Mama Knows Beans

Mama Knows Beans
by Sharlyn Guthrie

Judith peered out her kitchen window as she finished washing the last canning jar. Molly was walking slowly up the lane, lost in thought, it seemed. Judith picked up her dishpan and nudged the screen door open with her hip. Walking to the edge of the wide porch, she heaved the dishwater out into the yard. Then she placed it near the door and set out to greet Molly.

“Good morning sweetheart!” Mother wrapped daughter in a warm embrace. Although Molly only lived a mile away, Judith and Henry had been allowing the newlyweds plenty of time to themselves. “I’m so glad you could come and help with the beans today. Can I get you some water?”

“No, Mama. I’m just fine. From the looks of it, we better get started. I’ve never seen so many green beans!”

“I planted a new variety. They’re extra long ones. I thought we’d sit out here on the side porch where it’s breezier. I’m forever grateful to Henry for building this porch.” Judith set one heaping bushel basket between the two ladder-back chairs she had arranged. Each chair held a small pan for depositing the stems they would remove from the beans. A large tub sat ready to collect the bite-sized bean pieces. “These beans are so long, they’ll need two to three snaps each, I’m afraid.”

The women settled in and each grabbed a large handful of beans.

Snap, snap, snap…

“If I figured it right, you and Galen will have been married three months tomorrow.”

Snap, snap, snap…

“You’re right, Mama.”

Snap, snap, snap…

Judith arched one eyebrow and took in Molly’s crestfallen countenance.

“Are you okay, Molly? Is Galen treating you right?”

Snap, snap, snap…

“Mama, did things change after you and Daddy were married? I mean…it’s not like Galen is cruel or anything, he just doesn’t hold my hand and look me in the eyes the way he used to. I tie a fresh ribbon in my hair before he comes in, and he doesn’t even notice.” Molly sniffed and stopped long enough to dab at her eyes with her handkerchief. “Oh Mama, I clean the house and cook a delicious meal and Galen walks right in with his muddy boots on. During dinner he goes on about the weather, the crops, and getting the barn built before winter. He never asks about my day. By the time I’ve done the dishes and mopped the floor again, I’m exhausted. And Galen…”

Judith watched as color spread across her daughters cheeks. “Let me guess. Galen’s ready for romance, and you’re so upset with him you don’t even want to share his bed.”

“How did you know, Mama?”

“Don’t forget I was once a new bride, too.”

“Daddy treated you that way? I had no idea. How did you put up with him?”

“I stopped trying to fix him, and tried to fix myself instead.”

“But Mama, I’m doing everything for him. I’m trying so hard to be a good wife.”

Snap, snap, snap…

“Have you told him all those things you told me?”

“Of course. I tell him every day.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“But Daddy said we mustn’t keep any secrets.”

“Learning to hold your tongue isn’t the same thing as keeping secrets. I would almost guarantee he heard you the first time you told him.”

Snap, snap, snap…

“Molly, when was the last time you told Galen how much you appreciate the hard work he does every day? The Bible says for a woman to see to it that she honors her husband. I think that God, our creator, knew we would find it easier to nag and complain, so he made a point of telling us to honor instead. Try it tonight, Molly.”

“Okay, Mama.”

Snap, snap, snap…




******
“My, you look beautiful this morning, Molly. You’ll have to sidestep the wood Henry carried up for our canning. Are you ready for more hard work?”

“Sure, Mama…you were right, you know.”

“Right? Right about what, darling?”

“I did what you said. I told Galen how proud I am of him.”

“And?”

“Let’s just say he noticed my hair ribbon.” Molly blushed. “He helped with the dishes, too. Mama, how did you get so smart?”

Judith laughed. “It’s not my wisdom, dear. It’s God’s. Some people think it’s outdated, but God’s wisdom never grows old…unlike these beans. We really need to get to work.”

“Yes, Mama. Tell me, though. Did Daddy snore and steal the covers, too?”





Laury is hosting Fiction Friday today at her blog, His Mercies Are New. I hope you take time to visit and link to the other stories posted today.

Legend of a Bush and a Tree ~ based on Jeremiah 17

by Sharlyn Guthrie


A bush sprang up in the middle of the desert.
It muddled in a puddle in the pouring rain.
When the puddle dried up the bush fried up
‘Cuz the roots couldn’t creep through the sand so deep.

Oh the sun beat down and it cracked the ground
And the roots didn’t find any water around.
The green leaves withered and the worms they slithered
Into the rotten wood that wasn’t any good.

A tree grew up nearby the living water
let its roots shoot down ‘til they found the stream.
Its green buds popped and they never ever stopped.
When the weather grew dry its branches didn’t fry.

Oh the sun beat down and it cracked the ground
But the roots were long and the tree grew strong.
The leaves stayed as green as any you have seen
And the tree bore fruit and a brand new shoot.

Now the bush in the desert is a man that is foolish.
He learns and he yearns for the ways of man.
But his ways grow old and are much too weak to hold.
He can only blame his sin for the pickle he is in.

Oh the sun beats down and it cracks the ground
But his roots can’t find any water around.
So his life it withers and the serpent slithers
o’er his heart of stone that is sad and all alone.

The tree by the water is a man full of wisdom.
He learns and he yearns for the ways of God.
And God makes him new as only He can do.
He is fruitful and free and as happy as can be.

Oh the sun beats down and it cracks the ground
But his roots are long and his faith is strong.
So he won’t fret about a storm or a drought
And God receives the glory for his amazing story.









I'm joining Ann VosKamp's Walk With Me Wednesday today. The topic is "Cultivating the Life God Desires"

Words For Katie

NOTE: Today's story is more than just a story. It is something I actually experienced as a teenager. I don't have any daughters, however, so I wrote it to use in the 7th grade health class I teach. I just shared it with the girls yesterday, along with a lesson on sexual abuse. If you are interested in printing a copy of this story to share with someone you love, you can find it here: Words For Katie




What do you see, Katie? Can you see Miller’s Dairy Farm and the old country school? Have you ever been higher on a swing? I came to this park every evening when I was your age to swing, dream, and pray about my future. I especially hoped for a daughter someday. And God is so amazing! He gave me you.

The summer I was sixteen, on an evening just like this one, I was leaning back in that very swing, legs extended, my long hair flowing behind me.

“Hey! I thought that might be you!” The sudden interruption surprised and annoyed me, but I dragged my feet and stopped regardless. I didn’t know much about Kent except that he was twenty-one and a new Christian. He had attended our Bible study a few times, although he lived in a town some distance away.

“Hey, yourself! What are you doing in Podunks-ville?” I asked

“I think God wants me to do some witnessing. He brought Liz Harney to mind. Don’t you know her sister?”

