Author Archives: Glenys

About Glenys

A writer with a passion for God, my family and children's ministry.

What Happened in a Little British Primary School on my First Author Visit..

I look out over a sea of red. More than three hundred young voices are raised in exuberant song. Boys and girls are swaying and smiling. One of them glances my way to wave shyly at ‘the famous author.’

It is my first visit to a British Primary school. I’m here because my sweet nephew, Jake, carried his copy of Love Letters from God to school one day and showed it to his teacher.

I’m here to sign the copies that were bought for each classroom and to read the children’s favorite stories to them.

I’m here to inspire these young children; to encourage them to be the best they can be; to remind them that dreams do come true.

Because fifty years ago, I was one of them, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the assembly hall in my red British uniform, in a school not too far from theirs. I never would have imagined that one day I would be living in the United States, or have the enormous privilege of being an author. And so I’m here to inspire these young minds, and to help them dream of what might lie beyond the horizon.

I don’t really know what to expect on this sunny British morning – but I’m definitely not expecting this. ..

A welcome enthused with so much warmth that it makes me feel like JK Rowling;

a prayer written especially for me;

a trio of smiling girls who lead worship during assembly and then use their free time to patrol the school in order to check that everything is being done in a Christian manner. They form part of a wider group of children, known throughout the school as ‘ The Ethos Warriors.’

I don’t expect to see halls and classrooms so boldly and brightly decorated with stories and scenes from the book;

or wonderful children’s letters to God displayed on every wall.

And I am moved by what those letters say, and how their contents reveal their need for God.

I’m honored by the huge bouquet of flowers waiting to greet me on the ‘top table’ at lunch time, along with eight smiling pupils who have earned a place there.

And most of all, I am truly amazed and humbled as I witness the school’s ‘show case’ at the end of the day, where each class shares a presentation of work based on the book.

The youngest children wear the colorful animal masks they made and parade in two by two.

The oldest show videos they created based on the story of The Lions who Lost Their Lunch.

And in between, classes sing songs and perform raps; they read out their letters to God and proudly show their paintings inspired by the story of the Wind and Waves.

None of this wonderful work was I expecting.

I’m sitting on the plane now, flying high over the Atlantic Ocean, homeward bound to the USA. In my suitcase I carry a book, made by the children of Sutton Oak Primary School in St Helens, England. It is decorated painstakingly and beautifully with little colorful stamps, just like the ones my illustrator created for the book.

And in my heart I carry memories of wonderful, committed teachers;

of children being nurtured in a Christian atmosphere; of little ones learning every day about the One who made them.

And I know that God is wonderfully at work in the world, through words that I was somehow privileged to author.

Q & A With Traci Smith, Author of ‘Seamless Faith’… and a Giveaway!

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Meet Traci Smith… one busy lady! Wife, mom to two young boys, and pastor, she somehow found time to author a gem of a book named Seamless Faith. If you are interested, as I am, in nurturing children’s spirituality, Traci’s book is a wonderful resource.

The book’s description reads, ‘In Seamless Faith, author Traci Smith shares dozens of simple practices to equip families with the tools they need for bringing faith home. Filled with easy-to-organize traditions, ceremonies, and spiritual practices for many of life’s stressful and faith-filled moments, this is a resource parents will rely on for years to come.’

These are the things I love most about Traci’s book:

1. It’s so easy to read!

2. It’s filled with simple, practical ideas for introducing sacred practices to even our littlest ones.

3. It does not preach to the reader, but rather meets families where they are to help them on their faith journey.

I’m thrilled that Traci agreed to participate in a Question & Answer session with me, and also graciously agreed to offer readers an opportunity to win their own, signed copy of Seamless Faith.

Hi Traci! Before we talk about the book, tell us a little bit about your background, and your calling to ministry.

I grew up in a Christian home, in the United Church of Christ. My family always went to church and enjoyed family activities, but I never imagined I’d become a pastor. After college, I took a job as director of youth ministries and fell in love with ministry. I went to seminary to find out if I might be called to ordained ministry and there really felt God’s call. I’ve been an ordained minister in the PC(USA) since 2006.

What inspired you to write Seamless Faith?

When I became a mother, I thought a lot about how my husband and I might share our faith with our children in ways that are natural and part of our everyday life. I wrote a book that I wanted to read. My parents were hugely creative and nurturing and so I had a rich foundation of experiences to draw on and adapt when I was writing the book.

