The Oxymoron of ‘Spring and Summer’ in Alberta

An article I wrote for our church's in-house magazine...

I’ve lived in Alberta for over forty years.  And there are some things I’ve learned about myself and the weather. Seasons are relative and not absolute.

I am never prepared enough for the weather…forecasts notwithstanding.

As spring approaches in Alberta, (albeit almost six weeks after its official start on March 21) and we anticipate summer in all its glory (those three days in late July where the thermometer will top 25C), here are some survival techniques to avoid the seasonal fluster.

Gardening Gambols – I am a self-admitted brown (if not black) thumb and have the capability to kill anything green in less than a week, but my husband is a gardener extraordinaire.  So I’ve picked up a couple of things from him...

1. No bedding out plants until June 1. This used to be the May long weekend, but global warming or the new ice age have messed up the weather patterns. Lovely pansies, lobelia and marigolds embedded prior to June have been shredded by hail, frozen by late frost or flooded out by a misplaced torrential April ‘shower’.  This may all still happen after June 1 but your chances are approximately 5% lower.

2.Tomatoes are to be raised in containers only. My grandfather produced half pound beefsteaks from seed in the ground in April to vine breakers at the end of September, but he lived in Winnipeg. In Alberta you have to start the blighters inside until the requisite June outside date and then bring the stunted green globes into furnace-warmed abodes to ripen in pale glow through the window after September 1…maybe September 2 in a year. 

3. Root vegetables are the only assured chance of gardening success. Hardy carrots, speedy sprouting radishes and tough turnips can germinate in the May climes and survive nestled in rich soil while the elements turmoil above. Even a touch of frost can enhance the flavour of a beastly beet.  But get ‘em out of the ground before the hard frost in mid-September.

Camping Carousals – Our family spent ten summers camping for our annual holidays…and don’t tell me that a lovely 30ft RV or anything else with a solid roof and a heater is camping. Tenting is the only real camping. Albeit, we had every gadget known to mankind to luxuriate the outdoor experience (and packed it in a station wagon and a 4x8 utility trailer to haul it), we still had only a thin piece of nylon between us and the elements. And face it, as parents, when camping, you still do everything that you do at home but with less convenience. A better view perhaps, but living like our pioneer ancestors. No one should ever have to work that hard in a world with remote controls and iPads. Here are some helpful tools to remind you that you’re still in the 21^st century.

1. A sturdy hammer. Handy for breaking the ice on the frozen water supply in the mornings. Have you ever camped in Alberta on the May long weekend? The nights are cold, baby.

2. Clothing for the four seasons…especially if you’re heading to the mountains. Long underwear is essential. Several layers from flimsy tank to t-shirt, sweater, fleece and down-filled coat are also required. In a full twenty-four hours in the Rockies you can experience burning intensity of 30C gamma rays and hail and torrential downpours and slurries and snow and cyclonic air currents. Truthfully it can all happen in a half hour.

3. A map to British Columbia. Hey, I’m happy to call Alberta home but the sad, glorious truth is the other side of the mountain is greener…all year round, in February no less, when, in Alberta, spring is still only a small green glimmer of hope. And the nights are warmer (without six blankets) and the lakes (and they have ones that aren’t man-made) are less glacial and more bathtub-like. This is really no secret. In any campground in BC, on any given long weekend in the summer, the majority of license plates are from Alberta.

Summer Sprees – Every loves to plan festivities in the summer…family reunions, BBQs, weddings, block parties…especially in the wide open spaces. But you may want to consider the following issues to ensure you celebration’s success.

1. Weekday events only. Everyone knows that if you have plans on a weekend in the summer, you’re likely to have some natural disaster come along to interrupt the occasion. Usually during the feeding hour. You can be assured that if it’s 30C and sunny on Friday, Saturday and Sunday will be a sodden, cold mess.  If you must plan for a weekend, then expect a sudden clouding over, ominous thundering and some type of precipitation. Sufficient shelter of a suitable size to cover the gathering is a necessity.

2. Shelter the BBQ. If you ever want anything hot off the coals, then put up, over and around your BBQ, a tarp, a windbreak, a gazebo or better yet, all three. A man’s got do what a man’s gotta do to get his grill on.

3. Please note the exception to the above: During the ten and a half days when my city celebrates the Calgary Stampede, no rules apply. The Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth will take place in disregard to any weather status. Come sleet, snow, rain or hail…and apparently flooding…all events are a go! So provide plastic everything, nail down the condiments and the styro dishes, have shovel and rubber boots handy, and above all get a cover for the Stetson! Yeehaw!

Despite my maligning of the volatility of the environment, I love living in Alberta. And in spite of our love of constantly complaining over it, Albertans are the most caring, friendly and compassionate people I know. I have traveled the world, set foot on six out of seven continents and my own back yard is my favourite place on earth, especially in the summer. Never have I been in a place that could entice me to leave the wide open spaces of the prairies, the majesty of the Rockies, and the vibrant community of the home I love.

Enjoy the seasons, Albertans, whatever they may bring!

Bollywood or Bust

Here's another short story I wrote out of our writers' group. The prompt was to write a short story under 2000 words with the following criteria...
The time 2:12PM must be referred to
There must be mention of word dog
The setting must be outside of North America
The phrase 'Not my cup of tea' must be included
The colour red must be mentioned somewhere
Here's my result...(and it's over 2000 words...I have too many words)

Bollywood or Bust

I'm as much an actress as Lindsay Lohan is a rocket scientist.

So, when a man approached my friends and me in Mumbai café and asked if I wanted to be an extra in a Bollywood film, my Darjeeling snorted out my nose. When he said the two friends I was with could also be extras, I told him acting was not my cup of tea.

I mean, the guy looked more like an Indian street dog than a talent agent. You know what I mean; scrawny, shifty eyes, skittish as a chipmunk with a whole lot less cheek.

But when he said it paid and included free food, I said, ‘Lights, camera, action!’ and ‘Bring on the na’an bread.’ I was all arrogance and pretention. 

Another couple sat in the middle, French, I thought, as they murmured sweet unintelligible nothings in each other’s ears in a lilting accent. But they were each more interested in the other than the rest of the passengers. I turned away in a blush after a few embarrassing seconds of trying to greet them.

Within fifteen minutes of him leaving, I regretted my bravado. My friends laughed and shook their heads my naiveté and timidity.

.

I was nineteen and on my first trip away from home unescorted. I’d been itching to get out from under my parents’ thumbs…not that they were terribly oppressive thumbs…but hey, I was seeing my last year of teenage-hood slipping away. After a year of university, I became aware that adulthood and freedom were not synonymous with each other. Freedom is a total misnomer. It comes with a boatload of obligation. So I took the summer after my freshman year of uni to go on a quest for true freedom.

