book review: the jordan tracks

Book: The Jordan Tracks
Author: Steven W. Wise
Genre: Young-adult to Adult Fiction
ISBN: 1-4208-1360-9

From the first sentence of the ‘Prologue’:

"Clarence Bates plopped down heavily in his chair and looked past lazy eyelids across the supper table at the twelve-year-old son who would kill him within two minutes."

I knew that in The Jordan Tracks, I was in the hands of a skilled storyteller.

This tale of Ernie and Christa Bates set in California, Missouri, takes place in 1968. It opens with Ernie and Christa eagerly awaiting the return of Aaron, their only and beloved son, from soldier duty Vietnam.

As the story progresses, we are introduced to a cast of characters you would find in any small town. Besides Ernie, Christa and Aaron, Harley and Fudd, Ernie’s buddies from the turkey plant play the most important roles.

Wise shows his characterization skills in numerous scenes where his people strut their stuff. Here, for example is a taste of his gritty and sometimes humorous style as we join Ernie, Fudd and the rest of the crew at their lunch break:

Ernie stepped out of the blood room, shook his head at Fudd. "How can anybody covered with turkey crap be that hungry?"

"Ain’t nothin’ ever slowed down my jaws in eatin’ or talkin,’ you know that, Ernie." He paused, swiped at a feather clinging to his eyebrow. "If my Margie packed another egg salad sandwich I’ll break down and bawl. Man’s got to have a sandwich his teeth can feel, by dang. Good cookie needs to be soft, but not a sandwich!

...After several gallons of hot water and two dizen paper towels were expended, the men pulled metal charis up to the long Formica-topped table and popped open their lunch pails.

"That’s more like it...spiced beef and onions," Fudd purred. "A man can make some energy with this kind of grub."

Dorsey shook his head and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Why don’t you just breathe on the birds while they pass by, and I’ll turn off the shocker...they’ll be stunned worse than electricity."

Fudd swallowed a gigantic bite and slowly licked his lips as he grinned at Dorsey. "Didn’t know you were gettin’ so dainty in your old age, boss man."

That’s the tone of the story throughout. It’s real life. It’s common people, poking fun at, crying with and loving each other. The themes it tackles are the themes of real life: work, celebration, family, death, depression, living with a non-Christian husband, making peace with a dark murky past, recognizing the ways God brings people to Himself. If it were a play, one stage set would be the interior of a middle-class home, another the woods, a third the turkey plant where the job of the three main characters is to catch, clamp and behead the birds (all described in technicolor).

As I said at the outset, Steven Wise knows how to tell a story. He heightens suspense when he flashes to scenes of Aaron in Vietnam, using as a transitioning device, the fact that Ernie and Aaron’s thoughts are often with each other. In several places he hooks the reader even more obviously with outright premonitions experienced by Ernie, Christa, and Aaron’s best friend Pima.

The Christian angle of the book is delivered mainly through Christa and Ernie’s caring friend Harley. It is Harley’s name for his favorite spot to pray, the railroad tracks which run between the cemetery and the turkey plant (and which he dubs the Jordan Tracks), which gives the book its name. The ‘Jordan’ gains significance in another way as the story progresses. By the end of the book, the spiritual ‘plot’ usurps the story’s plot in importance.

One of the ways I judge the success of a book is by how conscious I am of the writer’s devices. For me, the least successful (1's) are books in which I’m aware of what the author is doing, and the most successful (5's) those in which I forget all about the teller and am gripped by the story. I’d rank this book a 4.75, with marks taken off for, in a very few places, boggy prose, wordiness and awkward sentence structure.

For anyone who enjoys a finely written, substantial tale, delivered through the lives of next-door-neighbor-type characters, with about as much of the unexplainable (read ‘miraclulous') as one finds in real life, and pervaded by the perfume of the Father’s love throughout, The Jordan Tracks is a book I’d highly recommend for young-adult to adult readers.

*************
Disclaimer: The book The Jordan Tracks was sent to me by Mind & Media as a gift from the publisher who donated the books for reviewers.

reason to self-publish?

On reading Steven Wise’s The Jordan Tracks (review here), I wondered why he decided to use Author House instead of going with a CBA royalty publisher. He’s a master storyteller and his writing style and character portrayal is not unlike Dale Cramer’s.

After reading the last few days’offerings at faith*in*fiction (especially this post) I think I’m beginning to understand. Instead of subjecting his novel (which refuses to shy away from reality but at the same time, isn’t offensive in a gratuitous way) to the red pen of someone who serves three or four masters, he has become his own publisher.

The more I think of it, the more it seems like not a bad idea. He gets to tell the story he’s passionate about in the way he wants to tell it, and in the process I’m sure he’s growing his own following. Admittedly he does have to do his own marketing – one prong of which is using blogs to spread the word. In the end, though, he keeps his integrity--and all the profits, if there are any.

birthing a comet

How We Chose the Album Title Birthing a Comet

It was a spring shindig
and we were jammin’
in the town hall one night
when stardust fell
on Jerome’s accordion
and exploded

A song was born
right there
all wet and new
We danced around it
exuberant
clapped time to its heartbeat

The moon dried and caressed it
We harmonized
until Johnny’s violin
coaxed and whispered it
through the windows
to a space in the sky

Its shimmering tail spread
for light years
we walked home at dawn
still mesmerized
by the blue light
of burning ice.

–Jan Wood (from Music Fusion: Arias to Zydecos © 2004 - used with permission)

computer haiku

Haiku. Who of us hasn’t tried writing one, several, a whole suite? This wonderful Japanese form has been on the curriculum of teachers and a requirement of students for decades. A little article, "How to Haiku" from the October 2003 issue of ByLine Magazine by Naomi Beth Wakan helps me understand the form as it has developed for writers of English:

"If you were a Japanese person, writing a haiku in Japanese, you would have lots of rules. There should be three lines, the syllable count should be 5,7,5 and there should always be a seasonal word present indicating the time of year when the haiku was written....

"Then there are the specific qualities Japanese look for in a haiku –sabi (beauty with a touch of loneliness), wabi (the appreciation of simple everyday things), aware (the sadness from the awareness that everything must pass), and yugen (the ability to glimpse the eternal in a world that is constantly changing)...

The article goes on to say how modern English writers can and have taken liberties with the traditional Japanese form:

"We, however, are writing haiku in English. While some haijin (haiku writers) stick rigidly to the 5-7-5 syllables, feeling, perhaps a link to a long line of haijin, I prefer to write three lines of approximately two beats, three beats, two beats...

and concludes by summing up what, in essence, is a haiku:

"So in considering haiku, what do we have? We have a strong image of a single event, happening in the present. It pictures an ordinary occasion that somehow expands upon reading to become extraordinary. A haiku is Blake’s "whole world in a grain of sand."

For us moderns, what could better signify the ‘whole world’ than our computers? And so the collection of fifteen Japanese haiku error messages below (replacing the terse and often unhelpful Microsoft type) is, I would say, haiku at its most relevant. (This was one of those ubiquitous emails, which I got three year ago and couldn't bear to delete.)


Your file was so big.
It might be very useful.
But now it is gone.

------------------------
The Web site you seek
Cannot be located, but
Countless more exist.

------------------------
Chaos reigns within.
Reflect, repent, and reboot.
Order shall return.

----------------------------
Program aborting:
Close all that you have worked on.
You ask far too much.

----------------------------------
Windows NT crashed.
I am the Blue Screen of Death.
No one hears your screams.

------------------------------
Yesterday it worked.
Today it is not working.
Windows is like that.

------------------------
First snow, then silence.
This thousand-dollar screen dies
So beautifully.

--------------------------------
With searching comes loss
And the presence of absence:
"My Novel" not found.

----------------------------
The Tao that is seen
Is not the true Tao - until
You bring fresh toner.

----------------------------
Stay the patient course.
Of little worth is your ire.
The network is down.

----------------------------
A crash reduces
Your expensive computer
To a simple stone.

-----------------------
Three things are certain:
Death, taxes and lost data.
Guess which has occurred.

---------------------------
You step in the stream,
But the water has moved on.
This page is not here.

---------------------------
Having been erased,
The document you're seeking
Must now be retyped.

---------------------------
Serious error.
All shortcuts have disappeared.
Screen. Mind. Both are blank.

in his shop

In his shop Daddy improvised
like a jazz musician.
Virtuoso of rivets, solder, screws
he repaired hinges with leather
lengthened a steering shaft
for the tractor-drawn binder
braced wobbly chairs with welding rods
reincarnated metal seats
into lawn furniture.

Lightning from his welder
like brain synapses
crackled creations into being.
Pounding hammer
tapping chisel
whining file perfected
riffs of leather, metal, wood.