“Shelby and I are on the same cheerleading squad,” I answered.

“Have you ever witnessed to her?”

“She knows I’m a Christian. We’ve talked about it some.”

“Let’s go then.”

“What?”

“Let’s you and me go witness to Liz and Shelby. What do you say?”

That’s how I ended up in Kent’s car, heading out of town toward the Harneys’. Slowly it occurred to me that I hadn’t told anyone where I was going, and I was barefoot. “Oh well,” I thought, “It’s for a good cause.” Besides, it was kind of exciting.

The further we drove, the less talkative Kent became. As he turned onto the river road, darkness enclosed us. It was still several miles to the Harneys’.

As I considered those facts, Kent pulled the car to a stop and switched off the headlights. “Wha…” I began, but he had already grasped my arm and was pulling me toward himself. “Kent, I thought…” He covered my mouth with his and groped, tearing my shirt as I writhed and pushed against him.

Breaking free, my hear pounding, I slid toward the passenger door and swung it open over the steep, overgrown slope leading to the river. “Please, God, rescue me!” I prayed.

When I hesitated, Kent grabbed my wrist. “Don’t.” he said evenly.

“No! YOU don’t!” I shouted, breaking into sobs. “I want to go home!”

God answered my pleas for help. Kent re-started the car, turned around, and headed back toward town. I kept my back to him with my hand on the door handle, prepared to leap if he so much as made a wrong turn. Before he came to a complete stop at the end of my driveway, I bolted and never looked back. It was the last time I ever saw him.

Inside my bedroom I fell to my knees, thankful to be alive. But I also felt ashamed, stupid, and no longer safe. It was many years before I told anyone about that night.

Oh Katie, I hope I haven’t frightened you. You are so full of dreams and eager to experience life, just as I was on that long-ago summer evening. Would I deny you the freedom you have so responsibly earned? Not for anything. But I had to share my experience with you in hopes that you might learn from it. These are the things I hope you will remember:

Nearly every person who is sexually assaulted knows their abuser.

Most abusers use deception and enticement rather than force to get close to their victim.

It is often the violation of trust, even more than physical injury that causes long-lasting emotional pain.

A person who is sexually assaulted is in no way to blame for it.

It is still assault, even if the person doesn’t say ‘no’ or fight back.

A survivor of sexual assault may wait a long time before talking about the incident. They may be embarrassed, ashamed, fearful of their assailant, afraid of not being believed, or simply eager to forget it. Eventually, though, talking about the assault helps with the healing.

I hope that something like this never happens to you. Oh, how I wish that I could protect you every minute of your life. But that would be like making you sit on that swing, yet never allowing you to experience the joy of swinging. So hold on, Katie, I’m giving you a great big underdog push, but I’ll be here if you ever need me.






Julie Arduini is hosting Fiction Friday today at The Surrendered Scribe.

When God Does the Cultivating...

Several years ago God began a cultivation process in my heart. For what purpose, I had no clue at the time, but this is how it began. A Samaritan’s Purse Christmas box that I had packed was delivered into the hands of a child in Zambia. The child’s father, a pastor, wrote me a thank you letter, and a friendship developed. I learned of the school operated by his church, and naturally, as a teacher, my heart was touched as I learned that many of the students are orphans. I collected and sent many school supplies and funds for various projects at the school. Eventually, the pastor invited me and my husband to come for a visit, however every attempt and inquiry met a dead end. I was a little puzzled, but accepted that a visit to Zambia simply was not God’s will.

Near the end of 2008 I learned of a ministry beginning in Uganda through Heart of God International, through a writing friend of mine, Jan Ross, who is the founder of this organization. When I learned that the ministry would involve working with children in a school setting in Uganda, I realized that God had sown seeds of love in my heart for African children through my contact in Zambia. I felt Him nudging me to go to Uganda.

If you have followed my blog for a while, you know that I spent 10 incredible days in Uganda last summer, working with 450 street orphans at Smile Africa; ministering to several hundred women (mostly widows) at the conference we held; and visiting the slums, as well as other Ugandan schools. (You can find blog posts for each day of my trip in this blog’s July and August archives, including many pictures and videos).

After returning home last summer, I was offered the position of education director for Heart of God International, and I accepted that position. We are now preparing for our second trip to Uganda, and I am thrilled to see real growth in what began as a gentle cultivation process. Ten very special friends from my own church and school are joining me for this summer’s trip. Each individual felt God’s tug on their heart when I shared with them what God is doing in Uganda.

For this summer’s trip we have a nurse practitioner and a nurse who will be establishing medical records for the children, four teachers and a foster care provider who will participate in the teacher conference I am planning, two men who will be organizing and participating in a men’s conference, and two teens who will be participating in a teen rally. Eight more team members from other parts of the country will be joining our group from Iowa as well. Last year four women blazed the trail, and this year, nineteen will return to build on the relationships and ministries that were started. Our fearless director, Denise Matthews, has been busy planning and organizing the trip, and holding training sessions. We are all busy raising support for our individual trips, plus money for the various ministries we will be involved in.

Throughout this past year some remarkable things have occurred. My first privilege and responsibility as education director was to assist Pastor Ruth of Smile Africa in making school and living arrangements for eleven young girls (ages 10-14) who had no homes or families to care for them.




Through some special funds designated for these girls, we were able to set them up in two rented rooms near Smile Africa and enroll them in a regular school. Tears came to my eyes when I saw this picture of the girls in school uniforms, with shoes on their feet. These are no doubt the first items of personal clothing many of them have ever owned!





These precious girls are now cultivating their own red-brown earth and harvesting their own vegetables.



I am certain that God has begun a process in each of their hearts as well, since they are regularly reminded that these gifts are from the hands of a loving Father. I can’t wait to see for myself how these girls are doing when we return this June.

In one of my previous posts I mentioned Paul, an employee of Smile Africa, who wanted so much for us to visit his home and pray for his family. He was very proud of the tiny room he and his wife share with their two children, and I could see why. It was clean and tidy and exuded love. “But,” he had said, “I wish I had a table.”

I later shared Paul's statement with my husband, who said, “So, buy him a table,” and we did.




Pastor Ruth delivered the table to Paul’s home a couple of months later. He immediately raised his hands and began praising God for this gift.




Many other wonderful things have transpired as well. The children are now receiving fruit once a week due to some generous monthly donations.




The students of the school where I teach (Cedar Valley Christian School), along with some students from a school in California, sent Christmas gifts to the children. Pastor Ruth said that these are the first real toys these children have ever had.







