Healing in Laughter

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A gift from my daughter

My daughter made me laugh last night. Not just a chuckle or a short snort but an open-mouthed, body-shaking, tears-streaming guffaw. I needed it. Badly. I’ve been a bit under the cloud of cultural confusion and chaos that seems to be prevalent in our world right now, leaving me with a persistent frown in the face of wars and weather that erupts without warning, leaving death, destruction, and gut-wrenching sorrow behind. It all tends to take the joy away.

Meg’s laughter stunned me because she and her new husband have had nothing but a relentless breaking down lately. Appliances, vehicles, basement foundations, among others. They’ve met it all with humour that I’ve heard ringing in her voice as she talked with her dad. She’s always been a ‘daddy’s girl.’ They say caesarean babies bond best with their fathers. It makes sense since his were the first arms that cradled her, the first voice that welcomed her, while I lay under the lingering anaesthetic and then a haze of morphine. So I’ve always been on the sidelines, watching, not sad but a little wistful. But last night she drew me in and that has driven the gloom away. At least, most of it.

I’d been thinking about Wendy lately. One of my ‘wild women of the Yukon’ friends who has been gone for a while now. The hole she left is still here. She was my neighbour years ago, my mothering mentor. She’d had four when I had my first and found myself treading water in an ocean of rather big waves. She floated around me, showing me how to keep my head above water. It was Wendy I called when I found myself in labour 500 kilometres from home, alone in the Whitehorse hospital. It was her voice that steadied me, assured me the prayers wouldn’t fail, that Spence would get there in time. He did.

She was also the only other believer in that clutch of Yukon friends, the one who would make eye contact in a way the others never could. That made the hole she left deeper and harder to fathom in all the reunions since.

I got the call that she was gone from one of the other WWoY women, just after I’d hauled my suitcase up from the basement. I think I had already put a few things in it, anticipating our annual reunion which was supposed to happen that weekend in Wendy’s big warm welcoming farmhouse. The shock kept me from weeping for some time. She was ten years younger than me. She died alone, in her kitchen, which was her happy place. That has been a small comfort.

The first anniversary of her death came with a shock too – how had a whole year gone by without her? To ease the grief I wrote this –

On the Death of a Friend

When sorrow overwhelms

the heart, the soul, the mind,

slow their pacing

to take in the pain

let it seep slowly in

let it flow with the heart’s blood,

rest in the crucible of the soul

spark the synapses of the brain

with its own rhythm

until the one lost

to our reaching hands,

beyond our seeking eyes,

our yearning ears,

becomes one

instilled

inside

the heart the soul the mind

until our being

is gladdened at last

in the remembering.

I’d forgotten to be gladdened in the remembering, allowed the sadness to become a burden again, one that could only be banished by open-mouthed, body-shaking, tears-streaming laughter.

Thanks Meg. I so needed that.

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The Necessity of Water

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 “Is it hot enough for you?”

The director of the Pacific Orientation Course grinned at me. I’m sure he knew what my response would be. Like most Canadians, I prefer the temperatures to be a bit on the cool side. When we were preparing to leave for Papua New Guinea a few years ago, I was quite concerned because extreme heat tended to make me ill. I’d get raging headaches, sometimes migraines. The idea of living just a couple of degrees off the equator did not thrill me. But I was given some wise advice by someone in the know, just before we left. When I told him how anxious I was about being able to take the heat, he said, “Oh yes, you Canadians. I have one word for you. Water.”

“Water?” I asked.

“Yes, water,” he said. “Dehydration is probably the cause of the headaches. Drink as much as you can. Never be without a water bottle. I guarantee you won’t get headaches if you drink enough water.”

I was dubious, but I made sure I took a large water bottle along for each member of our family.

We had opportunity to test the theory immediately, since our first two weeks were spent at the Pacific Orientation Centre, also known as “jungle camp,” in the lowlands of PNG where the temperatures sometimes reached into the high thirties, coupled with a humidity of about ninety-five percent. The director of the camp kept after us all to drink water. We spent a lot of time under the tropical sun, or in a class-room environment, (without air conditioning). Our water bottles were never left behind. And it worked. I did not have many headaches in PNG. Water. Such a simple thing, such a vital thing. Without it, we become ill and quickly die.

