Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
21 Gun Salute
A little over a week ago, my grandfather, Elmer Roach, died from complications of old age. His wife Doris, my grandmother, had preceded him by just four months. They were a grand old couple, not in the grand living sense, but in the grand loving sense. If ever I've seen the example of two becoming one, they were it. I wrote this poem for them, tucked it in a drawer some ten or so years ago. I dug it out after he died, reread it and found that I was right. Grandpa greatest trial was the living without her for those few short months. Here's the poem:
The Grandparents
It’s been a long journey
quiet mostly, with
ups and downs that
mark all human life
Neither really shone without
the other’s mirrored face
they plodded steadily on
faithful to the other
When he looks at her
he doesn’t see the lines
that mark the pass of time
or the faded blue in her eyes
He doesn’t see the bride
either, long lost in photographs
but somewhere in the middle
a woman he knows so well
every sigh and creak
has its own special place inside his heart
When she sees him
she can’t help but still admire
his tall straight back - so proud
bending just for her
His voice still strong and loud
droning with the stories of yesteryear
her harmony part is pursed lips and rolled eyes
but she knows a secret comfort
They look into eternity, stalking them
now, a place of peace
except for the knowledge that one will go before
one will walk alone – for a little while, and
how to be alive with only the
half of yourself to see
and hear and touch is unimaginable
It will be their greatest test
I wonder when I see them
at their courage, they must have known
what such loving would cost
But they did it anyway
Such quiet lives, so full
of gentle grace that I hope
the years have bought them strength
to finally face the day alone with a measure
of everlasting peace.
She died first. He was the one who lived alone for a time. But then, we knew as God must have known, that he was the one strong enough for that trial. My grandpa died much as he lived, thinking of her, dreaming of when he'd see her face again, leaning on Christ his Savior till his very last breath.
His funeral was a military funeral, reminding us of all of the stories he told as a Navy ship's cobbler during WWII. Eight elderly, uniformed American Legion officers marched onto the grassy space near his grave. One played "Taps" from an old trumpet, the remaining seven stood facing each other in formation, rifles braced on bony shoulders, faces filled with patriotic pride. Raise . . . fire . . . raise . . . fire . . . raise . . . fire. We stood transfixed by the pagentry, so fitting and so right for the noble life he'd led. Then the flag, our American flag that he was proud of, that he was willing to die for, that he paid attention to in the reading he did, in the opinions he had about where this country was going, it was folded in the tri-cornered shape of the hats our patriots wore so long ago, the field of blue with fifty stars on the top. That flag was presented to my dad, another veteran, though of a different war in a far different time and place that was America in the 60's, and then a blessing was pronounced on our family. It was a legacy being passed down and we all felt it and knew in that moment that this was his gift to us.
Grandpa's life had been laid down in every way . . . and now the blessing of that was being bled and spoken into the next generations to come.
A little over a week ago, my grandfather, Elmer Roach, died from complications of old age. His wife Doris, my grandmother, had preceded him by just four months. They were a grand old couple, not in the grand living sense, but in the grand loving sense. If ever I've seen the example of two becoming one, they were it. I wrote this poem for them, tucked it in a drawer some ten or so years ago. I dug it out after he died, reread it and found that I was right. Grandpa greatest trial was the living without her for those few short months. Here's the poem:
The Grandparents
It’s been a long journey
quiet mostly, with
ups and downs that
mark all human life
Neither really shone without
the other’s mirrored face
they plodded steadily on
faithful to the other
When he looks at her
he doesn’t see the lines
that mark the pass of time
or the faded blue in her eyes
He doesn’t see the bride
either, long lost in photographs
but somewhere in the middle
a woman he knows so well
every sigh and creak
has its own special place inside his heart
When she sees him
she can’t help but still admire
his tall straight back - so proud
bending just for her
His voice still strong and loud
droning with the stories of yesteryear
her harmony part is pursed lips and rolled eyes
but she knows a secret comfort
They look into eternity, stalking them
now, a place of peace
except for the knowledge that one will go before
one will walk alone – for a little while, and
how to be alive with only the
half of yourself to see
and hear and touch is unimaginable
It will be their greatest test
I wonder when I see them
at their courage, they must have known
what such loving would cost
But they did it anyway
Such quiet lives, so full
of gentle grace that I hope
the years have bought them strength
to finally face the day alone with a measure
of everlasting peace.
She died first. He was the one who lived alone for a time. But then, we knew as God must have known, that he was the one strong enough for that trial. My grandpa died much as he lived, thinking of her, dreaming of when he'd see her face again, leaning on Christ his Savior till his very last breath.
