A Supplement of - Amazon S3 · The celebrations continued with the launch of Christmas: Stories &...

2 FellowScript Supplement 2017

A Supplement of FellowScript

Publisher: InScribe Christian Writers’ Fellowship

Editorial Committee:

Nina Faye Morey, Editor-in-Chief

Colleen McCubbin, Layout and Graphics Editor

FellowScript is produced using InDesign and printed by Pagemaster Publication Services Inc., Edmonton, AB. ISSN: 1499-3082.

Address inquiries to the editor at [email protected]

Copyright @ 2017 by InScribe Christian Writers’ Fellowship. All Rights Reserved. Content Copyright is retained by the individual contributing authors. Readers are encouraged to share FellowScript with interested persons, but this magazine may not be reproduced in whole or in part in any form by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher and the individual authors.

Contents

Highl ights f rom Fal l Conferencepg. 4

VIP Day with Shel ly Hitzpg. 5

2017 Editor ’ s Choice Awardpgs. 6-7

Chi ldren’s F ict ionpgs. 8-11

Opinion Piecepgs. 12-16

Songwrit ingpg. 17

Poetrypgs. 18-19

Fal l Confer-ence Col lagepgs. 20-22

Barnabas Fel lowshipAward pg. 23


Our conference kicked off with our Author Mixer on Thursday. Attendees enjoyed hearing a variety of readings, including fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. Most of those present had something published last year! One attendee commented, “What an amazing pool of God-appointed tal-ent!” Thanks to members of the Writer’s Café who planned and ran the event.

Our conference theme, Writing in Community (Ephesians 4:16), originated with our keynote speaker, Shelley Hitz. She shared practical ways for us to build community—hav-ing a prayer team that prays specifically for our writing projects, finding beta readers to give us honest feedback on manuscripts, and getting reviews posted on Amazon and social media. Our faithful spiritual advisor, Connie Inglis, presented a workshop on spiritual warfare and writers, inspiring us to write a prayer to pray before we write. Due to personal circumstances, Tracy Krauss and Janice Dick could not attend. However, Janice was able to present her workshop live, using Google Hangouts, to rave reviews. Attendees expressed appreciation for both the variety and practicality of workshops presented. Regarding blue pencil, one participant commented, “When I mentor, I get more out of conference and I learn much about my own writing too.”

We all appreciated the cheerful service and wonderful food provided by the Sawridge staff. In the words of one attendee, our awards banquet was, “Delicious, and it was wonderful to see so many encouraged.” Pam Mytroen en-couraged those who participated in the contest to read their critiques with an open mind and “Accept the medicine with the honey.” Along with contest awards for Opinion Piece,

Highlights from Fall Conference 2017RUTH L. SNYDER

Writers in Community

Poetry, Children’s Easy-Read Story, Songwriting, and the Barnabas Award, FellowScript Editor-in-Chief, Nina Faye Morey, introduced the new Editor’s Choice Award, which she sponsored and presented to Connie Inglis for her story, “Cars, Karaoke, and Cats,” that was published in the Au-gust 2017 issue. We are deeply grateful to Nina Faye Morey, Angel Hope Publishing, Word Alive Press, Bobbi Junior, Hope Stream Radio and a couple of anonymous donors who contributed prizes for the contests or to the conference in general.

The celebrations continued with the launch of Christmas: Stories & More, the newest InScribe anthology, which contains contributions from 40 different Canadian authors. Two contributors, Tina Markeli and Carol Schafer, hooked the audience with snippets of their stories, and Ron Hughes and Bobbi Junior entertained the audience with a portion of Terrie Todd’s drama, The Christmas Play. Emcee, Sally Meadows, ensured crowd participation with two games. Laughter, photographs, cupcakes, apple cider, hot choco-late, and balloons rounded out the evening. Christmas: Stories & More is available from contributors, from https://inscribe.org/product/christmas-anthology/ and Amazon.

During the AGM many members voiced ideas about how to expand the ministry of InScribe. An attendee commented, “It seems that the members ‘own’ their InScribe because they really were invested in the discussion and they want it to grow.” Members expressed appreciation to the executive committee and the conference planning committee, with some saying this was the best conference yet.

5FellowScript Supplement 2017

A small but enthusiastic group of authors joined Shelley Hitz on Thursday, September 21st, for the InScribe VIP Day. Shel-ley led the group through her Author Automation System, ex-plaining each piece and how all the pieces fit together to form a sales funnel that can bring in revenue twenty-four/seven. First, Shelley explained how to draw traffic to websites, using a perma-free book on Amazon. She showed us how to add a call to action on our thank you page to encourage buyers to either purchase other books or nurture their interest with an inexpensive “tripwire” product. Many attendees had an “aha” moment when Shelley demonstrated how to automate follow-up emails and continue to nurture subscribers. This was a very practical day, and attendees left with knowledge and tools to take them to the next level as authors.

Thank you, Shelley, for putting this information together and making it accessible in one day. Thank you, also, to the Saw-ridge Inn for helping the event run smoothly.

RUTH L. SNYDERVIP Day with Shel ly Hitz

Back Row, L-R: Pam Mytroen (Membership Services Coordinator), Tandy Balson (AB Rep. & Local Writing Group Coordinator), Jack Popjes (Spiritual Advisor), Janis Cox (Webmaster), Connie Inglis (Spiritual Advisor), Ruth Snyder (President), Dayna Mazzuca (Fall Conference Coordinator).

Front Row, L-R: Bobbi Junior (Treasurer), Marcia Laycock (Communications Coordinator), Carol Schafer (FellowScript Columns Editor), Nina Faye Morey (FellowScript Editor-in-Chief), Pat Gerbrandt (Administrative Assistant), Sally Meadows (InScribe Press Coordinator), Marnie Pohlmann (Fall Conference Committee).

