Showing posts with label Marilyn Friesen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marilyn Friesen. Show all posts

Thursday, 28 September 2017

What's Wrong With Mommy?

If you haven't popped in it to order to get your copy of Two Mothers,  Twin Daughters, I don't blame you.  I would have waited 'til December to get into the contest also. I just needed to advertise early for publicity sake. Anyway, I'm here to give you a peek into the sequel.
Emily had no way of knowing what was making her mother so unhappy but she was worried. As the six-year-old girl trotted along the empty tracks beside her Grandpa she wasn’t prattling in her usual happy way and Ben’s brow furrowed. How can I get her to not think about the tension in the home?
He had never seen Marita so close to hysteria before. Something was definitely on her mind and Randall, his son and Marita’s husband was determined to get it out of her. Ben’s frown deepened. Could any good come out of the confrontation?
Ben had whisked the little girl out of the house before the showdown occurred but not soon enough to avert his granddaughter’s puzzling
There’s nothing to worry about, “ he said taking her hand. “Look! There’s a little bird. What do you think it is?”
A robin,” she responded, barely glancing at it. She picked up a lump of coal had fallen out of a train car and rolled it between her hands.
As they trudged along, Ben racked his brains for a way to cheer the youngster. He wondered how far they would have to go before daring to turn back.
Emily’s face lighted as she skipped over to the shining rail, and teetered on top of it.
Hold my hand, Gran’pa. I want to walk on it.”
Ben inwardly groaned That’s a job for her mother to do.

Evidently, she doesn’t think I’m doing a good enough job, he thought a moment later, as she hopped off to gather some black-eyed Susan’s and purple asters.

Let’s give these to Mommy. That’ll make her happy.” Soon an eagle high in the sky saw two small figures trudging down a long railway.

Saturday, 26 November 2016

Reading for Peace

I have nothing to brag about: I am a loving mother and grandmother who has written since the age of eleven. History and compassion are deeply entwined in my stories and articles. I chose to write from the heart rather than anything sensational which is why my books may never reach best-seller lists, but I do hope they will be found by those people whose hearts would be warmed. My website describes each book and provides links to where they may be purchased.

Thursday, 13 October 2016

What Works Best, Cracked or Uncracked?

A water bearer in India had two large pots, which he hung one on each end of a pole across his shoulders. One of the cruses had a crack in it while the other one was perfect. It was a long walk from the stream to the master’s house, but this one never failed to deliver a full portion. On the other hand, the cracked container would arrive sadly depleted. Of course, the perfect vessel was proud of his accomplishments, and the poor, cracked container felt ashamed and miserable that it could do only half of what it was made to do.
After two years of perceiving, he was a bitter failure, the damaged crock spoke to the water deliverer one day by the watercourse. “I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you.”
“Why,” asked the surprised water carrier. “What are you ashamed of?”

Thursday, 30 June 2016

Lost Among Big and Little Bears

Lost Among Big and Little Bears

Okay, okay, I admit I am a bit of a tease and like to throw out random parts of my story for you to analyse. What do you think happened before and after this excerpt?

M eanwhile, Marita was much happier than Margaret feared she would be.  She was singing while unpacking at the logging camp where they had spent so many busy weeks the winter before.

The rest of the logging crew wouldn’t arrive for a few days but she didn’t mind. They were going to have a little vacation before work began.

Marita longed to hike over the crunchy softness of fallen leaves, and breathe deeply of the fragrant piney air, but that would have to wait. There were windows to restore to sparkling brightness, cob webs to whisk away, clothes to unpack and dinner to get onto the wooden plank table. Later there would be time!

As she picked up her dust cloth the ringing sound of an axe greeted her ears. Randall was preparing kindling for the cook stove. She smiled, grateful that he was doing his part. That meant he was probably in a good mood.

Although it was hard in some ways, she enjoyed life in the lumber camps. The women were generally more sociable there than in the big cities and drink was not allowed on site. When Randall worked so desperately hard in the crisp, clean air, he rarely woke up from one of those devastating nightmares which he incoherently would try to describe to her sometimes, leaving her feeling chilled.

Just then a chickadee trilled merrily through the open window and she whistled back. The bird winged off with Marita’s troubles and they fluttered away in the soft, balmy sunshine.

Three year old Emily caught her mother’s jolly mood and was frolicking just outside the door. A thin layer of golden aspen leaves was floating softly to the ground. Emily shuffled through them, watching as they mounded up on either side of her tiny feet. Oh how she delighted in the bright autumn colors!

