Sandra Mae Brown is a survivor of child abuse.

Born in Botwood, NL, she now resides with her partner in St. Catharines, ON. She has three children and eight grandchildren. She loves spending time with her family, and likes going on road trips and making happy memories.

This, despite the fact that many of the memories of her early life are anything but happy. As a child, she was beaten, starved and left to die by her parents.

She has now told the story of the horrendous abuse she endured, including how she bravely stood alone and took her parents to court. The title of her book is Justice Prevails.

“My hope,” she says, “is that, by sharing my experiences, I can prevent similar things from happening to other children, so that they won’t have to go through what I had to endure.”

Writing her story has been, she says, “a long and arduous journey,” consuming 15 years of her life.

Leaving school with only a grade three education, she learned, with the help of her friends, children, grandchildren, coworkers and neighbours, “to read and write enough to see my dream of sharing my story become a reality.” She has achieved her goal of sending “a message to the world” and drawing “public attention and action to the issue of child abuse.”

I personally do not believe that forgiveness means forgetting. I asked Sandra Mae this very question.

“Forgiving is not forgetting about the things that were done to me,” she responds. Instead, “I think it’s more about letting go in order to move forward with my life.”

Sharing her story, as difficult as it was, has been, she states, “the key to my freedom.”

In a transparency born of pain, she admits, “I’ve tried drugs, drinking and meds from doctors. I’ve been in the hospital for six weeks at a time.”

However, nothing worked for her until she, in her words, “started writing and, believe me, that wasn’t easy, but I’m glad I did because today I’m so happy with all that I’ve accomplished…. I’m very much at peace with my life now.”

As an abused child, she often prayed, asking God to deliver her.

“Let me take you back to that dark room,” she says, referring to the “dark hole in the wall,” where her parents had moved her when she only six. “It’s so cold inside, my fingertips are sore and bleeding as I try hard to break free. The smell of my own body waste makes me sick. I hear voices outside, but nobody seems to hear me crying for help. Mother’s footsteps scare me. I’m afraid because, at any moment, she’s going to pull me out, only to beat me again. It’s so dark, I can’t even see my hands in front of my face.

“I pray to God for help, but help doesn’t come. I say to myself, ‘Maybe God didn’t hear me praying.’

“But now,” she continues, “I believe God was there beside me all the way. I truly believe one must talk through the valley in order to claim the victory in the end. I also believe life’s hardships can be our best teacher.”

Sandra Mae’s message resonates with her readers.

“I’ve gotten messages from across Canada from people telling me how touched they were by reading my book.

“One mother said she had to stop reading and call her daughter, whom she hadn’t talked to in years, to say she was sorry and to tell her how much she loved her and wanted to see her again.

“One young lady wanted to send a copy of my book to her mother in hopes of making things right between them again. Today they’re like best friends. Her father sent me a note of thanks.

“I feel so blessed to have all the support from people I don’t even know.”

She hopes her book will “go far and wide around the world,” but not for the sake of selling more copies. Rather, she hopes it will “save other children who are suffering from child abuse.”

She has a practical word of advice for her readers who may have gone through abuse in their own lives: “Don’t let the abuse define who you are.”

Meanwhile, she believes it is “very important for people to open their eyes to child abuse. A home may look pretty on the outside, but that doesn’t mean it’s clean on the inside.”

Sandra Mae Brown self-published her book, Justice Prevails, which is printed by Friesen Press of Victoria, BC.

An old Scottish proverb says, “Open confession is good for the soul.” Well, I have a confession of sorts to make. First, though, some background information is in order.

I am a voracious reader. A wag once said to me, “And you read a lot of books, right?” Yep, I do.

Some years ago, I came up with a statement to describe my love of books: “When God was giving out looks, I thought he said books, so I asked for a library.”

I read virtually any- and everything. Theology immediately grabs my attention. History is right up there with it. Biography and memoir make up a large portion of my personal library.

However, when I want a respite from nonfiction, I dive into novels. After all, I cut my reading teeth on the Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew and other mysteries. Today, I read the Classics. I also read contemporary stuff, like everything John Grisham writes. I am in eternal debt to C. S. Lewis and Tolkien for their fascinating fiction.

Here’s my “open confession”: sometimes I read romance novels. I remember the Grace Livingstone Hill novels in our family home. My sister, Karen, tells me, “There were some around, but only ones bought when we came on the scene.” My sisters read them, as did I.