My parents freaked out. I was shy. I was quiet. I didn’t have adventures. But I had an audacious heart no one could see. I was determined to make it visible. I figured a three month excursion across SE Asia should do the trick.

I’d backpacked through Laos, Vietnam and Cambodia during April and May and met up with Jim and Helen (seriously, those were their names and they were in their early twenties) in Bangkok. They were seasoned travelers from Manchester, England and convinced me that I couldn’t go home without first experiencing India.

They were right. I’d fallen in love with the country. The people were beautiful. Their plight in poverty induced pitiful sympathy but there was a simplicity to life in the sprawling cities.

We’d journeyed by train through most of the central interior from Chennai through Bangalore and Hyderabad and had spent the past week exploring Mumbai in all its colours and chaos.

“What if this guy is some kind of dealer in the sex trade,” I lamented. Adventurous me warred constantly with the me that had nineteen years of experience in caution.

“Oh come on, Kristen, it will be a jolly time,” Jim beguiled. “The bloke’s a bit of a plonker but I’m sure ‘e’s harmless.”

“I’m jazzed to get my Bollywood dance on,” added Helen and she gave us a demo that had me giggling and relaxed my inhibitions.

But the anxiety returned the next day as the three of us waited outside of our hostel for our limo to arrive. I chewed my nails, joked nervously with the couple and checked my watch a dozen times. 2:12PM. Our pick-up was twelve minutes late.

“Maybe they’re not coming,” I commented with a hopeful lift to my eyebrow.

“Indian time is a good bit behind the clock.” Jim grinned. “Don’t fret, love, they’ll be here shortly.”

And the ‘limo’ did arrive shortly…in the form of an ancient Matador van that may have once been green but was exhibiting more in the rusty hues at present. Our weasel-like agent also doubled as the chauffeur as he beckoned us aboard with a toothy grin matching the colour of his vehicle. 

We weren’t the only recruits. A trio of rowdy Spaniards were caroling a lovely Mediterranean tune in the rear seat. They hoisted their Kingfishers in salute as we entered, before downing the brew and grabbing another from the 12-pack under their seat. 

Jim sat up front by our driver and engaged him in conversation, and I slid over the ratty seat to the window with Helen beside me. I was still unsure of what to expect but I felt comforted that if I were incarcerated or abducted there would at least be witnesses. 

Between the raucous warbling, moist lip smacking and the ancient motor rattling and groaning, conversation seemed unlikely so I turned to the sights out the window.

Mumbai passed by in flickering vignettes. A city of islands, lakes, rivers and oceans, water could be seen from almost any point in the metropolis. One had to travel over a bridge to get anywhere…and never quickly. Most of the vehicles looked like the one we were in, but all their horns were in working order.

The city was a study of contrasts, from skyscrapers, billion dollar bridges and elaborate temples, to shanty slums and garbage infested streets. Eighteen million people, twenty thousand crushed into every square kilometer, in constant 30C heat made for an effluvium of human perfume. In our van alone it was crushing. On the streets, it overwhelmed to a point where it became inconsequential…especially when an undertone of refuse and human waste were added to the bouquet.

My uneasiness continued the longer we traveled. The perspiration that dripped from my brow, slickened between my breasts and made my cotton tank stick to my back was not only from the heat. The traffic was slow but when we pulled over in front of a spice market about forty-five minutes into our travels, I was beyond relieved.

It was crowded. I didn’t mind. Good, I thought, more witnesses to the calamities about to befall me.

We piled out of the van with the encouragement of Weasel-Face, (I wished he would stop smiling. It was so creepy and his breath was enough to bowl one over) and to the continued songs of the Madrid trio. But mushy face Couple Provencal finally made their introductions, Adeline and Georges, from Avignon. Honeymooners in India? Seriously, just go to Paris.

“Wonder if they’re filming a dance spot in the market?” Helen pondered with a smirk and gave her derriere a shake with her hands flung in the air. Jim giggled and wrapped an arm around her waist.

Any fears I had were forgotten momentarily in the sight and sound of the market as we trundled into a festival of spice. A rainbow of zesty aromas and tinctures greeted us...emerald green, scarlet red, golden yellow and burnished orange…arced in rows of huge baskets and burlap sacks, spilling out into the pathway. Saffron, turmeric, cardamom, cloves, licorice, mint and cinnamon tickled my olfactory senses as I closed my eyes and inhaled. And proceeded to sneeze a half dozen times.

Agent-man led us through a maze of aisles, I lost track of the turns, and headed us at last to a small café deep in the bowels of the market. He nodded and bowed a few times to the proprietor then shuttled us to a couple of rickety tables, squinting his eyes and panting.

‘We feed you now, most helpful clients. Then we make movies. Chai and gulab jamun fill you up, yes?” His cheeks rose so high in a grin that his eyes disappeared. It wasn’t attractive.

The café was dinky and dirty and I tried not to wonder what the origin might be of the water that made our chai, but it was fragrant and the sugar and milk seemed harmless enough. The little lava balls soaked in sweet rose water made my saliva glands ache and my teeth hurt.

The eight of us were crammed around two iron tables in a single market stall deep in the centre of the market. It was so humid and confined as to induce claustrophobia. Weasel-Agent was nowhere in sight.

Perhaps this would be my fate. A wayward traveler destined to forever drink chai and eat sweets in the Lalbaug Masala Gully, lost in the maze of spices because she couldn’t find her way out.

No one else seemed concerned. The Cantantes had whipped out the weed and were happily puffing over their tea in between verses. The Avignon couple were…well… making out in their national style, teacups still in hand. Jim and Helen were sipping and nibbling, excited for the adventure. And trying to encourage me. They were so brave.

“You’re safe as a bug, love.” Helen cajoled. “We’ll not let a thing happen to ya.”

Agent Chauffeur came back a short while later as I was licking my sticky fingers for the hundredth time, accompanied by a burly sourpuss who looked like he walked right out of the Mumbai Mafia. He was introduced as Wali. That sent the troubadours into giggle fits and they started calling him Wall-E with cartoon voices.

Wall-E said nothing, his face a mask of stoic resolution, but waved us all back into the market as Agentman trailed behind us.

More twists and turns through the market brought us to a covered alleyway, piled high on each side with rotting refuse, and my heart started to pound an erratic beat. We exited the alley onto a street lined with multi-storied buildings and filled with foot traffic…literally people on foot walking amid the vehicles in the centre of the street. And the walkers moved faster.

