Possessing All Things

It’s a story
That came to me,
Late spring, early one
Thursday evening.
We were walking
The university grounds.
(Still hoofing it
Or busing or taxiing-
No car in the driveway.)
We had been to the
Main Library.
Hilary dabbling in Huguenot history,
Celtic folklore,
Charles G. D. Roberts’
Animal stories for the kids.
I, following the canoe
Of Grey Owl,
Or the letters of
My beloved Rutherford
And Scottish Covenanters.

The evening was
Lazy-warm and the
Leaves on the maple and oak
In full splendour.
The little campus stream
Was trickling toward
The duck pond,
And the two of us
Leaned on the aluminum
Bridge rail,
Arm-in-arm, silent, contented.
Watching Mother Mallard
Convoy her paddling brood of nine
Toward overhanging bushes.
No students passed.
(Campus population at
A seasonal minimum.)
Waterloo traffic noise
Muted through
Surrounding wood-lots.
I was impressed by
A suggestion from within:
“All things are yours,
And ye are Christ’s
And Christ is God’s.”

(A morning’s reading
Had prompted this thought
Some days before…
Seems a little house-maid
Worked in a large mansion.
Many rooms, exquisite.
Lots of dusting, cleaning, polishing.
She reserved a special time
Each day to enter
Her employer’s study to work.
There it was.
Four-by-five oil-painting
Of the Scottish Highlands.
For him, “a good investment
Picked up on tour overseas
With his wife.
Last appraisal – hundred and twenty-five
Percent jump in value.”

To the maid, this scene
Was Heaven. Multi-coloured
Heather, dramatic variable skies,
Distant snow-capped peak,
Ruddy little Highland cattle,
And one old Jock following
With plaidy and staff.
With such a feast for the eyes
Work became a luxury,
Day’s chores completed with joy.
Now who owned that painting?)

Hilary tapped my elbow:
“This is nice, isn’t it.”
The two of us headed down
The path,
Fragrance of lilac from
Somewhere up ahead.

The Outing

It is a cooler
Late-summer Sunday,
When grand-daughter finally
Gets the time to take
Rose to the Park.

The two cross
The lawn slowly (walker included).
Shaded picnic tables
Invite to a comfortable
Vantage point.

Before arrival,
Half-dozen ducks
Amble toward them,
Chuttering welcome.
To Rose’s laughter and surprise.

Once seated,
Grand-daughter suggests
Cold drinks,
If that would be all right.
Leaving elder, in broad sun- hat.

Five-year old blonde,
In long braids, crying
For lack of sandbox toys.
Soothed by Rose’s reassurance
And peppermints.

Young couple, bicycling
Along cinder path,
All smiles and small-talk.
Reminding her of John
In that first summer after the war.

Grand-daughter back
With refreshments,
And apology for taking so long.
Rose gestures a “de nada”.
“It’s a good time for ice-cream line-ups.”

Distant, muted loud-speaker.
Rise and fall of children’s cheers.
Sunday-school picnic.
Cavalcade of colours - towels,
Marquis tent, sun-hats.

Grand-daughter feels no need
To struggle at conversation.
Rose’s eyes are everywhere,
Twinkling.
Wringing spotted hands, habitually.

The younger pulls out
A pocket novel.
The older swings her legs
Up and over the bench seat,
To face the park’s edge.

An open vista of
Beautiful blue and clouds,
Rustling poplars and
Two elegant ancient willows.
Hosting purple finches.

Ninety minutes is enough.
Back to the car, the apartment.
She will tell John about it for weeks.
He will smile back,
From the photograph.

Did I Clobber?

Ruddy-cheeked, white-shirted and back-packed, the two young men got me in their sights about a block away. Latter Day Saints on a mission. It seems that in the warmer months our region hosts many of them.

They wander, knock on doors, confront and woo with their little blue book. Self-supporting. Courteous. Far from Mom and Dad. Calling themselves “elders”. I never see a Testament, only Joseph Smith’s book. This is the text which presumably he pulled out of the ground and had the angel interpret for him. A history of lost tribes of Israel dispersed to the New World and visited uniquely by Christ.

I smiled and asked them of the progress in their mission. Only three days here. I told them of my hope in Christ, a present assurance of salvation, needing none of my own striving to be held secure. I spoke of election and my responding wonder and love for the Man of Galilee.

They sensed that I had a firm set of beliefs. They had been trained to suggest a certain commonality in our positions, but all the while they were setting things up to throw in a couple of inspiring shots from the Book of Mormon. I told them that I did not consider it to be reliable scripture. The portion which they read to me sounded like plagiarism from Matthew 25: 31-40.