The babies are receiving milk, and a nursery is in the process of being completed to care for them. Still, there are many needs, and it will be so good to see how God will use our group to meet some of those needs.

When God does the cultivating, He also gives the increase in fruitfulness. It is thrilling to see Him at work, and even more thrilling to be a part of it. That He purposefully directed the delivery of a Christmas box to Zambia as a way of preparing the soil of my heart for this ministry to the street children of Uganda is simply amazing!

Please, please pray for our trip, scheduled for June 19-July 3, 2010.
I would stop right there, but some of you may be wondering how you can be a part of this exciting ministry. You can find more information online at http://uganda.heartofgodinternational.com. Or you can mail a check to:

Heart of God International Ministries –Uganda
P.O Box 248
Willard, Ohio 44890

Please mention in your correspondence that you were referred through my blog, and I will send you personalized updates. Heart of God International Ministries is a completely volunteer organization, so 100% of your gifts will directly benefit those who need it most.


Today's topic for Walk With Him Wednesday is "Cultivating the life God Desires."

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.

Redemption in the Back Pew

by Sharlyn Guthrie

Pastor Rob’s office clock chimed four times. Standing, he locked his desk, then stood to leave. A sudden, urgent rapping on the outside door interrupted his ritual. He strode toward the door, supposing he would find a homeless person seeking assistance.

Six months earlier Pastor Rob had left rural South Dakota for inner city Chicago seeking adventure and fresh challenges. The interruptions had been constant at first, and often dramatic. He had promptly organized a city-wide ministry to the homeless. Although the building that housed his congregation composed an entire city block, the congregation had dwindled to less than a hundred. Most drove in from the suburbs out of fierce loyalty to God and the First Baptist Church. An endowment funded the church, but its days were numbered.

The well-dressed man at the door was not what Pastor Bob expected. “How can I help you?”

The man glanced both directions, then pushed past the puzzled pastor. “I need to make a confession.”

“This is a Baptist church, sir, not Catholic…”

“You’ll hear me out, won’t you?” It was said with such authority that Pastor Bob merely nodded his head as he motioned toward a chair.

The visitor loosened his tie and removed his sunglasses, slipping them into the pocket of his white shirt. “The boss wants me to do someone in. I’ve done some bad things, but I draw the line at murder.”

“Well, now. I can’t say I’ve had any experience with this sort of thing.” Pastor Rob’s heart skipped several beats when the man slid his hands into his pockets. The locked desk contained his only weapon –a can of mace left behind by the previous staff. “Listen, I can give you spiritual guidance if that’s what you’re looking for, but I can’t put my congregation in jeopardy.”

“I won’t trouble your congregation. I’ll stay out of the way. There’s plenty of space here. You won’t even know I’m around.”

“Please, Mister…”

“Call me Johnny Ray. My Grandma was Baptist and she prayed for me relentlessly. Guess that’s why I’m here. I don’t mean any harm. I just have to lay low or they’ll take me out too.”

That was the beginning of an unspoken “arrangement” between the two men. Johnny Ray remained holed up in the First Baptist Church, while Pastor Rob feigned innocence. Soon after the service began each Sunday morning, Johnny Ray slid into the back pew. During the benediction he slipped out again.

Pastor Rob kept the kitchen stocked with ready-to-eat items. He scanned the paper carefully each morning for any mention of mob activity. The mace was moved from his drawer to his pocket, and all exit doors were secured twice daily. Otherwise, life at First Baptist Church remained unchanged.

Weeks turned into four months since the day Johnny Ray first pounded on the church door. Then one Sunday the back pew remained empty. Pastor Rob felt a pang of worry mixed with a tinge of relief.

Soon the pastor’s worries turned to a more pressing issue. The church had to make a decision. The remaining endowment funds could be used to move the church to the suburbs, or the church could continue for another year before dissolving. Both scenarios made Pastor Rob cringe. Without the First Baptist Church the homeless ministry would not survive. While moving to the suburbs might secure his job, he may as well move back to South Dakota. He was certain that both his opportunity for adventure and his newfound sense of purpose would be greatly diminished. “Please God, Show us another way,” he prayed.

The annual business meeting began with a surprise announcement. “The following letter was sent to the trustees of First Baptist Church,” the chairman explained. “Dear Sirs, Pastor Robert Dolan saved my life. I have turned from my sinful ways and placed my trust in the Almighty God. I am forever grateful to him and to the First Baptist Church. Therefore, I have deposited five million dollars into your endowment fund.
In Christ’s name, J.R.”

The small crowd let the meaning soak in for a moment, then broke into spontaneous rejoicing. Their stunned pastor was dumbstruck, especially when he read the headlines on page six of the next day’s Chicago Tribune. “Inside sources report five million dollars missing from mafia-controlled bank accounts.”

The following Sunday a bearded man slipped into the back pew. During the benediction his final exit was made with a tip of his hat to Pastor Rob.










I wrote this story as a Faithwriters entry for the adventure genre. It probably could have been more exciting, but I think it was exciting enough for Pastor Bob. Thanks for stopping by. Joanne is hosting Friday Fiction today. Stop by An Open Book and link up to more fiction.

Follow Me

by Sharlyn Guthrie


I love music, and Easter seems like a particularly appropriate time to revel in it. For this reason my husband and I drove to a church in a nearby city to attend an Easter musical performed by that church’s actors and choir members in full costume, and accompanied by a live orchestra. We anticipated a joyous, Easter celebration.

The musical was the story of a Roman centurion, Anthony, who was struggling to understand just who the man, Jesus, really was. In the beginning Anthony was indifferent, unable to grasp his fellow-officers’ agitation with the insignificant teacher from Galilee. He observed from a distance, witnessing several miracles.

Later, though, Anthony approached Jesus, boldly asking him to heal his servant who was near death. Jesus told Anthony that his faith was great, and for that reason the servant was healed. It was true, Anthony’s servant came running to announce his good news of health restored. As Anthony expressed his gratitude, Jesus merely looked at him and said, “Follow me.”

But how could he? Anthony’s life was invested in the Roman army. His family, his livelihood, even his very life were threatened if he admitted to his new-found faith. So Anthony believed, but he didn’t follow.

As Jesus healed the sick, the deaf, and the lame and forgave the sins of the adulteress I felt my throat tighten. Later, the same crowd (in this case the choir) that had welcomed Him into Jerusalem with hosannas only a week earlier called out to Pilate, “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” I blinked back the tears threatening to roll down my cheeks. How could they be so fickle?

