My father would tell me only one war story. He spent the first years of World War II in Canada, a clerk in a RCAF office. There’s a picture of him in uniform, brandishing a rifle, the Halifax harbour behind him. Then he was moved to England where he again worked at a desk. There’s a picture of him on a golf course in Ireland. Then the war was over, and my father was sent to Germany with the occupation forces. He found himself with the liberation army at the gates of Bergen-Belsen. It was at that point, after the allies had won and World War II was over, that my father’s war began.
He would never say what it was, specifically, that caused it to happen. Perhaps he looked too long into eyes glazed with hunger and shadowed with pain, eyes belonging to men who looked a hundred years old, ‘though they were in their twenties. Perhaps he could not stop staring at the piles of dead bodies, the bones and skulls, or perhaps he was required to record the numbers, the unfathomable numbers. Perhaps he could not bear the smiles of survivors who welcomed their deliverers in silence. He would never say what it was, but something that day, in that place, made my father’s mind stop. It stopped and could not go beyond the horror and the fear.
The fear put him in a psychiatric hospital. He was afraid to leave it, afraid even to go for a walk beyond the grounds. One day a nurse came with some clothes and told him to get dressed. Thinking they were taking him for a walk in the hospital gardens, he complied. The nurse returned and escorted him out the front gate. She locked it behind him and, without a word, left him there.
The familiar panic attack was immediate, but this time something else rang in my father’s mind. In the midst of his fear he became overwhelmed with the need to find a church. So he started walking. He found one of the huge gothic cathedrals so common in Europe. He stepped inside and sat down. Above the altar, high stained-glass windows glowed with light. As he stared, they began to move. My dad said he did not know how long he sat there watching, but the entire life of Christ flowed by before him, as though on a movie screen. When it was over, my father was no longer afraid. He returned to the hospital and told them it was time for him to go home.
My father’s war story is about a miracle, an event that healed his mind and his soul. In the midst of horror and fear, God was there. Isaiah said it well – “Surely God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid. The Lord, the Lord is my strength and my song; he has become my salvation” (Isaiah 12:2).
Hello everyone and a big thank you to those who have already participated in the Tumbled Stone Fundraiser for Mainsprings Pregnancy and Family Support Centre, Calgary. I want to let you know that the deadline has been extended to August 31st so there are 20 days left to reach our goal.
Today the 26th book was mailed off, so we are just over the half way point in reaching our goal of 50 books. Many local people have purchased a book and donated the cost of shipping as well, so to date we have raised 261.00 that will go directly to Mainsprings.
Please feel free to share this link wide and far, to friends and family. This is such a vital ministry and they need our support to keep funding the good work they are doing.
For those who do not wish to use paypal, an etransfer to vinemarc@telus.net will work or a cheque made out to me and sent to 119 Riverside Place N.W. High River AB T1V 1X3.
I thought you might like to get a taste of the book, so here’s an excerpt:
Exerpt from A Tumbled Stone by Marcia Lee Laycock
Andrea opened the drawer on a small desk and drew out a notebook she had bought long ago. She had a stack of coil bound notebooks that she had used to write her stories and poems and all the other work her high school teachers had so often encouraged her to do. But this one was different. This one was bound like a normal book, but it was black, inside and out. She picked up the white gel pen that had come with it.
Names had been flitting through her mind for days. She’d suddenly realize she’d been listing them, filing some as possibilities, discarding others. But she had never spoken them, never written them. She put the gel pen down, picked up an ordinary pen and found a blank piece of white paper. She wrote the list in alphabetical order. Alyssa, Brandilyn, Cameron, Destiny. She scratched lines through that last one, continued the list for a while, then crumpled the paper and threw it into the garbage can by the door. She pulled the book toward her, switched to the gel pen and turned to the next blank page.
Dear Diary – I wonder if my birth mother ever thought these thoughts I’m having. She gave me away, so obviously she didn’t want me. Why didn’t she just abort me? I guess back then it wasn’t so easy. It is now. I heard two girls at school talking about it in the washroom. They didn’t even care that I was there. One girl knew a lot about it – how to get the doctor to make a referral – just mention suicide, she said, and there would be no problem. “It’s just a tiny blob right now,” I remember her saying, “but don’t wait too long. Waiting complicates everything.”
Waiting. I feel like I’ve been waiting all my life. But for what?
The pen hovered for a moment, trembling. She let it drop and put her hand over her mouth to hold back the sob that threatened to rip from her throat. She had to get out of this room, out of this house. She grabbed a jacket and slipped quietly down the stairs, out the back door and across the yard to the yellowed field beyond. She strode along the fence line toward the creek, her ears perked for its sound, her eyes peering steadily ahead until she saw the thin line of scrub brush where the land suddenly fell away. Her eyes found the brown scar on the bank where she so often climbed down into the gully. When she reached it she stood still, staring down the incline to the creek.
