Fishin' Fer Men

I scrounged up this poem I wrote several years ago for today's Friday Fiction. It's not what I typically write -mostly jest fer fun.



Fishin’ Fer Men
by Sharlyn Guthrie

“Ernie, put yer waders on.
Go grab yer pole an’ lure.
Reckon I don’t hafta tell
ya’ what them things are fer.

Now tell th’ missus s’long
then hop in this here truck.
Down yon at Lake Kahoochee
we’ll try our trollin’ luck.

I sure ‘nuf knows it’s Sunday,
but ‘tisn’t ever’ day
th’ catfish are a bitin’
same as they are t’day.

Besides, it’s by the churchyard.
We’ll hear th’ choir singin’.
We’ll have a taste o’ Heaven
while our catch we’re stringin’.

I musta been convincin’;
‘took less than a minute.
Th’ missus ain’t too happy?
Shoot! She’ll soon forget it.

Now Hold th’ worm can, Ernie.
--dug ‘em fresh this mornin’.
I ain’t got time fer preachin’;
it’s oh so dry, an’ borin’.

Reckon th’ times a’comin’
I’ll hafta change my ways.
‘Til then I’ll jes’ keep fishin’.
Ain’t got no need t’ pray.

Yer mighty quiet, Ernie.
Th’ cat done got yer tongue?
Now you’ll forget th’ missus
Soon as yer line is flung.

That’s Blindman’s Knob we’re climbin’
--nearly there, by jiggered!
We both can get t’ baitin’
quicker than I figgered.

Doggone it! Nothin’s happnin’…
I’m pushin’ on th’ brake!
Good Lawd! We are a headin’
straight for Kahoochee Lake!”

Now Deacon Joe wuz fixin’
fer Sunday’s meetin’ when
he heard a loud commotion
an’ shoutin’, cursin’ men.

He scurried through the meadow
an’ down the slipp’ry bank
in time t’ see Lyle’s pick-up
jes’ sinkin’ like a tank.

The two men thrashed an’ hollered
t’ save their drownin’ souls.
Out there among the rushes
Joe found their fishin’ poles.

Joe cast an’ hooked Lyle’s britches
an’ as he reeled him in,
Lyle snagged Ernie’s suspenders;
he stretched ‘em mighty thin!

Two wet an’ red-faced anglers
flopped on Kahoochee’s shore.
They thanked the Lord in Heaven
t’ be on land once more.

“Well fellas, I’ll be headin’
back over t’ th’ church.
Guess you’ll be comin’ with me
since yer left in th’ lurch.”

Joe hooked one arm through Ernie’s,
th’ other one through Lyle’s.
folks saw that passel comin’
An’ they broke into smiles.

Down front, right near th’ altar
Ernie caught his missus.
A worm crawled down her cheek as
he laid on the kisses.

A humbled Lyle and Ernie
both took to repentin’.
Th’ preacher let ‘em finish
then did his commentin’.

“This here’s an illustration
of truth y’all have heard.
Ol’ Deacon Joe is righteous
an’ listens t’ God’s Word.

‘An when he sees a sinner
a-drownin’ in his ways
old Joe’ll go a fishin’
th’ dyin’ soul t’ save.

Some folks don’t meet th’ Savior
While sittin’ in a pew.
They hafta git reminded
a’ what God’s grace can do.

So boys, keep up yer fishin’.
But ever’ now an’ then,
instead o’ snaggin’ catfish
go fishin’ fer some men.”



“The fruit of the uncompromisingly righteous is a tree of life, and he who is wise captures human lives for God, as a fisher of men--he gathers and receives them for eternity.” Proverbs 11:30 (AMP)



Catrina is hosting Fiction Friday today at her blog Speak to the Mountain. I hope you will pay her blog a visit, or better yet, join us!

Christmas Candy Capers

Today I am sharing another true story, this time from (ahem!) just a few years back. Catrina of A Work in Progress is the hostess of Fiction Friday this week, so be sure to pay her a visit.



Christmas Candy Capers
by Sharlyn Guthrie

Soon after school began the fall of my junior year, my chemistry teacher phoned me at home. “I know you like cats,” she began, “so I wondered if you would be up to a special challenge. My cat had kittens and she has a runt that needs more care than I can give. Are you interested?”

Of course I was interested! However, since my mother would need to help out with the care during the day, and would eventually take full responsibility for the cat when I went off to college, I had to consult her. Much to my surprise, she agreed.

The tiny limp bundle looked hopeless. She lay curled in the corner of a shoebox bed, unable to even lift her tiny head. We placed a crook-necked lamp above her to keep her warm and began hourly feedings with an eyedropper.

After several days our frail feline emitted a soft sound whenever we approached. Since her cry sounded a bit like bagpipes, we named her Musette. Soon she was standing, and a larger box was needed to contain her. We added a litter box, which she took to immediately.

After a couple of weeks I started carrying Musette on my shoulder. She was still tiny and maintained her parrot-like balance perfectly as I went about my everyday tasks. As time went on she learned to climb up my clothing in order to reach my shoulder. Fortunately, she remained a perpetual kitten size-wise, but her affinity for climbing knew no limits. She also climbed the couch, the curtains, and the hall tree. We found her in the basement rafters, on top of the refrigerator, and curled inside a hat on the closet shelf.

Christmas time came and Mother decorated the house as usual. In fact, even more than usual, since she planned to do some entertaining before the entire family came home for the holidays. In the center of the dining room table she placed a handmade centerpiece of wrapped hard candies, strictly forbidding my father and I to eat even one piece of candy until the centerpiece had served its decorative purpose.

A tall, narrow Christmas tree was erected in the living room, strung with colored lights and silver tinsel. The tree was purposely chosen for its full, close branches, and a quilt was wrapped around its base to prevent a certain kitten from climbing its trunk. Musette batted at the low strands of tinsel and catnapped on the quilt, but surprisingly left the tree alone.

It was my father who astounded me. Despite Mother’s stern warnings, pieces of candy began disappearing one-by-one from the centerpiece. When Mother chided us as she filled in the holes, my father feigned innocence. I hadn’t touched a single piece, so he was obviously the guilty one!

One late December day I returned home from school to a houseful of women -the members of my mother’s Bible study group. While I unloaded my books in my upstairs bedroom, Musette scampered up my pants leg and onto my shoulder where she remained until I descended the stairs a few minutes later.

