Tuesday, 20 June 2017

Tears in Heaven


Heaven is supposed to be a happy place but seems to me the luster had dimmed somewhat that day long ago, and the sparkle had gone out of the eyes of the ones circled around the throne.   Ten thousand angels with drooping wings were pleading with Jesus.

               “Don’t go, please don’t go. You’ll meet with suffering and persecution down there.”
               “They’ll never appreciate you as much as we do.”
               “Jesus, You told us yourself that You’ll be crucified. That is so unfair, so unjust! Surely there is another way.”
               Then Jesus met His Father’s love-filled eyes and the power in that beam caused the voices around Him to become like an indistinct murmur.
               “I’ll do anything for you, Father, absolutely anything,” He communicated wordlessly just as His Father knew He would.
               Jesus had died and rose again, as predicted, He had suffered scorn and reproach, been spat upon, beaten and His crucifixion was more brutal than any before or since because He carried your sins and mine to the cross with Him.
               Just as He knew would happen, the scorn and rejection did not vanish with the resurrection, but He had left the peace and joy in Heaven for our sakes, not His. 
               Saul was a particularly zealous enemy of Christ, and while still a young man, took care of the coats of those who were deliberately hurling stones at a follower of Jesus to kill Him.

               That was only the beginning of Saul’s evil campaign; later on, he marched off to Damascus with the intention of irradiating as many Christians as possible. However, the Heavenly Father loved that fiercely determined young man. He saw that he was sincere—but mistakenActs 9 NKJV - The Damascus Road: Saul Converted - Bible Gateway

            
   Things changed radically for Saul. Even his name was changed, and the newly converted Paul worked tirelessly for the new Master whom he adored.
               Adored, you say? Isn’t this the same man who was bound and determined to go to Jerusalem even though he had been warned repeatedly that he would face bonds and imprisonment there? https://www.google.ca/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwjxsKrUrszUAhUHx2MKHYFgDQAQFggoMAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fbiblehub.com%2Facts%2F21-11.htm&usg=AFQjCNG_6wSo-X2XC7zTiyM0mnbMKhNcGg&sig2=w87sfmwbYFGDv56rGWxTLQ biblehub.com/acts/20-23.htm  Wasn’t he being a stubborn old codger to go against the advice of so many of  brothers and sisters in Christ? I don’t think so. Take note of how much the fellow believers loved him, how they wept over him, and eagerly hung on to his every word even long into the night.
               Remember how he persecuted the church? Here was a man who, in worshipful adoration, was trying to make amends. Here was someone who was so grateful he would do anything for the One who had came down from Heaven to rescue him.

            Do you remember how the angels may have pleaded with Jesus not to go but He went anyway?  Few of us have been asked to sacrifice as much as Paul was, but he caught the vison of what Jesus had done for Him and couldn’t do enough in return. 

Thursday, 1 June 2017

What Do You Have to Offer

Don’t be ashamed of your past, don’t be ashamed because your skin is darker than mine—I’m not white either, but peaches and cream!
               The white race should collectively hang their heads if they think they are superior. We are historically known for being assertive and materialist, for getting things done, but is that really what counts?
               You have traditions, gentler customs than we are known for, and it brings tears to my eyes and I’m not the weepy type. Some of you come from cultures that deeply respect your elders, may God bless you.  When so many from the same area are sweet and mannerly, I know it’s more than just a coincidence.
               Okay, it’s time to get more specific. I was reading Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul Book 2 just now and these Native American’s girls had the custom of spending one day alone, each month, during their menstrual cycle to contemplate on what kind of person they wanted to become. Was that part of your lineage? Just imagine the quality of character that could develop from taking the time to prayerfully meditate beginning in your formative years and continuing throughout life.
               Now, let’s go way across the ocean, to the other side of the world, and learn about a different group of women. These wonderful African ladies obviously valued children highly: well before the child was born, even before conception had taken place, they would go off alone to listen to the song of the infant they hoped to carry.  All throughout the pregnancy, they will sing this song, and teach it to the old women and midwives in the village. At birth, the child is greeted by ‘their’ song and soon all the village learns it so that at every high point, or time of distress, it is being sung to the growing child and later adult.
Doesn’t that sound so peaceful and loving? Doesn’t it seem like a beautiful way to knit family members, a village, together? I only wish I knew more details about these wonderful people, where they came from, what their names were, and so on.
               Lift up your heads, you ‘colored’ people, you have so much to offer! (And don’t forget we are actually more colored than you. We blush with embarrassment; turn green with envy, blue with cold, pale with shock, you name it!)

If you like this author how about checking her website: www.marilynshistoricalbooks.com

If The Missions Impossible, What Shall I Do?