Jesus once asked a woman for a drink of water. He tells her if she knew who he was, she would ask him for water. She mocks him, asking how he plans to give her water when he has nothing with which to draw it from the well. And Jesus answered – “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life” (John 4:11- 14, NIV).

Physically, human being can survive for only about three days without water. Spiritually, we won’t live long without the water of life Jesus speaks of. It is a simple thing, a necessary thing. Without it we become spiritually ill and eventually we will die. It is the water of His Spirit, the water of His forgiveness, the water of His grace, available for the asking. You don’t need a bucket to contain it, or even a cup. All you need is a longing heart waiting to be filled.

The exciting thing about the water Jesus gives is that it pours out again, like the spring he spoke of. His forgiveness, His grace, His Spirit pour out of the one who is indwelt by Him, flowing freely to others. And the spring never runs dry because it is connected to the source of all life.

Who would refuse such a gift?

****

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Remembering Mom

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I attended a play at the Rosebud Theatre some time ago. It was a comedy about death. The dead person was a mother and two of us sitting in the audience had just lost our mothers to that very real and ever-present scourge, cancer. You wouldn’t think we’d find anything about that play funny, but we did. We laughed uproariously as the “Last Supper Committee” prepared the lunch in the kitchen and the harried funeral director tried to manipulate everything so that there would be at least a few people attending the “viewing.” You see the mother in this play wasn’t someone you would remember fondly. But I laughed and I cried and I thought of my mom.

Mom’s life wasn’t always easy. She was an only child of a single mother, raised in a small town during the 20’s and 30’s. She started to work in a florist’s shop when she was only twelve, met my father when she was sixteen, married him when she was seventeen but didn’t tell anyone for a year due to “complications” in both families. They had two children and then she said good-bye to her husband for almost six years as the Second World War raged. She welcomed a stranger home at the end of that time, had two more children and followed him five hundred miles to a new community and a new risk as they opened their first family shoe store. They opened a second store just as a large department store opened across the street. They lost their businesses, their home, more than a few friends. My mom’s mother came to live with us all and more challenges came with her. My father developed bleeding ulcers and almost died. More than once.

Through it all, Mom clung to her faith in God and tried to put a positive spin on even the most difficult of circumstances. When she was eighty years old someone gave her a new purse. When I admired it she said, “Yes, it’s nice but it’s kind of an old lady’s purse, don’t you think?” When I reminded her of her age she looked surprised, then laughed at herself. “But I’m not that old, really,” she said. It was many more years before she finally did seem “that old.”

My mother would have liked the play we saw in Rosebud. She had a strong sense of irony and a deep vein of humour that often rose to the surface for all to see. She would have liked the honesty of it – the way the characters finally admit their true feelings, their fears and their flaws. She would have liked the healing of it too – the healing that happened in the play and the healing that happened in the audience. Because Mom knew you couldn’t take life or death too seriously. She knew there was something more for us all. Now she’s enjoying that “something more” firsthand. I miss her. But I smile when I think of her. And that’s a gift for which I am very grateful.

****

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Corrected link

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Hello again! So sorry but the link sent in the last email was incorrect. Please use this one to purchase the Courageous Writers Bundle – https://marcia_layocck–authors.thrivecart.com/courageous-writer-bundle-2024

Sorry for this confusion!

Marcia

One More Chance, For My Writer Friends

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🎉 Surprise! My Devotionals of Distinction Course and 42 other resources on sale for a limited time for just $99 

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Blessings,
Marcia Laycock

Just for Writers

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Writing can be overwhelming, especially when you’re trying to finish a book.

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My Husband Left and I was Thrilled

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Photo by Marcia Laycock

He left before I woke this morning. I found the note on my chair, the place where I sit, laptop on my knees, for many hours in the day. It was a simple note. ‘Gone to men’s prayer meeting. Back around 9:30. Love you, Spence.’