So, after Flanker Press of St. John’s sent me a review copy of two of Victoria Barbour’s novels, Against Her Rules and Hard as Ice, I made it a point to start reading them.

Both volumes are part of the author’s Heart’s Ease Series, which she initially self-published. She is already a USA TODAY bestselling author for an earlier Newfoundland-set romance novella.

Born in St. John’s, Barbour was raised above her family’s fish and chips restaurant. She has travelled and lived elsewhere in Canada but, according to her current publisher, “chose to make her home where her heart has long resided.” She “is fiercely proud of her home,” which serves as the backdrop for her works. She hopes “readers will one day come to witness Newfoundland and Labrador’s rustic beauty for themselves.”

The mother, wife and marketing communications specialist has a degree in history from Memorial University, with a minor in Newfoundland Studies, which adds a realistic flair to her books.

In Against Her Rules, Campbell Scott goes to the Newfoundland wilds with one thought in mind: sketch some birds before returning to his playboy lifestyle in London. But a single glance at his sexy hostess and there’s much more going on. He determines to convince Elsie Walsh that he belongs by her side at the Heart’s Ease Inn.

In Hard as Ice, the first time Daphne Scott met hockey superstar Jack Walsh, she was more than a little irritable. Still, it was hard to deny that he was hotter than Adonis — even if he did know it.

I leave the rest of the plots to the interested reader.

Flanker has now released the third and fourth books in the Heart’s Ease Series, Play Me and 21st Century Rake.

In Play Me, sparks fly between lawyer Fiona Nolan and folk singer Dillon O’Dea. Little do they know that they know that they’re about to turn a long simmering family feud into an all-out scorcher.

In 21st Century Rake, rock superstar Asher Corbin is back in Heart’s Ease. And he’s not alone. This time he’s brought the entire cast and crew for his upcoming film debut to the small town for a retreat back in time.

So, are you able to keep my “open confession” a secret between the two of us?

Today, the name of Fred T. Fuge is virtually unrecognized in his native Newfoundland, and only marginally better known in his adopted land, the United States of America, where he spent the greater part of his life, leaving his mark as a clergyman, author and poet. As a result of the recent discovery of a cache of his writings, both published and unpublished, the broad contours of his life can be reconstructed. A prominent feature of his poetry is his love of the land of his birth. His life reflects the truth of the timeworn adage, “You can take the boy out of the bay, but you can’t take the bay out of the boy.”

Frederick Thomas Fudge was born September 1, 1870, in Whales Gulch (now Valley Pond), a fishing community on the western side of New World Island, Notre Dame Bay. He left Newfoundland early in life and moved to Canada and served as an officer with The Salvation Army. He then relocated to the States and married Azalea Jane Bethune (1874-1953) of Grand Bank and changed his family name from Fudge to Fuge (rhymes with huge). The Fuges and their adopted daughter, Emma Brown Fuge (1895-1977), served as missionaries to Africa for sixteen years. Fred wrote several books, including The Storm King: A Collection of Remarkable Facts and Illustrations and Thrilling Adventures On Land and Sea. In 1954, his marriage to his second wife, Norah Heslop Fuge, was annulled. Fred died in 1968 in Ohio, after a lengthy and illustrious career as a minister, primarily with the Church of the Nazarene.

This expatriate Newfoundlander wrote countless poems, many of which deal with Newfoundland themes and scenes. Together, these evoke a nostalgic longing for a lost time and place, an idyll, his own Shangri-La.

Newfoundland itself never ceased to enthrall Fuge, as he observed in the Atlantic Guardian in 1956:

There’s a beautiful island far up the North
Sea-washed, and triangle bent;
And up from its sod breathes the pure breath of God–
It’s the land where my childhood was spent.
Her mountains majestic, her bulwarks superb;
Her capes are commanding the West;
Her waters are teeming with riches alive
Her citizens are classed with the best.

A month later, he wrote of his

…birthplace, the land I love,
Where I first saw the light–
A land of heroes born to toil
And battle for the right.
The waves break on her rugged coast
And wash her iron-bound strand,
But Time hath never yet revealed
The wealth of Newfoundland.
With factories and stores untold,
Of copper, gold and lead;
And with premier Smallwood in the chair
There are better days ahead.

He was effusive in his praise of his first and only schoolteacher, Polly Roberts:

Queen of the classroom that guarded my footsteps,
Counsel supreme of my early day;
Sentinel that watched by the path that I traveled
To the little old schoolhouse just over the way.