–V. Nesdoly (from Calendar © 2004)

************

On this day 94 years ago, my dad was born. He died in 1975 of complications from bone cancer. If I have one regret, it’s that I didn’t get to know him better. He was quiet and introverted. I don’t remember him telling me he loved me in words, until he was sick unto death. It was wonderful to hear it, but I always knew it in my heart.

There was a building on our Saskatchewan farmyard where he worked – his shop. I remember flashes of light coming through the windows of it as he welded things.

Another thing which reminds me of him is the smell of diesel fumes. I remember clearly the day a few years ago a city bus swept by me. I registered the smell with a note of familiarity combined with a sense of feeling secure, and realized I was remembering the smell of the old diesel tractor on the farm, and his presence.

********

Oh my goodness. Just after posting this, I see Mr. Standfast has put up a post:"A Tragic Nostalgia, Robert Frost and the Longing to Return" . Isn't that just too serendipitous! (I hope my nostalgia isn't 'tragic.' I think remembering the sights and sounds and smells of yesterday can be a healthy thing. But, no, that isn't the place we go for life-giving sustenance.)

faith stories: elka of the wai wai -part 6

(Conclusion of Chapter 8: "Into the Pit of My Stomach" from the book Christ’s Witchdoctor by Homer Dowdy © 1963).

[Introduction] [part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5]

part 6

On Thursday of that week Elka went fishing with Kirifaka. They followed the stream that bounded Kanashen under the sunset and emptied into the Essequibo at one side of the village landing. Threading their way up the creek, they shot many fish with their arrows.

"Why have we caught so much meant, Little Brother?" Elka asked Kirifaka. "Who is giving us so much food?"

"God," Elka continued, answering his own question. Kirifaka looked bewildered. And then Elka bewildered him even more: "I think I’d kind of like to receive Jesus.

"Why do you want to receive Jesus?" Kirifaka said with some scorn.

"Be quiet, Little Brother," commanded Elka. "Bow your head and close your eyes. I’m going to pray."

Kirifaka did as he was told, partly in obedience and partly in fear of the strange things that Elka was saying.

"Father in the Sky, this is Old Elka. You are good, Father. Look, You have given us our meat. We didn’t have any before and we haven’t had to go far to get it. You showed it to us. You are good Father."

He had meant to ask Jesus to enter his life. Somehow this was the prayer that came out. That night he dreamed he was teaching God’s Paper to the people at Yaka Yaka. The next day he told his wife about it.

"Kofi! How scary!" exclaimed Ahmuri. "Why are you like this? Why don’t you work your charms any more? You’re a witchdoctor, but you don’t sing your songs. How do you suppose Kworokyam likes that?"

Elka said nothing, but he noted Ahmmuri’s deep frown. He had noticed that she often frowned. He hair might string down from the knot in back, but it didn’t have the happy snap as when she used to swing her head about so saucily. He didn’t think of her long, though, for other thoughts fillede his mind.

The night before lesson time, Elka again dreamed that one like Bahm appeared before him and said,

"Let go of your sins. Say to Jesus, ‘Come in.’ If you do, He will come in."

Elka got up early on Sunday. He told his dream to his wife.

"Maybe that was God’s spirit," she commented, not knowing what else to say.

It was time for Elka to come to a decision.

Here he was, a chief, a witchdoctor, a handsome young man, his body and limbs well filled out, his features clean-cut and pleasing. He was one to whom not only his own villagers were looking for leadership but others as well; one ripe in the ways of forest and field, in weaving hammocks, in many other skills.

And he was torn by indecision.

Before others began to stir in their hammocks he left the big house. He strode across the clearing and entered an abandoned field which was being rapidly overtaken by jungle growth again.

"Father in the Sky," he said aloud on reaching the middle of the field and looking up as if he saw God sitting in His heaven, "Father, I want to know You. So make Yourself known to me forever. What do You think about that? Old Elka wants You to come into the pit of his stomach, Father and make his spirit strong."

He sat on a charred log, still intact after the burning so many seasons before. He no longer looked up. He spoke as if the One he talked to sat next to him on the log.

"Here I am Father. I’m a witchdoctor. This is what I am. I’m a bad person, too. I get angry. I scold my wife. And I’m sad about those things. But this is the way I don’t want to be. So my old being, take it out, Father. You can because your Son died for my badness, in order to take it away. Fix me to be another kind of person. I want to be like You."

In contrition the young Indian bowed his black-crowned head which even at this early hour was decorated with the downy white feather of an eagle. One by one he named his sins: hatred, lust, envy, foolish pride.

"This is the way I am Father," he prayed quietly and sincerely. "Fix me to be like Jesus. That’s all I have to say this time, Father."

That afternoon Elka went with his family to the lesson at Kanashen. As he sat in the main room of Kron’s house he drank in the teaching of God’s Paper.

"I’m really beginning to hear it with good ears," he said to himself, smiling at the happy thought. Things were beginning to fit together. He saw now why the missionaries could live as they did. It wasn’t they who were good. It was Jesus living in them. He understood, at least a little bit, the peace they possessed. If they let God into them, they were good and had peace. If they didn’t let Him in they weren’t good and were miserable. This was the way it fitted together for him.

A few days later, Elka faced the issue at an onhariheh. The eat-and-drink session took place in a hut at the edge of the clearing at Kanashen. A sick child was there, and a number of villagers had congregated in the shelter to find out how he was doing. Someone had brought a pot of fish broth. They were about to dip their cassava bread when Elka told them to wait.

"I’m a companion of Jesus now," he said. "I want to tell you that. So let us talk to God. Let us all be telling him it is He who gives us our food. Bow your heads and close your eyes."

Mawasha would not bend that towering head of his. Neither would others bow their heads or close their eyes. Alone, Elka closed his eyes. He did not see Achi approach the little circle with a hypodermic in her hand for the child.

"We will now talk to God," Elka said.

Achi, believe he had called for prayer because she had come, started to pray.
"Dear Father..."

It was as far as she got. Another voice was addressing the God of heaven. She opened her eyes to look, though she knew the voice. Elka was leading a group of people in prayer!

"Father in the Sky," he prayed, "You give us our food. You are good to us. Jesus is the good one. Fix the ones here to know You. That’s all I’m saying now."

He was slow in opening his eyes so did not see Achi run from the hut toward Kron’s house.

"Claude!" she cried, running up the stairs to the gallery of the kitchen. "I just heard Elka pray. Do you suppose it can mean he has received the Lord?"


Kron learned of Elka’s faith in a talk they had about a forthcoming dance.

"The people want to lift up drink," Elka reported to Kron. "They told me, ‘We’d like to make strong drink and catch women We want you to call a dance.’"

"What did you say?"

"I said, ‘Hnnn. I don’t know about that. I have received Jesus.’ But they just said, ‘Gicha! You received Jesus. That’s bad to us. We like strong drink. That’s the way we are.’"

Elka related how he had told them then that if they made strong drink he would not drink it. If they asked him to dance and take women, he would refuse.

"Hnnn," they had said, "why are you like that? We’re surprised at you."

Only Kirifaka, Elka went on, had said that maybe Elka was a good one.

In talking about the people’s desire to have a yamo dance, Kron and Elka decided that a time of games, with sweet drink and much meat, would be a good substitute. Elka left Kron to talk about it to his people. Kron went to the radio to report to Bahm in Georgetown that Elka had become a Christian.

Elka, witchdoctor without equal and witchdoctor still, but now Christ’s witchdoctor!

earth dance

Psalm 114:7

The aged ladies with rounded
Appalachian shoulders pull up their skirts
and "Skip to my Lou" and follow this up with
a sprightly "Virginia Reel".

The younger gents, spike-haired
punk Rockies shout and Twist
flinging carelessly their cloaks
of white, down on flat-topped mesas.

Sierra Nevadas and Cascades
join hands in the West and Jitterbug
in the Pacific spray, squeezing sand
between their granite toes.

Not to be outdone the Himalayas,
towering above everyone
turn cartwheels while Mount Everest
warms up, knees bent for an
amazing spectacular double back flip.

The Alps and Pyrenees whisper furiously
behind their fans, proper ladies they
in perfect form, mince a minuet
on tiptoed slippered feet.

South of the Equator,
the Andes with a Latin beat,
clap hands in a hat dance,
roses clenched between their teeth.

The Lord of the Dance, smiles
stretches down with the music of heaven;
the oceans sing, "Dance, Earth, Dance!
You are in the presence of your King!"