Yes, it made me smile, made me want to dance, in fact, because my husband has pretty much been totally house-bound for about 5 months. He’s been suffering with what we now know is ulcerative colitis. It took that long to get to a doctor who knows what he’s doing and prescribed the meds. that are working.

My relief when I heard that Dr. say, “we can control this,” made me cry. I could have kissed the man!

I am deeply grateful for the health care system we have but it disturbs me deeply to see that it is failing. When Spence was advised to have a colonoscopy as a routine procedure because of his age, they removed a small polyp which was biopsied. The results, the Dr. said, were of no concern, but he did mention the hemorrhoids. Relief, of course.

But then the bleeding started. He returned to our family Dr. and she referred him to another Dr. who said the bleeding was from the hemorrhoids. He did a procedure to shrink them. But the bleeding continued. Then it got worse. Spence went back to the family Dr. She gave him a list of foods that he should avoid. The bleeding got worse. Spence went to an urgent care facility in a nearby town, where the Dr. agreed that the bleeding was too extreme to be just hemorrhoids. He booked an appointment with a GI specialist but told us it would take months to get in to see him.

The bleeding got worse. A friend suggested we go to the emergency room at a hospital in a nearby city. We drove to the city first thing on that Friday morning. The Dr. he saw was a bit snippy at first. “You’ve been to three doctors and gone to three hospitals and you have an appointment booked. Why are you here now?”

I almost blurted, “Because I don’t want to watch my husband die!” But I said, “Because he needs help. He’s lost 35 pounds in the past 4 months!”

She frowned and said she’d do some tests. His blood work showed significant changes from the last sample so she did a CAT scan. It took a while but when she came back she said his colon was “extremely inflamed.” Yeah, we kinda knew that! Then she told us she had booked an appointment with a GI specialist first thing Monday morning. Relief, again. Finally, some action.

And now he’s on the road to recovery. Praise the Lord! But if Spence had waited months before getting the help he needed, his condition would have likely required surgery that likely would have resulted in more serious consequences.

So now I pray for our health care system. Will you join me?

The Man with a Broom in His Hands

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Photo by Ariana Kaminski on Unsplash

 The day had been hot and the walk through the gardens longer than I had anticipated. I was among the first few people to return to the tour bus that day and it was a relief to step into the air-conditioned environment. As we waited for the others to return, our driver called our attention to a man in the parking lot. “See that guy?” he asked. The man was dressed in over-alls, with a base-ball cap pulled down to shade his eyes as he pushed a long broom toward the gutter. He looked like any other maintenance man you might see in a park. The driver paused for effect. “He’s the owner of this place.” He let the words sink in. “In fact, he’s the one who created it.”

 I stared out the window again. I thought of all the beautiful flowers, shrubs and trees we had just seen, the landscaping that had been done with skill and attention to detail. The gardens were world-renowned for good reason. I was shocked that the man who was responsible for it all was sweeping the parking lot. As our bus rolled away, I watched a large crowd heading for the entrance. They flowed around the man in the over-alls like water around a rock. No-one spoke to him. No-one even seemed to notice him. I wondered what they’d do and say if they knew who he was.

How often do we do that to God?

Even if we acknowledge that He did create the world we live in, we think of Him as the executive who stays in his office and calls the shots from there. We don’t expect to find Him with a broom in His hands. But that’s exactly where God is. He is present with us in every circumstance. Even better, His Spirit is living in us and working through us. He has His hands on the same broom we do. He walks the same roads, drives the same highways. He’s here, waiting for us to see Him, waiting for us to acknowledge his presence.

I still wonder what those people would have said and done, had they known who that man with the broom was. I wonder if they would have thanked him for the treasure he created and opened for their pleasure. I wonder if they would have been in awe, or just a little bit intimidated. And I wonder why it was we who knew sat in our seats and did nothing. We didn’t rush out and shake his hand. We didn’t express our thankfulness for the beauty we’d just seen and experienced. We drove away, watching that crowd ignore him.

There are a lot of verses in scripture that can be used to praise God, to thank Him, to give Him glory. The Psalms are full of them. Perhaps we should all take a moment to read a few, not just out of obligation or habit, but with heart-felt emotion, to acknowledge Him.

