Helena Smrcek's Blog, page 6

Reader's Digest

The Fault in Our StarsThis acclaimed favorite of the John Green young adult novels follows Hazel Grace and Augustus, two teenagers who meet in a cancer support group. This sweet and philosophical novel will definitely have you crying your eyes out—in between laughs. Green is known for writing both realistic and funny characters. Our heroine and hero are in love and they take an adventurous trip to Amsterdam to meet with their favorite author. You know they're both sick from the very beginning, and it's beautiful and heartbreaking to watch them fall in love in the midst of dire circumstances. The hit film version will also get you going, so have a tissue box handy. And if you're in the mood for more blubbering, check out the best tearjerker movies for when you need an emotional release.

At the Water's Edge by Sara Gruen

Well written, yet the plot was predictable...convenient resolution to the problems. The historical part of this romance seemed to be added on, characters recapped events, and were not really involved in the crisis of the era.Easy read, entertaining, conflict is there, mystery, good understanding of the setting and culture of the period, so if you like romance with some explicit sex scenes,and an occasional F-word doesn't jar you, you many enjoy this book.

Guest Post by Cec Murphey

What Do You Want to Write? (Part 1 of 5)As we move into writing seriously, we need to answer that question for ourselves. Some individuals know exactly what they want to see in print and don’t deviate or try anything new.But if you’re like I was when I started, I wanted to write on nine or ten different topics.If you’re not sure (or even if you are, consider a few suggestions).First, examine your own areas of interest. What do you enjoy reading? That can be a tricky question because some of us read widely. I read fiction and nonfiction. I’m immensely curious about many things—like many writers. That may not give you an answer, but it causes you to ponder.Second, look at your heart. Your passion. What topics or genres stir you when you think about writing? That may not be the ultimate answer, but it’s a good place to start.To figure out what you want to write,begin by examining your passion.* * * * *Have you wondered what it takes to be a ghostwriter or collaborator and don't know where to go for help? Check out Cec's legacy book,Ghostwriting: The Murphey Method.

David Copperfield by Charles Dickens

This classic must have been written during the time when authors were paid by the word, and paper was cheap. The language is flowery and rich. This imagery vivid, characters a captivating and I truly enjoyed the British phrasing.But David Copperfield is a serious book, although it has uplifting moments. It brings the reader into the grim reality of 19th century England, which is a common theme of Dickens' fiction.Charles Dickens pays a especial attention to the lower classes and the treatment of children – almost unbelievable to modern day readers.Because of this fact, his work is that much more important, even though it is fiction, it is evidently grounded in the hard realities of Dickens'time. A definite must read.

What Makes You Happy?

Our company last night was delightful. We have known this couple for over 20 years, and my husband and I had always considered them our unofficial mentors.Over coffee our friends told us they were considering a big move – to another country. Another continent. Nothing has been decided yet, just thinking…and praying. I asked why.They had no time for what made them happy. Working full-time, and running a business, left only a few precious hours for their passion – volunteering. We have known for several years about their work with the homeless, and seniors, but I have never considered how deep their passion ran.To move, so that they could simplify their lifestyle, restructure the finances, and work for free? My entrepreneurial mind was spinning. Of course, the big concern was affordability.Here comes my confession. Little words likeidealist, enthusiast,anddreamer poppedup in the back of my mind.  But then my husband surprised me. “You have the passion,” he said, holding the gaze of his friend. “I mean it, and wish I could say the same.” I hoped for word of caution, instead he encouraged them.Tucked in my bed, I reflected on our visit. We have had a wonderful time, good food, many laughs, and honest conversations.  I’d miss them, but surely, we wouldn’t lose our connection, no matter how far apart we lived.What did my husband say? Passion. I felt a touch of sadness. Could I rekindle the fire? Perhaps.I could pray.  So, I did.May the Lord lead us toward our true passion, His passion, placed in our hearts, and may we find the strength to let Him.A little scared, but at peace, I felt my heart fill with sparks of new expectations. I smiled, and whispered my thanks.