Fred keenly missed his mother, evident from these lines written following her death:

I know my mother waits for me
Beyond the sunset skies,
And some fair morn I’ll meet her there,
Where no one ever dies.

He recalled his father rather differently:

When Dad got angry his face turned red,
And every hair stood on his head–
His eyes flashed fire, his body shook,
And the very devil was in his look.
He would raise his voice with a dreadful shout,
Then no one never need to doubt
That hell was there all burning hot,
When old Dad in his tantrums got.

Fred fondly recalled those days

When I saw the blue waves ripple
Across the shining pond,
My mind turned back full fifty years–
To the years long past and gone.
When a barefoot boy climbed up the rock,
And played on the sparkling sand,
And sailed his boat across the pond
To a strange and far-off land.

He could still see

The little white church in the bottom
By the side of the murmuring brook,
Where the old-fashioned people would gather,
To study their old-fashioned Book.
Those days of the past are still with me,
Their memories never can die,
The joys I have tasted grow fresher,
The friends of my youth are still nigh.

For the first twenty-five years of his life, he lived either on the sea or within sound of its moaning. In 1952 he wrote about “The Sailor’s Faith”:

The sailor’s faith heeds not the storm,
His course is set, his compass true;
The ship that braved a thousand gales,
Again will take him through.

In later years, he revisited his “old deserted” homestead.

My footsteps are washed from the sand that I walked on,
The rocks have forgotten that once I lived there.
And the rippling waters that laughed on the land-wash
Are cold and reluctant to offer me cheer.
The dust of my friends that gathered about me,
When first I decided this wide world to roam,
Lie silent in slumber beneath the green branches,
With no loving handshake to welcome me home.

Toward the end of his life, Fuge admitted:

I may never see [Newfoundland’s] shores again,
And never share her glory,
But may she write for years unborn
A great and thrilling story.

Paul S. Rees remembered Fred T. Fuge’s “eye for the unusual,” “tongue for the eloquent” and “heart for the immensities.” In his homespun poetry, this expatriate Newfoundlander attempted to portray the immensities of the unusual beauty of the land of his forebears.

I did Kindergarten in Central School in Twillingate in 1962-63. My teacher and principal were Doreen E. Burton and Gordon R. Martin respectively. By then, the Royal Readers had long since disappeared from the education system. My late parents, who had used them as part of their schooling, told me and my siblings about the books. I often wondered if I would ever possess my own personal copy of at least one of them.

The series of eight books were produced in Britain by Thomas Nelson and Sons and were part of the Royal School Series. They were used in Newfoundland and Labrador from the 1870s until the mid-1930s. Students–or “scholars,” as they were invariably known–progressed from the infant reader to the school primer, followed by Royal Readers one through six. They covered reading and spelling from the beginning of school to graduation. The stated aim of the series was “to cultivate the love of reading by presenting interesting subjects treated in an attractive style.”

The infant reader was comprised of rhymes and simple short stories, accompanied by numerous illustrations. There were also short script lessons and addition and subtraction tables. Emphasis was placed on systematic drills on vowel sounds and consonants.

Scholars learned letters and reading from the first level school primer, which was similar to a primitive kindergarten.

The first Royal Reader begins with simple lessons, focusing on monosyllabic and two-syllable words. The second reader includes short selections of poetry and prose intended to develop reading interest and skills. Each story is accompanied by a pronunciation lesson, simple definitions of new words, and questions on the content. The third reader, which is slightly more advanced, includes more writing exercises. The fourth reader includes phonetic exercises, model compositions, dictation exercises, and outlines of British history. The fifth reader addresses health of the body, plants and their uses, as well as quotes from and stories of great people.

The sixth book–which I now have the good fortune to own–contains word lessons and passages with sections on great inventions, classification of animals, useful knowledge, punctuation and physical geography, as well as the British Constitution.

The anonymous author of the prose selection “The Bed of the Atlantic” writes: “In the northern part of the basin there stretches across the Atlantic from Newfoundland to Ireland a great submarine plain, known in recent years as Telegraph Plateau.”

To help the scholar, definitions are provided for such words as “ascertained,” “garniture” and “gossamer.” For those who desire elaboration of “Telegraph Plateau,” it is defined this way: “So called because on it were laid the submarine telegraph cables between Ireland and America in 1865 and 1866. Many other cables now follow the same route.” Questions follow. Of what does the end of the ocean consist? What part of the Atlantic has been surveyed? What plain stretches across the northern part of the basin? On what do the British Isles stand?

