Based on a True Story

“What do I care if they are hungry?” Comrade Snezhana scoffed.  “We’ve put up with them all day long, and are taking a well-deserved break.”
Lyosha could hear whimpering down the long halls in the orphanage and it made her feel uncomfortable. She knew how little the children had to eat today, and it wasn’t any better yesterday, or last week either.

A half-hour later Comrade Roksana handed her a glass of wine to go with the expensive white chocolates that were topping off the meal but she felt too full or was it sick, to take another bite.
A toddler’s fretful whimpers were turning into lusty wails. Lyosha knew she should go comfort Klava before Comrade Snezhana strode over there and started slapping her around. But Lyosha didn’t dare. She knew she had the reputation of spoiling the ‘brats’ and didn’t have the nerve to make a scene in front of the other comrades including hardened officers who were partying with them.

I suppose you are horrified that something like this really did happen in Russia during the war. Why is it that we can sympathize with physical needs and want to do something, yet hardly hear the hidden cry of our or their hearts?
How many children, young people, and others are starving spiritually while those of us that should be helping are feasting on what the world has to offer and barely take enough spiritual manna to keep our own souls alive?
When’s the last time we have had a truly satisfying hour of studying the Bible? When is the last time we fasted, not to be seen of men, but because we had such a deep longing to pray, that food or earthly pleasures just didn’t seem important? I fall so far short but pray that I can do better!

The Afghan and the Mouse

I watched it being made: it was a creation of incredible beauty. There were squares for each of our children and nothing was more precious, more valuable than that afghan:

Our children’s lives.

I loved watching it develop slowly before my wondering eyes. Woven together with prayers and lots of love it would be cherished forever.

But it was marred.

The Master Weaver had me helping. His part was perfect, flawless and beautiful, and when He guided my hands my awkwardness was minimized, His talent shone through.

Although lacking, I still love it.

It is mine, ours; something to be cherished forever. We tried our best but over time damage was revealed: a mouse had chewed holes into the fabric.

I’ll not give up.

It’s still beautiful to me, so precious. I lift it up to show the Master Weaver: Mend it please, could you, please. It took years to create; will it take years to repair?

I’ll wait. And pray.

Lord, use my hands, more patient now from years of grief and experience to help mend. Make us into a soft, comfortable afghan that will bring joy to all.

Marilyn Friesen

It Will Get Better Than a Fairy Tale

Do you want to hear more of my life story? Tell me if you have any questions or comments.

So what makes something a highlight in our life? How do we decide that this is worth writing about but not that? I, or rather we, started attending an entirely new school in a new part of the province but I missed a lot because, as mentioned earlier, I became ill.

Somehow word got out that we were living in unsavory circumstances and Mom persuaded her brother and brother-in-law to come and get us. When they arrived they asked us if we would like to come along with them.  We were more than willing, but one of the uncles said he had always felt bad about not talking to my father first, but he hadn’t been home.

Without a doubt there would have been a huge row if they had, and we would have ended up staying put.

While reminiscing years later, Mom’s brother commented that I would fearfully look back from time to time, but no, we weren’t being followed.

So now is it better than a fairy tale? Not yet, not, yet, but just hang on. I soon made some dear friends and felt secure in the love of relatives and in the church we were attending, but this ole girl was carrying a lot of baggage with her that caused her to stumble more than once. 

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Veronica 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

Just Pretend to Change

“Claudine, don't be so hard on yourself,” a childhood friend pleaded as she handed her a basket after the guard had left. “Just give lip service to their demands.”