Our line thinned out and I wasn’t sure what I was more afraid of…that I’d lose sight of my group or that I wouldn’t. But Weasel-Face kept pushing from behind as Wall-E drove his convoy into a single story whitewash, windowless, that seemed fabricated with particle board.

“This doesn’t look like any studio, I’ve ever seen,” I murmured in Helen’s ear, as we backed up in a narrow hallway. She rolled her eyes.

“And how many studios have you seen in India, love?” She giggled and threw her arm around my shoulders. “I’m sure we’re heading into an opium den, right now.” I frowned sheepishly and sighed out my tension.

Wall-E opened a door to our right and we all tumbled into pitch blackness. We could see little with only the dim light of the bulb seeping in from the entrance and when the door slammed shut we were completely blind. My head went woozy as adrenaline shot through my blood.

‘Mon Dieu,” whispered Georges and even the Spanish trio burst out in expletives as they started stumbling around the space. Helen grabbed my hand and called out for Jim, who yelled into the darkness.

“Where’s the bloody movie set then ya grotty arseholes?” he bellowed. “Turn on the fricken lights or we’ll do ya up like the kippers, eh!”

“Bugger!” Helen mumbled under her breath. My blood was echoing so hard in my head, I was sure if I uttered a sound, I would faint.

“No, no, good clients. We make movie now.” Weasel-Ass’ disembodied voice floated down as from an angel on high. Before he’d finished his speech, lights flashed and a large screen was illuminated on the wall opposite the door.

Weasel-Agent was shadowed in relief against it and we could now see we were in a large empty warehouse. A pair of long tables were situated in the middle of the room with microphones on stands upon it and metal folding chairs behind them.  

“See, see? We make movie now, good clients.” That disgusting wide-mouth grin came out again as he hurried us into the chairs. Wall-E appeared out of the darkness with a stack of papers and he placed a bundle in front of each of us.

“Good clients, we make movie now…in English.” Weasel-Agent clapped his hands in glee and swooped a hand out to the screen as images flashed upon it.

A glance at the papers and a good deal of confusing conversation later, we determined we were to follow along on the script before us and dub this soon to be blockbuster action/adventure into North American ‘English’. Wall-E and Weasal-Face were gonna be millionaires.

We jumped in and read the scripts against what they showed us on the screen while Wall-E recorded what I am sure was the worst soundtrack ever. Add to the twisted grammar in the dialogue, Spanish and French speakers who sounded at times like English was their sixth language and you’ll have a good idea of the quality. But it was fun and terribly funny.

We spent the next two hours at the microphones howling our way through some of the most hilarious English translations of Hindi I have ever read.

 “When the girl on the ground gets angry ... then she will rip your pants off.”

“Before life eats you ... you should drink life.”

“In politics all work is done with love and peace.”

But Wall-E and Weasel-Face seemed pleased with the results.

And as the drums and horns and flutes and sitars began to blare in the final scene of the movie, Helen squealed in delight and the eight of us, kicked backed our chairs and shimmied and shook our booties to the requisite Bollywood dance finale.

The Spanish trio grew to a full-blown choir as we joined in their song on the van ride back to our commodes, three thousand rupees in each of our pockets.

We’d had a ‘gobsmacking’ good time. My body was sound and I was going home with a wildly crazy memory. I hadn’t been abducted or sold into slavery. I was not in jail or been forced into an opium addiction.

My voice, however, had been immortalized in Indian film, saying,

“I can give you beyond limits ... and I can hit you with my slippers too.”

Bollywood or Bust!

The Sinking of the Rock

I am part of a writers' group that meets once a month and we take on a short story challenge with a different prompt each month. I thought I'd share a few of the results. 

The first prompt was the phrase: 'The sinking of the rock." This is what I came up with. Enjoy. 

The Sinking of the Rock

“What the hell were you thinking, Ethan?” Avery’s eyebrows arched an inch over his thick framed glasses in surprise. They almost touched his hairline, which receded further than was natural for a 12 year old and overly exposed due his Brylcreemed sweep-back. Ivy-league wannabe.

“Obviously I wasn’t thinking. Not about Marcus Carraig, that’s for sure.” I sighed. “He was all over Kalyn and then he was mouthing off at her. What was I supposed to do?”

“Uh, duh, brainiac. Keep your mouth shut and walk away.” Avery whipped off his glasses and pinched his nose while he closed his eyes in pretentious distress. Seriously, no pre-teen should act like a preppy lawyer. Pretender. “Ethan, you’re going to need to come up with a plan that saves your face and saves face. Carraig has been wrestling since he was in diapers. Getting your nose pulverized isn’t going make any points with Kalyn, or make you any prettier.”

            I groaned. “You’re a lot of help.”  I adjusted my backpack in discomfort, but it had nothing to do with the fifty pounds of textbooks inside. “She’s just so sweet and nice and cute. And he was saying filthy things just because she didn’t want to be mauled in public. I had to do something.”  I pulled at the hem of my plaid button down, and kicked a pebble down the front steps of the school entrance, scuffing my new Nikes in the effort.  “It’s all for nothing anyway. She doesn’t even know I’m alive.”

            “Ha, well, maybe she’ll pay attention when you’re dead and it won’t be all in vain.” Avery ruffled my blonde curls, adding further disorder to their mayhem. Who did he think he was, my mother? “Perhaps she’ll cry at your funeral. Closed casket though, cause your face will be too messed up.”

I grimaced and swatted at him but he jumped away. He adjusted his messenger bag over his leather jacket and pushed his specs back up his nose. He didn’t even need glasses. Faker.  “I gotta get to class. I’ll meet you here at three and you can tell me your plan.”  He slapped me on the back and smiled. It almost choked me up. At least he thought I could come up with a plan. Best, best friend a guy could have.

            “Ya, I’ll let ya know.” I hiked my backpack again, yanked my chinos up over my narrow hips, and headed off to class.

            I spent the better part of that morning wrapped up in my own head, with thoughts of Kalyn and replays of the look on her face when Marcus started calling her names. I’d fallen hard three years ago when Kalyn had given me a Valentine in the 5^th grade that had hearts all over it and was signed, ‘Love, Kalyn.’ It didn’t matter that my name wasn’t on it and it was likely a generic extra she’d thrown in my sparsely decorated paper bag.

But it made me take notice of her… straight, shimmery brown hair, pale green eyes and freckles. It wasn’t only how she looked but also how she smiled all the time and was always nice to people and kind. I’d never seen her be a catty witch like so many pre-pubescent girls morphed into by the time they hit junior high. I was afraid to be in the same room with most of them.

            It put me in a funk for weeks when Marcus Carraig noticed Kalyn last year. I bottomed out when she noticed him back and started hanging out with him and being nice to him, of all people.

