Crippled in a Car

Now where shall I start this article? I have spent three glorious weeks travelling and it has been truly a mountaintop experience, but now  have tumbled down into the valley. See that little old lady with a cane? Well that

feels like me. All that driving in a car really crippled me up and I still can’t walk—change that to limp—without discomfort. I told my hubby last night that I felt imprisoned in my own body. Okay, that’s the down side of my experience, but there is a definite UP side. We stopped to see relatives in various places as far flung from each other as Edmonton, Alberta and way down to Oklahoma. We did go further than that though: Mississippi was our goal.

 Do you know what people have in common? A caring attitude.

When we reached Stephen’s sister is Kansas, I pretended to walk normally but didn’t deceive anyone. It wasn’t long before they were hovering over me like I was a beautiful bird with a broken wing.  Did that compassion soon stop? Nope. Because of generous, concerned loved ones, I ended up seeing chiropractors not once but four times before we arrived back home, and once since.

I admit being a little leery of having my bones manipulated, but hey, when you are desperate enough, you’ll do anything right?  To my surprise chiropractic methods have really soared over the last thirty years, and I was introduced to something called an Activator which really helped.  Believe it or not, anyone could have seen the improvement in my walk if there had been a before and after video taken.

No, it wasn’t a magic cure-all but hey, it took years to get into this condition which was caused mainly by an ancient injury, but at least I see light at the top of the valley I have tumbled into.

Oh, by the way, when I started rambling I didn’t really know which way this article was going, but there is one thing I must share with you.

Medical problems in the states aren’t something we Canadians look forward to having, but do you know what? Four of those treatments, plus ointment, plus pills and plus a couple of informative books were all provided anonymously free of charge. Any wonder why I’m feeling a bit teary-eyed?

From Victim to Victor

Based on a true story.

Pete, Joe and Mike openly mocked when Stan came into their hospital ward.

                “Hey, Doug,” Joe called. “Yer old man is here. Do you think he’s gonna preach a sermon today?”

                Doug glowered towards the door, but dropped his eyes when Stan appeared.

                He muttered a few curses but managed to add “Hi, Dad,” when the tall, thin man sat down stiffly beside him.

                Doug sighed inwardly: another hour of enduring his father’s obvious discomfort with how his fellow Aids patients acted up. He knew without a doubt their actions were more unnatural, their language filthier when he came around.

                Doug sighed, again.  Why couldn’t he just bug off?  Just because I’m his son and dying of this creepy disease is no reason for him to stick around.

                “You, okay, son?”

                “Same as usual: no better, no worse,” he lied, although he knew perfectly well his life was ebbing out of him.

                “Is there anything I can do to help?” Stan sat with his hands tightly folded on his lap and Doug, as well as several others took note of the look of revulsion on his features.

Ya, Doug thought, just once you can get that awful nauseated look off your face and treat me like a human.

  What he didn’t know, however, was how desperately Stan was praying for compassion, for understanding towards these people.

                But one day Stan was different. He was still quiet and dignified, but he spoke to them with respect, and by name! He ever shook their hands when he greeted them.  The assortment of men viewed him with wary surprise.

                Stan continued to visit his son on a daily basis, and the men sensed that Stan was different, that he really did care about them. First one then another responded to the obvious love they felt from him, and some even started unburdening their hearts.

                It was a happy day when Doug, who had always been a wayward boy, broke down and confessed a fear of dying.

                “Dad,” he wept, “I need Jesus, but I’m so afraid He won’t accept me because I have sinned so badly."

                While the others listened in, Stan convinced his son that it was for people such as Doug that Jesus had laid down His life.

                Doug made such a complete change, and was so obviously at peace with God and man after he confessed his sins, that no one tried to dissuade him.  It was considered unusual how peacefully he died under the circumstances.

                Both the hospital staff and the patients were deeply impressed with the caring Stan showed, but Jesus helped him.

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.

P.S. If you have a father-heart it’s no big deal to change the wording a bit. It applies very much to you also. https://www.google.ca/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CAYQjB0&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.militaryhistoryveteran.com%2Fwinston-churchill-and-the-nanny-who-saved-western-civilization%2F&ei=wX7sVJmGNIurogS_vYHQDg&psig=AFQjCNFlwObaWQ6UhAJCTkwAQlmNopfV6g&ust=1424871242650796

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I'm Sorry

I feel like I have a confession to make. Yesterday, I posted a poem* I wrote thirty some years ago and it resonated in peoples'  hearts. There had been seventeen comments from one community alone in such a short time. And now, the question I ask myself is: why can't I touch folks hearts with my recent posts like I did with those simple rhymes? It makes me wonder if I have climbed up into an Ivory Tower somewhere and am doling out tidbits of wisdom without really feeling for you.

And yet my prayer for 'ages' has been "let my heart be broken by the things that break your heart oh God. Let me make a difference, let me bear the pain, give me Lord a caring heart."

Oh well, I'll just keep praying that God can use me, because I really do care about you. 

Love, Marilyn

* An Imaginary Visit with God