Meet the Author's Author

Meet the Author's Author
Live for Jesus! That's what matters! That you see the light in me and come along! :)

Sunday, November 20, 2011


Darkness filled the street even as she gazed, crawling on and over everything in its path. It struck her, eliminating her shadow, filling her with chilled air.

Goosebumps rose on her skin, and she gasped, feeling as though evil pervaded the night.

Why was it this night felt so different to any other? She raised her gaze to the castle window once more...and the light flickered, and died.

Had it died? Or had another, more evil hand dealt a blow to the King?

She scrambled to her feet and ran towards the castle. Fleet of foot, swift as an arrow shot from a bow, but not hasty enough to escape six coal horses that galloped after her, hidden by the wings of the night.

They surrounded her, visors unclosed, dark armour glistening by the light of a lantern that one held above his head.

“One step too far, young Critak,” a creaky voice said.

She looked up, eyes black and unreadable, standing out in her white face.

“Not a moment too soon, Ahkrid” she answered.

His horse sank on its knees with a strangled cry.

“Wha-” he began with an angry cry that turned into a scream as the horse rolled over on top of him.

At the same moment the other horses started to foam at the mouth and rear.

She smiled, a brief flash.

“Traqlin,” she waved the handkerchief in explanation at the chief leader as she skipped over the bodies of the now silent horses and their pinned owners.

He cursed her as she ran, once more, towards the castle.

Word race with Miriam. :) <3 Miriam beat me.

Friday, November 18, 2011

Quoting Flt Sgt Rowley

Here's a quote from my friend Scott Rowley's Facebook page, regarding my home town. How very true! *chuckle*:

"Loves the way Walsall can promote itself, lol.


The filthy streets, the unwashed masses, the charming local accent that makes us sound as though we were born retarded and have been drinking turpentine every day since then… These are the best aspects of Walsall.

There’s a new art gallery, grey and shaped like a box. Clearly a great deal of thought went into making it look as appealing from the outside as it is enjoyable inside.

And a new bus station. Cost a small fortune to build, looks absolutely revolting, has slowed down traffic for miles around because the entrance is tiny and buses have to queue past the exit to get into the entrance — so a traffic jam can last theoretically until the end of time. Best of all, they didn’t realise until after it was built that it wasn’t big enough for all the buses.

The crowning glory of Walsall, though, is its people. They will happily kill you with an axe while you wait outside the local chippie for a deep-friend Mars bar. (This actually happened. An axe.)

Matt Harvey"

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Spiel of Random Thoughties

A smile can change the world. At the very least, a person's day.

When I dress to please Sian, guys watch and I smile and it's flirting all the way. When I dress to please the Lord Jesus Christ and Jane, then I smile and a guy is watching my face and smiles back - and it's completely innocent and pure. There's glory in that.

When I smile dressed for Sian, girls and women aren't happy smiling back. And they...act different. When I smile dressed for Jesus, they smile back and it's lifting their faces and a smile into their eyes.

I was watching with active interest the things around me earlier, and suddenly started laughing...
God is so amazing!
A year ago, I was so wrapped up in my pain I wasn't noticing anything, just breathing from day to day. All I can remember is darkness and facts...and the first time I noticed the glory of autumn leaves that year. When He started to pull me out of it and Jay and C'rissie were telling me to focus on other things and start to praise.
Wow. Lord God Almighty, Thou art incredible...

Never, ever ever say you're alone and friendless again, when you get home to find an expensive parcel from the USA containing two letters and a handwritten journal of over 100 pages written full of Scriptures and songs and notes and quotes, over time, just for me. I cried.
I love you, Anjelica Childs. God bless you! God bless you.

Macdonalds' hot apple pies taste good. Really good. Ignore what everyone else says. :D

Choosing to sing God's songs over the world's songs when you are conscious of people listening draws you infinitely closer into His presence.

Apparently my boss is a "stroppy homicidal mermaid" that kills to I have a black spot on the back of my hand. O.o She doesn't even WATCH Dr. Who. I showed Stephen who was sitting opposite me (he's even worse than my Yanks - he won't marry a girl unless she likes Dr. Who) and he was like, "Oh dear...first the Silence and now this!"