Marcus was perfectly situated to be a bully. In the 8^th grade he eclipsed 5’8” and likely topped out at 135 or 140. At twelve and a half I was 5’2” and 88 pounds but there were even worse ways to not measure up. 

Marcus embodied the bad boy that every girl fell for. He’d been wrestling guys two years older for two years, dressed even more GQ than Avery and the guy rode a motorcycle to school every day. Granted it was on the back of his 16-year-old brother’s Honda but it still upped the cool factor for 13 year olds.

            Now Marcus had noticed me and in the worst way possible. I had been sitting in the commons that morning, wolfing my third granola bar and drooling over Kalyn on the bench across from me, when he’d plunked down beside her. He didn’t even say hello, just started nuzzling at her neck and panting away. She’d giggled and pushed him away but when she’d turned to him, he was all over her, mauling her, like ALL over her… It would have been gross if it had been anyone. But it was Kalyn. As I watched her react, all I could hear was the roar in my ears and my face burned with indignity for her. She pushed him away and didn’t even yell at him; she just got all teary-eyed and said his name in that disappointed way. Marcus just lost it.

            I’m couldn’t recall exactly what Marcus said but his face, when he spewed at her, will be forever entrenched in my mind. It was as malice and foul and belligerent as the words he literally spat at her. I just reacted without thought or reason.

            “Hey, you can’t talk to her like that!” I had no memory of moving but I stood in front of Kalyn and under Marcus. Towering over me, each of the six extra inches of height was blazingly apparent. “She has every right to tell you to back off.” It was eerily quiet in the pre-class conclave of the main foyer of the school.

            Marcus’ lip curled in derision and something entered his eye that I’m pretty sure wasn’t fear. More like a thirst for my death to slake his blood rage. “You pickin’ a fight with me, runt?”

            “Ya, if you don’t lay off her,” I shouted in a lapse of sanity.

He grabbed the front of my shirt and hauled me up against the wall. I was exposed as the fraud of a hero I parodied, in more ways than one. My shirt was rucked up around my neck revealing my feeble physique and a lack of oxygen caused my face to blush like the schoolboy I was. My eyes watered from pain and the whiff of sour milk as Carraig breathed his threats over me.

            “I’m gonna put your nose in the back of your throat, dumb ass.” I couldn’t look at Kalyn but just nodded affirmation, my lips blue, agreeing to anything in my shame and asphyxiation.

            “Carraig, put him down.” An avenging angel in the form the morning supervisor restored me. My vital organs were re-nourished with the return of blood flow to my body when Marcus released me to slide down the wall to the bench. 

            “After school, you pathetic wimp. Creekside.”  My breath left me in a whoosh again as Carraig rammed an elbow in my gut.

           

Even three hours later at lunch, I still imagined myself short of oxygen and I rubbed my chest sympathetically as I walked into the cafeteria. I wasn’t the slightest bit hungry but grabbed a pop and sat down at an empty table.

            Less than three minutes later, no fewer than eight parasites were hanging over me, languishing in the drama of my imminent demise.

            “Are ya gonna fight him?”

            “Man, you gotta run or he’s gonna pulverize you.”

            “You’re going down, brother.”

            “You can take him…if you can get someone to hold him down.”

            “Carraig’s a brute, man, but you just have to be faster than him.”

            “Seriously, you’re all so supportive.” I stomped out of the caff, but I could still hear them taking bets on how long it would take for Marcus to knock me out.

            I pushed out of the school doors and into the back parking lot, which was a mistake. I could see the arena of my coming slaughter. Beyond the school fields there was a narrow river that ran through the property. At a curve in its path, the waters pooled into a small inlet and the spot was sheltered from view by a thick copse of trees. Students engaged in numerous illicit activities at Creekside, as the location was called, while escaping prying eyes. It was the perfect spot for an evisceration. 

            I plopped down hard on the parking lot fence and reviewed my situation. I could run home at the bell I supposed but I wouldn’t escape my fate. Marcus wouldn’t forget and he’d corner me somewhere. I might get social points for at least showing up, for the three minutes it would take him to knock me flat. My rank on the adolescent societal ladder would hover somewhere between wuss and sissy, merely one rung up from coward.

As a wrestler, Marcus was big and strong, and I couldn’t let him get hold of me. If he got a grip on any part, I would be down for the count. Maybe I could be a little faster than him, and avoid him for a while, but I doubted I would evade the inevitable for long. I was calculating how long I would have to last with Marcus to avoid social obliteration and maybe achieve survivor status and a grudging respect, when a fleeting thought drifted in. I caught it and entertained it for a moment. As I mulled over a new possibility, my mouth twitched at the corners, then bloomed into a full-fledged grin at the prospect and a slight hope.

####

I stuffed my backpack into my locker and plucked at my shirt as it clung to me. The last bell of the day rang and a cold sweat broke on my brow. I checked my cell phone for the first time since the morning and I had twenty new texts. A record. As I scrolled through them, I could tell it was more of the same from lunch and I groaned. But my eye caught an unfamiliar number without a contact name and I brought up the message.

“Ethan, it’s Kalyn. I really appreciate you sticking up for me this morning when Marcus was being a jerk. You don’t have to do this. He’s just doing the stupid boy thing. ” I swallowed hard and blinked. My heart thudded in my chest and I think I hyperventilated a little. This was a great day! I had Kalyn’s number!

She was wrong of course. I did have to do this, now more than ever, because she was paying attention. And because I was a stupid boy too.  I texted her back.

“NP It’s fine.” I contemplated before hitting send. Seemed legit. Succinct. Understated. I pressed ‘send’ and immediately regretted it. Before I could add to this embarrassment of a conversation, Avery whipped me around.

“What are you doing? You gotta get out of here before he catches up with you.” I shoved the cell in my pocket.

“I’m not running.” I was indignant. “Seriously, you don’t think very highly of me.” I stalked off toward the back of the school. Avery skipped along beside me.

“I can’t let you do this, bro. It’s not good for your health.”

“Ya, well social suicide wasn’t on my list of things to do today, either.  So I’m picking the lesser evil.” Avery groaned but shut up.

The two of us marched across the field and like the Pied Piper, pupils filed out of the school woodwork to the siren song of my looming demise. By the time we reached the copse around Creekside there were nearly fifty spectators lining the half-moon clearing around the elliptical pool at the edge of the river. The willows hung out over the water and a floating dock bobbed at the shore of the narrow beach. It was a lovely spot for a butchering.

            I had about three minutes of hope as I stood by the dock with Avery, when there was no sign of Marcus Carraig. I revelled in the fantasy that he had been too afraid to show or at the least had forgotten about me. No such luck. 

