"You thrill me, Lord, with all you have done for me!
I sing for joy because of what you have done" (Psalm 92:4).
Wow. Great Words!
Saturday
I'm reading the NLT version of the Bible through in a year. The other day, these words wowed me and adequately portrayed how I feel about the Lord:
Yes, God thrills me. Utterly. He has done such astounding things in my heart and my soul, I can't begin to quantify it or wrap words around His dealings. Thank you, Jesus!
Preach it, Chuck!
Friday
There's a great short piece by Chuck Colson over at Breakpoint about literary prose, beauty, and non-preachy novels. All I can say is AMEN!
Path to Publication Part Ten
I packed my bags to Mount Hermon in the spring of 2003. I shared a room with my friends Sandra and Leslie. On the plane, Leslie asked me what I hoped to accomplish at Mount Hermon. I said something about finding a publisher.
"Don't you want an agent?"
"I guess. Are they really that important?" I asked.
"You guess?" Leslie shook her head. She eplained why it was that I needed an agent. I had a vague idea I needed one, but didn't fully grasp the importance. She helped me understand how essential agents were. Leslie's been my writing biz guru ever since.
So we arrived in the wooded hills above San Jose, eager and ready to knock 'em dead (which, if you read this post, you'll see this is not so far from the truth.) I sent the first three chapters, a synopsis and a query letter from my novel Crushing Stone to three publishing houses ahead of time. You can imagine my shaking hands when I retrieved my manuscripts. I walked up the hill to my little home, tore open the envelopes, and let out a breath.
All three expressed interest. I hollered. And yelled. So did Sandra. So did Leslie. I'd written in obscurity for so many years, so to hear from people in the industry that I had potential really blessed me. Maybe I wasn't crazy after all.
I added editors and agents to my dance card, though at times I got really weirded out by how some folks acted--shoving manuscripts to these beleagured folk, following them, lurking at their table (like Phoebe's lurker in Vegas).
I took the intermediate writing track which was taught by Chip MacGregor. He said up front, "I am not looking for clients. I'm happy with my stable of authors." So, when I was to meet with him, I didn't consider him as a possible agent prospect. I simply wanted to ask him some agenty advice.
Chip was very late for our meeting. I almost left. He came rushing in, apologizing. I told him I had some interest in my book and asked if he'd be willing to answer a few questions. He said sure. He asked for my proposal, and when I gave it to him, he said, "I've seen this before." Turns out, I violated the cardinal rule of don't-send-your-stuff-to-alive-communications-if-you're-a-nobody. I had sent my proposal ahead of time--to Chip's office--even though at the time, I didn't know I needed an agent. Pretty dang clueless!
The reason he said he'd seen it before is that I had an unusual stationary. No, it wasn't scented or colored, but it had a curve on the right hand side--slightly unusual but still professional.
"Do you mind if I take this with me?" he asked.
"Not at all."
We shook hands and parted ways.
I continued to meet with agents and publishers. My words tangled at the tip of my tongue while my adrenaline levels shot through the roof.
One meeting ulcerated my stomach, though. A woman (what's this about Christian writer women?) said she'd look over my manuscript. She shook her head several times. She told me about all the flaws of the first chapter. It was very straight forward, yes, but also a bit condescending. I left our meeting completely deflated. Why do I want to be a writer? I am kidding myself. I don't know anything.
Once again, I allowed a crabby lady dictate my resolve. I wanted to give up.
On the flight home, ambiguity defined me. I was thrilled that publishers expressed interest, but I felt inept as a novelist.
A week or so later, though, my world was about to change.
"Don't you want an agent?"
"I guess. Are they really that important?" I asked.
"You guess?" Leslie shook her head. She eplained why it was that I needed an agent. I had a vague idea I needed one, but didn't fully grasp the importance. She helped me understand how essential agents were. Leslie's been my writing biz guru ever since.
So we arrived in the wooded hills above San Jose, eager and ready to knock 'em dead (which, if you read this post, you'll see this is not so far from the truth.) I sent the first three chapters, a synopsis and a query letter from my novel Crushing Stone to three publishing houses ahead of time. You can imagine my shaking hands when I retrieved my manuscripts. I walked up the hill to my little home, tore open the envelopes, and let out a breath.
All three expressed interest. I hollered. And yelled. So did Sandra. So did Leslie. I'd written in obscurity for so many years, so to hear from people in the industry that I had potential really blessed me. Maybe I wasn't crazy after all.
I added editors and agents to my dance card, though at times I got really weirded out by how some folks acted--shoving manuscripts to these beleagured folk, following them, lurking at their table (like Phoebe's lurker in Vegas).
I took the intermediate writing track which was taught by Chip MacGregor. He said up front, "I am not looking for clients. I'm happy with my stable of authors." So, when I was to meet with him, I didn't consider him as a possible agent prospect. I simply wanted to ask him some agenty advice.
Chip was very late for our meeting. I almost left. He came rushing in, apologizing. I told him I had some interest in my book and asked if he'd be willing to answer a few questions. He said sure. He asked for my proposal, and when I gave it to him, he said, "I've seen this before." Turns out, I violated the cardinal rule of don't-send-your-stuff-to-alive-communications-if-you're-a-nobody. I had sent my proposal ahead of time--to Chip's office--even though at the time, I didn't know I needed an agent. Pretty dang clueless!
The reason he said he'd seen it before is that I had an unusual stationary. No, it wasn't scented or colored, but it had a curve on the right hand side--slightly unusual but still professional.
"Do you mind if I take this with me?" he asked.
"Not at all."
We shook hands and parted ways.
I continued to meet with agents and publishers. My words tangled at the tip of my tongue while my adrenaline levels shot through the roof.
One meeting ulcerated my stomach, though. A woman (what's this about Christian writer women?) said she'd look over my manuscript. She shook her head several times. She told me about all the flaws of the first chapter. It was very straight forward, yes, but also a bit condescending. I left our meeting completely deflated. Why do I want to be a writer? I am kidding myself. I don't know anything.
Once again, I allowed a crabby lady dictate my resolve. I wanted to give up.
On the flight home, ambiguity defined me. I was thrilled that publishers expressed interest, but I felt inept as a novelist.
A week or so later, though, my world was about to change.
Interview Up
Thursday
I have a new interview up over at Dineen Miller's blog. Truck on over and give it a look-see.
Financial Margin
I read through Dr. Richard Swenson's book Margin every year. I usually pick it up when life has once again become too chaotic. As I do, I'm convicted afresh at how I spend my time, my resources, my day-to-day life.
Yesterday, I flipped open to the chapter about finances. Patrick and I are considering moving into a bigger place, so this was timely. In our fifteen years of marriage, we've lived without financial margin and with financial margin, and I can attest living with it is much better!
If you get a chance, pray for us as we navigate this decision. We want to honor Jesus here, and we want to continue with a high degree of financial margin.
I thought I'd paste an article I wrote for Crown Financial Ministries here. I wrote it just after we landed on the mission field nearly two years ago. I marvel again at how beautifully and surprisingly God has amply provided for us since then. We serve an amazing God.
**********
Our family had been in Southern France six weeks. Life as church planters was full of cultural transition, wary children, undiagnosed and relentless sickness, bewilderment, and a gnawing feeling that we were crazy. When we saw our giving report—near month’s end we were less than fifty percent supported—part of me panicked. How can we live on that? Lord, what are You doing?
And then I reevaluated. And remembered.
God had been utterly faithful to us in the past. Why wouldn’t He be faithful today?
As I wrangled with panicked thoughts, I thanked God that He had brought us on a budgeting journey—that today, we would benefit from all those years of following Crown Financial’s tutelage. At the computer I restructured our budget, bringing it down to bare essentials. Although we hadn’t used the envelope system since we were first married, I decided to reinstate it, so we could physically see where our cash was going.
When I presented the lower budget to my husband Patrick, we both smiled. All those years of budgeting benefited us today, on many levels:
We learned the necessity of debt-free living. We started budgeting the moment we were married. As per Larry Burkett’s advice, we lived on my husband’s income and used my teaching salary to save for a house and pay off debts. When our first child was born, I was able to stay home because we were accustomed to living on one income. By God’s grace, we became debt-free several years later.
Before you think we were poster children of fiscal perfection, let me assure you that we made many financial mistakes—buying two houses that were too expensive for us, estimating our budget based on a projected raise (that never materialized), and buying a minivan when we didn’t have the means to make the payments. Yet, God was faithful. And when He called us to be church planters in Western Europe, we were able to leave, no debt attached.
We learned discipline. Because we’ve existed within the parameters of a budget, we’ve learned how to get along with much and with lack. I’ve winnowed down our food budget substantially. We’ve saved money to pay cash for used cars. We’ve shopped around for the best deals on insurance. But, mainly, it’s been the simple, daily discipline of keeping the budget that is a great benefit to us today.