Exec 2017


FellowScript Editor’s Choice Award 2017

ages 5-9 5-9

is Awarded to

Connie Inglis For Excellence in Writing

“Cars, Karaoke, and Cats”

September 22, 2017 Nina Faye Morey

Nina Faye Morey

Editor-in-Chief, FellowScript

NEW! EDITOR’S CHOICE AWARD

FellowScript’s Editor’s Choice Award is a new annual award that was presented for the first time this year at the 2017 ICWF Fall Conference. Editor-in-Chief, Nina Faye Morey, presented this award to InScribe member, Connie Inglis, for

her creative nonfiction piece, “Cars, Karaoke, and Cats,” that appeared in the August 2017 issue of Fel-lowScript.

The Editor-in-Chief of FellowScript chooses one prize winner from among all of the InScribe members who contributed an original article, regular or mini-column, short story, or poem published for first rights in the last four issues of the magazine prior to the annual Fall Conference. The winner of this award receives a $100 cash prize, plus a certificate in recognition of their talent as a writer. In addition to acknowledg-ing their writing ability, the Editor’s Choice Award is meant to encour-age more of our members to submit their work to InScribe’s FellowScript magazine.


“And I-I-I-I-I will always love you-u-u-u.” Midnight and the song erupted from the neighbour’s yard, a twister of intoxicated discord floating up on the hot breeze, invading our sleeping space through the open jalousie windows.

“Not again,” my husband Doug said, curling his pillow around his head, attempting to block out the karaoke chaos happening below our second story bedroom. I rose to close the window slats, knowing my actions would do little to lower the decibels. Peeking out, I watched the man with the mike stumbling around party chairs, his voice almost two beats behind the music rising from the large boombox hoisted on a nearby stand.

“Well,” I chided, “as our language teacher told us, they’re happily sharing their music with the neighbourhood—al-though I’m thinking all of Batangas is hearing this.”

Doug sighed and turned onto his back. “And I had just fallen asleep. So much traffic noise. Is it just me or has that escalated too?”

I didn’t reply but I agreed with his assessment. Four months ago when we had moved into this corner-lot house for Ta-galog language study, our fellow missionaries had warned us about the incessant din of horns along our narrow but busy street. There seemed to be no end to the public tri-cycles, cars, jeepneys, and over-stuffed lorries announcing their presence, some with simple honks, others with bellow-ing elaborate tunes. A symphony of cacophony.

Our three toddlers and I adapted—now sleeping through the noise. But my poor light-sleeper hubby still struggled every night. Then December hit—holiday season in the Philippines. Our neighbour seemed especially celebratory with all his parties. We soon learned why. He had decided to run for a local government position and entertaining people of prominence became his number one platform.

“Let’s hope it’s a short one this time,” I said, meaning an end time around 2:00 a.m.

“Right,” Doug said with another sigh. As we both lay there, sleepless, I tried to think positively. How can I be a good neighbour, despite my irritation? What could I offer? A fruit bas-

2017 Editor’s Choice Award Winner

ket perhaps? Including some of those delicious mandarin oranges I bought in Manila?

Somewhere between F flat and B sharp, I drifted off.

“Meeaawoooh.”

I jerked up, looking at the clock. 4:00 a.m.

“Strike three,” hubby groaned. “Why?”

I fell back. Cars sleeping. Partiers sleeping. Why not this mangy, stray tom that kept returning, on the prowl for fe-lines of the female persuasion with his eerie, wolfish howl-ing? Even our neighbour had commented, wishing it gone.

The painful wail began again, first deep and low, then full force and long. Exasperated, Doug bolted up and over to the window, peered out into the darkness, and whispered. “There he is. Pacing back and forth on our concrete wall.” And before I could defuzz my brain to respond, he had grabbed his cotton shorts and was heading down the stairs. I lay there listening, attempting to decipher his actions by tell-tale sounds. At first, nothing. Then the slow grating of the large metal lock on the back door. Again, silence. What was he waiting for? And just as the tom began his guttural growls once more I heard one loud creak of the door swing-ing open, then a sudden “thud” coinciding with a slight yelp, and then nothing. Nothing at all.

Doug returned to the bed, not saying a word.

“What’d you use?” I finally asked, too curious.

“Only thing handy—a Christmas orange. Stunned him good.”

I burst out laughing. When hubby didn’t join in, I cleared my throat and turned over. Soon I heard his peaceful, deep breathing but inside I was still chuckling.

And as the early morning light began to sift through the window panes, I wondered if our neighbour would appre-ciate the “gift,” given in one, small, orange.

InScr ibers Write, Creat ive Non-f ict ion Short StoryFel lowScr ipt, August 2017 Issue

CONNIE INGLISCars, Karaoke, and Cats


The spring Mom got sick I went to stay with my grandpar-ents in the city. Papa walked me home from school every day. Sometimes we stopped at the pond near his house to watch the mallard ducks. When Papa put his arm around me, it was hard not to cry. Not just about my mom.

I couldn’t wait for school to finish so I could go home to our farm. Papa said, “I’m sorry, Quinn, your dad can’t do his work and take care of you too.” So I had to stay in the city.

Papa and I went to the pond almost every day. Papa sat on a bench while I explored the beach looking for cool rocks. Or went hunting for crayfish. Sometimes I brought frozen peas for the ducks to snack on.

I first saw him on a hot, sunny mid-summer day. There were lots of ducklings on the pond. But one little duck always seemed to be alone. When he came near the other ducks, they quacked and chased him away.

I was upset. I wondered how the little duck could stay safe. Did he have enough to eat? Who would take care of him? Why didn’t the other ducks like him? It wasn’t fair!