I was halfway down the stairs when Musette took a flying leap toward the Christmas tree. Her scrawny legs scrambled and clawed, eventually snagging the lights, which wrapped around and held her dangling upside down between the tree and the wall. Her bagpipe cry wasn’t soft, but piercing just then. Worried that Musette was being electrocuted, my mother quickly unplugged the lights, which sent the kitten swinging. A desperate attempt to escape brought the tree crashing onto the floor, and the kitten dashing for safety.

My poor mother was mortified as her friends began scrambling after the scattered ornaments.

“What’s this?” one woman asked as she knelt at the base of the tree. “Do you normally hide candy under here?” Mother and I rushed to her side and there, under the quilt, was a pile of hard candies, still in wrappers. The mystery of the disappearing candy began unraveling as the identity of the candy thief became apparent, and across the room I glimpsed the twitching of a thin gray tail sticking out from underneath the drapes.

Bum's The Word

Debra is hosting Fiction Friday today. Pay her a visit and find more links to great fiction, or leave your link to your own story.


Brighter days are back and it's time to lighten up my blog a bit. For today's Friday Fiction I've chosen a story well-suited to this time of year. The story is actually true, having taken place last December. Hope it makes you smile.



Bum’s the Word
by Sharlyn Guthrie

My quest for blue jeans in my husband’s desired size, style, and shade landed me in a mall thirty miles from home one crazy December afternoon. Christmas was approaching, and said blue jeans were on the “gotta find ‘em “ list. So, when a phone call from our local store confirmed that the distant store did, in fact, have them in stock, I was on my way.

Since the jeans were on hold, I made my purchase quickly. Then, I reasoned that I should shop for a few other items on my list. After all, this mall was larger than our local mall, and I might be spared another trip or some last minute headaches.

Soon I found myself in the jewelry department of a fine department store, selecting some earrings. The rack I was searching reached nearly to the floor, and of course the most compelling colors hung enticingly near the bottom of the display. So there I was, bent over at the waist, with my posterior sticking out into the aisle. I knew it wasn’t the most flattering or lady-like pose, but it couldn’t be helped. “Hmmm, shall I buy the red chandelier earrings, or the purple sparkly ones?”

Whap! The slap to my derriere brought me immediately erect. Incredulous, I turned to see who had been so rude. To my right there was no one in sight; to my left a saleslady was walking briskly away. She glanced backward, however, and her face wore a mischievous grin.

The saleslady’s grin lasted only an instant. She froze when she saw me, and we stood staring at each other with matched expressions, both seeming to say, “Huh?” Finally, short, exclamatory sentences came tumbling from her lips.

“Oh my goodness! You’re not Susan! I’m so sorry! I thought you were Susan! You look just like her -at least that side of you did! Oh no! I can’t believe it! I just spanked a customer!” Her face had lost its color and the grin I had glimpsed for a moment had vanished. Her associates gathered around, and were no doubt trying to remember protocol for such an incident. Since they couldn’t come up with any, they all just stood there, watching and waiting to see how it played out. The poor woman was distraught.

I couldn’t think of any protocol either, so I did what came naturally. I laughed. Soon her co-workers joined in, and finally Saleslady, herself, cracked a feeble smile.

“I’ll probably lose my job over this,” she lamented as I handed her the earrings I had chosen to buy. “That was such a stupid thing for me to do. You have no idea how sorry I am. Let me buy these for you,” she said, taking them from my hand.

“Look, it was a mistake, and a funny one at that. I have no intention of reporting you,” I told her, “and I won’t let you buy my earrings; but if it makes you feel better, maybe you can give me the sale price that’s supposed to start tomorrow.”

“Really? You’re not going to report me? I can’t believe it.”

“Consider yourself forgiven,” I said, “but don’t expect me to forget this. It’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever experienced. What a great story! Don’t worry, though. Mum’s the word. I’ll never reveal your identity.”

We continued our banter while Saleslady rang up the earrings at the sale price, and I could tell she was feeling less threatened. Then she handed me the receipt. “Oh Ma’am,” she said, leaning in close across the counter, “Spank you very much!”


“Those who conceal their sins do not prosper, but those who confess and renounce them find mercy.” Proverbs 28:13 (Today’s NIV)

A Duck Out of Water

I have the honor of hosting Fiction Friday today. I hope you will join us. Just sign up on the Linky at the end of this post and link to your own original fiction.

A Duck Out of Water
by Sharlyn Guthrie

Last year I joined a gym. I was only one of the hordes that signed up in January following two months of eating like a ravenous sumo wrestler. After popping the buttons off several pairs of slacks, I knew that it was time to take action.

It had been years since I took physical fitness seriously. My shape had become so frumpy I could barely admit to myself, let alone anyone else, that I had once been an aerobics instructor. Well, it was never too late to make a fresh start. At least that‘s what I had always told those who joined my classes.

I was no fool. I started out easy, first choosing water aerobics and stationary bicycling. Both of these provided good exercise without requiring total concentration. I prayed through long lists of prayer requests during water aerobics. While bicycling, I became engrossed in inspiring Christian music on my MP3 player as I fancied myself cruising along serene country paths.

Long forgotten muscle groups screamed their resistance, but eventually I gained strength and endurance. My confidence grew, and I felt ready to move on.

Scanning the schedule of classes, I discovered that the gym’s offerings had changed during my absence from the fitness scene. For some un-explainable reason, I settled on kickboxing as my next endeavor.

Kickboxing moved at a killer pace as compared to that of water aerobics, and the music was much less serene than what I enjoyed while bicycling. I struggled to match the tempo as sweat formed puddles under my feet. I felt like a duck out of water. Perhaps I was better suited for Bingo tournaments.

While most of the women in the class wore compression shorts and sports bras designed to accent their slender, youthful bodies, I wore baggy T-shirts and sweatpants in order to conceal mine. I had to think and move more quickly than I was accustomed to. On more than a few occasions I turned the wrong direction, narrowly missing my neighbor’s side kick or forward jab. Yikes!

But the maladjustment went even deeper than that. You see, I am a gentle soul –a peacemaker type. Kickboxing is anything but peaceful. Bobbing and weaving while aiming uppercuts at imaginary rivals was simply not in my nature. In fact, it made me laugh. After all, I had no plans to hang out in dark alleys any time soon.

Suffice it to say that I didn’t take my new pursuit seriously. During my first several sessions the instructor exhibited considerable patience and restraint, but that was about to change. One day I settled into the now-familiar routine and allowed my mind to entertain possible ideas for a story I was writing.