Andy looked towards the top of the mountain but couldn’t see it. You see he was only an ant, but he had a job to do, he hoisted his backpack and started crawling… and crawling. It was impossible to see the path through the maze of grass, gravel, fallen leaves and other obstacles but he must get to the top. Every day for as long as he could remember he had been traveling upward, and much of the time the trip was exceedingly difficult. He was lost, Andy knew it; he hadn’t been able to find the trail for days, but knew it must be there somewhere. Surely, if he kept climbing in the right general direction he would get there; after all, he was climbing upwards.
Andy was exhausted. The sun was beating mercilessly on his head, had been for hours now, and the load was getting heavier by the minute. Could things get any worse? They could. Other ants were making their way back, tired and discouraged.

“It’s not enough,” they lamented, “You’ll have to hurry, our little anthills of good deeds are not enough to appease the Creator.
“What about those who have been martyrs: their piles are made up the pain they have suffered, are their offerings more acceptable?”
The only one not too weary to respond shook his head. “All of our offerings look pitiful; I don’t know why we try.”  At that, the other insects hissed angrily and there was such a clamor of protests that Andy crawled away to find shelter under a leaf.
He wondered for a long time what he should do if they toiled all day and long into the night yet their efforts weren’t satisfactory.  At length, he fell asleep.

“Andrew! Andrew!”
Andy stirred and opened his eyes but saw no one. There was a soft glow off to one side so focused on it.
“You are not an ant, but a man,” the melodious voice continued. “The one you call your master has convinced you that you are worthless, of no more significance that a lowly insect, but that is not so.
“Come let me take your burden, and as you share your worries with me, you will find the weight shrinking and you, yourself, will grow into the person you were meant to be.”
Andy turned over and went back to sleep, but in the morning the vision had not left him.
“I don’t know who you are, Sir,” he whispered into the air, but could you come and help me carry my weight?”
Immediately he felt his chest expand as if he could breathe easier and he was able to walk faster.
As the days went by, he found himself sharing more of the load with the unseen Comforter. Other ants looked up at him, puzzled, he was changing, growing, but not in a fearsome way. His face took on more human characteristics, such as kindliness and joy. Every time he helped someone with their troubles, he grew.
One day he shed the mold that was cramping him and was able to gaze into the eyes of his new Master.
Thank you for loving me enough to set me free,” he whispered.
The other ants still clamored around him, belittling him, accusing and distracting him, but he had a new Master.
That made such a difference.

If you want to choose a meaningful book you can keep and reach for time and time again, check out this website:
www.marilynshistoricalnovels.com

Sunday, 21 May 2017

What Really Matters

I made myself a new friend. Ah me, what a dream, I haven’t even met her! Let’s start again; I wish I could have her for a dear friend. Everyone applauds her for her sewing ability and no doubt, it was wonderful, but I don’t think that is the reason people cried when she died suddenly. Would you weep just because someone who made you a garment passed away? I think not. Would you if you were desperately poor, and it was the only decent thing you had to wear? I doubt it, after all, a brand new, possibly heavy, homespun garment would last quite a while, and even if it didn’t, that isn’t what you would remember her by.
               Really? So what was? Dorcas was one special woman. Her heart was overflowing with love. These were poverty-stricken widows and others to whom she ministered. Widows, get that? Wives’ and mothers whose husbands’, the father to their children, had died, possibly drowned at sea because Joppa was a seacoast town. They were heartbroken, lonesome and she cared.
Sure, they showed anyone interested the tangible evidence of how kind she was to them, but that wasn’t the most important part.
Here was someone that loved them, shared their suffering and when she died they couldn’t bear to let her go.
               I guess Peter couldn’t either, because when he was summoned from a nearby town, he dropped everything he was doing, and came.
               It was a tremendous miracle when Dorcas rose from the dead and many became Christians because of it, but let’s not remember her for doing acts of mercy, but for showing compassion.

               Hey, Dorcas, may I get to know you in Heaven and be your friend, there?

Friday, 19 May 2017

I ReCALLED It!

RECALL!! Did you order a copy of Two Mothers, Twin Daughters and find that some chapters had been duplicated? If this is your experience please send the copy to me and I will replace it free of charge. (Meet me on Hangouts for my address.)

Two mothers fleeing the British Isles during World War Two. Why does one worry about being a war bride, while the other one, who is married to a widower, seem more content? Why does Grace, the younger one, give one, but only one of her twin daughters away? Why was Grace's husband sent home from the war? What will it be like leaving a city in England while bombs are exploding and submarines lurking, to settle in a Canadian wilderness? What will happen to the identical twins? How will they cope if, or rather when, they find out they have been separated as newborns? 
Book One of the Grace's Dilemma Series.

Check back from time to time and you will find out when the revised version is ready. Yes, it will be better than ever.
www.marilynshistoricalnovels.com


Tuesday, 2 May 2017

What's Worse the Present or the Future?



