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!

One Day's Worth of Love

"Be kindly affectioned one to another
with brotherly love;
in honour preferring one another." Romans 12:10 (KJV)

Two year old Claire and five year old Noah have had their share of spats lately. I am amazed at how competitive they are, especially considering their age and gender differences. What starts as taunting can soon erupt into all-out war.

Their mom and dad have very specific consequences for unkind behavior:

Hitting or pushing = time out, facing the wall
Taking toys away = loss of the privilege of playing with that toy
Teasing or aggravating = separation from each other (-interesting that this works!)
Using unkind words = say something kind/loving

Saturday evening I helped with crafts at a family Valentine party held at our church. The children made valentines for a family member or friend, then enclosed a customized “coupon” as a gift. I explained all of this to Noah, who had just finished making a valentine for Mom and Dad. He then sat pondering what to write on his coupon. Finally, he wrote, “I will love Claire for…”

“Oh, that’s a good one, Noah. Are you going to love her for one whole week?”

“A year!” he exclaimed, but quickly changed his mind, “…or maybe a day.”

Along with the other adults in the craft room I tried to stifle my snickers.

In the end his coupon read, “I will love Claire for 1 day.”

I admire Noah’s childish honesty, knowing that even one day is no small commitment. Sure, a day doesn’t sound like much when compared to the week I suggested, or to Noah’s grand aspirations of a year, but I’m guessing that keeping that promise for an entire day will be mighty tough!

“Be kindly affectioned to one another with brotherly love; in honor preferring one another.” This is no mushy Valentine sentiment, but a command concerning our brothers and sisters in Christ. In fact, John 13:35 says that this is how others will know that we are Christians -by the love we show toward one another.

If I am honest I must admit, like Noah, that I struggle in this area. I am not always as patient or tenderhearted with my brothers and sisters in Christ as I should be. I sometimes insist on my own way, and I don’t always share. I can say hurtful things, sometimes in the form of gossip...and the list goes on.


I think I will borrow Noah’s idea and write my Father a Valentine coupon:

VALENTINE COUPON To: My Father God
Redeemable For: loving my brothers and sisters for 1 day
Note #1: Coupon may be redeemed as often as needed
Note #2: I can't do this without your help!
Signed: Your child, Sharlyn

Yvonne is hosting Monday Manna today at My Back Door.

When Love Came Knocking

When Love Came Knocking
by Sharlyn Guthrie


The street was empty and dark except for flickering television sets illuminating the clouded windows of broken down trailers. A woman’s shrieks shredded the silence, but no one noticed. An infant’s cry soon erupted. Lucy Bryant had given birth to her fourth child. The twenty two year old slumped back onto her filthy bed, leaving the wet, scrawny infant untouched between her legs.

“Mama?” Jasmine’s eyes stretched as wide as lollipops.

“What’re you lookin’ at? Git! And take him with you. He needs a bath.” Lucy used the kitchen knife from the nightstand to slice through the cord.

Regarding the wiggling creature with wonder, the six-year-old gathered him up in a bed sheet. “Mama, can we keep this one?”

“Dunno. Just let me get some sleep.”

“I’d like you gooder if you was a sister, but you can’t help it you’re a boy.” Jasmine filled the bathroom sink half-full of water, dipped her brother in and out several times, then rubbed him dry with the bed sheet. His head wobbled and his legs stiffened as he screamed, reddening his transparent skin.

Several hours later, Lucy found them nestled together, the newborn swaddled in Jasmine’s outgrown Little Mermaid tee shirt. Despair overwhelmed her. Light-headed and weak, Lucy packed a few essentials and fled.

Falls Creek Bible Church would begin its summer children’s program next week. As Laura Rayburn drove home from the planning meeting, something or Someone urged her to turn along the rough, narrow lane she usually passed without a thought. Guilt and shame tore at her tender heart as she drove through the impoverished community. Why hadn’t she or her church family ever reached out to these hurting people?

Silently petitioning the Lord for protection and courage, Laura stretched across two broken steps to rap on a door. Putrid air poured out of the dilapidated trailer, surrounding the wisp of a girl who appeared. Dark half-moons under the child’s eyes made her appear old and haggard.

“Hi, I’m Laura. May I speak to your mother or father?”

“I’m Jasmine. I don’t got no mother or father.”

“May I come in?” The question from her own mouth startled Laura. She hadn’t planned to go inside, and yet something or Someone propelled her forward, through the open door.

Laura gasped when the rag doll on the couch suddenly drew breath and wailed. “That’s my brother.” Jasmine intoned.

‘What’s his name?” Laura questioned.

“I dunno. I just call him Brother.”

Apprehension nibbled at Laura’s insides, but she reached for the child. “May I?”

“You can’t have him. He’s mine.”

“Oh, Honey, I’m not taking him, I just want to hold him.”

“His head isn’t on very tight.”

“Okay, I’ll be careful.” The bit of childish wisdom produced a wan smile.

The infant was weak and much too thin, Laura realized with alarm. He wasn’t even wearing a diaper. “When did he last have a bottle?”

“Oh! I give him one whenever he cries. I found Jake’s old bottle in the cupboard.”

“Jake?”

“He was my brother, too. A social worker took him away with the last baby. Are you a social worker?”

“No.” Laura sank into the couch, nauseated and tearful. “I came here to tell you that Jesus loves you. Do you know about Jesus?”

“I don’t know any Jesus. Is he a friend of yours?”

“Well, yes. He is. He wants to be your friend, too, Jasmine. Could you use some help taking care of this little guy?”

Jasmine’s eyes searched the floor surrounding her dirty bare feet. “I guess so. We’re out of milk. Babies got to have milk, don’t they? He needs diapers, too. I hafta keep changing his shirts. Can Jesus help me take care of him?”

“Listen, Jasmine,” Laura squatted, peering into two deep, serious eyes. “Jesus is God’s Son. We can’t see Him, but He hears our prayers. I’m going to pray right now and ask Him to get you the help you need. Okay?”