Also, I'm being constantly tracked by the Vashta Nerada. I was walking under multiple street lamps towards the bus stop earlier and noticed I have a light shadow and dark shadow. Therefore, if I vanish, be worried. :D

God is a God of total miracles. I'll write on today's praise and thankfulness post in a minute. :D

In EVERYTHING give thanks, literally means EVERYTHING. In the darkest shadow of the Valley of Death, there is STILL something to thank Him for. Lean on His Hand, ask Him to teach you and diligently search for it - and be willing to want to praise Him!

It's easier to depend on your physical appearance to be liked than for your personality. Personality takes work. Appearance just adds paint.
Which lasts?
Which is worth it?

Do hard things!

End of random childishness.

With love in Christ,
~Mademoiselle Siân

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

God at Work

Literally. These two quote are from yesterday. (Began 22-10-11 or 10-22-11)

I put my little orange Testament from Texas on my desk yesterday and walked away to get some water. Ryan, my coworker, said as I went by: "Is that a Bible on your desk?" Me: "Yes, it's a Testament. Are you a Christian?" *hopefully* Ryan: "No, I like to call myself an atheist. But it's good to see some people have faith."


I went to the water fountain and stepped aside to let coworker Becca go first. She responded by wriggling with helpless frustration and said, "Ohhhhh! I really don't like you!" Another coworker waiting laughed and said, "Well that's nice first thing in the morning!" Becca answered, "It's because she's so NICE! Always opening doors for people, etc." I walked away and grinned. Maybe, maybe, MAYBE, God is shining through!! :D


Kushan is a Hindu. He worked next to me for a day or so. I was having a good day on the surveys, and he asked if it was a Bible I had on my desk. (My little orange testament.) On my completing another survey, he reached over and took it off my desk and put it on his own, saying that I'd had enough luck, and now it was his turn! I was killing myself laughing.
We - as usual - ended up discussing our religions (or my faith and his religion), and he asked me about the Lord's supper. "I thought it was nice that Jesus gave food and wine to His disciples." I tried to explain, and then he asked about whether it was really bread and wine or flesh and blood. So I explained that it was symbolism, and that it was the difference between us and the Roman Catholics, that they believe in transubstantiation and we don't. (No, I didn't use that word. :P). He asked where it was in the Bible, and I marked it up in my little orange Testament.

He still hadn't read it by the end of the day, so I offered him to take it home. He refused, as he hadn't got anything to keep it dry (it was raining). He said to leave the paper where it was and he'd take it home the next day. "As we're Hindus, we worship many gods, so I'll put it on the shelf next to my god, and worship both together, so I'll be worshipping Jesus at the same time."
I did attempt to explain that it didn't work that way, but it didn't come out too good.

Anyway, he took it with him the next day. I haven't seen it since, and I don't know if he's read it or not. I'd like prayer for that, please...that he reads it and doesn't worship it or just worship it...but that God would open his eyes and plant hunger in his soul.

For two reasons, I'm going to buy him a Bible pretty soon. I'll try and write a note of explanation at the same time. See how that goes. Please pray!


Of course, Inti and I still have the occasional debate over Christianity vs. Islam. He's not biting as much as at first though. Please continue to pray for him. :)


Jack Davies, my colleague, and I end up sitting next to each other a lot. Jack's a good friend, quite posh and highly amusing as well as highly intelligent. Recently, we were discussing my decision to give up the RAF (for now) and it lead onto the woman's role in life. We ended up talking about the "women being subservient to men" idea, as opposed to the Biblical standard of women submitting, not being subservient. He gave me permission to raise a discussion on Facebook between him, me and Jay Lauser, so that should be interesting! I think he'll respond. :)


Today was preeeetty interesting. I walked downstairs at the 15:30 to 15:40 break, to find a discussion on religion going on between a bunch of new recruits. A couple of whom I'm already friendly with...
It was between a Muslim, another Christian (YAY! PRAISE THE LORD!) and...a white witch. Whoa, this could be really interesting! I didn't quite chime in as I had to go back upstairs, but I did go over and introduce myself to the older Christian lady. Praise the Lord!!