We learned to live on sporadic, transient income. Six years ago, Patrick felt God’s calling to pastoral ministry. Two years later, we moved to Dallas for seminary. For seven months, Patrick had no regular income while we siphoned our savings. At the moment we were to run out of money, he landed a good contract. Still, it was never easy. Our income resembled an undulating cosine wave—up and down, up and down. We learned to budget over the period of a year so that our down months were fed by our up months. After four years of seminary, by God’s provision, Patrick graduated with a ThM—and no debt.
We learned the importance of giving. This month, when the giving report came in, I was tempted to stop some of our offerings. Thankfully, a friend reminded me of God’s provision and faithfulness. So, we wrote those checks as a joyful offering to Him. Just because we were missionaries (and receiving our livelihood from the generosity of others) didn’t mean we would cease to be givers. I’ve realized there is always a temptation to lessen giving. Always. Yet, by God’s grace, we’ve been able to increase our tithes and offerings yearly even as missionaries.
We may live on the other side of the world, but like you, we struggle. We make wrong decisions. We worry. But, we’ve found that a debt-free lifestyle, persistent budgeting with regular and sporadic income, and a heart bent on giving has helped us navigate life’s financial battlefield.
The last day of the month, we received another giving report. Although we weren’t at 100%, we were inching closer. Once again, I thanked God for His faithfulness to our family, now displaced in Southern France.
Yesterday, I flipped open to the chapter about finances. Patrick and I are considering moving into a bigger place, so this was timely. In our fifteen years of marriage, we've lived without financial margin and with financial margin, and I can attest living with it is much better!
If you get a chance, pray for us as we navigate this decision. We want to honor Jesus here, and we want to continue with a high degree of financial margin.
I thought I'd paste an article I wrote for Crown Financial Ministries here. I wrote it just after we landed on the mission field nearly two years ago. I marvel again at how beautifully and surprisingly God has amply provided for us since then. We serve an amazing God.
**********
Our family had been in Southern France six weeks. Life as church planters was full of cultural transition, wary children, undiagnosed and relentless sickness, bewilderment, and a gnawing feeling that we were crazy. When we saw our giving report—near month’s end we were less than fifty percent supported—part of me panicked. How can we live on that? Lord, what are You doing?
And then I reevaluated. And remembered.
God had been utterly faithful to us in the past. Why wouldn’t He be faithful today?
As I wrangled with panicked thoughts, I thanked God that He had brought us on a budgeting journey—that today, we would benefit from all those years of following Crown Financial’s tutelage. At the computer I restructured our budget, bringing it down to bare essentials. Although we hadn’t used the envelope system since we were first married, I decided to reinstate it, so we could physically see where our cash was going.
When I presented the lower budget to my husband Patrick, we both smiled. All those years of budgeting benefited us today, on many levels:
We learned the necessity of debt-free living. We started budgeting the moment we were married. As per Larry Burkett’s advice, we lived on my husband’s income and used my teaching salary to save for a house and pay off debts. When our first child was born, I was able to stay home because we were accustomed to living on one income. By God’s grace, we became debt-free several years later.
Before you think we were poster children of fiscal perfection, let me assure you that we made many financial mistakes—buying two houses that were too expensive for us, estimating our budget based on a projected raise (that never materialized), and buying a minivan when we didn’t have the means to make the payments. Yet, God was faithful. And when He called us to be church planters in Western Europe, we were able to leave, no debt attached.
We learned discipline. Because we’ve existed within the parameters of a budget, we’ve learned how to get along with much and with lack. I’ve winnowed down our food budget substantially. We’ve saved money to pay cash for used cars. We’ve shopped around for the best deals on insurance. But, mainly, it’s been the simple, daily discipline of keeping the budget that is a great benefit to us today.
We learned to live on sporadic, transient income. Six years ago, Patrick felt God’s calling to pastoral ministry. Two years later, we moved to Dallas for seminary. For seven months, Patrick had no regular income while we siphoned our savings. At the moment we were to run out of money, he landed a good contract. Still, it was never easy. Our income resembled an undulating cosine wave—up and down, up and down. We learned to budget over the period of a year so that our down months were fed by our up months. After four years of seminary, by God’s provision, Patrick graduated with a ThM—and no debt.
We learned the importance of giving. This month, when the giving report came in, I was tempted to stop some of our offerings. Thankfully, a friend reminded me of God’s provision and faithfulness. So, we wrote those checks as a joyful offering to Him. Just because we were missionaries (and receiving our livelihood from the generosity of others) didn’t mean we would cease to be givers. I’ve realized there is always a temptation to lessen giving. Always. Yet, by God’s grace, we’ve been able to increase our tithes and offerings yearly even as missionaries.
We may live on the other side of the world, but like you, we struggle. We make wrong decisions. We worry. But, we’ve found that a debt-free lifestyle, persistent budgeting with regular and sporadic income, and a heart bent on giving has helped us navigate life’s financial battlefield.
The last day of the month, we received another giving report. Although we weren’t at 100%, we were inching closer. Once again, I thanked God for His faithfulness to our family, now displaced in Southern France.
Path to Publication Part Nine
Read the daring intrigue of how I fared at my first writers conference! Now that I've written that sentence, I see how self-absorbed we writers are. Why would anyone want to read this drivel? Well, if you are interested, I'll give you a hint. It didn't go well. You can read about it at The Masters Artist.
Great Writerly Wisdom
Are you a new writer who is interested in pursuing publication? Do you wonder if you are missing anything when you submit a manuscript or query? Head over to Sandra's blog. Today she gives an Editor's perspective on submissions. In a short entry, you'll learn a wealth of important writerly information.
A Quote to Live By
Sunday
"We must be ready to allow ourselves to be interrupted by God. God will be constantly crossing our paths and canceling our plans by sending us people with claims and petitions. . . . It is part of the discipline of humility that we must not spare our hand where it can perform a service and that we do not assume that our schedule is our own to manage, but allow it to be arranged by God." Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life Together
I read these words today and said amen. I hope my heart and obedience say amen as well. I've marveled lately at how uninterruptible I've been, particularly with writing. In some ways, I've missed out on building into people's lives, preferring my writer's turret to the messiness of everyday life and relationships. Oh Jesus forgive me! Make me interruptible for Your sake. Bring folks my way in the distressing disguise of You. Amen.
The Path to Publication Part Eight
I waited.
I received my stuff back intact, no comments. My new friend Sandra told me something like this:
I received my stuff back intact, no comments. My new friend Sandra told me something like this:
- I think you have potential.
- You write with too many weak verbs.
- Kill your adverbs.
- Slay your adjectives.
- Only one space after a period.
To be honest, I thought she was bonkers about the period thing. I mean, isn't that what they taught you in typing class? Period. Space. Space. Capital letter. Of course, I learned she was right, and she was right about everything else, though I didn't know if I had potential or not. I wrote flowery prose--the type Anne with an E from Anne of Green Gables and Jo from Little Women (in her sensational newspaper days) would applaud.
I used to--I kid you not--go through books like Christy, writing down all the words I thought were beautiful. Then, I'd take the pretty word to a piece I was writing and try to cram the word in, square-peg-round-hole-ish. I particularly remember adding the word wraithlike, describing fog.
My first-ever query letter was long, laborious, and rambling. Thankfully, Sandra got a hold of it before I flung it out there to Discipleship Journal, rescuing me from certain editorial doom. She helped me narrow it from two pages to one, told me not to use a silly font, and showed me what a query structure should be by giving me one of hers. (Now, I do a query workshop. Go figure. If you're interested in learning more, click here.)
The answer from DJ was a no, but a personalized one. I continued writing query letters left and right, garnering more rejections. Unlike Stephen King, I did not skewer them on a spike or count them. Suffice to say, though, there were aplenty!
And then I got the letter! From a real-live magazine editor with words like, "we are pleased to inform you..." I leapt. I clapped. I smiled. When I got the check, I took Sandra out to lunch to celebrate. She'd had everything to do with that sale because she dared to take me under her editorial/writerly wing and nurture me as a writer.
She was the one to encourage me to go to my first writers conference, a local conference where, in addition to going to seminars, you could pay to get a critique. Little did I know that I was about to encounter a woman whose words nearly squelched my "career."
Easter and the Flower Parade
Saturday
We went to the Vence flower parade again this year the day after Easter. Here's how it works. Floats full of beautiful spring flowers circle the Vence square several times. On the last time around, the floats stop while French folk mob the area, scavenging flowers. It's a flower frenzy! Enjoy the pics!
These flowers won't last long!
Julia's flower-decorated friend Darina.
A cool school sign.
Happy man with flowers.
Silly string was abundant!
The Vence flower queen!
Before the Easter Egg Hunt at the Urbanowiczs. The trampoline is always in use.
A beautiful view from the Urbanowicz's yard.
