Whatever He Says

Happy Saturday morning everyone! This is a busy weekend, following a busy week, but I want to recommend a fruitful post by another blogger, Alicia Butcher Ehrhartd. One of my favourite books is  Mistakes Were Made but Not by Me  by Carol Tavris and Elliot Aronson. That book is about self justification and judgement; how we remember things--and our general human tendency to subconsciously tilt the scales in our own favour when doing so. Alicia posted the poem  Misattribution  (clicking on the word will take you there,) which is what I am recommending you read, to illustrate the  fundamental attribution error  - a pyschological framework for understanding a similar principle and the underpinnings that drive us in that direction. I loved the poem and am grateful for Alicia taking me deeper into understanding a human tendency, which we can guard against in ourselves and others the better we know it. Matthew 9:13 Living Bible (TLB) 13  Then he added,  “Now go away and learn

We met for supper before going to a presentation by motivational speaker  Lesley Andrew . She spoke   at the high school of  two  of  our granddaughters and it turned out to be such an amazing evening that I wished that the school had been packed. The tickets had only been $5 after all--a great bargain! Those of us who were there--a small intimate group, left inspired to the hilt by this amazing woman who has turned her challenges into beauty and art. She uses her story to show that no matter the package or family you are born with, or the pain that unfolds in your life, you always have a choice of what to do with them. Through her choices, determination and persistence she has reached incredible heights as a vocal and visual artist, and proven that one goal at a time you can beat the odds and be a success in the best sense of the word--being the best you that you can be. This was such an amazing message for young people to hear, and I am sure that everyone there was impacted for goo

I was sitting next to someone sharing over lunch this week, the story of the latest in the pie adventure. I got to the part where Ivo asked me how many orders I could handle and I told him I didn't like to set a limit and I said to my friend that it felt like limiting God. My friend said, "Well I know you have faith in God but then there are the practicalities." I teased my friend--"Faith in God is the practicality! They aren't different things." We both laughed at how funny the conversation had become. Because the adventure of the pies has never been practical from day one. :) I smile every time I think of the choice to become practical because I think that the moment I do, I will be stepping into the real danger zone of trying to go it alone. No, I will stay happily impractical--and hold onto God's big hand.

Readers of Whatever He Says know that a pie baking adventure began last November, in order to raise the last $1000 needed for a project we were sponsoring at work; a modest guest house for visiting workers, in South Sudan. We didn't know then that war would break out in South Sudan on December 13, and that the compound surrounding the guest house would be swamped by thousands of desperate people seeking safety; but God did, that goes without saying; and some of the support that would be needed was going to be through someone who'd heard him say, "Bake pies." And she would be helped by a circle of friends who donated resources of pie ingredients, pie boxes and time and energy.  So far we've raised almost $4000 for South Sudan through the pies--that's 200 pies at $20 each. Everyone who has bought one is a helper through giving .We have received so much joy in working together to make a difference for a people in desperate need of help; all because God compel

Today as I drove from a meeting to the office I listened to Ontario Today on CBC Radio; a favourite phone in show; with host Rita Celli. Today's topic was  "Are we too politically correct for our kids?"  It was a lively debate over the stories we all grew up with: Little Red Riding Hood; 'Twas the Night Before Christmas etc. with the familiar authors and fairy tales we read as children, being critically examined and discussed.  I agreed with the caller who didn't censor or sanitize the stories or classics, but read them with her children and used the opportunities that occurred for discussion. I was an avid reader of fairy tales as a child, who graduated to Greek mythology, science fiction and then a phase of loving horror stories--everything I could lay my hands on, in fact. I'm not afraid of the written word and believe that you can trust children with more discernment than we give them credit for--but I do respect the views of those who are protective of

You often hear people talking about "what they were doing when"...Man landed on the moon; President J.F. Kennedy was assassinated; John Lennon was murdered; 911 shocked the world--those moments that are frozen in memory.  There are times when music just hits me to powerfully that I remember the moment I first heard a voice, or a musician. It was like that the first time I heard the late brilliant Canadian pianist,  Glenn Gould , playing the  Bach Goldberg Variations  on CBC radio one day. I had just arrived in the parking lot of my dentist's office, and had not a moment to spare for my appointment, but I couldn't leave the car. I was spellbound by the magical liquidity of Gould's fingers on the keyboard. I had never heard anything like it, had to hear it all, and I had to know who was playing.  Another such moment was again in my car. I remember the intersection I was approaching; Davis and Yonge; when  Eva Cassidy's  rendition of  Somewhere Over the Rainb

Bren shared this with me, and I had to share it with you. :)

Motherhood is on my mind this week; it is a joy that never grows old. Our son is in the habit of calling often on his way home from work. He leaves work late and we are often eating supper in front of the T.V. when the phone rings. We exchange a smile and glance, point the remote towards the T.V. and mute the sound. We put the phone on speaker phone so that we can both join in the conversation, and set about putting the world to rights; it really should be in better shape by now! This morning he called as I was putting on the morning coffee. I wrote entry number 477 in my Gratitude Journal a little later: A morning call from Peter on his way to work, sharing in 10 minutes our current joys, victories, successes and our hearts. I love him and am so grateful that he is my son and that I have the continuing joy of motherhood, even at 63. And here is entry number 395: For a visit for tea from Brenda; for granddaughters who miss us, but who are happy in their own beautiful home.  Fo

We moved as slowly as blood through a thickened artery; oozing our way down the highway; a mass of individuals bound into a unified trickle toward our various destinations. It was "rush hour," but the term was irony at its best that day. Mist shrouded  familiar apartment buildings, disguising them as ghostly towers, mysterious as castles clinging to a mountain top in Transylvania. In late evening, I left an out of town meeting. The mist had hung on all day like a guest reluctant to leave a party and now it had descended with spooky, tentacled determination on the concrete pathways from the city.  I mentally debated the unappealing options--the highway or the longer way, a side road home. Both held equal trepidation. I was already insecure driving unfamiliar roads but my decision was made when the on-ramp to the highway appeared through the mist and I made a split second decision to take it. The traffic was light and the journey home was uneventful and relatively fast. I