Author Ruth Smith Meyer

Several years ago, I accompanied a group of women going on a tour of quilting places. We saw many beautiful quilts and came away with countless ideas for projects of our own. I also came away with the promise of receiving monthly, a letter giving me six progressive sets of instructions for a Mystery Quilt. I was excited by the idea.

The first letter arrived a few weeks later with instructions to buy so many yards of a dark solid fabric, so many yards of dark printed fabrics, light tone on tone and  light printed fabric. When I went shopping for those fabrics I was confronted by the first clue of how I was going to react. How was I going to choose good colours and contrast if I didn’t know the pattern of the quilt? I agonized over my choice. Would I regret the colours I finally chose? Which fabrics were going to be the main pattern and which the background? Already I was filled with apprehension.

The next letter contained instructions to cut triangles of one of the colours, some rectangles of the same and some from a different one. I dreaded cutting into good, new fabric without knowing what the finished product was going to be, but I forced myself to do it.

The next letter was hard to even open. My feelings were those of unease, bordering on anxiety. More cutting of the different fabrics was required. It felt as though I was committed to the unknown and it didn’t feel good.

When the next letter advised me to begin sewing them together, I balked. That was too much. Now even though I used the excuse that I was just too busy to continue with it, the truth was I just couldn’t continue without knowing what I was doing. Although I felt more than a little disgusted at my inability to go on step-by-step, I wanted the whole picture first! As each subsequent letter arrived, I guiltily stowed it, unopened, in the box which held all the supplies for the Mystery Quilt.

Finally, the sixth missive arrived and I opened it first. There was the picture of the finished product! All of a sudden my schedule was free enough to get my sewing machine buzzing. It wasn’t long until I had my quilt done. It was beautiful!

Beautiful as it was, the experience continued to haunt me. Then one day, my teacher-daughter was telling me how the children in her class worked differently. Some needed to be given small, progressive steps to complete a task. Telling them all the steps to a project overwhelmed them and made them freeze up, unable to begin.

Others, she said, were just the opposite. Given only one instruction at a time made no sense to them. They had to have all the instructions and an idea of what the finished project was to look like before they could begin. “It is just the way they are made, the difference in how each child functions!” she said.

Bo-i-i-ing! It was like a “slap up-side the head” as my son would have said. The light went on. I am the kind of person who wants to see the whole picture. That bit of insight gave me a bigger understanding of how I operate in life.

Having that picture set me to thinking about other parts of my life. How does it affect the way I communicate with others? What difference does it make in the tasks with which I am presented in various parts of my life? How does that trait influence my walk with my Lord and Saviour?

Again, those thoughts came back to me repeatedly and I struggled with feeling inadequate and unfaithful until one day I was reading the story of the disciple Thomas. His reaction when the other followers of Christ told him that Jesus had appeared to them has dubbed him doubting-Thomas ever since. In this reading I suddenly saw another side. Maybe Thomas was just withholding his opinion because he needed the whole picture. Less didn’t make sense. He was waiting to get the last few pieces of the jig-saw puzzle before he could see the end result. I began to have a lot of empathy for him.

Now how should the Thomas in me reconcile my personality-need-for- the- whole-picture and my need to follow Christ with my whole heart and mind? Can I trust him with the unseen parts of the picture, or do I withhold my belief and allegiance until I can see more?

I struggled several days with those ideas and my dilemma. God made me the way I am. Is he now asking me to operate differently? Was the way he made me not as good as those who want only one step at a time?

Then one morning I read Jesus’ conversation with the disciples in John “I am the way, the truth and the life,” he told them--another light-bulb moment! That IS the whole picture! If I keep my eyes on Jesus, then even if I can’t see beyond the bend of the road, I still have the whole picture, because Jesus is the WAY the TRUTH and the LIFE. What could be more complete?

Once again, we traversed the highway around beautiful Lake Superior to Thunder Bay—probably at least the twentieth time in the last forty-five years. (Oh dear, I can scarcely believe I’m even that old!)

One would think after doing the same route that many times it would be growing old and boring. Not so! I’ve done it in the middle of winter, in the early spring, in the summer and in the autumn. For many years, we managed to have sunny weather most of the way. A few times in recent years we had fog when I had to imagine the water out there in the lake and the trees high on the hills. This trip we had everything from fog to light sprinkle to bright sun, to heavenly blue skies to heavier rain. The varied greens of the spruce and pines, the poplar and birch and many different species were rich and lush in the damp. The lake lay in deeper shades of blues and grays under brooding skies or reflected sunlight and shadow. Sometimes, even while we drove through light mist, we could see ahead the sun shining on the side of a distant hill. At other times, the shadow of clouds or sweeping rain on a far hill could be seen approaching as we drove through the sunshine.