That is when I fouled up and really started to joust with doctrine. Perhaps I could persuade these young men, so seemingly loyal to the faith of their fathers. WRONG! Better to have simply affirmed the sufficiency of Christ, then give a clear single portion of scripture and state that I would not be drawn to their way. Confidence. Courtesy. Calm.

The Lord did not need my advocacy or sales spin. If they are His, the process is already in motion. I had been presented to them, simply as one more testimony to the praise of Christ, to "the faith which was once delivered unto the saints" and to the hazard in any purported New Gospel. Confrontation was a mistake.

I will know better next time.

The Meek Win

Psalm 37: 11 – But the meek will inherit the land and enjoy great peace. (NIV)

Who are these meek? Moses was called the meekest of all men (Numbers 12) yet he was wise and accomplished in all the wisdom of Egypt. You saw the movie! Charlton Heston was amazing at science, mathematics, architecture, construction, horsemanship, warfare, plant science, leadership of men, diplomacy, etc.

Jesus described himself as meek and lowly (Matthew 11). He was clearly an accomplished craftsman, an outdoors-man, a man instantly attractive to rugged fishermen and other tradesmen, a captivating storyteller, a tamer of storms, an attention-getter able to arrest and fascinate large crowds, etc.

I have heard meekness described as controlled strength, channeled to God-ordained purposes. Imagine a busy farm-yard and a mighty Clydesdale work-horse gently moving his way through numbers of chickens and ducks and harming none with his huge feathered hooves. Talk about controlled strength!

The Beatitudes affirm that the meek will inherit the earth (Matthew 5). The Spirit offers the fruit of meekness (Galatians 5). Isn’t it astonishing that simply because our Lord encourages meek ones to turn the other cheek, they are perceived by the world as weak and somehow un-manly? This seems very far from the truth.

Move of God

I remember seeing a painting of George Whitefield (1714 - 1770) preaching to a crowd in an English village. The faces of those in attendance registered every possible reaction – mild interest, polite boredom, awkward smirks, heckling, distraction toward the activity of others and some in heavy conviction and mourning for sin.

The face of the preacher showed only severe focus on the Word being preached. He was not scanning the crowd for their reaction or trying to tailor his presentation for sake of persuasiveness. He modeled the dedicated, humble messenger of the simple seed of the Word. I saw nothing of debater, salesman or distinguished celebrity.

How often do we hear of the ministries of “great men or women of God” wielding some “mighty anointing”. It is as if the sweet ministry of the Holy Spirit and His fruit have been reduced to a commodity like baking powder available for better effect.

I am convinced that we are seeing the eclipse of “great personalities” in ministry. God is jealous for His glory. One of a messenger’s greatest fears in service or testimony should be the fear of the praise of men and its debilitating effect. The sower simply, obediently and faithfully scatters the seed. God gives the increase.

I am expecting a groundswell of grass-roots love and sharing to be in the next outbreak of revival. We must all be prepared to give the glad report and to offer hands of help.

The Man With The Book

I remember borrowing from the University of Waterloo a tiny, dusty volume entitled “The Man with the Book: John Ross of Brucefield” (1821 to 1887).

Brucefield is little more than a rural corner in Huron County west of Seaforth. This citizen was a hard working, neighbourly son of Scotland whose family had emigrated to Ontario after the Great Disruption which birthed the Free Presbyterean Church of Scotland.

His was an agrarian life with many a hike or buckboard ride down long country roads to help neighbours. He was known for always carrying with him a pocket New Testament and Psalms. He would often stop to ask a stranger whether he might offer a word of scripture providing special blessing. The testimonies of hearts touched by such simple witness were numerous.

John Ross was privileged to offer homespun sermons in many country churches. One quote of his I copied in the margin of my Bible:
“The Lord was heard to say, ‘This is my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased.’ What are you thinking about this free gift? What is the answer you are sending back to Heaven about Him? Here is the answer the Father is watching to hear from every one of us: “This is my beloved Saviour in whom I am well pleased.” Can you say it? Will you say it? He is God’s free gift to the world. If you will have Him as your Saviour, take up God’s words and send them back to Him...God and you are at one; You have come to an agreement about the most important matter in the universe; You are both well pleased with the Son of God; There is peace between you.”

John, rugged forefather, perhaps another wandering soul will hear your words today.

The Shantyman

It is good to toil
With the men I know;
And to trim the trees
And to lay them low;
And to haul their bulk
To the stream below;
I am glad that the Lord sent me here.

And from time to time
When the mood is right,
In the vaulted wood
With its dappled light;
Where the bluejay’s flash
Quickens shrill and bright;
I can sense that the Lord meets me here.

There’s a constant strain
From the whistle call;
As we scale the heights
Making giants fall;
And we swing our steel
And our chain and maul.
And I know that the men test me here.