So, there we have it! One small, two-storeys-up room, hot and frigid by turns, stuffy, packed with atheists, Muslims, Catholics, Hindus, a white witch and two Christians.

I hate this job. I seriously loathe it. The stress and pressure is really high, and my body isn't taking the toll of that too well.
But I can't help believing, each time something else like this crops up, that God has me there for more than just teaching me to be content in a bad situation and to serve Him cheerfully and patiently there. I don't think I'll stop hating it, and I don't think I'm going to hesitate to jump out when He opens the door, but until He provides the way, I'll try and stay.

Please pray for my new little missionfield. :)

God bless!

(Completed 16-11-11)

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Blogs or Vlogs?

Posted blogs or video blogs?

Both have something going for them.

For video blogs, you see a person. You hear their voice, watch their mannerisms, observe their surroundings, recognise emotion, faint at accents, recall memories.
It puts pressure on for instant thought, creative speech and expressive body language.

In short, it contains a lot more of the physical person in a small confined space of time and image.

Written blogs, however, can be long - as long as you like. They require extensive and interesting patterns of thought, creative writing and usage of words to carry the reader through to the end. Painting pictures with words and imagery is completely necessary to carry an idea or a thought that you wish to share.
You use eyes and ears and heart to read into what a person is saying through their words. You use fingers to type it out.
People feel much freer to express themselves when they aren't visually exposed.

In short, writing blogs is supported by the mastery of conversant literature.
Video blogs are for those who can communicate well with body language and voice. Written is for writers. Video is for talkers. Of course, either can do either. :P

Video is a challenge to those who are not very good talking out loud, for developing body language and verbal communication skills. And written is a place where one can more easily pour out one's heart through words, and learn to grapple with the beauty of words and their meanings, and the use of them to express oneself.

Either or, it's a personal preference. Listening to Addison Lucchi's vlog earlier, and knowing my own preference is to write, I figured I'd write a blog comparing the two. I'm almost tempted to dare Addison to vlog on it. ;)

Anyways. Closing down my written blog post, here is a video and much applause to Addison's first vlog post!

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Buy Me a Poppy

They sold them every year. People in green and brown clothes and people in blue, smiling, with a box around their necks or in their arms, full of small red paper flowers. Other people came up and put some money in the buckets they had on their arms, and walked away with a little red flower that they'd put on.

'Course, not everyone did it. My family was something Daddy called "pacifist", and he hated the people in green and blue. Every time he saw one of them, he'd call us together and herd us past them as fast as he could. Still, that didn't stop my sister and I looking.

In the end, Marissa stopped looking. She said that Daddy was right, and it didn't really matter. After all, it was just a paper flower that people wore a few days and then forgot about. It didn't seem to matter that much to them, so why would it to us?

I didn't care about what everybody else did. It was the people in green and blue that I watched. And they were there, year after year. They never gave up. And then on Sundays after three weeks of selling poppies, they marched in a fancy poppy parade thing. At least, everyone there wore poppies. Daddy was drunk and asleep that morning one year, so I sneaked the TV on low and watched it.

My school told me about it. Almost everyone wore one at school. Well, the teachers did. The children mostly didn't, unless they were caught and made to by their parents. They didn't think the poppies were that important either.

I wished I could wear a poppy, but I knew Daddy would be very mad if I did. I'd asked for one once before and Daddy had shaken me and told me that it was one of the stupidest things in the world, people wearing poppies, and I was never to ask for one again. Poppies were to do with war, I knew that, and Daddy said that war was a silly thing and that if people stopped fighting, everything would be right in the world.

I knew that wasn't true. After all, there's always bad people in the world, and as long as bad people are there, good people need to fight to keep good things good.

This year, I met a pretty lady in a blue uniform. She was selling poppies, and she smiled at me. I gazed at her solemnly, then looked at the poppies, long and hard. Blood red. So pretty. I wished I could have one. Just to wear once. But Daddy didn't give us money, and I couldn't buy one.

We went into the shop, and Daddy bought this week's shopping. Marissa was acting all grown up as usual and asking for silly girl things she doesn't need. Daddy bought her some makeup. But he won't buy a poppy. I noticed he bought lots of alcohol. I kind of easily asked him what he was doing this weekend, and he said he was going to make a night of it. That usually means he's going to knock himself out drunk Saturday night, and he won't wake up til gone 1 on Sunday afternoon.