“Pay attention! Focus! Your opponent is right in front of you!” The reprimand was directed at me, only inches from my face. Jolted out of dreamland, I heeded the command, my cheeks stinging from more than the heat of exertion. During the remainder of that class every part of my being remained engaged.

Afterwards, I licked my wounds; or rather I licked the residue of hot fudge from my lips after indulging in an unhealthy amount of self-pity.

Finally, though, I confessed to myself that the instructor was right. She had accurately perceived my lack of enthusiasm and attentiveness. Until that day I had no intention of taking kickboxing seriously. I decided then and there that my attitude had to change if I was to continue.

As I considered my dilemma, the instructor’s words resounded. They rang with familiarity and truth, although I couldn’t pinpoint why until I came across this verse: “Be of sober spirit, be on the alert. Your adversary, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.”* The words packed a powerful dummy punch, reminding me that I had lost sight of my spiritual enemy.

Is that what had made me vulnerable to overindulgence and lack of motivation in my physical struggles as well?

Oh Lord, keep me focused and alert. Guard me from growing too comfortable in my spiritual routines. Make me aware of the enemy who seeks to devour me. Strengthen me through the power of Your Holy Spirit. Thank you, Lord, for jarring me out of my complacency.

I returned to kickboxing with a new attitude and a new strategy. My opponent was real. He had a name and a purpose. I would take him seriously, blocking his every move. It added vigor to my workout and prudence to my continued peaceful existence.

My attitude adjustment would not, however, be accompanied by a wardrobe adjustment any time soon.


*I Peter 5:8 NASV

Where are Ravens When You Need Them?

If you have checked my blog recently and wondered where I've been, I have been busy finishing up the end of the school year and preparing for my trip to Uganda. I leave in just two weeks, so you may not see much activity here until I return.

Since many of you seemed to enjoy my May 13th story, I thought I would share another (humorous) Boundary Waters tale. Enjoy!

Where are Ravens When You Need Them?
by Sharlyn Guthre

“Would someone tell me how I ended up on this ledge?” I wondered aloud.

“You climbed.” Ordinarily Dan was a likable teenager, but at that moment, had there not been so many witnesses, I would have smacked him. The ledge we were sharing jutted out forty feet above the lake where the rest of the youth group and the other chaperones sat staring up at us from their canoes. One look over the ledge, and I headed back the way we came.

“The only way off is to jump,” my companion said matter-of-factly. “I’ll go first.” Again I quelled a violent outburst, but I did manage a death grip on his arm.

“No! Not yet, I mean…just let me figure this out.” He was right about the path we had taken to the top. We had climbed hand-over-hand, pulling ourselves up and over rocks. I’d broken two fingernails coming up. I could easily break my neck attempting to go down.

I tried to think of someone to blame for my predicament, and settled on my adventuresome, risk-taking husband, who was responsible for dragging me along on this trip in the first place. Concerning this latest adventure John had merely said, as compellingly as the serpent himself, “I dare you.” He had also pointed out that Dan, Gilbert, and I were the last remaining holdouts, and Dan was already making his way to the top. That left me in the same category as Gilbert, a constant shirker of responsibility, feigner of injuries, and genuine pain in the posterior region. If that weren’t enough, my entire family had already successfully leaped from the cliff.

“Hold up, Dan!” I had called out, oblivious to the shocked expressions exchanged by the others.

It can’t be that bad. Who cares that I’m the oldest female in the group? Besides, I’ll make my sons and my husband proud. Everyone will respect me, and news of my strength and courage will spread throughout the church -maybe even the city.

Such grandiose thoughts had fueled my ascent. Now, with Dan’s arm turning blue beneath my fingers, I considered the alternatives.

Jumping is definitely out of the question. Climbing back down is impossible. Maybe I can convince the others to leave me here and pray, like Elijah, for the ravens to feed me.

My musings caused me to loosen my grip just enough that Dan wriggled away. “See ya at the bottom, Mrs. Guthrie. Good luck.” And with that, Dan ran and leapt off the cliff. I couldn’t bear to watch, but several seconds later I heard a splash, followed by cheers and applause from below.

I had never been so alone. I searched the sky for ravens and, seeing none, edged closer to the ledge.

“Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!”

So this is the respect I get…twenty ungrateful teens heckling me to leap to my death like a jilted lover on a New York skyscraper. I’ll show them. They’ll be sorry when their little wilderness vacation is cut short and they have to figure out how to haul my body back to civilization. Guess I’ll end up in the papers after all, if only in the obituaries.

I sucked in my breath, closed my eyes, and stepped off the ledge…down…down…down. When will I reach the bottom? Down…down…down…better take another breath. Down…down…down…I’m coming, Lord Jesus!

Splat! I felt as though I’d been spanked –hard! Silence closed in and it felt like my lungs were held in a vise as I rose to the surface. I came up gasping, and immediately sank back under the chilly water. This time, several hands grabbed and pulled me up and into a canoe.

“You did it!”

“I can’t believe it!”

“Way to go, Mrs. Guthrie.”

“Wait till everyone hears about this.”

“My mom would never do what you just did.”

I felt exhilarated, proud, and thankful all at the same time.

“See, aren’t you glad you did it?” My husband asked, embracing me.

“I guess so. It was pretty impressive how long it took to reach the water. I actually had time to think! I broke two fingernails, though, and my back end is a little sore.”

“You’ll get over it,” he said, with not one bit of sympathy –and I did.

Later, however, in the privacy of our tent I dropped my wet shorts, revealing a bruise the size of Texas. John gasped, then quickly tried to suppress a grin.

“Go ahead and laugh,” I said. “I dare you.”

Fiction Friday is being hosted today by Yvonne at My Back Door. Stop in and find links to more great fiction.

What Was I Thinking?

This story is more truth than fiction, even the ending, as I just may be joining my husband and the youth group for this trip once again this summer -sigh!

What Was I Thinking?
by Sharlyn Guthrie

I still don’t know why I said “yes” when he popped the big question. No, I’m not talking about a marriage proposal. The question my husband asked went something like this, “I finally talked the youth pastor into taking the youth to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area this summer. Isn’t that great? He wants us to chaperone. You’ll go along, won’t you?”

I was raised in a hotel loving, all-girl family. I had never been in a motor boat, much less a canoe. Still, my sense of adventure was stirred. When my teenage son blurted, “YOU’RE going to the Boundary Waters?!” something in his tone challenged me.