Copyright©2003 by Darlene Moore Berg

***********

Darlene Moore Berg writes from her home in Missouri. She is a wife, a mother, and a pediatrician. Read more of her work at Utmost and Amarillo Bay

a midsummer night's dream

Last night we went to see "A Mid Summer Night’s Dream" put on by a local high school. I’ve never read this play, the plot sounded confusing when I read a summary of it on-line, but my niece (Jacquie) was the stage manager, and aside from the fact there isn’t too much live theater I don’t enjoy, going to support her was reason enough to be there.

Well, what a treat!

For starters, the set was amazing. The Wheelhouse Theater at Earl Marriott School had been turned into a forest.

Then the play began, and the plot turned out to be not hard to follow at all. But now that I’ve seen the play, I realize, it’s not really about the plot line , but about characters, ideas (of love and how irrational it can be), and a night of ribald fun.

The whole thing is played out in the forest, so there was no need for curtains and scene changes. (day, night and mood nuances were signified with music and lighting -- the latter which, the program told us, our Jacquie helped design). The cast used the whole theater, with lovers chasing each other around on the stairways and characters frequently making entrances from the back of the house.

The cast here was sensational. Standouts were Puck who was played by an impish fuzzy-haired girl named Marina, and Nick Bottom whose name in real life is Russell – and who, my sister told me, is student body co-president with Jacquie, and is in real life as much of a cut-up as he was on stage.

The costuming was also fabulous – a visual feast with the human characters dressed in period clothes, and the fairies wearing tights, over which strips of multi-colored gauzy fabric trailed like boa stoles.

I hope I get to see this fun play again – although after this high school performance, I wonder how any other could surpass it in color, energy, excellence and fun.

solo

I tried to heal myself

I tried to keep the pain inside
sewn up tight behind hasty sutures
but it had a will of its own
and wouldn’t be held
oozing out instead
through puckers in the stitching
spilling to the ground around me
until someone dared to stop
dared to question
why closed wounds bleed
and looked a little closer

I tried to heal myself
and found it couldn’t be done

alone

–Barbara Mitchell (from I Know You Lord © 1994 - used with permission)

**************

Paula at Listen In... has joined in the poetry-month celebration by posting a beautiful poem by her mother – "Not Concealed."

Also, drop by Mr. Standfast, the bard of bloggers, to read "Finish Me" - a poem-prayer I can certainly pray with honesty!

If you’d like to join in, post a poem (preferably by little-known poet), and let me know either by comments or email, and I’ll post a link to your blog!

faith stories: elka of the wai wai -part 5

(Part 5 of Chapter 8: "Into the Pit of My Stomach" from the book Christ’s Witchdoctor by Homer Dowdy © 1963).

[Introduction] [part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4]

part 5...

Not long after Malu’s drowing, Bahm and Ferochi left the land of the Wai Wai for a short rest. Before going, Ferochi taught the Sunday lesson. She said God had created all things. Elka was to think of this many times in the coming cycle of the moon.

In this and other lessons he had learned of the nature of God–of His holiness, justice, mercy, love. He heard the stories of Adam, Abraham, Moses, Samuel, David, Elijah, Isaiah. The Gospel accounts of Christ’s ministry, His life, death and resurrection, and the Acts of the Apostles–these, too, were materials for his thought.

In the continuing work of the translating God’s Paper, Elka still was the key informant. He continued to receive an insight into scriptural truths as his keen mind dug deeply into them. The first epistle of John was one of the books opened to him.

"...Beloved, believe not every spirit, but try the spirits whether they are of God: because many false prophets are gone out into the world. Hereby know ye the Spirit of God: Every spirit that confesseth that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh is of God: And every spirit that confesseth not that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh is not of God...."

Thus began the fourth chapter. It was something to think about in this world of spirits.

"Ye are of God, little children, and have overcome them: because greater is he that is in you, than he that is in the world."

Maybe this explained why God’s children did not fear the spirits of the forest.

"He that loveth not knoweth not God: for God is love. In this was manifested the love of God toward us, because that God sent his only begotten Son into the world, that we might live through him."

They could learn something about love. Was there not a better love than that which the Wai Wai knew?

"Whosoever shall confess that Jesus is the Son of God, God dwelleth in him, and he in God."

Hnnn. So that’s the way to become a child of God, a companion of Jesus.

"There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear....We love him, because he first loved us."

No fear. This seemed to fit his need, a need that Kworokyam with all his frightening power had never met. Maybe this gave meaning and hope to life. There was badness and fear, yes; but there was a release from this trap after all.

It was Elka’s decision to make. Which should it be?

Kworokyam, the world of spirits, mostly evilly disposed toward man, who, without appeasement, rained fear, hate, pain, and death?

Or Christ, who came so far to bring love, peace, and life?

Kworokyam, whose power for evil would someday be destroyed by Christ?

Or Christ, eternal God?

Elka began to speak to the people in his house about God.

"Hnnn. Maybe Jesus Christ is the one we should believe in," he said.

"Huh!" they said to one another. "Old Elka is just talking talk."

One Monday, with Ferochi’s lesson fresh in his mind, Elka went hunting with his brother Yakuta. The trail gave onto a big rock.

"Who made this?" Elka asked suddenly, his question catching Yakuta by surprise.

"Who made that rock?" repeated Yakuta. "Why, I don’t know who made it." He was more interested in bringing down a fat-bellied spider monkey than in discussing who made what.

"It was Jesus," Elka said, ignoring his brother’s lack of interest. He climbed the rock and sat down. "This is of God’s making."

"Is that so?" Yakuta grunted with a toss of his bronzed shoulders. Yakuta went on hunting while Elka sat and thought. Jesus, not Kworokyam, was the one he wanted to serve, Elka thought to himself. Maybe he should ask Jesus to come into the pit of his stomach right now. "But," came the challenge of doubt, "maybe I’m not a true one. If I do receive Jesus, I will receive Him forever."

No, he was not ready yet.

to conclusion - part 6 ...

intruder

Pain never knocks,
Nor does it ask permission.
It barges in life’s door,
Uninvited and unwanted.

While we ask "Why?"
Pain steals away our strength
And saps joy dry.

But soon we find
That pain leaves gifts behind.
The theft of what we cherish
Clears away the clutter,
So we discover:

Faith–that tangled problems
Will unravel and smooth out someday.
Hope–that healing will allow us
To help others as we are being helped today.
Love–that sees the beauty of committed caring
Through tough times,
And finds that "whole"
Is not a quality
Of body,
But of soul.

Written for a friend who lost part of his hand in an accident.

–Linda Neff (from love, laughter and tears © 2003 – used with permission)

*********

I met Linda at the Write Canada Conference last year and bought her volume of poems, above. As I read them I found her wisdom and caring heart were always breaking through. Many of her poems were written to celebrate special occasions, or are dedicated to special people – like the one above. She illustrates how meaningful is the gift of a poem! Read another poem by Linda here.

**************

Just in case you're wondering - 'what's with all the poetry on here?' - just a reminder: April is poetry month in Canada (at least according to the 'League of Canadian Poets') and on my blog!

faith stories: elka of the wai wai -part 4

(Part 4 of Chapter 8: "Into the Pit of My Stomach" from the book Christ’s Witchdoctor by Homer Dowdy © 1963).

[Introduction] [part 1] [part 2] [part 3]

part 4 ...

In the shurifana Elka sang to the bush hogs. But it was not his pets he thought of. Instead, he remembered what God’s Paper said about the time when the evil spirits obeyed Jesus’ masterful command and forsook the tortured man who lived where the dead were buried. Elka had been impressed by the story while helping Bahm to translate the Gospel according to Mark.

Where did the spirits go? Into a pack of wild pigs feeding in the mountains. The pigs became violent and ran down a steep bank and drowned in the water. How scary it was! Were they like his pets, these wild pigs to whom the spirits fled?

Elka went on singing his old familiar songs. But when he sang to the hummingbird it did not come down to carry him to the region of the spirits.

From inside the big house, where they had taken to their hammocks, the people called into the shurifana. They supposed that the spirits had come down to occupy Elka’s body. In their usual manner they started chatting with them while Elka, they thought, was sojourning in the sky.

"Where is Malu?" they asked.

"We don’t know," answered Elka, imitating the falsetto he had heard the spirits speak in when they used a witchdoctor’s voice.

Did Kworokyam carry him away?" asked one in the big house.

"No," Elka replied. "We don’t know where he is."

"Do you think he sank?"

"He probably sank."

Elka tried again and again to contact the spirits. But Bahm’s words kept coming back. He could not concentrate on Kworokyam. All the while he felt as if Bahm–or maybe it was God– were there in the dark hut with him. Maybe for this reason the spirits refused to come down.

Greatly disturbed by his failure to lure the spirit of his pets, Elka left the Shurifana in dejection. Yukuma was there waiting.