Longfellow’s “The Lighthouse” begins: “The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, / And on its outer point, some miles away, / The lighthouse lifts its massive masonry– / A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day….”

There are two approaches to the vaunted Royal Readers. On the one hand, as Raymond Troke notes, “it seemed that everything had a moral lesson, and…everything was almighty gloomy…. By the time you got out of Grade 5 you knew a lot about death and destruction and had a powerful vocabulary to describe your miseries.”

On the other hand, novelist Bernice Morgan says, “The first literature I remember consisted of Bible stories and wonderful English ballads and heroic poems, which my mother read to us from her old Royal Readers.”

Jessie Mifflin recalls: “There were interesting and exciting tales in prose and verse in the old Royal Readers. We wept copiously over the death of little Nell, and exulted over the escape of the skater who was pursued by wolves in Number Four.”

The Royal Readers served a utilitarian purpose in those days. The reality was, as Mifflin adds, “Except for our textbooks, a dictionary, an atlas, and the Bible and hymn book for the opening exercises, there was no reading material in school–nor anywhere else, for that matter, except for the fortunate few who had books at home.”

Last summer, when I worked as museum director with the Town of Clarke’s Beach, someone gave me this photo, which was identified as the Clarke’s Beach railway station. I was ready to publish it as such on the town’s Facebook page, when I was informed that this is the depiction of a railway station in another town. Which one? I didn’t know.

Seeking to identify the picture, I emailed the editor of Downhome magazine, with the hope that readers might be able to name the correct town.

Not long after my appeal was published, I received a personal communication from a friend, who said: “Just looking at a photo in the most recent issue of Downhome. It appears to me to be a photo of the railway station in Clarenville. The rise of the hill in the background, and even the dark building in the upper left, may be the station manager’s house. I know when Dad worked in that area, I was with him on a number of occasions. Even though it was much later than when this picture was taken, the landmarks look familiar. If it is Clarenville, the picture is looking east.”

Then, in the following issue of Downhome, two more people weighed in.

M. White of Corner Brook wrote: “With reference to the item on page 22 in the February issue, of the railway station: I am pretty certain that it is the railway station in Corner Brook. It looks like Station Road in the background, as it was around that time.”

Kenneth G. Pieroway of Conception Bay South had this to say: “The location in question is at the old train station in Corner Brook, probably just after the building of the mill. In the background is Humber Road.”

I contacted Pieroway, who is the author of two well-received books, Rails Across the Rock: A Then and Now Celebration of the Newfoundland Railway and Rails Around the Rock: A Then and Now Celebration of the Newfoundland Branchlines, seeking additional information.

“I did some checking,” he responded, “and this is what I came up with. The station was similar in design to the large ones constructed in Whitbourne, Clarenville, Lewisporte and Stephenville Crossing, but the main difference was that it had a stone exterior and was slightly larger than those aforementioned. In fact, it was, in all likelihood, the second largest during the pre-confederation Newfoundland Railway years. It was constructed sometime after the building of the Bowaters Pulp and Paper Mill established Corner Brook as the second largest community on the Island. The very last passenger train, CN Train No. 102, the eastbound Caribou, departed from there on the afternoon of July 2, 1969. Sometime in the early 1970’s, it was demolished to make way for the construction of the cloverleaf and access to the new Lewis Parkway.”

To my surprise, in the April issue of Downhome magazine, Baine Andrews wrote: “It appears to me to be a photo of the railway station in Clarenville, by the rise of the hill in the background and even the dark building in the upper left that may be the station manager’s house. When Dad worked in that area I was with him on a number of occasions, and even though it was much later than when this picture was taken, the landmarks look familiar. If it is Clarenville, the picture is looking east.”

Downhome editor added, “We heard from another reader, Sly Bennett…, who also believes this photo was taken in Clarenville…. So the debate continues.”

In a former life, a singular delight of parish work in one of the province’s larger rural areas was the local ministerial association. Clergy of several denominations shared great camaraderie and regularly came together for both spiritual and social events. It was refreshing to me personally to see the ecumenical spirit at work in a local setting, having grown up in a Protestant denomination that frowned on inter-church relations.

One weekend event will live in infamy, at least in my memory. We men and women of the cloth decided to go away as a group on Saturday.

