Break my heart for what breaks yours. This single line of a song we sing in church somehow got stuck in my mind, like a repeating refrain. I began to think about these words—what was it that broke God’s heart? I could think of quite a few things off the top of my head. There’s so much wrong with the world. So much sin and evil, hardship and pain.
Still the line continued to play through my mind. Break my heart for what breaks yours. I thought a little harder. Would I want my heart to break at all the sorrow around me? Would I want to see the world through God’s eyes for even a single moment? Could my heart bear it? I decided, no. Safer not to let that kind of pain into my heart. Rather keep the world and its heartbreak at arm’s length. I wouldn’t even sing that line the next time the song came up. Continue reading
Here’s something that wasn’t in my life before a publishing contract – writing deadlines. For the last few years I’ve happily worked away at The Poison Tree Path Chronicles without having anybody peering over my shoulder. If I wanted to write, I wrote. If I didn’t…I didn’t.
All that changed when I signed a contract with Enclave Publishing. The manuscript for “Chains of Gwydorr” had to be delivered by July; the second, “Heirs of Tirragyl”, by October. Heirs particurarly needed a lot of work as it was only at first draft stage and it was too long. Continue reading
At a formal function last week, I sat next to an old acquaintance who I have not spoken to for some years.
“Things appear to be taking off for you,” he said.
“Are they?” I asked.
“It sure looks like it on Facebook.”
This brief conversation made me think about what I project into the world. Continue reading
Today has me thinking about the women in my life. Other than two significant men—my husband and father—my life is a rich tapestry of relationships with women. There’s my mother of course, that strong thread of gold woven throughout my life. My sister’s thread appeared often in the earlier parts of the tapestry—sometimes slightly dark and knotty. Now it appears less often, but has transformed into the warm, welcoming colours of familiarity and friendship. My daughters’ threads are light and lovely—the colour of sky, sea and hope. They intertwine playfully with the vibrant swirls of my nieces’ threads. Continue reading
I’ve never felt like a ‘Joan’. When I was younger I was sure I was somebody else. Maybe Sarah, or Danielle or even Joanna. But definitely not Joan.
Now this admission is going to be rather heart-breaking for my father, who hand-picked this name for me. As a boy, my dad spent most of his holidays with an English family on the Isles of Scilly, just off the Cornish coast. My Dutch grand-father decided he wanted his son to learn to speak English and, given that he had business dealings with the bulb-growers on the Islands, Scilly was the perfect place to send his twelve year old son. Continue reading
Three and a half years ago God gave me a promise. Now I’m not one of those people who hear clearly from God on a daily basis. For me it’s always a lot hazier than that. I might hear a sermon on a specific verse and read the same verse in a book later that day; I take that as God speaking to me. I might get a sudden sense of clarity in a situation, or a particular feeling of peace surrounding a struggle. Sometimes, like John Wesley, ‘my heart is strangely warmed’. Continue reading
Everything conspires against my calling myself an African.
To begin with I am White when the very word ‘African’ implies Black. Even Americans who have added the word African to their identity, seem to have a greater claim on the continent of my birth than I do. To complicate matters, I am the child of European immigrants, always suspended between two cultures and two continents, never fully belonging to either. Continue reading
This past weekend I did something rather terrifying. No, I didn’t go bungee jumping … or cage diving with sharks. Not the ‘Tower of Terror’ at Gold Reef City, either. No, definitely not sky diving. Okay, these guesses aren’t leading anywhere, so let me just tell you. This weekend I ran a Writing Workshop for 13 people. Was that a slight huff I heard? Not terrifying at all, you say? Continue reading
Based on John 18:28 – 19: 16
Rome never slumbers. The early morning clatter of chariot wheels and the rhythmic march of passing soldiers wake me before dawn. I long to rise and watch them, to recall what makes ours the greatest empire on earth, but pain pins me to my sleeping pallet. The gods have taken everything from me, even these simple pleasures. My wife … dead. My sons … indifferent. My rightful status stripped from me, humiliatingly, by the Emperor. Curse them all! Gods and people alike.
Soon one of my few remaining slaves will come to dress and feed me. Even in his eyes I will read scorn. To him I am an old, dying man. He will not see what I once was—a Roman prefect, power-wielder and judge, bestower of life and death. Continue reading
The hiss of my name draws me from a restless dream. Momentarily, relief surges through me; the gnarled hands pushing up from the soil to grasp at my brother’s ankles are not real. ‘Just a dream, just a dream’, my heart pounds loudly.
“Martha!” I hear the fear in my sister’s voice.
I stumble from the sleeping palette, remembering how Mary had coaxed me to leave Lazarus’ side in the night. “I will watch him for a few hours,” she had said. “He seems slightly better.” Because I was exhausted from two constant days and nights of standing vigil, I had agreed. And it was true that Lazarus no longer thrashed around in pain, even though his body still burned with fire.
Now I drop to my knees by his side. My fingers graze his forehead; its scorching heat shocks me. Only then, in the candlelight’s flicker, do I notice that Lazarus’ eyes are open. Yet, it is not my gaze he holds; his glazed eyes already seem to roam worlds far beyond our own. Continue reading