His funeral was a military funeral, reminding us of all of the stories he told as a Navy ship's cobbler during WWII. Eight elderly, uniformed American Legion officers marched onto the grassy space near his grave. One played "Taps" from an old trumpet, the remaining seven stood facing each other in formation, rifles braced on bony shoulders, faces filled with patriotic pride. Raise . . . fire . . . raise . . . fire . . . raise . . . fire. We stood transfixed by the pagentry, so fitting and so right for the noble life he'd led. Then the flag, our American flag that he was proud of, that he was willing to die for, that he paid attention to in the reading he did, in the opinions he had about where this country was going, it was folded in the tri-cornered shape of the hats our patriots wore so long ago, the field of blue with fifty stars on the top. That flag was presented to my dad, another veteran, though of a different war in a far different time and place that was America in the 60's, and then a blessing was pronounced on our family. It was a legacy being passed down and we all felt it and knew in that moment that this was his gift to us.
Grandpa's life had been laid down in every way . . . and now the blessing of that was being bled and spoken into the next generations to come.
First Reviews for Snow Angel
Check out these reviews for Snow Angel - Wow!!
http://tcm-ca.com/reviews/1740.html - by TCM Reviews and
http://www.dancingword.com/bookreviews/snowangelreview.htm by Vickie McDonough of Dancing Word Reviewer
I so appreciate them taking the time to read and review it!
Check out these reviews for Snow Angel - Wow!!
http://tcm-ca.com/reviews/1740.html - by TCM Reviews and
http://www.dancingword.com/bookreviews/snowangelreview.htm by Vickie McDonough of Dancing Word Reviewer
I so appreciate them taking the time to read and review it!
Monday, April 30, 2007
New Christian Fiction
Read the article about new authors in Christian fiction in this month's Aspiring Retail magazine. It's under the title, "Christian Novelists on the Rise" here. Christian fiction is growing wider and deeper, providing more and more opportunities to reach out with the love of God - PTL!
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Poverty in America
When I was six, my parents became Christians which changed everything in our home. They had been on the brink of divorce, but now, on fire for Jesus, my dad quit his welding job to go into full time ministry. Financially, our income dropped from middle class to borderline poverty, but I didn’t really notice it until I was older. We had food on the table, some of it government aid (I remember those blocks of cheese and giant bags of white rice well!), a huge garden in the summer that my mother froze and canned from and a roof over our heads. But I’m imprinted with a few memories that now, looking back, gives me a picture of how things were. Like the time two sacks of groceries mysteriously showed up at our door when there wasn’t any food left to put on the table for four hungry children. The times I waited for hours for my mother to pick me up from school when I was sick because we didn’t have a running car or gas, and she had to call people in the church to borrow a car. The bags of clothing that we were given and the way I dressed more like a forty-year-old woman than a teenager because that’s all I had. The way I learned to hide from friendships, hide behind the covers a safe book instead, because of the shabby furniture that made me ashamed to invite friends over or the pretending I learned to do. “I don’t like to ski,” I once told a girl who was trying to befriend me and invite me on a ski trip to Paoli, IN. Canoeing? King’s Island? “I can’t.” After awhile she stopped asking.
Or the time a group of teachers expressed that I should enter the local community college beauty pageant. “I don’t have a talent,” I told them, knowing I couldn’t scrounge up a decent dress. I’d tried a teen pageant once, but finding the “sponsors” had been a challenge. I remember walking into businesses, dressed in a suit, asking for . . . basically money, seeing those men look me up and down, judging whether or not I was worth a few dollars. I didn’t ever want to do that again for the sake of a gown.
Poverty makes for small living.
But most of all I remember how hard my mother worked to keep the body and soul of the family together. She truly gave her life, day after day, so that dad could be a preacher man. Hardship does build character, but more, it imprints itself onto a soul, coloring thoughts and actions for the rest of our lives. Children of poverty become something different, sometimes better, sometimes not, than they would have growing up without that lack. Lack opens a hole that later, I have found, must be filled with something.
As poor as we were, there were wonderful times too. As the church grew, my dad would take me with him on road trips. We would go, two, two and a half hours away to some little town in Indiana where he would preach at a home Bible study. There might only be ten or twenty people there, but he never cared, never complained about numbers. We would pull into the driveway in our small, light-blue Dotson that got so hot on the floor I had to hold my feet up, curled under me on the seat, so I couldn’t feel hot floor board beneath my tennis shoes. We would arrive at a house and dad would start the meeting. I don’t remember much aside from some praise songs, a message, and then falling asleep on a stranger’s couch as the night of preaching and ministry afterward stretched past midnight. But when we left, that was the best part, the part I remember in full-color, slow-motion detail. We would drive and talk of things beyond earth’s bounds: creation and the fall, God and Jesus and the rapture, the earthly walk compared to the spiritual walk and how we’re all born for more than what we can see or hear or feel. The meaning of life. The highlight was stopping at a truck stop along the way. Dad would spend a few precious dollars from the offering basket on two slices of pie and a couple of Cokes. Nothing ever felt so special as a middle of the night slice of pie with my dad. He would narrow his eyes, leaning across the table toward me and tell me in his deep, sure voice the mysteries of the universe and I believed him like he was a demigod dropped down to earth to take a turn as my father. Could anyone be as lucky as I was? And then we’d get back into the car that I didn’t realize was cheap and small that I thought was cozy and wonderful. Those moments were rich and have also formed the woman I’ve become.