The three amigos on Easter.
These flowers won't last long!
Julia's flower-decorated friend Darina.
A cool school sign.
Happy man with flowers.
Silly string was abundant!
The Vence flower queen!
Before the Easter Egg Hunt at the Urbanowiczs. The trampoline is always in use.
A beautiful view from the Urbanowicz's yard.
The three amigos on Easter.Author Interview: Brandilyn Collins
Friday
I'm privileged today to host Brandilyn Collins here at relevantblog. I reviewed Brandilyn's recent release Web of Lies on Amazon:
I like a good read, the kind of book that will transport you somewhere else and bring you at breakneck speed through a twisting plot. Maybe that's why I read Brandilyn Collin's Web of Lies in one day, practically one sitting. Collins has a beautiful way with language, even sprinkled on the backdrop of mayhem and scary villains. The plot, where forensic artist Annie Kingston pairs up with vision-seeing Chelsea Adams try to unravel a murder mystery while protecting themselves, is taut and unpredictable. Woven throughout the "web of lies" is the metaphor and reality of prayer and the hugeness of God-a much welcomed thread in a suspense thriller. If you're looking for a good read (and you have a day to get through it in one sitting!), pick up this book.
The following is the result of our recent bantering:
I loved Web of Lies almost as much as I love your witty sense of humor. Where did you get your funny bone? Does it run in the family?
I'm visualizing a funny bone running around one of our family reunions. Looks like a dog bone, vertical, short skinny legs. I like this picture.
Is this too marrow-minded an answer?
What was your initial kernel-of-an-idea for Web of Lies?
Well, I had to have a title. Zondervan kept bugging me for one--early. For marketing purposes. Sheesh, I didn't even have a plot yet--how in the world was I supposed to have a title? I had Brink of Death, Stain and Guilt, Dead of Night. Clearly I needed another Hm of Hm. I made lists of possibilities and prayed a lot and asked others' opinions. God led. Web of Lies kept popping up.
Everything was totally backwards with this book. First came title, then came plot and spiritual theme sort of mixed together. Usually the spiritual theme is the very last thing to come as the story is written, but in this case, it came way early. God knew what He wanted--I just didn't know it yet. He really had to guide me through this process, because I was totally discombobulated. No doubt this is one of the reasons the book was so hard to write.
If a reviewer were to write a two-sentence review of your life, what would it say? (And how many stars would it get on Amazon?
Stubborn and selfish in sin, softened through grace. Have patience; God's still workin' on her.
10 stars.
What tips do you have for balancing the craziness of life: writing, eating, dentist-attending, mommying, cleaning, being?
Of all things in this world, you mention the dentist? What are you, sadistic? Just because I'm the World's Worst Patient. (Don't believe so, just check my blog archives.) Just because I need a slew of drugs to darken the Big D's door.
Cleaning? I have a housecleaner. I owe half my life to her.
Writing? Yeah, I'm stuck doing this. Part of being an author.
Eating? Definitely. Dark chocolate preferred.
Mommying? It's easier now. We had some dark years. 'Nuff said.
Being? Yes, I try to do this every once in a while. Actually, I do it far too often. Like when I should be writing.
In general, I have it wonderfully easy. I'm a full-time author. Our youngest is 16 (and now driving herself around, hallelujah!), so I don't exactly have all the mommy interruptions I used to. My husband is the most loving, generous man in the world, and my biggest fan. My God is very, very good, not to mention all-powerful. (Did you know He hung the moon?)
Who has been the biggest influence in your novel writing career? Why?
I'd have to say my husband, Mark. Not because he taught me how to write. (Mark's a very talented businessman--far from the world of creating fiction.) But because he allowed me to take an entire decade working night and day to learn the craft--without making a single dime from it. I'd been earning good money writing marketing copy for companies through my own business. That cut waaaay back when I decided to pursue writing fiction. Mark took the financial load, solely providing for our family. Without that support, I would not be where I am today.
(By the way, if it sounds like I am bragging on my husband--you're right. I brag on him every chance I get. He deserves it.)
Do you feel you've written what folks call "the book of your heart"?
No. Not sure I have that in me. My interpretation of "the book of your heart" means a story that reflects the darkest days in the author's own life. My novels haven't really come from that place. Some of them have taken small experiences of my life and built a story around them, but that's about it.
Your books are a thrilling read--fast paced seatbelt suspense--yet you manage to make the reader care about the characters. How do you manage a twisting, suspenseful plot with a deep sense of characterizaton?
Yeah, that's hard. I struggle with it. It helps that I've studied the craft as much as I have (and continue to learn), and that I've written a book on writing fiction, having a lot to do with characters. (Getting Into Character: Seven Secrets a Novelist Can Learn From Actors.) So I at least understand the concepts now, but getting them to work on paper day to day is a constant challenge. I could teach for hours on this issue, but in a nutshell, I'd say two things. First, we have to fully explore character emotion. Way too often we novelists skim the surface of human passions. Emotions are not separate entities; they're interwoven, complex, constantly moving. Second, we have to portray that emotion through the fewest words possible--using effective dialogue, action beats, facial expression, etc. Not by lines and lines of telling.
In my genre particularly--and even more so with my branding of "Seatbelt Suspense"--the key is just what you've noted--fast-moving, action-oriented plot, but with strong characters. Still, there's a balance, and that can change somewhat depending upon the kind of story I want to tell. My Hidden Faces series, of which Web of Lies is the final book, majors on that pulse-pounding read. My next series--Kanner Lake--takes a little more time with characterization.
The books are still Seatbelt Suspense (they start off quickly, and all that), but with a different feel to them. Right now I'm planning what I'll be writing after the Kanner Lake series, and I think I'm going back to the full-out pulse-pounding read. This bit of leeway within my brand/genre allows me to satisfy my side that misses writing women's fiction--where characterization can claim much more of the story--and still (I hope!) satisfy my suspense readers.
What kind of advice would you give me, an emerging novelist, in terms of writing and career management?
Sheesh, Mary, I don't think you need any advice from me. Seems like you're holding your own very well. But to all newly published novelists and those not yet published in general, I'd say this: Count on the fact that writing will become far harder. And because of that, you must know your craft very, very well, and constantly improve in it. And your talent had better be placed firmly in God's hands.
Before I was published in fiction, I viewed landing a contract as the be-all and end-all. Now I know that landing that first book contract merely puts you at zero. From there the struggle is all upward. It's one thing to write without a deadline. To take as long as you want to finish a novel, editing and re-editing, and not forcing yourself to write if you're not feeling creative. I know. I had that privilege for years. But with a contract comes a deadline--usually for more than one book (because the best publishers know that you acquire authors, not books, and they want to build your career.)
At that point, you have to write whether you feel like it or not. Whether you have a plot to fulfill that "blind book" in the contract or not. You have to make the deadline. Now a smart author will agree on a deadline that's a comforttime frameframe to produce the best possible work. But it ain't gonna be five years. (Most often a year at most.) And besides that, even with a doable deadline, life can happen. All this, plus you've probably been paid half the advances up front. That means money pressure. And you have an editor and house that believes in you. That's social pressure. And if you've written a number of successful books and are building a good core readership, there's the career pressure of satisfying your readers yet another time.
All of these things can really choke creativity. And that's why you have to know your craft so well. When creativity has taken a temporary hike, knowledge of the craft can pull you through. That, and praying a lot. If God wants you in this business, He'll see you through it. Remember--He hung the moon. What's too hard for Him?
Would you share one story of how one of your books has deeply affected a reader?
I've received fan letters like this with every novel. They're my favorite kind. I've dedicated a page to "Reader Feedback" on my Web site that's solely for "spiritual-impact" letters. Please visit the page and be blessed--see what God can do even through the words of a struggling, pea-brained novelist. Through Web of Lies, readers tell me they're learning not to listen to walk in Satan's subtle, whispered lies. Through Dead of Night, they're learning the power of prayer. Through Brink of Death, one reader tells how the story "reached into the depths" of her and "awakened something that had been asleep for a very long time." Etc.
God's word is powerful. Even when it's interwoven into stories of murder and mayhem, the ranting voice of a serial killer, a sociopathic spider-lover. Amazing, isn't it--what He can use.
If you'd like to learn more, stop on by Brandilyn's website and her amazing blog Forensics and Faith.
The Path to Publication Part Seven
Thursday
The year is 2000. Y2K didn't happen, in terms of chaos and widespread looting and mayhem. What did happen is that we picked up and moved from East Texas to Dallas so my husband could start seminary.
We looked for a church home. On one such jaunt, we opted for a church very near our home. That Sunday, they happened to be having a barbecue. They invited us to join them, which we did because we like free food. I sat next to a lovely lady with blonde hair. We got to chatting. She asked me, "And what do you do?"
