Tag Archives: faithwriters

Under The Mat

Under the Mat
by Pam Ford Davis

“Son, let yourself in; I’ll put an extra key on the top step, under the mat.”

Day or night, I could get inside without bothering my folks. Dad first made the key available when I lived in the college dorm.

“Dad, I’ll call you or Mom first. I’m not going to just barge in.”

“Nonsense! Come and go as you please. Just remember to put the key back on that first step.”

From college-to-career man, to Dad’s caregiver, I’ve balanced life upon the top step. Stooping, I’ve retrieved the key countless times. Today, in great concern, I hurry home.

Mom passed peacefully three years ago. After 65 years of marriage, she suffered a massive stroke, slipped into a comma and never regained consciousness. A day never passes that Dad doesn’t grieve his great loss.

I’m hitting every red light.

Gripping the wheel, I mentally replay the early morning call from Dad’s home health nurse.

“Mr. Cunningham, sorry to bother you so early, but thought you should know about my visit with your Dad yesterday afternoon.”

“Has he fallen again?”

“No, nothing like that. I hate to cause a fuss, but he acted rather peculiar. As I was preparing to leave, he asked me to sit down beside him.”

“Was that unusual?

“Yes, he knew I had a busy schedule and needed to leave for my next appointment.”

“Did he complain about something?”

“No. He said he would not be seeing me again, that he wanted me to know how much he appreciated my visits. I asked if the home health agency was replacing me. I was confused. Why would they tell him before notifying me?”

“Had they?”

She hesitated, took a deep breath, and told me point blank, “He said he was going home. He would not be there when I came back.”

“Going home? I’m afraid he is getting senile!”

“No, he is not feeble minded. Your dad said an angel came to the foot of his bed the night before. The angel said it was time for him to be going on home. He pointed above with a look of serenity and excitement. He said he was going to his eternal home.”

I should have tried to call Dad, made an excuse that I just wanted to stop by to have a quick cup of coffee on my way to work. He’ll suspect something is wrong if I knock on his door so early.

Swerving off to hug the curb, I park and decide to grab the spare key. If Dad is still in bed, I don’t want to roust him out of sleep.

I lumber up the creaking stairs. Stopping on the top step, lifting the dew soaked mat, I begin fidgeting for the hidden key. To my surprise, I see two glistening keys.

That’s strange. Dad has a key; the nurse has her key and there’s the spare key. The nurse keeps hers on a key-chain Why would Dad leave his key here too?

I palm both keys, use one to unlock the door, and pocket the other. Once inside, I see light flooding the living room; between faded drapes, a blinding beam of light targets Dad. I see him in flannel pajamas, stretched out on the sagging sofa. Next to him, on the end table, a reading light burns brightly.

Dad is the picture of contentment with his right hand resting upon his tattered large print Bible.

Maybe he just dozed off.

I tip toe over torn linoleum, noticing he had circled a scripture on the opened page.

Why won’t he wear that new robe I bought for him?

I reach to the back of the couch to pull down Mom’s handmade afghan.

That’s all he needs, to get chilled and catch pneumonia

As I work to cover Dad, my hand brushes his bristly cheek. I draw back aghast. Devoid of all body temperature, I immediately know that Dad is dead. I go limp and fall down on my knees beside his lifeless body. Tears stream down my face, spilling onto his opened Bible. The circled passage from John 14 beckons. Beginning at verse 1, I thumb down the page

“Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you”

The Carpenter has finished Dad’s mansion. Jesus holds the only key to the heavenly door.

With God all things are possible! Published articles in Mature Living Magazine, Secret Place, Daily Devotionals for the Deaf, Light from the Word Daily Devotional. Available now in book store: FORGET-ME-NOT DAILY DEVOTIONAL http:/ebooks.faithwriters.com/ebook-details.php?id=520

Article Source: http://www.faithwriters.com-CHRISTIAN WRITERS


Why I Create

Why I Create
by Abby Kelly


They called it re:Write. As I sat my bum in a chair pinched between two other wannabe writers, (or perhaps they’ve already arrived and confidently call themselves “scribes”, as such) tears welled in my eyes.

Apparently, not enough of my life is “re:Writing” to make blip on a publisher’s radar. Apparently, the spontaneous energy that itches at the tips of my fingers and prickles my mind when there’s no paper in sight, isn’t really what good books are made of. Apparently, almost nobody reads anymore. Apparently, the mysterious romance of author and pen, discovery and syntax, melody and imagination just isn’t enough. And apparently, even a message from God, a testimony of redemption, this welling glory in my chest, a conviction to share Gospel through story, to wrap my story up in His story, just may not be newsworthy.

Between masters of market analysis and prestigious publishers, an author was sandwiched. Ted Dekker took the stage in artsy array, as if he’d clothed himself from the quirky Austin shops on his way to the conference. His message entranced me and coaxed even more tears through the rivulets already marring my makeup.

It was almost as if he implored me not to be there. His call to my artist-heart was that sweet-sorrowful voice of Create, wooing me to endure. I wept, fearful that in twelve more hours of facts and figures, the voice would be drowned out. Back in my room last night, I sobbed.

I picked up the program, willing myself to will to go back, to face the cold, hard truth of the dismal potential of publishing.

re:Write. This call to make something of my words is almost the same as what propelled my earlier years of an eating disorder – an effort to prove I’m exceptional at something. I imagine if someone would just validate my words, pluck my story from the slush pile and be astonished at its merit, then, then, I will be someone. My life re:Me, re:MyWriting will define me.

