www.marilynshistoricalnovels.com

Showing posts with label sickness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sickness. Show all posts

Sunday, November 1, 2015

Even the Sky is Crying

I'm sure not feeling like my happy cheerful self today. About six weeks ago good old Sheba, our dog, took a trip with us to the vet. She is old and has diarrhea. The vet said it was almost guaranteed that she has kidney problems. After all she was part golden retriever, and she has been with us nearly sixteen years. That's well over a hundred doggie years. Everything else was fine so I numbly hoped for the best. 

Lately Sheba has been spending far too much time holed up in her dog house and yesterday she didn't come once to check out her food dish. When I looked in on her, she, although still beautiful on the outside, was skin and bones and looked so tired and weak. 

Okay, that's enough. She has to move into the house. I cannot have her dying, feeling abandoned and all alone, in the doghouse when she has been such a faithful and loyal friend all these years. 

She was reluctant to move in the house, after all the other part of her is Alaskan Malamute, but in this case I'll say 'mama knows best.' Her favorite doggie blanket will come along. But tomorrow we will need to go back to the vet. For the last time. 

How can you put a dog to sleep when she looks up with you with such love in her eyes and thumps her tail every time you come around? 

How can you dig a grave, even in one of her favorite resting spots beneath the lilacs when she is still alive?

How can you say goodbye?

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

From Victim to Victory


Based on a true story.

Pete, Joe and Mike openly mocked when Stan came into their hospital ward.
                “Hey, Doug,” Joe called. “Yer old man is here. Do you think he’s gonna preach a sermon today?”
                Doug glowered towards the door, but dropped his eyes when Stan appeared.
                He muttered a few curses but managed to add “Hi, Dad,” when the tall, thin man sat down stiffly beside him.
                Doug sighed inwardly: another hour of enduring his father’s obvious discomfort with how his fellow Aids patients acted up. He knew without a doubt their actions were more unnatural, their language filthier when he came around.
                Doug sighed, again.  Why couldn’t he just bug off?  Just because I’m his son and dying of this creepy disease is no reason for him to stick around.
                “You, okay, son?”
                “Same as usual: no better, no worse,” he lied, although he knew perfectly well his life was ebbing out of him.
                “Is there anything I can do to help?” Stan sat with his hands tightly folded on his lap and Doug, as well as several others took note of the look of revulsion on his features.
Ya, Doug thought, just once you can get that awful nauseated look off your face and treat me like a human.
  What he didn’t know, however, was how desperately Stan was praying for compassion, for understanding towards these people.
                But one day Stan was different. He was still quiet and dignified, but he spoke to them with respect, and by name! He ever shook their hands when he greeted them.  The assortment of men viewed him with wary surprise.
                Stan continued to visit his son on a daily basis, and the men sensed that Stan was different, that he really did care about them. First one then another responded to the obvious love they felt from him, and some even started unburdening their hearts.
                It was a happy day when Doug, who had always been a wayward boy, broke down and confessed a fear of dying.
                “Dad,” he wept, “I need Jesus, but I’m so afraid He won’t accept me because I have sinned so badly."
                While the others listened in, Stan convinced his son that it was for people such as Doug that Jesus had laid down His life.
                Doug made such a complete change, and was so obviously at peace with God and man after he confessed his sins, that no one tried to dissuade him.  It was considered unusual how peacefully he died under the circumstances.
                Both the hospital staff and the patients were deeply impressed with the caring Stan showed, but Jesus helped him.

Monday, September 7, 2015

What Happened to the Living Bread

This is based on a true story from what we call the Dark Ages. Thank you Google Images for the suitable picture.

Margit looked anxiously as her husband Jacob.

“Are you sure the children will be safe whilst we are gone?”

“They are in the Father’s care, wife. He will watch over them just as He will be with us.”

Margit nodded and picked up her satchel. If it were not for the urgent need to see her dying mother in another valley and another town, they would not have considered leaving their children overnight.

“Fear not, mother,” seventeen year old Eloise comforted, “We will be fine. Obed will care for the goats and other outdoor chores and I what pertaineth to the house.”

Margit nodded, and then whispered in Eloise’s ear. “Beware of the soldiers.”