I blurted out, "I want to be a writer."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"It just so happens that one of my passions is to mentor new writers." I later found out Sandra Glahn had written several medical thrillers and beaucoup de nonfiction books about infertility. She also edited Dallas Seminary's Kindred Spirit. She also taught writing at the seminary. To my delight, she told me she'd be happy to look at what I've written.
With fear, I sent my babies (short stories and articles) via campus mail to Sandra's box. And then I waited. And waited.
I knew she was busy. I knew enough not to bug her. So I waited.
We looked for a church home. On one such jaunt, we opted for a church very near our home. That Sunday, they happened to be having a barbecue. They invited us to join them, which we did because we like free food. I sat next to a lovely lady with blonde hair. We got to chatting. She asked me, "And what do you do?"
I blurted out, "I want to be a writer."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"It just so happens that one of my passions is to mentor new writers." I later found out Sandra Glahn had written several medical thrillers and beaucoup de nonfiction books about infertility. She also edited Dallas Seminary's Kindred Spirit. She also taught writing at the seminary. To my delight, she told me she'd be happy to look at what I've written.
With fear, I sent my babies (short stories and articles) via campus mail to Sandra's box. And then I waited. And waited.
I knew she was busy. I knew enough not to bug her. So I waited.
The Path to Publication Part Six
Tuesday
Part six in this mysterious saga is over at The Master's Artist. Stop on by!
Short Story: Five Hearts One Hand
Seven-year-old Caleb spent his Valentine’s Day cutting hearts for Daddy. He traced five hearts, cut them with fumbling fingers, and wrote the best he could. The hearts, if arranged correctly, read, “I love you Daddy, Caleb.”
Caleb’s favorite place to be each evening was their six-paned picture window. He was tall enough to reach the lower left square, so he’d smudge his nose and lips to that pane, straining his eyes to see Daddy drive up. Daddy would drop his lunchbox and twirl Caleb around with echoes of Mommy’s “David, don’t get him all wound up before dinner. He’ll get sick!”
On a stepstool, Caleb fixed each heart on a pane of the window, leaving the bottom left corner open for his head to peer through. He waited. He pressed his nose against the windowpane, feeling the February frost.
Daddy didn’t come home—never did see those hearts.
Mommy pulled Caleb close. Her tears wet the top of his blond head. “I found a note from Daddy. He says he needs some time away from us.”
“When’s he coming back?"
“I don’t know.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I hope so, but I don’t think he will for a long time. I’m so sorry.”
Caleb crumpled into a heap at first, balling his fists into his eyes. Minutes passed. He abruptly stiffened and let rage fill him. He pulled down the hearts and shredded them into a heap below the window.
Late that night, he returned. He pressed his hand as tight as he could to the windowpane, as if earnest pressing would woo Daddy home. Only then did he notice something strange. Where did the torn hearts go? He scanned the floor.
“Caleb, come here,” Mommy said.
Caleb found her at the kitchen table, heart fragments peppering it. “Daddy left you,” she said, “but your Heavenly Daddy won’t. He’ll mend your heart if you let Him.” She handed Caleb the stack of intact hearts, rose from her chair and padded away. In the dim light, he saw that she’d placed the “Caleb” heart atop the pile.
Years passed since the paper hearts were mended. Daddy never returned. Mommy whispered of the Promised Land and why she gave Caleb his name—that if he’d have faith, God would help him find it. Even so, Caleb ran from God of the Promised Land. In college, a clenched fist replaced the tiny hand that once pressed against the window.
But one day in Literature class, Anna caught Caleb’s eye. They courted. She told him more times than he cared for that she loved Jesus. He pretended to listen to sermons by the faceless minister on their “dates” to church. A few months later, nervously fidgeting in a tux, he stuttered out his promises to her.
Baby Ellie completed their union a year later. After toddling gave way to measured steps, Caleb saw his little girl waiting for him at the picture window of their yellow home, her face radiating from within. Instinctively, he dropped his lunchbox, grabbed her tightly and swung her around while Anna protested, “Caleb, don’t get her wound up before dinner. She’ll get sick.”
But there was a day, a day that turned into weeks, then months, where the pressures of life stifled the breath in him. He drudged through the monotony of work and dreamed of a different life. Anna seemed to need a part of him that did not exist; she would insist that he share his day, yet his words were spent on proposals and presentations. Although he loved Anna, he hated her insatiable need of him. So much had been stuffed inside that his rage lived barely beneath the surface, seeping out in trivial matters, slowly poisoning Anna and little Ellie.
Driving home one day, Caleb prayed, “So much for the Promised Land. Anna does not deserve me, and I can’t be what she needs. I’ve failed. Are You happy? I can’t put my family through my tirades anymore. So, please forgive me, but I’m leaving. They’ll be better off without me.”
He intended to drive past his home one last time. He stopped the car at the mailbox and reached inside. There was one parcel addressed to him in his mom’s shaky handwriting. Another letter about her arthritis, I suppose. He ripped the envelope, expecting a letter.
Instead, five tattered and taped hearts fell into Caleb’s lap. In an instant, Valentine’s Day returned to him, and he wept. Time stood as a halo of holy light engulfed the heaving man. Caleb grabbed the hearts, held them tightly to his own, and left his car idling at the end of the driveway. He ran to the Promised Land, cleverly disguised as a yellow house, with the tiny hand of a toe-headed girl pressed firmly against its front picture window.
Caleb’s favorite place to be each evening was their six-paned picture window. He was tall enough to reach the lower left square, so he’d smudge his nose and lips to that pane, straining his eyes to see Daddy drive up. Daddy would drop his lunchbox and twirl Caleb around with echoes of Mommy’s “David, don’t get him all wound up before dinner. He’ll get sick!”
On a stepstool, Caleb fixed each heart on a pane of the window, leaving the bottom left corner open for his head to peer through. He waited. He pressed his nose against the windowpane, feeling the February frost.
Daddy didn’t come home—never did see those hearts.
Mommy pulled Caleb close. Her tears wet the top of his blond head. “I found a note from Daddy. He says he needs some time away from us.”
“When’s he coming back?"
“I don’t know.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I hope so, but I don’t think he will for a long time. I’m so sorry.”
Caleb crumpled into a heap at first, balling his fists into his eyes. Minutes passed. He abruptly stiffened and let rage fill him. He pulled down the hearts and shredded them into a heap below the window.
Late that night, he returned. He pressed his hand as tight as he could to the windowpane, as if earnest pressing would woo Daddy home. Only then did he notice something strange. Where did the torn hearts go? He scanned the floor.
“Caleb, come here,” Mommy said.
Caleb found her at the kitchen table, heart fragments peppering it. “Daddy left you,” she said, “but your Heavenly Daddy won’t. He’ll mend your heart if you let Him.” She handed Caleb the stack of intact hearts, rose from her chair and padded away. In the dim light, he saw that she’d placed the “Caleb” heart atop the pile.
Years passed since the paper hearts were mended. Daddy never returned. Mommy whispered of the Promised Land and why she gave Caleb his name—that if he’d have faith, God would help him find it. Even so, Caleb ran from God of the Promised Land. In college, a clenched fist replaced the tiny hand that once pressed against the window.
But one day in Literature class, Anna caught Caleb’s eye. They courted. She told him more times than he cared for that she loved Jesus. He pretended to listen to sermons by the faceless minister on their “dates” to church. A few months later, nervously fidgeting in a tux, he stuttered out his promises to her.
Baby Ellie completed their union a year later. After toddling gave way to measured steps, Caleb saw his little girl waiting for him at the picture window of their yellow home, her face radiating from within. Instinctively, he dropped his lunchbox, grabbed her tightly and swung her around while Anna protested, “Caleb, don’t get her wound up before dinner. She’ll get sick.”
But there was a day, a day that turned into weeks, then months, where the pressures of life stifled the breath in him. He drudged through the monotony of work and dreamed of a different life. Anna seemed to need a part of him that did not exist; she would insist that he share his day, yet his words were spent on proposals and presentations. Although he loved Anna, he hated her insatiable need of him. So much had been stuffed inside that his rage lived barely beneath the surface, seeping out in trivial matters, slowly poisoning Anna and little Ellie.
Driving home one day, Caleb prayed, “So much for the Promised Land. Anna does not deserve me, and I can’t be what she needs. I’ve failed. Are You happy? I can’t put my family through my tirades anymore. So, please forgive me, but I’m leaving. They’ll be better off without me.”
He intended to drive past his home one last time. He stopped the car at the mailbox and reached inside. There was one parcel addressed to him in his mom’s shaky handwriting. Another letter about her arthritis, I suppose. He ripped the envelope, expecting a letter.
Instead, five tattered and taped hearts fell into Caleb’s lap. In an instant, Valentine’s Day returned to him, and he wept. Time stood as a halo of holy light engulfed the heaving man. Caleb grabbed the hearts, held them tightly to his own, and left his car idling at the end of the driveway. He ran to the Promised Land, cleverly disguised as a yellow house, with the tiny hand of a toe-headed girl pressed firmly against its front picture window.