Crime and Punishment - Book Review

Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky is one of the must-read literary masterpieces. Given its length, I did purchase an audio version, and listen for over a week. The scope of this novel is truly overwhelming. The characters are intriguing, many of their qualities are not likable, yet they captivate the reader as we follow their life stories, struggle with their decisions, and wish for a happy ending. Crime and punishment is a in depth study of human nature, at its worst. The vibrant ensemble of characters opens a window into the Russian society, the hierarchy, despair and hope.  Crime and Punishment is also a story of love and redemption, faith and forgiveness..

To Love Farm Life

My Man Has a Cold

The winter months brought a break in our farm routines, and a vacation. Warmth, sand and sea, I felt simply spoiled.But two nights before we were scheduled to head back home I sneezed. I took antihistamine and went to bed.At breakfast the sneezing returned.The flight home was a little trying. I popped a gum in my mouth and tried to cope with the ear ache.Who gets a cold in Mexico?Next day I dragged myself out of bed, went to the barn, milked the goat, fed the chickens, unpacked, sorted the laundry, checked the fridge. After I dropped our daughter off at her school, I got groceries, then switched the laundry, made cheese, shoved another load into the washing machine, figured out dinner, and wished someone would blow the gloomy fog away, or at least make me a tea.Following morning my darling husband turned over and complained he didn’t sleep. While I set a cup of coffee in front of him, he wore a sheepish grin, then proceeded to play a recording of me—snoring.With a triumphant glee, he turned up the volume so neither of our kids accidentally missed his clandestine achievement. I was ready to snatch the eggs and bacon, his sick and snoring wife made him, and feed his breakfast to the dogs.Next morning, he woke me up with a simple statement. I made him sick.I could take it no longer. Not onlyI was sickfor five days, and he didn’t even offer to make me tea, but instead secretly recorded me, as if he worked for the CIA, and now accused me of causing his illness? What was his problem? I got up and went to the kitchen to make me some java.A few moment later he joined me, and asked in a weak voice if I could make him a tea, and did I have anything he could take.He sighed heavily. He had a headache. Where did I put the Advil? Kleenex box? Thermometer? Something for his sinuses?I point to the HydraSense, not ready to talk. He asked how to use it. I explained in as few words as possible. My husband, who seemed to have landed from Mars only a few short minutes ago, proceeded to press the tip and sprayed the Eucalyptus all over the counter.When I protest, he moved the operation to the sofa and started to administer his medicine. Of course he sprayed himself in the eye. I couldn't help but laugh. He froze, then joined me, tearing up, due to the burning liquid.To make him feel better I admitted his cold is truly much worse than mine. I filled the teapot, stirred in some honey, and grabbed his mug. He thanked me, and asked if I could make him chicken soup.I recalled the short video explainingman-coldthat landed on my Face Book page a few months ago, and suddenly I felt lonely no more. There is a sisterhood out there, that understands me.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gLj7f...