Jasmine had an invisible friend, too, but she knew that hers was make-believe. Laura seemed to think her friend, Jesus, was real. Jasmine liked the way Laura smiled when she talked to Him. Brother cuddled into Laura’s shoulder and Jasmine slid slender arms around Laura’s waist, pressing into her as she dialed for help on her cell phone.

Surprised by the warmth surging through her, Jasmine exclaimed, “This must be love!” Then, closing her eyes as Laura had done, she whispered, “Thank you, Jesus.”



Karlene is Hosting Fiction Friday at Homespun Expressions today. Please pay her a visit to find more great fiction or to post your own story.

Oh, He Speaks!

“God spoke,” some say, “but speaks no longer -like Grandfather who rocks and smiles, and rocks some more, notions and musings buttoned under his sweater.”

Oh, He speaks to those with ears to hear, ears trembling with expectancy like hummingbirds hovering in anticipation. His words flow soft and warm; sweet and satisfying as nectar. Long for them; expect them; listen. Shh…

“We have His Word,” they say, “His Word in black and white, like letters from a far-off soldier love pregnant with promise of His return. It should be enough,” they say. “No one has heard from Him for centuries.”

He is the Word, the Word preceding black and white; the Word that breathed it; the Word that lives and breathes still –ever breathing, ever speaking utterances too holy to repeat. Yes, He speaks through words penned centuries ago; speaks through beings and things created; speaks through ironic circumstance. Can the everlasting Word be silent? Oh, He speaks to those who would be still; reminds, reassures, repeats love’s declarations. Shh…be still.

Crying out from self-made altar strewn with leftovers -hardly a sacrifice, we beg and bully Him. “Where are You, God? Do you hear me? Speak, God! I’m listening. Are you in the wind? The fire? The storm? If You are God, Speak.”

“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.” *

“Arise, come, my darling; my beautiful one, come with me.” **

“A silent observer… ” naysayers claim. “God watches and waits; His creation waits too, for the roar signaling death’s death once and for all times -like fabled silver swan whose death song is His first, finest and final proclamation.”

Observer? Yes. Silent? …Only to those who listen blind. Oh yes, He speaks! Be still and hear.


* Revelation 3:20 (NIV Bible)
** Song of Solomon 2:10b (NIV Bible)

Rocket Science

“No, the word is very near you; it is in your mouth and in your heart so you may obey it.” Deuteronomy 30: 14(NIV Bible)

Moses is speaking to the Israelites in this verse –reiterating a message he was commanded by God to deliver. In Deuteronomy 29 and the first part of 30 the terms of the covenant God made with the Israelites are laid out in the clearest language possible. Then, in order to emphasize that they are fully capable of understanding it, he adds this:

11 Now what I am commanding you today is not too difficult for you or beyond your reach. 12 It is not up in heaven, so that you have to ask, “Who will ascend into heaven to get it and proclaim it to us so we may obey it?” 13 Nor is it beyond the sea, so that you have to ask, “Who will cross the sea to get it and proclaim it to us so we may obey it?” 14 No, the word is very near you; it is in your mouth and in your heart so you may obey it. Deuteronomy 30: 11-14 (NIV Bible)

I love the imagery here of the lengths to which people might go to obtain something of great value. God is making the point that His priceless truth is easily accessible –easy for even the simple minded to grasp. A good paraphrase of this section of Moses’ speech might be, “It’s not rocket science, people!” God wanted to make it clear that there were no excuses when it came to recognizing and obeying Him, at least in a general sense, and with knowledge comes accountablility.

Of course this message was specifically for the Israelites, who were taught about God from childhood on, and who witnessed God’s intervention on their behalf on many occasions. But I am reminded of some similar verses in Romans that make me believe this principle can be more broadly applied:

18 The wrath of God is being revealed from heaven against all the godlessness and wickedness of people, who suppress the truth by their wickedness, 19 since what may be known about God is plain to them, because God has made it plain to them. 20 For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that people are without excuse. Romans 1:18-20 (NIV Bible)

This time God is speaking to and about the general population, or at least that part of the general population that has rejected him. So it would seem that everyone is capable of grasping a basic understanding of who God is and what constitutes good and evil, regardless of whether they have heard or accepted the specifics of the Gospel.

Several years ago during a psychology class at a secular college, my professor (a self-proclaimed non-believer in Christ) began discussing abortion. “I support abortion as a necessary evil in our society,” he said. “If we are honest with ourselves, I think everyone knows that abortion is morally wrong. However, when it comes down to individual circumstances –if it is my sister who is raped, or my teenage daughter who becomes pregnant- I can’t say that I would choose for them what I know is the most moral choice.”

While the professor’s position is sad, I have to admire his honesty. His statement is also an apt illustration of God’s word being obvious and easy to grasp, even for non-believers.

But God’s truth is even more obvious to those of us who have become His sons and daughters through the grace of Jesus Christ. Aren’t I even more accountable before God, then, when it comes to obeying His commandments, just as the Israelites were in their time and culture?

It is my sinful nature that causes me to point out perceived discrepancies in Scripture, to seek out exceptions to the rules, to justify what I know in my heart is sin. In truth, if I am honest with myself, God’s word is simple. I read it often, it is written on my heart, I speak of it to others with my lips, and even now my fingertips proclaim it as I type. When it comes to obeying it, I am fully accountable –without excuse. It’s not Rocket Science!



Vonnie at My Back Door is hosting Monday Manna today.

Just Ask

And he [Jesus] did not do many miracles there because of their lack of faith. Matthew 13:58

The story is told in the verses preceding this one that Jesus came to His hometown planning to minister to his neighbors and friends, just as He had to the multitudes in other cities. His teaching surprised and amazed them, alright. But the locals weren’t convinced. He was one of them. The women washed clothes at the river with His mother, Mary; Joseph, His father, constructed their cabinets; and each of his brothers and sisters were literally “the guy or girl next door.” Nothing Jesus could say or do convinced them that He had any more power or authority than anyone else in town.