It was swollen with the spring’s run-off, its water muddied and full of debris. Part of the far bank had fallen away, exposing the roots of old poplar and spruce trees. Andrea stared at the churning water. She wanted the peaceful trickle of mid-summer, the small sound of flowing water that so often soothed her. There would be no comfort here today. She stared down at the steepness of the path. If she fell … tumbled over and over … A crashing sound made her start. A young poplar had yielded to gravity and plunged into the creek. She turned away and wandered along the bank, feeling the bite of wind not yet warmed by the sun. She had stopped crying. She felt dry, hollow inside and wondered at the feeling. Shouldn’t she feel full, with a baby inside her? Sitting on an old fallen cottonwood, she put her hand on her stomach. She should feel something. But there was only a numbness now, even when she thought about Cory. What would he do if he knew she was carrying his baby? She could still hear the rushing water in the creek. The wind had increased and seemed to punish the trees. She pushed herself up and headed back toward the house, each foot crushing the ground in front of the other. She could feel the stubble under her shoes like blunt needles trying to break through.
The back door swung silently as she opened it into the kitchen. Earl had fixed the squeak. He was always fixing things, quickly, before they became a bother.
But he can’t fix this.
Edna was standing at the sink. Andrea watched her fold the washcloth over the faucet and knew by the slight stiffening of her back she was aware of her but she didn’t turn. She just stared out the window at the barrenness of the landscape – the land she always said she loved, perhaps too much.
Can anyone love too much? Andrea wondered. The land perhaps, an inanimate thing that can’t love back. But that’s so much safer than loving those who should but never do.
Edna’s long hand rested on the cloth on the tap. Andrea could see the curve of her high cheek bone, a moistness to the curl of her pale eye lashes as her head turned and dropped almost imperceptibly.
Andrea wanted to scream, “speak to me. Look at me!” For a moment she imagined her turning, a smile quick to her lips, her eyes beaming approval of her only daughter, her “chosen one.” She had longed for that look for as long as she could remember. But then a cloud blocked the light like a heavy curtain, dim reality returned and Edna did not move. Andrea stepped across the doorway and past into the hall, slowly climbing the stairs to her room. Her legs felt like heavy logs but her feet made no sound.
Maybe I’m invisible already, only a phantom whose footsteps can’t make the floors creak.
Back in her room, she picked up the book and pen.
I’m sitting on my bed now, staring at the small suitcase partly hidden on the floor of my closet. Edna brought it up from the basement yesterday so I could get ready. She has arranged everything with her sister, she said. A sister I’ve never met. I’m to leave on Friday, go away for a few months, a year maybe, then I can come home, after, and no-one will know.
But I’ve decided. Tomorrow I’ll take that small suitcase and walk away.
A sound on the stairway made her freeze. She closed the book and stood up, leaning toward the door to hear what might be beyond. But there was no sound. She pulled a box of old books out from the closet. Edna had discovered it in the basement the week before and brought it up to see if any of the books were worth reading. But Andrea didn’t feel like reading much lately. She lifted a stack and slid the diary beneath them, then shoved the box back.
*****
Thanks again for your trust, your support and your generosity.
“If you ever get to Italy, go to Florence. You must see Michaelangelo’s David.” My art history professor said it more than once while I attended his classes. So when my daughter invited us to accompany her on a trip to that country to celebrate her 40th birthday, the first thing I put on my list was “See the David.”
I was not disappointed. We entered the Accademia Gallery with a huge tour group (they estimate 6,000 people view the statue every day) and when I turned my head as we entered, I caught my breath and whispered, “there it is.” We were some distance away but even so, standing at 5.17-metres (17 ft) tall, the statue was impressive. The tour guide explained that the hands and feet are disproportionately large because it would be viewed from below.
Originally it was commissioned for the front of the cathedral in Florence but was instead placed in the public square in front of the Palazzo della Signoria, the seat of civic government in Florence, where it was unveiled on 8 September 1504.
I can’t pretend to know what was in Michaelangelo’s mind when he created his masterpiece. I would hope his intention was to depict a young boy, the least of his brothers, who was not even counted worthy enough to be presented to the prophet when he came to anoint Israel’s new king. That depiction would have been true to scripture. (1Samuel 16:1-13).
But other forces held sway. We know what was in the minds of the men who commissioned the statue. They wanted a representation of a virile, heroic man, to symbolize the power and might of their city. It seems their intention had nothing at all to do with the Biblical character of one of God’s most beloved servants.
This certainly would not be the first nor last time that God’s intentions were usurped by the political desires of men of power. It is a familiar ploy of Satan, to take what God intended to be good, honourable and holy and twist it into something totally disconnected from those sentiments.
