It's the last day of 2011 and here is my hope for all of us in 2012: that we would see the hand of God move in the circumstances of our lives; that we would know He has great plans for us; and that we would have the desires of our hearts. Sounds heavy, doesn't it? It sounds almost ominous and frought with responsibility. But wouldn't it be wonderful to hand it all over to the God who made you and to realize he wants only good for you? That He actually has a purpose for you? That he wants to give you your heart's desires?
In the last years, I have become increasingly convinced that the Lord is good, and only good. Because He is love and His motivation is love, He is for me, and is good to me. I know the Bible says it, and now, in my heart, I believe it. In the midst of trials and tribulations, when the world throws dung from every side, God is there, "God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble." (Psalm 46:1) So I look for His hand.
We are here by God's choice. He loves us and reveals His plan for us as we look at Him: "For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." (Jeremiah 29:11) Again, He is good. So I ask Him what He wants for me.
Like a joyful Father, and He is a joyful Father, He loves to give gifts to His children. "Delight yourself also in the LORD, And He shall give you the desires of your heart." (Psalm 37:4) He places His desires in our hearts and He fulfills them in His time. These desires fulfilled bring the greatest joy. So I pray and ask for those desires to be reached. And I thank Him for all He is and does.
Happy New Year. Happy New Day...full of His mercy and love.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Merry Christmas
It’s early Christmas morning and it’s quiet. In the last days, in a flurry of running and wrapping, shopping and smiling, it’s been hard to schedule in a time just to breathe. But now, I ignore the ticking clock on the mantle and, I sit and reflect.
Yesterday I had an almost two-hour car ride to pick up my son. Listening to various radio programs, I had the realization that the non-Christian world, right here in our country, doesn’t know what to do with “Christmas.” They appear confused or pressured to lean to one side or the other. There’s the long-standing back and forth on whether or not to say the words, “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays” by shop-keepers and bank tellers. But yesterday on a program on CBC, I heard the epitome. On a show where people were telling “holiday” stories, (none of which had one iota to do with Christmas as a celebration), the announcer said, “Happy December 25th Day, everyone.” That one really made me sad. It felt as though the person who said it was as lost as one could possibly be.
On that same station and in malls everywhere, there are potent, life-giving hymns being played. In public places, traditional Christmas hymns such as, “Silent Night”, “Joy to the World” and “O Holy Night” make their way onto song lists. The message is there: Jesus was born and He had a purpose in mind:
Merry Christmas!
Yesterday I had an almost two-hour car ride to pick up my son. Listening to various radio programs, I had the realization that the non-Christian world, right here in our country, doesn’t know what to do with “Christmas.” They appear confused or pressured to lean to one side or the other. There’s the long-standing back and forth on whether or not to say the words, “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays” by shop-keepers and bank tellers. But yesterday on a program on CBC, I heard the epitome. On a show where people were telling “holiday” stories, (none of which had one iota to do with Christmas as a celebration), the announcer said, “Happy December 25th Day, everyone.” That one really made me sad. It felt as though the person who said it was as lost as one could possibly be.
On that same station and in malls everywhere, there are potent, life-giving hymns being played. In public places, traditional Christmas hymns such as, “Silent Night”, “Joy to the World” and “O Holy Night” make their way onto song lists. The message is there: Jesus was born and He had a purpose in mind:
“Peace on Earth and mercy mild - God and sinners reconciled!”
“Born to raise the sons of earth, born to give them second birth.”
(Hark the Herald Angels Sing)
What child is this who, laid to rest
On Mary's lap is sleeping? …
Nails, spear shall pierce Him through,
The cross be borne for me, for you.
Hail, hail the Word made flesh,
The Babe, the Son of Mary.
(What Child is This)
The French version of “O Holy Night” brings light and understanding:
Minuit, chrétiens, c’est l’heure solennelle
Où l’Homme-Dieu descendit jusqu’à nous,
Pour effacer la tache originelle,
Et de son Père arrêter le courroux.
