The Afghan and the Mouse

I watched it being made: it was a creation of incredible beauty. There were squares for each stage of development in our lives and nothing was more precious, more valuable than that afghan:

Our children’s lives.

I loved watching it develop slowly before my wondering eyes. Woven together with prayers and lots of love it would be cherished forever.

But it was marred.

The Master Weaver had me helping. His part was perfect, flawless and beautiful, and when He guided my hands my awkwardness was minimized, His talent shone through.

Although lacking, I still love it.

It is mine, ours; something to be cherished forever. We tried our best but over time damage was revealed: a mouse had chewed holes into the fabric.

I’ll not give up.

It’s still beautiful to me, so precious. I lift it up to show the Master Weaver: Mend it please, could you, please. It took years to create; will it take years to repair?

I’ll wait. And pray.

Lord, use my hands, more patient now from years of grief and experience to help mend. Make us into a soft, comfortable afghan that will bring joy to all.

Marilyn Friesen

Oasis in a Camp

Okay, backtrack with me, if you will, because I forgot some important stuff that I
 want to tuck in right here so you get the drift of the plot better.

Have you ever tried to put a puzzle together without having a picture to follow? 
It's pretty hard, isn't it? Well, I guess we all, as we get older, try to do that with 
our past in one way or another, don't we?

As I journeyed through my desert-like existence, I came across oasis's that were bright
 spots which nourished my soul for years to come. One of them happened shortly before I turned eleven.

Here we can pick up a puzzle piece that I only found recently. The reason I was at this 
particular place at this time, a Summer Vacation Bible Camp, was because my father
 was an electrician there, and I imagine they gave him a cut so us kids could join in all the fun. 
No matter what the reason, it was a blessed respite from the discord at home, and I, as a 
normally shy young girl, really blossomed for some reason. Not only that, but I got to know 
Jesus as my personal Saviour and through the following years, my dearest Friend.

Although many memories in the annals of time have faded away these details are pretty much
 picture perfect to this day.

There is one hitch, though. I knew what kind of home I was going back to, and even as
 a small child, I worried about being able to hang on to that glorious peace I had found by
 surrendering my heart to God.

We had a...what would you call it? It wasn't a station wagon, exactly because there were 
no seats in the back, just benches for us children to sit on, and I suppose Dad's tools when
 we weren't along. I was back there as we drove homeward and wiled the time away singing 
those catchy tunes learned earlier that week.

My Dad, who was driving, and my siblings may have thought I was just happy, but that was
 not the case, I was praying, praying earnestly that I could be a 'light' to my family
 Do you know what that means?

Well, it must have been only a couple days later when I ended up squabbling 
with my sister and someone said: "I didn't think anything happened to you, you haven't changed."

Oh, did that ever hurt! I went silent and walked outside. What was a little girl to do? I found 
my way to the front of the house where my mother had planted some hollyhocks; they were 
tall and blooming by then.

I think I was standing there, not really seeing them when the sweetest voice seemed to
 float in the air: "Lo I am with you always." Suddenly I realised how pretty the flowers were, 
how green the grass, and the sky was a bright, clear blue. Do you wonder why I have
 cherished that memory and even as I write tears moisten my eyes?

This is part of my memoirs from my childhood. Comments and questions are welcome.

Better Than a Fairy Tale? Well, Not Yet

Okay, I promised to tell more of my life-story so here goes.

So here I was just a young teenager with my heart torn and bleeding. I didn’t know it at the time, but that impassive indifference between me and the pastor of the church we had always attended had started a rift.

Things didn’t get better, right away, they worsened. Soon I was facing the worse day of my life, and that is not a trite statement! I still think it probably was, and it became a pivotal point in my journey. Dad asked, no, rather expected me to go along with him on one of his numerous electrical trips to far flung communities. I had gone along before with a certain amount of trepidation because of what he had attempted to do to me in the past. (Ya, and had done when I was younger.)

So here I was in some little farmhouse in the middle of Who-Knows-Where and I walked into the pale, non-descript kitchen, and stopped. They are talking about me. I froze. Dad was talking about giving me away, abandoning me like an unwanted kitten or puppy. Oh, sure, it was called fostering, but I didn’t think of it that way. I just knew he wanted to tear me away from the only family I knew and loved.

I don’t remember how I arrived there, but suddenly found myself in the woods across the graveled road with tall, very tall fir trees surrounding me. To say I bawled my eyes out isn’t trite, either. Don’t know how long I stayed there, but common sense told me I had to go back eventually, so I did. No one had missed me.

I wandered around, looking into the spare bedroom, etc. and wondered if this would be my new home.

Time was moving along so I looked in on ‘them’ in the kitchen. They were still talking, but I got the drift of it, the farm wife didn’t think it would be a good idea to take me in. I didn’t linger to hear more.

The news was too little, and too late. The damage was done. I went to the car and sooner or later Dad joined me. We drove off leaving my innocent childhood behind. 

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Veronica Partridge Exposed

 I don’t know so terribly much about partridges but suspect they have a lot in common with chickens. Anyone who knows me well knows how fond I am of raising free range hens and selling the eggs. But there is something even more enjoyable than that. It is watching Mama Bird possessively brood over a nest of eggs and patiently wait, with barely any food or water, for those little guys to be mature enough to peck their way out of the shells. Her nurturing instinct doesn’t end there, however, and I love to see how she calls her little brood over to share some food she has discovered. I love even more how they nestle under her wings yet peek out, out of curiosity at the friendly world around them. I have an amusing memory of one ‘teenage’ chick