Then Pilate turned to Anthony, the centurion, and washing his own hands of the affair, commanded Anthony to oversee Christ’s scourging. Sadly, a conflicted Anthony complied. And though he was not an active participant in the scourging, it was his inaction that was largely responsible for the events that followed. True, others inflicted the wounds upon Jesus’ flesh. But Anthony, believer in Jesus, recipient of God’s mercy, who now understood and later professed, “Surely this man is the Son of God,” stood by, his uniform clearly identifying him as a follower of Caesar, and therefore a crucifier of Jesus Christ. Nobody would have guessed that Anthony believed in Jesus, the Son of God.

As Jesus endured insults and beatings and stumbled beneath the weight of the cross, one of the soldiers ordered a man from the audience to help Jesus carry the cross, and a twenty-first century spectator stepped back through the ages, still dressed in blue jeans; however, when he returned to his seat his blue oxford shirt was stained with Jesus’ “blood.”

That is when the Easter story, so old and so often re-told, suddenly became new and real. This contemporary, a casual observer like myself, was pulled effortlessly into the action from his place in the crowd and unwittingly helped to crucify the Lord Jesus. Anthony, who believed, yet refused to exercise his faith assisted in Jesus’ death as well.

Am I much different from Anthony? Sure, I believe in Jesus. Of course I’m a Christian –a Christ-follower. Or am I? Would I risk my name, my job, my security, my reputation, my life to follow Him? Would anyone readily identify a wretch like me as a follower of Christ? Christ’s crucifiers were not merely those who inflicted the wounds. No, those of us who stood by shared in the guilt as well. This I pondered throughout the remainder of the musical.

Forgiveness and reconciliation were portrayed through the words Jesus spoke from the cross, “Father, forgive them…” convincing Anthony and myself that even a state of inaction, a failure to follow, is forgivable. Praise God! He arose, victorious over death and sin! Hallelujah!

As the final strains of music ended, the director turned and faced the audience, now thunderous in their applause. Only moments ago his hands had skillfully drawn harmonious praise from the hearts and souls of the now silent group of musicians. Now he closed his eyes, those same hands raised, reflecting all glory and praise heavenward to God, our Savior, Jesus Christ, who is worthy of all of our praise and who bids us still, “Follow me.”

The musical I referred to today is “Bow The Knee” by Chris Machen. I am sharing this for the Tuesday meme, “In Other Words” for the quote below:

"I am the wretch the song refers to."
~Todd Friel

In Other Words is hosted today by Esthermay at her blog, The Heart of a Pastor’s Wife.

Alphabet of the Cross

I am partial to the alphabet for many reasons, but mainly because it is basic to reading and learning just like the cross of Jesus Christ is basic to my faith. Somehow it seemed natural to combine the two. I hope someday to publish an illustrated version of this as an alphabet book. Until then I am thrilled to display the alphabet quilt shown above that was made for me by a mother of a couple of my students. My word for each letter of "Alphabet of the Cross" is stitched into each letter block of the quilt. I hope that you are blessed as you read this.

Alphabet of the Cross
by Sharlyn Guthrie

A is for atonement.
According to Mosaic law, only an unblemished lamb could atone for sin. Jesus, the holy Lamb of God became our atonement.

B is for blood.
Just as the blood of the lamb was poured onto an altar, Jesus’ blood poured from His hands, feet, and side as He hung on the cross.

C is for crucifixion.
Crucifixion was a cruel, slow, and humiliating punishment that ended in death on a cross, hours or even days after it began. Jesus was crucified.

D is for disciples.
Jesus ate supper with His twelve disciples the night before He was betrayed. He asked them to remember His death by breaking and eating bread (a symbol of His body), and drinking wine (a symbol of His blood). Believers in Jesus continue to observe the Lord’s table or communion to remember His death.

E is for Eli.
Eli is the Hebrew name for God. From the cross “…Jesus cried out with a loud voice, saying, “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” that is, “My God, My God, why have You forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46) God could not look upon His own son because of the sin -mine and yours- that He took with Him to the cross.

F is for forgiveness.
“Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing,” Jesus cried from the cross. He even forgave the sins of the thief hanging next to Him.

G is for Golgotha.
Golgotha, “the place of the skull,” was the hill outside of Jerusalem where Jesus was crucified.

H is for the Holy of Holies.
A heavy veil in the temple separated God’s people from the Holy of Holies…God’s dwelling place. As Jesus died, the veil of the temple was torn from the top to the bottom, ending forever our separation from the presence of God.

I is for “It is finished.”
Jesus spoke these words just before he died.

J is for Judas.
Judas, one of the twelve disciples, betrayed Jesus for thirty pieces of silver.

K is for King of the Jews.
Jesus’ accusers crowned Him with thorns and hung a plaque over His head that read, “King of the Jews”.

L is for lots.
The soldiers stripped Jesus, and then cast lots, gambling to see who would win His clothing.

M is for mocking.
“The soldiers also mocked Him, coming up to Him, offering Him sour wine, and saying, ‘If you are the King of the Jews, save Yourself!’” (Luke 23:36-37)

N is for the ninth hour.
It was the ninth hour when Jesus died crying, “…Father, unto Your hands I commit my spirit.” (Luke 23:46)

O is for offering.
Jesus became the offering for our sins, making the many offerings required of people and priests before His death unnecessary to continue.

P is for pierce.
After Jesus died, the soldiers pierced his side with a sword. Water and blood gushed out, fulfilling Old Testament prophecy, and proving that Jesus was dead.

Q is for quake.
As Jesus died the earth quaked, rocks split, and tombs were opened.

R is for resurrection.
Many saints were resurrected. Their tombs were opened by the earthquake.

S is for sin.
“God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” (II Corinthians 5:21 )

T is for tomb.
The tomb where Jesus was laid was sealed and guarded. But He arose! Death lost its power!

U is for Undeserved Love.
Jesus shed His blood so that sinners like me could live. That is undeserved love -incredible grace!

V is for Via Dolorosa.
The Via Dolorosa is “the painful way” that Jesus took to Golgotha. Although His death was agonizing, there was no other way.

W is for weeping women.
Women who loved Jesus wept as they watched His crucifixion.
Later, after His resurrection, He appeared to them first. Their weeping turned to jubilation.

X is for example.
Jesus lived a perfect life. Although He was tempted, He never sinned. He is our perfect example.

Y is for yield.
Jesus yielded to His Father’s will. He asks you and I to do the same. He will put our old, sinful selves to death and raise us into a new life.

Z is for Zion.
Zion is Jerusalem, the city near Golgotha. Some day soon Jesus, King of Kings and Lord of Lords, will return to Zion’s Hill to establish His kingdom. We watch, hope, and yearn for that day.