Author Interview: Keri Wyatt Kent
Monday
Today I'm featuring author Keri Wyatt Kent. I first met Keri last summer at ICRS in Denver. I've had the privilege of reading both Breathe and Listen. I think you'll be blessed as you read the interview as well as her books.Tell me why you wrote Listen. What was God doing in your heart at the time you decided to write the book?
I'd been thinking about how God speaks to us for a long time. I read Parker Palmer's Book Let Your Life Speak about five years ago and had been doing a lot of writing and thinking about the whole idea of paying attention to your life for a while. Part of writing this book was trying to resolve in my mind the question of calling--if you think God is telling you one thing, but some of the people around you would like you to do something else, who do you listen to?
I also have a passion for mentoring and developing people, and in turn, getting them to do that for others. A key part of mentoring is listening. So one section of the book explores how God speaks to us through others, and how we grow spiritually by listening to others. I learned a lot about community and compassion by writing about those topics.
How has God been unfolding the story of your life lately?
He's teaching me to live in the moment I'm in, and not try to skip to the next "chapter" of my story. I like to plan, so I sometimes tend to live in the future--thinking, once I get to this point, or once my kids reach this age, then I'll be able to .... That's faulty thinking, because it causes you to miss out on the joy of the present moment. He's teaching me about contentment, about enjoying the present. A friend of mine gave me a cool picture frame that says at the bottom: "the best things in life are right in front of you." That is what I keep reminding myself--I'm where I am, even if it is difficult or painful sometimes, because that's where God wants me to be. If I pay attention, I'll learn something and connect with God.
Who has mentored you best in learning how to slow down, breathe, and take life with more rest?
Ruth Haley Barton was a mentor of mine a few years back, and she kind of gave me permission to be myself. That is, to be contemplative and take things slowly sometimes. Other times, I have a lot of energy and that's great--but to balance my speaking with silence, to balance my activity with rest--she really encouraged that. Lynn Siewert who is one of my best friends also kind of spoke that same message in my life, as did Sibyl Towner, who always likes to say, "You have all the time you need to do the things that God has called you to do." Think about that--it's freedom but also the responsibility to listen to God's call and respond in an unhurried way. Sibyl and Lynn and I teach a class together, and we're all trying to mentor and develop these values in other women.
What has been your journey toward publication?
Before I wrote books I was a journalist, and in college I wrote for the college paper and did a magazine article or two, so I was published by the time I was in college. I wrote for newspapers and then freelanced for magazines before writing books, so I was used to seeing my by-line in print. Book publishing's a bit different, though. My afore-mentioned mentor, Ruth Barton, gave me the name of her editor at IVP, and that got me in the door there. My editor liked my writing and IVP very kindly took a chance on me as a first-time author. I've done several books with them now and we have a great working relationship.
That's what publishing, like any other business, is driven by--relationships. Getting to know editors and publishers is key.
Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?
See the last sentence above--get to know people in the industry. Also, hone your craft. Paul told Timothy, fan into flame the gift that is in you. That means developing your gift. You will never "arrive" as a writer. Writers are people who are curious, people who are always students, even when they are not in school. You always want to learn, to improve. Take classes, go to conferences. But also, practice. Write every day. And then, have someone who will be objective read what you write. And then, based on their honest feedback, re-write.
What’s your favorite ice cream flavor and why?
I really like Moose Tracks, or any of those flavors that have chunks of candy bars in them. the key for me is there has to be some kind of chocolate in it. if it's combined with peanut butter or toffee, all the better. Plain chocolate ice cream is too boring. I also like going to those places where they put candy in the ice cream and smash it all together.
NOTE FROM MARY: Ahhhhhhh. I had forgotten about Moose Tracks! I miss the USA!!! I wish folks could send me ICE CREAM in the mail...
What novel has affected you the most? Why?
I really like the way Anne Lamott writes, and her two best novels, in my opinion, are Rosie and Crooked Little Heart. I read those and thought--if I could ever write like this, wow. they made me want more for my own writing--it raised the bar, gave me something to shoot for with my writing, so to speak.
Also, Madeleine L'Engle's book A Swiftly Tilting Planet was very important to me. I wrote a paper about it in college--one of the themes in the book is "the interconnectedness of everything"--how each choice we make affects other people even if we can't see it. I love her writing, so much of it deeply affected my writing and my thinking as a young person. But this idea of how our actions affect others--that shaped my philosophy and thinking tremendously.
Also, the Chronicles of Narnia affected me as a child, again in college and now as a mom reading them to my children. Those books seem simple but have so many layers of meaning. They are amazingly well-crafted stories. I absolutely love them--they've shaped my theology and my writing as well.
What was the most recent time you’ve heard God speak to you? What happened?
A lot of my prayer is listening prayer--listening to Scripture, or just laying situations before God and then journaling. yesterday I was wondering what to do in a certain challenging situation in my life. I sat in silence after writing about it in my journal. After a while, I wrote: "be patient, be kind. Trust me." I think that was God speaking to me, putting an idea in my mind to write down.
He also speaks when I write. I'm working on a book right now, and as I write, I have been getting insights and ideas that I know I could not have come up with on my own. So I don't know where they come from, I can't prove anything, but I give God the credit for them.
Also, when I read the Bible I will try to listen for what God is saying to me. I write about this practice in my book, Listen, in the chapter on Listening to Scripture. He regularly speaks to me through that. It's not always marching orders--in fact, usually it is reassurance or encouragement that he is with me and loves me deeply.
How can people learn more about your ministry, Keri?
My website is www.keriwyattkent.com. It has info on my speaking ministry, my books, and also a place where you can sign up to receive my monthly e-zine, Connecting With Keri Wyatt Kent, which is an e-mail newsletter that provides spiritual encouragement.
Electra Woman and Dyna Girl
Sunday
I told my children about the weird show Electra Woman and Dyna Girl. We went on the web and found this. For a hilarious laugh, click on "movies" and watch all the three-minute clips. Our favorites?
- Dyna Girl Gets a Dose of the Metamorphosis Formula
- Electra Woman vs Dyna Girl
Anyone want to join the fan club?
The Great Weeder
Saturday
I went running today, looking for lilacs. I'd seen some the other day on a drive to the grocery store. I knew one particular spot on my running path that sported lilacs last year, so I deviated from my new route to find lilacs.
Found them I did. Poking through chain link, they smiled at me, winked nearly, and beckoned me to pick. Along the roadway I picked several fronds of wisteria as well--no I'm not a flower thief; these were all in public places.
As I ran, I noticed a stand of flowers and weeds along the roadway. Beautiful, actually. I love how God plants little forgotten gardens along roads. I thought about those flowers and weeds a long time until I prayed.
"That's what it's going to be like at the end of the age, isn't it?" I asked God. "There will be a fine prairie of folks, some weeds, some flowers. And you'll pick your bouquet."
God whispered, "Yes, but don't be fooled. I might just pick some weeds."
"Really?" I remembered the wheat and the tares parable.
"Weeds are flowers too, only their roots go down deep. Don't judge a weed. There are qualities of weeds you can't see. Some flowers bloom for a day and fade. Weeds endure."
I thought about that as I jogged home. I wonder how much of our evangelical Christianity is merely fading flowers without roots. Perhaps it's that God wants us to be tenacious like weeds, holding firm to the soil that anchors us, sending taproots down deep. We see and applaud the flowers in our midst. We pay them huge advances for books about fluff. We cater to their whims, treat them like stars.
I want to be a pretty weed. Deep roots. A happy flower with staying power, like a dandelion. Or maybe a blackberry bush, with fruit that lasts along roadways.
Found them I did. Poking through chain link, they smiled at me, winked nearly, and beckoned me to pick. Along the roadway I picked several fronds of wisteria as well--no I'm not a flower thief; these were all in public places.
As I ran, I noticed a stand of flowers and weeds along the roadway. Beautiful, actually. I love how God plants little forgotten gardens along roads. I thought about those flowers and weeds a long time until I prayed.
"That's what it's going to be like at the end of the age, isn't it?" I asked God. "There will be a fine prairie of folks, some weeds, some flowers. And you'll pick your bouquet."
God whispered, "Yes, but don't be fooled. I might just pick some weeds."
"Really?" I remembered the wheat and the tares parable.
"Weeds are flowers too, only their roots go down deep. Don't judge a weed. There are qualities of weeds you can't see. Some flowers bloom for a day and fade. Weeds endure."
I thought about that as I jogged home. I wonder how much of our evangelical Christianity is merely fading flowers without roots. Perhaps it's that God wants us to be tenacious like weeds, holding firm to the soil that anchors us, sending taproots down deep. We see and applaud the flowers in our midst. We pay them huge advances for books about fluff. We cater to their whims, treat them like stars.