Before we reached the most scenic part of the route, I had been reading aloud, bits from Stan Toler’s book, The Buzzards are Circling but God isn’t Finished with Me Yet. That reading already made me aware of the various challenges of life and the difference our attitude makes when facing those challenges. I guess it got my mind ready to see the scenes before me with different eyes. Instead of fretting because the sun wasn’t illuminating each new sight with every curve in the road, I was able to see the beauty of the lush green in the mist. The play of sunlight and shadow, bright moments and cloudy ones, the sweep of approaching rain became a reflection of life.

How often in the sunny periods of our lives are we surprised, at the turn in the road, to be met with rain on our parade? How often do we see ahead the sweep of rain, knowing that very soon we will be in the midst of another challenge? How often do come upon a thick fog where we can only see a short distance ahead, not able to know for sure where the turns and the ups and downs await?

Now on our trip, as in life, would we not have had a goal in mind, we may have been inclined to just wait it out until the sun shines once more, or to have turned tails to flee the oncoming challenge.

In severe weather or road conditions, that may be the advisable and wise thing to do, but on our trip it wasn’t dangerous to go on, so we kept travelling. We had a goal in mind. We had reservations for the night ahead and a destination that called us for the next day. We had lots of time to make our day’s journey, we didn’t need to hurry. The goal gave us impetus to continue our journey and we found pleasure and benefit in the going. We would have missed the blessing of seeing the scenery in a different light had we avoided journeying through. The goal made the difference.

Think about it. What does that tell you about your life-journey? I know today will make a difference in my outlook in life.

The day is cool and calm, infiltrated by bird song and the occasional sound of rain drops on the metal roof of our house trailer set on the lot of my husband's son and his wife.  The poplar trees outside the window are fresh, green and lush, dripping still from the rain.  At a distance beyond those, hidden from my view are the mountains.  Even though I'd have to walk up the road a few hundred yards and have a sunny day to actually see them, my spirit thrills just to know they are there. 

It's a rare morning, for our visit has been permeated with the warmth and delight of two granddaughters who have shown us their pure pleasure in having us around.  Our time with their mother has been increased this visit, because their house has been moved off their lot in anticipation of building a log house this summer.  Meantime they, too, live in a trailer, the garage and various out-buildings.

This morning there is VBS and other activities that have left me alone to catch up on writing I had intended to do while on vacation.  My mind has instead been mulling over the need we all have of respite from our usual round of duties, the inevitable revision in our values and thinking that comes with such respite and the renewal of our true priorities. 

The sad news of another diagnosis of cancer, the break-up and threatened break-up of the marriages of three couples that are dear to us, like the rains, have brought clouds of sadness rolling in.  But just like those mountains, hidden by the trees and clouds, I know that God is there and that he is in control--whether those people know it or not.  My knowledge of that and the assurance it gives, is not only comforting, but thrilling.  I pray that every one in the midst of difficulty may find that truth and that it may bring comfort as well as the thrill of knowing the steadfastness of God's love and presence.

Meantime, I am learning--again--that relationships are more important than ministry-whether that is writing or whatever.  Indeed I would say that without relationships, ministry isn't possible.  What do you think?

I'm sharing a poem from May musings even though it's almost July!

Fair May morning here

Arriving first class

Dazzling sunbeams rise,

Bid the world hello.

Flowers bright appear

Against green, green grass,

Elixir for eyes

Soothes away night’s woe.

Robin sings his cheer—

Version of high mass—

Brings a glad reprise

Mem’ries appropos.

Praise bursts forth, sincere,

Joy will come to pass.

God’s love, glad surprise,

Set’s my heart aglow.

    WRITE! Canada 2010 has happened—and it happened without me. Each year since I first went, it has been an important event every June. While I always return bodily tired, my mind and my enthusiasm are renewed and invigorated. Of course that tiredness is partly due to not wanting to miss anything, staying up for the night owl sessions and rising for the early bird or prayer sessions.

     Although my publisher again entered my latest book into the contest for an award, this year, because of certain events in my life, I decided I could not attend. My mind didn’t listen, though and from Thursday to Saturday I was conscious of what I was missing.

    Then today, four days after the close of the conference, the TWG letter containing the judge’s remarks came in the mail. I hardly knew if I wanted to know what it said. But curiosity won out and I did tear it open. On a scale of one to five the categories were marked. 2, 3, 3,3,4,1,2,2 5,3. Was it disappointing? Yes, it was, but not devastating.

     After several years of work, editing and redoing, testing it out on children of the ages I had mentioned, with good response, having positive affirmation from the publisher, from my writing group and from people who have purchased the book, read it and benefitted by it, the judge’s feedback didn’t reflect any of that.