            He strode through the trees and waded through the crowd in cocky confidence and my gullet soured.  I pursed my lips at the acrid taste of fear in my mouth. Marcus’ lip curled at the sight of me standing there and barked a laugh.

            “You got balls showing up, kid.” Kid. Seriously, he was six months older than me. “I’ll make this quick.”

            I spied Kalyn at the edge of the crowd behind Marcus, her brow furrowed in worry, I wasn’t sure for who. But I squared my narrow shoulders and straightened to my full five foot two…and a half. “Fine. Let’s do this.” I stripped off my button down, folded it and handed it to Avery, who gaped at me in horrid fascination. I pulled off shoes, then chinos revealing my gym shorts underneath. I flung them over Avery’s head.

            “What the hell are you doing, punk?” Marcus’ face was contorted in amused fascination.

            “I thought you wrestled,” I quipped.  A smile bloomed on Marcus’ face and he shook his head.

            “Oh, I do, punk and you are gonna regret this.” He stripped off his jacket, threw it at one of his buddies and stripped off his t-shirt. There were a few fluttery sighs in the crowd.  I cringed with the metallic taste of blood in my mouth as I bit my tongue. I clasped my arms and rubbed them, chilled in the air under the trees.

            Marcus hunched and started to circle around me. I mimicked his movements but tried to stay well away from him, stumbling now and then as I backed away. I had my back to the crowd, his to the water, when he charged. I dodged right and slipped by him but he reached out a hand to grab my flailing arm. It slipped from his grasp.

            “What the…?” I stood huffing by the water while Marcus stared confused at his hand, rubbing his fingers together. “You friggen bugger, you greased yourself!” he growled.

I smirked a little as I thought of myself in last period half-naked in the Home Ec. Kitchen with a bottle of olive oil. I snickered while the crowd tittered, but that was the wrong reaction. Marcus’ face fell like rain on a dark day and he thundered a roar as he came after me.

            I hopped to the right again, over a corner of the dock where it rested on the shore, and his fingers pinched at the loose skin on my side but again they couldn’t gain purchase. I stood ankle deep in the water on the far side of the dock, the black-grey sand mud oozing up between my toes. I stooped and grabbed two massive handfuls and fired them one after the other, muddy missiles, toward my target. One missed completely, but the other splatted directly on the mark in the middle of Marcus’ chest, leaving a dripping, mucky mess, sliding down to his pants. 

            He launched himself at me and hit me, head and shoulders, in my abdomen, and any general feeling of well-being left on a whoosh of all my wind. I gasped and wheezed as we fell into a foot of water, hard on my tailbone with Marcus grasping at my hips. I flicked my hair and the water out of my eyes, only to see the front end of a fist right before it crushed into my nose. A crack thundered through my skull and I felt liquid drain over my lip and tasted the salty brine of blood.

I kicked, and back-peddled and slithered out of his grip but left my gym shorts in his hand. I crab-walked into deeper water where I could stand without revealing my tighty whiteys. I knew I was trapped.

            I could float out into the river and be found days later, paled skin and bloated in death. I could walk out onto shore in humiliation. I looked up to the crowd and saw Kalyn, mouth in a firm tight line and eyes wide in fear and…something else.  I stood with the current gently swirling around my hips, blood dripping and rippling little pools of the water in front of me. I braced myself for the beating.

            Marcus, in a fit of rage and frustration, threw my shorts on the shore and bulldozed through the water toward me. I set my jaw, clenched my hands into fists, bowed my head and closed my eyes in a brief supplication to the patron saint of wimpy teenagers. When I opened them, my answer to prayer was before me.

            Slithering on the surface of the water was the longest water bandit I had ever seen. At least four feet of harmless water snake but slippery, dark and glittering in the light fluttering through the tree branches overhead. It looked like salvation to me. I didn’t question providence but grabbed the body around its substantial middle and flung it with everything I had at the oncoming behemoth.

            I couldn’t have had better aim if I’d really tried.

            The snake’s body hit Marcus smack in the middle of his nose and immediately wrapped itself in indignation around his head, curling over his ears and through his hair, its head hissing over his forehead. Marcus squealed, as high pitched and girly as my six-year-old sister in the midst of a hissy fit over the denial of chocolate ice cream on a weeknight. He twirled and twisted in the water, half-blinded by the body of the snake, clawing at his head and face.

            “Get it off, me! Get it off me!” he squealed as he thrashed by me into the deeper water.

As the besmirched bully passed by, I was propelled by chance and opportunity for escape, to the riverbank, where the trees might hide my indiscretion.  I crawled up behind the trunk of the massive willow whose branches arced out over the Creekside pool. Wrapped around one of the more substantial limbs was the water rope that the brave and fun-loving used to swing out and launch themselves into the deeper waters, where Marcus now stood peeling the water bandit off his face.

In a flash of brilliance I scrambled up the tree and unleashed the water rope. I gripped tight, took my target in sight and catapulted out of the tree on the end of the rope, curving around in a widely arcing swing. I tucked my knees up tight to my chest and as I sketched low over the water, shot my feet straight out and hit Marcus square in the chest just as he threw the water snake off his head.

I swear, he flew five feet, back arched, feet flying high in the air with the wide-eyed surprised look of the rarely defeated, before he crashed head first into deep water, feet askew and awkward.

I dropped off the rope as it rounded to the dock and ended up on my knees on the wooden platform. The crowd was hooting and hollering and at first I thought it was mocking. But when they started to chant my name, I presumed that they had appreciated my ingenuity in the face of adversity. I fist pumped both hands in the air and roared, tighty whiteys notwithstanding.

Avery walked up the dock with my clothes, as Marcus’ buddies helped him out of the water groaning and sputtering, to jeers of ‘Squealer!’ and ‘Afraid of a little snake, Carraigh’ and ‘He dunked ya good, Marcus.’

Avery shook his head and stood in front of me as I pulled on my pants.

“Nice swinging, Tarzan.” I just smirked and shrugged. “You know what Carraig means. Ethan?”

“Huh, what do you mean?” I stuttered.
            “Well, Carraig is an Irish name. It means rock.” I just shook my head and raised my eyebrows, not sure what he was getting at. Avery smiled. “He sure sunk like one.”

I laughed and Avery wrapped an arm around my neck. We walked off the dock towards Kalyn, waiting with a sweet smile on the shore of my success. 

The Becoming of An Author...how it happens...at least to me.

Last night I put the pen away (figuratively) and made the decision to be finished on the final draft of this first book. Revisions could go on forever but at some point I needed to call it done as good as I can get it.

I've never cared before now to published.