My husband was like a child waiting for Christmas. He counted the weeks and then the days. He dragged me to stores I had never shopped in before to purchase items I didn’t know existed –collapsible dinnerware, green vinyl rain ponchos and camouflage hats with netting that tied over your face. I laughed, informing him that I intended to maintain my stylish reputation. He laughed back –an evil cackle, really. I should have been very scared.

We began packing. “I’m having a little trouble over here,” I informed him. My pack was bulging, while another sizable pile of necessities waited to be included.

My husband quickly pinpointed the problem. “You packed too many clothes. You only need one set to stay dry and one to get wet.”

“For a whole week?” Doubts were mounting, but the next item to go was my make-up. “You’re kidding me!” He wasn’t.

Thirty one teens and chaperones launched fifteen canoes into Farm Lake, following prayer and a few instructions. “Don’t stand up or shift your weight suddenly. Remember the phrase ‘up a creek without a paddle?’ It can happen here. Tents don’t float.” Halfway across the lake those instructions were demonstrated with much more clarity than any flight attendant’s oxygen mask routine.

The occupants of two canoes playfully lunged at each other as they passed. One canoe flipped, depositing two teens, their packs, and tent into bone-chilling water. Ignoring the shrieks of bobbers in life-vests, the guides grabbed their packs instead. But the tent had already sunk. The canoe was righted and repacked, though one paddle had drifted away unnoticed amidst the commotion.




At camp two cold, wet boys solemnly spread their wet belongings on tree branches, then huddled near the fire. Although they were sheepish in their request for tent space it was soon granted. Three now had to squeeze into tents designed for two.

“Let’s go for a walk,” my exultant husband called, grabbing a shovel.

“Okay,” I responded, skipping ahead of him. “This is fun. How far are we going?”

“How about over here? It’s off the path for privacy’s sake, but not too far away in case of bears.”

I hesitated. “Just what are we talking about doing over here?”

“We’re digging the latrine.”

Speechless, I just stood there watching him dig that hole. My husband ignored me, but a sinister grin played at the corners of his mouth.

Meanwhile, the contents of a bag labeled “beef stroganoff” were dumped into boiling lake water. The resulting substance convinced most of us to skip supper and retreat to our tents early. It was a good thing, too. The stroganoff moved swiftly through those who ate it, resulting in many trips to the now totally disgusting latrine.

We awoke to rain. Grudgingly I donned the ugly green poncho, casting sideways glances at my gleeful husband. On day two of drizzle I became openly hostile. “What were you thinking? What was I thinking?” His smirk remained intact.


The sun broke through just before going down on that second day, creating a spectacular sunset. My husband raised his arm, attempting an embrace. “You stink!” I snapped, and reality hit. We hadn’t bathed for three days, yet we had paddled hard, sweating under ponchos. Using a tarp my husband fashioned a shower, then poured cold lake water over me as I yelped and hollered. Then I returned the favor. It was a high price to pay for cleanliness.

Mosquitoes as large as hummingbirds converged on us at dusk. Out came the funky hat my husband had selected for the occasion.

I wish I could say that things improved after that. They didn’t. Joyfully I returned to the land of warm showers and flush toilets.

Yesterday my husband asked, “Are you going back to the Boundary Waters with us next summer?”

I have no idea why, but I said, “Yes!”











Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Catrina Bradley on her blog, A Work In Progress.

Baby Blues

In honor of Mothers Day I thought I would share a story I wrote about becoming a new mother. Sure, it has been a while since this happened to me, but some feelings are easily recalled. In case you're wondering, the baby in the picture is none other than my new little granddaughter, Josie Jean LaRue Guthrie, born April 26th. She was one day old here. Isn't she precious?





Baby Blues
by Sharlyn Guthrie

As I reach up from the wheelchair to accept the tiny bundle my eyes widen and my heart seizes. “Are they really going to let me take you home, little one? What makes them think I can care for you properly? I killed all my African violets, for heaven’s sake! And last week I totally slept through Roger’s raucous card game. The cat nearly trips me before I remember to feed him. What if I forget to feed you?” Anxious thoughts erupt one after the other, causing my raised hands to shake.

“Are you okay? A little tired, perhaps? Maybe I should push him down in his bassinette.” As if my own worries aren’t enough. Now I’ve managed to alarm the nurse.

“I’m fine.” The infant moves only slightly as his cocoon is nestled into the crook of my arm. He draws my attention like a magnet, making me barely aware of our procession down the hall. He is warm and beautiful. Delicate eyelashes rest on sumptuous cheeks punctuated by a comma for a nose. The shape of a heart adorns his upper lip, resting on the beginnings of a pout. “What was it that Grandma said about his chin? Ah yes, ‘an angel must have kissed him there, for a perfect dimple remains as evidence.’”

“My son is beautiful, not handsome.” The sudden revelation, or else the jolt of the descending elevator, causes my stomach to lurch. “Will the other children think he’s girly? Call him names like ‘wimp’ or ‘pretty boy?’ Will he get picked on at recess and eat his lunch by himself, causing his teachers to whisper among themselves and shake their heads with pity?”

The door has opened again and my son and I are wheeled toward the lobby. I relax a little as onlookers pause, regarding us tenderly. Apparently I don’t look as inept as I feel. Maybe I’m not an unfit mother after all.

That thought evokes an unwelcome memory from three Sunday nights ago. It was time for my hourly trek to the bathroom to relieve my restricted bladder. The dog whined to relieve hers as well, so I picked her up and waddled to the back door, whacking her in the head with the door as I opened it. She leapt from my arms and cowered, whimpering under the picnic table. She still tucks her tail between her legs whenever I approach. “What if I accidentally harm my own child? Or worse yet, frighten him by losing my temper? Will he someday wince when I raise my hand? Will he run to hide when I call his name?”

A kiss on my forehead interrupts my frightful retrospection. “Motherhood suits you,” Roger whispers. “You positively glow.”

Touching my flushed cheeks, I smile faintly. Oblivious as usual, Roger is simply being his easy-going self. Yet somehow at this moment his jovial, laid-back manner irritates me.

“Here, honey. Why don’t you take your little prince and fasten him into his car seat?” Sarcasm rolls off my tongue with the words. “I assume you have it properly installed and all the straps sorted out and adjusted.” I watch for any hint of trepidation, but there is none. Roger calmly lifts our son, placing him gently into his seat, only slightly fumbling with the straps he is fastening. All the while he croons a soothing lullaby.