I’m sure dozens of people are spurred on by such messages. I know that their SMART goals drive them to succeed; I know they know what success looks like. I know they will beat me in this race for literary recognition. But, I’m also sure I’m not the only one who feels this way, trapped, shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of others pressing to realize the same dream, haunted by the fact that only a few of us can possess it.

You see, I can’t write regarding writing. I can’t think regarding writing. When I do, I find myself tangled in the concepts I’m trying to convey, confused by my own story, caught up between the needs of a reader, the demands of a publishers and the Reason. THE reason. That’s it. I have to write for a reason, and that reason has to be beyond myself, beyond numbers and platforms and pie charts. I write re:Jesus.

I first sat down to write because I had a story. I had a powerful tale of a damsel in distress rescued by her one true Love, a Love who had pursued her before she ever knew His name. But it was more than a powerful story, it was a pervading story, oozing through my pores, from the inside out, shimmering on my skin, transforming me. And as long as I wrote from that place at my Redeemer’s side, staring up at Him in awe and gratitude, the words flowed. He is my Reason.

Sitting in the conference, I felt as if I was trying to write from a distance; squinting to see a becoming profile of my Lover, attempting to place Him in the best light, then pausing to evaluate myself and impose one story on top of the other. But I can’t see the real story from there. It’s clearest when I’m standing right next to Him, when He illumines, when I am focused so intently and intimately on Him that I can scarcely see the distinction between us.

So, I left the conference. For myself, pressing my story into palms, seeing my story in another woman’s eyes, holding her shaking shoulders and angling her just enough that she can see Jesus, sharing my story over coffee and in long letters, declaring my redemption on parchment that may never have spine or cover art or rave reviews – it is enough. It is more than enough. It is who I was meant to be and how my story was meant to be told.

My life re:Jesus.

Learn more about me on my website: http://predatory-lies.com/about-me/

Please find my book on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Surviving-Predatory-Lies-Anorexia-Kelly-ebook/dp/B00HFGMBJA/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1389645006&sr=8-1&keywords=predatory+lies

Article Source: http://www.faithwriters.com-CHRISTIAN WRITERS

Angels In The Trees

by linzy bruno


Once I dreamed I lived near a stream
that played a melody, like a song;
the air was clean, the animals my friends
and my brother and I got along.

First in my dream, I could see a bright star
shining in the light of day;
I stared and I stared and I rubbed my eyes,
but still it did not go away.

After I saw the star, I thought I must be dreaming, so I got out of my bed;
I went outside and it was still daylight,
in the night time?
Was I out of my head?

But this dream was not frightening,
not a single tear did I shed;
I went to the stream that was singing
and there were two birds about to wed.

The birds said they were delighted to see me
and they placed wild flowers in my hair;
they told me to be their flower girl;
I said I would, although I wasn’t really there!

I said: “this is all very magical”
and just then my brother appeared there too;
then the birds startled us by saying:
“there are angels in the trees”
and away they flew.

My brother and I spent the rest of my dream
looking for angels in the trees;
we asked around the yard, inquiring the grasshoppers, butterflies and bees.

Then the birds that were just wed
came swooping down at us two
and they said: “the angels told us God loves all living things” and away they flew.

My brother and I looked into the tree
and said: “angels are you inside?”
and then a voice came from the tree
that whispered:
“we are here to be your guide.”

I know it wasn’t real:
birds having a wedding
and a stream singing a song
and in real life it’s true;
my brother and I don’t always get along

But even though birds can’t really wed
and there was no message from any tree;
I know now God loves us all
and angels, no matter where they are,
are watching me.

Article Source: http://www.faithwriters.com-CHRISTIAN WRITERS

Let This Be The Night

The temple gate opens,
My heart embraces the restorative power of the first rains of Your grace,
My tears flow without ceasing – not from pain but from joy,
I realize that in You is where I must be.
Into my heart Your word enters,
Darkness within me is dispelled and light is brought forth,
I cast myself down at Your feet.
As I seek Your presence and restoring grace,
My soul cries out – Let this be the night oh Lord! Let this be the night.

The loneliness within me is ousted,
Rancor is replaced with love,
The malice that consumes me becomes kindness,
I praise and adore You from the depths of my heart.
As I marvel in awe at Your awesome might,
My soul cries out- Let this be the night oh Lord! Let this be the night.

I realize that You are bigger than what people say,
I acknowledge You in all my ways,
My fear about tomorrow is expelled,
And hope is renewed within me.
I see the road before me as a path towards my beginning,
I see You in the loses I have and will receive,
I know that my weeping will only endure a while.
As I realize that my joy is near,
My soul cries out – Let this be the night oh Lord! Let this be the night.

I seek only to trust You – relying not on my understanding,
But on the wisdom that comes from the One who created the heavens and the earth,
I am no longer consumed with hate,
Vengeance is replaced with forgiveness,
I am moved from this valley of despair to a mountain top of peace.
As I realize that it is the peace only You can give,
My soul cries out – Let this be the night oh Lord! Let this be the night.

I will tarry from midnight to the break of dawn,
I wait upon You oh Lord,
For there is no path I wish to take – except to walk in Your loving presence.
I seek solace and redemption – for no more can I go on.
As I stand still and look up to the heavens,
My soul cries out words that my heart conceives,
“Only You Lord can save me. Let this be the night oh Lord I surrender all! Let this be the night.”

By Edith Edremoda