Jesus sensed their disbelief. He tried, but failed to gain their trust. Daily in other locations He was approached by those with needs or sicknesses, and He performed miracle after miracle. The simple act of requesting aid, of bringing the sick and the lame to Jesus, you see, demonstrated faith in Him. Evidently, Jesus’ hometown friends and neighbors didn’t line up, expecting the miraculous. Despite Jesus’ reputation and obvious words of wisdom, their hearts were clouded by disbelief and cynicism.

I think I experienced a tiny glimpse of what Jesus must have felt at the end of my Preschool class today. While several children finished up their snacks, I let the remaining children do somersaults on gym mats. “It’s time to line up. Your parents are here,” I announced after several rounds of somersaulting.

Immediately, a child just finishing his snack at the table burst into tears. “You didn’t let me have a turn!” he wailed.

I didn’t immediately go to him. First, I lined up the children who immediately followed directions. When I did approach him I said, “You know, if you had just asked me, I would have made sure you had a turn on the mat before you had to go. Next time, don’t cry. Just ask.”

This illustration may be a stretch -I certainly can't perform miracles like Jesus did- but I was disappointed that my student didn’t trust me enough to ask a simple favor, or to expect that I might grant him one. Jesus must have felt that way, too, when the people who watched him grow up, who worked with him, worshipped with him, and knew his entire family heard his message, but didn’t trust his heart enough to ask for favors. Since few were asked for, few were granted.

How often have I been guilty of the same thing? Do I always see God as a loving Father who wants the very best for me? Do I trust His heart enough to go to Him with each and every concern and request, fully expecting Him to do the miraculous, or do I try to fix things on my own, assuming that God won’t give me the results I want, anyway?

Father God, help me always to remember who You are; to come to You often, trusting in Your goodness, believing in Your power, expecting the miraculous.

If you would like to participate in this meme or read more thoughts on this verse, you will find the links at An Open Book. I am so excited that Joanne decided to start Monday Manna up once again!

Breathe!

Breathe!
By Sharlyn Guthrie

From the sea fate called to me,
harmless ‘round my ankles danced.
Brimming with frivolity
my heart leaped in, taking the chance.

Like my mood the waves were grand,
spurting high above the swells,
blithely scooping up the sand,
rearranging all the shells.

Eagerly I caught the next,
rode its fluid, forceful back,
felt the muscle that it flexed-
surging strength my spirit lacked.

Repeatedly I safely lit
with abandon, bliss and pride.
I rode each crest with half a wit,
trusting fluctuating tide.

Heedless, forging deeper still,
I left the safety of the shore,
seeking yet a greater thrill
above the ocean’s mighty roar.

At last I rode so deep, so far
my feeble arms could never swim
to yonder shore or distant bar.
I journeyed there upon a whim.

Until then, fate was my friend.
Suddenly he turned about-
turned deserter in the end,
mimicking my panicked shout.

Breakers crashed above my head,
felled me with tremendous force.
I sank down with fear and dread,
gulped salt water and remorse.

Flailing arms grasped liquid air.
Vain, I’d failed to leash my board.
Absorbed with merriment, I’d dared
to take my eyes off of the shore.

Hopeless, helpless I was tossed.
Billows whirled and whipped about.
I knew then that all was lost,
perceived it well, without a doubt.

As the ocean roiled and seethed
sturdy arms lifted my head,
bidding me to simply breathe…
“Breathe!” is all the Lifeguard said.

One breath, I think of it, amazed!
Strength restored, spirit renewed.
Refocusing my fickle gaze,
I saw that I had been pursued.

Foolishly I’d rushed to play.
Wiser eyes followed me there.
Though I drifted far away,
He marked my every move with care.

I soon inhaled with greater ease.
Deft, He steered me to the shore.
With gratitude my heart was seized.
The Lifeguard gave me life once more.

This poem is fictional, in that I have never even tried surfing. I hope the analogy and application are clear, though. I wrote this several years ago for the topic, "Breathe". Visit Vonnie at My Back Door to find links to more great Friday Fiction.

Color in Black and White

The world outside my window is grayscale today. Snow covers the lawn and shrubs. Trees splay their branches like black, wispy webs against colorless sky, light snow filling the spaces between them. Another winter day begins. The new fallen snow is dull, lacking the glistening of sunshine upon it. I long for sunshine and the warmth that sunshine allows me to imagine, even when the temperature hovers well below freezing.

Don’t misunderstand. I love snow, but in mid-winter I long for the colors of the other seasons: spring green foliage dotted with pink, yellow, and white blossoms; vibrant roses, gerbera daisies, and zinnias of summer; autumn’s leaves in hues of gold, brown, and red. Comparatively, winter is drab, color seemingly suspended, along with hibernating reptiles and dormant tulip bulbs.

I am as drawn to color as a hummingbird that on summer days is attracted to the boldest of blooms. My wardrobe has always been vibrant, much to the chagrin of my fashion expert friends. Classic whites, beiges, and blacks are rare finds in my closet. When I first happened upon a “Dressing Gaudy” store, I flitted furiously from rack to rack in great excitement, resembling said hummingbird. I rejoiced, knowing that others of my kind existed in numbers at least great enough to justify our own store.

Upon traveling to Africa, I was delighted to discover many more of my kind while attending an event of high intensity, both in color and energy. African women came swathed in bold batik and kente fabrics, boasting every polychromatic tint and hue. In a culture of almost exclusively earthen toned backdrops, colorful adornments ignite both the landscape and the spirit.

In expressing my delight over this visual feast I remarked to my African hostess on the contrast between colorful African attire versus Americans’ more casual, reserved color and style preferences. “Americans take so much for granted,” she stated simply. I knew she was right, and I also knew that her comment encompassed more than color choices. I felt rich in the midst of Africa’s extreme poverty, and conspicuously healthy as I witnessed firsthand the effects of AIDS and other serious illnesses.

