The Number One Reason I Wrote It

So what’s really important to you? For me it is, was, and always will be to be a good mother. I think a lot of you can identify with that: being a worthwhile parent is a goal that we long to reach but at times seems unattainable.

So what do we do? We get help. By far my best assistant is the greatest parent of them all, the Heavenly Father. Have you found it so?

But, we still stumble and fall and search for more direction, right? Maybe we even find heroes that we admire. One of my favorites was Mary, the mother of Jesus. I think we all, Protestants, Catholics, Mennonite and Amish, or whatever, agree that she must have been a wonderful mother.

But what made her so special?  I think it was her humility, but had a consuming desire to learn more about her and possibly learn from her example.

So I wrote a book. Perhaps you have heard about it already: Mary’s Diary, Jesus through His Mother’ Eyes. I chose to write it in diary format because it seemed more personal, intimate.

And I prayed about it a lot, too. I really wanted to know how it might have felt to raise the most remarkable Son in the world. I’m telling you it was a real blessing delving into this topic.

Okay, enough for now. I’ll send you a few links so you can check out this book for yourself. I’m praying that, if you are a Mom, Dad, a teenage girl or anyone else looking for inspiration and direction, maybe this book will bless you just like it did me.

Take care!

Marilyn Friesen

 http://www.amazon.com/dp/1511783966
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 http://www.amazon.fr/dp/1511783966
 http://www.amazon.it/dp/1511783966

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Seeking Shelter in a Cave

24 Chisleu

December 8<sup>th</sup>

I feel that my time is drawing nigh, and I am  anxious. It is

frightening to think of having my baby without my mother, or

a midwife, nearby. I am worried about the baby. What will happen if

He comes before we can move on to a better dwelling? This cave is not

clean enough!

Two of the wayfarers, a middle-aged couple, were cooperative and helped us out, but some of the others growled that they were here first, and were not at all inclined to be agreeable under such chilly weather conditions.

I fear they have been indulging too long in the wine that is red.

Oh, surely, surely Adonai, hallowed be His Name, will be with me during this difficult time. My every breath is a prayer that  Adonai will

protect His own Beloved Son —and me.

By the dejected slope of, Yosef’s shoulders, I can sense that he feels

that he has somehow failed me— and us. I must stop writing, now, and tell

him how warm and inviting it all looks by the light of the lamp. Surely

these stabbing pains will ease off now that I have a place to rest. It seems

 too soon for the little one to make His appearance.

If You Have A Heart This Letter Should break It

If you have a heart, this letter should break it. If you have eyes, it should cause them to weep. I am about to share with you the text of a final letter from a dying Christian prisoner to his mother.

So important were its contents that he refused to post it for fear the censors would tear it up. Instead he entrusted it to a fellow prisoner who had four more years to serve. But after four years, he was not released. He memorized it and passed it on to a friendly guard, who told a soldier friend who was on his way to Tibet. The friend told his mother, who telephoned the prisoner’s mother with the text of the letter—five years after it was written, and three years after his death!

Oh, my mother, dear mother!

I have not been a good son! I have brought disgrace upon you and all the family. I hope you can forgive me. I am dying.

You brought me up to be a good boy. You gave me food, love and affection. And what did I do to repay you? I daubed an antigovernment slogan on the wall and got life imprisonment. Life imprisonment when my life was only eighteen years old. You raised me for more than this. I am sorry.

And now your son is 31. He will not live past 33. I have cancer of the intestines, and my jailers will not pay for the operation. Instead of working underground in the mine, I mind a tiny storage shed full of rusty tins and tools. I retch all day. No one comes near.

But at least I can look over the desert and watch the shifting of the sands. For eight years I never saw the sunlight. I was taken from the barracks through a tunnel to the mine. A room, a corridor, and a shaft were all the worlds I had. Now my world is bigger but it is coming to an end. There is no hope.

And so I have sat on my stool and thought for many hours. I cried many tears, mostly for the things I never did. I never kissed a woman. I never owned even a toothbrush. Never received a pay check never ate a gourmet meal, never built a kite for an excited child. Above all, I never said how much I owed you and never said how sorry I am to grieve you—until now. Boys were not made to bring their mothers such sorrow; otherwise no one would have them.

I have come to two conclusions: One is that this is not the only world there is. I cannot believe I went through the miracle of birth to live a life like this, I believe there is another world where there is a table I can choose to sit at, sip the finest wines, eat to my heart’s content, make friends with whomever I like, speak without fear, and not be marched away when the half-hour gong is sounded.

And I also believe there is someone there—who is also here—who sits at the head of that table. A fellow prisoner told me of one who said, “My yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” I do not know what that really means. All I can say is when I heard the words, I felt a relief, that my death was not the end, and my life was not in vain.

My dying charge to you, my mother, is find out who spoke those words, so that we may dine together with Him. Your poor son.

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