    Again, I was thankful for what I have learned at WRITE! Canada and in my writer’s group. We all differ in our likes and dislikes—even fellow writers and the honourable judge. The very thing one person finds the most intriguing or heart-warming just doesn’t do it for another. What charms one reader makes it hard for another to connect. We, as authors, need to seriously weigh what the “experts” say, put to use those suggestions that feel right to ourself,  the author and then extend to us the grace to trust in your own intuition as well. It would be helpful if there were additional judges so that the picture was more complete, but each critique deserves our full attention.

   Is it nice to capture a few awards? Yes, that can be very satisfying. Is it nice to Wow your judge? I surmise it might be. However as Tammy Wiens says “I have found that I've gotten so caught up in trying to please the industry at times that I've forgotten my audience. In the end, they are the ones who buy my books and let me know if they are good or not--not editors or publishers.”

   My biggest and best reward comes from the people who have been helped in facing their own challenges by reading my books. If I have brought understanding, growth or comfort to even a few readers, then my writing has not been in vain. Instead of a sticker on the front cover proclaiming my book to be a finalist, there is a warm spot in my heart, knowing God has used my efforts to bring help, understanding or even enjoyment to my fellow travelers in life.

A few weeks ago a busy part of the world came to a standstill--at least where air transportation was concerned.  It affected many of the rest of us too.  A young bride-to-be had booked a flight so she would arrive at just the right time, but the wedding day came closer and closer, and she wasn't able to be there.  What is a wedding without the bride?  There was no substitute way for her to make it in time.

Parents of a young family asked grandparents to come baby-sit for five days so they could visit England on business.  That stretched out to ten days.  The granparents felt quite capable of five days, but as time went on they grew more wearied of keeping up with all the activities of teen and pre-teen students.  The worried parents investigated driving to Italy to get a flight from there, but had they been able to afford it, the necessary transportation to that destination was not available either. 

Many people, not just those stranded by the volcanic ash, began to realize how dependant we are on air travel and precise scheduling.  It isn't just travel that is affected, but food supplies, mail, goods and much  more.  Life as we know it would change in many ways if planes could no longer fly. 

Just following this world episode, my computer took a bit of a temper tantrum.  I am so used to pressing a few buttons and being in touch with my friends, my colleagues, my work, my creativity, instantaneously.  Again I became aware of how dependent I am on that little device no larger than the binder I used to carry to high school way back when.

My calendar, which keeps me from forgetting most of my scheduled activity was hidden in the depths of my computer. The talk I was to give on Saturday morning was ensconced in its catacombs.  The poem and its introduction that I was to read at the launch of Grandmothers' Necklace in Kitchener Saturday afternoon wasn't printed out.  I was keenly aware of the truth  that as I have often jokingly said, "Half my mind is on my computer!"

The planes eventually did fly again and life settled down to a semblance of normalcy.  My son came to my rescue, walked me through several tries until (YEAH!) we got those documents back again.  But in the mean time, I had a bit of fun wondering how most of this generation would get along if suddenly we were back to the restrictions of say, 200 years ago.  There would most certainly be  a painful relearning of basic living.

In all this musing, my heart became thankful for the One who said he is the same yesterday, today and forever!  And thank God, because of the Man of Sorrows, I know him intimately, for he is my Rock and Redeemer!

It's just an empty nest in a maple tree that has been visible all winter.  Occasionally it was mounded with freshly fallen snow, sometimes coated with freezing rain?cold and uninviting.  That vacant nest signified fledglings now matured and flown.  The haven of possibility now barren.

The scene bore a marked resemblance to the writing area of my mind.  My latest fledgling grown, matured and in print, the creative nest sitting cold and bare for several months now.  Oh, the winter activity blustered and blew around it.  The death of my brother, my cousin and three other close acquaintances just amplified the barrenness of this season in my life and the stark emptiness of the nest that once cradled creativity.  The frigid snow attempted to cover and beautify it, but no life stirred inside.

Then came the warm days of last week?the pungent aromas of spring in the air, the snow melting like a piece of chocolate on the warm tongue of the sun-drenched earth, the first tips of daffodils peeking through the mulch in the flowerbed. They reminded me of the recent day I spoke to a group of precious women eager to learn and stretch their boundaries.  Two came afterward to tell me how they had grown in self-understanding through reading my books.  That affirmation, like the sun with the daffodils, pushed the pregnant bulb of creativity within me to stretch toward the light.

From the daffodils, my eyes travelled upward to the maple.  The still-bare branches continued to support that same nest, but something was different.  In my mind, instead of emptiness, I saw great potential?almost as if the nest was sporting a sign ?Available for Immediate Occupancy.?  That nest and my mind seemed suddenly to be wide open to new possibilities. The winter has ended  My heart is filled with  longing to once more hatch ideas that stir within me?the desire  to see a whole new nest full of inspirational stories and writing is waiting to be given wings. 

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.