"What did the spirits tell you in the sky?" he asked anxiously.

Elka thought it best to say nothing of his failure, or that his thoughts had been of God. Turning away from Yukuma’s pleading eyes, he said,

"I did not hear them clearly."

Yukuma started to turn away, hope nearly lost. Then thinking suddenly of one last resource, he turned back to Elka to suggest,

"Maybe you can go to sleep and dream." There was no bravado now. Yukuma was entirely servile toward his cousin. "Maybe Kworokyam will reveal to you in a dream where my son is."

Elka tried, though it was no use. Elka did not dream that night. He hardly slept.

Malu was found three days later, his body floating in a backwater of the river. If Elka needed proof, here it was, in the sad sight of Yukuma’s third dead son: while thinking thoughts of God, Elka could never exercise Kworokyam’s power.

That was it. That explained his failures. Stuck fully onto Kworokyam, Elka could call and Kworokyam would answer. Stuck just a little and wavering toward God, Kworokyam held him in disdain.

God’s paper said he could not serve both God and Kworokyam. Well, Kworokyam felt that way too.
He was surely going to have to choose between the two.

on to part 5...

happy birthday sonia!

Master Gardener's Touch

You blossom
a rose of dark beauty
and haunting fragrance.

I was the anxious gardener
fretting when life’s squalls
toil, loneliness, misunderstandings
buffeted you.
Too protective I neglected to prune
suckers of self-indulgence
pinch off messiness, self-pity
redirect a tendency to sulk.

The Master Gardener must have taken
His secateurs to you
for your petals that lately unfurl
are not the fruit of my
tentative touch.

–V.Nesdoly © 2004

faith stories: elka of the wai wai -part 3

(Part 3 of Chapter 8: "Into the Pit of My Stomach" from the book Christ’s Witchdoctor by Homer Dowdy © 1963).

[Introduction] [part 1] [part 2]

part 3...

Bahm came by one day as Elka was helping build an addition to Achi’s house. He asked Bahm about healing.

"The spirits used to honor my blowing," he said. "Why don’t they now?"

"The evil spirits heal sometimes," Bahm said, "but just to fool us. Kworokyam is the Devil’s servant. It is his way of getting us to worship him instead of God."

"Hnnn. Is that the way it is?" he observed, reluctantly. Again it was God against the spirits. Why did it have to be? Why couldn’t a man both blow and pray if he wanted to? Couldn’t he give his worship to God and his service to Kworokyam?

"God’s Paper tells us we can’t be followers of Jesus if we serve another," Bahm said.

In his usual thoughtful way, Elka called Bahm’s words to mind again and again. He knew that to serve Jesus Christ instead of the spirits would bring changes in his life. He did not want to face changes now. They could wait. He would consider them and decide about them at another time. For the present he would sweep aside Christ, God’s Paper, his puzzlement over Kworokyam. He was turning to his old love, dancing.

He asked everyone from the villages around to come to his house to dance. More than a hundred came. They were the ones who on Sundays assembled at Kanashen to learn the ways of Jesus. But their thoughts were not of Jesus this evening. Much drink had been prepared. Their costumes were ready, and the people were anxious to start the dance. Elka had installed a door to keep them out until he was ready.

Inside the house, he lay in his hammock. Ahmuri also relaxed. How calm they were, and soon they would be hosts to a hundred painted, feathered, and thirsting Indians who clamored outside to get in! It might have been the calm before a storm. Elka lay there until he was rested. Then he said to his wife,

"I’d kind of like to have them come in now."

The party got underway noisily. The sour drink spawned drunkenness. Hilarity gave way to violence. With no malice toward the door, but simply because it was in the way, the revelers tore it from the house.

Intoxication continued in some of the villages to which the guests returned the next day. But for those who lived at Yaka Yaka there was a quick sobering, and for Elka a return to the soul-searching that neither drink nor revelry could suspend for very long.

Malu, the third son of Yukuma and Tochi, was missing.

At dusk Tochi became aware that the toddler was neither in the house nor in the village clearing. She stepped to the doorway and called. There was no answer. She called again, loud and shrilly, with the anger of a jay. Still no answer. She remembered where she had seen him last. Quickly, with a clutch of fear in her throat, she ran to the river. She called again, this time rather weakly. She went back to the village, and continued calling.

Yukuma, away for the day, sensed something wrong on his return.

"Where is my son?" he demanded.

"I don’t know," Tochi said, in a meekness unnatural to her.,

"Why didn’t you look after him?"

The people of the village were now disturbed over Malu’s disappearance. Some hurried along the path to Kanashen to see if he were there. Yukuma ran to the river. He jumped and skipped down the slipper banks to the rocks below and dived into the water. A mighty swimmer, he was everywhere–in and out among the rocks, on the bottom of the river. But he did not find the boy.

Yukuma approached Elka. Angry, frightened, and saddened all at once he said,

"Kworokyam has carried away my boy. Two of my children are dead. I want this one to live. I would kind of like to have you go to the sky and look for him."

In times past, Elka would have been quick to comply. Now he wished he could tell Yukuma that he would talk to God. He was feeling that God, not Kworokyam, would be their help. He said nothing, merely looked at the distraught Yukuma. Elka seemed unable to talk. He couldn’t open his jaws. It was like the time when the young man who had wounded himself needed his help, and he could do nothing.

The villagers were now gathered around the two. They wondered why Elka said nothing, why he stood and stared at Yukuma.

"You are a witchdoctor, aren’t you?" Yukuma shot back at him, with some of his old arrogance. "You do have a basket of charms?"

"Um-hum," said Elka weakly. The spell was broken. "I am a witchdoctor."

"Go to the sky," the people demanded, almost in a single voice.

Elka had no choice. A shurifana was quickly built. Elka put on his animal chestbands and feathered headpiece. Clutching his basket of charms he entered the little hut alone. Just afterward Bahm came by, for Kanashen had been alerted to the boy’s disappearance.

"Elka, where are you?" Bahm called.

"I’m in here Bahm," Elka answered. "I’m going off to see Kworokyam." Bahm went away to look for Malu. Elka began his singing, but he merely mouthed the words. For Bahm’s voice had started a different train of thought. His mind dwelt not on going to the sky but on his talk with Bahm that recent day at Achi’s house.

"Jesus came to do away with the evil spirits," Bahm had said. "He came to release us from their power. If you receive Jesus, He will set you free from the spirits’ binding cord. But you must choose either Jesus or Kworokyam."

"I’m a witchdoctor," Elka had replied, raising an issue he felt was worth special consideration. "I talk to the spirits for my people. What am I to do?"

Bahm thought that his position as a witchdoctor made no difference. But he said that Elka himself would have to make the choice; he would not urge him to throw over his charms before receiving Christ. When Jesus comes in, Bahm had said, Kworokyam must go.

on to part 4...

recycle

Her children arise and call her blessed...Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all. (Proverbs 31:28,29)

Mother reaches into the box again
and proffers another baby blanket,
soft flannelette
with hours of love
crocheted around the border,
good shower gifts for family and beyond.
"These are the last I can sell for five dollars
with the cost of flannelette rising again,"
she says wistfully.
My wife buys several.
There follow T shirts of recycled material,
scraps of material fashioned into doll blankets
and more.

Hands still busy after eight-five years.
She, who learned reduce, reuse, recycle
in subsistence prairie farming
long before ecological correctness,
conserves, reuses, creates and recreates.
Herself recycled from schoolgirl
to farmer’s wife to merchant to retiree.
She has shaped and reshaped love
to four generations.
Hands slower now and more deliberate.

Mother, it’s okay
to reduce your locus of activity,
to recycle to other hands,
to rest from labour,
to reuse memories,
reshaped into blankets of love and prayer
covering your family and beyond,
as God, the great recycler,
continues to recreate you.

–Alvin Ens (from Musing on the Sermon © 2002 - used with permission)

*********

Alvin Ens writes from his home in Abbotsford, British Columbia. Now retired from teaching in the public school system, he himself is recycled as a volunteer teacher in the prison system. He also ably presides over the Fraser Valley Christian Writers Group, a dandy little group of which I am a member.

faith stories: elka of the wai wai -part 2

(Part 2 of Chapter 8: "Into the Pit of My Stomach" from the book Christ’s Witchdoctor by Homer Dowdy © 1963).

[introduction] [part 1]

part 2 ...

No sooner had the horror of the multiple murders slipped a little from memory than the people were stirred by events that set God in direct opposition to the world of spirits. And the pit of Elka’s stomach was the place of battle.

Ekufa, a tiny baby, was brought by his parents to Elka for treatment. He suffered from convulsive fits. Achi had said that God and her medicine could cure them. But Elka’s ability to manipulate the spirits drew the parents to him.