I want to be a pretty weed. Deep roots. A happy flower with staying power, like a dandelion. Or maybe a blackberry bush, with fruit that lasts along roadways.
Path to Publication Five: Belly Button Lint Knits a Sweater
Friday
My formal writing career started with belly button lint.
You see, I was reading copious amounts of a newsletter entitled The Tightwad Gazette. We were living on one income, had bought our first home, and were pinching pennies left and right. I menu planned. I gardened. I made jam. All good things. But then something weird started happening to my brain. It became obsessive with saving money. I'd time my husband when he shaved to see how long he was wasting hot water. And then I pestered. I washed tin foil.
Exasperated, he told me, "Mary, are you going to knit my belly button lint into a sweater?"
I knew then that I had gone over the edge. Way over.
So, then I re-evaluated. Saving money was good. Being a good steward was important. But not so that I became weird and obsessive about it. There had to be a better way.
After a bit of thought, I realized that saving money needed to have a goal: so that we could give more. I wanted to save for an end, so I could give more money to the Kingdom. As I noodled further on this, I decided to write a counter-tightwad newsletter. I called it The Giving Home Journal. The idea for it came in 1992, so that's why my website says, "creating relevant prose since 1992."
I didn't have a computer then. I asked my grandfather for a small business loan, something he graciously granted me. I bought a Gateway computer. When I turned it on, I had NO idea what to do with it. True to Mary form, I had already imposed my first deadline for The Giving Home Journal. I had to finish the eight-page, six-times-a-year production very soon, which meant I needed to learn Microsoft Publisher quickly.
Somehow I figured it out and sent out my newsletter to everyone I knew. Subscriptions started trickling in. Nine bucks a year. Eventually, after three years of producing the newsletter (which had articles about lifestyle, finances, stay-at-home mom stuff, and a slew of recipes), I was able to pay my grandfather back.
By now we'd moved to a new home. Aidan came. The Giving Home Journal ended. My new church approached me and asked whether I'd produce their newsletter, a small paying job. I took it.
Somehow I got connected with a published writer. I boldly asked her if she'd have time to meet with me. She said yes. When I waited for her in the restaurant, I was nervous. I wondered what a real writer would say to me...
You see, I was reading copious amounts of a newsletter entitled The Tightwad Gazette. We were living on one income, had bought our first home, and were pinching pennies left and right. I menu planned. I gardened. I made jam. All good things. But then something weird started happening to my brain. It became obsessive with saving money. I'd time my husband when he shaved to see how long he was wasting hot water. And then I pestered. I washed tin foil.
Exasperated, he told me, "Mary, are you going to knit my belly button lint into a sweater?"
I knew then that I had gone over the edge. Way over.
So, then I re-evaluated. Saving money was good. Being a good steward was important. But not so that I became weird and obsessive about it. There had to be a better way.
After a bit of thought, I realized that saving money needed to have a goal: so that we could give more. I wanted to save for an end, so I could give more money to the Kingdom. As I noodled further on this, I decided to write a counter-tightwad newsletter. I called it The Giving Home Journal. The idea for it came in 1992, so that's why my website says, "creating relevant prose since 1992."
I didn't have a computer then. I asked my grandfather for a small business loan, something he graciously granted me. I bought a Gateway computer. When I turned it on, I had NO idea what to do with it. True to Mary form, I had already imposed my first deadline for The Giving Home Journal. I had to finish the eight-page, six-times-a-year production very soon, which meant I needed to learn Microsoft Publisher quickly.
Somehow I figured it out and sent out my newsletter to everyone I knew. Subscriptions started trickling in. Nine bucks a year. Eventually, after three years of producing the newsletter (which had articles about lifestyle, finances, stay-at-home mom stuff, and a slew of recipes), I was able to pay my grandfather back.
By now we'd moved to a new home. Aidan came. The Giving Home Journal ended. My new church approached me and asked whether I'd produce their newsletter, a small paying job. I took it.
Somehow I got connected with a published writer. I boldly asked her if she'd have time to meet with me. She said yes. When I waited for her in the restaurant, I was nervous. I wondered what a real writer would say to me...
Path to Publication Part 4: Belly Button Lint
Thursday
I need to back up a bit.
I mentioned I had children.
Well, first, of course, I got married.
I met Patrick after I'd been in Malaysia on a mission trip. He was on his way to Calcutta India to work at Mother Teresa's Home for the Dying and Destitute. He came home. We dated and were married a year later.
I started teaching hormonal seventh grade boys English. Why only boys? Well, it seems that when I was hired, all the other savvy English teachers got smart and sent me all the difficult students (which were mainly boys). Nearly every one was on Ritalin.
I taught two years in the public school system, spoiling forever names like Tim or Terry or Sean. (You know when you name your kids, but you can't name them after students who gave you a terrible time...) I was proposed to. Ignored. Made to cry. Had a creepy teacher be leerish to me. And all the while I wondered if this is what God had called me to do: to zookeep the rest of my life.
Soon after, I got pregnant. We'd moved, so I could only get long term subbing contracts. The best job was teaching high school honors English. I had to throw up a lot, so thankfully, the cool honor kids let me run out of the classroom to do my business.
Out popped Sophie nine months later. I was glad to finally be free of nausea.
Something stirred in me, though, while I was setting up house with Sophie. An obsession. A craziness. A heart bent toward thrift at any cost . . . even belly button lint.
I mentioned I had children.
Well, first, of course, I got married.
I met Patrick after I'd been in Malaysia on a mission trip. He was on his way to Calcutta India to work at Mother Teresa's Home for the Dying and Destitute. He came home. We dated and were married a year later.
I started teaching hormonal seventh grade boys English. Why only boys? Well, it seems that when I was hired, all the other savvy English teachers got smart and sent me all the difficult students (which were mainly boys). Nearly every one was on Ritalin.
I taught two years in the public school system, spoiling forever names like Tim or Terry or Sean. (You know when you name your kids, but you can't name them after students who gave you a terrible time...) I was proposed to. Ignored. Made to cry. Had a creepy teacher be leerish to me. And all the while I wondered if this is what God had called me to do: to zookeep the rest of my life.
Soon after, I got pregnant. We'd moved, so I could only get long term subbing contracts. The best job was teaching high school honors English. I had to throw up a lot, so thankfully, the cool honor kids let me run out of the classroom to do my business.
Out popped Sophie nine months later. I was glad to finally be free of nausea.
Something stirred in me, though, while I was setting up house with Sophie. An obsession. A craziness. A heart bent toward thrift at any cost . . . even belly button lint.
Great News in France
Mind if I share a few praises?
Julia got the BEST grades in her class in Math. She came home SO proud of her report card. Her teacher wrote glowing things about her. Yesterday, I found this piece of paper:
It seems Julia figured out the futur tense on her own and has started conjugating every verb she knows into the future! And, our little second grader is doing multiplication! Wow.
On Monday, I walked home with a neighbor. I'd been chastising myself (I do that far too much. My friend Hud tells me I have an over active conscience that I need to tell to be quiet) for not speaking French enough. Along came the neighbor and we chatted in French all the way home. It may not seem like much, but it's a milestone for me.
And then today at 11:56 AM, I typed the last word of my postmodern parenting book. This gives me plenty of time to edit it before I send it off June 1st. What a relief! Thank you Jesus!
Julia got the BEST grades in her class in Math. She came home SO proud of her report card. Her teacher wrote glowing things about her. Yesterday, I found this piece of paper:
It seems Julia figured out the futur tense on her own and has started conjugating every verb she knows into the future! And, our little second grader is doing multiplication! Wow.
On Monday, I walked home with a neighbor. I'd been chastising myself (I do that far too much. My friend Hud tells me I have an over active conscience that I need to tell to be quiet) for not speaking French enough. Along came the neighbor and we chatted in French all the way home. It may not seem like much, but it's a milestone for me.
And then today at 11:56 AM, I typed the last word of my postmodern parenting book. This gives me plenty of time to edit it before I send it off June 1st. What a relief! Thank you Jesus!
Interview up
Wednesday
I have an interview up on Craig Hart's fiction blog today as well as an article for pioneer parents on Tricia Goyer's GenX blog.
Path to Publication Day 3
In college, I was pretty messed up emotionally. Still scarred from things in my childhood, I was a walking trainwreck. I'd cry often--full force. Sobs defined me.
I had friends who told me that 2 Corinthians 5:17 about everything being new in Christ was mine to claim, that grieving the past was unnecessary. After all, Jesus took it all on the cross anyway. For me to grieve so much meant I lacked faith, or didn't claim the promises He so freely offered.
And yet, God brought me to a group of friends who believed differently. They believed God would heal the emotional scars. They believed He would do a work in my heart. So they prayed for me. A lot. They prayed me through college, so that I came out on the other end much more joyful, much more assured of myself, much more healed.
