Whatever He Says

I was the last to read a piece of writing out loud at the meeting of our writers group--our challenge being to write a description. I had rewritten a description of an old friend, originally written as an assignment for a writing course. Before I started reading I thought I had done a fairly good job of describing her, but as my carefully crafted words left the page and passed through my lips into the air, I felt them sinking to the the ground, lifeless. "She" wasn't in them somehow. I had painted a word picture entitled "Bird of Paradise;" but the soul that had touched my soul and left a lasting imprint, was missing; I knew it; did they? I finished reading with a combination of embarrassment and relief. It was the end of the evening anyway; I knew my friends needed to head out into the cold January night before it got very much later and I was anxious to end a moment that felt awkward to me. I looked up from the page with a smile, preparing to conc...

By Belinda It is the weekend of new beginnings, whether a new grade, a new school, or university. Susan spent part of the past two weeks kitting out and setting up an apartment in New Brunswick for her son Joel who will be there for the next four years studying surveying. On Sunday his dad took him to the airport. We are all going to miss him, but none so much as Susan and Ron. On Sunday we stood at the back of the church after service, chatting; Jake, Summer, Heather and I; about their plans going into the fall. Jake has a full time job and plans to work and save so that he can pursue his dream of working in film production; Summer just graduated grade 12 but is going back to upgrade a few courses and Heather is just starting grade 12. All of them so full of promise I get a buzz just from listening to their dreams; catching the excitement; praying while I listen, blessing their lives. Kiki, Rebecca and Tippy went north with Paul in August to a First Nation 2000 kilometers a...

By Belinda I am a listener rather than a talker.  I don't mean to say that I am skilled in listening, because I'm still working on that.  But I do prefer to listen rather than talk and I am blessed to have a family and friends that enjoy talking. When any one of them falls suddenly silent and turns to me, saying, "You're quiet, what's going on in your life?" I suddenly feel like a bit of a dud, as though they got short changed if they want sparkling conversation from me! Those whom God has placed in my intimate circle, do not disappoint in conversation however, and many a time during a phone call, I find myself reaching for a notepad and pen, to record a  funny or witty sentence, or a story. And I sometimes feel as though I carry within me echoes of voices long gone, through stories I have listened to. I find that very cool; that in story, a voice lives on. This morning, being Sunday, with a little less rush than the usual morning sprint, I made an e...

 Belinda (from the archives) Psalm 84:10 Amplified Version For a day in Your courts is better than a thousand (anywhere else); I had rather be a doorkeeper and stand at the threshold in the house of my God than to dwell (at ease) in the tents of wickedness. Today I used her Bible, as I often do if I want to search for a scripture passage in the Amplified Version. The cover is red leather and inside of it is a name and date: "Agnes McDonald, 1975." She would have been seventy six that year. The Bible, that had belonged to her, was one of her many gifts to me during our friendship, which spanned almost twenty years until she died at the age of ninety two. I called her "Aunt Agnes," for "Miss MacDonald," the name by which she was generally known, was too formal, but "Agnes" lacked the deep respect I felt for her as a young woman just in my twenties then. I can't explain the deep bond of connection and love with this woman fifty years my ...

Agnes MacDonald set sail from Canada for what was then known as the Congo, full of excitement and anticipation, as she followed the call of God. In her teens, she had felt called to go to China at a time when there were rumours that missionaries were being boiled in oil. She made up her mind to go. A streak of Scottish grit--combined with a determination to follow Christ--was stronger than her fears, but the door to China stayed firmly shut, and a boat bound for Africa via England was where she eventually found herself. After weeks of travel by boat and then by sedan chair, carried into the jungle, she found herself in another world. The African children called her Mama Macadoni, but some fifty years later, I knew her as Aunt Agnes, my friend. She had another friend back in the jungle, a young missionary named Frances. Frances was as spunky as Agnes, with a head of glorious red hair. The missionaries often fell prey to tropical diseases and were buried in a cemetery high on a nearb...