The calling on my life for many years has been to love, support, encourage and love young people and God has used me to do that in many forms...youth sponsor, drama, camp, mission trips, mentoring, speaking, teaching, writing devotions, prayer counselling...and in a hundred other little ways.

But nearly two years ago I began to feel God's niggling at my heart again that things were about to change. Not my calling, just the method of delivery.

He told me to write a book...well, eight of them actually...why would it be just one?  He wanted me to concentrate my efforts on a story that He laid in my lap...fantastical, allegorical, in a Kingdom that mirrors His own.

I resisted because, like most of His nigglings for me, this frightened me...I would have to stretch myself to His will again...and that's often painful. And it has been...I've learned much, again. I was to step aside from nearly every ministry...and those were considerable. All of the things listed above gave me great joy...they were hard work, but I found value and purpose in what I was doing. I knew I was in the sweet spot of where God wanted me to be.

But instead He led me to believe that I was sit in a room and start from little more than a fuzzy idea to build not just a story but a world. I'm a very relational person and so to spend hours in solitary (confinement?) writing for no-one but myself (initially) was not on a high list of my priorities...but it became one.

I spent 40 weeks just planning...eight books, chapter by chapter plotting, character sketches, setting descriptions and research. I built a fantasy kingdom in my head so vivid I could (can) see it in startling detail with characters so animated they became (are) real to me, my friends and enemies, loving and hating them. All this before I ever wrote a word!

Last April (2013) after all that work, I sat down to start the writing part and I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to do it. I was pretty sure I couldn't and I had balked and stalled on God. I had resisted and only half obeyed Him.. I had kept my favourite ministries, the ones that fed me, and gave what time was left to the writing. But God had other plans. While some ministries He ripped from my (death gripped) hands, others He allowed me, but EVERYTHING in that year in ministry was so difficult...obstacles, resistance, complications...it was like slogging through quicksand. I got the point, painfully, tearfully, but it took until August to complete my commitments.

But when you finally come to obedience to God's will, things fall into place. From April to August while still embroiled in ministry I should have put aside, I wrote 20,000 words...when I was fully obedient from the end of August to the middle of October, I wrote 60, 000. The first 20,000 were disjointed and messy and required ten times more editing (no exaggeration) than the last 60,000. The last four months, I've done four full edits/revisions and added 13,000 words after cutting 3000, fed the book through a dozen beta readers, reviewed their evaluations and put in another few revisions and applied the final spit and polish line/copy edit (which is the devil's work for sure, ugh) in the last six days.

While said novel was still in first draft, I went to a writers' conference where I was offered an open invitation (through a verbal pitch to an editor who doesn't even look at young adult fiction) to submit a full manuscript (when polished, however long it took) to her (she's the commissioning editor for commercial fiction for a MAJOR publisher) for her to forward it with a personal note to their YA editor, who she thought I'd get along fabulously with. This NEVER happens. Publishers of this size rarely take un-agented manuscripts never mind in genres not their own.

And that's where the manuscript is right now. I sent that email today.

 I have fallen in love with His will for me again. This was what I was supposed to do. Whether this publisher makes an offer for the book or not, whether I get a few dozen rejections from agents, I feel certain He will eventually lead me to submit the work to where He wants it and where it will get the attention it needs. I feel God's promises in this, not just for the book, but for me as well in the heart of His calling to me. This book will give me an opportunity to speak about Him to a broader audience of the young people He continue to draws me too. Any doubt I encounter (sometimes on a daily basis) is washed away in remembrance of the bazillion times He has proven Himself to me...over and over and over. So where You lead I will follow.

I'll let you know how it goes.

In the meanwhile you could pray (if you do that sort of thing) for His will over this work of fiction. I'd be most appreciative.

To Mourn with Joy

It seems I only blog when my heart is full...of joy...or of sadness. I think it is out of a certain necessity for me. It is part of how I process what I am feeling, to bring sense or meaning to it. And it's impossible for me to do that unless I put it down in comprehensible words.

He was one of my boys. I called him Greggers or Gregory or Bauer because 'Greg' just didn't seem to be name enough for him. My name is Terry Schmidt and I spent four years as one of Greg’s youth leaders here at First Alliance. My first remembrance of him will always be how Greg used to drive me crazy whispering and giggling with his buddy, Braiden behind me when I was trying to lead bible study. When I would ask him to read a bible verse out loud, Greg’s creative pronunciations were always a mood lightener. After a particularly inventive pronunciation of gentiles (use your imagination or ask me later), we were rolling on the floor with laughter. We didn’t get much studying done that night.  He was never afraid of sounding or looking silly. Case in point, the neon yellow nylon track pants that made numerous appearances over a couple of years of youth events. Other youth leaders and I would chat about whether Greg would ever take anything seriously, but every now and then, he would come up with some little gem and leaders and students would stare gape-mouthed at him with the profundity of it. He knew what was what.

Greg was, however, completely serious about playing. He loved all his games with a passion, and played them as such, giving 100% whether it was hockey or some crazy camp game. Dodgeball! Man, you did not want to get in the way of a ball that was thrown by Greg. He rarely lost.

Greg attended Camp Chamisall during his school years. I think he loved camp mostly because he was a people person, so social, and just enjoyed being with a group or in the middle of a crowd. He was my camp date once...he bobbed for an apple in freezing water and then pulled the tiny piece of paper out of it with my name on it. He yelled my name like it was the best news in the world, never mind he was likely expecting to escort some sweet young thing to the camp banquet but instead drew the old lady card. He was kind. 

He volunteered with children in Discoveryland from the time he was a teenager and had a ball with them. They loved him. The only way we could tell him apart from the kids was his size.

I saw Greg nearly every week for four years during his high school youth days and remember also banquets, retreats and youth events and his smiling face was always there. He rarely smiled with his mouth closed. It was always this open-mouthed grin of wonder. He carried joy on his face all the time. All. The. Time. There was adoration in him for everyone and everything. He was delighted and captivated by life. He had fun and made no apologies for it.

After graduation I didn't see him often, but I could see on Facebook and heard from others that he was...enjoying himself. I prayed for him whenever his name popped up. Right around graduation Greg started dating Sarah...and then I was praying for her, too! But I knew if anyone could love Greg the way he needed someone to, it would be my strong, sweet Sarah. You done good, honey.

Greg became a junior high youth leader a couple of years ago, under gentle encouragement (or constant pestering) from Sarah, and I had the privilege of watching him feed into the lives of other young men in his unassuming way, just accepting them for who they were. As leaders we would take time together to encourage one another, and I had an opportunity to tell him how proud I was of him and how far he'd come and how he was allowing God to use him in such a positive way. I'm glad I did.

