Observations

It has been such a very long time since I've posted on this blog. Where do I begin? I have been learning many lessons of late. Learning about the world of Christian faith outside my own community and in the work world. I've learned that there are true Christians and those who call themselves Christians but don't hesitate to hold back money owed, over-inflate their abilities--and the list goes on. Having said that, I recognize my own infallability. I can be lazy and impatient. I don't like to look wrong. I have been known to stretch the truth and have had to go back and take responsibility simply because I know it's wrong. Knowing all of this it is no wonder unbelievers find it hard to see Christ in us. If they are selling a product to a Christian market, such as I did last December, and are still waiting to be paid for it now in June, I can understand their hesitancy toward trusting Christians. If they are receiving poor quality work, such as happened to a friend of mine, from a Christian contractor, it is no wonder that they see believers as a band of hypocrites. We must be very careful of our actions in this world that watches us so closely. We are to resemble Christ and that is not the Christ we want them to see. These are some of the things I have learned in the writing industry. They can be disheartening and would defeat me if it weren't for the things I have seen go right. Churches stepping into flood ruined areas and making sure people have food and accommodations. Christians going out of their way to offer hope and help to those who have none. I see Christianity take two steps forward and one back so often--and I am a part of that retreat sometimes. Lord help us to always advance in your work, to always be honourable and loving and generous and true. Amen

Long Ridge Prompt

Every so often, my writing teacher posts a writing prompt for students past and present. This month she asked us to write something in 250 words that described fall colours. This is the one I wrote and thus far have reached the final five best prompts. Enjoy


Copywrite Donna Dawson September 2007


Our pickup truck stands like an invasive alien amidst the beiges, yellows and faded greens of the dying grass. From the distance, a loon calls, beckoning us to draw nearer, its elusive voice taunting us as it bounces off the shimmering glass surface of the lake. The mulch-darkened pool is a mirror that reflects the reds and oranges of leaves clothed in their finest final shades before the wind catches them and dashes them earthward.


For long moments we settle ourselves on the ancient backs of water-stained granite hunched protectively at the water’s edge and we marvel at papery, golden birch leaves turned eagerly to rain glutted clouds. Even the browns of the oak’s cast-offs have taken on a moist richness as they huddle, seemingly forgotten, in the nooks where they’ve been driven. We can smell autumn’s glory in the air—taste it—like a rich banquet.


A dragonfly weaves around and between us, its wings chattering with a high speed metallic click—its final ballet before the frost strips the satin red from the wild rose’s aging blooms. Maples flaunt their crimson, competing with the darker, more seasoned rust of the raspberry bushes. Orange berries decorate the splotched and stripped scrub. The cedars are still wrapped in a defiant verdancy contradicting the urgent command of autumn to change. The occasional berry blinks a crimson smile from its final place amidst the crumbling leaves of elm and ash and we know that this blazing sunset of seasons will soon end.

Happy--Christmas?!

Imagine my surprise when I entered the hardware store and amidst the gore-encrusted masks and the fake cob-webbing of the Halloween inventory was a new display of—Christmas lights! My first response was to say ‘Bah-humbug!’


I often justify my anti-Christmas sentiment by spouting off about the commercialization of the season, the consumerism that drives credit card abuse beyond limitations of sanity and the frenetic behaviour that suddenly possesses North Americans of all shapes and sizes. I mean, it’s October for Pete’s sake! As I nattered my way down aisle after aisle, looking for something that would remind me that winter’s darkness is not yet upon us, I became aware of the dominance of the celebration of All Hallows Eve. Why just about every second shelf bore fake fangs, blood in a tube, mummy wrappings and overgrown finger nails tastefully dipped in some sort of red paint. That was probably where the first twinge of guilt hit me.


Was I responsible for this whole hearted embracing of all that is vulgar and violent? Was my Christmas grumbling and whining a not-so-subtle dampener of that most special of seasons, leaving the celebration of something far below the mark an only option? As I viewed row upon row of costuming and horrors I began to wonder how many Christians have lost sight of the beauty of Christmas and in so doing have allowed it to become secondary to—this.


A repentant prayer and a resolution to see the beauty of Christmas followed me back to the aisle where the lights lay nestled in their little cubbyhole and I pondered as I help a package. Perhaps if I strung up one set of lights, I would be reminded of the light who came into the world. And like my writing, and all else I do, if by bringing a bit of spiritual brightness to my world means pushing the darkness away, then it is what I must do.


In this season of spiritual darkness, when the world longs to celebrate those things that are not of God, I’m going to remember the lesson of Ebenezer Scrooge. Instead of my annual ‘bah-humbug’ I think I will offer a bit of light. Here in this moment in the month of October—I will rejoice and remember the Christ.

Freedom

Being a computer-aholic, it is always in my best interest to push away from the keyboard and toddle on out into the outer elements. Since my daughter's wedding, I've found myself yearning to do that more and more often. It could be due to writer's block--maybe. It could be a faint yearning in the depths of my heart that tells me that life's seasons are passing along with the marriage of each daughter. Whatever it is, for the past few days I have found myself bundling into season-appropriate clothing, calling upon my trusty companion Rosey and wandering along the fencelines of our 100 acres. It is amazing what one can find--and the transformations that can take place.