"Will you blow on this little thing?" the father asked Elka, bringing his son into Elka’s house at Yaka Yaka. Elka sat in his hammock silent. Now and then he turned a parrot roasting on a spit over the fire. The father held the baby toward Elka as if to plead for his intervention.

"Why doesn’t your wife’s father blow on him?" Elka asked, referring to Chiriminoso, the child’s grandfather, who had once more come across the mountains.

"The old father of my wife cannot find a cure," said the young man. "He told us to take the boy to one who is more of a witchdoctor than he is."

"Why don’t you take him to Muyuwa," Elka asked. He did not want to accept responsibility for the child’s life. He gave no explanation for his reluctance; to himself he repeated the name, "Little Crab...Little Crab." Why couldn’t he forget the girl? Why couldn’t he think of all his successes?

He still could see no difference in her case from the others. He’d used those same songs to advantage before. New songs were not what he needed. Was his relationship to Kworokyam at fault? Or was it Kworokyam himself?
The sun was in the middle of the sky. Light streamed through the doorway into the dark house. Then without a warning, a cloud covered the sun. The shadow nearly blotted the youngster from Elka’s sight. Death was a shadow. It was moving in on this sad family. In pity for the young pair, he took the baby from the father’s arms.

"I will blow. Ask the men if they’d kind of like to help you build a shurifana."

He laid the baby in his hammock and bent over him to blow. He kept on blowing and sucking at the hurt. After the witchdoctor’s house was finished, he took the child there to continue working his charms. He blew and sang. With the coming of night he called all the spirits he knew to come. He especially appealed to his favorite pets, the wild pegs. Mafolio had said to work all night, and this he was doing. He went to the sky, not once but many times. He communed with the spirits on this high plane. The dawn came. Elka squeezed out through the leafy sides of the hut. He handed the hot, nearly lifeless package of bones and skin to the distraught parents.

He would blow again later in the day, he promised.

He did that day and the next and the next. Deep down in the pit of his stomach he knew it was no use. The child would not live. He knew because the smoke he had blown on the fevered brow did not stick as it did when Kworokyam was to grant relief. It left the child’s head the instant it touched his skin.

The boy died the morning after Elka’s third day of blowing. The mother wept; the father sat silent and staring; the villagers began their wailing. None was more disturbed then Elka.

Why don’t my charms work?

on to part 3 ...

faith stories: elka of the wai wai -introduction

The faith stories I’ve been reading here sent me to my bookshelf to find more. The book Christ’s Witchdoctor caught my eye. It is one of most gripping faith stories I’ve ever read.

The story of Elka, a respected witchdoctor of the Wai Wai tribe of British Guiana is told by Homer Dowdy, a Wheaton College grad and Michigan journalist. In order to write it Mr. Dowdy spent an extended period in intensive research in the jungles of British Guiana, becoming intimately acquainted with the tribespeople and recording long interviews on tape.

Unfortunately, the book is out of print (Harper and Rowe, ©1963) and doesn’t look to be widely available. For that reason and because a big part of the story’s impact and charm is in the way it’s told (this is creative non-fiction at its best), I’m going to quote Chapter 8 of this book in its entirety – but it’s long, so I'll break it into seven installments.

(I’m sure this sample of Mr. Dowdy’s writing will whet your appetite for more so if the book ever becomes available again, you’ll want to read the whole volume. I picked up my copy when our church library was getting rid of old, rarely circulated books.)

Here is a paragraph from the dust jacket notes, which describes the setting and briefly tells the story to this point:

"Elka shares the Wai Wais’ debaucheries and fears. He tells the reader of the ways of jungle witchcraft– how a witchdoctor can cure his patient by blowing over hot pebbles onto the sick person, how he is transported into a world of eerie spirits by swallowing smoke and chanting spirit songs, how he can kill by blowing on the belongings of another person and "eating his spirit." Elka’s belief in his powers of witchcraft are shaken, however, when a young child (Little Crab) dies despite his treatment."

Influenced by the missionaries’ teachings about God’s power, Elka begins to both blow and pray...

part 1 ...

faith stories: elka of the wai wai -part 1

(Part 1 of Chapter 8: "Into the Pit of My Stomach" - from Christ’s Witchdoctor - by Homer E. Dowdy ©1963)

[introduction]

part 1 ...

The conflict between Christ and Kworokyam worried Elka constantly. He was puzzled, too, that the teaching of God’s Paper, so disturbing in his life, had little effect on his people.

It seemed to have no impact; actually that was not quite true. Some who heard had their own version of the teaching. The sorcerer who had succeeded when Elka failed had come down from his home on the high mountain trail to one of the Sunday lessons and heard that a man should be the head of his house. He went back home and beat his wife; said he had God’s Paper to justify him.

Yukuma knew what to do with the teaching: talk much about Jesus to impress others. He talked but he did not waver from belief in the evil spirits. His second son, born of Tochi, was a child he wanted to have grow up. He carefully observed the taboos in order to preserve the boy’s spirit. He refused to eat with Elka, because Elka had once sat high up in a toucan hunter’s blind and Yukuma did not want the child’s spirit to be carried up into the tree only to fall to the ground and be crushed. He would not dig a posthole for fear his child’s spirit would fall into the hole and be covered with earth.

But one day Yukuma’s son became hot; he seemed about to die. Frantically Yukuma asked what he had done to make the child sick. Tochi reminded him that he had exerted himself in the child’s first days by helping to carry a heavy box for the missionaries. To make amends, Yukuma took a heated axhead into the shed where the box, containing a small generator, had been placed. Pouring cold water on the ax, he bathed the generator in a cloud of steam. Then to offer further apologies for breaking the taboos of foi he went to the airstrip, where he had done the carrying, and there steamed the field with cold water and hot rocks.

While he was gone his son died. Embittered on his return, Yukuma found no comfort in his old tribal beliefs, except to talk ill of Muyuwa, whose black magic he believed had killed his son. He found no comfort either in the Jesus whose name he so glibly spoke.

Others attended the lessons at which God’s Paper was taught. They also learned to read the portions already translated. Yet what they encountered seemed merely to entertain. There was no reflection in their lives of the Paper’s message. Maybe Elka was not wrong when he said the teaching seemed to have no effect on them.

His friend Kirifaka, an orphan, had sampled Christian doctrine and practice by living with the missionaries. One day he peeled off the clothes they gave him, put on his loincloth again, and went back to Deep Eddy, apparently willing to turn his back on all that they had taught him.

Elka’s brother Yakuta, now handsome as a copper statue, was given a girl his own age for a wife. She failed to satisfy him; older women attracted Yakuta. He took first one man’s wife, then another’s; he believed in sharing. In payment for meat from a hunter, he once loaned his current woman.

Yakuta and Kirifaka were among the quickest readers. They sang songs about Jesus. They knew many stories from God’s Paper. But what did it all mean to them?

Yoshwi was a one-eyed woman whose sight Tochi boasted she had nearly destroyed by a spell. Yoshwi’s tongue was as biting as her foe’s. She heard that God said not to kill. But she vowed if her next child was a boy–she had many boys–she would kill him.

A number of others now threatened killings and violence. Men said they would kill to get wives. Among them was Mawasha, Elka’s friend of many years. He was muscular and taller now than any in the tribe, yet shy and gentle. His thick hair was like a black halo. Likeable, quiet, unemotional Mawasha refused to let God’s Paper deter him in announcing that he would kill, if necessary, to take another man’s wife.

(Next, is a longish account of a late-teens youth, Rikaru, who works for the missionaries, Achi [a lady missionary nurse], Bahm and his wife Ferochi. When a young woman refuses to give Rikaru a string of beads, he follows her, her daughter-in-law and the DIL’s three children into the forest, and bludgeons all five of them to death in their sleep. Then he comes back to the Kanashen, where he steals another man’s wife.

When the bodies of the people he’d murdered are found, he escapes. It’s only through the efforts of missionary wife Ferochi that he is captured and flown to a Georgetown jail.)

Rikaru was the first Wai Wai killer to face the white man’s judgement. Elka was more concerned with God’s judgement of badness; not just murder, but greed and gluttony, malice and hate, including his own. He had tried to be a good witchdoctor. But what had he done for his people? Were they better off than they had been before the spirits of the forest were blown into his nostrils? They were better off, he reasoned. But were they better off for his blowing or, as Bahm and Kron had said, for God’s breath of blessing?

