossible task. His character is so vast, His essence so rich and deep that there could not be one word that would describe all of Him. But as He Himself has shown us, in all circumstances there is a mot juste for God and that word will always make Him a God of interest and beauty. His character is multifaceted and His ways infinitely complex yet He constantly reveals Himself to us through His creation, His people and His word, in just the right context and time.

Perhaps His most dear name, to those of us this side of the cross, is simply Jesus, the One who saves. That is a mot juste that we can use and rely on and praise.

"Those who know your name will trust in you, for you, Lord have never forsaken those who seek you." (Psalm 9:10).

Lesson in a Drive-Thru

I was inching forward in the drive-thru at Tim Horton's coffee shop the other day, and feeling a little sorry for myself. Well, okay, maybe a little more than a little. I'd had an email from my publisher telling me a statement of the sales for my novel, One Smooth Stone, was on its way. He also said the sales "weren't what we were hoping for." As I pondered what that meant I sighed, noting he had not mentioned a royalty cheque.

Good thing I had just signed on to begin a new job, stocking book racks for a small distribution company. The books are all Christian and the money is surprisingly good, but in my pity-party mood I grumbled about helping to sell other people's books instead of my own. I wondered if God was trying to humble me.

Just as that thought came into my head I pulled alongside a large garbage bin. A woman dressed in the Tim's uniform approached it at the same time. She was attractive, even in the uniform, and looked just a bit younger than me. She tugged the large bag out of the receptacle and went about replacing it with a new one.

Well, at least I'm not doing that, I thought. Then she looked up and gave me the most amazing beaming smile. I recovered from my shock just in time to smile back.

As I drove away sipping my coffee I pondered what had just happened. That woman's beaming smile told me that she did not consider it demeaning in any way to be changing that garbage bag. I don't know if she is a believer in Christ, but she certainly seemed to have His attitude about service.

And I was humbled. I realized God was trying to wake me up to the fact that being content and even happy doesn't depend on what my work is or on how many books I sell, it depends on what I believe about myself and about Him. I began to examine those two things in relation to one another. Who am I? A child of Christ, loved beyond measure and blessed to an abundance that is staggering. What do I believe about God? That He wants only my good and will move heaven and earth to bring me to an awareness of his goodness and glory.

Funny thing. I glanced in the mirror and noticed I had the most amazing beaming smile.

Good Words and a Truckled Soul

I'm sure all of us were stunned to silence at the devastation and fear that overwhelmed Japan on March 11, 2011. As my husband and I watched some of the news footage we couldn't help but use the word "apocalyptic." It is at times like these that I feel a deep urgency to break the silence that lies heavily upon me. It is at times like these that the world needs words of hope and healing. Words like "even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me." (Psalm 23:4), and these – "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you." (Isaiah 43:2). The people of the world need to know that God says - "I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and future." (Jeremiah 29:11).

Words like those can be a life-line to those in dire situations. We should never underestimate the power of God's word nor doubt that He is in control. Neither should we underestimate what He might do with our words, our skills. He has given them to us for a purpose and for a particular time. Sometimes we may doubt them, doubt our own abilities, but there is nothing God cannot do with a truckled soul. Perhaps that's a new word to you – truckled. It's an old English word that comes from the practice of an apprentice pushing a small pallet, usually on wheels, under the bed of his master. It means humbled, subservient, willing to bow to the will of a master.

As I watched The King's Speech recently that truth hit home again. It was no accident that the King's wife found just the right man to help her husband; no accident that his brother abdicated, putting him on the throne just as Hitler began his march across Europe; no accident that another man, Winston Churchill, also deemed to be "less than" by many, became Prime Minister of England at that same time. My husband commented how Hitler and Satan must have been rubbing their hands in glee as they watched what was happening in England. They must have thought victory was 'in the bag.' Yet Satan's plans were being foiled by God's at every turn and, as usual, he used the most unlikely of heroes.

There is one scene in The King's Speech that exemplified this fact. The King and his family have gathered to watch the newsreel of his coronation. As they are about to finish, the newsreel continues and shows Adolph Hitler giving a speech. One of the King's daughters asks what Hitler is saying. The King replies, "I don't know, but he is saying it very well."

Bertie's self doubt plagued him, yet he moved forward, accepted the role God had placed on his life and struggled to do it well. He was God's man, God's choice, with all his flaws and failings and it was God who accomplished his plans through him. As a follower of Christ, with many flaws and failings, I take great courage in that. As a writer who is Christian I rejoice in it.

Ps 121:5-8 5 - The LORD is your keeper; the LORD is your shade at your right hand. The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night. The LORD shall preserve you from all evil; he shall preserve your soul. The LORD shall preserve your going out and your coming in from this time forth, and even forevermore. (NKJ)

Line Drawing

Our art instructor pushed a desk to the middle of the room and sat on it. "I'm your model today," he said, and explained a technique called line drawing. The idea was to look only at the figure being drawn, never at the paper. Without lifting the pencil, we were to draw the subject with a single continuous line. My first attempt was pitiful, but the instructor encouraged us to keep trying. Sheets of paper fell to the floor all over the studio as the students attempted to copy what was before them.

As I worked, I began to realize how staring at an object for that long, with that much concentration, helps you see things you would not have otherwise noticed. Trying to make that continuous line look like the man on the desk was a challenge, but the more I tried, the more I realized it wasn't impossible.

Later that evening, while watching T.V. with my father, he fell asleep in his chair. I quietly pulled out paper and pencil and did a line drawing of him. It was, in a way, a moment of enlightenment. The more I tried to copy him, the more I saw things I had never noticed before – how long his fingers were, how crooked the leg broken when he was a teenager. As I concentrated on him, I began to see the real man, not just a superficial impression of him. I began to realize too, the benefit of not looking at what my hand was drawing. The point was not to achieve perfection, but to capture the essence of the subject.

Concentrating on Jesus will have the same result. When we focus entirely on Him, as He really is, rather than on what we are doing, we will find the real Christ, the very essence of God. In 2 Corinthians 4:6, the apostle Paul says – "For God ... made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ." As we study him, and copy him, we will discover more and more of Him. Like the first efforts of my fellow art students, our attempts will be flawed, but if we keep at it we will reach that point of enlightenment. We will begin to see what had remained veiled, to understand what had been hidden. And we will become that copy, flawed, yet somehow revealing the essence of the One who created us.

God does not expect perfection. He knows we cannot achieve it on our own. But He has given us a way to copy Him that will give us what we need, day by day, moment by moment. Pick up a Bible and open it to any page. His image is there, waiting to be studied, waiting to be understood. Don't concentrate on what you can or can't do. Just focus on Jesus.

Little Songs

A friend e-mailed the other day and sent this -"Walking with care, snow barely covering the patches of ice, I begin to recall a canticle or a psalm -- I can't remember which -- and my body keeps time: Cold and chill, bless the Lord; Frost and chill, bless the Lord; Ice and snow, bless the Lord." (from Dakota, A Spiritual Geography by Kathleen Norris).

In response, because of some things happening in our world lately, I sent this: "Weak and strong, bless the Lord." Then my friend challenged others on the list to send a canticle and they joined in:

"As my husband cuts a hole in our ceiling to find the origin of a leak, while I sit staring at the computer screen trying to find the beginning words ... Those who tear down, and those who build up, bless the Lord."

"As my husband looks for work and I clean uncharted corners of the house...Those who seek, and those who find, bless the Lord."

Then someone sent the definition of the word canticle. It comes from the Latin canticulum, little song (cantus, song + -iculum, a diminutive suffix). A little song of praise. I began thinking how it would affect the perspective of my day, if it began with a canticle and even continued with canticles all day long. Imagine what the day would be like if we were deliberately looking for reasons to bless God. It is a state that can bring us out of the deepest depression and give us joy. It is a state that lifts us from drudgery into satisfying contentment, from malaise into excitement. In short, these little songs of praise can make us come alive.

This can be applied to any aspect of daily life. Is your work situation stressful? Those who lead and those who follow, bless the Lord. Are your toddlers driving you crazy? Children and infants, bless the Lord. Are your chores on the farm feeling like drudgery? Animals and their care-givers bless the Lord. Are you suffering from writers' block? All storytellers and scribes bless the Lord.

In Romans 8:22 & 23, the apostle Paul wrote: "We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies."

We are still waiting for the completion of that process but, because of what Jesus did on the cross, we have been adopted, we are children of God. Our bodies will be redeemed, made like Jesus himself. All our days should sing with praise. All men and women, bless the Lord! Try it. Sing a little song to God today. You might find it makes navigating life a whole lot easier.

Magnetic Mercy

My thoughts flew in a thousand directions. I couldn't sleep. I tried to write, but the words wouldn't come. I tried to pray, but my prayers lacked focus and depth. Until I appealed to that "magnetic mercy," as C.S. Lewis called it -

And all men in their praying, self-deceived, address The coinage of their own unquiet thoughts, unless Thou in magnetic mercy to thyself divert Our arrows, aimed unskillfully, beyond desert:

Take not, oh Lord, our literal sense. Lord, in thy great, Unbroken speech our limping metaphor translate.

It's easy to get lost in the "coinage of our own unquiet thoughts." Trying to settle them, or even direct them along constructive paths, can be an exercise in frustration. This often happens in times of stress. It happens especially in times of grief. I believe it happened to Jesus, in that moment of grief so intense He wept blood. In the garden of Gethsemane, Jesus did what we are called to do. In those last hours before His arrest, He acknowledged His weakness and relied on His Father to do what He himself could not.

As we acknowledge our weakness, we are drawn to His mercy and the One who is eternally strong gives what is needed. In the case of Jesus, it was the strength to go to the cross. In my case, it was the words I needed and the confidence to write them.

How utterly astounding that mercy is, that the God of the universe should be as active in the lives of we who are so insignificant, as He was in the life of His Son, the Messiah. He does translate our "limping metaphor." Romans 8:26 says – "In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness."

May we all allow ourselves to be drawn to that "magnetic mercy." May we allow the Spirit to translate our limping metaphors and direct our poorly aimed arrows of prayer. We can be assured, He will answer.

Never say Never

The little girl stood rigidly on the stage, her eyes round and frightened as she waited for the signal to begin. When it came she took a deep breath and sang. Her voice was quite soft, she swayed a little and wrung her hands, but she got through it, then waited again as she'd been instructed, while the adjudicator finished making notes. She remained motionless as the judge told her what she thought. The comments were kind and I breathed a sigh of relief. When my ten-year-old came back to her seat I put my arm around her. "Good job, Laura," I said.

She shrugged my hand away, put both of her hands under her legs and shook her head. "I'm never ever, ever, ever doing that again!" Then she burst into tears.

About eight years later I watched with pride and not a little amazement as Laura sang the lead role in her high school musical. She had come a long way since that day when she performed her first solo in front of an audience, before an adjudicator at a music festival. In the years since she has sung countless times on a stage, and is now in a worship band in her church. The journey wasn't easy for her. She had to learn how to get over being so terribly nervous, how to stand still, how to breath and project her voice. But she had good teachers and many who encouraged her along the way. We've laughed more than once about that day when she said, "never again."

I've known writers who have, with fear and trepidation, sent their work out to a publisher only to get a scathing critique back, tucked their manuscript away and said, "never ever, ever, again." Some never ever did, but most of those writers conquered their disappointment and fear and did do it again, and again, and again. Perseverance is key in writing, in life and in spiritual development. As someone once said, the only failure is the one who quits.