I smile on this dreary day, envisioning ebony women in bright raiment dancing in settings of sepia. The memory sends me twirling in my plaid housecoat, pirouetting in pink fluffy slippers. A flash of red in a setting of gray stops me mid-turn, causing me to pause and peer out my kitchen window.



I lean against the counter, taking in the vision. A red-headed woodpecker with black and white flecked belly hangs upside down on the birdfeeder. Slightly faded gold finches select their favorite offerings from above, dropping several tidbits to the ground below, where a cardinal cheerfully retrieves them.









Two brilliant blue jays flapping azure wings arrive, sending the finches skyward and the cardinal to nearby branch where it preens its scarlet plumage. The picture perfect scene is stunning.

Color, it occurs to me, is greatly enhanced by lackluster surroundings. In the same way that good health is more valued in the context of AIDS, and wealth against a backdrop of poverty, color is more beautiful in grayscale.

Do you suppose that, knowing this, the world’s Master Architect and Builder wisely planned for vibrant birds to spice up winter landscapes? Today, as I survey the scene in my own backyard, I am more convinced than ever that He did. Today I realize anew that I have taken much for granted.

All That Bristles is not a Broom

Continuing on the subject of wise sayings, I thought I would share this story I wrote for the Faithwriters challenge topic "Illustrate the saying, 'Don't cut off your nose to spite your face'." You can probably tell that I had a lot of fun writing it!













All That Bristles Is Not a Broom
by Sharlyn Guthrie


Tall, lean Bromley Bristlemore is a broom maker. His wiry blonde hair fans out evenly in every direction, meeting his bushy beard on both sides of his face. Bromley himself could easily be imagined as a broom standing up on its stick. His grandfather founded Bristlemore Brooms, claiming the motto, “the best broom money can buy.” Three generations later Bromley was swept into the business with the untimely passing of his father.

Unfortunately, by the time Bromley and his new bride, Bea, came on the scene nobody was buying brooms. Once a stiff competitor, Bristlemore Brooms had lost its edge. “Broom making is all I know,” Bromley stated with a tone of finality as Bea pressed him to discuss their options. And so a disenchanted, discouraged Bromley continued his daily habit of binding broom corn to expertly turned birch handles. Then he stacked each finely crafted specimen in an ever-growing pile –simply because he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

Bea sat helplessly by until she could take it no longer. The couple needed an income, and Bromley’s brooms were not selling. Not one to despair, Bea got busy instead. First, she swept the cobwebs from the showroom window, cleaning it until it sparkled. Next, she fashioned a viewing counter near enough to the window to be seen by passersby. Finally, she added two words to the sign that hung in the window: Bristlemore Brooms and Bakery.

Bromley mumbled and grumbled, predicting further doom, as his wife buzzed around him, but Bea could not be dissuaded. She baked five loaves of bread and four dozen cookies for the first day of bakery business, all of which Bromley sold by noon. Cautiously optimistic, she doubled her efforts the following day.

The trend continued. Bromley’s deserted Broom shop bustled with activity once again. Occasionally a bakery customer even purchased a broom along with their bag of bagels. In fact, Bromley was so busy waiting on customers that his broom making efforts were all but abandoned.

Bea spent her nighttime hours baking. She whipped up rich red raspberry tarts, light-as-chiffon croissants, angel food cakes as tall as oatmeal boxes, and popovers oozing silky sweetness. Each morning she restocked the counter, and then spent the remaining part of the day sleeping.

News of the fabulous baked goods scattered like dust bunnies throughout the town. Bromley should have been pleased, but instead he despised his wife for her tireless determination, and even more so for her success.

“My compliments to the baker of these fine delicacies,” exclaimed the mayor one morning, swiping cinnamon from the corners of his mouth as he handed Bromley a dollar bill.

“Why, thank you.”

“You mean to say that you, the broom maker, are also the baker? I would have thought the baker might be your wife.”

“You obviously don’t know my wife, sir.” Sarcasm dripped unchecked from Bromley’s lips. “She’s as lazy as a cat in a castle, and just as fat, too. Why, she very nearly eats what I make in profits.”

“You don’t say! Then she must not be the one who stands behind you with that tray full of doughnuts.”

Bromley spun around just in time to glimpse eight dozen hot, sticky doughnuts raining down upon him. One very stunned Bea broke into sobs. Despite being caught in such an atrocity however, Bromley brushed off Bea’s sorrow and her offer of forgiveness as easily as he did the bits of doughnuts clinging to his beard.

Bea accepted the mayor’s offer of a newly remodeled store front for her bakery as part of a downtown improvement project. She hired assistants and moved into the apartment directly above her bakery. Her efforts were rewarded, and her cheerful disposition continues to win and charm customers to this day.

The sign in Bromley’s window now reads “Bristlemore Brooms” once more. The once-sparkling window has grown as clouded and dark as Bromley’s mood and demeanor. His stack of brooms, however, continues to mount even as his back and shoulders bow.

At six-thirty each evening, Bromley glumly wheels his broom cart along the sidewalk toward Bea’s Bakery. He stops at the door, turns the key in the lock, and sweeps up flour and pastry crumbs with the finest broom money can buy. Later he dines alone, munching on day-old bread spread thick with resentment –a table knife clutched in one hand; a grudge in the other.

Because of our innate selfishness, it is often difficult for us to view marriage as the one-flesh relationship God created it to be, but whenever we set out to defeat our spouse both individuals lose. Therefore, it is easy to "cut off my nose to spite my face" in marriage. Have you seen or experienced other situations in which this saying is true? Tell me about them!

Karlene is hosting Fiction Friday this week at Homespun Expressions. I hope you will take time to visit her blog and follow the links to more Friday fiction.

New "Wisdom" for a New Year

1-1-11 marks the second anniversary of my blog! Since Noah helped to name my blog two years ago (he was three at the time), I thought it fitting to let him help me write this blog post for the New Year. This worked out perfectly, as he and Claire spent the night and all day Thursday with Grandma and Papa. Claire and I dressed dollies and polished our nails while Noah played piano, then Noah and I read “SkippyJon Jones” books and worked on the blog post while Claire napped.