I'd always wanted to go to the poppy parade. We lived near the end of the street which the parade came down. Maybe this year, I would get to go. But I didn't have a poppy, and I didn't want to go without a poppy.

Marissa and I went down the other end of the store to get her makeup. Marissa was wearing a pink rose flower in her hair. Why could she wear roses and I couldn't have a poppy?
We passed the nice lady with the poppies again, and she smiled at me. I stared at the poppies, wishing one would land on the floor that she wouldn't want. No such luck.

After about 20 minutes, Marissa decided on her makeup and we headed back to Daddy. The lady had moved on. Daddy was ready to go, impatient, tapping his foot. We decided to go through the self service checkout. Daddy was in a kind of good mood today, and he said we could have lunch in the cafe, and Marissa and I were to go and pick out the menu - a cheap one.

We started down the back of the tills, and there she was again - the pretty lady with the poppies. I looked at her. She looked at me. Then she smiled, reached into her box, pulled out a poppy and held it out. Marissa hadn't noticed and carried on walking. I held my breath. Really? I moved close as we walked past and slowly, hesitant, held out my hand. Am I dreaming? I took the poppy from her as she smiled again, and carried on walking. I held my breath, gingerly cradling the poppy in both of my hands, peeking down at it.

I had my poppy. And come what may, I was going to that parade on Sunday.

This young man grew up to become one of the top pilots in the RAF, and later in life, the Marshal of the Royal Air Force.
Such is life, and the small things that define our existence.


I met a small boy today while selling poppies. He passed me three times, each time staring longingly at the poppies. On occasion, I give them to children, as more often than not, the parents will give money for the children's poppies.
I took one out of the box and handed it to him. I still remember his hesitation as he took it, the quick butterfly brush of his fingers against mine as he took it, and the way he walked off looking down at it. He must've been somewhere around 6-8.
This story came from that.

Eleventh Hour, Eleventh Day, Eleventh Month

11-11-11, whether British or American.

Armistice Day. Veteran's Day. Remembrance Day.

On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day, on the eleventh month, the Armistice was signed in 1918, "officially" bringing an end to the First World War. Since then, at 1100 hours on November 11th, two-three minutes of silence are held to remember the fallen who died that we might live today, and those currently serving and dying in foreign countries - whether we agree with the wars or not.

The past three Saturdays I've been involved in selling poppies to the general public. The Poppy Appeal is part of a nationwide group that makes and sells poppies to the public, calling them to remember - and never forget.

Across Britain, perfect strangers are united with one bond - a splash of red on their lapels or tops, calling them to remembrance. Tough biker jackets, upper class dainty scarves, a grubby child's little jacket; all share one common feature - the poppy.

There's some coats that don't have that red mark, though. Some people that don't care enough to choose to remember.

It's slightly amusing and sad to watch the reactions of some people on seeing us there with poppies. Heads down, they hurry past, or else deliberately turn away. Some will quickly flash a smile and then guiltily look away, and others stride past, heads forward, pretending not to see us there at all.

You know, if they hadn't given their todays, you wouldn't be here to have the freedom to run past at top speed and pretend that poppies don't exist because you don't agree with the war in Afghanistan - or because you simply don't care enough, since it doesn't affect your self-centred little bubble. Think on that, next time you see someone selling poppies (which, by the way, is a donation and we get anything from £0.02 to £20.00) and you pretend they aren't there. They died for you to have the freedom to forget them.
It's your choice not to.

Join us as, hand and heart, we unite today across Britain and the Commonwealth, on Remembrance Sunday, to commemorate those who, for our tomorrows, gave their todays. Don't be one of those too selfish to recall. Remember them.

"They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old.
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them."

"Never was so much owed, by so many, to so few." ~Sir Winston Churchill

"Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, "This was their finest hour." ~Sir Winston Churchill

We will remember them!