I looked for my little duck every day. He seemed to find enough food to eat. But the other ducks still pushed him away.

One morning Papa and I saw a lady in a red canoe at the far end of the pond. When we walked closer, I could see she was using her paddle to shoo a small duck towards the shore.

I grabbed Papa’s hand. That was MY little duck! What was the lady doing? He waddled onto the shore and into the grass. There, a man with a net trapped him and put him in a cage. The man loaded the cage in the back of his truck, and drove away.

I started to run. Papa called, “Quinn!” I got as far as the curb. I stopped and turned, big, fat tears blurring my eyes.

Papa came up to me, huffing and puffing. He looked wor-ried and confused. He patted my shoulder. “There, there, son. You know, it helps to talk.”

I shook my head. All I could think was, what’s going to hap-pen to my little duck?

That afternoon, Papa took me to see my mom. I tried not to

First Place Winner

SALLY MEADOWSThe Underdog Duck

cry as I told her about my little duck. She put her hand on mine. Then, everything spilled out. “The kids were mean to me at school. And I’m…I’m scared because you’re sick! I want things to be the way they used to be. I want to go home!”

Mom wrapped her arms around me for a long time. She asked Papa if he could help me find out what happened to the duckling. She promised to call the school. Wiping the tears off my cheeks, she said, “Don’t worry, Quinn. Every-thing will be all right.”

Back at the house, Papa called city hall. They gave him the phone number of a man who rescues lost or hurt ducks. Papa put the phone on speaker so I could hear too.

The man told us that a lady had called him about an or-phaned duckling. “Someone must have found the duckling and brought it to the pond,” he explained.

Turns out that the duckling wasn’t a mallard. He was an American Widgeon. Baby widgeons look a lot like mallard ducklings. “The best thing we could do was take him out-side the city where the other widgeons live.”

Later, Papa said, “Your duckling was brave to survive on his own. He’s kind of like an underdog.”

“What’s an underdog?” I asked.

“Well, it’s when someone or something is going through a hard time but does their best to rise above it.” With a twinkle in his eye, he added, “He reminds me of you.”

I bit my lip to hide my smile. I was OK with being an un-derdog. Although I’d miss my little duck, it felt good know-ing he was where he belonged.

I stayed with my grandparents a few more months, until my mom got better. School was better this time around. My teacher made sure I made some friends. Still, I was happy when we all went home.

After Mom’s spring checkup, we stopped by to visit my grandparents. Papa said he had something to show me at the pond. He pointed out two American Widgeons floating amongst the mallards.

I was sure it was my underdog duck coming back for a visit to the place that, for a while, we both called home.

CHILDREN’S FICTION • Easy Read, Ages 5-9


My name is Rayna. In Hebrew, it means “song of the Lord,” but I cannot sing or even speak. I am eight years old. Today my mother says we are going to find Jesus, the new teacher. She carries my baby brother, Aviv, who is only 3 months old. His name means “spring.” That’s when he was born.

When I was three years old, I had another brother. His name was Mataniah, meaning “gift of God.” Father was so excited to have a son. The name seemed good. One day Mataniah was asleep in his bed and my mother left the room for a minute. I saw my chance to pick him up and hold him. My hands slipped. I tried so hard to catch him, but he fell to the floor, hitting his head on the bench as he dropped.

He woke up, screaming, which brought my mother run-ning.

“Rayna, look what you have done! How stupid and care-less!” By the time my father arrived home, Mataniah lay lifeless while my mother wailed, soaking his blanket with her tears.

My father yelled at me. “You have made my son die! What were you thinking? Holding him without permission!”

I crouched in the corner, covering my face. That night, my pillow was wet with my own tears. In the morning, and from that day on, I could not speak.

Now today, the sun shines brightly and the chatter around me blows in the breeze. I would rather be home, under my favorite tree. Crowds make me feel lonely because I cannot join in the talk with other children.

CHILDREN’S FICTION • Easy Read, Ages 5-9Second Place Winner

LINDA NEFFRayna Meets Jesus

(Part 1 of 8 stor ies about Rayna and Jesus)

We arrive, and all the mothers, including mine, carry and tug their children, wanting Jesus to touch and bless each one. But Jesus’s helper men try to shoo us away.

Jesus says, “Let the little children come to Me. Don’t send them away, for they belong to God’s kingdom. Even adults must be childlike and humble to come into the kingdom.”

Then, to my surprise, Jesus calls my name: “Rayna, come here.” He sits down, takes me onto his lap, and wraps His arms around me.

He speaks ever so quietly into my ear. “Rayna, song of the Lord. You are forgiven. Mataniah is in my Father’s house. You must speak again. God’s song is in your heart. Let me hear it.”

My mouth and tongue and throat feel warm. When Jesus loosens his arms, I jump down from his lap. “Thank you, Teacher.” My new voice sounds a bit shaky.

My mother, holding Aviv, is speechless at the sound of my voice. Then I sing Jesus a song of praise, just a little one. I’m a bit out of practice.

Other children run to Jesus now, blocking Him from my view. That doesn’t matter.

I’m busy dancing.


CHILDREN’S FICTION • Easy Read, Ages 5-9Third Place Winner

PAT REDDEKOPPThe Genie’ s Job

“I want to make another wish, Genie.” Cal knocked on the outside of the Genie’s bottle.

When no Genie appeared he rapped a little harder. “C’mon, Genie. I need to make a wish.

“Do it from out there,” Genie mumbled. “I’m tired.

“Wishes don’t work if you don’t swirl yourself out.” Cal tapped the bottle near the Genie’s head. “Besides, it’s your job to grant wishes.”

“You’ve had more than your three wishes. So go play and be happy.” Genie turned away and curled up on his cushion.