No, I haven't been in la-la land the last few weeks but I have been wrapping up the first book in a series called Grace's Delima. How can Grace cope with a war going on, forbidding parents, a charismatic but absent husband, and being a pregnant teenage war bride? To top it off she is supposed to leave England and end up in some Canadian wilderness she has never heard of. Here's just a nibble to whet your appetite. It's the first chapter.
Grace staggered: extreme exhaustion caused her to slump against the rail of the ship, Tena-rae. The last few weeks had taken such a heavy toll on her both physically and emotionally. It made her heart ache even worse when arm in arm a group of girls leaned against the rail and crooned “The White Cliffs of Dover" as a tribute to their homeland. When the thick gloomy fog had thinned somewhat, she saw those white chalk cliffs rearing up in their entire splendor next to the choppy ocean. The girls had moved along, still singing, but Vera Lynn’s words floated back to her:
‘There'll be love and laughter
 And peace ever after tomorrow
When the world is free.’

Like wisps of fog, vestiges of final moments with her mother stained her cheeks.
"Get out of my life! You are a disgrace! You are good for nothing!' Her mother's harsh shriek rang in her ears, crushing her spirit.
Grace's blue-gray eyes burned with unshed tears. Am I good for nothing, she mutely asked the wisps of fog floating by. If I am, then why was I born? If my heart were any heavier, it would sink like a stone in this vast gray expanse of ocean. She hated anyone to see her crying so bit her lip to steady it. The memories of her mother, Mrs. Adderley's, raging voice were harder to still.
"We taught you not to go to the bar! We told you not to get involved with those drunken Canadian soldiers!"


"But it wasn't a bar!" Grace protested. "It was at the community center and most of the soldiers drank very moderately."

           It had felt hopeless trying to reason with her mother's rigid back turned towards her, so Grace faced the moisture streaked kitchen window instead. She stared unseeingly into the darkness to hide the teardrops that managed to trickle out between half-closed eyelids then mindlessly swished the dishes that her mother had left for her to do, through the sudsy water.

Grace was a thoughtful, respectful girl, perhaps a little shy, so it was a breathtaking day in her boring life when she and her friend first met those two Canadian soldiers. They, especially the auburn haired one, looked so sharp in their crisp, khaki uniform. She and her school chum, Betsy, had been walking home from school, arms laden with books. The sky had been a bright pretty blue, which was a luxury after so much rain and fog. In a few days, the academy would be close for the summer break, and they were walking along with light, brisk steps.

Then, stepping smartly, two soldiers pivoted around the corner, saluted, and offered to carry their books. Grace had caught her breath and stared. What could have been more flattering than having such incredibly good-looking privates salute them? She still marveled at how easy it had been to chat with those courteous strangers with intriguing Canadian accents.




Grace’s lips curved upwards at the memory. I am normally so reserved, yet I actually bantered and giggled with them even more than Betsy did! It would have astonished the schoolmaster, and probably most of the scholars. Her smile faded, but it did feel like the real me.

Almost without noticing, their feet had carried them far beyond the Adderley's home street. Flustered, she had tried to take her books away from her companion, Randall Sutherland, but he just held on the tighter. "Not unless you come with me to the dance tonight," he teased with an easy grin.

The color drained from Grace's cheeks; she clearly remembered her reaction. A dance? I've never gone to a dance in my life! Dances are wicked! I know that. It was not dancing that tempted Grace, but the opportunity to get to know Randall better. We wouldn't have to dance, would we? Maybe we could just, well... stroll around in the moonlight as they do in storybooks. Alternatively, maybe we could, uh, sit and visit or something.

Looking back, Grace knew that it was then that she felt the first niggling pang of uneasiness, but she had been too busy laughing at Randall and the other private's nonsense to pay much attention. Grace's head lowered, shamefaced. The soldiers had teased and wheedled them, drawing attention to Grace's bouncy curls that were shiny as a raven's wing’.
They praised her petal soft cheeks 'that an angel would envy’ and teased Betsy about the cute uptilt of her freckled nose.
"Two such charming girls should not be allowed to shrivel up 'like dried old apples'," Randall had declared.
Finally, laughingly, Grace had given in, just as Randall un-wrapped a sweet and popped it into her mouth.
"Just this once:" she sputtered, trying to speak sternly but had dissolved into giggles. She resorted to covering her mouth to keep from drooling!