Greg had an enlarged heart...not just the physical one, but the spirit of his inner heart...a heart enlarged with generosity, humility, kindness, love and joy, joy, joy. I think maybe it just grew too big for this world, or maybe his physical heart would eventually debilitate his joy, so Jesus took him home.

Maybe Greggers didn't take life as seriously as those around him wanted him to, but maybe, he had it right all along and we should take more enjoyment out of life and worry less. I can see him in heaven, with that open-mouth smile of joy wrapped around his face, looking around, exclaiming, "Awesome!" He’s gonna fit right into his new home. And one day he’ll be the welcoming committee for us.

But for now we are left behind to mourn him, though beneath our grief is that underlying joy.

Most of us will miss him terribly, but our lives will go on with little interruption, while those whose lives were intertwined with him intimately will have deeper scars. For you all, there will be many life celebrations and holidays where you will feel his absence, but it will be the still quiet moments that will surprise you…when you see a parent embrace their child, a young couple holding hands, share laughter with your siblings and realize a laugh is absent…and a rolling wave will take your breath away.

I pray in those moments you might remember this verse and perhaps imagine Greg saying it to you.

John 16:22

So you have sorrow now, but I will see you again; then you will rejoice, and no one can rob you of that joy. 

No one can rob you of that joy. No one. That joy.

For those of you who wonder how we could mourn with joy or at our certainty that we'll see Greg again, I would ask you if you are certain of where you are going when you die. Are you certain of your eternal destination? I do, I am...I am certain. Greg was certain. And it is my most fervent hope that you would be too. Ponder that question, investigate, ask questions, voice your doubts and your anger, and look for a choice that brings you certainty. You'll find it.

Extravagant love

I have just come out of one of those incredible experiences that leaves one overwhelmed with the joy of it and devastated by the loss of it. It's not as if I haven't been here before. I know what it is like to have an intimate community; and I even have worked hard at creating that community.

That role is familiar to me. I've worked with youth for a dozen years, led life groups/ministry groups of women,  young adults, grade school, junior high and senior high students, done one on one mentoring of young women, students and leaders, led theatre ministry teams, kitchen teams, missions teams and now as a supervisor for 14 support staff at my school, I'm working hard to create community and intimacy among us there.

How do you create community you ask? It is a drawing of people together, in purpose (whether in a task or in mutual encouragement) and also to bring them to an understanding that they are 'known' as an individual; that their concerns are significant to another person, that they themselves are significant just as they are. An atmosphere of trust and safety is encouraged, by personal sharing of the leader, by the risk of transparency to 'put it out there' and in doing so encourages others to take the risk of vulnerability as well. And in the end what every human heart wants is to belong, to be accepted...we often will go to great lengths to modify our appearance or behaviour to do this...but the true acceptance comes only when we are authentic before another and still drawn in.

What I know for sure is that the creation of this kind of authentic community comes out of an extravagant love, larger, more encompassing than is possible from the human heart. It is a love that asks no return, no reward, no recompense for the cost of it; it is a complete pouring out of ardor that comes from an external supernatural source.

1 Thessalonians 3:12-13 (MSG) And may the Master pour on the love so it fills your lives and splashes over on everyone around you, just as it does from us to you. May you be infused with strength and purity, filled with confidence in the presence of God our Father when our Master Jesus arrives with all his followers.

I was asked this week to write a short blurb for the back of our church bulletin about what it is liked to be used by God. This is what I wrote...

"I am wholly inadequate to the ministry that God has given me. I find it absurd that He uses an ordinary if ridiculous woman like me to play out or direct drama on stage, to hang out with and teach dear young people thirty or more years my junior, to mentor others in leadership or to pen a novel. While He has gifted me with communication and theatrical skills, it is only when I offer them in willingness and with abandon to His good and His glory that the supernatural happens. Community is formed. People are moved. Hearts are changed. Extravagant love overflows. I know I am not capable of these things in my own strength. I am not special. I am ordinary. My God however is very special. He is extraordinary. And I am willing. I am completely overwhelmed by how He uses me...grateful and humbled by it. There are so few things that are a certainty in this world but there are moments in surrendering your actions and words and thoughts to God in a love offering when you know for sure you are doing exactly the right thing at exactly the right time for exactly the right reason. The moment may not last long but while it does it is a sweet, sweet place to be."

I am a blessed, blessed woman to have had a number of sweet moments of extravagant love....ah, so, so sweet, my heart just aches with the memory of it. When you've experienced it, you just want it more and so become more willing to extract the cost of it...time, energy, attention...while the reward is not the point of it, the joy of that sweetness is worth it. Every. Single. Time. 

I urge you to open yourself to the gift of extravagant love...to embrace it and let it overflow onto others. From wherever you are, whatever your gifts or skills or experience...just be willing to risk the vulnerability, the transparency, the authenticity...abandon yourself to it. While we search in this life constantly for that kind of significance, security and acceptance, if we find the True Treasure, we find we have all that and more already...with the sweet intimacy of Christ. And so risking it before others, is really no risk at all. 

1 John 3:1 (The Voice) Consider the kind of extravagant love the Father has lavished on us—He calls us children of God! It’s true; we are His beloved children.

If God is Good Why Does He Allow Suffering in the World?

I taught in junior high ministry on April 20 and this is the message God gave me to give to 150 teenagers.

If God is Good Why Does He Allow Suffering in the World?

There’s a lot of suffering in this world, especially in North America…we call them first world problems.

“I type so fast that my expensive fake nails keep hitting the wrong keys.”

“I can’t find the right balance between my fan and my electric blanket.”

 “My fridge is too dark because all the food is blocking the light.”

“My air conditioner is too loud for me to hear my TV.”

“I don’t have enough chips for my dip, but if I open another bag I won’t have dip for my chips.”

Terrible problems don’t you think? I’m joking of course, but these ‘problems’ help put our situations in perspective with the problems in the ‘Real World’.

Have you noticed how inconvenient God is...the things he asks us to do, puts us through, lets us suffer, get in the way of us being comfortable, happy, content...but is that His goal for us?

Bad things happen... God allows evil but He doesn't cause evil. For now, the enemy, Satan, reigns on the earth. He influences people.  Satan is the major influence on the ideals, opinions, goals, hopes and views of the majority of people. His influence also encompasses the world’s philosophies, education, and commerce. The thoughts, ideas, speculations and false religions of the world are under his control and have sprung from his lies and deceptions.

