Daily Bread

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On one of the loveliest days of last summer, my family drove to the quay in Cork City where the Logos was docked. It was a delightful visit, meeting the staff, taking a tour of the ship, and of course, perusing the bookstore.

I came home with a small stack of books, but the best choice by far was The One Year Bible, New Living Translation. No matter that I started it when the year was half-finished.

Every night, it’s like sitting down to a meal. I love it. I love the variety of Old and New Testaments, with Psalms and Proverbs every day. I don’t stress out with guilt for skipping over the genealogies and such like, and the portions aren’t too long–actually, I often think they’re not long enough, that the meal was finished too quickly. The translation helps give a fresh message, so I don’t become lulled by words I’ve read all my life. Lately, in Genesis, I’ve been swept up with the narration and God’s amazing understatements.

A long time ago, every day for 40 years, God fed His people a mysterious food. It was unlike anything they knew so they called it “What is it?” The daily snowing of manna sustained them on their rigorous journey because it came from Him whose hand is strength and grace and love.

So when I pray before I begin my nightly “meal”: “Give me today the food I need” I am asking God to send me sustenance and strength that I can never get anywhere else. What He sends is often a mystery, not always acknowledged for the wonder that it is. But it is a wonder, and a beauty, and I love Him for it.

Proceed to Orbitz with Caution

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With two sisters coming from the US for Christmas, and three leaving after, and major winter storms enroute, I have never heard wilder, more impossible tales of travelling. I am one who loves the open road, and thinks happiness is found in a backpack, ticket and passport, heading for the far horizon. But after their stories of being stranded, misled by representatives, and other injustices, even I, the globe-trotter, quailed at the thought of buying another plane ticket. What kept me from despair at planning another trip was that they had some incredible angel stories too.

But all that was before the craziest story ever: Hannah and Esther were ready to board the plane at Dublin, when Hannah was told that her ticket was invalid.

Void.

No permission to board. No explanation. The. ticket. was. void.

The ticket had been paid, and a routine notice sent two days before. But on the day, the ticket was invalid, and no one can tell us why.

The angels were still on duty. One let Hannah board the first leg of her journey without a pass. The girls heard him on the speaker phone, telling the stewardess to let Hannah onto the plane after the luggage crew was told to get her bags off the plane. Who was he? How did he know to call at that moment? Who else but an angel had the power to make that command to the stewardess?

In Manchester, they had enough time to call dad who was able to buy a new US Airways ticket so that Hannah didn’t have to be stranded with an invalid ticket.

Orbitz, the company that sold the original ticket, has given no satisfaction, no refund, no explanation.

Which is why I studiously avoided them last week and got a ticket on the Delta website.

Growing Things

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During the summer, there was a for-real mushroom growing on a carpet in my house. I was trying to discover the source of the damp smell, and to my horror, found a button mushroom by the leaking radiator. The landlord called a plumber who fixed the leak, and I got a dehumidifier the same week, so now there is no more fungus. Anyhow, it’s too cold for anything to grow.

Except now book stacks are growing like stalagmites on a cave floor. Beside the bed, on the bed, beside the chair, on the desk. Books of writing, women, stories, character studies. I have tickets to fly to the US on Feb. 11 for my 2nd stint of teaching at Calvary Bible School. Yay, yay!

I plan to teach for 6 wks. ‘Godly Womanhood’ class accounts for the women’s studies and character studies and counselling books. And I will be assistant teacher for Christian Writing class, which is why I’m reading Zinsser and Card at the moment. How to inspire writing that is excellent in creativity and Truth? This is my quest.

The stalagmites grow slowly and steadily upwards.

The Sisterhood of the Travelling Manuscripts

Posted in Uncategorized, words by

Community seems to be a buzzword these days, but it’s a good word even though it runs the risk of being over-used and under-estimated. Paul David Tripp, my distance course lecturer, keeps saying that heart-deep change happens in community. I think he’s onto something. Sometime when I grow up and can process deep, profound books, I want to read Jean Vanier’s Community and Growth.