Un-beckoned tears squeeze out, streaming down my cheeks, releasing my worries, my doubts, my fears like a flood. Whether it’s unbalanced hormones or a bad case of the jitters, I don’t know. But I do know that I don’t have to do this alone. The God of the universe has promised never to leave me. And Roger, my amazing, even-tempered, God’s gift of a husband, promised the same thing.

I settle into the back seat next to our son who continues his peaceful sleep, totally unaware of my inexperience and insecurities. He absolutely trusts in my ability to care for him. Surely I can rest as peacefully in God’s strength and trust as fully in His power.

Glancing sideways, I note that our baby’s pout has turned into a lop-sided smile, and fresh concerns tumble through my mind. “Is he still breathing? Are his nerves and muscles all connected right? Will the left corner of his mouth always droop like that?”

Be still, my fretful soul.




Fiction Friday is being hosted today by Karlene Jacobsen at Homespun Expressions.

Life Is Not Always A Bleach

It was just an ordinary Sunday afternoon phone call to my son, who happened to be in his second month of college five hundred miles away. Okay, I’ll admit it. I hadn’t heard from him for two weeks, and the mother in me had begun to conjure up all kinds of disturbing scenarios: he had sunk into a deep depression, and dropped out of school; his dorm was under the siege of terrorists; he had joined a cult, and was roaming the country in his bathrobe. I desperately needed to hear Justin’s voice. However, I tried to sound casual when he answered.

“So, what have you been up to?”

“Not much. I’ve been playing some flag football lately. That reminds me, Mom. Whatever you do, tell my brothers about bleach!”

What an odd request! The fact that his two statements might actually be linked, however, seemed stranger yet. “Sure. I’ll tell them.” I couldn’t help but grin into the phone, imagining how unenthused his brothers would be to learn the finer points of bleach usage. “Is there anything in particular you want them to know about it?”

“I ruined my favorite jeans; that’s all. I didn’t know bleach could do that.”

I knew which jeans he was talking about. I had fudged on the family clothing budget to buy them. Now I envisioned them splotched with white. “You know, some people pay big bucks for jeans with rips or bleach spots. Or, if you don’t like the spots, maybe you can just bleach them some more, until they are a lighter shade of denim.”

“Mom, you don’t get it. I don’t even have the jeans anymore.”

I seemed to have touched a nerve somehow, but I was incredulous. “You threw them away just because you got bleach on them? Those were expensive jeans!”

Exasperation resounded in the heavy sigh emanating from three states away. “Okay. Here’s what happened. I played flag football in my new jeans. It was stupid. I know that now. But it wasn’t as stupid as using bleach to try to get the grass stains out.”

“Ooooh…I’m starting to get the picture. Go on. Did you accidentally splash them when you poured the bleach into the washing machine?”

“I asked a girl in the laundry room how to bleach something, and she said to soak it. So, I poured a bottle of bleach into an ice cream bucket, and then I put my jeans in to soak while I went to the library to study for a while.”

“You’re telling me you poured the whole bottle of bleach in the bucket? How much water did you put in?”

“No water. She just said to soak it in bleach, not water.”
I stifled a snicker. “So what did the jeans look like when you came back from studying?”

“They looked pretty light, but I figured I could deal with that. So I just dumped them in the washer and put my quarters in.”

“You didn’t take them out of the bleach?”

“Nope.”

“And you didn’t put any other clothes in with the jeans?”

“Nope.”

“Well, at least we can be thankful for that!”

“No doubt.”

“I guess they were just too messed up then, and you had to throw them away.”

“You could say that. When the cycle ended and I opened up the washer, my favorite jeans were in tiny little pieces.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No. I’m not kidding you. The biggest piece I found was the zipper. Just tell my brothers about bleach.” Justin emphasized each word of his final sentence.

My overactive imagination had eased by the time Justin and I finished our conversation, but the moment I hung up the phone I burst into uncontrolled laughter. I could relax. My son was actually learning some practical lessons. Of all the disturbing scenarios I had envisioned, his laundry error was pretty tame -the net loss being an overpriced pair of jeans, and perhaps a little dignity.

Justin’s brothers were informed and entertained by the tale of disintegrating blue jeans. I’m fairly certain they won’t repeat the same mistake; although I did hear them whispering something about the sweaters Aunt Sally gave them for Christmas. Just in case, I’m hiding the bleach.











This story was written for the topic, "oops." It is actually a true story from several years ago, and one of my favorite stories to retell. I posted this story today for Fiction Friday, hosted today by Shelley Ledfors @ The Veil Thins.

A Wayfarer's Canadian Anthem

Most people know that the Canadian national anthem begins, “O Canada…” But do you know the rest of the lyrics? With all the buzz over the Vancouver Olympics, I believe that today is the perfect time to share them with you.

Actually, I have to admit these lyrics aren't the official ones. I had a little fun rewriting the lyrics. This version is specifically intended for those of us who are silly enough, smart enough, or adventurous enough to vacation there.


A Wayfarer’s Canadian Anthem

O Canada! Your highways stretch for miles.
They’re threatening our over-eager smiles.
We fear the road shall never end;
but just when we are sure,
our guide begins the tour.

O Canada! Across your prairies wide
I feel a rhythmic rocking side to side
as grasses wave and breezes blow.
I’m feeling mighty sick.
Oh Dramamine, come quick!

O Canada! Your cities buzz with life—
museums, shopping, fine restaurants, nightlife—
best seen in summertime, of course.
Your fashion, culture, art
are modern, hip, and smart.

O Canada! Your famous people shine.
Joannie, Patrick, Toews all skate so fine.
Shania, Keanu, Celine
are but a dazzling few
who tip their hats to you.

O Canada! Your wilderness is wild,
and there I feel as if I’ve been exiled;
cumbersome pack upon my back
while path grows winding, steep
for miles before I sleep.

O Canada! I’ve glimpsed your creatures fierce:
brown bears and loons whose cries my eardrums pierce,
your fearsome goose and mighty moose.
Mosquitoes large as crows
eat me right through my clothes.

O Canada! Your rivers and your streams
run clearer than the visions in my dreams.
I pray before I take a drink
that parasites are dead
and there no moose have tread.

O Canada! O Canada!
O Canada! Forgive this tribute lame
O Canada! I love you all the same.

~by Sharlyn Guthrie













I’m participating in Fiction Friday today. Please visit The Veil Thins for links to more great fiction.