We can take cues on this from many characters in the Bible, characters who failed badly but did not let those failures keep them from moving forward into the plans and purposes God had for their lives. Characters like Moses, Abraham, David, Peter and Paul. They were destined to do great things for God, in spite of their weaknesses and failures. No doubt they all wanted to say, "never again" at some point, but they all knew there was One they could turn to – One who would forgive and empower and strengthen. They admitted their weaknesses, took counsel from those who guided them back to God, and then they kept going

Though he was facing death, the apostle Paul said - "I consider my life worth nothing to me, if only I may finish the race and complete the task the Lord Jesus has given me – the task of testifying to the gospel of God's grace." (Acts 20:24).

As writers who are Christian, we too have been given that task of testimony, whether we do it through articles in magazines, poems posted on blogs, or novels sent out to publishers. We too are to testify to the grace and mercy and glory of God. Until He comes again or transports us to stand before Him.

No Answers – Thoughts on Haiti

I've just finished reading a letter from a woman who was in Haiti when the earthquake hit and like many of the stories and images coming out of that country, it has left me stunned, weeping and asking questions.

Paramount among those crowding my mind is one thought – Why does God spare some and not others? Why did one man suddenly decided to leave his hotel for a "breath of fresh air" and stand on the other side of the street as the building collapsed, killing almost everyone inside? Why was that bus load of Canadians held back in the airport, keeping them away from the Hotel Montana when the earthquake hit?

Why was an eighteen year old girl and another man killed on a busy Canadian highway when her car suddenly flew across a median and hit another head-on, five minutes after my husband had been at that very spot?

There are no answers to those questions, nor are there answers to the many others that plague us when disasters hit, when some are slain and others saved. The lack of answers might lead some to say, "There is no God," or "God has abandoned us all."

But there are other voices to be heard and heeded - like the voice of the woman who was dragged from the rubble of a building singing. Singing! And telling her rescuers there is no need to fear death because God is there. God is there. And then there are the voices of the people who gathered outside the crushed ruins of their church and prayed and sang and praised. The power of such faith is mesmerizing and awe-inspiring. They silence the voices of doubt and despair. They make all the unanswerable questions moot. God is there. Faith sustains. Yet we, as communicators of the Gospel, need to puzzle over all the unanswerable questions; we need to wrestle with them, not so that we may arrive at any wisdom from within us, but so that our wrestling might bring us to moments of faith that echo and resonate with those we are seeing on our television screens.

Tragedies like the earthquake in Haiti open doors of opportunity for those of us who have been gifted with words or music or art, because it is at these times that people look for meaning, for purpose and for beauty in the midst of the chaos. They look to us and, as the scripture says, we must be "prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have" (I Peter 3:15). We must be able to point them to Jesus, in spite of the pain.

So as we weep, as we mourn and struggle and wrestle with God, let us dig deep into the foundations of our faith and cry out, through our art, "Blessed be the name of the Lord."

Nothing Wasted

1 Sam 3:19 – "So Samuel grew, and the LORD was with him and let none of his words fall to the ground." (NKJ)

I took great encouragement from this verse when it arrived in my inbox one day. The calling of Samuel has always held a fascination for me. There are many things to be gleaned from that passage of scripture, many that pertain to being a writer.

Samuel responded to the call even though he was not sure what it was, where it was coming from or where it would lead. Sometimes the nudges we get from the Lord are like that. We're not sure about them, but we move forward. Sometimes we feel God is telling us to write a certain article or poem or book. We have no way of knowing what God intends for that piece of writing but we move forward, show it to friends, have it critiqued, finally submit it and perhaps see it published. Then we stand back in awe at the amazing things God does with it.

Samuel sought out the wisdom of his mentor and it was Eli who directed him to turn to the Lord and to respond. Our mentors, our encouragers, our critique partners are all vital in our growth as writers. They have been put in our lives for good reason. We would be wise to seek their counsel and help often. We would be wise to listen to the critiques of our work, recognize others see weaknesses that we are blind to and be willing to make the changes necessary.

Samuel stayed close to the Lord throughout his life and became one of the great prophets of Israel. He learned obedience at Eli's knee and never forgot it. Note the last phrase in the scripture above – "the LORD was with him and let none of his words fall to the ground." All of what Samuel spoke to the people of Israel bore fruit for God. Nothing was wasted.

It is the Lord who directs and guards our words. It is the Lord who will take them to the right people at the right time and use them to His purposes. Note the word, "none." I take great encouragement from that word alone. Nothing God pours through us is wasted. Each article, each poem, each novel, each devotional, each book will bear the fruit He has in mind. Even those things we write that may never appear in print are important as part of the process. They are doing things in us and the results will show in our work. We may not always see the results God has intended, but we can be assured that they will be accomplished.

In God's economy, nothing is wasted. Not even one word.

Once Again

There's a song by Matt Redman that says -

"Once again I look upon the cross where You died.

I'm humbled by Your mercy and I'm broken inside.

Once again I thank You, once again I pour out my life."

While in Israel we visited a heritage village. It was much like the heritage villages here in North America that portray past history in tableau, with real actors and working artifacts. This village was in Nazareth and was laid out to represent the town as it would have been in the time of Jesus.

The day we visited, it was raining - pouring rain, in fact. Most of the actors kept inside the small shelters, which didn't really keep them dry because the roofs were made of thatch and far from water-proof.

We moved from one scene to the next - the potter's, the weaver's, the wine press, and finally the carpenter's shop. It was here the fact that this was a representation of Jesus' home hit me. I looked at the tools, the kind of rough wood he would have worked with, and Jesus became more real to me.

Perhaps that's why the tableau we saw next had such an impact. The figure at the centre was made of rough wood too, and was draped with a simple cloth. The lighting was subdued, flickering with small oil lamps, their tiny flames leaning toward the focal point of the display. The cross. The cross of Christ.

As the song says, once again I was struck by what Jesus suffered, what he endured for me. I was struck not just by the physical pain he was subjected to, but by the torture of having the sin of the world put upon His shoulders, the agony of knowing His Father was turning His face away.

And once again I became aware that there is nothing I can do to make it up to Him. No remorse, no penance, no acts of kindness, no great work of fiction or text of apologetics. Nothing I do can repay that debt. And once again that act of pure mercy stuns me.

The unconditional gift of love and forgiveness causes my heart to break. And that, I realize once again, is the only thing Jesus wants of me.

A heart broken wide enough for Him to enter in.

Out of Love

Staring at a blank page, knowing you have to fill it with something by a specific time is a little daunting. Knowing there are a lot of rules that have to be followed, that the words have to be just right, the content intelligent yet interesting enough to keep a reader's attention, is a little nerve wracking. Realizing that the end result could be summarily dismissed with "does not meet our needs at this time," is more than a little frustrating. Yet, as a writer I do it, day after day, week after week. Some might wonder why.

The answer is quite simple – I love the process, the challenge, and yes even the struggles and frustrations of writing. I do it because I believe in some small way, what I write can make a difference. It can change things. It is what I was created to do.

We all have these same fears, struggles and frustrations in our lives. We all do things that others shake their heads at and wonder why. We do them out of love. An interesting phrase, that. Out of love. Because of love. On account of love. It has been said there is no more powerful a force on the face of the earth.

There is One whose demonstration of that force must have been confusing to those who watched. He left a home and position that was beyond anything we can imagine. He allowed himself to be born into a poor family and a race that was one step above slavery. In accordance with His father's plan, he kept himself hidden for the first thirty years of his life and when he did finally reveal himself, even his own family did not believe who he really was. He did miracles of healing and grace but people spat on him. He taught everyone who would listen how to find true peace but no-one understood, not even his closest friends. Then He offered eternal life to the world by offering himself in atonement for all their sin, and still, some refuse to acknowledge him.

Why did he do it? Out of love. Because of love. On account of love. And you can add grace and mercy to that. The gospel of John, chapter 13 describes it – "It was just before the Passover Feast. Jesus knew that the time had come for him to leave this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he now showed them the full extent of his love." Then John describes the moving scene when Jesus washed his disciples' feet. An act of servitude, an act of profound love and grace that changed those whom he served. But then he topped it. He went on to suffer the humiliation and torture of the cross. That was an act of love that changed the world. That was why Jesus was born.

As Christians we strive to imitate Christ. As writers we must do the same. Do it all out of love. Because of love. On account of love. Not just of the process, the challenge and the end results, but of Him and those whom we serve.

Pepper Flecks

"In holes and lostness I can pick up the light of small ordinary progress, newly made moments flecked like pepper into the slog and the disruptions." Anne Lamott

I watched the film The Soloist the other night and it made me think of the quote above from Anne Lamott. It made me think about all the brokenness in the world and how easy it is to be overwhelmed by it. Some of the images in the film brought tears to my eyes and made my spirit cry out, "O Lord, how long will you linger?"

Yet, as Lamott says, there are those flecks of pepper, those "newly made moments" when the light of Christ breaks through, when men and women succeed in overcoming the selfishness in their nature enough to reach out and be part of the "small ordinary progress." Perhaps that's why He lingers – to give us the opportunity to receive the blessings of such moments and such service.

Writing is vital in that process. Words created in obedience and submission to Christ can help to stimulate and even create those newly made moments in someone's life. Like the young girl who was raped as a teenager who read my novel and said, "I think I finally believe that God really does love me, in spite of everything." Small, ordinary progress, a step toward the love and light of Christ, a step toward truth.

That is why we, as believers in Christ, must keep writing, keep broadcasting the flecks of pepper God gives us. We may get discouraged by low sales, by all the changes happening in the industry. We may even be bitter because we don't have the support we feel we should have from friends, family and even our churches. But we must fight against these barriers. We cannot quit, because it is the pepper flecks that count - the tiny specks of hope we throw out every time we write in Christ's name. Until His return.

"And now, dear children, continue in Him, so that when he appears we may be confident and unashamed before him at this coming" (1John 2:28).

Pidgin

In Papua New Guinea most of the people speak a trade language, called Tok Pisin. When my family and I moved there we spent the first while learning how to speak it. I loved that time because of the many phrases and words that made me smile. For instance, when someone invites you to visit he will say, "You must come and story with me." Because the written word is a relatively new thing there, verbal communication is vital. Telling stories is their way of understanding the world around them, their way of relating what is in the depths of their hearts.

A man who had lived in that country a long time said, "you don't just blurt information here, you must build on it, make it into a drama, give it life."

I once watched a Papuan friend tell a story. We were sitting in a half-circle, the story-teller squatting in the middle. His head swiveled as he made eye contact, often repeating parts and using his hands with emphasis to make sure we were getting it all. We leaned forward, intent on his words, even though it was a story most of the audience knew well, an old folk tale that had been told and re-told for many generations.

I have heard it said that there are less than thirty unique plot-lines from which to choose when writing fiction. With such limited material, I once despaired of ever doing anything unique. But, like that day my Papuan friend kept us spellbound, I have discovered that it isn't so much the story itself that captures people, but the way in which it's told and the unique perspective of the teller.

Jesus knew this when he told stories to those he sat with in the markets and houses of Palestine. The stories he told weren't anything new. They were simple stories about fishermen and farmers, about the birds of the air and the flowers of the field. But as He told them He allowed them to see with His eyes, giving them a perspective that took them to depths they had never gone before. In a sense, He told them what they already knew, but in such a way that they drew in their breath with fresh understanding. He allowed them to see with His Father's eyes and the view was astonishing.

We too can open the eyes of our readers to the wonder of our world and our God. The Apostle Peter, as he was preaching, said "We did not follow cleverly invented stories when we told you about the power and coming of our Lord Jesus Christ, but we were eyewitnesses of his majesty" (2Peter 1:16).