“I need an extra wish.” Cal knocked on the bottle again.

“I don’t do extras.”

“But I won the extra wish a day contest.” Cal put his hands on his hips and glared at the Genie. “You have to give me three more extra wishes.”

“Okay, okay. I’m coming.” The Genie slowly made himself appear at the top of the bottle. He was definitely sorry he had consented to the extra wishes contest. If he’d known this selfish kid would win, he would not have done it.

“So what’s your wish?” Genie asked, swaying a little in the breeze.

“I wish to know why you don’t ever make a wish for yourself. Don’t you have enough power?”

“ ‘Course I have enough power! How do you think I granted your silly wishes?” All for himself too, the Genie thought.

“So why don’t you then? Is it too much work? Don’t you want to be happy? Why?”

“You know, kid, if I could have a wish to make me happy, it would be that you would disappear and stop bugging me.”

“Go ahead,” Cal challenged. “Try it. Try making a wish for your-self.”

“That’s not my job. My job is to grant you wishes that make you happy.”

“But are you happy? Wouldn’t you want to have a wish that would make you happy?”

“Okay, Cal. You asked for it.”

In a puff of smoke, Cal found himself inside the Genie’s bottle. He could see the Genie lying on the grass looking up at the sky, smil-ing to himself. He looked very happy.

Cal squirmed a little trying not to be so tightly squeezed in the

bottle. When he got one hand free, he knocked on the inside of the Genie’s bottle.

“I want to make a wish, Genie.”

The Genie just lay there looking up at the sky.

Cal knocked harder. “Come on, Genie. I need to make a wish.”

Silence.

“Just one wish,” Cal pleaded.

“Oh, hi Cal.” The Genie turned on his side to face the bottle. “Did I hear you say I could make a wish? Let me see.” The Genie put his finger to his chin and lay back down. “I need to think awhile.”

“Genie!” Cal began knocking and calling again.

“I know,” the Genie said. “I wish that you would come out of the bottle to do your job and grant me a wish.”

“But, Genie,” Cal protested. “I can’t. Granting wishes to make people happy is your job.

“Yes, it is. But I have failed. You aren’t happy with your wishes. You keep wanting another and another. It is better if I stay out here and you do my work for me.”

“I don’t know how to grant wishes.”

“You’ve had so many wishes granted, I’m sure you know exactly how to do it.”

“Genie!” Cal wailed. “I don’t even know how to get myself out of this bottle. How can I grant your wish? Just get me out. This one more wish and I’ll be happy and never wish for anything again.”

“Promise?” Genie asked.

“I promise,” Cal replied.

“You’ll give up your prize of a wish a day to someone else?”

“I promise.”

Another puff of smoke and Cal found himself looking at the Genie from outside the bottle.

“Thanks, Genie,” Cal twisted his shoulders to loosen them up.

“Happy now?” Genie asked.

Cal nodded slowly, thinking about how he could share his wishes.

“Good,” said the Genie. “Then my job is done.” The Genie sighed and leaned back contentedly. “And we’re both happy.”


Honourable Mention

DONNA GARTSHOREYou Can Cry

My Dad was sick and in the hospital for a long time.

One morning Mom told me, “Your Dad has died. You can cry if you want to.”

But I didn’t want to.

I didn’t know how I felt.

I asked if I could go to my friend’s across the street to play.

Mom didn’t cry either.

She made a lot of phone calls and at night she read me stories like she always had.

People came to visit. They brought flowers and lots of food.

“You must be sad,” they said. “It’s okay to cry.”

But I didn’t want to.


The lasagna with the ricotta cheese was my favourite.

Mom didn’t cry either.

She thanked people for the food and flowers.

Sometimes they cried.

At night, Mom read me stories and drew pictures on my back with her finger until I could fall asleep.

At Dad’s funeral they played his favourite song and that made Mom cry.

Afterwards everyone wanted to talk to us and hug us and ask how we were doing.

I didn’t want to answer.

I didn’t want to cry.


I twirled and made the skirt of my new blue dress flare out.

There were trays of food and I ate three chocolate chip cookies.

At night, Mom read me stories, tickled my back, and sang to me.

A few weeks went by and we didn’t have as many visitors.

After supper, it was just Mom and me and we were watch-ing TV.

Dad’s favourite show came on the TV.

Suddenly tears bubbled up in my eyes and my nose started to run.

I was ready to cry.

I cried and cried and cried.

Mom hugged me and told me it was okay and she cried a little too.

Afterwards, she read me stories and tickled my back and sang to me.

I knew it was okay to cry.

CHILDREN’S FICTION • Easy Read, Ages 5-9


OPINION PIECEFirst Place Winner

Ca r o l Ha r r i s o nPreserv ing Family Memor ies

Have you inherited a box of photos or a trunk of memora-bilia? Are you accumulating a plethora of bits and pieces, objects which represent your life? How do you preserve the stories and memories attached to an object in order to entice the next generation to continue adding to the family story?

Some may question the need to preserve family history, to store and pass down artifacts, to go to the bother of gather-ing information and recording events. After all, what if no one in the next generation really cares about what happened in ours? Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote about her life of mov-ing, homesteading and growing up on the United States prairie in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. In her early sixties, she sent her book called, A Pioneer Girl, to the publisher only to have it rejected with the comment, “People lived through this so why would they want to read about it.”

Why indeed would someone who had lived the hardships want to read about them? With the help of her daughter she revised and edited the manuscript into smaller books geared for a younger audience who had not lived through that par-ticular era. A publisher accepted her revised work and the book came to market when Laura was sixty-five years old. They published a new one of her books each year until all eight books detailing her childhood reached the market.