For, “Great is the Lord and most worthy of praise” (Ps.145:3).

An Easter Perspective on a Good Friday

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Mark 15:16-20

Photo by Wim van ‘t Einde on Unsplash

I moved slowly along the path laid out through the sanctuary, lit by tiny candles. Soft, rather mournful music set the tone. The stations of the cross were positioned along that path, each containing a passage of scripture and a piece of artwork. We had been encouraged to take our time, to let the visual depictions move our minds, our hearts and our souls as we focused on Jesus.

The very first image almost undid me. It was an impressionistic sketch of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. Our Saviour, bowed to the ground, mourning. Each successive depiction was powerful in its own right but, it wasn’t until I came to one of the largest displays that I caught my breath.

A high bower held a stylized crown of thorns, its spears facing out toward me, seeming to stab the air. You had to look through them to read the scripture, (Mark 15:16-20, ESV): “And the soldiers led him away inside the palace (that is, the governor’s headquarters) and they called together the whole battalion. And they clothed him in a purple cloak, and twisting together a crown of thorns, they put it on him. And they began to salute him, “Hail, King of the Jews!””

There was something powerful about that perspective, looking through that crown of thorns. The immensity of His humiliation left me stunned, my heart hurt by it, my mind trying to fathom it and my soul crying out because of it. The creator of the universe, enduring, indeed, allowing, such degradation, on my behalf. On your behalf.

I have seen many Easters over the 42 years since I became a believer. Many of them, to my shame, slipped by with barely any stirring in my heart, mind or soul. I pray it may not be so over the next span of however many years God allows me to sojourn on this earth. I pray I will always remember this perspective, peering through the crown of thorns, letting the words of scripture stab my soul. I pray I will never fail to take time to ponder the Via Dolorosa, the way of sorrow He endured willingly, in order to open the door to reconciliation with His Father.

I pray my face will always be wet with the tears I wept that day, in awe and thankfulness for so mighty, so merciful a Saviour.

In Good Company

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Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash

With Saint Patrick, We Stand in Good Company

Both young men must have thought their lives were over. Taken into a country of foreigners where they were sold into slavery, they must have despaired of ever seeing their families and homelands again. They had to adapt to a new culture, learn a new language and suffer the humiliations of slavery. They must have believed God had abandoned them. But God does not abandon his people. These two young men, one who lived hundreds of years before Christ, the other hundreds of years after, would change the course of history. God gave their lives a purpose and meaning that could only have come through the struggles they endured.

Joseph, son of Jacob, father of the Hebrew nation, was responsible for saving not only the people of Egypt from starvation, but his own family, and therefore the Hebrew nation as well. And Patricius, a sixteen-year-old Briton who would become known as Patrick of Ireland, was the first to take the message of Christ to that nation, the very country where he had been enslaved.

 There is another man whose life took a turn for the worse. He was in the prime of his life. He had a huge following among common people and those of influence. It looked like he was going to take the nation by storm. But then he took his friends aside one day and told them he was going to die, and very soon. He told them be would suffer indignities and be treated like a criminal. He told them it would look like utter defeat. But God does not abandon His people. That young man’s name was Jesus.

As with the stories of Joseph and Patrick, God had a purpose for the suffering Jesus endured. It was a purpose that would change the history, not just of a nation, but of mankind. The suffering and death of Christ freed us all from slavery, slavery that was meant to separated us forever from our Father. But God’s purpose could not be thwarted. Through the death of Jesus, His will was accomplished. We were reunited with our true family, reinstated in our true country. What looked like defeat was in reality complete victory.

There are times in all our lives when it appears God has abandoned us. We see the horrors of wars and famines raging all over our world. We experience the loss of loved ones to the plagues of cancer and other diseases that seem to be out of control. We cry out at the injustices that happen every day.

But God has not abandoned us. He will bring all things to completion in His time and according to His purposes. Therefore we can stand in good company, with Joseph, Patrick and Jesus, and repeat the words of Paul, “Yet I am not ashamed, because I know whom I have believed and am convinced that he is able to guard what I have entrusted to him, for that day” (2Timothy 1:12).