by Gwynn Alcorn

Created on: January 21, 2009

The Arms of Love

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What is more important to a speaker than a listener who responds?

Absolutely nothing.

This answer applies whether one is speaking to just one person, an audience, or to God. We want a response. We want to know we have been heard.

But a human response or answered prayer does not always fit our criteria.

At my first Toastmasters Convention, I was so fired up by this wonderful organization that I collared Neil Wilkinson of Edmonton, Alberta, a 20-year member who was president of Toastmasters International in 1993, and told him I wanted a bumper sticker that said, "I Get High on Toastmasters."

Now, Mr. Wilkinson is a reserved man and although he paid total attention to me as I enthusiastically praised Toastmasters, he did not give me the response I expected. (His face did not light up.)

Finally I turned away to leave, but Mr. Wilkinson called me back. With the same lack of expression on his face, he said, "You've made me feel so good. Would you give me a hug?"

I fairly fainted. Then I flew into his arms and gave him one of my best hugs.

When he hadn't responded in a manner that I recognized, I thought that there was no response, that he hadn't heard me, that what I said hadn't been important enough to move him. When he responded in a way that I recognized, I was thrilled to learn there had been real contact between us.

I've gone through the same experience with God many times, the most memorable of which occurred while I was living in a vacant church in Nova Scotia.

My husband and I had raised registered Hereford cattle in the beautiful Annapolis Valley for five years. Those years were the best years of my life. Although I only weighed 104 lbs, I was a driven workaholic looking after the cattle, the farm, cutting pulpwood, whatever it took to keep my dream alive.

The best years of my life ended when my husband moved to Halifax with another woman.

I had continued to look after the 60 head of cattle and harvest my 400-acre forest , but I was finally forced - by lack of money - to give up. (I learned later that all across North

America, the cattle bust was known as the Crash of '75.
It wasn't just me alone who lost my cattle, but it felt like it.)

I could have moved in with family, but I wanted solitude to try to sort out my life. I made a deal with the trustees of an abandoned Baptist church that I would paint the outside of the church in lieu of paying rent. The building had no water or heat or plumbing, but it was a good place for me to reach

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