A visit to Laura’s home town of DeSmet, South Dakota this past spring brought the urgency of preserving family history back to the forefront of my mind with a question I heard asked, “Who is preserving your generation’s stories and history?”

My children and grandchildren encourage, nag, or compel, the word choice depends on the day, me not just to write the stories I have collected from past generations, but to write my own stories, the stories of our immediate family and where we began. I discount the adventure they see in the tales I tell them, or its benefit. Then I remember the longing I experienced when I encouraged my parents to share their life stories and their reluctance to tell about what they had lived.

A Google search reveals a number of websites dedicated to helping people figure out how to preserve their family stories and keep memorabilia in a useable state. It took time to sort through the myriad number of sites and glean perti-nent information. On the Preserving Life Stories website it says, “It’s those family stories, the dreams and realities, the successes and failures, the joys and sorrows, life’s milestones and everyday living that give definition and depth to our families and keeps us connected to those loved ones that

have gone on before us. We’re creating a legacy.”

Keeping a record of family history allows for a cultural connection to form even when a family has mixed ethnic backgrounds. It helps the present generation connect with the cultures of their ancestors which helped shape who they are today. It can help families trace or find their origins, illuminate vital hereditary information and provide a living connection with the past.

There are a variety of ways to record family history. The easiest time is while we can still remember many of the details. By writing our family stories now, our children will have the opportunity to ask questions to help fill in gaps we may have missed. It gives us a chance to dialogue, to share lessons learned and memories made. In a day when Twit-ter and Facebook seem to give us glimpses into people’s everyday lives, they also pose a drawback to truly preserv-ing memories. The vast amount of material, photos and sound bite size postings make retrieval of specific informa-tion more difficult. How much do we omit since the world is viewing it and not just trusted friends or family?

I propose a few more permanent methods of keeping family memories preserved for future generations to enjoy, to shake their heads about, and maybe even to show a few emotions as they begin to feel connected to people who might other-wise only be a face in an old grainy photo or a name ban-died about by the old people.

1. Scrapbooking has become very popular in recent years, but in reality has been around, in various forms, for centuries. This method allows a combination of photos, small memorabilia and journal entries or short stories in one album. Today, the option of digital scrapbooking allows us to store more information in a smaller amount of room and makes it easier to share copies with many family members. Scanning items such as old letters or even trinkets adds a visual element to the story. The more detailed the journaling, including emotions, the better the picture of the person and events depicted.

2. Fill in the blank memory books. There are a variety of these beautifully bound and illustrated books on the market. In addition to places for family trees, they include questions to spark a conversation or the writ-ing of memories. One benefit of this style of memory preservation is how it answers the question, “What shall I write about?” by asking questions such as “What was a typical day in school like for you?” The downside is a lack of space to go into great detail without adding in

Continued on next page


extra pages. Most of the binding does not allow for addi-tional pages.

3. Oral storytelling. Technology offers options such as a digital voice recorder or video camera to record some-one telling family stories. Questions asked during the telling can spark more details from the teller. If you have inherited older style recordings such as cassettes or 8mm movies, you can adapt them to current technol-ogy. However, some may view this as a downside of this method of memory preservation. The benefit of this method is being able to see and hear the person telling the tales. Many family members are able to have copies making this method readily shareable.

4. Written Words. Writers may gravitate to this method first. As we listen to the stories, research additional historical information, and peruse the memorabilia and photos, we begin to form the story surrounding the facts. We take the lists, the items, the pictures and add in the personal thoughts, memories, and feelings to achieve a glimpse into the characters in our family tree. Looking at the personal perspectives we record gives us an opportunity to look at specific periods of history in a more personal manner. An example of this, from my husband’s family, are letters written from family in Southern England during both World Wars. It gives us a personal glimpse of events we heard about in our history classes. Reading these private letters between sisters gave a deeper meaning to the sacrifices ordinary folks needed to make in a war-torn world.

The key to preserving memories needs to be to stop procras-tinating and begin to share the stories of your life. Document

how you survived various situations, historic events you lived through or life changing events. Begin to interview older living relatives, like your parents or grandparents. Get their perspective and stories recorded before it is too late. Take time to sort photos, label who is in them and why they are significant in your family’s life. Ask the why questions. Dig into why something happened or why family members reacted to an event the way they did. Then do this for your own story as well. Assemble the facts before the keepers or owners of those facts vanish. We think we will always remember something, but we don’t. Avoid the boredom of a registry list of births and deaths by adding the stories.

Louisa May Alcott said, “Preserve your memories, keep them well, what you forget you can never retell.”

Each family member’s recollections might be different, even though they lived through the same events. Every person has their own unique perspective. It might be interesting to try and include various perspectives to give a more well-rounded view of a specific family event.

Are you ready to take out that box of bits, that trunk of fam-ily memorabilia, or dig into your own photos and treasures to pass along your family’s story to the next generation? If you are ready to take action, begin by considering these steps. Decide on a format for recording the information. Choose from ones I have mentioned or a mixture of styles. Choose a time frame to research and record, such as one generation, several family members’ perspectives, or simply your own chronological life story. Gather any materials you already have, acquire more from other family members, and research missing gaps. Enjoy the journey of recording and preserving family memories.

Carol Harr i son (continued)


I actually walked out of a church service one Sunday when the pastor, again, challenged us, “Are you talking to your neighbours about Christ?”

I had justified my angry action by telling myself I hated being pressured from the pulpit, but the truth was the fact that I knew I was going to refuse. Jesus said, “Go into all the world and make disciples,” and I wasn’t going to.

In my mind, such evangelical challenges put me into a state of willful disobedience, a state of sin. You can’t ask forgiveness if you don’t plan to repent and change your ways, and I did not. Hence my shameful exit.