We have not seen Jesus face to face on this earth, but we have seen his majesty. We've seen it in the world around us, in the people around us, and most astonishingly in our own lives. As believers we have had the longings of our hearts satisfied, the drama of our lives given meaning, and that which was once dead brought to life. That is the story we can and must tell, over and over, in all the plot lines and all the turns of phrase. It is a simple truth, the essential truth, the only story. May He find us faithful.

Points of View and God's Command

Writing is a lot of hard work, but sometimes, it's a lot of fun. Writing a scene from every point of view, for instance, can be fun and enlightening. The exercise also deepens your own understanding of what's going on in that scene. When you see, feel and hear from the perspective of one character, then rewrite the scene from the point of view of another, you are able to create a scene that is more real, with dialogue that works and body language that is significant. To write well it helps to get inside the skin of each character.

It could be said that to live well, you have to do the same. We've all heard the axiom about walking a mile in someone else's shoes. Jesus said something even more profound and more difficult. He said, "My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you" (John 15:12).

Jesus walked more than a mile in our shoes. He lived a life as one of us; then He took all our sins upon Himself and went to the cross for us. His idea of love was to sacrifice His place in heaven to experience the pain and suffering of humanity. His idea of love was to suffer humiliation and death.

How can He expect us to do the same?

He expects it because He has shown us how to do it and given us all we need to accomplish it. It is not by our own virtue that we are able to love others, not by our own will that we extend the hand of friendship to those who act like our enemies. It is in God's strength, through His righteousness, by His Spirit, that we are enabled.

When we accept the love of Christ extended to us, it flows through us. Then and only then can we extend His grace, be His hands and feet, and love others as He loved us. It is then and only then that we can say, with Christ, "Not my will, but thine."

Pondering on the "Imaginarium"

A few nights ago I watched a rather bizarre but intriguing film called The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnansus. It was based on the premise that the 'good doctor' could somehow give his customers exactly what they wanted once they stepped through a mirror into a mystical world, a world that came from their own imagination. A well dressed middle-aged woman imagined a world full of shoes. A man whose desire was only for corporate success ended up in a land full of tall ladders. And so on.

The film made me wonder. What kind of world would my imagination create? What's lying at the root of my motivations, my dreams, my ambitions? What images and metaphors would fill a world spun from my deepest imaginings? I fear it would not all be as I would hope. I fear it would be as tainted by human nature as the worlds created by the characters in that movie.

But there is hope. There is good news. Though my imagination does spiral into depths I'd rather not discover, it can be redeemed. Indeed, it already has been. A. W. Tozer has said, "The value of the cleansed imagination... lies in its power to perceive, in natural things, shadows of things spiritual."

As a Christian I have inherited a "cleansed imagination," by virtue of the sacrifice of God's own Son on a cross more than two thousand years ago. Though my mind may follow paths that are not cleansed, I am called to "take every thought captive" because it has been redeemed by Jesus Christ. I do not have to live in that place governed by my own imaginings. I can live in a place of grace and mercy and holiness, governed by the love of God. I can, in fact, discern those "shadows of things spiritual" and bring them to life in the imaginations of my readers.

Dr. Parnasus gave his customers what they thought they wanted and it all dissolved, in the end. God gives us everything we need and it accomplishes His purposes and brings us all to a most fitting end – His praise and His glory.

Prisms and the Promise of Some Day

Many years ago my brother worked in a copper mine. He worked above ground most of the time, but every now and then he had to go below. Each time he would bring up beautiful rocks – geodes and sparkling quartz formations that delighted me when he brought them home. One day he brought me a natural prism. It was a piece of quartz, a bit opaque and about two inches high, smooth on three sides, but not polished. My brother showed me how to hold it up to the light so that faint gleams of colour could appear inside it.

I have that tiny prism on my desk and it has become a symbol of my ministry. The three sides represent writing, speaking and teaching. The base is Christ.

I also have a shining diamond shaped crystal hanging in the window that is polished and many- faceted. When the light strikes it, colours shoot out, painting bright rainbows all over the room. It too has become a symbol of my ministry and the work required to make rainbows.

When I look at those two prisms, the one that is rough and dull, the other that is clear and shining, I am reminded that I must work at my craft so that God's light can burst through. My first drafts are like the natural prism – when I look at it I see the prism itself, but not the light; the colours are there, but they are hidden, trapped inside. I have to fashion and polish the facets – the plot, the characters, the themes, the very paragraphs and words – to such an extent that I, as the author, am unseen. Then only what is true, the light, will be seen by the world.

God does the same with my life, if I'll let Him. The more I move into His presence, the more he polishes and perfects me. The more I open up my heart and mind to Him, the more He transforms me. In the end, I will be like a clear prism that no one will see. They'll just see His light bursting forth from inside me. The Scriptures promise that some day we will be like Him. Some day.

But for now I keep working toward that perfected prism, in my work and in my life, knowing that we must "fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith.." (Hebrews 12:2).

Questions and Answers

In Bill Roorbach's book Writing Life Stories, he tells an anecdote about one of his elderly students, a woman of 85. He asked her a flippant question, a question he did not expect her to answer. He asked her, "Jane, tell us, what's the secret to life?"

Roorbach writes -

"Jane smiled benignly, forgiving me my sardonic nature, tilted her head and said without the slightest pause: "Searching."

An indignant Chuck (another student), said, "Not finding?" quite sure he had it right. "No, no, no," Jane said emphatically, letting her beatific smile spread, "Searching." (Writing Life Stories by Bill Roorbach p.53-54)

Frans Kafka once said - "One reads in order to ask questions." Perhaps one should also write from that perspective, not to provide, but to seek the answers, those answers that will resonate deep and long as they touch that central part of our being where God resides; those answers that will lead us and our readers to more questions.

The trap of pride lurks, ready to ensnare us. It is in arrogance that we write believing we possess the complete unadulterated truth. Jesus is the only One who lives in that place. Jesus is truth. We are merely those, as J. Hudson Taylor says, who are seeking to bring our own souls under its influence.

Oswald Chambers, who has written one of the most popular devotional books ever written, said - "The author who benefits you most is not the one who tells you something you did not know before, but the one who gives expression to the truth that has been dumbly struggling in you for utterance."

I think the author who is most true to himself, and his readers, is the one who admits that truth has been dumbly struggling in her, as well. It is when we as writers struggle to give utterance, struggle toward that wholeness, that holiness, that we succeed, no matter whether the result is published in the New Yorker with an audience of millions or in a local newsletter with an audience of a few hundred.

Reason to Rejoice

By the time you read this article my daughter will be married for about twenty-four hours. The small ceremony will be in a tiny country church with seventy-five friends and family attending. If you have had a child get married you know the kind of week I've had, leading up to this event. Stressful, emotionally draining and exhilarating.

I know the day itself will be all of that and more, as all the planning and preparations come together to make a wonderful celebration. I know Laura will make a beautiful bride and I know her soon-to-be husband will glow with anticipation as he watches her walk down the aisle toward him.

All as it should be.

I used to hate weddings. I didn't like people much in those days, so having to chit-chat with strangers was a chore. I didn't like all the 'mushy' sentiment because I didn't believe in love that lasted forever. I didn't like the religiosity because I didn't believe God existed. I saw no joy in weddings, only the potential for pain.

Jesus changed my view of things just after my own wedding, almost thirty years ago. Now I find people fascinating and love to chat. All the sentiment doesn't seem so 'mushy' now, but expressions of genuine love and affection. And the religiosity has meaning because I know God not only exists but cares deeply for all those involved. Now I see a deep joy in weddings because I see the potential for paradise.

I see the face of the bridegroom waiting for his bride and I know it's a picture of Jesus waiting for us. I see the shimmering beauty of the wedding gown and know it's a faint glimpse of the one we will wear when Jesus presents us to his Father. I watch the lighting of the unity candle and know it's the hope of the world, a hope that will one day be reality.

All as it should be.

I will celebrate the day with my daughter and the rest of our family and friends, rejoicing that God has given me a small role to play in proclaiming that joy and hope. I expect I'll have a few more words to write after the event. I praise God that now I will see it all with eyes that are open to the beauty, ears that are tuned to the sound of angel's wings, and a heart that bursts with thankfulness.

"... as a bridegroom rejoices over his bride, so will your God rejoice over you." Isaiah 62:5b

Resisting the Urge to Explain

I confess I've let my writing slip a little too far into the preaching mode at times. I've been a bit, well okay, maybe more than a bit, defensive about that, when accused of it. I rationalized – I'm a believer in Christ. I want others to know the joy and freedom of that relationship. So what if I preach now and then?

But then I remember this poem I wrote – and rewrote, and wrote again – it was for a contest and I tried hard to get it right. I liked the image I was using as a metaphor and I felt that God wanted me to write it. I knew it was all about God, but when I tried to insert Him in a straightforward way, it just didn't seem to work.

The contest had nothing to do with Christian writing. It wasn't run by a Christian group and the work would not have a Christian audience. It was a golden opportunity to witness, I reasoned. I typed out two final versions – one with a verse that explained, for those not swift enough to understand, that the poem was all about my relationship to my heavenly father. I put each version on the table in front of me. Then I argued with myself.

Cut that last verse. It weakens the poem. But I want to be a witness for Christ. But the poem doesn't work if you tell the reader what it means. But what if they don't get it. So what if they don't? Be true to the poem. What about being true to Christ?

Then I had a thought that, to use a cliché, stopped me in my tracks.

Can't God speak through the words without your help?

Oh.

I cut the last verse. The poem won first place in the competition. The judge's comments took my breath away. "The power of this piece lies in the subtle yet profound connection to a heavenly father, giving the piece depth and causing the reader to ponder."

Oh.

I guess He really doesn't need my help

Rooted in Love

The Bible college professor handed out the syllabus for the first term and I gulped as I read it. The course dealt with two books written by the Apostle Paul to the Corinthians and it included choosing a chapter to memorize. A whole chapter! I started praying that God would give me the capacity to cram that much scripture into my brain and be able to get it all back out onto paper, verse numbers and punctuation included. We had several weeks to do the assignment but I picked chapter 13 of First Corinthians and began right away. I picked it because I already knew a portion of it by heart and I figured memorizing the famous "love chapter" would be easier that some of the others. I had no idea what memorizing that portion of scripture would do to me.

At the time, I was in the middle of teaching a women's bible study on campus but after getting half way through the love chapter I seriously considered quitting. My motivation had been all wrong. I hadn't accepted the teaching assignment out of love, I had accepted it out of pride and my need for affirmation. I spoke with an older woman of God about my dilemma and she gave me wise counsel. She said that even though my motives may not have been the best, God was teaching me through the process. The challenge was to rise to the need for change, to pray for guidance and then obey.

I began to realize that the love God had poured into me the day I accepted Christ as my Saviour was not meant to stay buried in my heart. It was meant to be poured back out. That wasn't easy for me. Still isn't. Because of some of the damage that was done to my heart and soul as a young girl, I'm a bit afraid of love, afraid to receive it and to give it freely. I'm sometimes afraid it will cost too much, hurt too much. But little by little God is helping me to trust Him enough to know that His love is patient and kind it is not easily angered. His love keeps no record of wrongs. His love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. His love never fails.

I take courage in the Apostle Paul's prayer in the book of Ephesians chapter 3, verses 17-18 -"And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ."

Rooted and established in love. That's what being a Christian means because God is love. So we are rooted and established in Him. We may fail to show it, fail to do it, but that is the reality of who we are. My prayer is that as we write, as we speak, as we live our lives day to day, the love of God may not be a trickle that seeps out of us, but a torrent flowing through all we do.