Until then, I am part of a small writing community in which good change is taking place in our writing skills. We are 6 ladies scattered over the globe, having many things in common but especially our love of words. Some of us are published writers, some are on the way. We use the old-fashioned method of postage, paper, envelopes, wherein each submits a manuscript for the rest to critique.

There are large helpings of encouragement, suggestions, and affirmations. A letter accompanies each person’s submission, and those are the parts I enjoy almost more than the creative writing pieces. We share our hearts and care and support each other’s life assignments.

We have 7 days to process the packet when it arrives. I failed badly this time, and sent it off a month late. My only justification is that it was a crazy month, and I’ve never kept it so long before, and will do my best not to let it happen again.

I’ve heard of some groups who do this kind of thing electronically but I do love the tangible paper, the handwritten letters, the assorted stationary–and the thunk on the floor as the postman drops the packet in my letter slot. I’ve been part of groups like this for over 10 years. I’ll never forget one of the first groups I was in, when the leader drew a red line under all my passive verbs. There were LOTS of them! But it was the best thing for me, and it gives me authority to gently point out others’ passive verbs.

A friend and I started this present group about eight years ago, inviting our friends whom we knew would be interested. I’ve dropped out of most of my former groups, but it will take something drastic to persuade me to give up this group. Start your own group! You and/or your writing may change in wonderful, significant ways.

A New Year’s Verse

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Last night, under the bright full moon, I reveled in a cold, solitary walk down to see the sea. As always, it fed my soul and spirit. I talked with God about the past year, and the new one, asked Him many questions, and thanked Him for His gifts of redemption and beauty.

I have a slight inferiority complex about never having taken a literature class. I don’t know what good poetry is, and haven’t been taught how to appreciate the best writers. I call myself an amateur aficionado of words, but when I saw these lines by T. S. Eliot today in Jill Carratini’s Slice of Infinity, I heard/felt a soul-deep resonance. I think that’s one indication of good literature. I don’t know all that Eliot was implying, but there is enough there that I identify with that it draws me toward it. Which is another quality of good poetry.

The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream.

New Book Possibilities

Posted in My Book, words by

Having written one book has given me a sort of identity crisis. Who am I if I don’t write? Who am I if I DO write? An authority? A personality? A full-time student/researcher? I have only some answers to some questions.
What is an author? One who writes.
Does one book mean there are more to come? Not necessarily.
Does writing a book mean the author is an expert on the chosen subject? Maybe yes, likely no.

In case anyone wonders, this is the truth: just because someone writes one book does not mean they can or will write another one. I think that as Christians who are stewards of gifts that God gives, we should write when the fire burns inside, and not just to vent or air our opinions and experiences.

So, apart from blogs and personal correspondence, I don’t know if I’ll ever write again. It’s been almost 2 years since my book came out. It’s just now that I’m starting to begin to hope I can write another book sometime. It won’t be soon, and I’m no hurry. My friends flatter me with their suggestions for the next book but I don’t expect to fill any of these orders. Still, it’s fun to think about the possibilities.

Suggestions:
How your siblings become your friends
Mennonite missions in 1st world countries
A book for young teen girls
Living Outside of Eden
A devotional book for women (to borrow a friend’s metaphor: I think we need another one of those like we need another Nobel Peace Prize)

Messiah at the Cathedral

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A long time ago, last Saturday night to be exact, a bunch of us went to the old cathedral in town. We got in early, sat close to the front and watched the technician tune the harpsichord. At 8, the announcer told us to check that our mobiles were switched off, and reminded us of how special it is to hear Messiah in a church that was built around the same time Handel composed the music.

I don’t know which part was my favourite because there were so many. Phrases and choruses keep running through my head. A man of sorrows…And His glory will be seen upon thee…Surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows…All we like sheep…blessing and honor and glory and power be unto Him, be unto Him…

They were the Irish Baroque Orchestra and Resurgam Chamber Choir, conducted by John Butt. It was a stellar choir and a gifted conductor, skillfully portraying Handel’s dynamics and eloquent pauses. The transcendent moment for me came when they started the crystal-clear, powerful chords of “Worthy is the Lamb.” It was like angels’ singing.