Now, I see in myself some scars from being poor. I still buy my children too much. I still crave the latest styles to wear, dressing like a teenager sometimes, making up for when I couldn’t. I resent the kitchen. We eat out a lot. I now drive a nice car. I can see in my actions that the hole hasn’t gone away. But I wouldn’t change it. Holes are fillable and fixable with God’s grace. What I gained was far richer. My parents took a “leap of faith” when they chose to serve God with their lives, and God doesn’t promise that in this life we’ll get rich doing that. Paul ended up in prison at times. Jesus found his last breaths on a cross. But God does promise rewards in heaven, and . . . I can hardly imagine what those might be. Better than anything I had to give up! Unlike the earthly glories that moth and rust destroy, these rewards will last forever.
Bigger than my hole is my faith. Poverty is not fun. I don’t wish for it again, I don’t hope for it on anyone, but I know, that in God’s hands, it can be used for a good purpose. Now . . . I think I’ll go and clean out my closet, take some clothes to Goodwill or something. And maybe, tonight, I’ll cook my family a meal.
When I was six, my parents became Christians which changed everything in our home. They had been on the brink of divorce, but now, on fire for Jesus, my dad quit his welding job to go into full time ministry. Financially, our income dropped from middle class to borderline poverty, but I didn’t really notice it until I was older. We had food on the table, some of it government aid (I remember those blocks of cheese and giant bags of white rice well!), a huge garden in the summer that my mother froze and canned from and a roof over our heads. But I’m imprinted with a few memories that now, looking back, gives me a picture of how things were. Like the time two sacks of groceries mysteriously showed up at our door when there wasn’t any food left to put on the table for four hungry children. The times I waited for hours for my mother to pick me up from school when I was sick because we didn’t have a running car or gas, and she had to call people in the church to borrow a car. The bags of clothing that we were given and the way I dressed more like a forty-year-old woman than a teenager because that’s all I had. The way I learned to hide from friendships, hide behind the covers a safe book instead, because of the shabby furniture that made me ashamed to invite friends over or the pretending I learned to do. “I don’t like to ski,” I once told a girl who was trying to befriend me and invite me on a ski trip to Paoli, IN. Canoeing? King’s Island? “I can’t.” After awhile she stopped asking.
Or the time a group of teachers expressed that I should enter the local community college beauty pageant. “I don’t have a talent,” I told them, knowing I couldn’t scrounge up a decent dress. I’d tried a teen pageant once, but finding the “sponsors” had been a challenge. I remember walking into businesses, dressed in a suit, asking for . . . basically money, seeing those men look me up and down, judging whether or not I was worth a few dollars. I didn’t ever want to do that again for the sake of a gown.
Poverty makes for small living.
But most of all I remember how hard my mother worked to keep the body and soul of the family together. She truly gave her life, day after day, so that dad could be a preacher man. Hardship does build character, but more, it imprints itself onto a soul, coloring thoughts and actions for the rest of our lives. Children of poverty become something different, sometimes better, sometimes not, than they would have growing up without that lack. Lack opens a hole that later, I have found, must be filled with something.
As poor as we were, there were wonderful times too. As the church grew, my dad would take me with him on road trips. We would go, two, two and a half hours away to some little town in Indiana where he would preach at a home Bible study. There might only be ten or twenty people there, but he never cared, never complained about numbers. We would pull into the driveway in our small, light-blue Dotson that got so hot on the floor I had to hold my feet up, curled under me on the seat, so I couldn’t feel hot floor board beneath my tennis shoes. We would arrive at a house and dad would start the meeting. I don’t remember much aside from some praise songs, a message, and then falling asleep on a stranger’s couch as the night of preaching and ministry afterward stretched past midnight. But when we left, that was the best part, the part I remember in full-color, slow-motion detail. We would drive and talk of things beyond earth’s bounds: creation and the fall, God and Jesus and the rapture, the earthly walk compared to the spiritual walk and how we’re all born for more than what we can see or hear or feel. The meaning of life. The highlight was stopping at a truck stop along the way. Dad would spend a few precious dollars from the offering basket on two slices of pie and a couple of Cokes. Nothing ever felt so special as a middle of the night slice of pie with my dad. He would narrow his eyes, leaning across the table toward me and tell me in his deep, sure voice the mysteries of the universe and I believed him like he was a demigod dropped down to earth to take a turn as my father. Could anyone be as lucky as I was? And then we’d get back into the car that I didn’t realize was cheap and small that I thought was cozy and wonderful. Those moments were rich and have also formed the woman I’ve become.
Now, I see in myself some scars from being poor. I still buy my children too much. I still crave the latest styles to wear, dressing like a teenager sometimes, making up for when I couldn’t. I resent the kitchen. We eat out a lot. I now drive a nice car. I can see in my actions that the hole hasn’t gone away. But I wouldn’t change it. Holes are fillable and fixable with God’s grace. What I gained was far richer. My parents took a “leap of faith” when they chose to serve God with their lives, and God doesn’t promise that in this life we’ll get rich doing that. Paul ended up in prison at times. Jesus found his last breaths on a cross. But God does promise rewards in heaven, and . . . I can hardly imagine what those might be. Better than anything I had to give up! Unlike the earthly glories that moth and rust destroy, these rewards will last forever.