Wednesday, November 09, 2011

Two Miracles Today

I wasn't sure I'd put my bus pass in my bag this morning. I'd had to go back into work already to check with my "big brother" Mat whether he'd got the photo I was meant to give him, and then stopped to chat briefly with Chris (who I'll tell you about in the next couple of posts). So I was tearing across the road helter-skelter with my eye on the X51 (the bus I catch from work) when it pulled out of the bus stop. And it was raining.
Oh well, more time to sing...
The 51 pulls in. It takes about 20 minutes longer than the X51 to get into my town. Oh well...then I can't find my bus pass. Lord, You know I need to get home early because of cadets! I look up at the driver and shake my head, then sigh in exasperation as I walk over to the seats and scrabble through my handbag, trying to find my new bus pass - instead of the old one I pulled out twice. I pull it out...just as the next X51, not due for 13 minutes, pulls in. (13 minutes is a lot of difference in rush hour traffic!)
I laugh as I walk to the doors of the bus, shaking my head, and feel the presence of God coming close.
"Do you still doubt I'm looking out for you?"
"No,'s impossible when I see You do tiny things like this."
"Then trust Me with the rest..."

Thinking and praying on the bus earlier, once again I asked God, "Teach me how to love..."
God: "Are you prepared for Me to pour something radically new into you?"
Me: "God, it's love. What can be radically different about it?"
God: "Look at Me. I am Love. And I am new every morning."

The total truth of that shocked me into awe. It's true. And since I chose love over running, God has opened doorway after doorway to teach me how to love in and through and because of this love. It wasn't that I forgot that...just that I am so limited by human blinkers that I can't see how much more amazing it can get than this...

How does love stay alive? Yes, by choices. Yes, by something - or Someone - stronger and way deeper than anything emotional. But also by refreshing. And when God is in control of our love life (in more ways than one!) then it is refreshed every day. The more He teaches us to love Him, the more we love those He has given us to love. New every day.

Love in every way brings pain. Every fresh growth always hurts. But for the caterpillar to emerge as a butterfly, there's a struggle. For the gold to be made pure, it must be burned. For the Christian to become like Christ, there is going to be pain, as sure as heaven and earth will pass away. But to become like Him, no matter what He takes, it's sure as Heaven worth it!

~Mademoiselle Sian

Sunday, November 06, 2011

Welcome to My Paradoxical World

I'm nineteen years old with a fairly unusual past. I have two names and two personalities (no, I'm not schizo).

I'm British (half Welsh, 3/8 English and 1/8 Irish with a dash of Scots), redheaded and passionately love my country to being willing to die for her.
I love America and Americans dearly to wanting emigrate there. America is "the Promised Land" in spite of its failures, as Britain is "the Land of Hope and Glory" to Americans.

I'm independent and very dependent. I'm silent and talkative. I love CCM rock and choral orchestral pieces. I'm crazy about the Royal Air Force, a member/cadet of the Air Training Corps and planning to join later as an officer, but I want to marry and have loads of kids. (As an ex-feminist to a degree, God's done really well on that one!!)

I adore military drill, both narrowly watching it done, learning it in depth and performing it with precision.
My soul overflows into music and song, both listening to, singing (operatic soprano style :P) and playing the organ and accordion (and slightly violin) by ear.
I want to go on Britain's Got Talent and sing, and I've also been invited to play the organ on the night at the little church we've started attending. Not because I play exceptionally well, but because my heart goes into it when I play and somehow it becomes beautiful. Still puzzled on that one.
I'm passionate about dance...always wanted to do it, but was told I wouldn't be good at it. The ball in Oregon freed me. I now dance random and different dances to various songs. And I want to learn to dance properly. (It's always been a dream to dance with the man I marry. And no, I'm not going to learn just to get a guy who likes dancing. :D)

I also love to write, although with my busy life that appears to have taken a backburner. Poetry and novels both, words when genuine are the most important things in the world to me. I love to create with words and pen - or keyboard.

I'm a Market Research Call Centre Telephone Interviewer, which is probably one of the least enjoyable jobs in the working world. :P God gave me a fire to serve Him, and I want to reach out and help girls that are emotionally damaged with troubled or traumatic pasts, and rescue kids from being aborted and adopt unwanted children and love them.

