Author Ruth Smith Meyer

The Olympics of the past two weeks remind me of the proverbial elephant. That beast nosed into our living rooms and our lives with the Olympic Torch's journey across our fair land.  With the opening ceremony, the elephant took over the room and many hours of our lives.

We began to stay up way later than our bedtime  to cheer on our athletes, rejoicing when Canada made the podium.  Our routine started to center around the live broadcasts of the Olympic events.  Especially at first, with typical Canadian grace, we cheered for those who made gold, silver or bronze, no matter what nationality, and congratulated all those who gave it their best, felt sympathy with those who fell or were disqualified. We were awed by the tremedous dedication of those young people.  We applauded with extra exuberance if Canada did well and our pride in our country grew.  Having some people from our own community added to the sense of involvement, so when Drew Doughty was on with the Canadian Hockey team, and we heard the wonderful comments about his ability, we glowed with pride.  When Scott and Tessa were skating, we were all gung-ho, cheering and straining for the prize with them.

Gradually I felt a sense of disquiet.  I wondered what was happening to me.  As the weeks wore on, more and more, I found myself wanting gold for our country--or silver at the least.  By this last Saturday, the elephant was taking up most of the space in our lives and a certain discomfort began to assert itself even while I cheered on with each new gold or silver for Canada.  A real tug-of-war raged within me that I still can't completely understand.  

Part of me glories in the accomplishment of Canadian atheletes.  I am truly proud of the quality and the effort expended, but there is also a part of me that decries putting so much importance on a few winners.  Haven't all the athletes given their best?  Where not many "losers" very close to the time of the winners?  When I saw the disappointment on some faces even though they had done a good job and won silver, losing out on the gold by mere hudredths or thousandth of a second, I felt distressed that those atheletes couldn't feel good about their accomplishment.  When I saw gold winners come to congratulate their competitor just to have the silver medalsts turn their backs and walk the other direction, I grieved the lack of sportsmanship and quiestioned the effectiveness of what the Olympics were meant to accomplish. 

Then there is another side of the conflict within me.  Although I believe in exercising our bodies and perhaps pushing them to greater limits that we thought possible, I feel some hesitation when I see the skiers on a dangerous course that probably should have been shut down, careening down the hill and ending up being taken away on stretchers. Others coming down the mogul hill in spite of knee damage not fully healed or skating with injuries, continuing in spite of broken ribs and more, made me wonder how those people are going to feel, in thirty, forty or fifty years, about how they used their God-given bodies.  

So I am in a quandary.  The Olympics have come to a celebratory end and the elephant will retreat from the living room, but will its spirit and the moral predicament linger in my mind? 

"When an old man dies, a library burns to the ground,"  is an African proverb many of us have heard.  As authors, we cringe to think of such waste. 

That adage came to my mind in stark reality this past month.  Within two weeks, I attended the funeral of my 68 year-old brother and a 90 year-old aunt.  I wondered how many stories died with them. 

My brother?s funeral came first.  He was a busy man, always looking out for others, often to the detriment of his own work.  We became more aware of how many and how much as we stood in line for the visitation and when well over 600 paid their final respects at his funeral service.  Many spoke of him as their spiritual father.  Community and business people told of his kindness and concern for their welfare.  Many stood when asked to do so, if they had spent time in his class room, and some spoke of the great influence he had on their lives.  I feel sure there were many more stories that could have been told.

Aunt Bernice?s funeral was a glorious triumphant home-going for a faithful saint.  The funeral was almost completely conducted by her family-sermon and all.  Stories were told of her as a trustworthy companion to her husband, a watchmaker, her dependability as a mother--her encouraging ways and her gentle reprimands. Her grandchildren recounted happy times they spent with their grandparents and the lasting influence on their lives. It was a heart-warming day

Both of these occasions were indeed full of story-telling and as usual, I hoped those who this was all about were told at least some of those stories while they were still with us.  However, I believe those tales were just the proverbial tip of the iceberg and only what others knew about them.  How many insights, how many personal experiences could have benefited those left behind, had they been put on paper?  I cringed at the waste!

Soon the Haiti earthquake struck?more libraries burned down in the space of minutes!  And yet out of the rubble miraculous stories arise.  Accounts of bravery, or self-giving, an outpouring of money, materials and energy in this impoverished country?some survived and others didn?t, but their story will go on and perhaps inspire others to give their time and money in similar ways. 

These happenings renew my desire to write, write, write.  Not that I have that much wisdom, but I have been taught valuable lessons in my years of living?many coming from learning through mistakes.  I know that, through reading, I have gained much from others? experiences.  Some have guided me through my own life-happenings and some have helped me avoid more of my own blunders, steering me through the obstacles to a clearer path.  Some have inspired me to give more in whatever way I can give.  I owe them a debt of gratitude and an obligation to pass on my own stories and those of others. God gave me the desire and ability to write and I want to use the gifts given to me in the best way I can.  Is it coincidence that my children's book just came out?  Tyson's Sad Bad Day is a story to help children and their parents deal with the death of a loved one.  It seems to me to fit. 