Bigger than my hole is my faith. Poverty is not fun. I don’t wish for it again, I don’t hope for it on anyone, but I know, that in God’s hands, it can be used for a good purpose. Now . . . I think I’ll go and clean out my closet, take some clothes to Goodwill or something. And maybe, tonight, I’ll cook my family a meal.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
The Genres of Writing
At a dinner, not too long ago, I was asked about writing. I struggled to put into words my thoughts on the different forms of writing, but since then, of course, after some time to think about it, I’ve had some ideas:
Poetry . . . lyrics . . . they’re a thought, a movement, a feeling grasped. Poetry and songs tell a story of mood that captures the listener and causes them to feel the same feeling for a fleeting moment. It’s small but powerful, the way we influence others with our emotions through writing. I can listen to a song and feel like a party or a funeral or anything in between. I can want to give . . . or want to take what’s mine . . . want to worship . . . want to sacrifice . . . want to sing along or lie down and sob, all from a song.
Short stories are down and dirty. Characters are full-color from the moment they hit the page. There’s no time to mess around . . . only time to be messy and real. Their message is told in a few short scenes, every word counts. Literally. But there's a raw beauty to it. I find it thrilling when I've accomplished it.
Novels are a long, slow sweetness. We can take our time learning our characters and their stories. We can take our readers on a leisurely walk through the woods, discovering things we never knew ourselves. There’s room for error here, because there’s always the next chapter, the next time to make it right. Novel readers are so forgiving, so long-suffering in our efforts to tell a great story. Our greatest challenge is that climax, that final ending page. These are the characters that will live on in their minds for as long as they will live on in ours.
Screenwriting is all about action, dialog – the visual and the heard. Camera angles, color and motion, fill our minds as a story meshes out. Imagination isn’t needed so much as it’s lead. Lead into a labyrinth of thought and design. I’ve barely grasped this art. It’s hard. It requires tying my left hand behind my back and only using select senses. But in that, we can find another way. Like a blind man who has more attuned hearing, a better sense of touch, so has the screenwriter without exposition, twisting and turning with the medium of film.
Journalism. Sterile. Without right or wrong. Such a challenge of viewpoint. To write as if you have no voice. As if you have no background with all your morals and values and beliefs. Suspend all that and state the facts as your eyes and the eyes of the eyewitnesses see them. Let the readers decide. This must take discipline. Suspend poetry. Stop story. Allow the facts to simply speak for themselves. Wow. Did Jesus do this when He described heaven? So often it reads like he's just "stating the facts" and letting the truths He revealed blow our minds.
I’m sure there are more disciplines in the writing world. But these are the ones I’ve lately considered. My advice? Try them all. Write poems and songs and story, long and short. Write your day as if you had no emotion attached to it. And then, turn around and write that same day like a sit-com or a Hallmark Hall of Fame drama. Try them all. If you do, you’ll grow stronger and you will use each devise to better the others, to better yourself. Your readers will thank you.
And now, I think I’ll go back to this short story I’m working on. It’s about a forty-something man on the road . . . and (smiling) I know so little about him yet.
Happy Writing!
At a dinner, not too long ago, I was asked about writing. I struggled to put into words my thoughts on the different forms of writing, but since then, of course, after some time to think about it, I’ve had some ideas:
Poetry . . . lyrics . . . they’re a thought, a movement, a feeling grasped. Poetry and songs tell a story of mood that captures the listener and causes them to feel the same feeling for a fleeting moment. It’s small but powerful, the way we influence others with our emotions through writing. I can listen to a song and feel like a party or a funeral or anything in between. I can want to give . . . or want to take what’s mine . . . want to worship . . . want to sacrifice . . . want to sing along or lie down and sob, all from a song.
Short stories are down and dirty. Characters are full-color from the moment they hit the page. There’s no time to mess around . . . only time to be messy and real. Their message is told in a few short scenes, every word counts. Literally. But there's a raw beauty to it. I find it thrilling when I've accomplished it.
Novels are a long, slow sweetness. We can take our time learning our characters and their stories. We can take our readers on a leisurely walk through the woods, discovering things we never knew ourselves. There’s room for error here, because there’s always the next chapter, the next time to make it right. Novel readers are so forgiving, so long-suffering in our efforts to tell a great story. Our greatest challenge is that climax, that final ending page. These are the characters that will live on in their minds for as long as they will live on in ours.
Screenwriting is all about action, dialog – the visual and the heard. Camera angles, color and motion, fill our minds as a story meshes out. Imagination isn’t needed so much as it’s lead. Lead into a labyrinth of thought and design. I’ve barely grasped this art. It’s hard. It requires tying my left hand behind my back and only using select senses. But in that, we can find another way. Like a blind man who has more attuned hearing, a better sense of touch, so has the screenwriter without exposition, twisting and turning with the medium of film.
