Whatever He Says

I once read a collection of poems in a looseleaf binder, written by a Jewish man named Michael Myers. I often wonder who has them now, and wish I could reread them for the wisdom they contained, but I do have two of them at least and here is one that I came across recently. So much truth! My copy is handwritten, hard to read, and the line breaks are hard to decipher. Forgive me if I got some of them wrong, and in spite of that may the thoughts in the poem bless! We form our habits along life's way And all our habits grow a little stronger every day We do things unconsciously, mere creatures of routine The force of habit turns us into a human machine But there are mental habits, subtle workings of the mind For good or evil our thoughts have power, they may be cruel or kind And if things go against us people blame or criticize From force of habit we flare up, and angry words arise Rebellious and resentful of the real and fancied thrust If we only could meet it wi

We saw Helen Scott each Sunday at church in the early 1980s. She was elderly, then, or so she seemed to me when I was only in my thirties, preoccupied with a busy life as a working mom. I really don't know how old she was--maybe only the age I am now, almost 69! She had short white hair and was also short of stature, and stockily built. My father-in-law, the pastor of the church at the time, often published poems when I wrote them, in the weekly bulletin, and because of this, Helen knew that we shared both a love of God and poetry. She died during those years of cancer, I believe, but before she died, she gave me a treasure, a small, red leather-bound copy of a devotional book entitled, Come Ye Apart, by J. R. R. Millar. It was first given as a gift in January 1938, by "Elbert" to his dad, on his birthday. Helen gave it to me on June 28, 1981. Now, 81 years after it was first gifted, I still treasure it as a footprint of several people's faith.  One day, Helen

With a light knock at the door and a quick, "Hello!" I entered, balancing the teas I held in my hands. My friend heard me from her armchair just around the corner. "Come on in,"  she called. Her voice, once sweet and crystal clear as she commanded her household, betrayed weariness today. I asked how she was, but it was evident. Her expression was dispirited, her shoulders slumped, and I didn't miss the diamond tear that glistened at the corner of one eye. I had arrived on a stressful day. I set down our paper cups of tea, took off my coat and sat down in the chair opposite. Our weekly visits together are usually happy, with loud peals of laughter, but there have been increasing days like today. Our conversations may cover the past, family news, anything of interest I've read or heard, or deep mutual ponderings on big questions. To me, she is a safe place. I came to her at a time a few years ago, when I felt like a misfit in my church family. As I poured

I shared a blog post yesterday, titled, "The Day of Silence." After I posted it, I felt uneasy. I had veered from the purpose I felt in the dream when I had it, and gone down a bunny trail, feeling that the original thoughts seemed too sombre. I want to correct that, so I'm posting it again, hoping that you'll read again. Stay with me on my writing journey of obedience, friends, I appreciate your partnership in reading so much. Belinda The dream stayed with me all day. It came in the moments before I woke up, right after a dream about forgetting pages with words to songs for our worship team (one of those dreams you get over and over when you have low-level anxiety about something.)  The one I am writing about here was different, though, and the feeling of it lingered, In it, the world was utterly silent. Last weekend we woke up on Sunday morning to a planned hydro shut down for routine maintenance that I'd forgotten about. We had no hot water, no light, NO COF

I had a conversation with a friend recently who is a perfect example of the winding-road that human connections can take, and who is as head-over-heels in love with the child she calls. “daughter.” as she would be if she had given birth to her. She just celebrated that child’s first birthday, a child who came into her life as suddenly and unexpectedly as a snowstorm in a desert.  Out of curiosity, I  asked her, “How has your life changed since she burst onto the stage of your life?” Her big blue eyes locked onto my green ones, her lips pursed as she considered the question. She is hardly ever at a loss for words, or in need of thinking time before answering, but she has been on such a magic-carpet ride since her granddaughter’s birth that she hasn’t had time to take stock, or do anything more than experience the journey, one moment at a time.   “In every way!” she said, recovering her speech quickly.   “Everything is about her. Everything I do is for her. If she’s awake, I will

It was almost closing time as I placed my grocery items on the belt.  I noticed a man with Downes syndrome doing the packing as the things were passed down by the cashier. He looked tired but was working with care and concentration. I recognized him--and as he raised his head, he knew me, too.  He asked how I was--and how Paul was, and we chatted briefly. That's when it got a little funny. "Do you know who this is?" he asked the bemused cashier, who said, "No." "She's a leade r with Christian Horizons," he said as if that explained everything. That was the organization I'd worked for, for 32 years, but I've been retired for almost 4 and pointed that out to the young woman. I felt that I'd just been given undeserved honour, and yet his words fell like a warm cloak over my shoulders. That he spoke them meant everything to me because I felt that to him, I still belong. 😎  Anyway, I'm allowing myself to feel a little like