And if God has called you to write, don?t wait any longer?write! 

It's that time of year again!  Most of my life, it was a delight to take note of my family's yearnings, needs and wishes and by Christmas or birthday time, find some way to make at least  a few of them come to pass.  Most of that time, I also had to be creative rather than lavish because of the limitations of my bank account.  That accomplished a few things.  It taught my children that you didn't always need to spend a lot of money to fulfill wishes and or even needs, and it entailed giving more of myself--so much that I felt more joy at watching them open their gifts than I did in opening mine.  However, when they were old enough to begin putting that same kind of thought and creativity into their giving, I received double joy.

As the children left home and I had less opportunity to secretly take note of what was of interest to them, it became more difficult.  Then the grandchildren came along.  It seemed any time I thought of the perfect gift, say in June or even August or September, they already had it before Christmas.  Then they got old enough that their interest was in electronic gadgets of which I had no knowledge.  I often feel myself caught on a tight wire with that old desire to find the perfect gift that fulfills a wish and is a meaningful expression of my love and care on one end and the fear that my old-fashioned need of creativity in my gifts won't come through as such to the younger generation.  The last few years, I've resorted to a cheque in their home-made card.  I wanted to do more.

A large portion of my family's birthdays come over the end of the year and beginning of the next.  They are kicked off by a grandson's birthday at the end of October.  I walked back and forth on that tight wire as we neared the crucial date this year.  The closer it got, the more tense I became.  At the last minute, I devised a gift certificate for dinner out with Grandpa and Grandma.  Imagine my surprise, when it was received with joy and what seemed high honour!

Tonight he redeemed that certificate.  It wasn't a fancy restaurant, but it was blessed time where a 13 year-old shared the concerns and joys of his life and some dreams for his future.  It wasn't electronic, it wasn't expensive, but it was giving of myself and my time, and it definitely was precious.   

Today was one of those days!  No, not the trouble after trouble kind.  This one was packed full of blessings!  Actually today made two in a row.  Yesterday already made my heart sensitive to the concept, but today just clinched the theory.  The people in our lives are building blocks, successively, one after the other molding us into the unique beings we are. 

Yesterday, I was at a women's meeting that brought together women from many eras of my life.  Some I see frequently, some I had not seen in years.  As the day progressed, I became more and more aware of the different stages in my life and the influence some of those women had on my growing, maturing and accumulation of experience and wisdom.  Affirmation from several of those also made me aware that it was a two-way street, and I marvelled at the thought. 

This morning, as we met for worship, we were joined by several Irish women, in town for a quilt show this past week.  They were new in my life, but I immediately sensed that they, too, could add to the richness of my life. I left my business card and email information with them.  I hope they use it so we can deepen our friendship and learn from each other. Some of us stayed at the church to eat lunch together.  As we discussed our corporate life,my heart was filled with thankfulness and anticipation.

This evening I had two long telephone calls.  One from my son--and yes, I pushed him into this world, but he has pushed me into learning many things, adding huge building blocks into who I became.  His commitment to the Lord and to carrying out the mission of his life as he sees it, pushes me to also stretch my limits and do my best.  He inspires me to keep trying, keep faithful.

The other call came from a woman, and and her husband who served as hired hand to my dad when I was a young teenager.  Both were on the telephone.  He has always felt like an older brother to m e.  His gentle, caring voice at all times brings me comfort and blessing.  They came to this country as young adults.  She often spent time with my sisters and I while her fiance did chores.  At first  we communicated with difficulty because of language barriers, but we turned it into great fun as we searched for the words for different items.  A familiarity between us grew and will always remain a precious building block in who I am today.  When our call came to an end, my heart was full.

With each decade,  the people who have touched my life become even more precious.  I am ever more conscious of how much they have helped shape my life.  I am more and more aware that we are all a part of each other.  What am I adding to the lives that touch mine? 

Do you think this reflective and thankful mood has anything to do with a big birthday looming less than a month away?  Could be, but I can't think of a nicer effect that birthday could have on me.  I think there could even be a host of stories incubating in the whole episode. 

“I come to the garden alone while the dew is still on the roses...and he walks with me and he talks with me...”

The song echoed in my heart again as we drove up to our house and saw the freshly washed lawn and flowerbeds after we came home from a memorial service where we had heard that familiar hymn again. This time it was young woman in her 47th year. Last week it was a Godly woman of 99 ½ years of age.  Life takes on new meaning as we are faced with its brevity.