Le monde entier tressaille d’espérance,
À cette nuit qui lui donne un Sauveur.
Peuple, à genoux, attends ta délivrance
C’est pour nous tous qu’il naît, qu’il souffre et meurt.
Peuple, debout! Chante ta délivrance.
Noël! Noël! Chantons le Rédempteur!
Où l’Homme-Dieu descendit jusqu’à nous,
Pour effacer la tache originelle,
Et de son Père arrêter le courroux.
Le monde entier tressaille d’espérance,
À cette nuit qui lui donne un Sauveur.
Peuple, à genoux, attends ta délivrance
C’est pour nous tous qu’il naît, qu’il souffre et meurt.
Peuple, debout! Chante ta délivrance.
Noël! Noël! Chantons le Rédempteur!
Midnight, Christians, it is the solemn hour
When God as man descended among us
To expunge the stain of original sin
And to put an end to the wrath of his father.
The entire world thrills with hope
On this night which gives us a savior.
People, on your knees, attend your deliverance.
It is for us all that he was born, that he suffered and died.
People, stand up, sing your deliverance!
Christmas! Christmas! Let us sing the Redeemer!
When God as man descended among us
To expunge the stain of original sin
And to put an end to the wrath of his father.
The entire world thrills with hope
On this night which gives us a savior.
People, on your knees, attend your deliverance.
It is for us all that he was born, that he suffered and died.
People, stand up, sing your deliverance!
Christmas! Christmas! Let us sing the Redeemer!
These songs, and so many others reflect what’s written in the gospels. He is what we’re celebrating. His purpose, His goodness, His love. His message is simple, yet profound: He loves us. He loved us enough to set aside his throne and live among us and to provide an eternity with Him.
Merry Christmas!
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Tis the Season
My beloved grade five/six class joined the rest of our little private school in visiting the local seniors home to perform our Christmas concert. School uniforms pressed and tucked, the classes lined up in the halls to enter the great room. I looked around and saw dozens of seniors, dressed immaculately, their walkers parked close by their wingback chairs. Camera in hand, I scanned the faces of young and old. As each class stepped in to perform, our enthusiastic music teacher created a bridge between both groups who timidly faced each other. The carols brought smiles and no doubt reflection - our older friends remembering the past and our young students anticipating their futures. I felt caught in the middle somehow and felt tears roll in hearing songs about the Saviour of all. "Let every heart prepare Him room..." Indeed...let every heart prepare room for Him. There's no time like the present. He waits with arms wide open.
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| Carravagio Nativity |
Saturday, December 3, 2011
A Mother
Early on a turning day, the quiet veranda beckoned. Out of the mist, the day unhurriedly dawned. With the azure sea waiting, Martha slipped on her down vest, picked up her coffee cup and navigated her way hip-first through the screen door, carefully, so as not to let it slam and waken the twins. She was jealously guarding that quiet half hour before the riotous demands for breakfast began.
Settling in the rickety wooden deckchair, she took a deep breath and made a firm decision: for the next 30 minutes, she would quiet the loud lists forming her day and just be.
Past the salt-scraped floor-boards, she let her gaze fall on the dewy garden. Oak leaves and acorns were starting to scatter to fill in the blanks between the last remaining cosmos and cleome. The rockery, guarded by still-blooming marigolds and copious hens and chicks would soon be joined by the wild mushrooms - boletus and the little browns - the camel-colored, earthy ones. But today, there was still the promise of warmth in the air. The fall sun was doing its best to warm the swelling sea.
Autumn had long since been Martha’s favourite season, her internal clock tuned to the new beginnings the school year offered. But today, well into October, a deep melancholy threatened to overtake her as she thought of them - her boys. It was their last year of high school. Where had the time gone? Why was it moving ever-faster at break-neck speed? They were no longer those tawny-haired, sweaty boys tearing up and down the beach, delighted in the simple things - the cast-off crab shell, the deep blue sea glass or the intact bivalves washing up on the shore. They had run from tide-pools to her lap for quick kisses, snacks and explanations to beach questions, only to fade into their bunks at day’s end to dream blue in quiet exhaustion.