What does this have to do with writing? Quite a bit, actually.
For years and years, I was an overproclaimer. I was one of those uncomfortable, wounded people no one wants to be around. I'd share my heartache with anyone who'd listen. But after college, I felt like God had done a miraculous work in my heart. I stopped sharing about the past. I stopped "going there."
The last thing I ever thought I would do would be to write about God's journey of healing.
So, for many years, I kept silent. And believed the healing was complete.
Until I had children.
Old wounds opened up then, causing me to re-evaluate. I had to come to grips with the fact that God is in the act of healing us over a lifetime. It's seldom a one-time event. More dear friends prayed for me. I went to counseling. And God did a further work in my heart. But it would be a long time before I could write about those things.
I had friends who told me that 2 Corinthians 5:17 about everything being new in Christ was mine to claim, that grieving the past was unnecessary. After all, Jesus took it all on the cross anyway. For me to grieve so much meant I lacked faith, or didn't claim the promises He so freely offered.
And yet, God brought me to a group of friends who believed differently. They believed God would heal the emotional scars. They believed He would do a work in my heart. So they prayed for me. A lot. They prayed me through college, so that I came out on the other end much more joyful, much more assured of myself, much more healed.
What does this have to do with writing? Quite a bit, actually.
For years and years, I was an overproclaimer. I was one of those uncomfortable, wounded people no one wants to be around. I'd share my heartache with anyone who'd listen. But after college, I felt like God had done a miraculous work in my heart. I stopped sharing about the past. I stopped "going there."
The last thing I ever thought I would do would be to write about God's journey of healing.
So, for many years, I kept silent. And believed the healing was complete.
Until I had children.
Old wounds opened up then, causing me to re-evaluate. I had to come to grips with the fact that God is in the act of healing us over a lifetime. It's seldom a one-time event. More dear friends prayed for me. I went to counseling. And God did a further work in my heart. But it would be a long time before I could write about those things.
WIN A BOOK!
Tuesday
I'm interviewed over at Lena Nelson Dooley's blog. Leave a comment, and you have a chance to win a free copy of Watching the Tree Limbs. She'll make the drawing April 22nd.
Path to Publication Day 2
I went to college at Pacific Lutheran University in Tacoma, Washington, where I decided I'd study math. I'd always done well in math; I was one of those geeky types who actually liked Calculus. In fact, it was one of the biggest bothers of my life to be voted by my high school class as "Most Intelligent." Now, why couldn't I be the other half of "cutest couple," or "most likely to succeed." To me it felt like being voted BIGGEST NERD OF ALL TIME.
But I digress.
So, miss smarty pants goes to PLU and studies math. A lot. Every stinkin' day. After a while, I got so bored of solving problems that I re-evaluated. Did I really want to solve problems the rest of my life? Around this time, I started pursuing ministry as an option. I volunteered as a Young Life leader at a local high school. I wondered how I could be a youth minister with a math major. I threw around social work, then eventually landed on teaching with this line of logic:
Well, I want to work with kids. And kids go to junior high and high school, don' t they? Well, what better thing to do than teach?
So, I switched my major to English (goodbye math!) and decided to obtain a secondary teaching certificate.
I'd always enjoyed writing, so I felt like this was a fit. But I didn't really know that writing would become my passion until a particular writing assignment. I had Dr. Jenseth. Four times. The first time I had him, I hated hated hated him. He took my staggering works of genius (I was voted most intelligent, you know) and severed them with red pen. How dare he thwart my genius? How dare he make me rethink my word choices?
By the third time I had him, we had forged a genuine truce. I started listening to the red-penned advice, and my writing became tighter. I also took journalism at this time and found a hankering for the 5Ws and an H.
So, yeah, the assignment. It was something like, "Write an essay about what you'd like to see yourself doing ten years from now."
It was such a dull topic, and if you know me, you'll know I hate writing things like this. I am not a researcher. I hate term papers. I don't like delving into speculation. So, instead I wrote this paper as a suspenseful short story. Then, I imagined myself behind the iron curtain (yep, I'm old, folks) smuggling Bibles. So I wrote this story. I remember showing it to my friends, I was so proud. Dr. Jenseth liked it too, though he disagreed with my religious fervor. I got an A.
The feeling I had when I penned that story--it flew out of me--is something I'll never forgot. A rush of creative adrenaline surged through me. Though I couldn't articulate it at the time, as I look back, THAT was the moment I think I realized God had called me to write.
But I had to go through years of healing first.
But I digress.
So, miss smarty pants goes to PLU and studies math. A lot. Every stinkin' day. After a while, I got so bored of solving problems that I re-evaluated. Did I really want to solve problems the rest of my life? Around this time, I started pursuing ministry as an option. I volunteered as a Young Life leader at a local high school. I wondered how I could be a youth minister with a math major. I threw around social work, then eventually landed on teaching with this line of logic:
Well, I want to work with kids. And kids go to junior high and high school, don' t they? Well, what better thing to do than teach?
So, I switched my major to English (goodbye math!) and decided to obtain a secondary teaching certificate.
I'd always enjoyed writing, so I felt like this was a fit. But I didn't really know that writing would become my passion until a particular writing assignment. I had Dr. Jenseth. Four times. The first time I had him, I hated hated hated him. He took my staggering works of genius (I was voted most intelligent, you know) and severed them with red pen. How dare he thwart my genius? How dare he make me rethink my word choices?
By the third time I had him, we had forged a genuine truce. I started listening to the red-penned advice, and my writing became tighter. I also took journalism at this time and found a hankering for the 5Ws and an H.
So, yeah, the assignment. It was something like, "Write an essay about what you'd like to see yourself doing ten years from now."
It was such a dull topic, and if you know me, you'll know I hate writing things like this. I am not a researcher. I hate term papers. I don't like delving into speculation. So, instead I wrote this paper as a suspenseful short story. Then, I imagined myself behind the iron curtain (yep, I'm old, folks) smuggling Bibles. So I wrote this story. I remember showing it to my friends, I was so proud. Dr. Jenseth liked it too, though he disagreed with my religious fervor. I got an A.
The feeling I had when I penned that story--it flew out of me--is something I'll never forgot. A rush of creative adrenaline surged through me. Though I couldn't articulate it at the time, as I look back, THAT was the moment I think I realized God had called me to write.
But I had to go through years of healing first.
The Path to Publication: Post One
Monday
I so enjoyed reading Brandilyn Collin's very long saga about how she got published. If you are looking for something funny, suspenseful, helpful and hopeful, hop on over to her blog. Scroll down to Stories, then How I Got Here. Read from that February 2005 post onward. I guarantee you won't be disappointed.
So, yeah, I'm a copycatter. Thus begins my long saga--hopefully with wit and candor and pathos peppered in at proper times.
In second grade, my teacher wrote a comment home to my mom about my creativity in writing. It was one of the first positive comments I'd received from a teacher. I remembered what she wrote, clung to it.
Then, later as a sixth grader, my Aunt Julie (everyone should have an Aunt Julie) bought me a diary. There, I spilled all my sordid secrets like which boy I liked, what jeans I needed to get to be popular, and details of petty arguments with friends. My best friend and I each had diaries, and when we'd see each other, we'd write wild guest entries to each other.
I wrote in diaries (later called journals when I was sophisticated) all of my life, through tumultuous teen years, through the journey I walked when I met Jesus at fifteen, to college and beyond. The blank page was a beckoning place for me--a built-in counselor who would readily listen to me ramble at any hour of the day or night. I learned to be utterly vulnerable on the pages of my journals. I cried out prayers. Ranted at God. Wrote love poems to Jesus. Listed all the things I needed to do in a day. Budgeted, even.
I became accustomed to writing my thoughts and angst. I even wrote a suicide poem I didn't mean. But I loved the cadence of the words so much, I kept that poem, reveling in the flow of words.
In high school, I, by some minor miracle, made it into Honors English. I did fine on the test portion of the entrance exam, but the essay I wrote was rubbish. I remember it asked for three literary references. I had grown up watching TV to fill the quietness of my home. It's one of my biggest regrets that I didn't shake hands with books at an early age. So the only book I could remember to round out my three references was a book called The Missing Persons League--a science fiction piece that hardly counted as high literature.
When I later chatted with my teacher about my "literary" reference, we had a good laugh about it. I think she took pity on me and let me take her class, despite my lack of Bertrand-like literary savvy.
So, I made it through Honors English. Like the good little overachiever I was, I graduated with straight A's and headed off to college--to become a math major.
So, yeah, I'm a copycatter. Thus begins my long saga--hopefully with wit and candor and pathos peppered in at proper times.
In second grade, my teacher wrote a comment home to my mom about my creativity in writing. It was one of the first positive comments I'd received from a teacher. I remembered what she wrote, clung to it.