Safety in Numbers

"Come quick!" My husband was calling from our living room where I found him staring out the front window, laughing and shaking his head. He waved me over.

Outside on the sidewalk was a neighbour's cat. I'd seen him often, hunting birds near the small pond across the street. But this morning he wasn't hunting. He was surrounded, by about fifteen large Magpies. They hopped around him as he crept slowly along the ground, his head swaying back and forth. I could almost hear his growling and just about imagine what he was thinking. His body language told us he wanted very badly to leap on one of those birds but he knew under the circumstances that would not be a good idea. The birds looked menacing, even from a distance. Watching them, I wondered if Alfred Hitchcock had seen a similar display, then concocted the plot for his famous horror film, The Birds. Those Magpies kept up their ominous vigil, hopping all around him, leading him slowly along, seeming to dare him to do something. Then suddenly they took flight and roosted in a nearby tree. The cat sat still for a moment, then made a bee-line for home.

"Maybe there was a nest nearby, or an injured bird," I said. "Whatever was happening, it's obvious there's safety in numbers."

Safety in numbers. It made me think of Elisha's servant whose eyes were opened to suddenly see "the hills full of horses and chariots of fire all around" (2Kings 6:17). Unless the Lord draws back the curtain as He did that day, we are all blinded to the spiritual realm while we are on this earth, but we can be assured that it is there. God's armies are about us, his angels waiting to do His bidding on our behalf, His Spirit, living in us, ready to guide us forward according to His plan.

Even as I tap away at this computer, writing this devotional or finishing my next novel, I can know that they surround me, just as they surrounded Elisha that morning. In the Book of Hebrews, chapter 12, verse 1, the writer says, "Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us."

There might be a snarling enemy close by, bent on my destruction, but I don't have to worry. He's surrounded too.

Spring Assurance

The colour green had never seemed more beautiful. Across from our house the freshness of new buds bursting delighted the eyes. Perhaps it seemed all the more wonderful because it was a long time coming. We'd had a cool spring that year, with big fluffy flakes of white stuff piling up on our lawn even into May. But even though the days were cool and the nights frosty, you could see the change happening in the trees and bushes all around. I found myself delighting in it each day as the willows turned red and the grey poplars darkened, moving steadily toward maturity in spite of the weather. Though the days were grey, the sap was stirring. When the sun finally arrived the trees burst out with new growth. Their time had arrived.

It made me think of the long process toward maturity as a writer. The road can seem hard and the desired end result a long time coming. But like the trees around us, there is growth and progress even though the environment doesn't seem to be cooperative. Rejections give us further resolve to work harder. Friends give us the encouragement that keeps us going when we are discouraged. And those wonderful moments of accomplishment give us a sense of awe and even humility as we recognize the hand of God in it all. And we keep going. We keep writing.

One of the instructors at a writers' conference I attended made a statement that has stuck with me. She said – "the only unsuccessful writer is the one who quits." I needed those words because I had come dangerously close to wanting to do just that.

Just a few days before, as I had wandered in a tired daze at Canada's largest book fair I felt overwhelmed and despaired of ever making a mark there. As my first book was about to launch into the Canadian Christian market place I realized what a small pond that is. It would, perhaps - and I'm not entirely convinced of this - be nice to be on the best sellers' list. But there is a lot to be said for the small pond. If a book or an article or a poem or a paragraph changes a life, what matter that it is not read by millions? It has done its work in one.

I'm a firm believer in the significance of the unobtrusive, the power in the hidden talents that appear like the blinking of a firefly – briefly, but so beautifully lighting our world. In the grand scheme of things even the classics are brief candles.

God's hand is moving us along the path toward becoming a mature writer as surely as he is directing the course of the seasons. The blossoming of the trees and flowers is never late, in God's timing. Neither is the timing of our "arrival" as writers. He is in control. It's for us to keep moving forward, persevering as we learn the craft, and rejoicing as He uses our gifts to His purposes. And taking joy in the journey.

Stretching

The Yukon autumn was sliding into winter as my friends and I sipped coffee and stared out the window of our warm log home at the heavy frost on the ground. The conversation turned to the subject of wood. Firewood. We all admitted our woodpiles weren't quite as high as they could be. We all knew what minus 60 was like, that our stoves would deplete the store of fuel in no time.

Then Anne mentioned a local sawmill was giving away slab wood. The slabs were mostly bark with only an inch or two of wood, but they were dry and made great kindling. Enough of them would be a welcome and needed addition to the stock of wood in our yards. But we also knew our husbands' jobs left no daylight hours to haul wood. It was Barb who said, "So it's up to us." I was the last to agree. I knew how heavy our chainsaw was, having run it once or twice. The idea of spending a whole day running it didn't appeal to me. But my friends assured me we could do it. Barb rented the truck, Anne packed the lunch and I prayed.

A few days later I found myself staring at our saw as my husband sharpened the chain and explained how to avoid stalling it. For most of that night I considered how I might get out of this adventure, but the next day the first crack of light found me and my two friends stacking slabs on the deck of a five-ton truck. As the pile grew, we took turns climbing on top to trim the ends on the far side. My arms, already aching from tossing the slabs, shook as I leaned over and tried not to think of falling off with a roaring chainsaw in my hands. But the pile slowly grew until the three of us, dirty, exhausted, but smiling, stood back and surveyed the stack of wood, piled as high as it could go on the back of that truck.

The sun was setting and the temperature dropping as we drove home. I don't think I'll ever forget the look on our husbands' faces when we arrived with that loaded truck. The knowledge that we had made a significant contribution to the comfort of our families that winter made all of us smile. The episode had been a stretch for me, but the accomplishment made me realize with the Lord's help I was capable of more than I had thought. It felt good.

I once heard a challenging sermon about stretching. "It's in stretching that faith grows," the pastor said. "It's in stretching that we learn to rely on God's grace."

Stretching your faith might mean letting go of something you've been worrying about. It might mean reconciling with someone who has offended you. It might just mean attending a Bible study group for the first time. It might mean writing a poem or an article even though you're a fiction writer. It might mean starting that first novel, or hitting the send button to put your words out there for the world to read.

Maybe you're thinking the same thoughts I did the night before my wood hauling expedition – "I don't think I can do it." Maybe you're right, but God's grace can do it through you. So pray. Then go ahead and stretch.

The Day God Laughed.

"See what you have to look forward to now?" the whisper in my ear came from a friend in the pew behind us and it made my smile widen. It was Dec. 10th and we were on our first outing with our new baby. She was only 10 days old, but we braved the frigid Yukon winter to attend the Christmas pageant at a small mission church.

I knew the service wouldn't be a grand production. The church was just a hall, tiny and dilapidated. The Carols were sung a cappella, without a pianist to help keep us in tune. The pageant consisted of six or seven children dressed in bathrobes, their heads in kitchen-towel wraps. The backdrop was made of cardboard stars covered in tinfoil.

But I was seeing everything attached to Christmas in a new way. The tinfoil stars glittered more brightly than a chandelier. The carols were as harmonious as though sung by angels. And the children... ah, the children made the story live!

I was bursting with thankfulness. I had just been given the desire of my heart, the precious gift of a child of my own. We had been told it wouldn't happen, and after five years without conceiving a child, my husband and I tried to resign ourselves to that reality. I took great pains to hide the deep sadness I found almost unbearable. No one knew how much I wanted a baby, but the clues were there. I was angry much of the time. Convinced God was punishing me, I hated Him. The bitterness poured into all aspects of my life.

Until the day God laughed.

It was on the road to Mayo, Yukon. I was going to visit a friend, determined not to think about God or religion or any of the baffling questions my husband kept bringing up. But no matter what I tried, my mind would not rest. The question of God's existence and what he had to do with me would not go away. In desperation, I pulled my vehicle into a lookout point above the Stewart River.

The beautiful river valley stretched out below, but I barely saw it. In turmoil, I challenged God to do something to prove He was there. Then I realized how foolish I was, talking to a God I did not really believe existed. At that point something happened which I have never been able to describe adequately. I "heard" laughter, like a grandfather chuckling, and the words, "Yes, but I love you anyway."

None of this was audible, yet it was real. I thought I was going insane. The turmoil had finally pushed me over the edge and now I was hearing voices. I stomped on the gas pedal of my truck, turned the radio up as loud as it would go, and fled.

My visit with my friend turned out to be more discussion of spiritual things, but by the time I returned home I was determined not to pursue Christianity. Besides, I had something else on my mind. I had been suffering from a strange flu. On about the seventh day of this "flu", the realization I was in fact pregnant flooded over me like warm rain. With it came a thunderbolt of truth.

This was the "something" I had challenged God to do. The child growing in my womb was His answer, the proof of His love. He gave me the desire of my heart. She was born Nov. 30, 1982.

"See what you have to look forward to now?" Oh yes, I saw. I saw a future filled with the knowledge there is peace without measure, grace without limit and love without conditions. I saw a future suddenly bright because I believe the Christmas story. A tiny baby, whose sole purpose was to die for me and all others, was born in Bethlehem. I saw the reality that the Christ is still intimately involved in our lives here on earth. Though the church may be just a hall, the music less than perfect, and the costumes homemade, the story is exquisite. The story is true!

The Day I Faced My Failure

Springtime always makes me a bit jittery. It's that time when people ask, "Do you garden?" I take that question personally. I guess it's a hold-over from my Yukon days, but I always have the feeling the person is really asking, "What are you good for, anyway?" The question always makes me squirm because I'm not good at gardening. I inherited my mother's black thumb. I'm death to fruits and vegetables.

Not that I haven't tried. For twelve Yukon summers I dutifully planted rows of cabbage and broccoli, peas and lettuce. Once I replanted three times when late frost hit, only to have it all wilt from an early one in August. With a season of twenty-four hour sunlight, the plants that survived grew furiously but so did the weeds. A neighbour once drove by, honked and called out – "Tendin' the weed bed, are ye?"

I wanted to give up, but at the end of each summer, I harvested what had managed to survive. I was thankful there was a grocery store in town. We surely would have starved if we'd had to live on what I could grow.

When we moved to Alberta, I anticipated the "game" would go on. When spring arrived I dutifully got out my spade and tested the ground in the back yard. But, oh, woe is me, it was full of roots! The large old cottonwood in the corner of the yard had spread its thick underground fibers far and wide. My husband took a turn at the spade but could find not a single spot suitable to till. Such a pity.

Having an excuse eased the guilt, but I feared my failure was apparent to world. When friends asked if I wanted their harvested leftovers I always said yes, with thanks, but had that nagging suspicion they were pitying me. I knew I was a failure. So did they.

Then one day, a friend asked if I'd like some potatoes. Seems she'd planted way too many and they all grew wonderfully (of course!). My family and I spent a morning digging up her potato patch. It was one of those special times - a glorious morning with the smell of earth freshened by rain and the delight of children's voices in the crisp fall air. But the most wonderful part was the look on my friend's face as we loaded the boxes of tubers into our vehicle.

"I just love being able to do this," she said. "Thanks for coming out."

The power of her words hung in the air around me for days as a simple truth sank in. There were things I loved doing that could be a blessing to others. I don't have to be good at everything. It's okay to be a failure at gardening.

Romans 12:6 says – "We have different gifts, according to the grace given us." My friend did a great job of using her gifts of generosity and hospitality the day she invited us to her potato patch. On that day I started admiring the work of people with green thumbs, without feeling guilty. They have that gift. I have another.

