Welcome to the erratic musings of a somewhat eccentric writer, Donna Fawcett / Dawson. Thanks for visiting my blog
|Posted by Donna Dawson on March 22, 2015 at 10:40 PM||comments (0)|
If I write a letter to you and you decide to translate it and then send it to someone else who decides to translate it into yet another language and then share it with a bunch of people, who is at fault if the final product isn't exactly the same as the first letter? Is it my fault? Does it mean that the letter is not true to my intent and my purposes and my will and word? No. Of course not. So too with the Bible. The Bible is simply a collection of writings inspired by or 'dictated' to the writers of it by YHVH. In it's original form, it is true and exact and without error or contradiction. But as time has passed and translations have taken place subtle changes have occurred. Not deliberate changes per se but changes in perceptions of culture and word usage. For example: the word 'Christos' or 'Christ' isn't actually really a word and no, it isn't Jesus' last name either. As the Hebrew scriptures were translated into Greek words crept up that didn't exist in the Greek. There was no Greek word for 'Messiah' which means 'anointed one' so the word 'Christ' was used in place of 'Messiah' or 'Meshiac'. I say all of that to say this--how far are we willing to go to learn the truth of the Bible? Are we willing to learn another language? Are we willing to study Hebrew so we can read the text in its original language--or Greek? How much do we love God's word? Enough to spend our lives learning the language in which it was written? Perhaps we would have far less conflict and strife in the Christian community if we all took the time to learn the original text and then learn how to put it in context based on the culture and tradition of the original nation in which it was birthed. Just a thought.
|Posted by Donna Dawson on November 20, 2014 at 9:30 AM||comments (1)|
God. LORD. Jehovah. All names given to the Creator of all things and yet not quite accurate.
A few years ago, I had an acquaintance mispronounce my name. He wasn't being malicious. He just didn't know how to say it in any other language but his own. I let it slip the first few times and then it began to grate on me. After all, I knew my name and I knew how it should sound. I sat down with him and taught him how to enunciate it properly and I asked him to do likewise with his name so I could say it correctly. Why did it matter? Our identities are wrapped tightly with our names and when there is a deviation something within us rebels. I don't think our Creator is much different. After all, we are made in his image.
Zechariah 13:9 says:
And I will put this third into the fire, and refine them as one refines silver, and test them as gold is tested. They will call upon my name, and I will answer them. I will say, ‘They are my people’; and they will say, ‘The Lord is my God.’”
According to http/www.jewfaq.org/name.htm it is not permissible to call on the name of God. The Jewish faith has such a deep respect for the Creator that they replaced his actual Biblical name with words such as LORD, God etc. Yet, God made it plain that we are to call on his name and he will answer.
I understand the idea. If someone continually referred to me as 'hey you' I would get to the point where I ignored them. Not very loving, I know, but true nonetheless. God in his infinite love and patience endures the genericizing of his name and yet he still tells us to call on his name. So what is his name?
In the Biblical Hebrew the name of God in English literally translates as 'I Am that I Am' or 'I Am the Being'. Moses was given God's actual name at the place of the burning bush. In turn, Moses--and the rest of the Biblical characters--referred to him as 'You Are that you are' or 'you are the Being'. (yod, hey, vav, hey) Not exactly a match but the same idea. At a point in history--and that point is not clear--the Jews stopped verbalizing the name of God and instead referred to him as HaShem (the name). Some say it started because of the Third Commandment so they couldn't take the LORD's name in vain. Others believed it was an act of repentance and humility when the expulsions came to Israel before the birth of Christ. Whatever the reason, at some point, the Jews no longer called on the actual name of God.
I won't presume to know how YHVH feels about this but I know how annoyed I became when my name wasn't spoken properly. The problem lies in the inconsistencies of history. At some point there was a concern that the name was being mispronounced. Yet, if the God of the universe can keep the stars aligned and the earth spinning, can he not keep the pronunciation of his name true? Can he not gently teach us how to say it properly much like I did with that acquaintance? I think he can and I think he has. More and more Hebrew scholars are identifying the letter 'yod' with a 'y' sound, the letter 'hey' with an 'h' sound and the letter 'vav' with a 'w' sound which means that phonetically his name should sound like 'yahway' only breathier.
A year ago, a group of friends began praying with me consistently. We no longer used LORD, Jehovah or God. We began to call upon the name of YHVH and prayed to him in Jesus' (Yeshua's) name. (See the LORD's prayer to understand that we are to pray to the Father and in Jesus' name.) We have been astounded at his answers. We ask for specific things for ourselves and for others--understanding, answers to questions, comfort etc.--and he literally speaks through his word and through 'coincidences' (which aren't really coincidences).