Journalism. Sterile. Without right or wrong. Such a challenge of viewpoint. To write as if you have no voice. As if you have no background with all your morals and values and beliefs. Suspend all that and state the facts as your eyes and the eyes of the eyewitnesses see them. Let the readers decide. This must take discipline. Suspend poetry. Stop story. Allow the facts to simply speak for themselves. Wow. Did Jesus do this when He described heaven? So often it reads like he's just "stating the facts" and letting the truths He revealed blow our minds.
I’m sure there are more disciplines in the writing world. But these are the ones I’ve lately considered. My advice? Try them all. Write poems and songs and story, long and short. Write your day as if you had no emotion attached to it. And then, turn around and write that same day like a sit-com or a Hallmark Hall of Fame drama. Try them all. If you do, you’ll grow stronger and you will use each devise to better the others, to better yourself. Your readers will thank you.
And now, I think I’ll go back to this short story I’m working on. It’s about a forty-something man on the road . . . and (smiling) I know so little about him yet.
Happy Writing!
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Photos From Nashville!
up and riding in the elevator!
Julie and Mary-Beth at P.F. Chang's
Karen Ball and her friend Peggy -
Isn't this a great photo of them!
The B&H girls and me at our
"girl's night out" they were so
much fun and are wonderful
women!
I got a gift basket!?! Yeah!
The LifeWay building and campus
was huge.
B&H Sales Conference in Nashville, Tennessee
“You’re on!” Mary-Beth, my author relations person, shout-whispered, running toward me as I walked out of the ladies room and down the hall of the Life Way building. I wasn’t supposed to speak until 9:30 AM but apparently they were running early. What luck! I didn’t even have time to get really nervous as they introduced me. Instead, I had to burst through the door, scoop up my notes and head toward the stage, hoping I wouldn’t trip in my high-heeled, platform sandals. As I headed toward the microphone and the podium, my knees beginning to shake and my palms starting to sweat, I prayed one of my more eloquent prayers, “Okay Lord, this is it.”
Time to give my speech.
I stared out at the sales and marketing people, eighty or so upraised faces, and tried to smile, opening with a crack about blacking out – my voice shaky while I promised to “come to” if they would wave some Starbucks under my nose. That got a laugh, and so, a little encouraged, I plunged into my Olympic relay-race analogy. Which, I hasten to mention, the Lord had just given me the night before. I’d worked hard on my speech, had it mostly memorized according to instructions . . . but the night before, in a lovely hotel room that the publisher put me up in, I lay wide awake most of the night while God...rewrote….my….speech. Ahhh! Why does He always wait until the last minute? But I was sure. I knew what He wanted me to say, and while it was pretty raw, “very transparent” as my editor later said with a kind smile, I was certain it was His message for this group.
After explaining to the crowd how much I viewed this process as a team effort – first me writing it, then the editors and art department polishing it up and then the sales team taking it on the road - and how incredibly blessed I felt to just be standing up there (I finally have co-workers!!) I plunged into how I began writing in the first place. It’s the question I’m always asked, “How did you start writing?” Or, “What made you want to become a writer?” Or “Have you always written?” In trying to honestly answer that question, God reminded me how it all began. On one hand, I have always loved lyric writing. As a girl, I used to swing on my swing (one of those 10 pound weights at the end of a rope tied to a big, old walnut tree in our yard) and make up song after song for God. I didn’t care who was around or if anyone heard me, I just worshipped him, loud and long. I also wrote some poetry and had a “diary” as we called it then, which my brother would find and break into (those locks never worked!) waving and taunting me until I chased him down and wrestled it back. But on the other side, the darker side, stories became a sort of salvation to me. In the second grade I began having night terrors. One, in particular, was so bad I wouldn’t leave my mother’s side for three months (literally). I lost weight, I couldn’t sleep, I was as white as a sheet - the fear dogged me until I felt like I was living from panic attack to panic attack. I looked like I was being haunted in my early grade-school pictures, and I felt like I was being destroyed. My parents prayed for me, encouraged me and tried everything to help me overcome my fears, but nothing worked.
I have a son who was diagnosed with ADD and Dyslexia. For years he struggled to read, doing phonics programs over and over and then taking a special “Discovery” class in 4th through 6th grade. It helped and he’s a much better reader now, but something happened during those early years that has become a special strength for Seth. Because he couldn’t read the world around him, he saw everything differently. Seth can easily remember faces, pictures and symbols. He remembers little details, saying things to me like, “Mom, did you see that man with a red hoodie? He had on a couple of rings on his left hand, curly black hair and a big, jagged scar on his arm?” I look around clueless. “What man?” Now, when Seth looks at signs he doesn’t just read them, he notices things like - letter shape, color, lighting, a missing bulb, etc. While I just read it, Seth really sees it and I know that someday God is going to use this gift in Seth’s future work. That’s kind of what happened to me. To help myself sleep at night, I started to focus my mind on building stories and characters, not allowing the fearful thoughts a chance to come in. This took intense concentration. But after awhile, I got better and better at it until eventually, I could fall asleep within minutes of lying down. Years later, I now see that what the enemy had planned for my destruction, God used for good. When I first sat down to write a novel, the scenes played out in front of my eyes with the ease of long practice. Praise God, He really does make beauty from the ashes of our lives.