I cultivate words, tilling until there are no weeds, pruning away the excess so the fruit can shine through. God's gift to me has blessed others as, like my friend with the potato patch, I've administered the grace and passed it on to readers all over the world. I no longer feel guilty about my black thumb, or about the many things I can't do that others can. I feel blessed by what I've been given and how God has used it to bless others.

The Inefficiency of An ADD Writer

I start my day with a cup of coffee and think about what I should have for breakfast.

I decide on cereal but there isn't any milk, so I find a scrap of paper and begin a shopping list.

The phone rings and I take a message for my husband, on another scrap of paper, then remember that I have to call a friend but the phone goes dead so I return it to the cradle and go hunting for the other one.

I enter my office and notice there's a 'note to self' to send an email to my publisher. I sit down to do that and open my email program.

But there's a note from my daughter so I open it and then decide to send my other daughter a note but she's on Facebook so I click on the internet icon and open up the world of fb friends.

One of them is excited because she is having her first book published so I send her a note to congratulate her.

Then I decide to click into her site to see what the book cover looks like and notice a link about marketing that looks interesting, so I click on it and decide that it's a great article so go to my blog to link to it.

There's a message from a reader there so I take just a wee moment to answer it, and while I'm doing that I remember I intended to post an article to my writing blog.

So I open the folder on my computer where that article should be but it's not there so I open another one and find a short story that I intended to send to a magazine.

So I go back to my email program and open it up and see that the four lists I'm on have all sent their daily digests so I take just a few moments to look at them.

Then my stomach growls and I realize it's lunch time. My husband comes home and we decided to go out for a bite and then decide we really need to look at that bed we've been thinking about buying.

Then we see the Tim's on the corner so decide we need a coffee.

I remember that there wasn't any milk for breakfast so we go to our favourite, huge, all-in-one store and take just a little while to look at the laptops and cameras.

Suddenly it's supper time. We drive home and throw something together to eat before heading out to our regular Bible study. Someone asks how my writing is going.

Writing? Who has time for writing? Oh Lord, "Teach us to number our days aright that we may gain a heart of wisdom." Ps. 90:12

The Joy of Mystery

Someone posted a note to a list recently, quoting Luci Shaw, one of my favourite poets. Luci described the necessity of paying attention when "the muse" strikes. She said – "You have to wait for the images and the ideas to be presented and then be alert enough to catch them when they come, and record them."

Most writers know what she means. There are times, and they are sometimes not the most convenient, when an idea or a line or a scene will come to mind and if you don't stop whatever you are doing and write it down it will be lost.

I'm sure Mrs. Shaw would be the first to admit that there is a great deal to be said for discipline – the kind of discipline all writers need – that makes us stay at a computer, tapping away even when we don't feel like it, even when inspiration seems like a word in a foreign lexicon. But then there is that 'muse.'

It has always been a mystery to me. I've written award-winning poems that flowed out like water and needed very little editing. I've had sudden overwhelming urges to write things down and found those bits perfect for pieces that weren't even thought of until years later. And I've had those wonderful breakthrough 'aha!' moments after toiling out of pure obedience at the keyboard all day. Yes, the muse has struck me, but I don't understand it, I can't predict it and I certainly can't control it.

Sometimes that drives me crazy. Sometimes I really want to be able to do all of the above. There was even a time when I thought it a little unfair that God has chosen to do it this way. If He has given us the gift, and I know He has, why not make it easy? Why not give us a muse that is as predictable and controllable as the tap at our kitchen sink. Yeah, why not!?

But then I think of the joy when those moments happen. You can liken it to an athlete finding "the zone," when no matter what is happening around him, no matter what frustration or even pain he might have been feeling, his body reacts to all the training he has done, his actions become a thing of beauty and he senses a moment of complete fulfillment – the moment for which he has been born. It's that moment that Eric Liddle described in Chariots of Fire when he said, "When I run I feel God's pleasure."

I admit I wish there were many more moments like that – I wish the muse were like the tap at my kitchen sink, but then I wonder if the joy would be as pure. Would I take that tap for granted? Would I respond with arrogance and claim it as something flowing from inside me? Would I spurn the gift and deny the hand from which it comes?

Sadly, I fear I would be guilty of all of the above. I am human and susceptible to all those human failings. So I'll be content and grateful for those mysterious moments when the muse strikes. I'll delight in them when they arrive and take joy in the mystery.

The Longing for Greatness

Some time ago I watched a video that I'd heard a lot about. People said it was inspiring. They said I just had to watch it. Sometimes I ignore these kinds of messages, but eventually I gave in and clicked into UTube to see what all the fuss was about.

The small screen showed a rather plumb, unassuming middle aged man with crooked teeth. He stood at a microphone looking decidedly unsure of himself. Then the camera panned to the four judges watching him. Their expression seemed to say, "Let's just get this over with." Finally one of them asked why he was there. "To sing opera," he said simply. The judges smirked. One of them rolled his eyes. But they let him go ahead.

Then the man opened his mouth and his voice boomed out as he sang from his heart and soul. The judges' jaws dropped. Some in the audience began to weep; so did one of the judges. When he was done the audience was on its feet cheering for the cell phone salesman who had just demonstrated that you can't always tell a book by its cover.

The man's name was Paul Potts and he went on to win the competition called Britain's Got Talent. He became a star, singing around the world. His is a fairytale success story that has captured the imagination of millions. It made me wonder why. Why have so many, and I count myself among them, responded so strongly to Mr. Potts' performance? I think it's because all of us have a tiny part in us that says, "there's something great in me, if I can just find a way to let everyone see it." Some might call that 'delusions of grandeur.' I think it's something more. I think it's a deep belief that we are more than we seem to be. Because we are.

When God created the first man he "breathed into his nostrils the breath of life" (Genesis 2:7). He also created him "in his own image" (Gen. 1:27). Man is much more than just a bunch of bones, tissue and blood. We were created to house the very spirit of God himself, to be a temple and in a sense a representative of God. I think we all feel that and long for it to be fulfilled – it's a longing for the nobility, the beauty, even the glory we were intended to have.

Writers feel it, this longing for greatness. We strive for excellence in our work, strive to depict the nobility and greatness we sense, then send it out, hoping someone will recognize that it's good enough to be broadcast to the world. Yes, we want the recognition but I believe we long for something more – a connection to something beyond us that is indeed great. Every now and then we get a glimpse of it, as that audience did when Paul Potts sang. We respond to it, we stand to our feet and applaud it, and we weep because we long for it.

That audience will remember Mr. Potts' performance but it will only serve to intensify the longing in them. As writers, we may sometimes receive recognition but it will be swiftly gone and the longing remains. Only a relationship with God will satisfy it, only striving to be like Him will fulfill it. The longing will never completely go away until we are face to face with our Lord. When we connect with the One who put that longing in our hearts, and serve Him by acting according to His plan for our lives, there is a joy and fulfillment that can come from no other source.

That short video of Paul Potts made me weep because I will always have that longing in my heart, because I am a child of God yet separated from Him. My encouragement comes from walking the path He has laid out for me and feeling His presence with me. My joy comes from striving to articulate that longing and His greatness. My hope lies in the reality that one day we will be reunited, the longing at last satisfied.

The Necessity of Being Primed

My husband and I stared at the white-washed wall. "I guess it's time I did something with that," he said. The interior of the extension on our house had been finished for about a year, but the exterior wall was still just a sheet of painted plywood. "I'll find out what I need to do the stucco today," my husband said, with a note of determination in his voice. Succo, I thought. How hard can that be?

Later, we stood at a counter in a hardware store, listening to the detailed instructions given by a man who obviously knew what he was talking about. He helped us figure out how much stucco mud we'd need. Then he added in the mesh. "Mesh?" I asked. He nodded. "You need mesh for the stucco to stick," he explained. "And you'll need primer, of course." My husband noted the jump in cost with that addition and asked if it was really necessary. The man behind the counter nodded vigorously. Apparently primer was essential. I sighed as he handed us the total. Nothing in this world is easy, I thought. Or cheap. My husband mumbled something about hiring a contractor. Just to be sure, we called another store and asked about the process. The clerk outlined the same details and agreed with the other man's assessment. Primer was absolutely necessary. Without preparing the surface, he explained, the process would not work.

1 Peter 1:13 talks about primer too. The author writes – "Therefore, prepare your minds for action; be self-controlled; set your hope fully on the grace to be given you when Jesus Christ is revealed." We are to prime ourselves, prepare ourselves, as athletes prepare for competition. The apostle is talking about focus. Just as an athlete must focus on training for the race, we must focus on Christ. We must study Him, listen to Him, conform our will to His. Why? Because, just as the primer on a wall determines the strength of what comes after, the preparation we do in our hearts and minds determines our usefulness to God. As Christian writers, this spiritual priming is absolutely necessary. Without it our words cannot give life, cannot feed our readers the way God intends.

Peter outlines how to go about the process. He says, "Obey the truth," (v.22), "love one another deeply"(22b). He calls us to "rid yourselves of all malice and all deceit, hypocrisy, envy and slander of every kind." Easy, right? Hardly. But we have help. We have something to cling to, as stucco mud clings to mesh. 2 Peter 2:4 goes on to say, "As you come to him ..." Jesus is available to help us accomplish the priming, the preparation necessary in our lives. And the end result is worth it all as we, "like living stones, are being built into a spiritual house to be a holy priesthood, offering spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ."(2 Peter 2:5)

The Right Partner

The smell of B.C. pine was heavy in the air that morning. The whine of the saws and the giant conveyor belt was deafening. I donned the hard hat I'd just been given and pulled on a pair of heavy work gloves. There were several men in the yard - big, burly, six-foot-something men, waiting to start their shift at the saw mill. They were all staring at me. Before I could change my mind and walk away, the foreman, yelling above the noise, showed me where to stand and what to do. Working with a partner, I had to catch one end of the long strips of lumber as they came flying off the conveyor, and stack them in a neat pile. My partner glared at me, obviously not at all happy to be paired with a 5 ft.1in. female.

By the time we took our first break, he wasn't the only one who was unhappy. I was on the edge of tears. I had dropped more boards than I had caught and our pile was small and far from neat. It was obvious I couldn't do this job. I was about to head for the foreman's shack to quit when one of the other men stopped me and spoke to my partner. "Switch with me. I'll work with her for the rest of the morning." I gulped. This man was even bigger. And he wasn't smiling as he left his place at the conveyor. But, to my relief, he quickly showed me how to toss the lumber, using the momentum of the wood without taking its full weight. Within a few minutes I knew I could do it, despite my small size. The work was still hard but it was manageable. By the next day I was even beginning to enjoy it. Because that man was willing to leave his place and work beside me, to help me, I was able to do a job I thought completely beyond my capabilities.

Like that man at the sawmill, Jesus was willing to leave his privileged place in heaven to work alongside us, to become one of us. With Jesus as our partner, any job is manageable, even enjoyable. And he is very willing to become our partner. Listen to what he says in Matthew 11:28 – "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light."

There have been many times I've wanted to quit being a writer. Sometimes the job just felt overwhelming and beyond my capabilities. But then I'd remember that man at the sawmill and I'd remember that I have a partner beside me, one who is teaching me all I need to know in order to do all that He has planned for me to do.

There's Karen, and Then There's Tony

In an interesting interview, Karen Hancock, a woman who has won three Christy Awards for her fantasy novels, detailed the disciplines she uses, the methods that work for her as she writes. Then the question that always comes up was asked – "What's your marketing strategy?"

That's a question that not only writers are interested in. Publishers want to know your answer up front, when you send them a proposal. They want to know how you plan to sell it, if and when it is accepted for publication. It's a question that most writers dread. Most just want to write. They don't want to have to be bothered spending hours and hours planning how to sell their books. But, the reality is, they must. Publishers expect it.