At a retreat centre, we did what ministers do when they get together: we prayed, listened to a devotional or two, played games, perhaps gossiped a little and, of course, ate. As one wag put it, “The three f’s of the gospel…fun, food and fellowship!”

In the afternoon, we decided to play a game of baseball. Growing up, I didn’t play much baseball. On this day, though, I put myself wholeheartedly into the game, determined to show I could play as well as the next clergy. It was my moment to shine on the field.

The time came for me to be batter up. I didn’t know all the rules of the game, but I knew that a home-run was something to be greatly desired. I would be the darling of my team if I could dispatch the ball to kingdom come.

To be perfectly honest, my first swing was less than perfect. Indeed, it was downright embarrassing. All I did was “nick” the ball.

“Foul!” the umpire shouted.

Uhm, I thought to myself. Gotta do better than that next time round.

My second swing was made in heaven…or not. The ball could not have connected better with the bat. With a resounding crack, it flew directly down the field. I was in my glee. This one was bound for the record books.

I was about to make my dash to first base, when I heard a muffled groan.

I looked around. The ball was not about to provide me with a coveted home-run after all, for it had come to rest on the ground at the foot of the pitcher…one of the two Roman Catholic Sisters who had joined us for the day’s activities.

As I watched in horror, she crumpled to the ground and lay rigid and motionless. It was obvious the ball had already made its mark…on her head. I didn’t need a Ph.D. in Sports to realize that the baseball, on which I had pinned my hopes of a home-run, was going nowhere fast.

All the clergy ran to the prostrate Sister, to offer their help. When I reached her, I muttered to my wife, “Oh my God, I killed a nun!”

“Sister! Sister,” I heard people shouting. “Are you alright?”

Nothing.

“Slap her,” the United Church minister suggested helpfully.

No response.

“Pray for her,” said the Salvation Arm officer.

Deathly silence.

“Get some water and throw it in her face,” said the Anglican priest.

A pall of doom pervaded the field.

A few minutes later, the inert Sister barely opened her eyes and looked up groggily. She unsteadily got to her feet, with the assistance of the other ballplayers.

“What happened?” she asked with a dazed look in her eyes.

The Roman Catholic priest said, “You were hit in the head by a baseball.” To his credit and to my relief, he didn’t identify who was batter up when the accident occurred.

At the same time, I could only imagine the newspaper headline the following week had the victim failed to get up off the ground, “Pentecostal pastor kills Roman Catholic Sister with baseball.”

I was later told by one of the clergy present that there are other, less dangerous ways, to show any animosity I may have had toward Roman Catholics. I’m sure he was joking.

By 1931, Herbert Mercer Butt (1907-2005) of Harbour Grace was a dentist in Poona (an anglicized form of Pune), India. The road he had traveled to get there was no less interesting than the variety of clients in his dental practice in the country.

Receiving his early education at Coughlan Hall, as a young man, he entered Montreal’s McGill University.

He originally planned to make a career as an electrical engineer. Detecting some degree of dexterity with his hands, he determined instead to become a surgeon or a general practitioner. He changed his mind again when he thought back on Dr. Charles Cron (1886-1962) of Harbour Grace, who rarely had time off. A career in dentistry, though, would provide Herbert with both regular working hours and leisure time.

Between academic years, he worked summer jobs, including on a paddlewheel ferry between New York and Albany, as a truck driver in Boston, and as a door-to-door salesman.

On Christmas Day 1931, he arrived in Bombay (now Mumbai), later assuming the duties of dentist in Poona. (His mentor, the Oregonian, Dr. Dexter Davidson, had established a dentistry practice in the city.)

In 1937, Herbert, now popularly known as “Robin,” because of his red McGill sweater, returned to Harbour Grace, in search of a marriage partner. However, he returned to Poona, still single, but with pleasant memories of time with family and friends.

One morning, two months after arriving back in Poona, Robin was pleasantly surprised to receive in his office an attractive young missionary, assistant principal of a girls’ school. Lois Jean Denniston (1910-2005), daughter of an Australian merchant, had a toothache. He treated her, then married her in 1938.

Dr. Butt Sahib (“owner” or “proprietor”), as he was known to his Indian clients, tended a wide variety of patients. For example, he worked on the teeth of “Tommies,” common soldiers in the British Army, and full Generals. There were ladies, rajahs, maharajahs and celebrities. There was the Aga Khan, the millionaire leader of a small Indian Mohammedan cult. There was the Nizam of Hyderabad, then the world’s richest man. There was Prince Peter of Greece and Denmark (1908-80). There was the Viceroy of India, who has been described as having “the power of an absolute monarch, with no responsibility at all to the Indian people and subject only to the British government in London.”