Now her sons needed her less. Their eyes betrayed their hearts - they already had one foot out the door. As much as she told herself that it would be tragic if they forever stayed within her reach, she longed for more days when they saw her as someone with something of value to impart.
“Enough!” Martha said aloud, “Enough.” Taking a sip of her coffee, and struggling out of her chair, she watched the ‘V’ of geese flying high overhead and heard a stirring in the kitchen.
“Mom!” she heard and she smiled to herself.
Settling in the rickety wooden deckchair, she took a deep breath and made a firm decision: for the next 30 minutes, she would quiet the loud lists forming her day and just be.
Past the salt-scraped floor-boards, she let her gaze fall on the dewy garden. Oak leaves and acorns were starting to scatter to fill in the blanks between the last remaining cosmos and cleome. The rockery, guarded by still-blooming marigolds and copious hens and chicks would soon be joined by the wild mushrooms - boletus and the little browns - the camel-colored, earthy ones. But today, there was still the promise of warmth in the air. The fall sun was doing its best to warm the swelling sea.
Autumn had long since been Martha’s favourite season, her internal clock tuned to the new beginnings the school year offered. But today, well into October, a deep melancholy threatened to overtake her as she thought of them - her boys. It was their last year of high school. Where had the time gone? Why was it moving ever-faster at break-neck speed? They were no longer those tawny-haired, sweaty boys tearing up and down the beach, delighted in the simple things - the cast-off crab shell, the deep blue sea glass or the intact bivalves washing up on the shore. They had run from tide-pools to her lap for quick kisses, snacks and explanations to beach questions, only to fade into their bunks at day’s end to dream blue in quiet exhaustion.
Now her sons needed her less. Their eyes betrayed their hearts - they already had one foot out the door. As much as she told herself that it would be tragic if they forever stayed within her reach, she longed for more days when they saw her as someone with something of value to impart.
“Enough!” Martha said aloud, “Enough.” Taking a sip of her coffee, and struggling out of her chair, she watched the ‘V’ of geese flying high overhead and heard a stirring in the kitchen.
“Mom!” she heard and she smiled to herself.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Dog for a Day
A dog for one day…that’s all! For only twenty-four hours, when I was just twelve years old, our family got a dog. We were acquainted with a family who lived near my grandparents who were moving away and needed to get rid of their two Scottish terriers – Holly and Beebee. We were chosen to take “Holly”, a pure white, eight year old Scottie.
Holly came to our family on a warm June Saturday morning. She came to a family of three pet-starved children. Three grasping, mauling children. Our grubby hands reached for her, fought for her, nearly squeezed life from her. Poor baby was smothered and completely nonplussed. In her confused state, she refused the food treats we shoved at her. She ran from room to room, hiding briefly behind shelves and under beds till little footsteps would be heard and she’d be dragged shaking into our arms once again. We LOVED her.
Eventually she found what she could only hope for – a momentary lapse in our ministrations…the porch door was left ajar. She was out in a flash. Holly headed for the hills!
The neighborhood was set on high alert. The new dog was footloose. Volunteers of all ages dropped other responsibilities to search for our new family member. Holly’s former owners were forewarned that she might try to find her old neighborhood. Her name was heard ringing through the streets. One by one, children were called in, darkness fell and only my forlorn father was left to search.
When we awoke the next morning, Holly was back. Our joy was quickly turned to sobbing, as we heard our parent’s decision…. this just wasn’t going to work. Holly was too old a dog, (56 in dog years) to “learn new tricks” as the saying goes, so her previous owners decided to take her back. Perhaps she missed Beebee way too much.