In the Light of the Cross

For Fiction Friday this week I have decided to share a story written from a cricket's point of view. It isn't one of my favorites, but it's fun. While you're here, I hope you will scroll on down the page and read my previous (more thoughtful) post on the cross which includes a recently penned poem.

In the Light of the Cross
by Sharlyn Guthrie

Yes! It’s the band! Chirp chirp. I can make my own marvelous music without attracting attention. Chirp chirp. Seats are filling up and the volume is increasing –all the better for a covert cricket like me. Chirp chirp.

How, you might ask, did a cacophonous field cricket make his home in the pulpit of Christ Community church? Truth is, I was hatched in the flower garden outside. Chirp chirp. I found my way here in search of food. There’s a lifetime supply of peanuts in front of this dusty hymnal, plus half a cherry-flavored cough drop for my sweet tooth. Chirp chirp.

Light streams in through the cut-out cross, which also provides me with a grand view of the congregation. Chirp chirp. The cross is a common sight here, although I’m not sure why. The old hymnal has a cross on its cover; a humongous gold cross stretches from the rafters to the platform behind the pulpit; and a red cross gleams from each stained glass window. Many of the congregants wear a cross on their lapel or necklace. Chirp chirp. Even so, I have never once heard mention of it from the pulpit.

It seems to me that people come here to feel good. Chirp chirp. They shake hands, sing happy songs, and listen to The Reverend speak of their goodness. Smiles grace their faces –whether heartfelt or simply what’s expected, I can’t tell. Chirp chirp.

The Reverend speaks in soothing tones. Chirp chirp. He speaks of human kindness, saving the planet, and performing good works. The men nod off. Their wives elbow them. Chirp chirp. Obediently they straighten, and a placid smile quickly returns to their faces.

Okay, no more chirping. The music has stopped. A feeble old preacher in a pin-striped makes his way to the platform. Where’s The Reverend?

“Good morning. I’ll be filling in for your minister today. Please take the Bible that’s in front of you and turn to Hebrews chapter twelve.” Curious glances are exchanged as the preacher awaits a response. “Verses two and three say, ‘Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinful men, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.’”*

“Today, my friends, let us fix our eyes on Jesus. Let us look at the cross as we have never seen it before –not the gleaming crosses that adorn our sanctuary, but the cross we find here, in God’s holy Word...”

Whoa! The pounding on the pulpit nearly sends me sailing through my peek-hole. I’ll be safer up here on the hymnal. This is great! Nobody’s dozing this morning. Their eyes are wide open. They’re not exactly smiling, either. This is getting interesting.

“…That cross is hard. It is ugly and offensive. It endures through the ages to remind us of the awful price that was paid for our sins. Jesus laid down his life on that cross for you and for me.”

“Amen.”

Did I hear something?

“AMEN!”

There it is again. Now that’s a new word around here!

“…Maybe you need to make your way to this altar and kneel at the foot of the cross. Confess your sins. Claim the power that is yours in Jesus Christ. Then take up your cross and follow Him. Praise God! Hallelujah!”

Hey! Careful! I nearly lost my balance. What’s happening? People are on their feet. They’re moving toward the front. Tears have replaced their peaceful smiles. Yikes! That Bible thumping preacher just dumped me off the hymnal.

“When I survey the wondrous cross…” his ancient voice quivers with emotion. “…on which the Prince of glory died,” several others join in. Band members leaf through song sheets, looking mighty confused. “My richest gain I count but loss, and pour contempt on all my pride.”**

Amazing! It makes me wonder, though. How could everyone sit here surrounded by crosses week after week and forget a story like that? Then again, why would a common field cricket hide himself inside a pulpit, denying himself fresh air, plump grain, and starry skies? How could I have settled for stale peanuts and a half-eaten cough drop?

Basking in the light of the cross I make a decision. Chirp chirp.


*Hebrews 12:2-3 (NIV)
**”When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” hymn by Isaac Watts

For links to more Friday fiction, please visit Christina at her blog, With Pen in Hand

The Uncompromising Cross

“The cross effects its ends by destroying one established pattern, the victim’s, and creating another pattern, its own. Thus it always has its way. It wins by defeating its opponent and imposing its will upon him. It always dominates. It never compromises, never dickers nor confers, never surrenders a point for the sake of peace. It cares not for peace; it cares only to end its opposition as fast as possible.” ~ A.W. Tozer, The Radical Cross

Jesus Christ knew all these things about the cross when He pleaded, “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done.” Luke 22:42 (NIV).

As Jesus looked toward the cross He knew the cost. He rightly anticipated the pain involved in dying a cruel death normally reserved for criminals. For this reason He begged his father to allow Him to escape the cross, although He quickly added His willingness to conform to God’s will. Two verses later Luke says that Jesus was earnestly praying in anguish, so much so that great drops of sweat fell like blood to the ground.

I am comforted by these portrayals of Jesus as He faced crucifixion. I am comforted knowing that He experienced a full range of human emotions. I am comforted knowing that the matter of the cross wasn’t easy, even for Him. I am comforted in realizing that He does not ask of me anything that He himself hasn’t already experienced.

“If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.” Luke 9:23 (NIV).

What of This Cross?

What of this cross that lies across my way,
imploring that myself I should betray?
It reeks of putrid death; foreshadows pain.
Is that my name engraved across its grain?

What of this cross? I find it interferes
with plans, belongings, all that I hold dear.
Must every precious treasure be laid down?
Is there indeed no other way around?

What of this cross that emulates my Lord’s,
yet sparks among my loved ones such discord?
Fighting, dissension, arguments, and hate
-this cross does not bring peace, but separates.

What of this cross that makes my footsteps halt?
I must decide to die or to default;
Every allegiance I must now disown;
take up this cross, and carry it alone.

This cross I’ll bear and boast of only He
who leads the way and spilled His blood for me.
I shall not hesitate nor breathe a sigh;
but gain my life when Self commits to die.

~Sharlyn Guthrie

Today I am "preparing for Easter" along with Ann Voskamp and her friends at Holy Experience. I hope you will take time to visit her and check out some other posts on this topic.

Merging Roads and Alternate Routes

I am pleased to be hosting Fiction Friday today. If you write fiction and would like to share a short story or poem with other fiction writers, feel free to leave a link to your story and place the Fiction Friday button in your post.



The story I am sharing today is just for fun. It stems from a favorite activity of mine -people watching.


Merging Roads and Alternate Routes
by Sharlyn Guthrie

I plug in my laptop under the booth at Jimmy’s Café as I do every Wednesday, my Sunday column begging to be written. Jimmy’s morning business is light and predictable, an aid to the writing process.