You could have heard a pin drop in the conference room as I told them that story and then the eight hard years of struggling to find publication. My eyes filled with tears as I told them when I’d reached the point with God where I just couldn’t hope anymore, and the times I laid it all down. After I was done (I pretty much forgot to talk about the plot of the novel and just wanted to get off that stage!) my editors and several dear people rushed toward me to pray for me and my work, this writing work. It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life.
I guess I learned that people are honored when we share our real selves with them. It doesn’t take anything away from us for them to know our weaknesses, instead it provides an opportunity for hope in the side of good. We cannot fathom what God understands . . . and the million creative ways He can use the circumstances of our lives toward our good and for His glory!
“You’re on!” Mary-Beth, my author relations person, shout-whispered, running toward me as I walked out of the ladies room and down the hall of the Life Way building. I wasn’t supposed to speak until 9:30 AM but apparently they were running early. What luck! I didn’t even have time to get really nervous as they introduced me. Instead, I had to burst through the door, scoop up my notes and head toward the stage, hoping I wouldn’t trip in my high-heeled, platform sandals. As I headed toward the microphone and the podium, my knees beginning to shake and my palms starting to sweat, I prayed one of my more eloquent prayers, “Okay Lord, this is it.”
Time to give my speech.
I stared out at the sales and marketing people, eighty or so upraised faces, and tried to smile, opening with a crack about blacking out – my voice shaky while I promised to “come to” if they would wave some Starbucks under my nose. That got a laugh, and so, a little encouraged, I plunged into my Olympic relay-race analogy. Which, I hasten to mention, the Lord had just given me the night before. I’d worked hard on my speech, had it mostly memorized according to instructions . . . but the night before, in a lovely hotel room that the publisher put me up in, I lay wide awake most of the night while God...rewrote….my….speech. Ahhh! Why does He always wait until the last minute? But I was sure. I knew what He wanted me to say, and while it was pretty raw, “very transparent” as my editor later said with a kind smile, I was certain it was His message for this group.
After explaining to the crowd how much I viewed this process as a team effort – first me writing it, then the editors and art department polishing it up and then the sales team taking it on the road - and how incredibly blessed I felt to just be standing up there (I finally have co-workers!!) I plunged into how I began writing in the first place. It’s the question I’m always asked, “How did you start writing?” Or, “What made you want to become a writer?” Or “Have you always written?” In trying to honestly answer that question, God reminded me how it all began. On one hand, I have always loved lyric writing. As a girl, I used to swing on my swing (one of those 10 pound weights at the end of a rope tied to a big, old walnut tree in our yard) and make up song after song for God. I didn’t care who was around or if anyone heard me, I just worshipped him, loud and long. I also wrote some poetry and had a “diary” as we called it then, which my brother would find and break into (those locks never worked!) waving and taunting me until I chased him down and wrestled it back. But on the other side, the darker side, stories became a sort of salvation to me. In the second grade I began having night terrors. One, in particular, was so bad I wouldn’t leave my mother’s side for three months (literally). I lost weight, I couldn’t sleep, I was as white as a sheet - the fear dogged me until I felt like I was living from panic attack to panic attack. I looked like I was being haunted in my early grade-school pictures, and I felt like I was being destroyed. My parents prayed for me, encouraged me and tried everything to help me overcome my fears, but nothing worked.
I have a son who was diagnosed with ADD and Dyslexia. For years he struggled to read, doing phonics programs over and over and then taking a special “Discovery” class in 4th through 6th grade. It helped and he’s a much better reader now, but something happened during those early years that has become a special strength for Seth. Because he couldn’t read the world around him, he saw everything differently. Seth can easily remember faces, pictures and symbols. He remembers little details, saying things to me like, “Mom, did you see that man with a red hoodie? He had on a couple of rings on his left hand, curly black hair and a big, jagged scar on his arm?” I look around clueless. “What man?” Now, when Seth looks at signs he doesn’t just read them, he notices things like - letter shape, color, lighting, a missing bulb, etc. While I just read it, Seth really sees it and I know that someday God is going to use this gift in Seth’s future work. That’s kind of what happened to me. To help myself sleep at night, I started to focus my mind on building stories and characters, not allowing the fearful thoughts a chance to come in. This took intense concentration. But after awhile, I got better and better at it until eventually, I could fall asleep within minutes of lying down. Years later, I now see that what the enemy had planned for my destruction, God used for good. When I first sat down to write a novel, the scenes played out in front of my eyes with the ease of long practice. Praise God, He really does make beauty from the ashes of our lives.
You could have heard a pin drop in the conference room as I told them that story and then the eight hard years of struggling to find publication. My eyes filled with tears as I told them when I’d reached the point with God where I just couldn’t hope anymore, and the times I laid it all down. After I was done (I pretty much forgot to talk about the plot of the novel and just wanted to get off that stage!) my editors and several dear people rushed toward me to pray for me and my work, this writing work. It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life.