As I walked toward the front door, the little purple-hued violas and pansies smiled up and me. The fushia-pink roses peeped from between the lush hosta’s nodding their heads in welcome. I wondered, “Is there a better place to feel God’s presence and hear his voice than in a flower-garden?”

As I looked at each bloom I realized how much they have to tell us. Look closely. The details of each petal and the difference of each kind whisper to us how God values each and every one—the similarities but especially the differences. The colours display a vast range of personalities—sunny, bright oranges, yellows and reds. Rich, deep reds, purples and blues add their richness. But a combination of colours brings out the best of both. I have a painted daisy—the deep purple of which I love, but I could barely see it from the house until I planted a white petunia behind it. Now it stands out in an impressive show of its richness.

The natural inclinations of each plant demonstrate the usefulness of differing gifts. Some, like Clematis, climb. We have one that has outgrown the trellis, has gone beyond the wooden fence and overtaken a small Rose of Sharon. It seems determine to put on the best show possible. Some, like those little violas just keep on spreading. They were planted as a neat border, but have gradually filled in any empty spot. But they look so happy I left them and they cheer even passersby. Some stand straight and tall and some are content to be contained in a small clump, showing off their strength and beauty in that way. Some bloom all summer long and others are valued all the more because their blooms last only a short time, but their beauty and fragrance linger long in our memory.

It struck me that a well arranged garden capitalizes on the differences. The right combinations and great variety of colour looks better than all one colour or hue. You need them all from the tall ones at the back to the very short at the front. The longer-lived ones provide continuity as the shorter-lived ones burst into colour in turn and then fade to let something else have the stage.

It’s like that in families, churches and communities everywhere and indeed, in life, isn’t it? Just as I rejoice in the distinct attributes of the different flowers, I can rejoice in the diversity of my family and friends. I can also be content with who I am and the gifts with which God has endowed me, and I can bloom where I am planted.

Please visit my photo album to share in my garden pleasure.

WRITE! Canada?the annual coming together of writers who are Christian, has happened again. Even though I haven?t missed a year since the first one I attended in 2001, I had been thinking I was almost too busy to go this year.  In retrospect, I often have the same feelings about going to choir practice or small group meetings?I?m busy, or tired and wonder if it is worth the effort to go. 

However, when I get there, I feel the immediate rapport of people of like mind, the rush of knowing I am not alone in my endeavors, the happy meeting with old friends, the words of encouragement from people I admire and respect, the blessing of ?two or three together.?  It doesn?t take long for the surge of energy to come flowing in, the rejuvenation that happens when you are once more focused on God?s purpose for your life and your vision once more clarified and renewed. 

The continuing education courses, workshops, speakers for the plenary sessions, worship services all provide valuable information and inspiration.  The late night owl and early bird sessions where author?s read bits of their works to each other magnifies the marvel of how God works in and through individuals in beautiful ways that speak to hearts.  Even meal times, sitting, with authors, editors and publishers who freely share their expertise and advice,gently encouraging everyone from newbies to the more seasoned are enriching times. 

Saturday noon I shared with someone that I almost felt I had to shake my head to let things settle a bit so I?d have room for the last bit of inspiration. 

When the last session was over, I left with a peaceful calm. A transformation had taken place in just two and a half days.  Yes, I was tired, but there was no doubt in my mind that it had been well worthwhile.

If anyone senses a writer within themselves, consider attending next years WRITE! Canada.  Look it up on the web and visit The Word Guild pages while you are at it.  

It's been a nice gradually warming spring. The daffodils,  tulips, lilac and other spring blooms lasted for days longer than they were able to in the past few years when we got a heat wave already in May--new life, springing up and gladdening our hearts. I often step outside my door and just breathe deep the taste and smell of spring.  The flowering pear we planted last year provided food for some hungry mice or moles who almost girdled it.  We wondered if it would survive as there was only about a quarter inch strip of bark providing the vital connection between the roots and branches.  But  it prevailed.  That tree blossomed and is putting forth new growth but the hydrangea we planted and which had no mice with which to contend did not.  

Niggling away at the corners of my mind and the center of my heart all spring, were concern for the two friends who have been fighting a valiant battle against the onslaught of ill health. It looks as thought they are winning, The cancer in one has been halted, the other is off the feeding tubes that sustained her for several months. Yet there are others who have fought just as valiantly who are now resting beneath the sod.

Last week, in five days, we attended three funerals.  One whose 87 year-old body had been in declining health for the last few years even while his spirit remained young and elastic and ever warmly interested in all he met.  His expectant granddaughter was there reminding us that life goes on.  A new little one will very soon replenish that family tree and his spirit lives on in his family. 

The next was an octegenarian as well, but still actively involved in life and service. In spite of his age, he was in good health and had plans for more travel this summer. His family and friends spoke of how important his presence was to them.