On last year’s anniversary, I wrote about my Grandma’s leftover soup. Grandma was better known for her little adages or bits of wisdom; if she were still alive today, she would be 108! I thought it would be fun to tell Noah some of Grandma’s sayings, but let him provide his own endings. It proved to be a lot of fun for both of us. Are you ready? Here they are:

Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man ………tired.

Haste makes ………you fall down.

If a thing is worth doing it’s ………making a funny face.









If you can’t stand the heat ……….get some new batteries.

Never underestimate the power of ......a car. (I hope he remembers that when he’s 16!)

You can lead a horse to water, but ......the horse can drink it. (Is that really fair?)

Laugh and the whole world laughs with you; cry, and ......your dad will make you laugh.

Don’t put all your eggs in ......your backpack.

A bird in the hand is ......light.

Better to be safe than ......slow.

A penny saved is ......one cent –that’s easy!

All work and no play makes ......no fun.

Don’t bite the hand that ......scratches you.

It’s always darkest before ......bedtime.

Two is company, three is ......better.

You can’t teach an old dog ......to dance.
(Papa thinks this excuses him from ballroom dance lessons this year!)

Every dog has its ......bone.

Wasn’t that fun? But we aren’t finished yet. Noah’s final saying is the one I want you to remember this year:

The best things in life are ......sharing and hugging.

What a great thing to remember, whether you’re 5 or 108! Both sharing and hugging are free, by the way. Neither of these can be accomplished alone, however, so spend every day sharing what you have with others, and don’t be stingy with your hugs. It will make 2011 much, much better –Noah and I promise! Happy New Year, my friends! May God, who shared his best gift with us, be your source of blessings and courage throughout all the days of the coming year.

As I wrote this poem I considered how remarkable it actually is that most of the world pauses to honor Christ one day each year. Granted, many wouldn't admit that this is what they are doing, but truly, in celebrating His birth, and keeping "the spirit of Christmas" alive, they are honoring, or at least acknowledging Jesus. It is still a far cry from what God expects of us, but it is a tiny, imperfect foretaste of the day when "...every knee shall bow ...and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord..." (Phil. 2:10-11)

Joy to the World, the Lord is come! Merry Christmas, my friends!

For Just One Day
By Sharlyn Guthrie

For just one day
we will not go
into the city
or the town.
I’m thinking, though,
we’ll light a fire
to sit around
with those we know
and love who will be home
…for just one day.

For just one day
we’ll tolerate
unbridled joy,
excessive noise,
squeals from children
gleefully
unwrapping toys
with laser sounds
and high pitched squawks
…for just one day.

For just one day
we’ll disregard
high calories
and extra fat,
plus sugared things
we ought to shun.
Tomorrow we’ll go back to that,
but we’ll have candy,
pie, and fudge
…for just one day

For just one day
we’ll set aside
our differences,
our selfish pride.
We’ll do our best
to keep the peace
and not take sides.
We know we must
because it’s right
…for just one day



For just one day
we’ll light the wicks
of candles we
have never lit;
use fine china,
crystal too;
in merriment
wipe dust from games
we rarely play
…for just one day.

For just one day
the world will slow—
perhaps not kneel,
but genuflect;
pay homage to
our God and King,
show some respect.
This side of Heaven
it’s what we get
…for just one day

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)

Praising God for Answered Prayer

“Give thanks to the Lord for He is good. His love endures forever!” Psalm 136:1

Wednesday, December 1st, was surgery day, and I am thankful it is over. I knew that many were praying for me. I, too, had prayed relentlessly as I awaited this day, and I approached with a positive attitude.

Perhaps I should back up and say that I had an ultrasound the previous Wednesday (the day before Thanksgiving). The technician had a difficult time finding the tumor, partially because of a large hematoma that remained from the biopsy. When the radiologist came in, however, he repositioned me a couple of times and finally found what he pointed out as the mass. He said that it had been nearly out of range of the biopsy needle, but it looked to him like the tip of the needle had barely nicked the edge of it, which was probably why just a few cells showed up in the biopsy. I had a clear view of what he was pointing out, and it certainly looked and sounded reasonable. I was encouraged to know that it had been located. On Monday the surgeon’s office called and said that two tumors had actually been identified in the ultrasound, but they were side by side, and would be removed together.

My first procedure on the surgery day involved another ultrasound with a different radiologist. It was her job to insert a wire to locate the mass that would be removed. I could tell she was in a hurry, and she couldn’t find the tumors the other radiologist saw. I tried to tell her where they were in relation to the ceramic marker left behind to mark the biopsy area, but she didn’t want to hear it. In fact she retorted, “I don’t even know why your doctor ordered that other ultrasound. It was completely unnecessary. This one is the only one that matters!”

I told the radiologist that I wanted to be sure we had the right area because I didn’t want to go through all of this again, to which she replied, “Well, about twenty percent of our patients have to return to have more tissue removed at a later time. That’s just the way it is.” Of course this was not what I wanted to hear immediately before surgery. I was ready to back out of the whole thing! She then went ahead with the wire insertion -in a less than gentle manner- stopping at the ceramic marker. I endured several painful and anxious moments. Thankfully, John had insisted on coming in with me and was there to pat my feet and ask questions. This no doubt further annoyed the radiologist, but it was of great comfort to me!

The bright spot in that whole experience was my nurse, Terri, who took the time to tell me what a good job I was doing throughout a difficult procedure. She also told me she was praying for me, which meant a lot! She was like a cold drink of water in the middle of the desert.

Upon returning to my surgery room, my pastor and another church friend were waiting to pray with me –what a comfort it was to hear prayers spoken on my behalf, especially at a time when I was feeling so vulnerable.