The regulars have pulled two tables together near the kitchen. Nine men and Shirley sit at awkward angles, clutching newspapers and reaching in to set their coffee down. Their lively banter bounces from today’s headlines, to the price of gasoline, to Harold’s nephew, Scott, who is running for mayor.

Shirley, the saucy waitress, pauses in her ribbing and railing to deliver my customary cinnamon roll. I pay her, so as not to disturb her again. This is the finest part of her day, nine men vying shamelessly for her attention like a passel of schoolboys with one puppy.

Another patron, Earl, enters flipping his cell phone shut and slipping it into his knapsack. We exchange pleasantries at the coffee bar.

“Have you seen any wonderful plays lately?” It’s our singular topic of conversation.

“No. Have you?”

Earl elaborates on Wicked, which he saw last week, then slides into the booth directly across from mine. Up close his soft blue eyes were warm and engaging; now, from across the room, they seem to peer down a long and winding road. I cannot tell if the road leads to or away from the place occupying his thoughts. His unruly gray curls seem tamer today, and his sweater with the ragged elbows is missing. He fidgets with his collar and glances often toward the door.

As I rework my introductory paragraph for the third time, the door opens and Earl leaps to his feet. A tall, slender woman charges the stale air inside Jimmy’s as she and Earl embrace beneath the ceiling fan. “You’re gorgeous,” he declares, and she is. Suddenly conscious of my own appearance, I finger my bangs and tuck straying strands into my pony tail.

Perfectly matched in height, the pair regards each other for several moments. Blonde hair brushes the shoulders of her crisp white blouse. Her dark floral skirt flares, ending at the knee. Slender tanned legs stretch elegantly into leather sandals. She flicks a corkscrew curl on Earl’s forehead and they laugh like old friends. “You didn’t tell me about these,” she coos, and continues springing his buoyant curls on all sides.

Try as I might to get back to work, I am too preoccupied with Earl and his lovely companion. Even the regulars have quieted themselves, glancing curiously in Earl’s direction now and then. The couple leans forward across the table chatting, ignoring their cooling coffee cups. Earl has temporarily forgotten that other place and the long road. The two are present here, perhaps seeking a path they might take together. Now I abandon my column altogether, choosing instead to document a romance.

An hour and a half later, Earl draws a small black book -a Bible, from his knapsack. Turning it sideways, he points as he reads. She smiles and nods and they bow their heads, holding hands across the table. The walls of Jimmy’s Café have never been so hallowed. I strain to make out the words Jimmy prays, but even if I could I would not repeat them. They flutter upwards like butterfly wings too delicate to grasp. Finally, they rise and he walks her to the door, releasing her hand only when she is at arm’s length.

Unable to help myself, I promptly join Earl at the coffee bar. “Did you meet your friend at a play?” I ask.

“Sophia? No. Today was our first meeting.” Earl chuckles as I attempt to conceal my surprise and confusion. “My sister gave me Sophia’s phone number. It took me a month to drum up the courage to call her.”

“So that’s it? You called her up and asked her to meet you here?”

“Not exactly. We’ve spent another month getting acquainted over the phone. We talk nearly every day, sometimes for hours. I think I can truly say we’ve grown to love each other, but I never knew until today that she’s so beautiful.”

“Will you marry her?” I chide myself even as I blurt the invasive question.

“No, but I do hope to accompany her down the aisle someday.” Earl grins at my stunned expression. “You see, Sophia’s my daughter.”

My curiosity is satisfied, but I am still blushing. Reigning in my imagination, I return to my booth, determined to get back on track with Sunday's column.

Across the room Earl sips his coffee, peering with pleasure down a much shorter road.

It's All About Bob

by Sharlyn Guthrie

“Do you mind filing today while I watch the desk, Lauren? I’m expecting someone, and I don’t want to miss him.” Christy, Lauren’s co-worker, had that ask me more look about her.

“No problem. Is he a friend of yours?”

“Sort of. I mean, Yes! I met him online, and he’s such a cool guy; a little older than most of the guys I date, but the things he says to me…oooh, I just can’t wait to be alone with him. We’re staying at the resort. That’s one of the perks of working here, you know.”

Lauren gulped. Christy often talked too much, revealing startling naïveté. Lauren was hesitant to interfere, but besides being thoroughly disgusted, she feared for her friend. “Do you really think it’s wise to spend the weekend with someone you’ve never met?”

“I’ll meet him soon, and so will you. You’ll see. Bobby’s wonderful!”

“God, I don’t know what to do. Give me wisdom,” Lauren prayed as she filed. But she was soon interrupted.

“You’ve got to be Christy. Wow! Your picture doesn’t do you justice.”

Filled with dread Lauren turned, and her dread immediately turned to horror. “Bob?!”

“Lauren? I certainly didn’t expect to see you here.”

I’ll bet you didn’t, Lauren thought. Instead she managed, “What brings you to Lake Geneva?”

“Just a little R and R,” Bob replied, winking at Christy. “Ready to go?”

“You two know each other?” Poor, gullible Christy looked delighted as she glanced from Bob to Lauren and back to Bob again.

“Not very well.” Lauren’s eyes narrowed as she considered the irony of her reply. She thought she knew Bob. In fact, she had once admired him. Now she felt like throwing up.

Christy grabbed her purse and was chattering away about the resort’s amenities. Lauren watched in stunned silence as Christy walked out the door hanging on the arm of her former youth pastor.

Lauren was tormented all weekend; both by Bob’s sleazy charade, and by her unwitting involvement in it. She knew she should do something, yet she had never been particularly courageous. “God, make Bob and Christy miserable this weekend,” she prayed, hoping that the problem of Bob would simply go away.

It had been through Bob’s youth group that Lauren first accepted Christ. She had grown to love Bob and his wife, Carol. In fact, the whole congregation loved and respected him. They would never suspect the double life he was leading. As Lauren continued to pray and consider her dilemma, she knew what she had to do first. It would require extraordinary courage; she would just have to trust the Lord to provide it.

Christy was somewhat subdued on Monday, but she accepted Lauren’s invitation to dinner that evening. “There’s something you need to know about Bob,” Lauren began hesitantly, and from there the whole ugly truth was gradually revealed.

“Bobby, or uh…Bob said he was divorced, but I noticed that quite a few things he told me didn’t add up. I had already decided I didn’t want to see him again. It was really stupid of me to spend the weekend with him. It’s not like you didn’t warn me.” Tears coursed down Christy’s cheeks as she asked, “Do you think God can ever forgive me?”

It was just the opening Lauren had prayed for. She confidently shared the truth of God’s grace and forgiveness with Christy. Christy listened with interest and humility as Lauren read Scriptures on repentance and reconciliation. With a sense of awe, Lauren witnessed Christy’s transformation from friend to sister in Christ. The two held hands and prayed together, tears streaming down their cheeks.