As kids, we just didn’t get it. We were sad for days. But within a couple of weeks, a new pet was brought home…a milk white budgie, safely in her cage, who we promptly named “Penny.” She was our new companion and our intense love for Holly was set aside.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Two Choices
Last week was one that will go down in my own personal history as one of showing off my shortcomings, limping along with one foot placed firmly in my own mouth. One of those weeks, where it seemed that more negative came out of my mouth than positive, where emotions ran high and verbal responses were often melodramatic at best and outright inappropriate at worst. Minor situations became the proverbial mountains of over-reaction. And a number of people, I'm sure, ducked into safe zones at my approach. What happens to us when we have moments, days, weeks like that?
Personally, I find there are two distinct choices. Number one: Hole up, eat a lot, watch movies and spend quality couch time with intimate friend, Self Pity. That one comes easy, but with a price. That's the one that continues the downward spiral.
Then there is the other choice: Get up, get moving, take a stand against self absorbed melancholia and pray! Forgive who you need to, apologize to anyone and everyone who needs to hear it and move forward. This progression in the right direction can only be accomplished as we trust in our gracious God to forgive us, hope that others will follow His lead, and forgive ourselves. That was the step it took me a week to come to: Door number two. And having received liberal grace and mercy from those I approached, I was set free to start anew. What a wonderful gift, forgiveness...it opens the cage door, unlocks the ball and chain and gives the heart a new place to start.
The Bible says in:
22 Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail.
23 They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.
I am so grateful that God is compassionate and forgiving and that every day I can start anew!
Personally, I find there are two distinct choices. Number one: Hole up, eat a lot, watch movies and spend quality couch time with intimate friend, Self Pity. That one comes easy, but with a price. That's the one that continues the downward spiral.
Then there is the other choice: Get up, get moving, take a stand against self absorbed melancholia and pray! Forgive who you need to, apologize to anyone and everyone who needs to hear it and move forward. This progression in the right direction can only be accomplished as we trust in our gracious God to forgive us, hope that others will follow His lead, and forgive ourselves. That was the step it took me a week to come to: Door number two. And having received liberal grace and mercy from those I approached, I was set free to start anew. What a wonderful gift, forgiveness...it opens the cage door, unlocks the ball and chain and gives the heart a new place to start.
The Bible says in:
Lamentations 3:22-23 (NIV)
22 Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail.
23 They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.
I am so grateful that God is compassionate and forgiving and that every day I can start anew!
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Art
It’s always been a mystery to me what people will hang on their walls and live with. I’ve seen paired paint-by-numbers of ducks in marshes, hanging a foot from the ceiling on living room walls. I’ve seen stamped out mall paintings arranged in diagonal groupings. And when I was only 11 years old, I visited my friend Carla at her house for a birthday party. There, in the middle of the wall, hanging over the couch, was the worst thing I’ve ever seen - a large black and white framed photo of a young girl in a coffin. (This was actually Carla’s little sister, who died tragically. Mrs. Sheerholtz thought it was crucial to remember her daily as the family walked through the house. Carla didn’t often have kids over and that day that mystery was solved.)
Interesting choices, those, but are they art?
Thanks to a gifted high school art teacher, I became a lover of art history. By grade 12, I was tearing apart Impressionist calendars and ripping out reproductions of Turner and Constable from old art history texts to frame. In university, it was the age of posters, and there wasn’t an art representation you couldn’t purchase. My walls were covered with thumb tack holes from pinning up Mary Cassatt, Winslow Homer and A.J. Casson. In my spare time, I’d copy these works, trying to duplicate the skill of these masters of colour.
