Author Archives: Glenys

About Glenys

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

Seasons Of My Childhood

It is Spring. I am seven years old.

It is early morning and still dark outside my window when I hear Dad whispering in my ear.

Glenys, get up…let’s go swimming.

It’s Saturday! I jump out of bed and pretty soon we’re on the bus, going to Wigan Baths. The pool is huge and the water is cold but Dad has already dived in. Not me. I’m an inch-by-incher my dad calls me, and I take forever to get in the water.

But that’s not the only reason…. I am afraid. I can’t swim.

Dad takes hold of me and with one strong arm under my stomach he supports me over the water while I vainly flap my arms and legs. I look out over the deep end and vow I will never go there.

But then an amazing thing happens. I realize my dad has taken his arm away and I am swimming!

I’m swimming Dad, I’m swimming!

We both laugh and I know that next week, I’ll be in that deep end and I’ll be swimming under my dad’s legs like a little fish.

On the way back I savor every one of my Benson’s Cheese and Onion Crisps but I will still have room for the piles of crusty toast my dad will make for us when we get home.

It is Summer. I am eight years old.

I wake with the birds and see that Dad is already packing the boot of our blue Vauxhall Victor.

He crams my tennis racket down by the side of the box of beans and cornflakes and biscuits that we have been saving for our holiday and then the best part begins…..

We race into Mum and Dad’s bedroom and tip our jars of pennies on the bed. Whatever we have saved will be doubled by dad and spent in the little camp shop at Blue Anchor Bay.

And then we are off!

I curl up with my little I Spy book that will occupy me for most of the journey, and dream about days at Blenheim Gardens and Watchet and Minehead and Dunster.

Most of all, I dream about the day when it will be my turn to have The Big Ice-cream.

I will choose a Mr Whippie, with huge, soft vanilla and strawberry swirls that hang over the edge of the cone.

And me and my dad will play tennis and badminton and hunt for glow worms at night. And I know I must be the luckiest girl alive to have a dad like that.

It is Autumn. I am nine years old.

We are walking down to Roby Mill Methodist Church along College Road.

The pavement is strewn underfoot with a million brown, crunchy leaves. Dad leads the way and we scrunch, scrunch, scrunch behind him.

Fast forward a few months on that same road. Dad helps us find twigs and we race them in the rushing stream of rain that tumbles along the edge of the pavement.

Oh no! I’m in the doldrums! the cry goes up.

But it’s a funny thing….no matter how many doldrums our little boats get stuck in, Dad never wins. Always, one of us kids is the winner.

It is Winter. I am ten years old.

The nights are long and dark, but Dad knows just how to cheer me up.

Who’s ready for a Secret Supper? he asks.

We all cheer and a plate is produced with a quarter of a buttered Eccles Cake, a small piece of Kit Kat, half a Bourbon biscuit and a cup of Ovaltine.

When those nights get really long and dark, our suppers are upgraded to a Special Secret Supper, or even a Super Special Secret Supper.

As I nibble at the edge of my biscuit, I am reminded what a Super Special dad I have.

We curl up in bed and he reads The Lost World and I am transported to a strange forest where all kinds of adventures await me. And from my dad, a life-long love of books and reading is rooted in my soul.

Before I fall to sleep, we play Show Me and we take it in turns to find tiny images in the pictures. One day, I will play that game with my grandson….and my dad’s legacy lives on.

Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter…..seasons of my childhood spent with the most wonderful dad a girl could ever have.

Thank you Dad. I love you.

What a Wonderful Day…

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Can we get ice-cream now Grandma? comes the four-year old’s plea.

I’m not sure about that. He is already full of bagel and cream cheese and jam. But as I’m trying to decide whether this is a good idea or not, he has already begun to pedal those little legs towards the ice-cream parlor. Fast. And so I turn the stroller towards it too.

We sit in the shade of a big maple tree with our tubs of soft vanilla ice-cream covered with multi-colored sprinkles. There are three pretty flower baskets swinging overhead. Their petunias dance in pink, and purple, and red. It’s my grandson who points them out.

The brothers don’t talk much as we sit at the table- just two blonde heads bent over their treat in the sunshine, intent on savoring every last scoop. But then the four-year old in Grandma’s sunglasses starts singing, while the one who is not yet two joins in loudly wherever he can, and conducts in the air with his plastic spoon…

Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah, Zip-A-Dee-Ay,

My oh my, what a wonderful day.

Plenty of sunshine heading my way,

Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah, Zip-A-Dee-Ay.

The family at the next table stop talking. They turn and listen and smile, as I join in the second time around, and we sing it again.

And I look at these boys sitting in the sunshine, swinging their legs, and eating their ice–cream. And I want to capture this moment, and keep it with me forever, while the sun’s high in the sky, and petunias dance in the wind, and little boy’s voices fill the air.