I love it that you wrote a book you wanted to read! The title of the book, Seamless Faith captures the very essence of what you try to achieve through its pages, namely encouraging families to weave faith practices into everyday life. Where did the inspiration for the title come from? Was it your idea, or the publisher’s?

Oooh! This is a great question. The working title for the book was “Faithful Families.” The publisher thought that title might lack a certain “pizazz” and so we tossed a bajillion names back and forth. Seamless Faith comes directly out of a sentence in the book that says “Faith is learned when it is woven seamlessly into everyday life.” It’s been a great metaphor to use to explain what the book is about.

I agree! The cover of the book also captures its essence. Where did the photograph come from?

It’s a stock photo chosen by the publisher, Chalice Press. Originally I was adamant that no people should be on the cover because families can take on so many different forms. At the same time, it’s hard to have a book about faith practices for families and not show people on the cover. The photo is fun and happy and it does capture the essence of the book, I believe.

I think so too! I know that 50 faith practices is a lot to choose from, but if you could pick one or two from the book that are especially meaningful for you and your family, which would they be?

The practice for anointing children when they are sick is particularly meaningful for me, because it is a practice that provides comfort and spiritual connection for both parents and children at a time when everyone is feeling vulnerable. Just last week my younger son, Samuel, had stitches in his lip. When I tucked him into bed, I felt a strong sense of fear and anxiety wash over me. I was grateful that it had all turned out ok, but my soul was troubled about the experience of the day. It was a great relief to me, and a comfort to my son to put the oil on his forehead, say a little prayer, and know that God was with us through that awful experience.

The pet funeral is also meaningful to me, not so much because of its importance to me, but because of how others have responded to it. Many people have written to me and given thanks for including it, talking about how important it is to mark the occasion of the death of a pet in a way that is meaningful and easy to do.

Do you see the book as mainly a resource for parents, or is it also useful for those involved in ministry?

Both. The book is designed for families to use together, but children’s ministry directors and pastors find it useful both as a resource with which to teach families how to practice their faith together and also as gifts for baptisms or other important occasions in the life of the children in their congregation.

Can we expect to see any other books from you in the future?

I hope so! Since writing the book, I’ve noticed several practices that I did not include. I would love to follow-up with a resource for families of teenagers as well. Who knows what God has in store!

Oh, that sounds like a great idea…I will look forward to reading it! Finally Traci, how can readers connect with you?

I would love for your readers to sign up to receive my newsletter. It comes out almost every month and has free downloads, ideas and links to other great family faith resources (such as your book, for example!) The sign up is here: http://eepurl.com/NwKtb Folks can also connect on my Facebook page: facebook.com/TraciMarieSmithAuthor of course the book can be purchased on Amazon HERE

Enter to win a signed copy of Seamless Faith!

Living in a Four Year Old’s World

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My husband can draw. My sons can draw. I can’t.

I don’t know how old I was when I discovered this sad fact. But one day, I realized that my pictures didn’t look like they were supposed to. So I gave up.

When my husband was a young boy at school, the only thing he remembers about his art teacher was the day he looked up to see him taking out a large, black, permanent marker from his jacket pocket as he bent over to ask my husband a question about what he was drawing.

What’s that Nellist? He said, pointing to his picture.

It’s a cloud, sir. David replied.

Oh, I see, the teacher sniggered.

Then he promptly took his big, black, permanent marker and drew a large, ugly arrow across the sky, accompanied by a label that read: A CLOUD.

Fortunately, my husband survived that scar. He is, in fact, a wonderful artist.

My grandson, at four years old, is a wonderful artist too. Totally uninhibited, he picks up the pen and creates life on the page. No-one has told him that rain is not purple, or that buds on one tree cannot possibly be multi-colored. He is not yet scarred by perfectionism, or skepticism, or the idea that he cannot draw. He simply draws.

In his picture, we are enjoying large blue lollipops together.

There’s the merest sprinkling of rain, but the sun is peeking out from behind the clouds, drawn by Grandma, as per his instructions.

And center stage is his masterpiece…. a tall tree in spring, like the one we looked at outside my window, bursting with buds, and perfect in promise. It fills the entire page from the green of the grass to the blue of the sky. And If you look closely, you can see the multi-colored buds curled, like they are holding a secret; waiting to be opened.

There’s a song in his picture. And color. And hope. And two cars, because his little four-year old world always has wheels in it.

And wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could all live in that four-year old world, where buds on trees are multi-colored, and lollipops are huge, and there is no scarring, or labeling, or teachers with permanent markers in their pockets, just waiting to scribble on our dreams?