I'm Siân Garner-Jones. Had a lot of trouble accepting that. Jane Johnson was my pseudonym for both author purposes and internet protection for two years (online, offline 8), before I broke my silence on my real name. When I backslid, Jane became the good little side of me, the one I hid behind. The monster was Siân, who did all sorts of things good little Jane would know was wrong and hate. To my online friends, I persisted in trying to be called Jane. Of course, it didn't bother me offline, where I'd been known all my life as Siân.

My birth surname is Jones. I changed my name after staying with a family in America this year for a month, who took me in, accepted me, loved me and helped me unconditionally through some of my grieving process. With their permission and to try and show a little of how much they mean to me, I added their surname to my own.

More and more people come to call me Siân. The Garners said they would call me Siân to try and teach me to accept myself like that. That I didn't need a mask with them. That they'd love me just the way I was. Several other friends of mine do it for that reason too. (With the ensuing confusing result of half of one family I visited calling me Jane, and the other, Siân. :P)

I'm 19. Young, confusable, struggling, learning, growing, and leaning on the mighty Hand of God or I wouldn't be alive. Thank You, Father. <3

Yeah, that's me. Siân Garner-Jones. Welcome to my world.


Me: The next time they offer for me to visit, can I?

Mom: Why on earth are you asking me? You tell me what you're doing nowadays.

Me: That's only, like, with work and cadets. I ask about the rest of it, cause I know how you flip out - and don't ask me for an example, cause I can't think of any. I just know you do.

Mom: Like what?

Me: I don't know. :P

Mom: You're nineteen, you've been to America and Ireland. What do I fret about now?

Me: Well, you won't let me come home at night on the bus. :D

Mom: That's something else.

Me: *dies laughing*

Thursday, November 03, 2011

Starting With the Man in the Mirror

A friend and I were chatting this morning about the pink blouse I was wearing.

Friend: "Jay would flip if he saw you in that top!" (Yes, I do talk about you guys to offline people :P)

Me: *winces* "Yeah..." And my thoughts sail back to the time I spent with the Lauser family and how...simple and innocent and safe it felt. And how something inside looked at their contentedness and ease in their style of clothing, and how I envied it. And also, how their clothing made them stand out as a simple, happy and obvious witness for Christ.

Then ensues the conversation about how it wasn't about the amount of skin you showed, but the attitude of the heart, and that we can't really help the clothing that's issued us by today's society...

Yeah, that's all right, but there's something more...

I by no means dress immodestly, but some of my clothes could call for a higher standard - although I also by no means ever intend to go burqa crazy. But the girl who used to jeer at the loose and high necked, almost-ankle/ankle length clothing (from the girl who also used to wear them until 16/17 years old) seems to be changing once more. I'm not there yet, but I know it's coming.

I've tried to write this second part for a while, but not sure how to. My music is going to change too. For a while, now, I've not been listening to many musicals, and not too many non-Christian songs.
I love musicals, and I love The Fast Food Song. But I've been thinking...the reason I used to object to non-Christian music was the fact that most of it was rock/jazz/pop etc, and that the lyrics weren't glorifying to God.
The style of music has zoomed out of the window with the advent of CCM in my life, and the lyrics? Well, I was listening to musicals...happy songs...that never mentioned God...

I'm sounding legalistic, I know I am. But I'm not CONDEMNING them. I'm just saying, at some point in the near future they aren't going to be right for me - and I don't know if that conviction will always be there or not.

There's a couple of songs it's going to be pretty hard to give up - musicals, Hairspray and oh boy definitely, the Sound of Music and The King and I...Memory...Tomorrow...Ever Ever After.
Non-Christian songs? Well, they've been going down the quickest, but I'm still listening to "Man in the Mirror", "Just Haven't Met You Yet", "Just the Way You Are" and one other that I can't remember for the life of me. :P

I'm hesitating changing because I know the reactions from most people around me...and also because I'm not quite ready to give it up yet. But anyway, there's a quick update from me and some of the things that are changing in my shapeshifter life.

Yeah, I'm gonna start with the man in the mirror and ask him to change his ways. God changes us, then changes the family, then changes the church, and THEN will the church be able to reach the world - when the church and we stop concentrating on being as much like the world as we can be, and start fleeing the grey area for the pure white.

"And no message could've been any clearer, if you wanna make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and then make the change."

God bless!

In Christ,