Christ or Kworokyam? He wondered...

on to part 2...

nothing new--just a reminder

On Thursday I put up part of John Bunyan’s faith story. I love the little vignette he paints of how he overhears three or four women conversing about spiritual things. Their talk convinces him they have something he doesn’t have. He comes away with the conviction there is more of his human nature to spurn, more of the Bible to apply, more joy to be found. Their demeanor and conversation make him hungry for a life he has not yet known.

I think God often works this way. Though He uses us when we teach a class or hand out tracts, or sing on the worship team, more often our usefulness (or disqualification) comes in the way we live out life’s mundane events.

But this kind of testimony can’t be contrived. Unless we are completely His, and under His control through and through, our carnality will ooze through the fissures when we crack under the pressure of such ordinary occurrences as being bypassed for deserved praise, being presented with the bait of gossip, being kept waiting for our order at lunch, and a hundred other temptations and tramples on our ‘rights.’

However, if in our daily round we live in Holy Spirit power, with every breath consecrated to Him, our lives and words will communicate to the seeking bystander. What a challenge to me when I am behind the wheel of a car, involved in interactions with clerks, waitresses and telemarketers, chatting with friends over coffee...

reality

Grasp my mind
Reality
Honest, truthful, kind
Of God alive within my realm

Yet
Unseen by humankind

Where dance two realms
Realities, of Spirit and of flesh
So stub my toe and curse
Or pray
To walk in one or other's way
And pray to find my footprints where
Live abides, and Love is there
Yes, Love is there.

--James Beard (from Musings of Grace © 2004 - used with permission)

**************
The most prolific poet I know, James Beard writes from his home in Follett Texas. His poem "Dead Word Walking" won 2nd prize in the 2004 Utmost Christian Poetry Contest.

testing

this is just a test
I think this is success!

happy birthday mom!

Today is Mom's 91st birthday!

A year ago, on her 90th, we did it up right. We reserved the party room in her condo and had two parties (afternoon for family and friends, evening for her condo friends)! All of her nine kids and their spouses and many grandkids made the trek to Abbotsford. What a weekend!

Part of the party entertainment was a program. Each family was responsible for one item. I took on that job for my family. This poem was our contribution.

SHE GIVES HERSELF AWAY
(On the occasion of Mom’s 90th birthday - April 10, 2004)

I know it’s customary to give birthday girls a gift.
I beg your kind indulgence now as I propose a rift
with what is usually done, instead of gifting make a fuss
of Mom, and in her 90 years name gifts she’s given to us.

Mom loved the country mansion where she raised her family.
Made wood floors shine, scraped calsomine, fixed cracks so never seen.
Requested daddy build and fix, was never unemployed.
This shining homesite legacy has been passed on to Loyd.

Each spring she’d plant, west of the house, in plot that seemed like acres
long rows of beans and peas and corn, tomatoes, cukes and flowers
then send us out to weed and hoe the rows and in between.
This love of playing in the dirt’s been given to Julene.

We never had a lot of cash to buy life’s pricey pleasures
but Mom saw wealth in field and wood - the world of natural treasures -
saw dolls in corn husk, birds in rock, fireworks in dandelion.
This gift of recognizing art she has passed on to Brian.

She had a great affinity for grasses, oats and wheat
Her knowledge of wild flow’rs and plants was pretty hard to beat
Collections of a prairie roadside she would never scorn
This close relationship with natural things is given to Lorne

On special days a picnic she’d be packing for us all.
We’d take off to go fishing or to celebrate the fall.
She still honors Dominion Day with trivia and a brunch.
Who got this celebrative gift? Ken’s got it, that’s my hunch.

Besides her home, Mom served her church, for Jesus had her heart.
Taught crafts in club, and Sunday School, eagerly did her part.
Gave back to her community through garden club and class.
Who serves like that in church and town? Gilbert would be my guess.

After her brood had flown the nest, Mom went to learn some more
of pottery and making cards, preserving nature’s store.
She learned to quill, embroider, arrange flowers dried and new.
This penchant to keep learning more is seen in Doris too.

Her mind’s still always busy, has ideas by the score
She stays up long past bedtime just to do a little more.
When projects have her fancy, they are all her eyes can see.
Who best takes after her in this, but my sweet sister Bea.

And now you’re probably asking, what is left for Violet E.?
I sure would like her crafting skill, her creativity.
But I don’t want to spend the time it takes to learn just how...
She’s giv’n me her impatience - I’d like these good things right now!

V. Nesdoly © 2004

my excellent week

Right about now I should be baking a birthday cake for my dear Mum, who turns 91 tomorrow! We’re taking her out for lunch, and the lunch party which began with three, has ballooned to six or maybe seven, so we’ll have to make a reservation – probably at some family-type eating establishment, e.g. the ABC in Abbotsford.

But I feel like I need to first regather the threads of this week – and a good one it has been. Because for the second week running, I’ve had no medical typing. (My poor doc just got home from visiting his mum in Ottawa who had had a stroke, when another phone call came in saying she’d had a heart attack. I believe he turned right around and retraced his steps. At any rate, the answering machine message says the office is closed for a ‘family emergency.’)

So I have spent this week conscientiously working on various writing projects (see Lord, if You let me write full-time, I do know how to use my time well!).

First, I did my quota of six kids’ devotions for my second volume of Bible Drive-Thru.

Then I got together my 20-minute presentation to the Fraser Valley Christian Writers’ Group - scheduled for April 18th, on ‘Demystifying the Muse – recognizing inspiration and making it part of your everyday life.’

Third, I went out and bought my wedding dress, and shoes and a handbag.

I don’t shop much, though I do enjoy shopping for clothes when I know I can justify spending the money. Guildford Mall was the destination and I got there 10:30ish Wednesday morning. I experienced slight feelings of panic as I glanced into my usual shops – Reitman’s, Smart Set, even The Bay. Nothing even faintly suitable caught my eye.

But then I found Bellissima (doesn’t even the name sounds wonderful!). I sighted a rack of little black dresses, gathered an armful and–wonder of wonders– found my dress in that first batch! It’s flapperish, with a hemline on the diagonal, very comfortable as it camouflages all my imperfections. Yes, it’s black, but it has a lighthearted feel to it, with all the (man, I wish I knew my fabrics) ?organza skirt layers, and see-through sleeves. It’s a dress in which one just knows one will have fun!

Next the shoes. I hate shopping for shoes! Choosing something as intimate as shoes after a brief fitting in a shoestore is like deciding to marry someone after the first date! I went to the Naturalizer store, because I have a pair of Naturalizer shoes which have been kind to me for many years. The sales clerk was lovely–and so attentive! Would you believe, we came up with a suitable pair in about 20 minutes?! (and this is no mean feat, as I have a gimpy right big toe, which causes my foot to cramp with any little thing, like heels above a certain height, and anything too tight).

To tell the truth, this little shoe clerk seemed as intent on selling me a suitable handbag as anything. She wouldn’t hear of me using an old leather one or the gold one from several years ago. "It’s once in a lifetime; you have to have just the right thing." I’m a pushover. I bought a little square one, with a beaded front because, maybe she’s right, and it made me feel good to see her so happy.

All in all, the main part of my shopping was done by 12 noon! But why was I surprised? What does one expect when one bathes even shopping trips in prayer – and I had prayed for this one, believe me!

Now, back to writing, I haven’t been sending out short freelance articles lately. Just feel content, somehow, to work on the devotions. But in the back of my mind is a niggle of uncertainty. Because if I send nothing out, I don’t even make pocket money from writing. So I’ve been praying - ‘Lord, if I’m supposed to send something out, please let me know.’

Yesterday I got a second email from Carl Blunt at Godsize.com. I’d got one earlier through the FaithWriter messenger service, which I’d assumed went out to the hundreds of members there. But this one was different. The subject line was addressed me, personally: "Violet – please submit a story."

Yes Carl (yes Lord!). So last night I gussied up a story I wrote last year and emailed to Carl. That, plus the fact that the Randy Ferbey rink is still in the running for the Ford Worlds Curling competition in Victoria, and we’re having friends over for a walk and dinner tonight means this has been one excellent week!!

robson street, vancouver b.c.

Little bright shops
on Robson street
Dance with patrons
chic to chic.

Heedless to the coming storm
Trusting trade
to keep them warm.

Rush hour drums
the dancers' beat
while beggars huddle
at their feet

Homeless, on the cold concrete
take board and blanket
try to sleep
beneath the tapping
whirling feet--

patrons dancing
chic to chic.