I have been reading A Praying Life by Paul Miller. He speaks of helplessness as one of the most important doorways to prayer. “God wants us to come to him empty-handed, weary, and heavy-laden. Instinctively, we want to get rid of our helplessness before we come to God…Jesus isn’t asking us to do anything he isn’t already doing. He is inviting us into his life of helpless dependence on his heavenly Father.” It’s true. My pride causes me to try to get everything under control before I come to God in prayer, but in this situation it was completely beyond my ability to do so. I can testify that prayer is never more appreciated or more effective than when I am completely helpless, as I was in those moments before surgery.

I had a few minutes to speak with the surgeon, and John and I both shared some of our concerns from the needle localization experience. He did his best to calm us down and assure us that he felt confident that he would be able to get all of it, regardless of whether the specific spot was located, since he planned to take out a wider area. After the surgery, he described the area he removed as “golf ball sized.”

I came home the same evening and began my recovery.

Some friends had brought food to us, and I hadn’t eaten for 24 hours so I was hungry, but I found that my throat was extremely sore from the breathing tube insertion, so I couldn’t eat, or even drink, much. I soon learned as well that the pain medication I was given had the undesired effect of keeping me awake and wired. I didn’t sleep the first night or the next day. Finally, after the second night, I called and got a different prescription. Ah, how wonderful it felt to rest on Friday!

Late Friday afternoon I was surprised by a phone call from the surgeon’s office. The pathology report was in, and the surgery was successful! A Phyllodes tumor was removed with good margins all around it. What was seen the week before as two tumors was most likely just the unusual shape of the one. This was the best possible news! No more surgery will be required, and there is little likelihood of a recurrence, since they got a good margin around it. We are praising God for guiding the surgeon’s hand and for proving, once again, His faithfulness and love. Yes, I believe I had an excellent, skilled surgeon, as well, but his work was directed by my Father, the Great Physician.

I have a wonderful friend subbing for me in preschool until I get my strength back. In the mean time I am resting, listening to plenty of Christmas music, and doing some Christmas shopping online! My throat is still very sore, but otherwise I am healing nicely.

Thank you for your prayers and kind words. It is humbling to be the recipient of such kindness, but it is also a blessing beyond compare!

A Path Unknown

A Path Unknown
by Sharlyn Guthrie

Today I walk along a path unknown;
I must admit I never would have come here on my own.
In fact, I don’t know how I happened here,
or where this path will lead; there is so much that is unclear.

But He knows when I sit and when I rise.
He hems me in before and then He hems me in behind.
And when I cry out in the dead of night,
the darkness isn’t dark to Him; He fills it with His light.

Today it seems I have a choice to make.
I could denounce this path as some immense divine mistake,
or I could view it as a chance to rest
within my Father’s loving arms, held safe against His breast.

For He knows when I sit and when I rise.
He hems me in before and then He hems me in behind.
And when I cry out in the dead of night,
the darkness isn’t dark to Him; He fills it with His light.

I don’t know where or when this path will end,
but God, the mighty warrior, walks beside me as a friend.
His perfect love my anxious heart will still,
and over me He will rejoice, with songs my senses fill.

For He knows when I sit and when I rise.
He hems me in before and then He hems me in behind.
And when I cry out in the dead of night,
the darkness isn’t dark to Him; He fills it with His light.

Lord, you know when I sit and when I rise.
You hem me in before and then You hem me in behind.
And when I cry out in the dead of night,
the darkness isn’t dark to You; You fill it with Your light.

Based on:
Psalm 139:2,5,12
Zephaniah 3:17




Two and a half weeks ago, following a needle biopsy on my breast, I learned that I have a rare form of breast cancer –a Phyllodes tumor. I had never heard of this diagnosis before, and as you might guess it raised a lot of questions. The nurse who gave me the news couldn’t tell me anything except that it would require surgery. My own doctor’s nurse only told me that this type of tumor is “unpredictable,” and although it is benign, it has malignant potential. I began reading everything I could find online, and even more questions were raised.

Finally, I met with a surgeon this week. He was very helpful and patient with all of my questions, carefully answering each of them and reassuring me as best he could. The surgery (a wide margin excision) was scheduled for December 1st. I am relieved to have the date set, and I welcome your prayers for the surgery.
I have many reasons to feel thankful and blessed. Apparently, we caught this growth much earlier than is usually possible, and it is benign, meaning that it does not metastasize. I also have a wonderful support system through my family, friends, and church. Still, it hasn’t been easy.

I first became aware of concerns over my mammogram September 2nd. That means that three months will have elapsed by the time I have surgery on December 1st. Strangely enough, the most difficult thing for me was committing to have the needle biopsy.

Following a routine mammogram I was asked to return for a magnification mammogram. A radiologist showed me the results and spoke to me before I left. She was concerned about some micro-calcifications too small to see clearly, even with magnification. Although 80 to 90 percent of micro-calcifications are benign, she wanted me to have a large core needle biopsy on the area. For this procedure I would lie on my stomach on a raised table, my breast hanging through an opening, as multiple tissue samples were extracted from it by the physician below.

The original mammogram was done the last day of our insurance eligibility before John retired. Our insurance coverage was now catastrophic with a high deductible. I knew nothing about this new insurance, except that we were starting from scratch, and I figured this probably wasn’t a good way to start. I was more annoyed than anything, thinking that this biopsy was most likely an unnecessary procedure. I had already learned that it was very costly. I agreed to think and pray about it before deciding.

I was taken by surprise in the middle of that night when I awoke shaking, tears streaming, soaking my pillow. I supposed that it had to do with the dilemma I was facing, although I hadn’t felt the anxiety earlier in the day. So, I prayed specifically asking God to grant me wisdom and peace, but the same thing happened the following night and the night after that. I knew that this reaction was extreme, but I also felt that I needed to understand why I was reacting this way before I made my decision.