It's a question I wrestled with as I prepared the proposal for my first novel and it's something that still occupies a lot of my time and energy since One Smooth Stone was published. Now that the sequel is being released, it's something that is always on my mind. So I was more than a little surprised when Karen said she is doing only a minimal amount of marketing. She said God had made it clear at the very beginning that He was going to take care of it, so she was leaving it almost entirely up to Him.

Then I read another article, about Tony Hines, another author whose work is gaining a following. I wouldn't be surprised if one of his books is a Christy winner some day. Tony has a massive marketing strategy. When I look at what he's doing I wonder when he sleeps – or writes. The article mentioned that the publisher who received his manuscript leaned strongly toward accepting it because of the marketing he was already doing. The book was good. The marketing strategy was awesome.

So, there's Karen. And then there's Tony. From what I've seen of their books, and their plans, I believe they are both sincere and committed Christians. Two believers, two writers writing what they believe God wants them to write, two totally different approaches. So who's right?

They both are. This is an example of how God works, uniquely and specifically in a person's life. He has led Karen down one road and Tony down another. Both work because both are God's ideas. So, what's the bottom line? Find out what God's idea is for you. He has one. Do a Biblical word search on words like, 'plans,' 'prosper,' 'future,' and see the pattern that emerges. Pray and ask Him to tell you. He will.

Jeremiah said it - "This is what the Lord says:... "For I know the plans I have for you... plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart." (vs 11-13)

Our lives are a grand journey when we let God lead us through them. There's Karen. And then there's Tony. There's Marcia. And then there's... you.

Thin Spots

The day shone glorious, full of sunshine and light, full of fellowship and a strong sense of belonging. It was all the more significant to me because I was not among my home congregation. I was just over five thousand kilometres away, in a beautiful little church in a tiny village in Nova Scotia Canada. And I felt right at home.

I joined with the congregation as they sang a few songs, led by the pastor and a worship band, then one of the leaders stood to talk about all the upcoming events. He did so with a flourish that made us laugh often. Then he grew a bit more serious and said he knew of an old Scottish legend about "thin spots." They are described as places where we sense we are close to heaven. He sincerely prayed we would all feel that we'd been in a "thin spot" by the end of the service. As the time grew to a close we celebrated communion and his prayer was answered.

As I left the church that day I realized that it is the "thin spot" that I am trying to achieve in my writing. My goal is to draw the reader into a place full of sunshine and light, where he or she will sense the presence of God, ponder His mercy and grace and respond. I realized too that in order to achieve that goal I must find myself in that place often. In order to draw my readers there, I must have been there myself. It's part of the often heard, "write what you know."

The good news is that we already exist in that place, whether or not we feel it. By God's sovereign design, we are continually in His presence, indwelt by His Spirit and guided by His hand. As writers I believe we need to understand that profound truth and live in it, acknowledging the longing in our own hearts and expressing it as best we can in words, sentences and paragraphs that sing with truth.

The Bible tells us that we must train our minds. I believe we must also train our eyes to look for God's signature in the ordinary, hear His voice in the intonations of those around us, His glory in the spill of light on the door of a village church.

We can stand in a thin spot every moment of the day. Then it is our privilege and our responsibility to write that experience. All to the glory of God.

Thoughts on Christmas Kitsch

I sat at the table for five hours watching people walk by. Every now and then someone would stop and pick up one of my books. I'd chat with them, telling them the book was a collection of devotionals. Sometimes I'd share how the Lord had used it to make a change in someone's life. Usually they'd smile and move on. They'd move on to buy trinkets at other tables loaded with kitsch – painted plastic Santas, angels made of dishtowels, and snowmen made of Styrofoam.

As the day wore on I got a little discouraged. And, as discouragement often does, it started to move into bitterness tinged with anger. Why were these people so eager to grab things that had so little value and would last for such a short time? Why weren't they more interested in buying something that could nourish their souls? It made me want to scream, but I kept quiet and tried to keep smiling when someone glanced my way.

As I drove home later that day I ruminated. I love that word – it means to turn over and over, as in a cow chewing her cud. And that's what it felt like as I drove along – my stomach was churning; I was stewing over what had happened, and I wasn't being very complimentary to those people who had not bought my books.

Then that still small voice whispered from somewhere beyond – "And what about you?"

Me, Lord? Um... What do you mean?

I didn't really have to ask. I knew what He meant. I too make choices every day, choices that are just like those kitsch-hunters. I choose things that are of little value and momentary pleasure over the riches and everlasting joys of Christ. Every day.

I was humbled there in my car, and had to do an attitude adjustment. I had to ask God to forgive me for my "holier than thou" thoughts. I had to thank Him for those who did buy my books and thank Him for what he was going to do in their lives through my mere words. And I had to ask Him to forgive me for all those times I've chosen the kitsch of the world over Him.

The verses in Deuteronomy filled my mind - "Now choose life, so that you and your children may live and you may love the Lord your God, listen to his voice and hold fast to him. For the Lord is your life..." (Deut.30:19-20).

There's an awful lot of kitsch in this world, especially at this time of year. It's tempting to allow ourselves to be distracted from the real story of Christmas. As the season unfolds, may we all avoid running after what cannot satisfy. May we all choose life – His life.

To Resolve or not To Resolve

I was delivering Christmas cards last week and stopped in to the small gym where I have been noticeable only by my absence lately. I admit I felt a little guilty going in the door. The owner greeted me with a wide smile and we wished one another a Merry Christmas. Then I said, "One of my New Year's resolutions will be to get here more often." My friend shook her head. "Oh don't do that, don't make yourself feel guilty about it!" Then she stammered a bit. "But.... I don't mean.... Do come back!"

We laughed and I assured her I would.

I've been thinking about what she said ever since. I've been thinking about guilt. It does seem to be a big part of what we do at this time of year. We feel guilty for all the things we didn't do in the past year - like finish that novel or write that article that's still in draft form in the computer -and most of us resolve to do better. So guilt isn't such a bad thing, if, and that's a big if, we make the changes necessary in our lives. If guilt is unresolved it becomes an unhealthy thing and can lead to bitterness and anger that will only make us miserable. But guilt that leads to change, that's healthy guilt.

So I have decided to make that New Year's resolution, and a few others – like finish that novel and write that article - and I've gone a step further. I have a plan for carrying it out. Often that's the key. If we just dwell on our guilty feelings and set no goals or plans for how to change, nothing constructive will happen. Unhealthy guilt will result.

I've heard many people scoff and say that all religion does is make you feel guilty. They are absolutely right. But Jesus has gone a step further. He has set out a plan that wipes away the guilt. All we have to do is move from religion to relationship. Accept Him as our brother, our friend, our saviour, and no amount of guilt can hold us down.

The word guilt appears a few times in the Bible. My favourite is in the book of Hebrews, chapter 10, verse 22 – "let us draw near to God with a sincere heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled to cleanse us from a guilty conscience and having our bodies washed with pure water."

I like those words, "assurance", "cleanse" and "washed with pure water." Though the guilt of our sin may bear us down, there is forgiveness. No matter what we have done, or what has been done to us, God forgives, and we are set free "by a new and living way opened for us through the curtain, that is, his body..." (Hebrews 10:20).

The best resolution any of us can make as we move forward is to get to know Him more. I pray we will all resolve to do so. It's the only way to get rid of all that guilt.

Touring a Cathedral?

You could not stand before the building without looking up. It was one of those massive European cathedrals, built in the age of religious fervor, whose architects seemed to have one message - look up, look way up. Every line of the structure flowed toward heaven.

As I melted into the stream of people entering the church, I could imagine the throngs who, centuries ago, crowded into this cathedral to hear God's word. It did not take long for that illusion to disappear. A tour guide with a voice like a megaphone began his litany of historical facts: how long it took to build the structure; where the stone was quarried and how many men it took to finish the job; who commissioned and who designed the works of art.

As we entered the sanctuary, the atmosphere changed as the building opened into the massive open area supported by pillars and framed in stained glass. For a moment I had the sense of history again, a sense of understanding the purpose for this edifice. The tour guide's voice again broke through as he began to lead us toward the altar.

It was at that point that I frowned. From the back of the large group, I watched the guide lead the people up a short flight of stairs onto the platform, where a priest was in the midst of celebrating the mass. The megaphone voice was lowered slightly as the group passed behind the altar. I noticed some of the other tourists at least had the courtesy to look sheepish. Caught in the flow, I continued with the crowd, feeling as though we were all participating in a crime. When I think back on that moment, I realize we were.

When I think of it now, I realize at times we still are. In the presence of our God, we remain aloof. We stand back and gawk, yet remain indifferent and unmoved, failing to rejoice, failing to call others to see and be amazed.

Some time ago a cartoon appeared in the pages of many Canadian newspapers. To Canadian baby boomers, it had immediate significance. One of our childhood television heroes, The Friendly Giant, had died. "Friendly" always began his program with the words "Look up, look way up," as the camera moved up from the toe of his large boot to his smiling face. The newspaper cartoon echoed those words and showed a large hand reaching down toward him.

But it is not only in death that God tells us to look up. Like the architects of old, He designed our world to make us turn to Him. He put a yearning in our hearts to worship and made us into His church. He put a yearning in the hearts of writers to record and express the experiences of life and to proclaim His glory. All the lines of life say, "look up, look way up." As writers of faith we must often ask ourselves, are we just touring the cathedral? Or are we striving to look up and reach for the glory of God in every word we write?

"For since the creation of the world, God's invisible qualities - his eternal power and divine nature - have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse." Romans 1:20

Treasure Hunt

My husband and I were on a bit of a treasure hunt while on holidays recently in the Yukon. I'd met a young artist there twenty-five years before whose work I greatly admired. Just before leaving the territory he invited me to his cabin where he said I could pick any painting I wanted for a reduced price. His work was selling for two to three hundred dollars a piece at the time, a price I was not able to pay. Unfortunately life got extremely busy as we got ready to leave and I wasn't able to make my way downriver to his cabin. For twenty-five years I've regretted it.

So when we decided to return to the north to celebrate our thirtieth wedding anniversary, I told my husband I wanted an original "Halin." Everywhere we went we looked for his paintings. We found a few here and there, but nothing within our budget . Then a friend told us about a gallery just outside the city of Whitehorse called the Copper Moon. "Go there," she said. "You won't be disappointed."

She was right. From the moment we stepped in the door we were awe-struck by the artwork of all kinds. Some of it stopped us in our tracks and made our jaws drop. It was a joy just to wander from room to room, from painting to painting, photograph to photograph, sculpture to sculpture. I was reminded of something I'd read long ago about why people applaud great art. "We want to thank Beauty itself. Is it possible... we unconsciously sensed Someone standing behind the beautiful, Someone who is its source, and we were moved to praise him as well?" (p 105 Chasing Francis by Ian Morgan Cron)

This is one of the mysteries of art, whether it be beauty in the form of a painting or a symphony or a sentence on a page. When we see it we recognize something more than that which meets the eye. We return to it over and over and often see more than we had the first time. Such art is like a portal into eternity, a small crack through which we can view the face of the Master Creator. When it is done well it stirs all the finest of emotions in us – gratitude, joy, benevolence, praise. And in that process I believe a small bit of healing happens, a small sliver of redemption sinks deep into us and God's Spirit is able to do His work.

This is the height to which all artists reach. We succeed to varying degrees but in the striving we learn and grow and draw closer to finding that crack through which the healing happens.