I know people who are gifted evangelists. I applaud those who are able to share their faith with aplomb, no matter the setting, no matter the audience. And I’ve tried. I really have. Twice this past year family mem-bers have challenged my faith. After reading Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion, a relative raised the argu-ment that Christian-backed battles like the Crusades demonstrate how Christianity results in the massacre of innocents. The other challenged the exclusivity of the Christian claim that ours is the only way to God.

Perfect openings, right? Not for me. Each time, my anger flared as I filled with self-righteous offense. How dare they disrespect my God!

With the first fellow, I attempted an intelligent rebuttal, but he was more prepared and quickly shot me down. My ungodly response? “I don’t want to talk about this with you.” With the other person, I didn’t even try to make my point. Tail between my legs, I shifted the con-versation to another topic.

As a published author, an actual word crafter, one would expect me to be confidently verbose in sharing the truth of the gospel message. I do have a way with words, but it’s the written word, those that flow from my fingers, not the spoken word. When these people challenged my faith, it wouldn’t have worked to say, “Just a minute. I’ll write an essay that will speak to that.” They were prepared to do verbal battle, and I was not.

I believe in evangelism. I believe in the missionary cause. But I am not an evangelist or a missionary as defined by today’s church. I’m lousy at it.

Lord, I’ve prayed, I’m sorry for not carrying out your com-mand. Please put your words in my mouth at the opportune time so I can be in your will.

To date, those words have yet to traverse from my fin-gers to my tongue.

Through prayer, though, the Lord did bring a verse to my attention.

In 1 Thessalonians 4:11-12 Paul says, “Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life: You should mind your own business and work with your hands, just as we told you, so that your daily life may win the respect of outsiders and so that you will not be dependent on anybody.” (NIV)

As I meditated on that verse, the Lord impressed on me a personal understanding. Live the way I’ve taught you to live. Be the person I’ve made you to be. Tell your story without reserve. And in God’s grace, love others as I have loved you.

What I’ve come to understand is that vulnerability is, in itself, a witness. When others discover that I’ve lived through abuse and trauma, when they see the peace I have today, they may wonder how that’s possible. I don’t make a secret of being a Christian, so if the Lord is beginning to draw them to himself, maybe they’ll won-der if that’s the reason for my hope, and in their own time of suffering, take a chance and reach out to Christ.

For me, it’s not about memorizing the perfect theologi-cal argument. It’s about being obedient to God’s call in my day-to-day living. It’s about letting others see my peace, my joy, and how Christ is the foundation of my life. It’s about letting them see that even though I turn away from worldly temptations, I still find life exciting, fulfilling. It’s about being clear that I don’t take offense, that I accept people for who they are, and that I’ll reach out to help with no strings attached.

It’s about following the Lord wholeheartedly, and liv-ing my Christian walk out loud so others hear and see.

That, God has told me, is my evangelical mission.

And that’s a relief!

Second Place WinnerBOBBI JUNIOR

I Am Not An Evangel i st

OPINION PIECE


Adam has it good! Ish, man—whose name Atham means “red earth” (think Prince Edward Island), has it very good! His longing for perfect companionship is the long-ing of human beings: the intimate “bone of my bones,” “flesh of my flesh”—that overwhelming assurance of total union is his. (Genesis 2:7, 18, 21-24)

Adam doesn’t have to go through the painful searching for the ideal mate, the false starts, the horrors of baring one’s soul and having it trampled upon, the agony of try-ing again, or the desperate, howling loneliness of giving up.

Sure, he has to lose one little rib, but he’s conked out when it happens…seems to be worth it. Then, God brings his perfect helpmate right to him.

Adam’s been doing a lot of naming. Isha, woman, mean-ing “from man,” is also labelled. Atham has no parents to leave, but the Narrator tells us this: from the time of Adam’s and Eve’s creation on, a man must leave his par-ents and cleave, cling or hold fast to his wife.

So, we have our marching orders: Leave parents, physically, emotionally. Then, קברו (rah-back): “cleave,” “cling,” or “hold fast.” It has the sense of “a tying tight” as in “tying the knot.”

But, dare I entrust all that I am, and hope to be, to one fallible human being, no matter how attractive, no matter how much that one does or does not remind me of Mom or Dad?

Dare I? Short answer—“No”— if this were a movie, the audience would warn—as one—“Don’t do it! Don’t leave and cleave! Don’t you know the statistics, how many marriages fail? How can you even consider it?”

How? Well, could the biblical text (1 Corinthians 13:1-10) provide the guidance needed to be brave? Let’s apply it to marriage.

If I say that I love you, but I constantly undermine your self-esteem, I’m just a noisemaker. If I’m very knowledge-able, even able to foresee the future, and have enough faith to end global warming, but lack love, I’m nada, zilch, absent. If my belongings are shared, my body run down in working for you, but I don’t love, I lose!

A SAMPLE CORINTHIANS-BASED CHECK-LIST

1) Have I been wilful, stubborn, arrogant, irritable, to my spouse today?

Yes? Then I don’t have love. I have a power-trip. Time to change power-source!

2) Have I treated my helpmate far more rudely than I treat my co-workers or friends?

Yes? Then I don’t have love. I’m an abuser/user … I have to ask myself, “Am I for show or for real?”

3) Was I pleased that s/he was short-tempered, “buying” me a chance to be the same?

Yes? Then I don’t have love. I’m playing a trade-off game no person can win.

The sense of that Hebrew word, קברו (rah-back), “to cleave or cling,” is “ligature,” a tying together, an intimate meshing, intertwining. Without ongoing love, there is ripping apart, quickly or s-l-o-w-l-y.

God’s supernatural love strengthens our feeble love-efforts. Our human love is only as good as its reflection of the Creator’s love.