Tall skinny poplars were springing up everywhere.  In the distance
massive cone bearing trees sort of took over, crowding out the kinds of trees that gaily fluttered their buttery-yellow finery.

Emily skipped over to a nearby clapboard cottage so similar in appearance to their own. She knocked at the door but there was no answer so looked in at the window but nobody was home. Not even the three bears invited her for tea!

Maybe after nighttime they’ll come, she decided. “Everyone will
come soon: for sure after nighttime.

She flung her arms out wide then twirled around a small sapling.

A small stuffed toy was partly concealed in the falling leaves.
She had discarded it earlier that morning while jumping out of the truck.

“Teddy!” she cried, “My teddy!”

Marita smiled while listening to the joyful voice of her small daughter then went to the bedroom to unpack the bedding and clothes.

Meanwhile Emily fiercely hugged her plump teddy bear, then dragging it by one fuzzy brown leg trotted off into the woods, after a red-wing blackbird who warbled merrily. Soon Emily’s lilting voice was also singing.

“Teddy, Ted-dee You are mine you see Teddy… Ted-dee You are mine, you see.”
A tiny footpath invited her to come deeper into the woods.
After skipping along for a while she beheld with wondering eyes a gurgling brook. It was so sparkling green and pretty that in seconds her socks and shoes were off and she was dangling her feet in the shining water.

Emily was blissfully unaware that a few yards farther on there was a deep hole with a swift undercurrent and if she had fallen in…

Forgetting her socks and shoes but clutching the precious toy, Emily continued her little adventure.

She tiptoed across the rippling stream by stepping from one smooth flat stone to the next.

“Eue, eue, that’s cold!” she would exclaim every time she stepped on another rock, but kept on going, not even aware that Teddy’s arm was trailing in the stream.

            One forked trail lead to another, each one more appealing to a little girl than the last.

She trotted on, sometimes stooping to sniff a late blooming flower, sometimes picking a leaf the color of pure gold.

Then she saw partly grown black bear padding softly through the trees.

“Oh Teddy,” she exclaimed, nuzzling his fuzzy cheek, “There’s your brudder!

“Here Teddy! Here Teddy!” she trilled. The cub tossed his head and ambled away.

“Teddy! Wait for me!” She heard a low menacing growl and for a moment was frightened. She stopped and looked around,
but wasn’t sure where the big grrr came from. She hurried along calling “Teddy, Teddy!”

A huge bear lumbered out of the woods and swatted the cubs’ behind. The baby stopped peering over its shoulder and scurried away from its mother’s broad paw. Emily hurried after it, stumbling
over twigs and roots in an effort to catch up. Her feet hurt badly but she so much wanted to hug that baby teddy.

Far away, little Emily’s mother was frantically searching for her, and even farther away: far from the wilderness and wide prairies in a distant city park a small child was clinging to an oak tree and wailing.
            “Randall, I called and called, but I can’t see Emily anywhere. She was here only a minute ago.” Marita was nearly in tears.

            Randall shut off the chain saw and laid it beside him. He looked so lithe and manly in his plaid lumberjack shirt when he stepped onto the huge stump nearby and peered all around.

            “Funny how a little kid can vanish so quickly,” he muttered half to himself. “Marita you head up the road we came on and I’ll search around the logging camp. She can’t be far away.”

After the bears disappeared from view Emily sat down right in the middle of the path and rubbed her feet.

“They don’t like me, Teddy.” she sobbed tears streaking her dirty face.

Emily was very tired. She dragged her toy bear to a mossy spot that made a velvety nest beneath the trees. While she drifted off to dreamland  perhaps an angel in glowing garments hovered over her.

            “Emm-a-lee! Emm-a-lee…”

            Emily stirred drowsily, whispered, “Mummy,” and went back to sleep feeling safe in her mother’s care. 

Monday, 10 August 2015

Music in the Dungeon

I don’t suppose it would be very much fun being  locked up in a dungeon, would you? As a matter of fact I can’t think of one thing pleasant about it. Just listening to the background noises would be quite disturbing to say the least. Hear all that screaming? Without a doubt someone is getting a beating with far more stripes than most crimes could ever warrant. Then of course there is the bitter quarreling, curses and terrible groans of agony…and the mean, nasty, long teethed rats…

                Enough for the sounds: what about the smells? Maybe we shouldn’t even go there, it reeks like, like  an old fashioned outhouse . Enough said, right, because there are people living in that filth.