And I think everyone needs a picture like my grandson’s….pinned on their fridges, helping to remind them of sunshine

and new life

and the promise of spring,

even when there’s rain.

There are always flowers for those who want to see them. Henri Matisse

Saying Goodbye to Grandma

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It was very early this morning, still dark outside, when I heard the pitter patter of rain on the roof.

Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled ever so quietly. And then for a moment, there was stillness. I lay in bed with my eyes open and wondered about that. I wondered if, four thousand long miles away, my mum had opened heaven’s gates and stepped inside.

And she had.

She wasn’t my real mum, but she might as well have been. Her other daughter-in-law affectionately calls her Joanie, but she was always mum to me.

She made the best breakfasts…of bacon, and eggs, and tomatoes and mushrooms. She had a special plate that was just for me. And she always told me I ate like a bird.

It was her who came to stay each time I had a baby. She would knit them hats that were far too big, and bounce them affectionately on her knee.

When our four sons were young, it was always to her big house, in the sunny south of England that we would go for our summer holidays. We would pack up the car with our six bikes hanging off the roof and drive, like the Clampetts, for two weeks of fun at Grandma’s. And even though she scolded us when we tramped the red sand of the beach in on our shoes, she loved us being there. And even though it sometimes rained, we always remember the sunny days.

She would walk with us down the little stony path, through the woods to our favorite Elberry Cove, where we would sit on the pebbly beach and eat our crisps and salmon butties. Once we clambered together in a blow up boat and rowed around in the shallow waters. I remember her laughing in her floppy hat.

Sometimes, we would go out walking together at night. She loved big houses and when it was dark, you could see in peoples’ windows.

She was full of energy and life, and was often found to be doing her ironing and dusting at one o’clock in the morning. Even when she retired, she cleaned houses in her spare time, and even though she didn’t have much money, we always found a few pounds tucked away in the envelope whenever she wrote to us.

She could paint with two hands, and loved to water color. She could magically grow any plant from the tiniest shoot or seed; and outside her kitchen window, there was always a row of flower pots standing proudly on the little stone wall, spilling over with fuchsias, or sweet peas, or carnations. She talked to them every day, and always knew what they needed.

She loved to go for rides in the countryside, and was always the first to notice and name the yellows and purples of the wild flowers that danced in the Devon hedgerows. One day, she wrote about them in my diary.

And I think about time, and life, and how fast this one, precious gift passes us by.

And how we must snatch it, and hold on to each moment, and cherish the memories of summer days, and floppy hats, and wildflowers that dance in the hedgerows.

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? Mary Oliver

The Happy Place

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No-one knows for sure if the cave I stand in front of is the real tomb where Jesus lay. But I like to think so.

Of course it helped that the sun was shining that day; that birds were singing high in the treetops; that blossom was blowing in the wind; that voices were raised in song, echoing around The Garden Tomb in Jerusalem and filling it with peace.

We wait patiently in line for our turn to step inside. I see the small doorway cut out of the rock; I see a huge circular stone standing nearby, like the one that would have been used to seal the entrance;

I see people stepping out of the tomb. They are smiling.

And then it’s our turn.

We step inside. It is quiet. And empty. And for a moment, we don’t say a word.

But when we do, it’s my sister that says,

This is a happy place.

And I laugh at her perfect pronouncement. She is so right! And I don’t feel like I have to whisper in here, as I have done at most of the holy sites. And I don’t feel like I have to tiptoe in here, like I did as a child in the graveyard, afraid to step on the tombs of the dead.

This is a happy place! This is not where we find the dead, but the living!

The tomb of Jesus is a happy place. This is not where we find the dead, but the living!

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And we step out through the open door, just as Jesus did, two thousand years ago, where sunshine waits to greet us, and promise whispers in the air.

We step from darkness into light, and celebrate with every spring flower who has pushed her way out from darkest earth to find the place where she can bloom.

JESUS IS ALIVE!

The Stones Under my Fingers

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Even though the sun is shining today, it’s cold in this pit. I knew it would be. I already had the chills when I read the sign announcing One Way Crypt.

We’re underneath the house of Caiaphas. descending into its lower depths by the stone circular steps. But this is not the way Jesus came in here. There was only one way in for him. And only one way out.

Jesus was lowered through a narrow hole in the roof. There would have been nothing careful about it. He was dangled on a rope, dropped in the darkness on the cold stone floor. And left. Alone.

This is the pit where Jesus spent the last evening of his life. It’s just one of the many prisons underneath the house of the High Priest. But it’s the deepest. And probably the darkest.