Art delighted me and still does. We don’t have a great number of works hanging in our house, but mostly because there is a fear of holes in the walls. (I can't explain this. I won't try. Holes seem to indicate a commitment to a certain work of art, and we like to rotate ours.) Our art leans. There are two paintings we rotate on the fireplace mantle. Right now, A.J. Casson’s “Glen Williams” shows the glories of fall in a small Ontario town. (My delight is that this print is actually signed by Casson - a treasured gift from my husband a few Christmases ago.) Soon, the weather will turn brisk and I will put A.J. away for a bit and bring out an original oil by a man named Ole Pii. Ole was an 80 year old artist in a community we lived in up the west coast of BC. He was a master of colour. This particular painting is austere and cold, a painting he did from the side of a van on a brilliant day in Prince George in the seventies. I never tire of the range of colours in the snow in this painting.
We have another of Ole’s paintings, of two old folks staring at their garden, as their flowers form the sky. This painting makes my heart sing as it carries a huge personal significance for my husband and I.
And wonderfully, I have three oil paintings by our good friend Reijo. All three transport me to riversides. Just a couple of weeks ago, Reijo, out of the kindness of his heart, sent along this latest painting. I have admired it since the day I first laid eyes on it. It depicts the underside of a river bank, and it is so familiar to me. There is a small stream off of Lochlin Road up in the Haliburton Highlands that could be the subject of this work. On those coming dark and bleary winter days, I will look at it and it will take me right to the river! I know that there are fish there, just under the surface, waiting in the pools for juicy bait. I can smell the earthy underslope and feel a bit of slippery green algae underfoot on the river stones.
And really, isn't this what art is all about? Good art, no matter the form, causes the heart to sing with a deep connection. It takes us somewhere familiar, it appeals at a heart level. So, I ask you, what is on your walls?
Interesting choices, those, but are they art?
Thanks to a gifted high school art teacher, I became a lover of art history. By grade 12, I was tearing apart Impressionist calendars and ripping out reproductions of Turner and Constable from old art history texts to frame. In university, it was the age of posters, and there wasn’t an art representation you couldn’t purchase. My walls were covered with thumb tack holes from pinning up Mary Cassatt, Winslow Homer and A.J. Casson. In my spare time, I’d copy these works, trying to duplicate the skill of these masters of colour.
 |
| "Glenn Williams" by A.J.Casson |
Art delighted me and still does. We don’t have a great number of works hanging in our house, but mostly because there is a fear of holes in the walls. (I can't explain this. I won't try. Holes seem to indicate a commitment to a certain work of art, and we like to rotate ours.) Our art leans. There are two paintings we rotate on the fireplace mantle. Right now, A.J. Casson’s “Glen Williams” shows the glories of fall in a small Ontario town. (My delight is that this print is actually signed by Casson - a treasured gift from my husband a few Christmases ago.) Soon, the weather will turn brisk and I will put A.J. away for a bit and bring out an original oil by a man named Ole Pii. Ole was an 80 year old artist in a community we lived in up the west coast of BC. He was a master of colour. This particular painting is austere and cold, a painting he did from the side of a van on a brilliant day in Prince George in the seventies. I never tire of the range of colours in the snow in this painting.
We have another of Ole’s paintings, of two old folks staring at their garden, as their flowers form the sky. This painting makes my heart sing as it carries a huge personal significance for my husband and I.
And wonderfully, I have three oil paintings by our good friend Reijo. All three transport me to riversides. Just a couple of weeks ago, Reijo, out of the kindness of his heart, sent along this latest painting. I have admired it since the day I first laid eyes on it. It depicts the underside of a river bank, and it is so familiar to me. There is a small stream off of Lochlin Road up in the Haliburton Highlands that could be the subject of this work. On those coming dark and bleary winter days, I will look at it and it will take me right to the river! I know that there are fish there, just under the surface, waiting in the pools for juicy bait. I can smell the earthy underslope and feel a bit of slippery green algae underfoot on the river stones.
And really, isn't this what art is all about? Good art, no matter the form, causes the heart to sing with a deep connection. It takes us somewhere familiar, it appeals at a heart level. So, I ask you, what is on your walls?
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| God bless Reijo for this precious gift! |
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