This is what the bible calls Satan:

2 Cor 4:4 – Satan: god of this world
Eph 2:2 – prince of the power of the air
John 12:31 – ruler of this world

But we still have the choice on whether to believe Satan or not: whether to buy into his lies. Evil and suffering are often an effect of our own choices, the free choice that God has given us... check out this video.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bqkBVSHGQ98

You have two choices…and really only two…God or Satan…good or evil…who or what will you choose? We have the choice of doing good or evil and our nature chooses sin sometimes. And some people will make evil choices that affect us. Man's inhumanity to man is astounding. Evil is at work in the world and it does affect us either directly being the victim of it or indirectly from viewing of it.

Big evil can come out of people choices... 9/11 – terrorists kill over 3500, multiple murders like in the Connecticut school shooting, bombs like in Boston at the marathon. And often  evil choices are less of a grand scale, but are personal and intimate, no one ever knowing how we are hurting and suffering … sexual, physical and mental abuse, rape, rage, murder, lies, cheating….things that leave deep wounds in us.

And then there about the things that happen around us that cause suffering that are not the effect of our choices...illnesses, natural disasters…why doesn't God stop those?

 While earth was perfect for Adam and Eve for a while, sin entered in and has corrupted the earth…disease, disasters enter in. 

Romans 5:12 - Therefore, just as through one man sin entered into the world, and death through sin, and so death spread to all men, because all sinned.

Sin was/is more than simple rebellion and breaking of God's law. It is permeating throughout all of God's creation bringing imbalance, famine, earthquakes, disease, etc.  Sometimes these horrible things happen TO or AROUND, no fault of choice of anyone, us that affect us...Tsunamis, December 2004 - Indonesia - 200000 dead,  Haiti earthquake Jan 2010 over 300,000 dead...Illnesses: 200,000,000 have died of measles in the past 150 years, 250000 die of the flu every year, many of us know someone who is suffering or died from cancer, or suffering from hundreds of other diseases that are debilitating.

So is God just giving free reign to evil and sin? Has He given up His sovereign control of the earth? Has He abandoned us to this evil?  If you are to believe God is good and loves you, how do you think he justifies this suffering and loss?  Does He have any compassion for how we suffer?

1 Chronicles 29

11 Yours, Lord, is the greatness and the power

    and the glory and the majesty and the splendor,

    for everything in heaven and earth is yours.

Yours, Lord, is the kingdom;

    you are exalted as head over all.

12 Wealth and honor come from you;

    you are the ruler of all things.

In your hands are strength and power

    to exalt and give strength to all.

Does that sound like someone who isn't in control?

Does God care about our suffering?

Jesus knew Mary and Martha and their brother, Lazarus. Mary and Martha sent him a message when their brother was ill, but when Jesus arrived, Lazarus had died. The bible tells us Jesus wept at Lazerus’ death, even though he knew would raise him up momentarily from the dead. He wept with Mary and Martha in compassion for their grief. It moved him!

Revelation 21:4 - ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”

God’s heart breaks at our suffering and promises there will be a day with him where suffering will no longer be the order of things. He wants us to have hope in that.

John 16:33 “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”

We WILL have trouble, it’s a given. But there is also a promise in there...God gives us peace and is in control even when chaos reigns. He has overcome the world.

There are other promises about how God views our difficult circumstances.

.

Romans 8:28 And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. 

All things the good, the bad and the really, really ugly...that means even natural disasters, illnesses will work for GOOD in us who are called to love God.

I have personal knowledge of that.

I was not born into a Christian home. I came to faith in my twenties, already married and with a child. I prayed for years that my parents would come to know Jesus as their Saviour. Sometimes I tried talking to them about it, but they were not really interested. They just called me the religious one. There came a time in our own family that was a time of suffering. We were all in a lot of pain. For me personally I tried to deal with the situation in faith, trusting God, trying to do the right thing, not always succeeding but just doing what I thought God wanted me to. I would talk to my parents of our troubles and I remember having a conversation with them over a meal, telling them of a recent development in our issues. My dad responded with anger, wondering how I could cope, why didn’t I give up and walk away. And my MOM turns to him and says, “It’s because she has faith.” I told my husband, crying, saying our suffering was not in vain, it was proving faith to my parents. Six years ago my mother was diagnosed with kidney cancer. She had a tumour the size of a football inside her and she was scared; we all were. She asked for the pastor ‘who talks to people’ to come and visit her. I called Pastor Ray and he came and lead her to Christ.  Six months later she died from complications from the cancer. Three months after that my dad started dating again and I was angry. I didn’t want my mom replaced. Nearly three years ago my dad married a lovely woman who regularly attends church…and my dad goes with her. I can have spiritual conversations with my dad and I believe God is leading him to faith.

When I prayed for my parents to come to faith did I want my mom to die of cancer or my dad to marry another woman? No! But can I see God at work in the situation? YES!!  

God is going to allow the evil, the sin and the suffering of the world to change you, to make you look more like Jesus and to let you learn more about Him and yourself…if you let him.

He’ll  be put you out in the middle of a stormy sea and tell you to walk on it to show you courage in the midst of fear is possible through Him. Will you take your strength from him or turn away?

He’ll stand you before a giant with a rock and a sling to let you know that power to overcome even the largest obstacle is possible through Him. Will you stand and trust Him or run away in fear? 

He’ll allow a tornado or cancer or a heart attack or a job loss or a death to come your way to let you know that while He’ll give you  peace, control is His not yours and He wants your trust.  Will you take His peace or will you blame Him for your circumstances? 

He will allow you to suffer in your misery and ask you to turn it to ministry to give your purpose to your suffering. Will you find that purpose or give up and surrender to guilt and anger?

He will give you more than you can handle just to show you that only He can handle things. Will you try to take control or let Him rule in your life? 

He will break your heart with the injustices in the world and use YOU to fix them.  Will you say yes, send me or no, I can’t make a difference? 

He would let his own son be mocked and whipped and beaten and nailed to a cross just to let you know He how much loves you…that He wants to wash your sin away and spend forever with you if you’ll accept it.  What are you going to do with that? If he did that for you, could you believe he would let you suffer unnecessarily without first considering the good that will come of it? Without considering what you’ll learn about Him and His love for you and about yourself and the person He wants you to be?  Think of what He saves you from that you’ll never know!!

God’s goal for us is to see suffering like He does, as an opportunity to love someone in the midst of it, into the Hope and Love and Mercy of Christ...to be Christ to them. That is what He does for you. The goal is to trust in His plan for you. The goal is to be more like Jesus. The goal is to allow God to reign over every part of our lives, and not just where we already feel comfortable, but where we hurt and suffer, knowing we're not alone in that. The goal is not to be content or happy. The goal is Jesus himself. The goal is to be so intimate with Jesus that we know without hesitation the truth of who he is, what he’s done, and what lengths he will go to for his children.  Will you do that? That’s your choice.