God’s love heals and strengthens the lover and the loved. What are some results?

1) Game-free relationships nourishing a couple and those around them.

2) When purely human love says “No way!”—God-love gives the strength to forgive and try again.

3) There’s a sexual bond that is tender and powerful beyond description.

4) There’s a spiritual relationship with God, producing a supernatural one with your partner.

With God’s help, all these may be yours.

Amen.

Third Place Winner

PATRICIA ANNE ELFORDReflect ions on a Ribbing (A Wedding Message)

OPINION PIECE


OPINION PIECE

“Aha!” I said. I knew it was in the Bible somewhere. And there it stood: “Do not curse the deaf or put a stumbling block in front of the blind, but fear your God. I am the Lord” (Leviticus 19: 14). Moses, God’s great spokesman, said it to his people.

Let me inform you that I wear a hearing aid and glass-es. By Children of Israel standards of old, without these aids, I would probably not pass the Ancient Near East-ern regulations and their national fitness tests. I might be legally blind and deaf.

That scripture is for me. People shall treat me with all due kindness. It says so in the Bible.

Do not curse the deaf. Do not hinder the blind. These commands stand in the midst of other injunctions: do not hold back wages; do not spread slander; do not endanger your neighbour; do not pervert justice.

But wait. It also says do not clip the edges of your beard. I will have to study Leviticus 19 with more dili-gence.

Moses was teaching his people about social organiza-tion now that they were no longer slaves in Egypt. This was more about social welfare and justice within a new society. It dealt with how the disadvantaged and handi-capped should be treated by the majority of able-bodied people.

But societies change; governmental laws change in dealing with welfare and justice and human interac-tions. Situations change. And thus our interpretations of the scriptures change. Many no longer have beards and trimming meant something to biblical men which is lost to us.

It says nothing of demanding my rights because I am handicapped but it asks me to treat others kindly. How, then, shall we read “Do not curse the deaf”?

Firstly, we see and hear it through the eyes and ears of the original hearers. What did it mean to them living in

Honourable Mention

ALVIN ENS Do Not Curse the Deaf

the Ancient Near East? Moses did not want his new so-ciety disrupted or the disadvantaged to be ignored. No longer was it the strong man who inflicted his will but a system of justice, morality, and altruism that should prevail.

Secondly, practices change over time but God’s prin-ciples remain. The practice of looking after the handi-capped may change over time as our social welfare system changes but the principle of looking to the needs of the handicapped does not change. Once it meant that people cleared a path of obstacles so the blind not stum-ble; today it may mean that we have medical insurance to buy glasses for those with weak eyes.

Thirdly, a command for one society shall be recon-firmed by what the totality of scripture teaches in other societies throughout the bible times, specifically in the New Testament and as taught by Jesus. The injunc-tion not to trim the beard does not recur and perhaps it doesn’t apply to my society.

Fourthly, some teachings of Leviticus 19 are already principles and apply to all societies even today as “do not spread slander.” Perhaps “do not curse the deaf” is such a principle. I do not want to curse anyone, espe-cially one who cannot hear. But then, the wider prin-ciple of respecting the handicapped shall also come into play.

And lastly, I shall beware of proof-texting, of finding in the Bible that which I want to find: of “how can I justify that which I already believe?” or “what’s in it for me?” or “how can I take one part of scripture and ignore the rest” mentality. I want to use God’s sacred Word in total in how I shall live.

But I never want to stand on the Bible as my charter of human rights which God gives me. I want to see it as a mandate of how I shall treat others. I will be quick to apply scripture to how I shall live and slow to interpret it to how others shall live or how they shall react to me.


He often falls into fire (2X)

It seizes the boy and he suddenly screamsDesperate man comes to Jesus’ feetSpirit then throws him onto the groundHe foams at the mouth and growls at the crowd

He often falls into fire (2x)

His father calls, “can you help me?”My son has a demon and it never leavesI asked your disciples and they couldn’t makeThe pain go away or the demon obey


How long has this been going on?Into water and flame he often is thrownHave compassion on us if only you can

Third Place Winner

WAYNE BOS • He Often Fal l s Into Fi re

When my eyes no longer seeThe path You have for meWhen my feet begin to stumble on the wayCall me back to your sideAnd there I will abideIn the shelter of your love I will stay

When my problems weigh me downAnd peace cannot be foundWhen I’m tempted to complain and wonder whyDraw me back to your WordAnd let your voice be heardLord, hold me in your arms when I cry

Chorus

Trusting You, Lord, I’m trusting YouWhen I don’t know what to doI’ll trust in YouYou will calm all my fearsAnd wipe away my tearsI’ll face all of my tomorrowsTrusting You

When my hope is almost goneIt’s You I lean uponYour promises I’ve proven to be trueYou are my Faithful FriendYou’ll be with me to the endSo I will put my hope and trust in You

As I open your door Like I’ve done a thousand times or more beforeYou turn to me.I can see it in your eyesThat you’re finally realizing how I feelBut you’ve got to leave.

Letting go, letting go It hurts my heart the way I knew it would Letting go, letting go I’m hanging on more than I really should.

For my little boy’s a manAnd you’re holding someone else’s hand not mineBut I promise youThat at three o’clock todayWhen I watch as you say I doI’ll smile for you.

Thinking back on all those years when you were just a childYou never wanted to let go, and I knew you were mine.

Letting go, letting go It hurts my heart the way I knew it would Letting go, letting go Even though I’m hurting I find I am learning (That) I will love you most by letting go.