The third who had also reached the three-score years and ten was also a vital part of his family and neighbourhood.   He had just helped to celebrate his mother's 90th birthday.  He too, was an important part of his children and grandchildren's lives.

This week also held some birthday celebrations,  a renewal of a friendship of long-standing, a satisfying visit with a sister I don't often see.

It's all a part of life--just as the seasons of the year.  When death touches us though, we often pause to consider what is really important.  To me, knowing that LIFE is my destiny even after death, it frees me to concentrate on the next most important--relationships and as I heard someone say recently , taking as many as I can, with me to enjoy everlasting life.

We were reading Ephesians 3: 17-19 in different translations. They all say basically the same thing, but one phrase in the Living Bible- May your roots go down deep into the soil of God’s marvellous love suddenly brought two vivid pictures to my mind.

Several years ago, we had a nice spring with just enough showers to get the corn crop off to a good start. As spring turned to summer, the showers came less frequently and then almost came to a halt. It was hot and dry. But the corn seemed to flourish in spite of it all. Late that summer it was still dry, but a farmer had to dig deep beside the corn field to fix a stretch of drainage tile. Several feet down, he noticed the corn roots still reaching down into the soil. His interest was piqued so he kept following the roots to see how deep it would go. Even at seven feet and beyond, the roots had still travelled down to get the nourishment the corn stalk needed. Because of the persistence of those roots in the darkness and rich humus of the soil, hidden from the human eye, the corn stalk above ground remained healthy and productive.

The other picture comes from a visit to the lake country of England. Several years ago, on a hike through the countryside, I observed something unique and intriguing. A stone wall ran through a wooded area. There, we saw it. On top of a three or four-foot stone wall that was more than a foot wide, grew a tree whose trunk was already at least six inches through and the crown reached a height of 25 or 30 feet. The roots grew down each side of the stone wall and into the ground at the base. The roots were sturdy and thick, anchoring the tree well and providing the nourishment for the tree to remain healthy and strong.

Our roots are vitally important too. In fact I wonder if we are as diligent as that corn or the tree about reaching down deep into the soil of God’s marvellous love, finding there  nourishment for our souls. How diligent are we to follow the life-giving ‘moisture’ that makes us impervious to the inevitable droughts that come?

The corn or the tree did not think its aims to be self-centered or selfish to make roots the main focus. The verses in Ephesians following that phrase, urge us to put down those roots until we can feel and understand how wide, how deep and how high his love really is and to experience that love for ourselves even though we will never fully fathom its greatness. And guess what! If we do this we will be “filled up with God himself!” That should be incentive enough.

If we concentrate on putting down roots, growth “above ground” will surely happen and God will look after the pruning of that part and we will become more fruitful that we ever could without those vital roots.  . Verse 20 says that, in fact, our life will flourish ‘infinitely beyond our highest prayers, desires, thoughts or hopes. Wow! What am I waiting for?  What about you?

Please come and visit me at http://interviewsandreviews.blogspot.com.  Laura Davidson interviews me so you can read a bit about me and the book.  You will also find some other interesting books and their authors there.  See you there!

"Tell me a story!" was a request I often posed to my mother or my grandmother as I grew up.  They often complied and I would listen raptly.  I loved the stories about their childhood, their growing-up years.  As I grew older, many more tidbits emerged as my sisters, mother and I worked together.  Many of those stories I still remember.  Maybe that is the impetus behind my desire to write.

My great-grandmother (Mom's own grandmother) died before my birth, but she, too lives on through her wise sayings, passed on in those story-telling moments.  One example--Great-grandma used to say "You can have anything you want in life as long as you want the right things."  Just think of that next time you long for something.  For me, it put my needs and my wants in proper perspective.

Then there was the story of the summer my grandfather couldn't afford a hired man during the depression.  He apologetically asked if his teenage girls would help him with the farm work for this one harvesting season.  They did it gladly and found pleasure in helping this quiet, appreciative man who was their father.  At Christmas, they were surprised to each get a rather expensive wrist watch as a thank-you gift.  The expression of love and pleasure on Mom's face as she told us about it spoke volumes about the relationship between a sensitive father and willing daughters.

Those stories provided a good base for my life and have often helped me through difficult times or inspired my parenting and my life-work.  They provided a real sense of knowing, belonging and a place in the continuing saga of family.  They gave me roots and provided me with wings.

Story-telling as a Way of Community Building was the theme for the weekend workshop at our church.  We were given teaching and examples, then on Saturday night had a time of actually sharing our stories. It happened--some of that understanding of each other, some of that community building happened, but just enough to make us realize that we could benefit from continuing the practice. If we do, our relationships could grow far beyond what we have achieved. 

My father used to say that if we learn from history, we don't have to make all our own mistakes.  True!  But we also can learn from the successess and the wisdom of those in our past and in our present.

--If we share the stories--the riches from the libraries of our lives.