By the way, we did find our "Halin" at the Copper Moon. It's now hanging on the wall in our living room and we return to it often, to see, to give thanks and to praise.

"May the favour of the Lord our God rest upon us; establish the work of our hands for us – yes, establish the work of our hands." Psalm 90:17

Under the Umbrella

I opened my email program one morning to find a few Google Alerts. These are messages telling me when my name or the title of one of my books has appeared somewhere on the web. It's a good way to track where my name pops up and helps me connect to others on the web who are reading my work. Every now and then something pops up that I don't expect, telling me that some website, blog or e-zine has used something I've written without asking. Most of the time my byline is attached to the piece. Sometimes it's not. This used to irritate me. A lot. Then someone said something to me in the foyer of our church one Sunday that gave me pause. He said, "You know you're not working for the kingdom of God when someone else steps into your place and you react with anger or jealousy. That tells you it's your kingdom you're building, not His."

My work as a writer is under the umbrella of God's kingdom. I want it to be there. I want it to function as a tool that draws people closer to Him and encourages them in their faith. I pray that it does so each time I sit down at the computer. So why should I be upset if someone I don't know posts something I wrote on a site or in an e-zine I've never heard of?

I get upset because I want to be in control. It's my work. No one else has the right to copy it and use it as they will. Right? Well, yes and no. Take for example the story about the poem, Footprints. That poem was circulated anonymously all over the world. The woman who wrote it had to fight to prove it was her work, finally being awarded copyright years after it was written.

That seems unjust. Often God's plans do. It's hard to accept that his plans sometimes violate our sense of justice. We want things to go our way; we want to be in control. But God's sovereignty sometimes intervenes. The Apostle Paul explained it this way – "What then shall we say? Is God unjust? Not at all! For he says to Moses, "I will have mercy on whom I have mercy and I will have compassion on whom I have compassion." It does not, therefore, depend on man's desire or effort, but on God's mercy" (Romans 9:14-16).

Let's go back to Ms. Stevenson's poem. For many years she had no idea the poem was out there blessing people and bringing God glory, until someone told her. Did God make a mistake in allowing that to happen? I don't think so. He used something one of His creations created to glorify Himself. He's allowed. He is God, after all, the One who gives us the words.

Long ago He spoke through the prophet Isaiah – "As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts. As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth: it will not return to me empty but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it" (Is.9-11).

God has purpose for our words as well. And He will use them as He will.

Watching Someone Read

I was on my way across the country to participate in the School of Writing at Canadian Mennonite University. I was nervous about going, even though my work had been accepted and I'd been granted entrance to the advanced fiction class with Canadian literary icon, Rudy Wiebe. To gain that entrance I had submitted three short stories that I'd worked on long and hard, but I had chosen to workshop another ten pages - part of the sequel to my novel, One Smooth Stone. Would they like it? Would the writing be good enough?

As I settled into my seat on the small plane, the stewardess came down the aisle and asked us all to move forward, to balance the load. I ended up sitting one seat back and across the aisle from a young woman who took out a book to read. As she did so, the colour caught my eye. Hmm ... same colour as the cover of my novel.

I watched out the window as the ground dropped away and the plane lifted off, then glanced across the aisle again. The young woman had turned the book. My book. It was a surreal moment. A comforting, though in a way, disconcerting moment. What did she think of it? She seemed to be reading eagerly enough. But did she like it? Was it good enough to capture her imagination? For the rest of the flight I peeked over at the woman, trying to gauge her reaction. In the flurry of disembarking I lost track of her and never did find out.

Then I arrived at the University and was swept into the routine of classes and writing assignments. The day my excerpts were to be critiqued, my palms were sweating and my heart was beating a little faster than normal. My fellow classmates began to comment on my work. According to the rules I was not allowed to speak until given permission by the instructor. Staying silent was at once a relief and a hardship. Then Rudy made some comments, asking for further input from the class as they dissected the excerpt.

Then his words, "This is good writing." Affirming words from "the master." I could have danced down the aisle.

But now the euphoria has worn off as I'm continuing to work on the sequel. What will people think of it? Will it be good enough?

And then I go back to why I write - because it's the way I'm "wired." Because I can't not write. Because the images and characters and scenes and emotions flood out of me through a keyboard and I can't stop them any more than I could stand in a flood and stop the raging waters.

And then I remember who made me this way, who controls what happens to the words I type on this computer, and who will some day say, "well done," if I work in obedience to Him.

And I realize how much I want to hear that Master's voice and how much I want to someday dance down the aisle that leads to His throne. So I go on, trying to be obedient to the task of being a writer, fighting off the self doubt and the need for affirmation from men when the only thing that counts is affirmation from Him.

What are We Missing?

There is a story in the Bible that has always somewhat intrigued me – the story of the "most excellent Felix." (Acts 24:3) He was the governor who tried the apostle Paul, the governor who kept Paul under house arrest for over two years, because "he was hoping Paul would offer him a bribe." (Acts 24:26). Felix kept sending for the apostle, talking with him many times over the course of those two years, waiting for the bribe.

That makes me chuckle just a little. Felix was waiting for a bribe but getting something much more valuable – the wisdom of one of the best minds in the country and no doubt much to think about in terms of his spiritual condition. We don't know how those talks affected the governor. We only know when he left his office he left the apostle in prison. It would appear that Felix was so focused on what he wanted he missed what he really needed.

I think we are all a little like that. We want many things – financial security, promotions at work, a big house and a good neighborhood to live in, a new car every other year, a big screen TV to watch all our favourite shows, good health and fitness.

But what are we missing? Are we so focused on financial security that we work too many hours to the neglect of our families? Are we so driven to get that promotion that we miss having a genuine and caring relationship with fellow workers? Are we so proud of the house and car that we alienate our neighbors? Are we so addicted to the TV that we never have a meaningful conversation with our spouses and children? Are we so obsessed with the fitness of our physical bodies that we neglect our spiritual souls?

As writers, are we too focused on how to market our books, too drawn to the thought of selling millions and the big purse that would mean? Do we dream too much about that huge platform we're developing? Perhaps we've forgotten to be thankful for what God is doing in us and through us as we write. Perhaps we're too quick to brush aside that reader who was given the courage to make one small step closer to God.

Perhaps we should ask ourselves, "As a writer, what do I need?"

I can think of a few things to put on that list. I need patience to wait for God's timing. I need trust to know that God is in control; humility to leave it all in His hands, no matter what the outcome. I need to value the people I meet as I 'market,' and seek to meet their needs. I need grace to see my readers as potentially part of God's family. I need passion for God and His word. Most of all, I need to draw closer to the Lord as I move through the whole process.

Jesus has told us what we need, told us to be careful to seek it. He said – "But seek his kingdom and these things will be given to you as well..."

What I Have Learned from Snow

Snow is not white. I learned this long ago, while walking in an evergreen forest with my art instructor. He challenged my fellow students and me to look and to see. Where shadows lay, the snow was a soft, cold blue; where it had melted, it was a silvery grey. Where the sun struck, it was gold and as the afternoon wore on, it began to take on a pink tinge. I noticed the shapes, too: swirls and sculptures made by wind, tiny imprints of squirrels and birds, the pattern of seeds and pine cones indented in the drifts. There were strong contrasts: the softness of a single stock of tall yellow grass against the hardness of massive, dark evergreens. That day I saw the face of winter, and the nature of snow, in a new way. I discovered snow does not "lay like a fuzzy white blanket," but more like an intricate shroud, shifting with light and colour, here with gentle curves, there with brittle edges of ice. I discovered its texture, the variety of its form and motion. I discovered it has life and beauty.

Remembering that day, I am challenged to bring the same kind of awareness into my writing. Too often I'm tempted to laziness, letting words, sentences, paragraphs come as they may, and stay as they are. I have learned it is worth the effort to take the time to look, to test the true colour of the words, to hear their tone and voice, to ponder the exact meaning I intend. Hearing a reader say, "that line will stay with me for a long time," justifies the struggle to be precise.

As writers who are Christian, seeing and portraying what is really there is not an option. We are witnesses of truth. Failing to work at our craft is failing to be faithful to that calling and to the gift we have been given. In the book of Colossians 3:23 the apostle Paul says – "Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving."

When we truly reflect the world around us, in all its splendour and sometimes horror, through words that live in the hearts and minds of our readers, we honor God and our craft. It is a high calling worthy of much effort, because of the One who has called us to it.

What it's All About

We slipped quietly down the stairs and toward the front door while our host slept, propped up in his electric chair. It had been a good few days, visiting with him in his home, often chatting well into the wee hours of the morning, in spite of his ill health. He was one of my husband's closest friends, a man who had shared some of his deep struggles and most guarded secrets with us.

He told us about his disturbing childhood. Memories of his abusive father still plagued him and long-ago wrongs still held him in their grip. "I think I was about twelve years old when I made the vow," he confided. "After one of the beatings, I swore I'd never cry again, not in front of him, not in front of anyone, not for any reason."

He told us how he'd prayed in recent days that someday, somehow, he'd be able to break that vow, but to date, he hadn't discovered a way.

I helped my husband pack our belongings into the car, then pulled a copy of my novel, One Smooth Stone, out of a box in the trunk. I wrote a note on the front page and slipped back into the house. As I placed it on the counter where our friend would find it when he woke, I said a short prayer. Let this do it, Lord. Let this break the bondage on his heart.

A few days later, as we rested in a hotel room, I decided to check my e-mail. I saw his name and opened his message first. He said he had started to read the book immediately, and "couldn't put it down, it was such good reading .... you accomplished something that I haven't been able to achieve for years and years. I cried often while reading it.... the tears flowed ... at long last, the tears flowed."

I shouted out loud and read the email to my husband, my tears flowing freely as I praised God.

There have been times when I've been frustrated at the low sales of One Smooth Stone, the failed marketing strategies, and the small number of people the book has reached. But then someone like our friend reads it and God's Spirit moves. Then all the failures and seeming lack of success fades into the streaming glory of His purposes and I remember what writing as a Christian is really all about.

And all I can do is shout, Hallelujah!

What to Do in Midair

I've been paralyzed a few times in my life. Paralyzed by fear. The first time it happened I was rock climbing on the cliffs on the north shore of Lake Superior. I'd climbed those cliffs more times than I could count. The idea of needing something to make sure I was safe, like a harness and ropes, didn't enter my head. Until one day in early summer. My brother and I had driven out to our favorite climbing spot. When we arrived he realized he'd left his boots at home. We knew enough to realize he shouldn't climb in street shoes, but I wanted to be up on the cliffs with the wind in my hair and the pounding surf below me. So I went alone.

The climb up was fine – no more of a challenge than any other time. I saw a ledge that I thought would give me a place to rest and a good view. I managed to crawl up onto it and for a while thought I was in heaven. Then it was time to start down. I looked over the edge. I couldn't see anything but the rocks below. I was going to have to go over that rim blind, feeling for a foothold. I hesitated and looked in the direction where I knew my brother was waiting. I couldn't see him, nor any other human being. I was alone and I was afraid, so afraid that for some time I couldn't move. I just stood there, staring down.

Eventually I told myself there was only one way off that ledge, so I slowly tried to ease myself over. When I started to slip I knew I was in trouble. Nothing I grabbed hold of was secure. I went over the brink of that cliff and found myself in midair. That's when I did something I had never done before. I called out to God. I stated the obvious. – "God, I'm falling!" I don't know what I expected Him to do, but I knew He was the only one who could help me. He did. I'm alive to tell the tale.