Natalie's Glasses

by Sharlyn Guthrie




Children chattered noisily, attempting to decipher the messages imprinted on each conversation heart. My kindergarten class had just finished playing a phonics game in which the tiny Valentine treats served as rewards. I had never seen my students as enthusiastic about learning to read, so I congratulated myself on my stroke of genius.

Natalie approached me, her hand outstretched. “What does this one say?”

“Why don’t you try to read it?”

Standing on tiptoe Natalie tugged on my sleeve. When I bent close, she whispered in my ear, “I don’t know how to read…I don’t have glasses.”

Uncomprehending, I furrowed my brow. That’s when I noticed several children, candy hearts in hand, crowded around Keegan, the only proficient reader in the class and the only other person besides myself who wore glasses. I smiled as the meaning of Natalie’s words became clear.

It wasn’t hard relating to Natalie’s misperception. I could recall asking my grandmother to read me a story when I was a child. “Let me fetch my reading glasses,” she had replied, heading for the stand that held her Bible and newspaper. After reading the story Grandma had returned to the kitchen. Then I carefully tried on her reading glasses, hopeful that they would work for me. Instead, the words in my storybook grew fuzzy and I felt dizzy. The memory made me smile.

Now here I was, attempting to teach five year olds how to read. The job was often challenging. Today had been encouraging, but on other days I wondered if we were making any progress at all.

If only Natalie were right, and a pair of glasses could make all the difference in the world…

“It’s time to practice reading,” I notify my class.
“First I’ll see that sixteen pairs of glasses have been passed.
Next take out your books and turn them to page twenty three.
Please put on your glasses. You will find it easily.”

Sixteen children flip and then land promptly on the page.
“Ready? Let’s begin.” Each student’s interest is engaged.
Flawlessly they read with meaning and expression.
No one hesitates throughout the reading lesson.

Now my classroom duties have greatly been reduced
More time’s left for play-doh and playing “Duck, duck, goose.”
I rejoice and call it a reading revolution.
Students stumped by phonics now have a quick solution.

News of the wonder glasses spreads across the nation.
Soon there is no need for special education.
Next the lucky lenses bring good fortune to the poor.
Streets once ruled by gangsters grow safe and calm once more.

Countries where the children can’t afford to go to school
are given vast supplies of the educator’s tool.
The benefits of reading, now clear for all to see,
have philanthropists distributing the spectacles for free.

Missionaries use them in the spreading of God’s Word,
Enabling folks to read, who before had only heard.
Miracle reading glasses –an educator’s dream…

“What’s this one say, teacher? Teacher? TEACHER!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Tyler, I must have been daydreaming. Let’s see if you can sound it out...but first, put on your glasses.”

“But teacher, I don’t have any glasses.”

“Oh. Then we’ll just have to do it the old-fashioned way, won’t we?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

Today I'm participating in Fiction Friday, hosted by Yvonne at My Back Door. Visit her blog for links to more great fiction.

Wake Up, Jimmy

by Sharlyn Guthrie

“Wake up, Jimmy.” Lisa approached the bed and gently shook his shoulder. “Time to rise and shine,” she sang.

“I’m sleeping in today.”

“It’s Sunday, Silly! We have to get ready for church.”

“I’m not going today. Josh and Steve aren’t going. They get to go hunting instead.”

“Yeah? Well it’s their loss. Sundays are for worship and fellowship, not hunting.”

“Fellowship?” Jimmy sat up, rubbing his droopy eyes. “Did you say fellowship? I don’t have any real friends at church.”

“Of course you do, Jimmy. Everyone adores you. Where do you get these ridiculous ideas?”

“Think about it. It’s church. They’re obligated to act nice, but who really cares about me? If I didn’t show up no one would even notice.”

Lisa shook her head. It was no use arguing. A heavenly aroma drifted in from the hallway. “I’ve got to take the muffins out of the oven. They’re chocolate chip…your favorite.” Nearing the door she paused, then turned, reaching inside the closet. She pulled out a crisp blue shirt hung over khaki dress slacks. Jimmy sat motionless as she hung them on the closet door handle, then shot him a look that said, “No more discussion.”

Poking her head in the girls’ room, she saw that they were already primping before their mirror. “The muffins are done,” she announced.

Rachel and Shelby were right on her heels as she reached the kitchen. They chattered noisily as they munched their muffins and gulped their milk. As they finished and scampered off to brush their teeth, Jimmy shuffled into the room. “Morning,” he mumbled under his breath.

Without looking up Lisa quipped, “I thought you weren’t going to church today.”

“I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

Lisa set the plate of muffins in front of Jimmy, placed her hand over his, and prayed. “Father in Heaven, thank You for this glorious day –this day that You have made. Set our minds on You and prepare our hearts for worship. Forgive our apathy and our selfishness. Bless now this food to its intended use, and our bodies to Your service. Amen.”

Jimmy peeled away a muffin paper, avoiding Lisa’s smile, that was no doubt as convicting as her prayer. The space between them hung as silent as the curtains at the kitchen window. Lisa was relieved to see that he was wearing the shirt and pants she had chosen for him. Who knows what he might have chosen to wear?! At least she had managed to avoid additional tension over clothing. Jimmy hadn’t always felt this way about going to church, but Lisa knew that she had said enough, maybe even too much. From her background in Psychology she knew all about phases and life stages. She would just have to commit Jimmy’s moodiness to the Lord and wait.

The family gathered near the door, Bibles in hand. Lisa gave the girls a once-over. She tucked Rachel’s curls behind her headband and re-tied Shelby’s bow, making the loops even. She adjusted Jimmy’s shirt collar and combed his hair with her fingers, finally brushing the back of her hand along the side of his face. His eyes met hers for a brief moment.

Lisa selected an up-beat praise and worship CD for the family to listen to as she drove them to church. She prayed silently as the girls belted out the words to the songs from the back seat.

Music continued as the service began. The worship team skillfully wove scripture and prayer throughout their musical offerings, turning the congregation’s focus outward and upward to God.

After several announcements, a moving piece by the choir, and an update on church finances, it was almost time for the pastor to present his message. Lisa prayed fervently as Deacon Findley nodded in their direction and then motioned with his hand. “Pastor Jim, I’ll turn it over to you.” She watched as Jimmy stood and strode to the podium.

“Shall we pray?” he asked. Then he began, “Father in Heaven, thank You for this glorious day –this day that You have made. Set our minds on You and prepare our hearts for worship. Forgive our apathy and our selfishness…” Suddenly he opened his eyes and winked at Lisa, who sat gaping at him from the front row.

Pursing her lips, Lisa rolled her eyes at her husband.