God’s most precious and powerful tool, the Bible itself, has been used in that way, used to justify despicable acts, used in the hands of dishonourable men as a symbol of their fake allegiance to the God of the Bible.
But …
“Do not be deceived: God is not mocked, for whatever one sows, that will he also reap. For the one who sows to his own flesh will from the flesh reap corruption, but the one who sows to the Spirit will from the Spirit reap eternal life” (Galatians 6:7,8).
The lies men perpetuate will come back to haunt them. They too will stand before God and be judged, as will we all. We all should heed the warning of Galatians 6.
The men of Dawson City Gospel Chapel had just finished a prayer breakfast and were about to start work on the new church building. They were all anxious to get at it because the date of the dedication had been set and they were behind schedule. The pastor had prayed that morning for a couple more carpenters to help with the work.
They were about to begin when there was a knock on the door. The pastor answered and listened patiently to the man’s story. He and his son had been trying to leave town, heading for Alaska on their vacation. But every time they tried to drive up the long hill out of town their vehicle broke down. “I was told there’s someone here who is a good mechanic,” he said. “Could I get him to have a look?” The pastor invited him in and explained his situation to the other men. Then he turned to the man and asked his name. “Bud Carpenter,” the man responded. “And this is my son, Josh Carpenter.”
He was a little puzzled when the men started to laugh, until the pastor told him what he had just prayed a few moments before answering the knock on the door. Bud then laughed with them and explained that he was taking his son to Alaska as a graduation gift and they really had no firm time schedule. “I’m pretty good with a hammer. We’d be happy to help for a few days.” They stayed for a week. The mechanic looked at their vehicle and found nothing wrong with it. The work was finished on time and the pair continued on their way after the dedication celebration. Their car had no trouble climbing that hill.
I was thinking about that story the other day and thinking about how we are all like those Carpenters in a way. All of us are busily going on our way, with our own agendas and plans. But sometimes God throws a bit of a detour into the plan. We can react to it in two ways. We can fight it and keep on trying to climb that hill, or we can stop and listen for His voice to see if perhaps there is another plan in place.
For instance, a friend told me a story about going on a mission trip to India. The plans had been well made, the itinerary laid out and everything seemed in place. But when they arrived no-one met them. My friend said it was interesting to see how the group members handled it. Those from North America were stressed and some were angry. They wanted to call some one and get it all straightened out so they could get back on schedule. But there were two fellows from Africa who counselled a different way. They suggested the group wait and pray. So they slept in the train station that night and prayed.
The next day a young man arrived on a motorcycle. “I’ve been sent to get you,” he said. But he was not from the mission and had no idea why he was sent to get them. After some debate they decided to go with him and ended up having a tremendous time of ministry and growth in his village. Nothing was structured. Each day was a routine of waking up and praying to see what God wanted them to do. And each day they were blessed. They never did connect with the original group they were supposed to work with but they all knew they had done what God intended.
“Many are the plans in a man’s heart, but it is the Lord’s purpose that prevails.” Proverbs 19:21
More than 30 people came to my home to help celebrate the launch of Pond’rings, my writer’s memoir. I was so blessed by the turnout and the enthusiasm everyone showed for the book. More than a full case went out the door and I was kept busy signing books for everyone.
A Big Thank You to Blitz Print in Calgary, and to my publisher Colleen McCubbin for getting the books to me on time! I still have many copies now stacked in my office, so if you would like a signed copy just let me know. Cost is $20.00 plus shipping ($6.00 in Canada) or I can deliver in the High River and South Calgary areas.
If you are in the USA just click the links below to order –
Amazon.com – Kindle ebook + Print book both available
When I told my mother that my husband was going to be a pastor she said, “Well, you’ll never be rich. She was right. But she was also wrong. When we sold the log house we’d built on the banks of the Klondike River near Dawson City Yukon, to attend Bible College in Saskatchewan, I thought, well, we’ll probably never own another home. And I thought our travelling days were over. God had other plans.
I love travelling. The ability to go off to foreign places has been one of God’s gifts to me over the years, in spite of our lack of finances and my lack of faith. My first adventure came during university when a friend urged me to put my name on the list for a trip to Spain being organized by the faculty of Geology. I balked at first. “Impossible. There’s no way,” I told her. It was almost the end of the year and I was almost broke. But when extra seats opened up and I was offered one, the pieces fell into place and off I went. Travelling around Spain, Portugal, France and Switzerland opened my eyes to the wonders of Europe and gave me a thirst for more.
Then I found myself in the Yukon and travel to anywhere was expensive. “But everyone has to have a honeymoon,” my new husband said, so off we went to California, arriving in San Francisco on Chinese New Year. Now that was a cross cultural experience!
Not long after, we made the leap of faith, landed in Bible College on the flat Canadian prairie and then moved one province to the west to begin ministry in our first church. I thought our travelling days were definitely over. But God had more in store for us.