But the dusk does come,
And the campfires burn;
And the grub is good,
And our thoughts will turn
To the ones at home,
And for those we yearn;
But for weeks we must still labour here.

Yet another time
The alarm will sound;
That a trunk has split;
That a man is downed.
And like mother birds
We all gather ‘round.
And I sense they are glad I am here.

Then the Sabbath day
Brings some extra rest;
And a few will come,
And by that I’m blessed;
And we search the Book,
And I share Christ’s best;
For the Lord of the harvest is here.

Oh shantymen sing!
In the golden field;
In the fishing hull;
In the mineshaft’s yield;
In the factory’s pulse;
Sing of grace revealed;
And the joy of the Lord finds us here.


Note: Canada recalls many work situations in which humble servants of the Gospel got into the workplace, rubbed shoulders, earned trust and simply prayed and helped.

Landseer Remains

It was true
The great artist
Had come to the croft.
Breathtakingly.
The Husband had
Set it up with
The Interior Man.
Margit’s * cooperation
Implicit.

Scarcely the time
To lime-wash
The plaster walls
Of guest-room.
And soak, pound and
Breeze the bed-clothes,
Before arrival of the
Chronicler of heather,
Nature, heritage, race.

Other women would
Not get the news
‘Til Sabbath Meeting.
Margit was near
Explosion
The singular
Honour of it all!
Though He was not
Overmuch with her fare.

Of a day’s outing,
Whatever the sportsman’s
Dress or kit,
Or eyeglass or brushes,
It was always His
Sky blue eyes
‘Neath craggy gray brows,
Probing, dancing,
Which fascinated.

The Man was noble,
Cautious with words,
Sensitive in commendation.
Enrapt by the land.
(If only Husband had
Responded to her many
Requests to fix the
Horrid fissure in
Guest-room plaster wall!)

Daily, Husband and dogs
Would escort “Sir”
To some edge of the heath,
Arrangements made
For rendez-vous point
Seven hours distant.
Husband then busied
With endless demands
Of the wee farm.

Waning rays
Would highlight the form
Of returning “Sir”.
Swinging the walking stick.
No longer leaning.
Daily enlarging in
Colour, gait, height
And spirits.
Canvas agenda still hidden.

Then came the rains.
An embarrassment to hospitality.
But strange delight
To the guest who
Requested only
A season of quiet
In His room to
Formulate the work.
Mid-day bites left at the door.

Three days’
Hushed anticipation.
Only an hours’
Evening fellowship, hearth-side,
With a spot of tea,
Shortbread, Scott, Burns
Or Rutherford.
Light farm talk.
Or village happenings.

The fourth morning,
Sunshine brightening
The guest-room interior.
“Sir” beckoned Margit visit
For a wee look
At the rendering.
Her examination yielded
No easel, no canvas, frame.
“Sir”only, standing, arms behind.

Non-plused, Margit wheeled
To her point of humbling.
The faulty plaster wall,
Now animated with
Richest of Highland scenes:
Hills, heather, cloudy vault.
Distant twelve-point stag.
And fissure placed as sparkling
Rill where once two lovers kissed.


(*A fictitious name)

(Painting by Sir Edwin Henry Landseer, 1802-1873)

1 Timothy 3:2b "...vigilant, sober, of good behaviour, given to hospitality..."

It's That Easy

I was doing my part-time stint at the grocery store, stacking milk, rotating stock, guiding customers to desired purchases. It was a holiday season and particularly busy. The little woman shuffled past me trying to remain invisible but obviously troubled about something. Clothing simple. Hair grooming simple. Facial expression simple. Obviously she was not used to drawing attention. Neither was she used to smiling. I noticed her teeth.

A moment or so later, I approached her to render the company’s “May I help you find something?” She did not want to make eye contact, but I was determined. I have made it a point to establish with customers that they have my time and attention.

I could see her warming just a little and I carried on to enumerate her options and guide her to various locations. I suggested that she take her time and give me a shout if there were any other questions. Standard procedure.

A few moments later I was surprised to hear a resounding “Happy Easter!” and I turned to see the woman smiling broadly and giving me full-faced attention. I returned the greeting and waved. Friends. To be frank, I was disappointed with myself. Was it really that easy to light up a life? Simple courtesy? Simple affirmation? Were there not dozens of opportunities to do the same in any day? It came as almost a slap in the face.

Simultaneously I had a flashback to my dear old high school English teacher, Miss Wyatt. She had a knack for affirming students. I would see her shuffling down the hall to class stooped over with her bundle of books. If I called, or any other student, she would stop, look up, establish eye contact, smile in a sparkling sort of way and give of her time. I never forgot her. She went to our church. She roomed for a time in hospital with a relative of ours. She let her light shine, and others were changed.