YHVH is faithful to his word. He promised that if we called on his name he would answer. He meant it literally. No, we don't deserve that privilege yet he gave it nonetheless. I challenge you to pray to YHVH in Yeshua's name and through the power of the Holy Spirit and see if you notice a closer walk with our Creator.
|Posted by Donna Dawson on June 30, 2014 at 9:55 AM||comments (0)|
Where It All Began
by Donna Fawcett (c) 2007
I suppose my fascination with farming began back in my single digit years. I remember the day clearly. My uncle had a show horse by the name of Royal. Since I had been bitten by the horse bug in vitro, it was inevitable that I would ask if I could ride said horse. The response–"if you can saddle the old coot you can ride ‘im.”
I’m one for a challenge. Never mind the fact that I was probably closer to four feet tall than five feet. Never mind that I was wearing flip flops and shorts. Never mind that the saddle outweighed me by half again my weight. And so, with much cajoling, I suckered my cousin into helping me lift the heavy contraption of leather and wood up onto the waiting back of the tall animal.
No one told me that a saddle had to fit snug–that it had to be drawn tight around the girth. No one told me that it required a great amount of balance to stay in the saddle at the best of times–never mind the one time that it sat with loose and dangling straps and buckles. And I’m not so sure I would have listened anyway. The call of the wild pulsed through my arteries giving me a high that no narcotic could ever touch.
I pulled the horse over to the fence and scrabbled up onto the top most rail. With a mighty jump, I hurled myself onto that saddle and clutched a handful of mane to keep from sailing over the other side. I’d done it. I’d mounted the great and majestic Royal and my cousin stood on and watched in impressed silence.
The silence gave way to a soft chuckle as I nudged Royal away from the rail. It appeared that from where my cousin stood, the horse moved but the saddle didn’t--as though the equine beast walked out from under it. The cinch strap hit the gelding’s nether parts and that’s when things went south.
Ever wonder why bucking broncos buck so hard? Notice a strap tied around their loin area? There’s a reason for that strap. It kind of tightens around certain parts of the equine anatomy and causes the urge to jump around as though the horse is wearing a diaper full of ants. Well a saddle cinch can have the same kind of effect. And did.
I’m sure I stayed on the full eight seconds before the saddle came unglued. Both I and the leathery contraption found ourselves airborne–but not nearly long enough. If I had my way, I’d still be hovering ever so gently over that paddock; bucking horse cavorting around harmlessly beneath me. But what goes up must come down. We–the saddle and I–landed with a cracking thud. I saw stars–and then hooves. I scrambled to free my feet of the stirrups and rolled under the fence while my uncle’s saddle received a thorough trouncing.
One would think that I would get quite a tongue lashing over such an ordeal. My uncle seemed to think it worth the price of a saddle just to hear my cousin tell the tale. And so my journey into the agri-world began.
So what is the point of this aged tale? I suppose one word could sum it up: research. Had I taken the time to ask questions--to do some digging--to go to the source for information, I would have saved myself pain and humiliation. Doesn't that sound familiar? How often do we step into life without thinking about what we are doing? We bungle. We fail. We hurt and are humiliated when all we needed to do was go to the Source--the One who created us and has the power to guide us. We blame God for our failures but do we bother to study his word to find out if we could have done something differently? The next time we step out into our personal adventures we might consider checking the manual for life first. It might just save us some heartache.
|Posted by Donna Dawson on June 27, 2014 at 1:30 PM||comments (0)|
Tada! As promised 'Between Heaven and Earth' is officially released to the public. Buy it here and I'll sign it for you. Great for summer reading.
|Posted by Donna Dawson on March 25, 2014 at 8:10 AM||comments (3)|
All you wonderful readers who have asked me when my next book is coming out--well I can now say--very soon. I thought you might like to have a look at the cover. I'm excited about this one. It's very much unlike my typical suspense novel.
Carmen McGuinty--pastor's daughter--is a rebel of the highest degree. When her joy ride with drug dealer Zach Tarquez ends in a collision, Carmen finds herself in a place somewhere between earth and eternity. Her journey with the angel Malakh reveals much about her life as it is and how she will cope with the scars of her folly.
|Posted by Donna Dawson on March 10, 2014 at 8:15 AM||comments (4)|
I just finished a novel entitled 'Between Heaven and Earth'. If you are interested in reading a portion of it and voting on it I invite you to go to the authonomy.com website at http://authonomy.com/books/47952/between-heaven-and-earth/
Carmen McGuinty is a pastor's kid with attitude. She hates that her dad is so involved with the church. She connects with the local drug dealer in spite of warnings from her childhood friend Dalton Penner. When the drug dealer causes a car accident, Carmen finds herself in a place between Heaven and earth. In her comatose state she faces who she really is. It isn't pretty.