"Wake Up, Jimmy" is a humorous fiction piece I chose for today's Fiction Friday. Julie is hosting today's Fiction Friday at Surrendered Scribe today, so please stop by her blog for links to more great fiction.

It's Clearly Christmas, Clarabelle

by Sharlyn Guthrie

Clarabelle clattered down the hall with her walker and entered her room. Pain shot through her hip, reminding her of what had landed her in this dismal place the week before Christmas. The spunky eighty five year old had no regrets about climbing a ladder to wash her kitchen window. She did wish, however, that the ground had been softer beneath it.

After three weeks in the hospital Clarabelle landed here. In her usual optimistic way she had decided to make the best of retirement home living, but that was proving harder than expected. The other residents seemed glum. “Sourpusses –all of them!” muttered Clarabelle, clucking her tongue. “I’ve never seen such a miserable lot. Something’s got to be done.”

Reaching her desk, Clarabelle wondered why things looked fuzzy. “Did I loose my glasses?” she asked aloud. “They’re probably right on top of my head,” she promptly answered herself. When she reached for them, however, they weren’t there. “Well, never mind. I can do what I intend to do without glasses.”

Clarabelle pulled open the middle desk drawer and lifted out a small box. “I knew I had some Christmas cards in here,” she spouted with satisfaction, and then quickly set to work. ‘If I’m the only one with Christmas cheer around here, then I’ll just have to spread it around.”

Clarabelle spent the afternoon signing “Love, Clarabelle” at the bottom of each card…or was it the top? Sometimes it was hard to tell. She sealed them in envelopes, and on the front of each she printed, “For You.” Until she learned their names, it would have to do.

At four-forty Clarabelle slipped the cards into the pocket of her polka-dot duster and headed back to the dining room. Marcy, the kitchen assistant was filling water glasses. “You’re a little early, Clarabelle,” she said.

“Just as I was hoping. I need to pass these Christmas cards around before everyone gets here.”

“How nice of you, Clarabelle! Say, are these your glasses? I found them after lunch today.” The girl held something in her outstretched hand, and Clarabelle brightened.

“Oh, that’s where they are! I can be a little scatter-brained sometimes.” Clarabelle donned the glasses, causing the room to come into focus. “Now that’s better. Ooh. My handwriting doesn’t look so good, does it?”

“It’s fine, Clarabelle. Do you need some help passing these around?”

“That sure would be kind of you.”

They finished just as the first diners shuffled in, heads drooped, shoulders sagging. Clarabelle crossed her gnarled fingers and breathed a prayer as she retreated to her own table.

More folks arrived and began opening their cards. Soon the room was buzzing with conversation, though Clarabelle couldn’t hear what was being said. She pretended not to notice when some peeked over their cards and pointed her way. She could hardly conceal her excitement.

The chatter in the room continued to mount. Was that laughter she heard? Her plan was working! Clarabelle was a little puzzled, however by those at her own table. They looked uneasy and were shifting uncomfortably in their chairs. Finally Fred, who sat across from her, broke the silence. “I’m single, you know. But thanks, anyway.”
Clarabelle hadn’t known, and his remarks confused her.

She reached for his card and was astounded to read, "Happy Anniversary. May your love continue to blossom." Her mouth fell open and she snatched the card from the gentleman beside her, "Happy Birthday to a special boy!" A wrinkled woman in a wheelchair extended her card sporting a stork. It read, "A new arrival? Bet you’re proud as can be!" Clarabelle clapped her hand over her mouth and gasped, but soon began to chuckle. The chuckle became contagious laughter, and soon everyone was guffawing and slapping their knees.

“Oh my,” she finally managed, swiping at tears, “I just wanted to spread a little Christmas cheer. You see, I left my glasses in the dining room. I thought these were Christmas cards …” A fresh batch of giggles ensued.

“Well, Ms. Clarabelle, you’ve achieved your goal,” Marcy announced, approaching. “You’ve spread some Christmas cheer and started a few rumors, too.” Marcy turned to the frail wheelchair-bound woman. “Just where have you been hiding that new little one, Mary Lou?” she teased.

Dinner that evening was delightful, and in the following days Clarabelle received a mountain of Christmas cards -mostly handmade. Her favorite, however, was a heart-shaped one that read, "Be My Valentine." It came from Fred, across the table.




I hope Clarabelle made you smile today. Now go on over to Homespun Expressions for links to more great fiction.

Arrival and Survival of the City Kids

I'm sharing a little bit of fluff this week. With Thanksgiving coming, I thought about all the fun get-togethers taking place all over the United States this week. I hope these cousins make you smile.


Arrival and Survival of the City Kids
By Sharlyn Guthrie

The cousins all came to visit last week.
They arrived in their city clothes, stylish and sleek.
Uncle told Daddy, voice edged with alarm,
“My kids need to spend some time on the farm.
They’re lazy and soft and don’t have a clue.
I’m sure you and Marge will know just what to do.”

Like Daddy and Ma don’t have enough to do without babysitting.

Each left the mini-van wiping their tears,
backpack in hand, wires hung from their ears;
Zach with his I-pod, Rochelle’s DVD,
Jed’s portable lap-top, a Game Boy for Leigh.
The first thing Dad did was collect each device
and hide them away. He didn’t blink twice.

Do they think they’re on vacation or something?

Ma called us to dinner. She’d made quite a spread:
sliced parsnips, fresh peas, and homemade rye bread,
lamb burgers, taters, and strawberry pie.
They turned up their noses and passed it on by.
Daddy observed them, arching his left brow.
Such finicky eating he’d never allow.

I can’t wait to see what happens tomorrow after Uncle leaves!

The boys did the dishes, the girls made the beds;
two rows ‘cross the floor, with heads matching heads.
Then, in the dark, we cousins -all seven-
whispered and giggled ‘til way past eleven.
“Hush! Don’t you know you’ll be up before long?”
Dad hollered, “the farm chores begin before dawn.”

I’ll bet they think he’s foolin’.

Of course Daddy woke us at quarter to five.
How would those city kids ever survive?
Jed helped milk the cows and Rochelle slopped the hogs.
We gathered the eggs, then fed cats and dogs,
gave corn to the chickens, and fed lambs their bottles,
then Zach mowed the hay field with tractor full-throttle.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was having fun.

We rode the hay wagon and baled up the hay,
Then up in the loft we stacked it away.
When dinner time came and the platters were passed
each morsel was eaten, right down to the last;
then straight to our beds with nary a whimper,
and all without Daddy once losing his temper.