Perhaps best known among Dr. Butt Sahib’s clients was one Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi (1869-1948), the pre-eminent political and spiritual leader of India during the Indian independence movement. Ron Pumphrey refers to Gandhi as “the then upstart and now Indian hero.”

The Butts’ son, Trevor, tells me in an email: “While Dad was doing dental work in Pune (Poona), Mahatma Gandhi was incarcerated there.”

Actually, Gandhi had been held in prison on several occasions, his first imprisonment in India being in 1922. Ten years later, his prison cell was in Poona. On May 6, 1944, he left a British prison for the final time. He had spent an almost unbelievable six-and-a-half years in them–2,089 days in India, 249 days in South Africa.

Gandhi’s upper dentures were sent for repair to Dr. Butt Sahib’s office in Poona.

Interestingly, William L. Shirer (1904-93), the well-known American journalist, war correspondent, historian and author of Gandhi: A Memoir, chatted with Gandhi many times. Their first meeting was on February 22, 1931.

“As our talk began,” Shirer wrote, “I tried to take in not only what Gandhi was saying but how he looked…. His actual appearance…was not one you would have especially noticed in a crowd.” At 61 years of age, Gandhi was showing wear and tear on his face. Shirer remarked on his turned-down nose, widened at the nostrils. Another impression stayed with Shirer. Age, fasting, the Indian sun, the years in prison, and the “long, hard, nervous work, had…sunk in his mouth just a little so that the lower lip protruded, and teeth were missing–I could see only two.”

Admittedly, Dr. Butt Sahib did not actually meet Gandhi face to face. However, the Harbour Gracian did hold in his hands and repair the Indian leader’s upper dentures!

The Butts returned to Newfoundland in the late 1940s when, in the words of Jack Fitzgerald, “British troops were being withdrawn from India and an Indian civil war was anticipated.”

I recently read the book, The Ocean at My Door. During his lifetime, the author, Ron Pollett (1900-55), was voted by the readers of the now-defunct Atlantic Guardian as “Newfoundland’s favourite storyteller.” And with good reason.

I laughed aloud as I read his story, “The Tongue That Never Told a Lie.” It’s a classic rabbit incident from his childhood. A portion of it bears repeating here, for reasons which shall become apparent later.

“I had the head, my favourite part, on the plate in front of me,” Pollett recalls. “I probed for tid-bits, then cracked open the crown, leaving the tongue till the very last. Finally I hooked it out and held it up on the fork.

” ‘Some tongue, hey, Uncle Bill?’ I said. ‘Some tongue. Almost half the size of a caplin!’ ”

In a former life, when I pastored in rural Newfoundland, parishioners frequently invited us out for meals.

One day, my wife received a phone call. “Does Pastor Janes like rabbit soup?” a senior lady asked.

“He loves it,” Sherry answered. But she didn’t add that she greatly disliked rabbit. In fact, she didn’t even like the thought of rabbit. I often asked her why. “Because rabbits remind me of cats.” I restrained from asking her, “And when did you last eat a cat?”

The night of our rabbit soup supper finally arrived. I was looking forward to it, fondly remembering eating rabbit as a boy.

At the house, the couple and their young granddaughter sat at the table. Sherry and I were there with our two-year-old daughter, Krista. After grace was said, I dug into the bowl the lady had set before me. The rabbit portions were large and scattered generously through the mixture. I was more than ready to enjoy my ambrosial delight.

Sherry, on the other hand, picked up a spoon and absently stirred her soup. I knew she was battling the thought of cat parts swirling around in her bowl. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her sip the occasional spoonful of broth. She fed some of her soup to Krista. Then, when Sherry thought nobody was watching, she hoisted a lump of rabbit from her bowl and plopped it into mine.

By now, my first bowl of soup was only a memory.

Our hostess asked, “Pastor Janes, would you like another bowl? There’s lots left.”

“Yes, I sure would. Thanks.” Within moments, a second bowl of steaming pottage had been set before me.

Suddenly, the granddaughter spoke up. “Look, Nan,” she exclaimed. “I got d’head.”

Oh, no, I thought. This is going to be tough on Sherry.

Nan said, “That’s nice, dear.”

The girl began playing with the rabbit crown staring up from her bowl.