Life is a gift.

My birthday was last month. I’m nearer to sixty now than I was to fifty. And I want to unwrap that gift slowly, and savor everything it holds.

Life is a gift.

My, oh my, what a wonderful gift.

Every good gift and every perfect (free, large, full) gift is from above. James 1:17 AMP

The Hope for The United Methodist Church

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I was fourteen years old, doing drugs with my friend, when a man knocked on the door. He had a microphone that he held to his throat. And in a strange, mechanical voice, he invited me to church.

This is how Adam Hamilton, senior pastor of the aptly named Church of the Resurrection in Leawood, Kansas, made me sit up.

Not that I really needed to pay attention. No one who attended the West Michigan Annual Conference this year was snoozing when he was on stage.

Adam Hamilton founded the Church of the Resurrection in 1990 with just four people. Today, it is the largest United Methodist Church in the USA, with a staggering 18,000 adult members. We, who serve in leadership in the same denomination, know that we have much to learn from him.

Here, on stage, was a speaker, pastor, and preacher passionately in love with God, with Jesus, and with the denomination he serves.

Adam Hamilton believes that if there is one church that stands a chance of transforming the world then it is ours: The United Methodist Church– as we open wide our hearts, our minds, and our doors; welcoming ALL without judgment; struggling together through questions and doubts; and striving to lead authentic lives that reflect our faith.

But it wasn’t just his message that gave me hope for the United Methodist Church.

It was the man.

It is conference policy to collect and return visiting speakers to the airport. For several years, this has been my husband’s wonderful privilege…but not this year. Adam had requested that a young, newly-ordained pastor be his driver.

Sitting in the conference bookstore, I saw why. I was witness as he came in, with his roll-away suitcase, getting ready to leave. His young companion was by his side. Adam quietly took her over to the table where the many books he had authored were sitting; and proceeded, one by one, to pick them up.

Do you have this one? What about this? Did you get the companion DVD to this book?

That one is out of stock, the bookstore clerk replied.

Can you please order it for her? asked Adam quietly. And put everything on my account.

After making sure that his young companion had every book he had ever written, Adam then thanked the bookstore staff for being there. And left.

This pastor is someone who practices what he preaches; who kneels by his bed every night; who humbly and quietly follows Jesus. And who encourages me to do the same.

And I think about that man with the mechanical voice. The one whom God called to knock on Adam Hamilton’s door and interrupt him as he was taking drugs; the one who could have been at home lamenting the state of his health, but who chose instead to listen to God’s call on his life and to obey the voice that had him knocking on stranger’s doors.

I wonder if that man would ever know the enormous impact he had on that one, fourteen year old life, and how, because of what he did, thousands upon thousands of lives are being challenged, and changed for the better….including mine.

There is hope for the United Methodist Church.

My Favorite Place to be on a Saturday Morning

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It feels like a dream come true. And it is.

Here I am… standing on the banks of the lake, on a beautiful spring, Saturday morning, under blue, blue skies with hardly a cloud in sight.

We have been in the Holy Land less than one week. But already I know that this is my favorite place.

This is Lake Galilee: the same hillsides, the same water, the same waves; the very same place where Jesus fished, and walked, and cooked, and prayed. No holy shrine or church is built on this site…at least not on the shores where I stand.

We climb aboard the wooden boat and sail out across these famous waters.

I can’t quite believe that I’m here. I look out at this picture postcard view of the very slopes where Jesus fed five thousand hungry people; the green hillsides where crowds once gathered to hear his voice, and the mountains he climbed to pray.

We reach the center of the lake and pause, while the anchor plops beneath blue and plumbs the depths to hold us safe in place.

I’m holding Love Letters from God and I stand to read the story of how Jesus calmed the storm on Lake Galilee. I remember penning those words long ago, and if someone had told me back then that one day, I would be reading that story in the middle of the very same lake where the events took place, I never would have believed them.

But here I am, reading the story called Wind and Waves. Except there is no wind. And there are no waves. I finish talking and close its pages. We all close our eyes. And for the next few minutes, it’s hard to imagine that we are on a boat at all. Something magical happens.

There is no movement. And there is no sound.

No seagulls call. And no breeze blows.

No water laps. And no engine drones.

No fishes splash. And no voices speak.

There’s only silence. And stillness. And God. And our thoughts.

And everyone can feel it…. something powerful in this moment, something we cannot hear, or see, or articulate. But it’s here.

And in the silence, I seem to hear the whisper of those two little words, echoing down through the ages, spoken in this very place, over these very waters, all those long years ago.

Be still.

And it’s in the stillness that I hear the call; I feel the power; I know the peace.

Of One who once walked on these waters, and calmed its waves, and whispered into the wind.

Be still.

boat on galilee

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

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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.