I guess I learned that people are honored when we share our real selves with them. It doesn’t take anything away from us for them to know our weaknesses, instead it provides an opportunity for hope in the side of good. We cannot fathom what God understands . . . and the million creative ways He can use the circumstances of our lives toward our good and for His glory!
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Indianapolis ICRS Trade Show
Mid January I attended ICRS (International Christian Retail Show) a bi-annual book trade show in Indianapolis where my publisher had a booth (the booths were huge and really very nice!). They invited me to join them, meet people I'd only heretofore known on email, and get a peek into the world of book selling. I finally met Tom, my acquisitions editor, you can't help but feel the person who first believed in your work is a hero. Yes, I gave him a big hug! I chatted with David about the big plans they have for fiction, and with Robin, their marketing guru. I'm so blessed to be a part of this team of people. I also got Francine River's autograph. One of her books, The Last Sin Eater, was made into a movie and she was there promoting it.
But back up the story. Before going to the show, I was asked to make a book video for Snow Angel. I was really nervous, had touched up my makeup about a hundred times in the car on the drive downtown, driving my husband crazy! It was all good though. The videotographer met me, a very peaceful, down-to-earth kind of guy at the Indianapolis Artsgarden. He showed me where to look while he filmed, asked me questions that I had ahead of time, that he fully expected me to have the answers to. But you know, as many times as you practice some speech, at least for me, it all goes out the window when the real event happens. As the video progressed I laughed a little, cried a little, and hopefully, told my heart in regards to this novel, Snow Angel.
God gave me this scripture a few years ago. Isaiah 54:2-3 "Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains wide, do not hold back; lengthen your cords, strengthen you stakes. For you will spread out to the right and to the left; your descendants will dispossess nations and settle in the desolate cities."
Who me?
Wow. As I begin to do these things that are required of me, I am in wonder at God's plan. It would seem, as far as I'm brave enough to spread my tent stakes, God will provide opportunities for me to "enlarge" my tent. I don't know all He has in store, can really only imagine it, but it's so exciting now that it's taking off. I have co-workers!!! I have a novel that I slaved over for enough years that I could have earned a PhD in something. The work is paying off and in all my imaginings . . . I couldn't have guessed all God has in store. I can't wait to see the next page in His story for me.
The moral to this story is "Never Give Up!" If you have something inside you, I don't care how small or large or crazy it seems, go for it. It's who you were created to be. If anything is so large in your heart that you can't let go of it . . . don't let circumstances, people, things, make you second guess it. Don't let go of it. We only have one life to live. God implanted something in each of us at birth . . . an eternal DNA, for eternal purposes, that won't fade away if we listen to its quiet call. Follow it like the "yellow brick road" of Oz, like Scarlett's "Tara" like anything that seems so in your blood you keep coming back to it no matter what happens to deter it. Never forget, we have an enemy who seeks to kill and steal and destroy us. Don't let him. You've only one life to live.
I want to thank anyone who takes the time to read these blogs. There's so much information out there that if you are happening upon this, I have to believe that there is a purpose for it. I hope my little stories of success, of persevering in my dream, are inspiring you in yours . . . because I want to encourage others that all your dreams are possible and real and God-breathed. Don't feel any guilt or condemnation for dreaming your big dreams. What were we created for if not to reflect God’s glory, pointing the way to Jesus? Read Moses' story . . . where we are weak, He is strong. His glory is unimaginable.
We are like the snowflake . . . like Elizabeth in Snow Angel . . . individual and greatly loved and crafted by the Creator. We are able to become all that we were created to be. It's in our destiny. Don't let the daily grind steal that from you.
Mid January I attended ICRS (International Christian Retail Show) a bi-annual book trade show in Indianapolis where my publisher had a booth (the booths were huge and really very nice!). They invited me to join them, meet people I'd only heretofore known on email, and get a peek into the world of book selling. I finally met Tom, my acquisitions editor, you can't help but feel the person who first believed in your work is a hero. Yes, I gave him a big hug! I chatted with David about the big plans they have for fiction, and with Robin, their marketing guru. I'm so blessed to be a part of this team of people. I also got Francine River's autograph. One of her books, The Last Sin Eater, was made into a movie and she was there promoting it.
But back up the story. Before going to the show, I was asked to make a book video for Snow Angel. I was really nervous, had touched up my makeup about a hundred times in the car on the drive downtown, driving my husband crazy! It was all good though. The videotographer met me, a very peaceful, down-to-earth kind of guy at the Indianapolis Artsgarden. He showed me where to look while he filmed, asked me questions that I had ahead of time, that he fully expected me to have the answers to. But you know, as many times as you practice some speech, at least for me, it all goes out the window when the real event happens. As the video progressed I laughed a little, cried a little, and hopefully, told my heart in regards to this novel, Snow Angel.
God gave me this scripture a few years ago. Isaiah 54:2-3 "Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains wide, do not hold back; lengthen your cords, strengthen you stakes. For you will spread out to the right and to the left; your descendants will dispossess nations and settle in the desolate cities."