“Look, Nan,” she continued excitedly, lifting an object for all to see. “D’tongue.” She popped it in her mouth.

I turned and looked at Sherry; by now, her face had blanched.

The girl dug deeper. “Look, Pop, d’brain,” she said, as she crushed the crown between her fingers.

Sherry kept her eyes averted, for she knew what the girl was about to do. In a flash, the savory morsel disappeared into her mouth. Sherry was aghast.

The hostess, noticing that Sherry wasn’t eating, asked, “Mrs. Janes, more soup?”

“No, thanks,” Sherry said. “I’m full.”

Truer words had never been spoken.

I suspect that all of us know people who are afflicted with a condition known as Selective Hearing. Such individuals hear only what they want to hear, refusing to hear what they don’t want to hear.

As a child, I couldn’t understand how my father could hear something I whispered to my siblings at the supper table, but couldn’t hear, or at least made no reaction to, other things spoken in a normal voice level.

Selective Seeing is a similar ailment. My brother and I were convinced that Dad had what we referred to as “eyes in the back of his head.” Whenever we did anything the slightest bit questionable, unexpected or different, even though he wasn’t looking directly at us, he seemed to see it. “That’s uncalled for,” he would say.

Dad had two pairs of glasses: reading glasses and driving glasses. In church, while he was preaching, he wore only his reading glasses. After reading the Bible in preparation for his sermon, he would push his glasses up on his baldpate, where they remained until he needed them again.

One night while he was preaching, we heard a collective chuckle from the congregation.

At least one of Dad’s two sons – yours truly – was preoccupied. Not that he was misbehaving or “acting up,” activity that would have been dealt with posthaste and post-service. To while away the time, he was observant all right, looking at the illustrations in his Bible, which his father had given him when he was nine years old in 1966.

The illustrations by J. Pander, which are evocative even to this day, were especially appealing to an adolescent.

“The Building Of the Tower Of Babel” brings back memories. What a brute of a building was being erected, although I wouldn’t have used the word “brute” in those days.

“Joseph Sold By His Brethren” got me thinking, Where’s his “coat of many colours”? What scum-bags (another word I wouldn’t have used back then) his brothers were!

In “Moses About To Destroy the Tablets,” you could actually see the anger in his face and actions. Older folk called it “righteous indignation,” although I had no idea what either word meant.

“The Crossing of the Red Sea” was scary. You could see the Egyptians drowning, while the Israelites were dry and safe on the other side.

The one illustration that kept me in the Old Testament was “The Infant Moses Saved From the Nile.” The only male in the illustration was Baby Moses. The rest of the people were Egyptian females, one of whom was only partially clad and exiting the pool carrying Moses in his basket. I was in love with this young lass! I don’t suppose she lives here in Port aux Basques! I thought to myself sorrowfully.

I’m surprised Dad hadn’t torn this illustration from my Bible. It left little to an adolescent’s imagination, sanctified or not.

I must have been studying my Egyptian girlfriend when the congregation chuckled. I turned around. All eyes were riveted on Dad, so I figured the comedian was on the platform. I now focused on him myself.

Ah, there it was…Dad had suddenly needed his reading glasses to highlight another Bible verse. Forgetting that his spectacles already adorned his head, he reached inside his jacket and withdrew his second pair. These he now put on.

I had no difficulty seeing the humour. Turning to my brother, I whispered, “Dave, we always said Dad has eyes in the back of his head. That’s what the second pair of glasses is for!”

From the warning look in my brother’s eyes, I knew what he was thinking, Shut up, b’y! Do you want Fadder to have another attack of Selective Hearing?

 

I do solemnly vow and declare that things are never funnier than in church. And not without good reason. Attendees are usually encouraged, either overtly or tacitly, to stifle levity and maintain a degree of decorum, a modicum of reverence befitting the House of God.

However, I personally find that being told to stifle levity and maintain decorum often results in a spontaneous eruption of laughter. Sometimes it’s easy to restrain oneself; other times, it’s a valiant struggle.

Janes’ Law

I’ve even formulated my own Law. I figure if Murphy could have a Law (“If anything can go wrong, it will”), then so can I. Janes’ Law states: “If funny things are going to happen, they will happen in church.” Believe me–it never fails. “World without end. Amen.” I’m living witness to the power, for good or ill, of humour in the Church.

It strikes me as significant that the Bible itself speaks about the benefits of humour. The Book of Proverbs declares, “A merry heart does good, like medicine.” On second thought, perhaps the biblical writer didn’t intend this as a reference to humour in church, of all places.