Writing can sometimes be a lot like trying to get down off a ledge on a high cliff. You're out there alone. You produce a work that satisfies you. For a while, you're in heaven. Then it's time to let someone else read it. Most writers, especially if they are just beginning, have at least a moment's pause at that point. Some of us will stand in that place for some time, paralyzed. Some of us never move from that point. We stay on that cliff. We live there. The view is great. We keep producing work we're happy with, but never show it to anyone. It's safe there. Why risk the climb down?

Eventually we all realize we must. We can't live on that ledge. That's not where we belong. That's not where God wants us to be. So we ease ourselves over the brink and submit our writing to a publisher. Suddenly we're in mid air. Our work is out there somewhere and it's out of our control. What now?

The apostle Peter knew what this was like. He was in a sinking ship one day when Jesus showed up and told him to get out of the boat. Peter obeyed without thinking. When he looked down at the crashing waves his fear caused him to sink, but "Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him." (Matthew 14:31)

There will always be times when we look down at the waves, when we are fearful and reluctant to do what God wants. There will always be times when we save our writing in a computer file and are tempted to leave it there.

That's a good time to do what I did in midair over a rocky beach on Lake Superior. Call out to God. Tell Him the obvious. Tell Him you're afraid. Tell Him you don't like this feeling, but whatever happens next, you trust Him. Then do it again. And again. Keep sending your work out into the world where God can use it. He will. And you'll live to tell the tale.

What's Next?

The room settled into a low hum as the group of women took their seats. I could hear the fire in a large stone hearth crackling behind me. The worship team had just taken us into the presence of God and I listened as the MC of the women's retreat introduced me. It was testimony time. Again. I've done it so many times I don't need my notes anymore, and every time I do it I realize how thankful I am for the grace and mercy of God. Looking back has its benefits.

But as I told my story that night I realized it isn't a good idea to stay there. That story happened almost thirty years ago. The Lord has done a lot in my life since then. I've overcome obstacles and ploughed through rough ground, all with His help. Each milestone seemed like a stopping point. I would think, okay, now I've got it. I've arrived at that point called Christian maturity. But then something would happen and I'd realize, well, maybe I have a bit more to learn. Maybe I'm only half way up the mountain after all.

I loved rock climbing when I was young. My brother and I did it often, on the cliffs on the north shore of Lake Superior. That was so long ago that no-one bothered with things like ropes and harnesses and crampons. You just picked a spot and started to climb. The views from the top were spectacular. But there was usually a point, about half way up, when we'd hesitate. The climb ahead looked formidable. Should we stop, should we go back? Author Billy Coffey talks about this same moment in his post on Rachel Gardner's blog - (http://cba-ramblings.blogspot.com/2009/10/guest-blogger-billy-coffey.html). I guess anyone who has climbed knows how that moment feels.

And anyone who has written knows it too. Coffey writes – "... maybe the climb never really ends for a writer. Maybe we are perpetually stuck in the middle, daily facing the choice of whether to stay where we are or chance a few more steps ahead." I've known that moment too, of being "stuck in the middle." When I signed my first contract and saw my first novel, One Smooth Stone, on a bookstore shelf, I thought, wow, I did it. I'm an author. But, as Coffey states, it wasn't long before I realized it wasn't a stopping point. I was sitting on a comfortable ledge admiring the view but then realized I was only half way up the mountain. I wanted to bask in the glow of getting there and keep looking back, but I knew I had to take a deep breath and keep climbing. There was more that God had for me to do, more to teach me.

The Apostle Paul wrote – "...I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me." (Philippians 3:12b)

It thrills me to know He has taken hold of me. That knowledge gives me the courage to "press on," as Paul says. There is a wider view awaiting, perhaps a wider audience, or perhaps just an audience of one, waiting for me to write the words that will change his or her life. As writers we all reach that half way point. It's not the moment to stop and be content with what we've accomplished. It's the moment to ask, "Lord, what's next?"

Words Don't Always Say What They Mean

The voice coming out of the speaker was clipped and rapid. "What kind of muffin would you like? We have carrot, fat wise carrot, blueberry, fat wise blueberry, cranberry and fat wise cranberry."

My husband and I fell into a fit of giggles. Fat wise? As we waited at the second window for the goods to be delivered, he joked. "I wonder if it talks? If it's wise, it must be able to talk. What do you think a wise muffin would say?"

"I only care about the fat part," I replied. "A nice plump muffin. Yup. That's what I want."

The muffin was, in fact, small, heavy as a stone and decidedly mute. As we pulled away from the fast-food restaurant, my husband continued his banter about fat wise muffins until my daughter groaned and asked him to quit. He shook his head. "I feel sorry for people coming to this country and trying to learn English."

Sometimes the way we use words makes no sense. This seems to be particularly true in advertising. For instance, consider the expressions – 'color me smooth,' and 'a sandwich just isn't a sandwich,'or 'lips that don't quit.' Our culture speaks in slogans and metaphors, not to mention anagrams. Directions can be completely misunderstood by the absence of one word, the meaning of a sentence changed by a misplaced comma. Often these can be quite humourous, but they are all hindrances to clear communication. It's no wonder we laugh at the poster that reads - I know you believe you understand what you think I said, but I'm not sure you realize that what you heard is not what I meant.

Words can obscure understanding even when intentions are pure. Words can twist meaning when intentions are evil. There are, however, words which can be trusted, words which are meant to heal and bless, words which will never die. Psalm 12:6 says, "And the words of the Lord are flawless, like silver refined in a furnace of clay, purified seven times." Isaiah 55:10-11 says – "As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth; it will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it."

What words does the Lord speak to us? Words of assurance and comfort, words of challenge and sometimes reproach, words of guidance and warning. Our culture lives by the words of advertisers and slogan writers, words meant to spin the coin out of our pockets.

God's words are meant to bring truth, life, peace. Whose words have you chosen to use?

Words Like Dew

I was strolling through a local grocery store one day when an attractive woman in a business suit tapped me on my shoulder. "You're the woman who wrote that book," she said. Since I had three books in print at that time I asked which one she meant. "The one with the purple cover, something about a stone," she added.

I smiled and nodded, chuckling to myself that she probably didn't remember what the book was about. But she surprised me as she explained that she was working as a psychologist in a prison, dealing with many young men whose lives were much like the main character in my book. "It has really helped me as I work with them," she said. Wow. I was speechless. It was one of the best compliments I'd received as a writer. She went on to say how she had studied her chosen field in school, reading textbooks full of theories and strategies. But my novel had given her pictures, a story that she could relate to and characters that she empathized with. It had brought the theory to life.

As she talked I was struck again by the powerful impact words can have when they are wound into a story and the powerful impact the Holy Spirit has when He uses them. Her words convicted me, too, as I realized my responsibility to pray, to continue to ask God to use my book according to His purposes, to pour out his blessing on my readers.

Oswald Chambers, in his never-surpassed devotional book, My Utmost for His Highest, urges us to be careful not to take blessings to satisfy ourselves, but to pour them out before the Lord. He says, "If you are always taking blessing to yourself and never learn to pour out anything unto the Lord, other people do not get their horizon enlarged through you."

That last phrase struck me, in terms of how I spend my time and especially in terms of my writing life. In a sense, that's what all good writing will do – it will enlarge the horizon for the reader, give them a greater and deeper perspective that will ultimately lead them to praise God.

"Let my teaching fall like rain and my words descend like dew, like showers on new grass, like abundant rain on tender plants." Deut. 32:2

Amen and amen.

Writing as Chore

My deadline was one hour away and the monitor screen was still blank. It had been a busy week and I hadn't even started my column. Hadn't even thought about it. Hadn't even prayed. I typed the column heading and my name. I stopped. I clicked into my "ideas" file. Nothing inspired me. I went upstairs for a glass of water and decided my plants needed watering. I tidied up the living room. Half an hour later I went back to the computer. The screen was still blank. Finally, I prayed. Or rather, I whined. "Lord, I've been doing this for fifteen years. Maybe it's time I just quit." I was really asking for permission.

What came to mind was a story a Bible translator told me in Papua New Guinea. The translation work had not been going well. Then he got Dengue Fever. Then he ran out of food and had to almost literally crawl two miles to an airstrip only to discover the plane had been too full and couldn't bring his supplies. He decided he couldn't take any more. He went back to the village and told his national assistant he was quitting. The man nodded with understanding, then said, "But you must understand, I cannot quit this work. It is what God wants me to do."

Those words were a rebuke to my missionary friend that day. The memory was a rebuke to me now. I put my hands on the keyboard and started to type. I deleted most of what I wrote for the next half-hour, but then a sentence came. Ah, I thought. Another followed and I had that assurance. Yes. Go with that. The column was a bit past deadline, and I thought it seemed a bit plain. But I copied and pasted it into an email and hit the send button.

The responses flooded back.

"You couldn't have known ..."

"This gave me the courage to change ..."

"Thank you for putting this into words that helped..."

Some of them made me weep. All of them left me humbled by God's work. Sometimes writing is a chore. But we cannot quit. It is what God wants us to do.

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About the author:

Marcia is a pastor's wife, the mother of three grown daughters, a freelance writer and speaker. Her books, short stories, articles and poetry have won awards in Canada and the U.S. and been broadcast on CBC radio. Her work also appears frequently on the world wide web. She has taught writing courses for the Alberta Adult Education Department, Inscribe Christian Writers Fellowship, and The Word Guild. She speaks often for Stonecroft Ministries (www.stonecroftcanada.org ) and at various women's retreats and events.

Marcia and her family have been privileged to live a short distance from the Arctic Circle, in Dawson City Yukon, where Marcia and her husband came to Christ, and two degrees off the Equator, in Papua New Guinea, where they served with Wycliffe Bible Translators. While there Marcia wrote for the Non-print Media Department of the Summer Institute of Linguistics, producing radio and video scripts. Marcia also held the communications portfolio for the Associated Gospel Churches in Western Canada, writing, editing and producing their quarterly newsletter for six years. She has served on the executive of Inscribe Christian Writers' Fellowship www.inscribe.org and is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers www.acfw.com.

Marcia's first devotional book, Spur of the Moment, won an Award of Merit at Write!Canada in 2003, a second devotional, Focused Reflections, is now in print. Both books were endorsed by Jeanette Oke, Phil Callaway, Sigmund Brouwer and Mark Buchanan. Marcia was the recipient of the Best New Canadian Christian Author Award in 2006, for her novel One Smooth Stone, published by Castle Quay Books www.castlequaybooks.com. Her second novel will be released by Castle Quay in the fall of 2011.

Marcia and her family currently live in Central Alberta, Canada where they are involved in planting a new church.

Cover Design by Laura Laycock

Laurasta85@gmail.com

Other books by Marcia Lee Laycock:

Fiction:

One Smooth Stone

A Tumbled Stone

Non-Fiction:

Spur of the Moment

Focused Reflections

Anthologies:

Hot Apple Cider

A Second Cup of Hot Apple Cider

Stories for a Woman's Heart

Soul Matters for Mothers

Christmas Miracles

God's Way at Christmas

Connect with Marcia Online:

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/marcia.laycock#!/pages/Marcia-Lee-Laycock/58215841648

Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarciaLeeLaycock

Website: www.vinemarc.com

Twitter: http://twitter.com/MarciaLaycock

Blogs: www.writer-lee.blogspot.com

Reviews and information of interest to readers and writers

www.marcialaycock.blogspot.com (Marcia's personal blog)

www.noveljourney.blogspot.com (Sunday devotional columnist)

http://inscribewritersonline.blogspot.com/ (Inscribe Christian Writers)

http://twgauthors.blogspot.com/ (The Word Guild Authors)