                There’s plenty of prisoners confined tonight in those dreadful quarters and it is pitch dark. No one can see their hand, even if they put it right in front of their face. That is enough miseries right? But things are about to get worse. The whole stone building begins to tremble and shake, and this is in the black of night, mind you. All other sounds are drowned out by the blood curdling screams of a hundred captives.

When the ruckus dies down a bit, the strangest sound can be heard. It is of singing. Singing? In a dungeon? In the dark of night? During an earthquake? Yes, and it was as soothing as a canary’s melody in a coal mine.

Who are those singing under such dire circumstances? It is Paul and Silas., not that you can see them, mind you, but they are the two confined by stocks.

I also am confined against my will. It is the prison of my flesh which urges me to do things I really shouldn’t, and makes it difficult to soar like an eagle to heights of power and victory in Jesus like I long to. Someday my chains also will be loosened and so, meanwhile I can sing in prison!

Wednesday, 29 July 2015

Guess What I Found!

Guess what I found on the internet today? No it wasn't in an archeological dig way out in the Middle East somewhere, but it was still fascinating. It was a book. It looked old fashioned in a way and the pictures were kind of blurry, but the cover sure looked antique! I thought the pages would have been more yellow with a parchment-y look, but I guess they are better at preserving things that we figured, eh? Anyway, it was a book called Mary's Diary. WOW! I mean double-wow! Who could have had a more intimate relationship with Jesus, the Son of God, than His own birth mother! Who could have cared more to get the facts right and to portray His life in a as loving a way as possible? And guess what?! It even covers those hidden years of when He was a little boy in Egypt. (He must have been such a cute, sweet little fella.) .
I'm quit bugging you so you can find out for yourself.

Wednesday, 22 July 2015

Should I Do Something That Outlandish? (Update Included!!)

Dear Diary 
I am so frightened. Someone saw my diary scrolls and wants to get them distributed. 
They are from a strange, far away place and are asking to stick them on the Internet and do other queer things with them. 
Did I even spell that odd word right? I have NO idea what they are talking about. 
Oh I wish Jesus was here so I could ask His advice, but He floated up to Heaven in a cloud. 

But…on the other hand, it was such a wonderful, yet often terrifying experience raising Jesus from a little boy and watching Him develop into a strong caring Man. He brought joy, healing and peace to so many people and yet they killed Him in the most awful way imaginable!Maybe I should let those strangers do whatever they think is best with my scrolls. It would be so nice if others could know how wonderful He really is. I sure hope no one in our village finds out, though, that I did something so outlandish! They'd never understand what happened to me. 
Love, Mary
This book will be available from Amazon, CreateSpace and elsewhere soon. You can get th ebook from Hollywood Book Trailers. Did you see that last link? The book is NOW available, also!   Wow, finally!!
If you don't have time to sit down with a good book how about downloading a copy on to your Kindle and you can read it whereever you go. (Nice escape from the modern world!) If you don't have

Tuesday, 24 February 2015

You Don't Have to Be a Mother to Be a Mother

Do you have to give birth to a baby to become a mother? I’ll let you answer that for yourself. Winston Churchill is a well-known historical figure who made a huge impact on the world. Because of the influence of his nanny, he believed Nazism was “barbaric paganism” and was determined to keep it out of Britain. And he did.

So let’s talk about this woman, Mrs. Everest. She was a mountain of strength to the poor, troubled boy. He was born into an upper class Victorian home where children were pretty much raised by the servants. Although he loved his mother it was Mrs. Everest, who gave him comfort and direction.

There are many young women, and older ones to, whose hearts are breaking because they have never been able to give birth to a child. I sympathize with you. Without a doubt having your own child is, or at least can be, an incredibly wonderful experience. Please don’t feel you have failed, that you are a failure. I beg you from the bottom of my heart, please don’t despair. Perhaps God called you to service in a different way. That maternal instinct needs to be nurtured, not squelched. Can you do it? Is there some little one who you can touch, bond with and make a difference to?
Do you have a niece or nephew who is experiencing frustrating times? What about the child down the street? By all means make friends with the parents first to prove you are trustworthy. Have you ever considered working in a daycare or being a nanny? These are by no means lowly occupations. The cry for foster parents, especially for older children is ongoing. Do you have a heart that’s big enough to take one of these older children in?  Did I just hear you cry, “I wouldn’t dare?” Good for you if you know your weakness, but did you know that God is much stronger than you? You can hide under His wings and He will go before you and make it possible. You don’t need to do any one of these things on your own. Besides you can start with little baby steps. Try being a respite parent for example, or less than that, smile or offer a cheery word of comfort to that overwhelmed mother at the grocery store. 