Like Daddy would dust THEIR britches, anyway.

After that first day, we mixed work with fun.
We swam in the horse tank and dried in the sun,
played tag after dark –the whole cousin clan-
and swung in the hayloft on ropes like Tarzan;
then back in the corner Leigh glimpsed a cat’s paw
and discovered new kittens curled up in the straw.

You would-a thought she found gold or something.

Our cousins left Sunday; that day was our last.
We cried as we hugged them; the week went too fast.
We gave them zucchini, tomatoes, and beets,
carrots and corn and a kitten named “Deetz.”
They aren’t city kids now, as this story ends;
turns out our four cousins are really our friends.

Hey, wait! They forgot their stuff… I-pod, DVD player, laptop and Game Boy. (Smile.) They’ll be back soon.





Sherri is hosting Fiction Friday today at A Candid Thought. Go right on over there and find some links to more great fiction.

A Matter of Life and Bears

“Up an’ at ‘em!” my husband, John, called in his wide-awake morning voice. Moans and groans filled the camper as our three sons and I struggled to open our eyes. “We gotta get goin’ to beat the heat.”

We awoke to a picturesque morning in the Smoky Mountains, delicate ribbons of haze wisping around us as we made our way to and from the shower house. Once breakfast was over and the camper secured we launched into our planned hike up the mountain to the Appalachian Trail.

Our trek was well underway when my husband casually inquired, “Did you see the bear in the creek next to the shower house this morning?”

“Stop it!” I chided, “That’s not funny.”

“No, really! There was a bear…musta been thirty feet from the building.”

As we trudged on, my asthma kicked in, the altitude inhibiting my breathing, and I fell behind. The boys were seemingly unaffected by mountain air, and John was unwilling to let them show him up. Soon all four were out of sight.

A branch crackled behind me, then another. The bear! She’s coming up the trail! My steps quickened at the thought. Ahead of me the brush rustled. Must be her cub. Am I between them? I was nearly jogging now, my sons’ chatter no longer audible.

Soon my legs felt as heavy as the logs that lined the path. Side aching, chest burning, I puckered my lips, faintly emitting our family whistle-call. No reply! Knees trembling, heart pounding, I rounded the next bend, the bear’s breath hot on my neck.

My family stood along a fence rail, silently observing the beauty they had stumbled upon, oblivious to the approaching…

Oh, whew! What a relief! A quick glance behind me revealed that the only thing pursuing me was my imagination. I collapsed, gasping for breath.

My family found this incident hilarious. I found it mostly embarrassing. It did, however, confirm how much I value life. During those terrifying minutes (Or was it an hour?) I prayed, I pleaded, I bargained.

Remembering this experience brings the following verse to mind:

“If anyone wishes to come after Me, he must deny himself, and take up his cross daily and follow Me. For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake, he is the one who will save it.” *

This verse is not speaking of physical death, of course, but of spiritually dying to self. The struggle, however, is the same. It matters not whether we are speaking of physical life or spiritual life. I am bent on self-preservation. But Jesus says that in order to live I must die! How does one so set on living choose to die?

God often reveals the parts of my being that are still clinging to life by putting a cross in my path. I may struggle, cry, plead, and finally, at the point of collapse, die to whatever it is I am selfishly holding onto. What He asks of me, though, is something different. He asks me to daily, voluntarily give up my life so that I can really live!

Dying to self isn’t a very popular concept, especially in the time and culture in which we live. We are constantly encouraged to protect, pamper, and take pride in ourselves. Many saints of old embraced this concept, however. The following was written by Fenelon, a seventeenth century French archbishop who knew firsthand, as well as through the experiences of those he counseled, what it meant to suffer for the cause of Christ.

“The death of self must be voluntary, and it can only be accomplished as far as you allow. Anyone who resists death and repels its advances shows that he is not willing to die. You must be willing to yield to the will of God whenever He decides to remove from you all of the props on which you have leaned. Sometimes you must give up even your most spiritual friends, if they are props. “What fearest thou, oh thou of little faith?”

Do you fear that He may not be able to supply to you from Himself that help which He may have taken away on the human level? And why does He take human help away, except to supply you from Himself, and to purify you by the painful lesson?” **

Fenelon goes straight to the heart of the issue. When I resist dying to self I am actually exhibiting fear –fear that God is insufficient. When I voluntarily die to self I allow Him to supply my every need and recognize His sufficiency to do so.

This is a discipline I am trying to learn. It isn’t easy. It goes against my natural instincts. It could be compared to lying down on a mountain path when convinced a bear is in hot pursuit. The daily practice of dying, however, is what purifies me and allows me to experience Christ living in me. Will it ever be easier and less painful to take up my cross? Not as long as any part of my SELF is still living! Death will always be death, just like a bear will always be a bear, at least as far as my perceptions are concerned.

Read on.

The following year our family traveled to Yellowstone National Park. As we drove through the park we were inundated with posters and fliers warning of bears. Campers were urged to make excessive noise to keep bears away or to “play dead” if a bear was encountered.

It seemed that soft-sided campers like ours were especially vulnerable because of the food cooked and stored inside. With that in mind, we took many precautions as we prepared our campsite. Our middle son, Tristan, frightened by all of the bear talk, begged to sleep in the van. We conceded, and soon we were sleeping soundly.

Later, a loud r-r-r-r-r-i-p sat me upright as John’s feet hit the floor. Grabbing a pan from the stove, I frantically banged on it with the lid (I certainly made excessive noise!). Meanwhile, John struggled to shove the bear’s paw out of the camper and re-close the opening it had made.

Somehow, above all the commotion, a small voice was heard. “Mom...Dad...it’s me! I just want back in the camper!” The rip had been the sound of Velcro separating as our son reached inside to unlock the door. After calming all three boys, now traumatized by our frenzy, my husband and I fell into each others' arms breathless, hearts pounding. I’m not sure we slept at all the remainder of that night.

I have yet to encounter a real bear. If I do I will most likely die as I run, clamor, and plead for my life, because pleading for life is as natural as breathing. Although my bear illustrations are humorous, the matter of dying to self is not. It is a daily struggle, a test of my true devotion to the one who gave up His life for me. This, then, is my prayer:

Father, please use my foolishness and my fear to remind me how much I desire to live, so that each and every day I will remember to die!


*Luke 9:23-34 New American Standard Version
**Fenelon, Let Go, (Whitaker House, 1973), p.7.