The music is powerful and moving in itself, but wedded with the words of prophecy, suffering, rejoicing, and triumph, Messiah is meaningful to me in ways that little else is. Driving out of the car park afterwards with a group of friends, I had nothing to say, but wanted to be quiet and savor the echoes in my mind. Sometimes the only fitting response to music is not praise, but silence.

Recommended Christmas Story

Posted in books, Ireland, life, words by

It’s been a frantic week of shop keeping and baking and carol singing. It’s been good, but frantic, and during yesterday’s duties I felt particularly as if I was moving in a slow, creaking gear. “Little smiles and little tears are all we’ve brought” was the line that repeated itself in my brain. It was my line, the only thing I could offer to anyone.

It’s the line from the poem “How Far is it to Bethlehem?” by Frances Chesterton. The line is the one Elizabeth Yates uses in her lovely Christmas story “On That Night.”

This morning I was part of the city market crew, to sell cakes, bread, and scones. I learned again that I am solar powered, and can sell things well. If the sun shines, anything is possible and everything is wonderful. And I can talk people into buying things because I’m enthused and happy.

Town was wonderful. I fell in love again with life and with Waterford City. The air was crisp and cold, and did I mention, bright? People met my eyes and smiled and/or waved and drivers were polite to each other. I rode the bus back to the bakery, to bake apple tarts and lemon tarts, thoroughly revived and ready to work for another week. This time as I worked, the little smiles and little tears were gone, and instead I sang and laughed and joked. Yup, I’m solar powered. The Romans used to call this country Hibernian. After 13 winters here, I understand why they did.

This evening six of us young ladies sang several songs as part of the carol service in St. Andrew’s Church in Dunmore East. It was a lovely evening of Nine Lessons and Carols, with a huge crowd of friends and neighbors packing the (drafty) pews. As we meandered out into the cold crisp night, I thought again of Yates’ “On That Night” and the magical, gentle night when the characters in the story left their prayer time, went out in the snow, and found what they’d lost. I hope we get snow now too.

Next week, hopefully things won’t be quite so frantic. I hope there’ll be an evening when we sisters can sit by my fire and take turns reading “On That Night” to each other. I love the wistful, gentle, worshipful story written by a gifted lady.

As far as Christmas stories go, I can’t choose my favourite between that one and “The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Twomey.” Both deal with love and loss, grief and miracles, and have parts where I choke up and parts where I smile every time I read them. Do yourself a favor and read at least one of them this week.

My Book News

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The good news is that as soon as the printer delivers it (hopefully no later than February), my book will be available at:

CLR Distribution

28500 Guys Mills Rd.

Guys Mills, PA 16327

Toll Free: 877-222-4769

Phone: 814-789-4769

Fax: 814-789-3396

Email: clr@fbep.org

Online: www.Christianlearning.org

I’ll post more details when the books arrive.

Just…One Star

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No easily-accessible internet service for the last week has attributed to the silence here. But now I want to share one of my favourite readings of the season. Thanks to aunts and uncles with good music taste, I grew up listening to “Christmas in Velvet.” I still love the swoopy, vibrant arrangments. Every time I hear “What A Merry Christmas Party!” I want to grin like a child. This is the very effective reading they include with “The First Noel.” It takes great poetic license, and I love it.

Back in the throne room of heaven plans were being made to announce the birth of God’s son. Michael the archangel had just finished describing his display of heavenly comets and falling stars. Gabriel went on with his musical plans, a great angelic choir of tens of thousands of voices tuned with heaven’s finest and latest harmonies, ready to serenade the earth.

God interrupted the conversation. “No,” He said, “That’s not really what I had in mind. I planned a small gathering in Bethlehem, actually. We don’t need all the trimmings.”

“But, oh, my stars!” said Michael. “What will I do with them?”

“And my music?” Gabriel added.

Just then, Jesus stepped through the pearly gates and out onto the red carpet of Time. He started down the stairway of stars.

Michael pled, “Father, let us do something! He can’t go unannounced!”

“Well, alright,” God said. “Gabriel: a few angels. Michael: just…one star.”

–source unknown, narrated in “Christmas in Velvet” by Derrik Johnson and The Regeneration