Let's Be Real about Christmas

One of my favourite childhood memories is the Advent calendar. Each morning in December I opened a window, and got a piece of chocolate. Sometimes Grandma took me to mass. When we came home, the house smelled of tangerines, frankincense, and fresh pine needles. Grandpa and I set up the Nativity Scene. Christmas was magical, filled with wondrous expectations.As I grew older reality chipped away at the illusion. It began with a paper calendar, with numbered windows, but no chocolate. The Santa mystery was revealed. There were gifts my siblings and I snooped out, and never received. The fight my mom and dad had over my Grandma and Grandpa coming to dinner, and the silent treatment that preceded the Christmas Eve feast.The most stressful holiday tradition was my mothers’ parents’ annual Christmas Day dinner. Dad hated to go. His opinion of the socialist government, embodied by my mother’s family, was no secret. Fights ensued. My stomach in knots I couldn’t wait to go home. Then mother would be silent for weeks.Things got stranger yet. Our first Christmas in an Austrian refugee house Grandma’s catholic traditions came to life once more. There were shoe boxes delivered by missionaries, who also brought us the Good News. I grasped the irony of the past family gatherings of professing atheists, celebrating birth of Christ. My mother cried. She missed them. My father was mad. We have left everything behind, because of communists, like them.But the festive season took on another meaning that year. I considered it my first real Christmas, and purposed to celebrate the holidays in a new light, and start new traditions.Yet the family drama continued, bringing on more stomach knots. One year it was my sister’s drinking boyfriend, then my father’s gallbladder attack, the phone mother unplugged so we couldn’t wish them Merry Christmas, yet another one of my sister’s boyfriends, this one absent, causing her a meltdown, subsequently blamed on me and my family.I found professional help. When my psychologist asked what I really wanted, I told her a normal family. She said I would never get that. Then we prayed, and she freed me, making it clear that I was only responsible for my behaviour.Thinking of my children, and their memories, I searched for balance. We made a few changes. Not everyone was happy. But as I edited my Christmas expectations, I learnt to say no. Those who didn’t think my family deserved to be happy and enjoy the holidays, didn’t need to come. Harsh and selfish, perhaps. But as the years went on, we developed new traditions, centered around our faith, peace and love.I cherish the Christmas season, still sending out cards. We host parties, cook our giant home-grown turkeys, make time to go to church, and sleep in on Christmas Day.Be good to yourself, my mentor used to say, and at first I thought it was a bit strange. But now I understand. So, be good to yourself, and say no to invitations that don’t bring you joy. Buy an Advent calendar, and as you claim your daily chocolate, think of the sweetness of God in your life. Play your favourite Christmas music, and eat the cookies. Indulge in the wonder of the season, and cherish those you love. It’s one big birthday party after all. He chose to come to us, Emanuel, God with Us. Let us celebrate and rejoice, with no guilt, because life is too short for needless drama.Have a truly Merry Christmas, may your holidays be blessed, filled with love, kindness and peace. – Helana Smrcek - See more at: http://www.christianlifeinlondon.com/...

How Big Is Your Shovel?

Frolicking horses, cute kittens, flocks of chickens—misleading images of farm life. Honestly, no one advertises the other side of nature.Cleaning Rosie’s stall is part of my mornings. I love her milk. The other presents—not so much. Shovel in hand, I worked around my Queen of Goats the other day, her watchful eye ensuring I didn’t miss a thing, while my thoughts took me back to a long-ago conversation.I have met Doctor Joel Freeman at Write!Canada. His credentials astounded me. A man with a long list of qualifications, achievements and involvements, yet when we sat down to talk, he was happy, open, and ready to listen.His interest in my life was so disarming, that I, uncharacteristically so, opened up and shared my struggles. I told him about my family, church involvement, work, and my fear. People around me would often say I had too much going on, but I wrestled to give up any one thing. Was I missing God’s best? Was I in His will?He listened, then looked me in the eyes, and said. “I have three questions. First. How is your relationship with God?”Honestly I didn’t expect that. My bad. He had served as an NBA chaplain. “I’d say good,” I answered, knowing that I’d never be as good a Christina as I could be, but I live by His mercy.“Great,” Freeman nodded. “How is your relationship with your husband?”Both of us triple-A personalities, our relationship has never been boring. Without going into details, I answered, “I wouldn’t change a thing.”“And how is your relationship with your children?” He asked.All the parenting stress, rush and heartaches aside, our kids have never gave us grief. We truly blessed with these two, now young adult people, in our lives. My answer was easy. “Great.”He smiled and said. “It’s the size of your shovel.”I was little puzzled at first, but he continued to explain.“God gives each one of us a shovel. Some people get a small shovel, and some a large one. The ones with the small shovel look at you and wonder how you could do all these things, but as long as your three primary relationship are in order, and your health is good, keep on going. You aren’t doing anything wrong.”This was one of the most freeing conversations of my life. A heavy weight lifted of my chest and guilt slowly dissipated. Here was an accomplished man, giving me permission to be myself.So, on the days I feel overwhelmed and question my sanity, I remind myself that I chose this life. As gratitude replaces dread, I sprinkle fresh wood shavings onto Rosie’s floor, making her home worthy of the queen she is, and silently thank God for giving me the opportunity and strength to do this. God has granted me this freedom, He gave me a shovel, it’s up to me to use it, and live my life to the fullest. No regrets. - See more at: http://www.clilondon.com/index.cfm?se...