Then, later as a sixth grader, my Aunt Julie (everyone should have an Aunt Julie) bought me a diary. There, I spilled all my sordid secrets like which boy I liked, what jeans I needed to get to be popular, and details of petty arguments with friends. My best friend and I each had diaries, and when we'd see each other, we'd write wild guest entries to each other.
I wrote in diaries (later called journals when I was sophisticated) all of my life, through tumultuous teen years, through the journey I walked when I met Jesus at fifteen, to college and beyond. The blank page was a beckoning place for me--a built-in counselor who would readily listen to me ramble at any hour of the day or night. I learned to be utterly vulnerable on the pages of my journals. I cried out prayers. Ranted at God. Wrote love poems to Jesus. Listed all the things I needed to do in a day. Budgeted, even.
I became accustomed to writing my thoughts and angst. I even wrote a suicide poem I didn't mean. But I loved the cadence of the words so much, I kept that poem, reveling in the flow of words.
In high school, I, by some minor miracle, made it into Honors English. I did fine on the test portion of the entrance exam, but the essay I wrote was rubbish. I remember it asked for three literary references. I had grown up watching TV to fill the quietness of my home. It's one of my biggest regrets that I didn't shake hands with books at an early age. So the only book I could remember to round out my three references was a book called The Missing Persons League--a science fiction piece that hardly counted as high literature.
When I later chatted with my teacher about my "literary" reference, we had a good laugh about it. I think she took pity on me and let me take her class, despite my lack of Bertrand-like literary savvy.
So, I made it through Honors English. Like the good little overachiever I was, I graduated with straight A's and headed off to college--to become a math major.
First Service a Success
Sunday
Thank you, Lakepointe, for printing our banners!
Julia wanted to help. She put candles in votive holders (with a smile!).
We set up the room cafe style. This is how the table tops looked. The bulletins and other information was placed inside the buckets.
Sophie and friends.
Guitar player and worship friend, Barnaby!
How the room looked all set up.We had nearly fifty people attend our first service! It was such a blessing to scan the crowd and see friends we'd been in relationship with for over a year now. And, several people wanted to come, but couldn't. The worship went on without a hitch (though we couldn't get the monitors to work), and the power point did its thing (thanks to a good friend who donated a projector to us). The message was team-taught by Patrick and Justus. They both did a good job. Hinged between their messages was an interactive piece that got people talking about Jesus as King. We had refreshments afterwards. People lingered. The Lakepointe team did a fantastic job on teaching the children and helping us set up and take down.
We're grateful to a mighty God who sustained us through a very difficult year. This felt like a beautiful culmination to our suffering. God does bring joy in the midst of it all!
Today is the Day!
Saturday
This was our postcard invitation we gave to the people in our community. Only 4 hours until launch!
Gearing Up
Friday
Tomorrow is the BIG DAY!
Our first Crossroads International Christian Church of the Cote d'Azur (say that ten times fast!) has its first official public gathering tomorrow at 3:30. Our team is running around like crazy people. I'm printing off bulletins as I type this. There are all sorts of weird fears running through our heads:
Our first Crossroads International Christian Church of the Cote d'Azur (say that ten times fast!) has its first official public gathering tomorrow at 3:30. Our team is running around like crazy people. I'm printing off bulletins as I type this. There are all sorts of weird fears running through our heads:
- What if no one shows up?
- What if the sound equipment blows up?
Please pray for us as we embark on this new stage of church planting. We are so thankful that Lakepointe has sent a team of eight to help us. They arrived yesterday. They looked a bit tired. As I write this, they are traveling to Sophia Antipolis to walk around the area and pray. Tomorrow they will help with our childcare needs, and Sunday they'll put on a Texas barbecue for our friends and neighbors. What a blessing!
So, pray for us tomorrow. Pray we'd have hearts knit to His. Pray we'd rely fully on the Lord. Pray our songs would make Jesus smile.
I am sickened
Wednesday
****THIS ARTICLE is also posted at this blog today.****
Today I read about a Homeland Security honcho getting arrested for trying to seduce what he thought was a 14 year old over the Internet. The terrible story is here. And congress is now (finally!!!) investigating this.
Every time I speak to a group of people and bring up childhood sexual abuse, I get knowing glances from many, many folks. My guess, though, is that the incidents of this abuse is much higher today because of the Internet and the further breakdown of communities and families. It makes me sick. Angry. Livid.
Children are our future, but they are systematically victimized on the altar of sick pleasure. I've had to endure years of pain because of my own issues dealing with childhood sexual abuse from neighbors. I ache for every single person who has had to live through that hell.
I wrote Watching the Tree Limbs as a response. I wanted to offer hope to people who had been violated as children. I wanted to portray an honest wrestling with a God who seemed far away. I wanted a character to grapple with, "Where was God when I was being abused?" I wanted, through the vehicle of a page-turning story, reveal God's tender mercy toward the abuse victim. I hoped to put the reader in a victimized girl's flip-flops, in a similar way Harper Lee walked us around in Boo Radley's shoes.
I recently received this email: "I finished Watching the Tree Limbs last night and was totally captivated by the book. Besides the beauty of your writing, I was impressed by the realistic reactions of the children to the abuse and circumstances. I did lose some sleep this week, since I couldn't put it down." That helped me to know the book is helping readers understand this issue through the eyes of nine-year-old Mara.
So, yes, I'm sickened by these recent reports. It makes me mad. The Bible says Satan comes like a thief to steal, kill and destroy. I have a sinking feeling childhood sexual abuse is one of his most powerful tools to destroying humankind.
Today I read about a Homeland Security honcho getting arrested for trying to seduce what he thought was a 14 year old over the Internet. The terrible story is here. And congress is now (finally!!!) investigating this.
Every time I speak to a group of people and bring up childhood sexual abuse, I get knowing glances from many, many folks. My guess, though, is that the incidents of this abuse is much higher today because of the Internet and the further breakdown of communities and families. It makes me sick. Angry. Livid.
Children are our future, but they are systematically victimized on the altar of sick pleasure. I've had to endure years of pain because of my own issues dealing with childhood sexual abuse from neighbors. I ache for every single person who has had to live through that hell.
I wrote Watching the Tree Limbs as a response. I wanted to offer hope to people who had been violated as children. I wanted to portray an honest wrestling with a God who seemed far away. I wanted a character to grapple with, "Where was God when I was being abused?" I wanted, through the vehicle of a page-turning story, reveal God's tender mercy toward the abuse victim. I hoped to put the reader in a victimized girl's flip-flops, in a similar way Harper Lee walked us around in Boo Radley's shoes.
I recently received this email: "I finished Watching the Tree Limbs last night and was totally captivated by the book. Besides the beauty of your writing, I was impressed by the realistic reactions of the children to the abuse and circumstances. I did lose some sleep this week, since I couldn't put it down." That helped me to know the book is helping readers understand this issue through the eyes of nine-year-old Mara.
So, yes, I'm sickened by these recent reports. It makes me mad. The Bible says Satan comes like a thief to steal, kill and destroy. I have a sinking feeling childhood sexual abuse is one of his most powerful tools to destroying humankind.
There's a song, "Make a Joyful Noise to the Lord," I love to sing. In the bridge it repeats, "I will not be silent, no. I will not be silent anymore." That's how I feel about this issue. Silence is deadening our children. It's time to speak up.
Bella Firenze!
Tuesday
Me and my friend Jen, smiling in Florence
Learning about Florence on our tour.
The Duomo
Inside. Amazing!
Paris team members Kendall and Jen.
Belinda in front of a very famous bridge that I can't spell.
This crazy wild boar statue. You rub its nose and put a coin in its mouth. If the coin falls into the grate, you'll be back to Florence within the year. Mine fell in!
Christian Associates gals, ready to tackle the city.
Aslan as a Florence door knocker.Posting over at the Master's Artist
I talked about fatness today at the Master's Artist, both in body and in prose. Waddle on over and take a gander here.
Crazy is as Crazy does!
Monday
I feel a bit nutty these days, getting ready for our first public service this Saturday, writing under deadline, and being away from home far too many days. In the last 36 days, I've been gone 20 of them, all for church-planting related business. I just want to be home, and, thankfully, I will be home until July when I venture to Denver for ICRS.
So, please, if you find the time, pray for us here on the Cote d'Azur, particularly for the first service:
So, please, if you find the time, pray for us here on the Cote d'Azur, particularly for the first service:
- That we'd enjoy this week of preparation.
- That the sound equipment and video stuff all works together in blessed harmony.
- That the worship would make God smile.
- That the team coming over from Texas would be blessed.
- That many would come to our first gathering.
- That our team wouldn't become weary.
- That I'd find some rest in the midst of it all.
- That our Texas Barbecue (on Sunday) would be well-received and well-attended.
We're all looking forward to see what God will do here! It's a crazy ride!
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