Whatever He Says

by Susan "Can I have a sleepover?" Those are words that are sweet to my ears. To me, they mean that one of my grandsons next door knows that his Mommy'sMum's house, just down the laneway, is a welcome place for him, a place he feels safe enough to sleep over at without his parents being in the same house. I decided a long time ago that I wanted our home to be a "haven" to our grandchildren. I wanted to cultivate a place where each one felt safe to be exactly who God made them to be, where they could be comfortable in their own skin because everyone around them is comfortable with them too. I wanted it to be a place free from criticism, where they always felt like they were understood, or at least a serious attempt was being made to hear and to understand. I'm not sure I've always succeeded with that ideal, but sometimes I think we've come close. Like this morning... Mike and Beth (the parents of those boys next door) are borrowing our camper for ...

Do they ever end--The Confessions of Belinda? This morning, just before leaving for work, I was thinking of the careful questions that the doctor asked me in the Emergency Department last night. Had I been doing any repetetive actions or anything out of the norm? I shook my head, wide eyed. No, there was nothing I could think of that would fit those categories. As I pondered this, like puzzle pieces coming together in slow motion in my head, I had a revelation about what had caused the problem with intercostal muscle on my left side. I saw myself sitting on the couch the night before the pain, where the last thing I did was write a blog post. I closed my laptop, and lifted it from a sitting position across to the end table on my left. My "heart attack" was caused by repetetive laptop lifting. A writerly hazard to be aware of. I thought I should put everyone's mind at rest--just in case there was anyone worrying about me. Well maybe you should keep worrying--just for anot...

By Belinda I woke up with a pain in my left side, just around my breastbone, like a stitch from running, and an inability to take a complete deep breath. I'd been fine when I went to bed the night before. Weird! I had no idea what caused it and it wasn't debilitating, so I went to work, expecting it to wear off as the day went on. It didn't. My day ended with an appointment with someone over coffee, and I left from there to go home.There was a writers group meeting that evening and I still hoped to write something on the subject of "Culture Shock," our topic for the night. I'd been thinking about it for days without knowing quite which culture shock to write about--I've experienced a few culture shocks in my life. But by the time I arrived home, the pain was more intense. Too intense to concentrate on writing. I Googled my symptoms and became worried that it might be a heart attack. I called Telehealth for advice, punching in the number on the purple card ...

(I read this post from the past--January 08--and it brought a smile to my lips. Enjoy! Belinda) By Ang Cat I was in the bathroom the other day and realized that I need to dye my hair again, if I want to maintain that elusive appearance of "no grey." It's emerging, right on the top of my head and creeping down the sides just a few short months after the last application. A mix of black and grey topping off the lighter tones and highlights blended into the rest of my "glory." Why do we do this? I swore I wouldn't be caught in the trap. At the most I only apply dye twice a year. To do this I must let all the colour fall out until I am back to that salt and pepper look that somehow makes me feel older. After all "grey hair is the crown of the aged" isn't it? But wait a minute...I'm not aged. At the ripe old age of 41 I'm only half way through. I know women older than me who have a lot less grey, and they don't dye. It's in my genes ...

Last week, on his blog, Rolling Around in My Head, my friend Dave told of an encounter that moved him deeply, in a post entitled, Mary and Joseph: A Different Story This post is not directly about that story, but if you click on the title above, you can read it. You'll be glad you did. In an email about the post afterwards, Dave wrote some words that sank deeply into my heart: Let there be welcome here so that it is possible to imagine welcome - there. This is my prayer Dave's words made me think about the importance of being "welcome" for people. His post was about a couple with disabilities; but all of us need welcome and acceptance. This morning I read Luke 19, about Zaccheus, the tax collecter. Although I've read it so often; this time, it came alive for me in technicolour; I think, because Paul and I just watched the marvelous HBO mini series, John Adams, based on the Pulitzer Prize winning book by David McCullough, on the American Revolution and the Declara...

By Belinda We were forged, my brother Robert and I, in the unique foundry of our family; the emotional forces at play washing over our psyches, shaping our souls--wounding and warping some places and sowing deep sensitivities in others. We share a history of 56 years and never tire of recounting stories over and over again that make us laugh. We are, for each other, at any moment we need one; a confidante, mirror or a support. As Mum and Dad's relationship was fraught with deepening unhappiness, Mum fixed her emotional focus on us; working hard to create "home." Dad added fun to our childhood with a "magic wand" that would draw him irresistibly, to places on the rug, underneath which we would find pennies. He could also produce pennies from behind his ear and we loved it when he held us enthralled by such tricks. Long walks across fields and the Clent hills with Dad, gave us a love of nature and it was Dad who could be enticed into a water fight or by throwing d...

I sit out in the quiet of evening; a silent breeze moving through the branches of the nearby trees. The time between daylight and nightfall can be so still; so hushed. A gray, hazy veil covers the sky; a pale moon shining softly from a spot up above, like a beacon breaking through fog. Psalm 8:3-4 (The Message) 3-4 I look up at your macro-skies, dark and enormous, your handmade sky-jewelry, Moon and stars mounted in their settings. Then I look at my micro-self and wonder, Why do you bother with us? Why take a second look our way? I don't usually see myself as "micro," but gazing into the night sky, or an image of earth taken by satellite, puts things into perspective. Lately I've been thinking about the past; sorting through old photos and organizing them, and it has brought home to me that I have more time behind me than ahead. There are children in my life with whom I hope to share many more years; but, at a certain point, they will g...