So who is a mother, a true parent? Someone who really cares about children, someone who wants to comfort them, guide them and help them to become happy, secure, responsible adults. Can you do it? Of course you can—if you place your hand in the Hand of the kind and loving Heavenly Father.
Do we need true mothers? We sure do! Do your part.

Where authors and readers come together!

Monday, 23 February 2015

How Worthwhile Are We?

I heard a statement that had a profound impact on me. A man from Burkina Faso made it.  

    “If a senior dies it is like a whole library has been destroyed.”

 Many of us are seniors, but are we wise? Are we compassionate and understanding?  How are we filling in the dash between our cradles and the grave? Perhaps you know I am referring to how a gravestone has the date of someone’s birth, a dash, and then the date they passed from this world.

The Bible teaches us that the older women should teach the younger, (Titus 2.4) surely we must have accumulated something worthwhile in our life experiences. Do we have the humility and kindness to help those behind us who are floundering? We all have different ways we can do it.

Are we writing books’ of value with our lives? ‘Only one life will soon be past. Only what’s done for Christ will last.’

Let us pray for each other. 

Monday, 16 February 2015

What Are You Doing in THERE?


  Someone you admire seems to have the ideal personality. Let’s say she’s sweet, ladylike and oh so soft spoken. What a perfect example. So you try to imitate her. It seems like the perfect mold to build around yourself. First of all it’s time to moderate that rather loud chuckle because it won’t fit into the new image you want to create. What about that quirky sense of humor, tone it down, by all means tone it down, it borders on mischievous if not do down-right rascally: you want to be a lady, remember? And so the building continues. The mold is taking shape.

Is this the real me? Why are people so quiet and reserved, as if they don’t quite know what to expect of me? Am I a nut? Or why am I curling up inside of this nutshell? Help, help let me out! Let me grow, let me be myself!

Tuesday, 10 February 2015

Silly White Stuff

“Isn’t it ridiculous picking up this silly white stuff day after day?”
“Shh, you had better be careful what you say. God sent it. Would you rather be eating… eating, well who knows what and dying of thirst like our forefathers practically did before Moses struck the Rock?”
“Yes,” a younger voice piped up, “And he sure got in trouble for doing that. Now he won’t be able to go into the Promised Land.”
“Promised Land,” the first one scoffed. “We’ve been wandering in this desert for nearly twenty years already. Why, you and I and everyone else our age was born after they were shut out of that so called Promised Land.” Dinah huffed as she swung a big basket over her arm. “I’m getting a weeks’ supply of that manna. I’m sick and tired of gathering it every single day just because Mama is so sickly all the time.”
“Go ahead,” her friend Lilka scoffed, “You know what Moses warned us would happen. I’ve heard rumors it has already  in some other areas of ‘tent city’.
Twenty four hours passed. Same time same station as it were, the only difference was facial expressions, mostly, and of course the conversation had changed.
Dinah looked so sullen, or was it subdued, that Lilka and Josiah didn’t dare say a word to her.  They had observed her, from a distance mind you, trying to dispose of a whole week’s supply of moldy wormy manna and trying unsuccessfully not to throw up over the whole repulsive mess.

Dinah learned her lesson, have we to? God simply does not want us to gather too many worries for example. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

Some might wonder if I sit down at the beginning of every month and map out the topics I will be writing about for the next thirty days.
“ Nope, not a chance.”
“ Well, for the next week then?”

“ Uh uh.  Why bother, I want my manna (which comes from Heaven) fresh and new.” Give us our day our daily bread.  

Tuesday, 27 January 2015

Wake Up and Smell the Coffee

 Help! Where have I been?? I've been feeling like my tires were

spinning in a mud hole while  the tools I needed were in my trunk all along.  So what tools you ask? 

Partridge Exposed!

 I don’t know so terribly much about partridges but suspect they have a lot in common with chickens. Anyone who knows me well knows how fond I am of raising free range hens and selling the eggs. But there is something even more enjoyable than that. It is watching Mama Bird possessively brood over a nest of eggs and patiently wait, with barely any food or water, for those little guys to be mature enough to peck their way out of the shells. Her nurturing instinct doesn’t end there, however, and I love to see how she calls her little brood over to share some food she has discovered. I love even more how they nestle under her wings yet peek out, out of curiosity at the friendly world around them. I have an amusing memory of one ‘teenage’ chick