And as I run my hand over these rough, icy stones I wonder…if they could speak, what would they tell of a young man from Galilee?

Did he run his hands over these same stones too? Because those were powerful hands!

Weren’t they the hands that first molded the mountains and swelled the seas? Weren’t they the hands that scooped up dirt to give sight to the blind; that commanded a storm be still; that healed the lame with just one touch?

And if all that is true, then surely this pit did not need to be a One Way crypt at all. There would have been several ways out for Jesus. He could have dissolved the stones with his little finger; molded a stairway in an instant, or commanded the pit disappear.

But he didn’t.

I doubt if he even curled those powerful hands into fists and pounded on these walls, as I surely would have done.

In a moment I’ll climb those steps and leave this horrible place. I will probably sip on a cappuccino and maybe browse the gift shop, as tourists do. I’ll sit in the sunshine where it’s light and warm. My escape from the pit will be an easy one.

And his could have been too.

But instead Jesus chose to wait until they hauled on that rope, and dragged him through that narrow hole, his body banging and scraping and bleeding against those icy stones….on his way to the cross.

And it’s not until I’m actually here, in this horrible pit, that I realize the enormity of the choice he made.

The one way. The only way.

And that it was for me.

So When Does Lent End?

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So when does Lent end?

Forty days just seems like a long, long time to me. And it’s not even as if I have given up chocolate, or cookies, or anything related to my stomach.

I simply gave up Facebook for Lent, and along with that, I committed to being on my knees at 7.03 every morning, along with hundreds of other women who are inspired and challenged by Ann Voskamp to do the same.

I’m not doing very well with it. If truth be told, I’m not a morning person. I reluctantly, and sometimes downright begrudgingly, crawl out of bed two minutes before seven, and plop to my knees in between the curtains at the front window. It’s dark out there. And cold. And I love my bed. And some mornings, I never even make it.

But God is always there, covering me with grace, and goodness, and forgiveness; waiting there to greet me.

And every morning, I look out of the window into the quiet street before the sun comes up where the street lamps are still lit.

They shine on a big, grey heap of snow on the ground that refuses to melt.

I look at my neighbor’s house, where the Sale Pending sign hangs. They have lived here for 28 years. But it’s time to move into assisted living.

And I look at my other neighbor’s house, the one that always looks so pretty from the outside. But inside, behind the door, I know there are tears, and fear, and sadness, brought on by a sudden, unwelcome diagnosis.

And there I kneel, on the hard wooden floor, feeling sorry for myself because I had to get out of bed. Feeling sorry for myself because my knees feel a little like they did when, as a teenager, I crawled in the dirt for that one week when I picked potatoes on a far-away farm.

And I can’t quite figure out how it is, that God can continue to bless me in so many ways, when I am such a pathetic pretender.

How God can step in with wonderful and undeserved surprises such as the news of my first book becoming a finalist in one of the most prestigious Christian Book Awards; or being interviewed for the first time about being an author.

But I can only assume that this is my God of grace.

And it’s enough to keep me on my knees.

When You Meet Two New Brothers in Jerusalem and You Realize That You Belong to the Same Family

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His name is Fadi. In Arabic, it means Redeemer.

Fadi lives above the busy market place in the streets of old Jerusalem. His father has a shop, as many do, where he makes a living by selling olive wood ornaments, and jewelry, and icons, and beads.

We meet Fadi as we are shopping on the Via Dolorosa. He is a Coptic Christian, whose family came from Egypt. As we talk, I am mesmerized by twelve stone steps under a big arch that lead up to a hidden courtyard. I can see plants. I can hear laughter. I know that this is where Fadi must live. I take a photograph, and I ask, falteringly:

Would it be okay if I just go up those steps to take a picture?

He laughs, and nods, and says:

Come, see. I will take you all up there. Come up to the rooftops of Jerusalem. Come see my home where my family has lived for hundreds of years.

And this is what we do. All six of us. We follow Fadi up those secret steps and onto the roof of his house, where birds fly high over Jerusalem’s Al Aqsa mosque and the famous Mount of Olives rises in the distance. We have a private tour of Jerusalem that surely no American or British tourist has been treated to before.

And then he takes us into his home. He opens wide the door, as delicious earthy smells emanate from a tiny kitchen. His mom steps out smiling, brushing her hair from her forehead with the back of her palm and wiping her floury hands on a well-used apron.

Welcome, welcome to our home, she says, as if foreign visitors invade her house every day.