SONGWRITING • Lyrics OnlyFirst Place Winner

SHARON CAVERS a n d SHAREEN ROXBOROUGH

Trust ing You

Second Place Winner

SALLY MEADOWS a n d STAN GARCHINSKI

Lett ing Go

From childhood he’s been unable to stand

He often falls into fire (2X)

If only I can is not your concernA lesson of trust I want you to learnIf you believe and take me by faithI’ll move any mountain that stands in your way.


Disturbed disciples asked Jesus, “why?Unbelief keeps you from moving this kindA Question for all that we must equateDemons will come, will we have enough faith?

He often falls into fire (2x)Fade on 3rd.


God, from whom all blessings fallGod of the heavens, and of the earth

God of Warren, the boy held up to all of us at church The boy who got honours Who spoke from the pulpit Who embodied every parent’s dream Who tried to kill himself ’til he succeeded; God of the son nobody could hear.

God of the child who came over to play Who waited in Alistair’s snow covered yard Who romped in the chill while Alistair ate Whose scarf became tangled in the branch of a tree Who was dead when Alistair came out to play; God of the neighbour boy, now gone away.

God of the three-year-old Williamson girl Loved by her parents Thirteen siblings in all Less this one child who fell on a knife And brought the number of living to twelve; God of the sister, never forgotten.

God of sixteen-year-old Ted, who taught swimming Whose legs swelled huge at the pool one day Who we sent to the hospital by cab, on his own Whose funeral was held six weeks later His coffin carried past giggling youth; God of this teen who was not immortal.

God of our Lindy, the child of my womb, Who lived a life that knew no want Her existence complete in every way Filled with love, with all she required, All but the lungs she needed to breath; God of Wendy, who lived until she was born.

God of sorrow, of truth, of end,God of tomorrow, of now, of then,God from whom all blessings fallGod, my Destination, my only All.

At last! My life will start—beginning with this interview.No more will I sit stalled, awaiting my map while others speed ahead.

Airborne, I launch from step to walk—then stop.There taunts the truck in rusty, tilted pose.Keys in hand, I close my eyes, “Lord, a little miracle, please.”My stomach cranked tight, I turn the keyAnd draw forth a clattering, false start.I wince as silence slams my head.I scan the wide fields that hold me small hostage of their openness.The truck, my silent prison guard, taunts me in its grip.Again, I pump the gas and do my part.Unyielding in its stolid stubbornness, it withholds all sym-pathy.

Frustration churns my good intentions, imprisoned in im-movable restlessness.“After all other roadblocks have stopped my progressIs it distance and conveyance that now keep me parked,Alone and miniscule in this sprawling land,Driven to succeed but braked by lifeless implement?”

In silence, I roar at God.“Are You here in this cracked vinyl and dust,Holding back my hope for happiness?Must I wait for some timelier dot in history?What wisdom condemns with heartless certaintyMy innocent, heartfelt drive to serve, proceed, and die in peace?”

And from the silence, His patient, quiet voice replies,“Did Joseph lunge against the chainsOr pound on cold, unyielding prison door?Did David groan for freedom from the caveOr Daniel rage above the lions’ roar?And yet, my wisdom for them reigned supreme.

“Their day, though slow, came gilded,Entering on life’s road redeemedAnd my glory still shone splendid.Even a life not written has its worth.Wait, and you will yet accelerateBy my blessed, joyful push.”

With lowered head, I close my eyes,“Lord, teach me patience as I obey.” We step together from the old truck To travel roads mapped for eternity,Not simply earth’s jostling, troubled journey.

POETRY • Up to 40 lines, Any styleFirst Place Winner

BOBBI JUNIORLament for the Chi ldren

(Free Verse)

Second Place Winner

SHERI HATHAWAYThe O ld Truck


With the highway rendered treacherousBy a late spring winter storm,Its navigation, heavy with wet snow and slushJolts us into a sudden skid.We stare ahead, helplessAs jostled by the car’sUnplanned maneuversWe are propelled toward a deep ditch.Oh Lord, pleaseNot down there!Just at the brinkThe car turns,Erratically crosses the road,Narrowly misses the opposite ditch.

Relieved, heartbeats settle downAs we journey on.

Then, without warning, we areThrust into a repeat performance.Oh no, what if we go down this time?What if our children have to hearTheir parents are injured or killed?Again the car executes itsTerrifying gyrationsAll over the road, then stopsOn the edge of the shoulder.

A second relief!But twice is too much.We wait for the snowplow to pass,Then gratefully follow.The pace is slower, but safer.

Since we know not if or whenUnexpected skids may alarm usAs we travel through life,Let us follow and trustIn God, our faithful Guide.The pace may be slowerBut it will definitelyBe safer.

Winter’s wrap is grey and brown.Fog and snow lay heavily downWhile inside, glows a shiny gold—Goblets of summer’s memories old.

In orange brilliance, arrayed in rows,They melt the gloom of ice and snow.August wealth shames winter’s dressLike smiles that warm a heart’s distress.

Sunset hastens the afternoon.The dimming light fades much too soonBut in my kitchen with warm bouquet,I recall summer’s long, rich day!

POETRY • Up to 40 lines, Any styleThird Place Winner

SHERI HATHAWAY Making Marmalade in Winter

Honourable Mention

L. MARIE ENNS Travel Alarm


InScribe Fall Conference 2017Evaluation Comments


InScribe Fall Conference 2017Evaluation Comments continued


Christmas Anthology Launch


Tandy Balson was the recipient of InScribe’s 2017 Barnabas Fellowship Award. The Barnabas Fellowship winner is selected by the Barnabas Award Committee from applications submitted by InScribe Members. The Barnabas Fellowship is a $250 grant, made by an anonymous donor, which is awarded to one member each year at InScribe’s annual Fall Conference. The Fellowship is meant to encourage recipients and help them further their writing career.

TANDY BALSON

Barnabas Award Winner

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