Two weeks passed. I had a few restful nights here and there, but most were interrupted. Finally, during one of my now familiar episodes, I prayed earnestly for both wisdom and peace. This time God answered immediately in the form of a revelation. I was transported to a time when I was twelve years old, pinned against the wall by my brother in law, powerless to protect my developing breasts as he pinched and prodded. Now the tears came like a flood. Isn’t it amazing how memories that have supposedly been put to rest can retain such power several decades later? I realized then that my overwhelming fear was not about the outcome of the biopsy, or even about the exorbitant cost, but about the procedure itself or more specifically, my vulnerability during the procedure. With that realization came an overwhelming sense of peace about going ahead with the biopsy –not that I thought it would be a piece of cake- but I knew that, with God’s help, I would now be able to handle it. What an amazing, direct answer to prayer!

The following day I called my doctor and asked to have the biopsy scheduled.
Those who know me know that I am pretty laid back. I have never minded having dental work or other medical procedures, including surgery. I had many people praying for me, and I could sense their prayers. Still, enduring that procedure was a serious exercise in trust and dependence on God. I softly cried my way through it and was exhausted when it was over.

But it wasn’t over. A few days later I learned the results of the biopsy. Since then it has become apparent that God answered the other portion of my prayer, granting me wisdom to go ahead with the biopsy. As I suspected, the microcalcifications didn’t turn out to be of any concern. Nor do they normally have any correlation with a Phyllodes tumor. However, since the mammogram did not reveal a tumor, mine most likely would not have been found until it grew much larger and more problematic, had it not been for the biopsy. Thank you, precious Holy Spirit, for the wisdom, peace, and direction that only You could give!

These past three months have been filled with crazy, unfamiliar emotions. From the very beginning, however, I have recognized this season as an opportunity to hold onto my Father, God, and trust Him like never before. Spending more time with Him has been sweet, for in the midst of uncertainty it is comforting to always find Him there. I can truly say I am thankful for the ways I have grown in dependence on Him, and the tender ways He has ministered to me through His Word, song lyrics, my husband, wonderful friends, and yes, even middle of the night panic attacks.

The song at the beginning of this post is also a product of this difficult time –a blend of messages God has delivered to me in various ways. It occurred to me after I finished writing these words that my entire life is really “A Path Unknown.” When things are going my way it’s easy to fool myself, thinking I know what tomorrow or next month or even next year will bring, but my plans are only good for as far as I can see. They can unravel very quickly. I am so thankful that the all-knowing, all-seeing, ever-present God is my friend and constant companion through all of life’s uncertainties.

Today I am sharing my heart with you, along with some unpleasant details of my life, both past and present. I pray that it may in some way encourage you in facing the obstacles and uncertainties of your own life, or help prepare you for the trials that may eventually find you. Perhaps I have included too much information, but if any part of this message blesses or encourages you, if it draws you into closer fellowship and dependence on Jesus Christ, or evokes an attitude of thankfulness and praise, my journey down this path has been worthwhile. Give God the glory. He alone is worthy!

Ultimately, the best advice on the topic of trials is found in James 1: 2-5 (NIV) “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you. “

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

A Prayer in the Witching Hour

I wrote the following prayer for the topic "missionary" in the Faithwriters writing challenge. It earned 2nd place overall. It is fictional, in that I wrote it before I had any personal experience with mission work. It is based on conversations with close friends who had experienced fear, loneliness, and other difficult situations and emotions as foreign missionaries. These are the things that aren't often addressed in a traditional missions update. These are the reasons we should hold our missionaries up in prayer on a regular basis. They are people just like any of us, endowed with every human frailty and emotion.

A Prayer in the Witching Hour
by Sharlyn Guthrie

Where are You, God?

Shadows submerge me in darkness. Gloom enshrouds me like a grave. It is the witching hour and the presence of evil is great. Where is Your Goodness? Heavy, my eyelids close. But sleep eludes me. The pallet is too hard, and I miss my pillow.

Where are You, God?

Today I walked strange paths, lined with unfamiliar sights. People pressed against me, people whose manner and odor were strong. I peered into gaunt faces with toothless smiles. Questioning eyes stalked me. Children pointed and giggled as I passed. Adults touched my pale skin and stroked my silky hair. Uncertain, I continued in silence, fearful of committing a cultural sin or murdering their native tongue.

Where are You, God?

My perceptions are keen, but You are remote. I search for a glimpse of Your beauty, but see only squalor. Where is your fragrance? These streets reek of urine. Your voice is drowned by distant drums rumbling to placate the demons. I cannot feel Your arms around me.

Where are You, God?

I heeded Your call and followed You here. You should be nearer than ever before, but You are absent. How will I speak unless Your Spirit speaks through me? How will I serve without your strength to hold me up? How will I love unless You love through me? How will I live without Your presence?

Where are You, God?

I found you as a child. My family lavished Your love upon me. Your grace brought me through cancer treatments and a concussion. Your Spirit overflowed in the prayer meeting where I met the aging missionary. Your joy surged through me when I promised to come to this distant land as her replacement. Not until now have I doubted. Was I duped? Deceived?

Where are You, God?

I didn’t know that I would feel so insignificant and out of place. I didn’t know that I would ache to hear my family’s voices. I didn’t know that I would feel repulsed by the very people I came to serve. I didn’t know that nighttime could be this dark or this lonely. I didn’t know that You could be so elusive.

Where are You, God?
“Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.” (Psalm 139:23-24 NIV)


Where are You, God?

You are in the loneliness, the stench, the unfamiliarity, the darkness, the silence. Slay my selfishness. Forgive my unbelief. Dispel my doubts. Quell my fears. Fill this jar of clay. Then, “I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone, O LORD, make me dwell in safety.” (Psalm 4:8 NIV)


Today's Fiction Friday is being hosted by Karlene at Homespun Expressions. Please take the time to visit her blog and follow the links to some of the other great fiction.

Sequence of Joy

Sequence of Joy

Like unexpected cool, refreshing rain
showered on the evil and the just,
joy seeps through lingering clouds of grief and pain,
sprinkling those who do and do not trust.

On chance and circumstance this joy depends
…perilously totters on a rail.
A sudden gust or shifting of the winds
topples and defeats its effort frail.