Autumn is a beautiful season at the best of times with its rich colours and crisp, clean air and it is an ugly season at the worst of times. When the rains come and batter the papery leaves, punching them full of holes, tearing them from limb and clumping them into rotting piles, it's no longer so pretty. But a little creativity and a hand saw can work wonders. In our north field a corn crop waits patiently for the modern day scyth to relieve it of its burden. At the very borders of this massive field runs an electric fence, its posts leaning precariously to one side or the other. But it is the swath between the corn and the fence that has drawn my eye. Fifteen feet wide, it has plenty of space for a riding trail. Even the obnoxious hawthorn trees can be painted into this canvas. I battle with their tiny weapons and nip off a branch here, a clump of twigs there, shearing one side of each tree as far as my saw can reach. Slowly my trail winds around cedars and pines, elms and the occasional oak--and of course--the ever present hawthorns. The ground squishes with decay and dampness but I don't care. Each day the trail grows longer. With each passing back and forth, the path is trampled flat. A round dish has been made in the long grass beside this virgin trail--a sure sign that the deer appreciate my efforts. Rain catches me by surprise but I press on happy for this menial and strenuous task. The sun pushes its way through, lighting up the beginning bronzes and oranges, kissing the fading greens and I remove my jacket. A pile of rocks from the field's grooming bars my persistant path and I spend the next hour clearing a two foot wide gap in the mound. Horses don't do well on rock piles.

I am almost finished this crazy scheme of mine and it hasn't been a journey in vain. I have a reason to walk now, if nothing more than to see the fenceline in all its seasons. The deer move around. They sleep in different spots each night and each morning I see the trace of their slumber. Rosey frolicks amidst the dying corn stalks, happy to be free if only for a moment. Winter will come soon filling in my pathetic little path and I will move from shoes to skiis. But the one constant will be the horse. Through each season, together we will traverse the fenceline, dreaming of days gone by when man and horse travelled across this great continent while it was still wild.

Home Schooling

Few people who know me as a faith based novelist know that I home taught my children. When the subject is broached it's amazing how many well-meaning Christians are surprised that not only are they well-educated people but they are socially fit. And I just shake my head.

Society is notorious for thinking that the newest inventions are the best. And we are also too quick to assume that those new inventions are actually--new. Home teaching has been around since Adam & Eve. That's an easy conclusion to make since formal public schooling only came into being in the past few hundred years. So what did everyone do before that? Well...many well educated people became that way through parents, tutors and mentors. Were they social misfits? I highly doubt it. So it catches me by surprise when I hear the phrase 'home school movement' as though it is a new thing.

My favourite way of dealing with the whole social question is by asking my questioner if they remember back to their school years. I then ask if they knew people who were social misfits. They inevitably say 'yes' to which my reply is usually 'And they weren't home taught'. Social integration has nothing to do with schooling but everything to do with parenting. It is the parents who teach what is socially fitting and what isn't--whether their child is in the public system, a private system or home taught.

My daughters all graduated from home school high school and entered university with academic scholarships, math and English exemptions and social skills that allowed them to enjoy the campus life without compromising their faith. Two are married and actively involved in the community while the third has decided to expand her education online while working at her full time job. Our family reunions and gatherings are filled with love and laughter and there are no regrets from our children as far as their home schooling education goes. What more can we ask for? Blessings.

Busy Times

If it weren't for divine intervention I think I'd be pretty buggy by now. While I'm trying to keep up with monthly columns for three different papers, finish the book that a LARGE publishing company is showing interest in, sending off a children's book manuscript and keeping up with the necessary (and beneficial for venting) blogs and websites, I'm also working on the wedding of my middle daughter:)

Her dress is lovely (I made it so I'm a bit partial to it). She and her sisters will be beautiful (what am I saying--they ARE beautiful). The food is ordered, the bouquets made (yes we made them), the boutineers and corsages done (which reminds me--I MUST remember to put pins in them), the programs designed (yes I did that too) and the light strands hung in the backyard (it's at our house). I have a houseful of guests arriving this week (all family) and I think I have pretty much everything ready for the big day.

I am so thankful to God for being enough. Enough strength to finish the tasks, enough sanity to keep me from overloading, enough patience when things didn't go like I'd have liked, enough sleep in the times where I wanted to remain awake and get just one more thing done and enough love through a husband who is so kind and thoughtful when I'm grouchy and petty.

So now, I sit back and wait to see what that day will bring and I'm grateful for the grace I have received in this time. Blessings all and I'll keep you posted.

The Taste of Freedom

Donna Dawson copywrite June 25/2007

He flares his nostrils, tasting the air for any sign of predator. Nothing. And yet there is something. A faint wisp of current that whispers to him. Flee. Run. Chase the wind. Tossing his head, he challenges the silent voice with his own certainty. There is nothing there. The wind picks up in a burst of hot, dry air and swirls the dust through the field before settling once more to stillness. Picking up a striped hoof, he bats at the ground impatiently. Another toss of black and white mane sends the ear gnats and deer flies dancing into the air only to settle back to their morbid feast upon his hide. He feels little of it. Ears flicker back and forth as though in command of their own fate. All is as it should be. He is still for a moment longer and then a spasm shudders through the great collection of bone, hide and bunched muscle and he bursts forth, lifting legs high, holding his head upright as he continues to sample the close atmosphere with alert senses. With the thunder of each hoof small clouds of dust are churned to life, scattering out behind him. The pull and stretch of muscle pushes him into the daylight at a terrific speed and his herd members lift their grazing heads in instantaneous alarm. He flees. Leader of the herd. Mighty stallion. The call has been sounded and they must follow. The single patter of four hooves becomes the roaring drum of hundreds and the field transforms into a flowing river of browns and blacks and whites and roans. The small puffs of dust become huge columns that obscure the fleeing charge and as the great band of horses crest the distant hill and plunge beyond its horizon silence once more comes to the still afternoon.