After seven years it was time for a year-long sabbatical. “Papua New Guinea,” a missions expert advised us, “That will be a good place for you to go.” I wasn’t even sure where PNG was, and I wasn’t sure I could take the heat of a tropical climate, but God made the doors open and before I could voice all the ‘what ifs’ we were there. Life in the third world was both challenging and exhilarating as God opened our eyes to the need to trust Him every moment of the day. Coming home was harder than going, but slowly God worked on our hearts and minds and souls and we adjusted once again to life in Canada.
We received a call from the head of our church’s association one day. “How would you like to go to Israel?” Impossible! But he explained it was sponsored by the Israeli government and a tourism organization, which made the price too good to refuse. Walking the land of the Bible was a profound experience.
Then seven years later God moved us from our comfort zone, where we’d pastored for 20 years, to begin a new work in a small community. My husband’s salary dropped into the bottom of the barrel once more. And once again, I thought our travelling days were over.
But God had another plan. It included eighteen months of cancer treatments and a slow recovery. “Take your wife somewhere warm,” the doctor said. Impossible, I thought, but before I could list all the reasons why not, we were walking on the warm sands of the Caribbean.
A cruise was not something I had ever envisioned in my future but when my husband’s mother turned 90 she decided she wanted to celebrate with the whole family – on a cruise ship off the coast of Alaska. All 23 of us wandered around the ship wearing pink Tshirts that said, ‘Betty’s Birthday Bash.’ It was indeed! When she turned 92 there was one more trip on Betty’s bucket list – the long cruise to Hawaii, and she wanted me to go with her. I had to think about that for just a second or two.
Last year my oldest daughter turned 40. She decided she wanted to celebrate in Italy and convinced a friend to go with her. The friend had to back out at the last minute and when K said she was going alone, I voiced my objections. “Then come with me,” she said. Impossible, I thought. But I remembered my art history professor telling me to put seeing Michaelangelo’s David on the top of my bucket list. Apparently, God thought that was a good idea. The David was amazing. St. Peter’s Bassilica was a highlight as a booming voice chanted, “Laudate Dominum, Laudate Dominum, Laudate Dominum.” Praise God, Praise God, Praise God. Indeed!
Spain, Portugal, France, Switzerland, the Yukon, Alaska, Papua New Guinea, the Caribbean, Hawaii, Itady. Not bad for someone who thought she’d never leave the borders of her own province, let alone her country.
Yes, it’s been a joy to see it all, to experience so much. But even more, it’s been a blessing to see what God wanted to teach us through it all. There have been many lessons about trust, about His provision, about His generosity and exceptional love. With every adventure we learned more about Him.
“Surely you have granted (us) unending blessings and made (us) glad with the joy of your presence.” Psalm 21:6
A friend of mine once revealed his hidden talents. He sent us a Christmas card with a picture of a painting he created some time ago. The card sat on our table for quite a while after the season was past, because I loved the image. It’s a winter scene of a tiny bird sitting on the curl of a barbed wire fence.
As I stared at it one day it made me think of how true a representation of life it is. There are so many contrasts in our lives – many things that are beautiful, soft and fragile like that tiny bird, and many things that are hard, hurtful and ugly, like that strand of barbed wire. Though the two seem to be so opposite, they both have purpose. That tiny bird is part of a huge eco-system that is finely tuned and elegantly balanced. Its song adds to the air of our existence and its beauty gives us pleasure. Tiny birds are examples of God’s goodness to us – that he would give us such things just to make us smile and turn our world toward harmony.
And that barbed wire – the cold, sharp and ugly wire – has a purpose too. Just ask any farmer who has stock to control. Without barbed wire, animals would wander, perhaps into dangerous places. Without the boundaries that wire represents there would be a lot of chaos in our world.
Several people we know have gone through some hard and ugly things lately. Some of those things are ongoing. It’s hard to see purpose in them, hard to see that there will be any good come of these things, yet we know some day there will be. Some day we may even see and understand. We know that, because we know our God. He is a God of order and balance and beauty who sees all things – the greater good, the bigger picture, the expanse of the eco-system He created – and He is in control of it all. We can know He is working all things out according to His purposes.
I was teaching a group of children about this recently. We were studying the story of Joseph in the book of Genesis – that young boy who was so loved by his father and so hated by his brothers. We talked about the hard and ugly things Joseph went through – betrayal by family, slavery, wrongful imprisonment. But finally we came to those famous words Joseph spoke to his terrified brothers –
“You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives” (Genesis 50:20 NIV).
God was, is, always will be in control. He told his disciples as much, and He has told us –
“In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33 NIV).
As we launch into a new year – 2025! Can you believe it? – Knowing God is in control is a great comfort to all believers. If you have not yet received that gift, but want to, please contact me. vinemarc AT Telus dot Net
marcialeelaycock.com 