Eloise was fearful, but pretended not to be, as she let her handkerchief flutter gaily in the breeze while watching their parents make their way through the empty streets.

Soon the early morning mist hid them from view.

                Well, we might as well start with our chores,” she began. “It will make the time go faster.”

Obed nodded and picked up the milk bucket, “Beware of the soldiers,” he also warned.

Once again they were on a rampage against the Christians. She shook her head woefully before picking up the straw broom to sweep into all the corners of their three room abode.

After that was done, she cleared the breakfast dishes off the table, and washed them in a pottery bowl, searched for the eggs from their tiny flock of chickens clucking in the yard, and laid out the ingredients for making the daily bread.

A few minutes later her fifteen year old brother handed her the milk from the goats then caressed the Bible resting on the corner of the wooden plank table.

“Henrik and Maria were taken in for questioning, “He informed her.

Although Eloise’s hands were busy adding the starter mixture to the ingredients in her dough trough, she stole a glance at the word of God.

“Aye, but it is so precious,” she murmured. “Our lives have been much changed since Papa and Mama have been taught by the Word. Papa no longer comes home drunk and brutal, and---“

“Shh, I know. But be careful. I must needs bring the goats out to pasture.  But ye be careful, ya hear?”

Eloise nodded and had a strange impulse to hug him, but that was not done in those days, so she dismissed it.

The silence hung heavily about the house after the last family member departed. Eloise wiped her hands on her apron and strained the milk.

I will put it to cool in the stream once the bread is rising.

Eloise found herself gazing frequently out the one small window at the street winding past their house. Then she heard it: the tromp of soldiers’ feet. They were across the street now, pounding on Neighbour Saul’s door but within minutes they would arrive at their own, ready to confiscate the Bible once they laid eyes on it, and possibly throw her in prison for breaking the law.

Eloise’s heart pounded as she snatched up the life changing word and pressed it against her bosom. Where oh where can I hide it?

The rough, angry voices grew louder, they were nearer.

“Forgive me Lord,” she whispered as she plunged the Bible into the dough that she had begun to knead  and carefully folded another portion on top.

“Open up! We command ye!”


“My hands are in the dough,” she responded with a slight tremor, “But the latch string is on the outside.”

The three burly men seemed to fill the space as they crowded in. Eloise noticed their eyes were blood shot.

“Hand over the heretic’s Bible,” the spokesman demanded. “We have heard that your parents purchased one from that wicked bookseller who came into the valley.”

“How we can hide anything in this small abode, “Eloise asked gently, “If ye insist on searching, look for yourselves for my hands are sticky.”

It didn’t take long before everything was upturned and even their straw pallets were slashed open.

“Where are your parents?” Simon demanded.

“They went to visit a dying relative. “She sprinkled some more flour into the mix and continued pressing it with the heels of her hands.  It is a good thing that Mama asked me to make a large batch so we would have some to give to the poor and needy, she thought, but one corner of the Bible did want to protrude.

“Did they take it with them?”


“Take what with them?   

“The Bible, you imbecile!”

“I trow not. They would not prate around town with such a dangerous item.”

“Simon, we are wasting your time here,” Thomas grabbed him roughly by the shirt. “It’s obvious there are no books of any kind in this humble cottage. We must be going.”

Simon cast one last suspicious glance at Eloise’s pale face before stomping out.

Many hours later Obed returned, his eyes wide with concern. “Where is the Word,” he asked? “I heard they made a search."

“Be careful when you cut the bread,” she answered simply.


www.prairieviewpress.com (Marilyn Friesen)







































































Sunday, March 29, 2015

The Mysterious Disease



He held his head high, he was one of the elite, no one would ever find out his secret. His robe was as luxurious, gleaming white as the best. His locks shining like a dark resplendent crown upon his intelligent brow.  As he laughed, joked or discoursed learnedly according to the occasion, his eyes twinkled with life; even they did not give away his deep dark secret.



Saturday, January 31, 2015

An Imaginary Visit With Jesus.

Mother's Days

Today I want to share a poem with you that I wrote many years ago. Hopefully it will be an encouragement to young mothers all around the globe.

Sometimes I get to sighing
And wish that I could see
The Savior come a-knocking
To spend the day with me.