Grace didn't recall where Betsy and the other soldier had wandered off. They had strolled away in a different direction while Grace happily trotted beside a soldier who was chivalrously carrying her books.
They had been strolling for a long time, Grace unconsciously detouring the streets where there was the most severe bomb damage. It had been easy to prattle lightly about many things, and forget the heavy cares of a war going on at least for the moment, then, feeling wonderfully weary; they collapsed on a sheltered bench in a common.
Randall unceremoniously dumped her books on the grass beside him and reached for her in, what struck her as a rather possessive manner, Grace shrank back alarmed, so he quickly released her, but left his arm resting on the back of the bench.
They chatted until Grace saw dusk creeping on and worried about not going directly home after school.
What if the air siren went off? Where would they go? She looked around for an air raid shelter. They were so far from the black, stuccoed cottage she called home. Will my parents be anxious?  Grace hoped so but seriously doubted it. She was more concerned about her mother's fury. Even though it was her final year at the secondary school, her mother had many ironclad rules to keep her in line and her father half-heartedly submitted to them. Coming straight home was one of the ordinances. She knew there would be more waiting for her than gentle concern or even a stern reproof for not showing up promptly.
How was I supposed to have gotten out of this difficult situation?
"Oh well, the damage is done," Randall grinned mischievously. "If you're going to get into trouble anyway, you might as well make it worth their while. Why not go out for supper-- I mean High Tea with me? I'll treat you to steak, roast beef with Yorkshire pudding...kidney pie, or whatever your British appetite is craving."
Grace doubted that even the more swish restaurants could offer such swell fare in these hard times but her mouth watered at the prospect after so many months of unwelcome rationing.
"If you will allow me to ring up Mom from the pub you want to take me to," she bargained, “then I’ll go. He nonchalantly agreed.
Thinking back, Grace could easily recall how her face flamed as her mother's strident voice carried over the wire. How many of those patrons heard the dressing-down I got?
The scene that occurred after the dance was one that she would rather blot from her memory. Even though she had hurried to do the dishes left for her, and make amends in other ways, it was impossible to appease them.
The anger! The mistrust! The accusations! Doesn't Mom have any faith in me at all? Why couldn't Dad have said just one word in my favor? I have never defied their wishes before! Had they not taught me to be uncommonly obedient? I even stammered out an apology that I really meant.
It was not well received. What a relief when she was able to slip off to her dreary attic bedroom. After she had washed the dishes, dried, and stacked them in the cupboards, her mother had turned to rail on Dad.
 That night Grace felt like her vision cleared since then she became increasingly impatient with her elderly parents' medieval ways.
Abruptly her thoughts switched channels. Oh, I wish Randall's gaiety didn’t come from a bottle, so often. He is a wonderful young man, so charming and well mannered: her doesn’t need drink to boost his morale!
A scene from one of their many times together floated into her memory: "Randall you had one drink, already, must you have another?" she had reached out to touch the cold glass.
"I'm fine, Sweet: no need to worry. I can hold my liquor. This will be the last. You should taste it. It's quite pleasant, in fact." She shuddered in refusal and he didn't pressure her.
www.marilynshistoricalnovels.com

Monday, 24 April 2017

Behind a Boarded Up Window

Some people you never forget, no matter how much muddy or swift flowing water runs under the bridge. YOU are one of those people. It's been months now since our contact was broken but I still think about you and pray for you from time to time. My heart is heavy. You or someone like you from that sex slave commune reached out to me, I tried to help, in weakness, I tried to do my little part but the contact was broken. I grieve for you knowing how desperately evil your 'masters' are. But what can we do when even the local police are in cahoots with the perpetrators? Thank you for being brave enough to open your hearts and share with me. I know several of you did after I gained your trust, but now I am left in the dark yet I can still pray. Have any of you been able to escape? What wouldn't I give to reconnect and have you call me Mommy, again?
Here's the article that got me thinking about you once more. XOXOX!!

Behind a Boarded Up Window


Good morning, dear one. Did you think I had forgotten you completely? At first, I was picturing you standing lonesomely by a small window and looking up at the stars, but then I remembered, you don’t even have that option.
Behind a boarded up window: never to see the cheery sunshine dappling the leaves and making the flowers to glow, never to feel the soft breeze against your skin or enjoy the scent of fresh new growth…
Did you think I have forgotten you? No, never. I am sorrowful that our connection was lost, and pray earnestly that it can be restored once again. I pray that you can feel Jesus’ Presence surrounding you and comforting you. I hope and pray that somehow you will be able to see this message. That would be so delightful!
And by posting this I am praying that others will become aware of the slavery that is going on behind closed doors. It is my longing and heartfelt desire that through united, fervent prayers girls like you will be set free both spiritually and physically.
Have I forgotten you and your companions that I think of as my beloved children? No never, not for a moment. You are in my heart and prayers. Someday, somehow Jesus will set you free.

Keep praying, and I will too. Oh, I do hope this message will get to you. Remember; always remember that I love you and that Jesus’ love is strong and eternal. Keep trusting in Him. ‘They’ can’t take that away.
XOXOX

www.marilynshistoricalnovels.com