Much later their conversation returned to Bob. “It’s all so wrong, Christy. Bob not only deceived you, but he is also living a lie before God, his family, and the church. Will you help me expose the truth?”

Following a carefully devised plan, Lauren and Christy left early the following Sunday morning and drove two hours to Chicago. They slipped into a back row after the church service began. Bob was easy to spot, sitting near the front with his wife and their four children. “Courage, Lord. I need courage. Make me strong for Your sake, and for Christy’s,” Lauren prayed.

After the service Bob and Carol proceeded to the youth room for high school Sunday school. Lauren made her entrance as class was about to start.

“Great to see you, Lauren!” Bob’s plastic smile looked a little off-kilter. “I hear you’re living and working up north these days. You all know Lauren, right?”

“Hello everyone. Bob’s right. Most of you know me,” Lauren replied, as she pulled Christy through the doorway, “but I’m certain he will want to introduce all of you to his friend.”



The story I’ve shared for Fiction Friday today is based on a true story. Sexual misconduct by church leaders is something most of us would rather not think about, and if we do think about it we often deny that it could happen in our midst. If you are a long time reader of my blog you will understand why this topic is important to me. I hope you will understand, however, that exposing this kind of behavior is not about getting even. God’s grace and forgiveness is sufficient even for the “Bobs” in the body of Christ. For more on this topic, you may be interested in reading two of my past posts: Can God Use Me If I Fail? and Thanksgiving For Dreadful Deeds.

Fiction Friday is hosted today by Karlene at Homespun Expressions.

What's For Dinner?

“What’s for dinner? I’m hungry.” This is one of John’s most frequent conversation starters.

“What are you hungry for?” comes my predictable response.

“I don’t know. I’m just hungry.”

One would think that after thirty five years of evasiveness I would learn not to ask. And yet I persist, still anticipating a day when he will answer. For all of his fine qualities, my husband is not decisive, especially when it comes to what’s for dinner. In fact, he often avoids selecting from a restaurant menu by telling the incredulous waiter, “Surprise me.”

Occasionally I can coax him into choosing by the process of elimination:

“Do you mind waiting an hour, or do you want to eat right away?”
“Do you prefer something warm or cold?”
“Which sounds better, stir fry or Mexican food?”

Fortunately, pleasing John’s palate isn’t difficult. After snarfing down whatever was placed before him, he usually remarks, “That was really good. I wouldn’t have thought to ask for that.”

His most endearing line, however, and one he uses often is, “Anything tastes good as long as I’m sharing it with you.”

I recently experienced several weeks of what I can only describe as a bad case of the blahs, a feeling of emptiness. A vague sense of yearning settled over me. Since it occurred in the middle of a long cold winter, I misidentified this yearning as cabin fever and changed my schedule a bit, thinking that a little variety might be what I craved. I read some fiction, spent more time playing games, and even began watching more television (something that normally doesn’t appeal to me). I stayed up later at night and soon found that I had a harder time waking up in the morning. I got out of the habit of my regular quiet time, but reasoned that the Scriptures John and I were reading together was a suitable replacement. I lost my focus when I tried to pray. I lost my motivation and inspiration, too. My creative juices were quelled, and my craving increased. But like my dear husband, I couldn’t identify what it was that I was hungry for.

I have no doubt given my readers many clues here, but in the midst of my dearth I missed them all -or perhaps I simply ignored them. It was when the season of Lent began that I realized that I had crowded God out of my daily activity. As I read Ann’s post, and the posts of many other participants in the first “Walk With Me Wednesday” of the Lenten season (February 17th), God showed me that I had been trying all the wrong things to satisfy my hunger. I began once again to salivate, but this time I knew exactly what I craved, so I sought God’s forgiveness and determined once again to make some changes, this time seeking His help.

Two days later, as I was praying for direction, John suggested that we spend some time in Barnes and Noble. Over the past several years I have read something during the Lenten season to focus my attention on Jesus and the cross. This year I had yet to pick something out. As I browsed the religious book section The Faces of Jesus, by Fredrich Buechner, caught my attention. Coincidently, (ha!), a student had given me a gift certificate that just covered the cost of the book.

I am not snarfing down this delicacy; I am drinking it in slowly, thoughtfully; and it has created even more of a hunger within me, one that is easily identifiable. Each day I read a few pages of Buechner’s book as an appetizer, a prelude to the main course. Then I savor the morsels God shares with me in His Word and I tarry long in precious conversation with the only One who can create hunger in a way that also satisfies my deepest longing.

“Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me.” Revelation 3:20 (NIV)

Now I realize that John has it right. It’s not so much the content of the meal as it is the company.




The topic for today's "Walk With Him Wednesday" is "Hungering for God." Ann VosKamp hosts this weekly meme at Holy Experience.

To Lead, or to Follow?

Those who went ahead and those who followed shouted, "Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!" Mark 11:9 (NIV)

As Jesus entered Jerusalem seated on the donkey colt that his disciples had procured for him, people along the way assumed their position. This verse states that some went ahead, and some followed. They were all shouting the same thing, however. “Hosanna!” Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”

This verse from Mark identifies two distinct groups in the crowd: those who went ahead, and those who followed. The Merriam online dictionary describes a leader as “one who directs the action,” while a follower is, “one in the service of another, or one who imitates another.”

As I thought about this, I began to wonder what determined the position of each individual on that day in Jerusalem. I also wondered if there were differences between the two groups; for instance, I wondered which group would most likely be more loyal, the leaders or the followers. I know that I’m speculating here, but it seems likely to me that those directing the action may have been attention seekers caught up in the drama of the situation, while the followers may have been the true servants of Christ.

You see, everywhere Jesus went in the days leading up to his entry into Jerusalem, He repeated the same invitation. “Follow me.” This is what he said to each of his disciples, to Levi the tax collector, to the rich young ruler, and to those that he healed. In fact, the same invitation was later extended to any and all, "If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.” Luke 9:23 (NIV)

A week after Jesus’ triumphal entry, a large crowd once again surrounded Jesus in Jerusalem. This time those directing the action of the crowd shouted, “Crucify Him!” and “Give us Barabbas!” Were these the same leaders who directed the action the week before? Where were Jesus’ followers on this day? Were they part of the crowd, too?

These questions make me wonder about those who went ahead, and those who followed Jesus during his entry into Jerusalem. I also wonder which group I would have been a part of. Would I have been caught up in directing the excitement and drama of one or both days? Or would I have simply followed my Lord, regardless of where He might have taken me?