I hope this has given you enough to make you want to visit the authonomy page.
|Posted by Donna Dawson on February 24, 2014 at 7:10 AM||comments (1)|
February 24 - Advice I'd give a Newbie Writer
Don't write a thing until you have taken courses! New writers often bulldoze ahead, slapping words and phrases down on paper, calling them stories, like a child slaps fistfuls of mud onto a slab of cardboard and calls it meat pie. Is the pie edible? Possibly. Is it palatable? If you are an earthworm.
New writers are so in love with the idea of writing they often toss aside the foundations of writing just to get their ideas on page. Is it wrong? No but it certainly can be a waste of time.
Learn first! The child who scribbles numbers across a page assuming it is a complex algebraic solution is no less overzealous then the writer who spews streams of words without first learning what holds them together in spell-binding story craft.
When the writer learns the importance of phrase sequence, plot, sub-plot, characterization, setting, grammar, ebb and flow of theme—when that is absorbed through the osmosis of education—then the writer can truly offer their gift.
|Posted by Donna Dawson on February 11, 2014 at 12:20 AM||comments (5)|
Find the rest of the blog tour here.
February 10 - Character Sketch of My Hero
It's difficult to describe my hero because I've never actually seen him but I can give you his attributes. He is stern when needed and gentle the rest of the time. He loves without question even when I hurt him. He doesn't see me as a servant or a female or a Canadian or white. He sees me as a reflection of himself—a tainted reflection. He ignores the taint and loves me as though I am perfect. He forgives me each time I fail him which is sometimes moment by moment. He offers me advice when I need it and gives me comfort when no one else can. He holds my hand in the darkness and guides me into bright sunshine.
I don't know his hair colour or the shade of his irises. I can't tell you how tall he is; whether he strides through a room or saunters. I can't tell you much about his actual being other than his name but I have no doubt that Jesus loves me. He is my hero.
|Posted by Donna Dawson on January 26, 2014 at 10:20 PM||comments (7)|
My greatest writing tool is my computer. I have the world sitting in a box waiting for me to access it if I need. It allows me to accumulate information—research—so my stories can be accurate. It allows me to fly through thoughts, transferring them to files before they skitter away from me.
Then there is my solitude. People assume that a person who spends much time alone is not healthy. It's pretty hard to write a book when the social calendar is full. I need places where I can go to ponder, to allow my imagination free rein, to sift through plots and subplots.
My final, most important, writing tool is a note pad complete with pen. I'm sure if the average person found my scribblings they would wonder if I had ever learned the English language in the first place. The note pad can contain full sentences but rarely does. Usually it is a word or three—just enough to trigger my memory. The reader of that note page might see a list: nose, flared, bent, bridge like hawk's beak. Just enough stuff there to give me a picture—refresh my initial line of thought.
|Posted by Donna Dawson on January 15, 2014 at 7:55 AM||comments (2)|
I saw him as a red blur from the corner of my eye. I was supposed to be focusing on the music swelling around me--songs of praise, triumph and love. The cardinal's crimson flash shattered my determination in the single flick of a pinion and I turned my head to marvel. His ruddy plumage contrasted the alabaster crystals dusting the dead and crumbling blooms of the butterfly bush outside the window. A growing wind gripped their spindled arms and waved them in mimicry of the puppeteer's command. The cardinal flitted again hopping from one branch to another. Ebony eyes peered through the glass studying the strange sight of this large room filled with voices lifted in song. As though keen to join in the chorus--to perhaps show us all what true song is--he leapt. The small body thudded against invisible glass sending a ripple of shock and vibration through rumpled feathers. He found his perch again. Cocking his head from side to side he studied the unseen barrier and leapt again. The results were the same.
I watched as the cardinal jumped over and over again and my mind screamed at him to wait! To let me open the window so he could join in the praise! I didn't move. No one would thank me for letting the bird find its freedom in the chaos of noise and bodies. The bird didn't understand that the song would cease upon his entrance, replaced by the scurrying and reaching of hands to shoo this visitor back into the cold.
I thought about how alike we were--are. I come to the edge of what I think I need--what I want. An invisible hand restrains me. I see and hear what I think is beauty--what I should have--and I leap at it--fighting the hand that keeps me from the chaos and the grasping fingers. I don't understand. I get angry. I persist in my stubbornness and I slam against his will again and again--and again. I lose sight of the bruises I cause. I push through the pain of displaced plumage. I persist in spite of a growing awareness that I will never succeed in going to a place He will not allow me to find.
It takes the wisdom of a fellow worshipper to bring resolution. He draws the blind--blocks out the view--opens the bird's eyes to barrier and the stubborn, beautiful cardinal becomes aware of what has kept him from his goal. He takes flight and leaves us--turning his back on that which is harmful to him.
I am grateful for a God who sets the barriers in place and when I persist in my stubbornness, he draws the blinds.