--Charles Van Gorkom, from Road to Emmaus © 2002 (used with permission)

promptings' potpourri

Love that purple -- those ‘dreadful first sentence’ winners of the "Dark and Stormy Night Contest," posted by Amanda at Wittingshire.

~~~~~~~~~

Lots of discussion about who the new pope will be, and how he needs to be ‘progressive.’ Fresh from reading Seeds of Deception earlier this week, the black hat, white hat tug-of-war aspects of this jostle for power seem apparent. Mark Steyn of the Telegraph (U.KL) writes in
"Why Progressive Westerners Never Understood Pope John Paul II":

"If I were Pope - and no, don't worry, I'm not planning a mid-life career change - but, if I were, I'd be a little irked at the secular media's inability to discuss religion except through the prism of their moral relativism

"[...]The root of the Pope's thinking - that there are eternal truths no one can change even if one wanted to - is completely incomprehensible to the progressivist mindset. There are no absolute truths, everything's in play, and by "consensus" all we're really arguing is the rate of concession to the inevitable: abortion's here to stay, gay marriage will be here any day now, in a year or two it'll be something else - it's all gonna happen anyway, man, so why be the last squaresville daddy-o on the block?

"[...]Thoughtful atheists ought to be able to recognise that, whatever one's tastes in these areas, the Pope was on to something - that abortion et al, in separating the "two meanings" of sex and leaving us free to indulge in one while ignoring the other, have severed us almost entirely and possibly irreparably from traditional impulses, such as societal survival. John Paul II championed the "splendour of truth" not because he was rigid and inflexible, but because he understood the alternative was a dead end in every sense.

toque-tip: Proud to be Canadian