Attending church

There’s much to be said in defense of church attendance. However, even the most devoted attendee, if honest and transparent, will readily admit that, at times, boredom sets in. It might be during the litany of announcements, a particularly poor musical selection, or, God forbid, a poorly prepared and/or delivered sermon or homily.

After attending the House of God off and on for 59 years–almost 60, if you count the time I was in my late mother’s womb–I finally devised an antidote to boredom in church…scrutinize the bulletin for errors, mistakes, gaffes, misspellings, faux pas, poor grammar, incorrect word usage–in short, bloopers. You might be surprised by what you find! For years, I’ve been collecting bloopers which have evidently appeared in bulletins hither and yon.

I herewith present you with a selection for your reading pleasure and personal inspiration, in no particular order.

Bulletin bloopers

* Don’t let worry kill you–let the church help.

* Thursday night: Potluck supper. Prayer and medication to follow.

* For those who have children and don’t know it, we have a nursery downstairs.

* The rosebud on the altar this morning is to announce the birth of David Alan Belzer, the sin of Rev. and Mrs. Julius Belzer.

* This evening there will be meetings at the south and north ends of the church. Children will be baptized at both ends.

* Tuesday at 4 p.m., there will be an ice cream social. All ladies giving milk will please come early.

* Remember in prayer the many who are sick of our church and community.

* Wednesday the Ladies’ Group will meet. Mrs. Johnson will sing, “Put Me in My Little Bed,” accompanied by the pastor.

* Thursday at 5 p.m., there will be a meeting of the Little Mothers’ Club. All ladies wishing to be Little Mothers will meet with the pastor in his study.

* This being Easter Sunday, we will ask Mrs. Lewis to come forward and lay an egg on the altar.

* The service will come to a close with “Little Drops of Water.” One of the ladies will start quietly and the rest of the congregation will join in.

* Next Sunday a special collection will be taken to defray the cost of the new carpet. All those wishing to do something on the new carpet will come forward and get a piece of paper.

* The Rev. Merriweather made a brief presentation at last week’s social, much to the delight of the congregation.

* The ladies of the church have cast off clothing of every kind. They can be seen in the church basement on Saturday.

* Irving Benson and Jessie Carter were married on October 24 in the church. So ends a friendship that began in school days.

* A bean supper will be held on Tuesday evening in the church hall. Music will follow.

* The pastor will preach his farewell message, after which the choir will sing “Break Forth Into Joy.”

* At the service tonight, the sermon will be “What is Hell?” Come early and listen to our choir practice.

* The choir invites any member of the congregation who enjoys sinning to join the choir.

* The outreach committee has enlisted 25 visitors to make calls on people who are not afflicted with any church.

* Evening massage–6 p.m.

* Next Sunday Mrs. Vinson will favour us with a solo in the morning service. The pastor will then speak on “A Terrible Experience.”

* Due to the Rector’s illness, Wednesday night’s healing service will be discontinued until further notice.

* The music for today’s service was composed by Handel in celebration of the 300th anniversary of his birth.

* The pastor would appreciate it if the ladies of the congregation would lend him their electric girdles for the pancake breakfast next Sunday morning.

* The eighth-graders will be presenting Shakespeare’s Hamlet in the church basement on Friday at 7 p.m. The congregation is invited to attend this tragedy.

* The audience is asked to remain seated until the end of the recession.

* The concert held in the Fellowship Hall was a great success. Special thanks are due to the minister’s daughter, who laboured the whole evening at the piano which, as usual, fell upon her.

* Low Self-Esteem Support Group will meet Thursday, from 7-8:30 p.m. Please use the back door.

* This week, why not smile at someone who is hard to love and say “Hell” to someone who doesn’t care much about you?

* Weight Watchers will meet at 7 p.m. at the First Presbyterian Church. Please use large double door at the side entrance.

* The 2003 Spring Council Retreat will be hell May 10-11.

* The pastor is on vacation. Massages can be given to church secretary.

* Eight new choir robes are currently needed, due to the addition of several new members and to the deterioration of some older ones.

* Today’s sermon topic: How much can a man drink? Hymns from a full choir to follow.

* The Lutheran Mens’ Group will meet at 6 p.m. Steak, mashed potatoes, green beans, bread and desserts will be served for a nominal feel.

See you at church

Now, isn’t church exciting!