Better yet, what is my position today? I may be shouting, “Hosanna,” like the crowd ahead of and following Jesus, but that doesn’t tell the whole story. Jesus says that I must deny myself and take up my cross daily,and follow…




I'm participating in Monday Manna today, hosted by Joanne at An Open Book. Please stop by and pay her a visit.

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.

When She Sees Me Face to Face

I can’t help it. I am in awe of the technology that is available these days, even to regular folks like me. I would never have guessed, for example, that I would be able to have semi-regular Sunday evening visits with my darling baby granddaughter who lives a thousand miles away.
















I’m speaking of SKYPE, or course, a modern marvel in communications. Not only can I hear sweet Selah coo and squeal during these hour-long sessions, but I can see her, too. I watch her jump in her Jenny Jump-Up,















watch her eat baby food,















see how she wiggles and squirms in her daddy’s arms.















I’ve seen her new teeth as they come in, and I’m told that I will be able to watch her crawl during our next visit.

















The photos I am sharing here are of Selah, in Texas, taken with my computer’s camera from my living room in Iowa. Isn't that amazing? I often remark that she seems to be looking right at me, but my son believes that she is really looking at the video of herself. (sigh) Oh well. I should be satisfied, shouldn’t I? What more could I possibly want?

Actually, I do want more. As wonderful as it is to spend such precious time with Selah (and her parents, of course) on SKYPE, it also fills me with longing. I want so badly to hold her in my arms, to kiss her chubby cheeks, and to play “This Little Piggy on her stubby little toes. I want to snuggle with her as she dozes off to sleep, and be the first to greet her when she awakes. No amount of Skype time makes up for face to face, skin to skin Grandma time.

As I’ve thought about this, I have been reminded of this verse:

“Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.” I Corinthians 13:12 (NIV)

This verse describes a little of how I feel about my SKYPE sessions with Selah. It also makes me realize, however, that the same is true of my relationship with God. As great as it is to know Him, I only know Him in part for now. Someday, however, I will know God fully. As my creator, not bound by the laws of the physical world, God already knows me fully, so the revelation will be solely mine. What a mysterious, marvelous truth! What a day to anticipate!

Lord willing, I will get to see Selah in person next month. I am so looking forward to that day! We will cuddle and sing, play, read books, and go for walks for an entire week. Maybe she will begin to know and recognize her grandma, and just maybe she will actually remember me when she sees me on SKYPE once again after we all return home. Well, I can hope, anyway.

Grandma loves you, Selah!

Oh, to See What Uncle Benny Sees

by Sharlyn Guthrie

The phone call announcing Grandma’s death came as unexpectedly as a cold north wind in August. Grief, Death’s cruel step-sister, was of necessity detained.

“Who’ll look after Uncle Benny?” I called, catching up to Daddy.

“We will, of course.” Daddy’s reply fell like a courtroom gavel, firm and final.

~~~~~~~~~

Uncle Benny, the oldest, but most child-like of Daddy’s brothers, lived with Grandma in the small two-story bungalow three blocks from our house. Grandpa had died years earlier, before my birth. I adored my playful, good-natured grandma, but I can’t say I really knew Uncle Benny. He rarely spoke to anyone but himself, and moved constantly about the house grazing walls and furniture with one hand, like a trolley on its cable. His eyes gazed upward, pulling his lips into a slight smile. I once asked if Benny was blind, but Grandma shook her head. “Benny sees so well, he sees things that most of us can’t.” Sometimes I squinted up toward the ceiling, straining to see what glorious sights he beheld.

Uncle Benny meticulously arranged bottles of bubble bath, lotions, and soaps by graduated sizes on the bathroom shelf. I enjoyed moving them around just to see if he’d notice. He was quite astute, returning each to its proper angle and station within minutes of my meddling. Perhaps it was a cruel game, but at least it was an interaction between us.

The most remarkable thing about Uncle Benny, however, was his ability to play the piano. For several hours each day he performed songs that were his alone. His limber fingers waltzed effortlessly over the keys as his upturned head wagged back and forth. His music delighted Grandma and her frequent visitors.

~~~~~~~~

The phone call sent Daddy and I racing the three blocks to Grandma’s house. We found Uncle Benny talking loudly into his flapping hands, while a neighbor attempted to soothe him. Uncle Benny had pounded on her door and led her back to the chair where Grandma still slumped over her open Bible. Daddy probably wouldn’t have taken me along if he’d been thinking straight. The scene was at once alarming and reassuring. It changed me in ways that only death and real life can.

Daddy made some phone calls, and then turned to his brother. “Benny, you know where Mom went, right?”

Silence.

“She’s not coming back, Benny. That’s just mom’s body in there –an empty shell. She was just sitting there talking to Jesus this morning, and I guess He told her to come on up and join Him and Dad. That must have been an invitation she couldn’t refuse. I sure wish I could see her now. She’s in Heaven, Benny.” Benny still stared into his hands, but calm had settled over him like a cool, swelling shadow. “I wonder what the party is like. Do you think they’re dancing, Benny? The angels and Mom and Dad –they must be having a grand time. Mom will be telling them whether the music is good or not, just the way she always told you.”

“Oh Benny, I miss her, too. I don’t know how we’ll manage without her, but we will.”
Daddy didn’t see me poking my nose around the doorframe. He and Benny were locked in an embrace, tears streaming down both of their faces.

The doorbell rang, and the coroner entered to validate what we already knew. He was followed by the funeral director, who carted Grandma’s shell out the front door and into a hearse.

Daddy chose to stay with Uncle Benny at Grandma’s house while making plans for the funeral, believing that gradual change might be easier for all of us. By the day of the funeral, Grief had arrived, along with many sorrowful relatives.

The service was solemn, unlike the rollicking Grandma I remembered. Soothing scriptures and details of Grandma’s well-lived life were unfolded slowly, thoughtfully. Friends and relatives dabbed with tissues at the corners of their eyes. After the benediction was read, Uncle Benny rose and strode to the piano.

We shifted uneasily in our seats, uncertain what to expect. Then, from the piano wafted Uncle Benny’s newly composed song –the sound of angel wings. It straightened our shoulders and lifted our chins. It drew our eyes upward, and our lips into a smile, like his. Tears of joy flowed freely down our cheeks. And for once I saw what Uncle Benny saw –a vision of Heaven so warm and welcoming I envied my Grandma and Grandpa who surely were dancing there.




I wrote this story for the Faithwriters challenge for the topic "uncle." Although it is fiction, it is based on my memories of some very special students I worked with many years ago, and their wonderful families who knew they were blessed to be entrusted with their care.

Sherri Ward at A Candid Thought is hosting Fiction Friday today.