This joy erupts, but soon it must elapse,
as surely as a wilting withering leaf.
Beholden, it drifts just beyond my grasp,
a temporary bliss however brief.

Yet there exists a rare, uncommon joy
for those who lean upon the Father’s breast;
one that doom and crisis can’t destroy,
regardless how they put it to the test.

Planted deep, this joy springs from the Source.
The Spirit tends His flourishing fruit with care.
Inspiring and efficacious force,
His bounteous, blessed gift He’s pleased to share.

Still, joy is tempered here by sin and woe.
The bridegroom yearns to make my joy complete!
Consummate, boundless streams of joy will flow,
Immersing me before His mercy seat.

~Sharlyn Guthrie

September's Sunshine

Did you happen to notice that this September's sunshine was just a little brighter than usual? I am about to tell you why. It's because my two new beautiful granddaughters were born this month! Since they are, by far, the best news of the month I can’t let the month end without announcing their arrival here, on my blog. The girls were both due September 18th, so we were eager to see when they would actually arrive. As it turned out, they were both in a bit of a hurry!

Hope Lillian Guthrie was born first, on September 2nd, weighing 7 lbs. 6 oz. Besides her mom and dad (Travis and Kristen), Hope joins her “big” sister, Selah, 14 months. Since she lives over 1,000 miles away, we have been dying to meet her; the next three weeks can’t go by fast enough. Romans 5:3-5, a favorite passage of her daddy's, was the inspiration for Hope’s first name.

For Hope

Hope, the meaning of your name
Is more than whimsy or a game;
more than childish fantasy
or wishing well frivolity.

Hope from God is better far
than pot of gold or falling star.
It’s an anchor -safe, secure-
a place to stand when life’s unsure.

Where God’s love and truth abound
A quiet confidence is found,
giving reason to expect
what nobody has seen, just yet.

Hope lifts eyes to Heaven above;
assures us of our Savior’s love;
keeps your feet from stumbling
when things around are crumbling.

On with life, a “hoper” goes;
Needs not cross fingers or toes;
waits with patience and with peace
as both hope and joy increase.

Hope won’t disappoint, you know;
your mom and dad have found it so.
Sweet child, your parents hoped for you.
God answered, and their dreams came true.

~Grandma Guthrie

Olive Joy Guthrie was born September 10th, weighing 10 lbs. 1 oz. She is Tyson’s and Sarah's first and highly anticipated child, arriving one month after their 9th anniversary! I was asked to write a prayer for one of the baby showers held before Olive’s birth. The theme of the shower was, “Wrapped in Love,” and this baby certainly was!

Prayer for the Talents, Abilities, and Spiritual Gifts of Sweet Baby Guthrie

Father, I thank you and praise you for your marvelous works in weaving the intricacies of my new little granddaughter inside Sarah’s womb. I can’t wait to see what talents, abilities and spiritual gifts you have chosen for her. Will she inherit her mother’s artistic flair, or her father’s songwriting talent? Or will she be endowed with abilities exclusively her own?
I only ask that each attribute be used for Your honor and glory. May we celebrate her as a unique, marvelous being. Please give each of us the grace and the wisdom to accept her just as You have designed her, and in doing so, may we light the path that leads her to You, Lord. For even more than my arms ache to hold her, I yearn for the day when she lays each attribute at Your feet, recognizing You as her Savior and King. Thank You, dear Father! Through this precious creation, Tyson and Sarah and each of us who have earnestly prayed for this child are once again in awe of Your grace, faithfulness and love toward us. Praise Your holy name! Amen
~Grandma Guthrie

Olives are symbolic of many things in the Bible: peace, prayer, promises, and anointing. Tyson and Sarah chose the name "Olive" because of the peace God gave them throughout their difficult journey to parenthood.






Welcome, precious girls! Grandma Guthrie loves you already, and I look forward to many days of dollies, tea parties, dress up...and sunshine –especially when all five girl cousins (now age two and under) get together! Noah, you have no idea what family gatherings will be like for you in the future!

Swish, Hush, Shush-a-bye

Swish, Hush, Shush-a-bye
By Sharlyn Guthrie

“Daddy, what’s that chirping sound that’s coming from the hall?”
A cricket calling for its love, my darling. That is all.
“But Daddy, what’s the loud “harrumph” from way down by the pond?”
Frogs are singing lullabies to tadpoles that have spawned.
“The mama duck is quacking. Why isn’t she asleep?”
From hungry owls and foxes her ducklings she must keep.

Swish, hush, shush-a-bye, rustle, hustle who
wings, sings, brushes by whispering, “God loves you.”


“I think I hear a siren. Don’t policemen go to bed?”
They work all through the nighttime to keep us safe, instead.
“Do other people work at night? O Daddy, tell me, please.”
Doctors, nurses, firemen are just a few of these.
“If just a few, then won’t you tell me, Daddy, are there more?”
Hush, my child, and I will tell of night workers galore:

Swish, hush, shush-a-bye, rustle, hustle who
wings, sings, brushes by whispering, “God loves you.”


Workers stocking grocery shelves and people sorting mail,
pilots, cabbies, bus drivers, and those who guard the jail,
bakers making doughnuts, birthday cakes, and treats;
semi drivers transporting groceries, milk, and meat;
people printing newspapers, others selling gas,
construction workers mending roads so travelers can pass.

Swish, hush, shush-a-bye, rustle, hustle who
wings, sings, brushes by whispering, “God loves you.”


Listen now, my precious child, before you close your eyes.
Another One is wide awake. He’s loving, strong, and wise.
Those other workers go to sleep while you are wide awake.
But He is always on the job, a guardian for your sake.
He is the great Almighty God. You are His treasure rare.
So do not worry, little one, you’re always in His care.

Swish, hush, shush-a-bye, rustle, hustle who
wings, sings, brushes by whispering, “God loves you.”

This poem won first place overall for the Faithwriter's writing challenge children's genre. I hope to have it illustrated and made into a children's book some day. Please go knock on Yvonne's Back Door and enjoy some more wonderful fiction posts.