And he takes us through the tidy bedroom, where huge grape leaves lie drying on newspapers draped over the edge of the bed; and into his living room, where dried pomegranate skins sit in a silver bowl – looking, and smelling, far more wonderful than any store-bought potpourri.

The small front window looks out onto the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the holiest Christian site in all Jerusalem…one of the places where it is thought that Jesus died and rose again.

We stand in Fadi’s home. Next to him. We are strangers; we are foreigners; but we are treated like family.

His name is Issa. In Arabic, it means Jesus.

Issa sells scarves in a tiny stall on the Via Dolorosa. He is young, and shy. He is not pushy, as some of the other vendors can be. He tells us he is studying journalism at university. When he graduates, he will seek work in Dubai. We buy our scarves, and Issa says:

You would like coffee?

He disappears while we shop and reappears holding small cups of strong Arabic coffee, roasted with fresh ground cardamom seeds. It’s not Starbucks. It’s delicious.

And suddenly, he smiles with his eyes and asks:

You want to see something special?

Well of course we do! He opens a door in the walls of the street just near his stall and whispers to someone inside. Above the door we see the sign that denotes the eighth station of the cross – the place where Jesus fell under the weight of the wood.

And seconds later, the door is opened to just the six of us. We step inside and our breath is taken away. It’s a tiny church, hidden inside the city walls. While shoppers buy, and haggle outside; while hustle and bustle reigns beyond these walls, we lift our voices and sing in the quiet…

Spirit of the Living God, fall afresh on me.

And it does.

We say goodbye. We carry on walking, and laughing, and shopping, as tourists do. But I turn and run back to Issa, whose name means Jesus. And I ask. I just want to know. I am interested:

Issa, are you Christian, or Muslim?

I’m Muslim, he says, touching his heart. Is that a problem?

No, no! I reassure him. You’re Muslim. I’m Christian. You’re my brother. I’m your sister.

And Issa smiles, and touches my arm. He is young. But so mature.

Here in Jerusalem, he says, we don’t ask. We just live together…as one.

And every time I wear my scarf, I will think of Issa, whose name means Jesus. And every time I see my olive tree ornament that says Peace, I will think of Fadi, whose name means Redeemer.

And I know I have two new brothers who live in the old city of Jerusalem.

What Happened on a Sunny Afternoon at the Jordan River

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I’m only nine years old. She is not yet twelve. She takes my hand and we step up to the altar and fall to our knees in surrender.

The preacher places her hand on our young heads as we kneel side by side. We don’t really know what this means. We are just girls after all. We will not remember her words. But we will never forget the moment.

I’m fifty-five years old now. She is not yet fifty-eight. She takes my hand and we step into the river and fall back in surrender.

We’re much, much older than the day when we knelt at the altar. Many things have changed. We’re no longer girls, but grandmas. We have gray hairs where blonde used to be. We have laugh lines and wrinkles and our knees cannot bend quite as fast as they once did.

But our hearts have not changed.

And God’s Holy Spirit, who first drew us to the altar all those years ago remains the same. It still whispers to us and calls us by name and echoes through these four decades that have passed so quickly by.

And when we emerge, dripping and sodden, from the exhilarating cold of the Jordan River; in the very same place where Joshua crossed the waters to claim the Promised Land; in the very same spot where Jesus waded out to John the Baptist; on this sunny afternoon in the company of blue skies and bulrushes, my sister and I turn to each other and laugh, and hug.

And as we rise from the river, three white doves fly overhead. ..

Just as if someone had opened heaven’s doors and set them free.

Where Hope is Hiding…

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I sit in front of the window on yet another freezing cold Michigan morning. Snow lies thick and deep outside, as it has done for weeks, stretching as far as the eye can see, and covering the ground in a blanket of white. Winter is not yet ready to release her grip, and the shovel and snow blower stand at the ready.

But underneath that icy blanket, hidden deep in cold and dark, hope is living. She is simply asleep, waiting for her cue. And when the time is right, when she feels that little bit of warmth that whispers Spring, she will push her way through the dark and out into the light.

And she will not be alone.

When the snow is still melting, and the grass is beginning to reclaim her green, thousands of little shoots will rise. Like the advance of an invincible army, they will bravely break the soil, and daffodils and tulips will stand together and dance in the wind. And although it’s hard to imagine that now, it will surely happen. They are just waiting for their time.

And where would be the surprise of Spring without the weariness of Winter?

Where would be the beauty of the butterfly without the cold of the chrysalis?

Where would be the reality of resurrection without the grip of the grave?

And so we wait.

Through Lent.

Through Winter.

Through snow.

But we wait in hope. New life is on the way.