~~~~~~~

Talking about ‘Seeds of Deception’ – here is an audio interview of author Georgiana Preskar, from Stacy Harp’s Mind and Media Blog

~~~~~~

'Faith Stories' -- lots of good ones featured at Rebecca Writes and The Upward Call

e.g. Eric Liddel - will any of us ever forget the movie "Chariots of Fire"?

and Jim Elliot - who, when I meet him in heaven, I will thank for writing his journals, which I read (Through Gates of Splendor and Shadow of the Almighty) in my youth.

apology to lazarus

(who Jesus raised from the dead four days after he was buried)

You taste perfection
as I walk through dust and heat
to ease your sisters’ hearts
and reclaim you from the grave
your shrouded waking body proof
that I can conquer all
all laws shatter, come together
re-formed in Me

Hannah sacrificed her only son
Job, all that he had on this earth
Zaccheus lost a livelihood
and John the Baptist, his head
offered on a silver sybarite

But this most bitter sacrifice I ask of you
"Lazarus come forth."
Leave the exultant completion
the glory that exceeds the promise
of even the briefest glimpse
by human eyes
Confine your spirit, once more
to flesh and blood, bone and sinew
Come out, Lazarus, to this
poor shadow of a resurrection
sacrifice your death
and forgive Me, as I weep.

Copyright © 2001 by Susan Plett

************

Susan Plett writes from her home in Calgary, Albert, Canada. Her poem "Two Years After " just won Honorable Mention in the 2005 Utmost Christian Writers Contest. For more Susan, visit her at her Accidental Poet blog.

locusts of misfortune

What locusts of misfortune
Have swarmed across this field,
Swarmed and swept and swallowed up
Ravaged, raged and recklessly kept
My heart's desires from glorious fruition.

Nothing to reap but woe here.
Nothing to keep or re-sow here.

Turn instead to a foreign soil
Thorny and willful, here to toil
In an honorable fiefdom, a selfless planting,
Scattering God's seed, a prayerful dismantling
Of hurt and doubt and misplaced longings.

Amidst the non-belief the grains fall,
And I, who have no harvest of my own,
Become a grateful tool in a needier land,
A seed myself, cast from a mightier hand.

Copyright 2003 by Mary Lou Cornish (Used with permission)

**********
Mary Lou Cornish writes from her home in Fergus, Ontario, Canada. Read her moving poem "Fierce Mercy," which won Honorable Mention in the 2005 Utmost Christian Poetry Contest. Above that poem is a short bio, which puts an informative light on all her poems.

(Mary Lou, I wish I could take away the pain. However, as Oswald Chambers says, "Over and over again, we become amateur providences, we come in and prevent God; and say -- 'This and that must not be.' Instead of proving friends of the Bridegroom, we put our sympathy in the way and the would will one day say -- 'That one was a thief, he stole my affections from Jesus, and I lost my vision of Him.'"

I would not be such a one. Instead I appreciate and am fortified by the wine, squeezed from these bitter grapes, though I admit I do not understand.)

christian carnival 64

is up at Proverbs Daily.

Thanks, Jeff Smith, for doing an excellent job of assembling this behemoth -- all 62 posts of it!

me bad

Again this week I missed putting up a ‘enter something into this week’s christian carnival’ post!

Does anyone care? I don’t know. But I feel I should in some way pull my weight

My excuse: I’ve been distracted and focused. In the last days I’ve had some time away from typing about goiters and blood sugars, which means I get all Type A about getting other stuff done. I also get lost in it, which is why I’ll never work on my fiction WIP at least until my daughter’s wedding is history, because I can’t afford to be all wolly-brained.

Which brings me to today’s poem (poetry month - remember...)

While I Am Away

While I am away
hiking the hills and valleys of plot
people-watching memories
then eavesdropping mumbled conversations
spelunking caves of character and motivation
running rapids on Verb River
storm-chasing metaphors and similes...

the laundry basket
grows obese with ironing
new life forms of pink, green and black
take up residence in the bathroom
kitchen floor becomes a banquet table
spread for ants
and the ripe redolence
of the last decadent brown banana
lures yet another
generation of fruit flies.

–V.Nesdoly © 2004

************

BTW I feel like I'm friends with my blog again. That’s because I’ve stopped babysitting the counter! So if you’re not reading this, I’ll be in blissful ignorance for days. Whew – at last life feels back to normal.

midnight in the garden of eden

Verily, verily I say unto you, Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit. John 12:24

It’s midnight in the Garden of Eden
daylight saving time
and God is on His tractor seeding the fields
Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die
He knows, it cannot become Himself
Like any farmer
God is putting more than a little
of His soul into the soil
into everything He plants
Adam watches in wonder
his invisible God at this distance
the blue white lamp lit dust cloud
evidence of a working God
that and a subtle sob in the earth
the cry of wheat being spanked to life
He thinks of taking a gift to God
slouched over the tractor wheel
a basket of sandwiches, a head of cheese
flagon of wine
but his hands are the empty hands of a bride

When God leans into the kitchen
hungry hours from now exhausted
He’ll bake his own bread, slice ripe tomatoes
churn butter for both of them
For as long as Adam remembers
God is the One who does everything.

Copyright © 1997 by Nathan Harms (Midnight in the Garden © 2000. Used with permission)

********

Nathan Harms writes from his home in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. He is founder of Utmost Christian Writers and is a member of its Board of Directors. He deserves the title, patron of (Canadian and other) Christian poets. We love you Nathan!

'seeds of deception' - a book review

Title: Seeds of Deception
Author: Georgiana Preskar
Genre: Christian Non-Fiction / Sociology / Culture
ISBN: 1-4184-0180-3

Seeds of Deception is the story of a journey which begins for author Georgiana Preskar in early 2002. While attending a couple of Lobby Days in her home state of California, she meets politically active men and women in her area and becomes aware of changes happening in the public school system.

She consoles herself these changes surely haven’t come to her neighborhood. A few days later, she gets an early morning phone call from her husband:

"He had just heard on Erick Hogue’s talk radio show that a gay, lesbian and transgender silent day was going on at the high school. I couldn’t believe his words. It wasn’t happening at our high school, Elk Grove High School, where our children... attended only a short time ago... "(P.15).

Stunned by this news, Ms. Preskar goes to the school to investigate who, what and why. Though she comes away with few satisfactory answers, she is determined to find out how things have changed, and so quickly.

The book in the main is a description of her search and what she discovers. Chapter titles signpost her stops along the way: "Silent Day," "Eagle Forum," "Mind Control," "Hitler’s Evil Deception," "Paganism," "Nazi Homosexual Cause," "TMD=PC (Tolerance + Multiculturalism + Diversity = Political Correctness)," "ACLU," "Thought Revolution," "Intimidation," "The Homosexual Manifesto" etc...

A breakthrough in her search comes when she stumbles on the existence of a secretive but widespread program offered in the schools. SEED (Seeking Educational Equity and Diversity) is difficult to research because information about it is not easily accessible. However, with lots of digging she begins to unearth a monster.

When she asks to observe a SEED session in the school she is denied, because this program is run by SEED-trained facilitators, always behind closed doors - no visitors welcome!

She hears via a friend whose child attends the local Middle School, of skit presentations:

"...eight one-man skits that humorously portrayed eight different situations. The scenes involved overweight people, race discrimination, handicaps, women, rape and homosexuality. Her son expounded on the skit being about a homosexual football player....the youth being ‘born’ this way. He also asked if anyone in the crowd was heterosexual. Her son said the kids were confused and didn’t know how to react..." P.163.

Most concerning is a recognition, as she learns more about SEED, of the mind control techniques it employs. She is all too familiar with these from her research on the brainwashing practiced by Naziism and Marxism. The similarities are explained in the chapter "The Dialectic and Praxis." Here is how Ms. Preskar sees these techniques used in schools:

"In our schools today, new age teachers introduce conflict into the classroom such as
homosexuality, occult practice, euthanasia, suicide and religious views contrary to most students’ beliefs. It causes shock to the students thus producing confusion. The student groups dialogue, which then weakens the traditional beliefs. The teachers are trying to broaden the horizons of thought, for according to Marc Tucker*, the mastermind behind school to work programs, ‘the objective will not be met unless there is change in the prevailing culture of attitudes, values, norms., and accepted ways of doing things’" P. 179.

Ms. Preskar interrupts her delve into these trends by telling the story of several of her salvos into political activism. Her description of what happens when she and others talk to the school board, and leaflet events at local high schools, illustrates the intimidation used by many groups which say they are all about tolerance.
As I said in an earlier post, this book may prove helpful reading reading for:

• people with kids or grandkids of school age.
• people who have felt a chill in the air re traditional values on many fronts and have wondered how the atmosphere changed so quickly.
• Canadians who feel the move to redefine marriage in Canada is simply society’s natural and organic evolution. This book shows how orchestrated these changes may be.
• people who are thinking of wading into this fray, so they do so with open eyes.
• people who are toying with the idea of home-schooling their kids.
  

The book could serve as a beginning point for research into the various topics covered. Preskar uses lots of quotes which are footnoted at the back. There is also an appendix which contains documents like "Opt Out Form" and "Humanist Manifesto II."

********
Marc Tucker, "How We plan to Do it," Proposal to the New American School Development Corporation: national Center for Education and the Economy, July 9, 1992.

********

Disclaimer: The book Seeds of Deception was sent to me by Mind & Media as a gift from the publisher who donated the books for reviewers.

greg sczebel wins juno!

He did it! Greg Sczebel, native of Salmon Arm B.C. won the 2005 Juno award for Comtemporary Christian / Gospel album of the year (scroll waaaaaay down...).

I’m a fan.

I’m happy!!

routine

Another winter almost over
tall willows leafless wait
along the frozen river

In weeks we’ll weave
their supple wands
into garden furniture
unharvested ones will burst with leaves
along the flushing water
hiding celebrating robin
and shy nesting junco

And this time every year
I look the garden over
plan my summer’s planting
study my aging car
checking it for rust
plan my painting here and there
by sanding edges feather
so the viewer’s unaware

I and my garden and my car
along this willow-margined river
in our routine year on year
tending rust and weeds and willow
year on year together slower
slower

by Charles Van Gorkom (Ordinary Exile, Copyright © 2004 - used with permission)

********
Charlie, my bootmaker friend, writes from his home in northern British Columbia, Canada. Read more of his poetry here

holy comforter

You have moved into me
quietly
carefully
spooled across my thoughts with delicate maneuvers
ladled Your warmth into the palm of my hand
You have held me speechless
with the pooling of psalms at my feet
prismed me in the light of Your laughter

You have entered into my place of holy
graced the altar of my heart with God's flame
burning bright in Your eye
gathered ashes from the hearth of my pain
and scattered them wide to retreating winds
You have moved into me
so quietly
so carefully
when the black hour comes
and I lean into the dark
I can hear You breathing
beneath
my skin

-Copyright 1994 by Barbara Mitchell (reprinted with permission)


Barbara Mitchell lives in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. She published a poetry collection, I Know You Lord, in 1994. Barbara is on the Board of Directors of Utmost Christian Writers and administered the judging for this year's poetry contest.

poetry contests

Poetry contests are many and varied. Some have gained a bad reputation, with questionable tactics, like declaring everyone a winner and then including all those winning poems in books which each poet will then supposedly want to buy as proof of their published state.

Others are legit.

One I’ve entered several times is the Utmost Christian Poetry Contest sponsored by Utmost Christian Writers. It’s thoroughly reputable and the competition is always stiff (I’ve only ever placed with an honorable mention–and I’m plenty pleased with that!).

Last year’s winning poem was by my friend and fellow-Canadian Jan Wood. She’s given me permission to post it here. I still get shivers every time I read it – a tour de force of political comment and personal conviction.

In a Civilized Society an Adulteress Isn’t Stoned

She is taken inside the city gates
to a cavern of the hallowed
and fixed, legally and properly
under rubber-glove treatment
her fruit-stone is removed
——a pip, flesh and juice-slippery
that will never be rocked to sleep
sterilized-silence decrees
its beginning and end
will not be engraved.


She is granted three wishes
——‘the’ pill or needle——a widened license to practice
——a crypt for her label and shame
rejection makes its gravel bed
in a pelvic nest below her heart
stone-faced she turns from newborn cry
broken by lovers ‘not-interested’
——skipped gemstones leave bare fingers
and widening ripples on amniotic waters.


She is stonewalled by her sisters
with fruit in the melons of their belly
HIV and genetic warts not being table conversation
nor the trade she plies
with their bed-rocked spouses
mineral deposits pour down her legs
in a monthly cycle of no sons
her womb a marketplace
of peril and liquidation.
sorrow leaves through her crevices
molten lava erupts and scalds
she hardens merciless,
an igneous solid
her metamorphic meat
a cold marble slab

She is the granite weight
of a society
that prides itself on being
civilized; beyond the age of stoning.

Copyright ©2004 by Jan Wood

The results of this year's contest have been announced and are here.

chicken pie *

(for Brekke)

Pie crust - enough for covered pie, 9-inch pan.

Place in large kettle
1 x 3-lb. chicken
5 cups water
½ tsp. salt

Cook until chicken is tender. Drain, reserving broth.
Remove meat from bones.

OR

Leftover cooked chicken or turkey
boned, skinned and cubed. (Now the exact amount of meat is a bit of a conundrum. My apple pie recipe for a 9-inch pan calls for 6 cups of apples. So with the 3 cups of veggies below, I'd say 3 cups of cubed chicken or turkey should be about right.)

Cook in small amount of salted water
1 cup sliced celery
2 cups frozen mixed vegetables or similar combination.

Drain vegetables, reserving broth.

In saucepan combine:
5 tbsp. flour
½ cup light cream or milk
2½ cups chicken and vegetable broth (if using leftover chicken/turkey, substitute water for chicken broth and add a little bouillon powder)
1 tsp. salt
1/8 tsp. pepper

Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until thickened. Stir in vegetables and chopped chicken or turkey

Line pie pan with bottom crust.

Place filling in lined pan. Cover with top crust. Seal edges. Vent well.

Bake at 400 for 30 - 40 minutes(?). 400 is tropical and if the filling is hot when you put it in, that should be enough time. What you're aiming for is something bubbly on the inside, tanned on the outside. (The original recipe -- bake 30 minutes at 400 -- calls for a biscuit crust only on the top.)

*Adapted from the More-With-Less Cookbook.

coffee!

You are drip coffee. You are practical,
business-like and hands-off, except for when
your 'machine' needs 'servicing' and
'cleaning'.

What Kind of Coffee Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla


Hat-tip: Listen In...

april - poetry month here

April has been declared poetry month by the League of Canadian Poets (it might be that elsewhere too). I’ve decided to make it poetry month on my blog.

I will post some poems by my favorite poet friends, a few of my own, and scatter in some of my thoughts about modern poetry.

I hope you’ll join me as I indulge in this, the chocolate and wine of literary genres.

i take my walk just in time

I take my walk just in time
under the frowning sky,
trudge the grassy, boggy dip,
down the leaf-littery path.

I share the green with black crows and white gulls.
They graze while I ponder, should I
give it up, this tinkering
with words that pilfers time
from creased shirts and dusty corners?
There’s little coin to justify
the hours spent,
and what will be its fate
on that final bonfire-trial day?

Beside my path stands a gull so near
we could touch.
Smooth, pearly gray,
its wingtips telescoped to perfect
white dots on black.

Surely God, the original
extravagant creator,
who thought it no waste
to paint high alpine flowers,
craft deep ocean stars
and decorate with this polka-dotted petticoat,
understands the urge I feel
to build, for the epiphanies of my life,
little piles of words?

I turn home with lighter heart,
step to subtle happy rhythms –
a woodpecker rattling her way up a finger of snacks
and on my jacket the intermittent pat, pat
of reconnaissance raindrops.

-V. Nesdoly © 2003