Who me?
Wow. As I begin to do these things that are required of me, I am in wonder at God's plan. It would seem, as far as I'm brave enough to spread my tent stakes, God will provide opportunities for me to "enlarge" my tent. I don't know all He has in store, can really only imagine it, but it's so exciting now that it's taking off. I have co-workers!!! I have a novel that I slaved over for enough years that I could have earned a PhD in something. The work is paying off and in all my imaginings . . . I couldn't have guessed all God has in store. I can't wait to see the next page in His story for me.
The moral to this story is "Never Give Up!" If you have something inside you, I don't care how small or large or crazy it seems, go for it. It's who you were created to be. If anything is so large in your heart that you can't let go of it . . . don't let circumstances, people, things, make you second guess it. Don't let go of it. We only have one life to live. God implanted something in each of us at birth . . . an eternal DNA, for eternal purposes, that won't fade away if we listen to its quiet call. Follow it like the "yellow brick road" of Oz, like Scarlett's "Tara" like anything that seems so in your blood you keep coming back to it no matter what happens to deter it. Never forget, we have an enemy who seeks to kill and steal and destroy us. Don't let him. You've only one life to live.
I want to thank anyone who takes the time to read these blogs. There's so much information out there that if you are happening upon this, I have to believe that there is a purpose for it. I hope my little stories of success, of persevering in my dream, are inspiring you in yours . . . because I want to encourage others that all your dreams are possible and real and God-breathed. Don't feel any guilt or condemnation for dreaming your big dreams. What were we created for if not to reflect God’s glory, pointing the way to Jesus? Read Moses' story . . . where we are weak, He is strong. His glory is unimaginable.
We are like the snowflake . . . like Elizabeth in Snow Angel . . . individual and greatly loved and crafted by the Creator. We are able to become all that we were created to be. It's in our destiny. Don't let the daily grind steal that from you.
Monday, January 01, 2007
Snow Angels and New Year's Resolutions
Ahh, Christmas. The lights, the carefully decorated tree with stacks of presents underneath, the family gathering --(sound of tires screeching to a stop). Family. It's the people we love best and know best and the people who know us best, maybe that's why they challenge us like friends would never dare.
This year we had Christmas at my house, all seventeen of us crowded into three rooms of my downstairs. The dishwasher ran non-stop, the kids ran wildly between laughing, chatting adults. It was a great time. But at Christmas, with all of my family over, I stupidly brought up my book's "new title" Snow Angel. I said it with a tight smile, knowing and expecting the response I would get before I got it . . . a crinkled up face, raised eyebrows, or even, Snow Angel? said in that tone that made me grit my teeth and nod.
My family is pretty hard to impress. They like the blatant powerful. They keep asking me when I'll move beyond "romance novels" and write something great, something life-changing. I always argue that love stories are great, that the only truly life-changing book I've ever read is the Bible and I certainly can't top that. Sigh. I got published. Doesn't that count for something?? Lame title and all??
Later that night, before going to sleep, I was feeling pretty bad about the title and I vented to the Lord. “Lord, I’m going to call my editor as soon as this Christmas season is over and have him reassure me that we have the right title! I think we’ve made a terrible mistake. What do You want the title to be?” I'd asked this question so many times before and never heard anything back so I didn't really expect Him to answer this time. But He did. My eyes were closed and I saw snow. I saw it in its million . . . billion . . . uncountable snowflakes, each one carefully created, each one a masterful geometric shape, a miracle of mathematics. Did you know that snowflakes can come in many different shapes other than the ones we make from paper, or see in a Christmas display? They can be tubular, hexagonal prisms, six-armed stars; they can have tree-like branches, hollow columns or needles and even be furry, like ferns. There are the triangular, the rosettes, and, my favorite, twelve sided stars. But interestingly, snow from snow machines, man-made snow, looks only like frozen water droplets stuck together. Isn't God amazing?
After seeing the snow and the wonder of the snowflake, God reminded me that my prayer, my heart for this book has been that His Spirit will infuse the words, individualize them for each reader knowing their perspective, their life experience, their heart, so that each reader will get a glimpse of His love. He reminded me of the complexity of the snowflake, and how He individualized each droplet of freezing water. His creativity, His imagination has no bounds! Wow. I was overwhelmed and so . . . thankful. He is always there in our moments of doubt and need. And angels are just plain cool!
In all this I was reminded of something. That it mattered too much to me what my family thought of the title. That I only have to please Him. "And without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who comes to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him." (Hebrews 11:6, NIV) The problem was never with my family, it was with me all along.
New Year's Resolution: Please God and everything else will fall into place.
Oh, a great site on snowflakes - http://www.its.caltech.edu/~atomic/snowcrystals/class/class.htm
Happy New Year!
Friday, November 17, 2006
Glamour Shots Photo Shoot: More fun that I thought is would be! I was a nervous wreak before hand, picking out the outfits, shoes and jewelry that they kept calling me and reminding me not to forget! But it was great fun. The photographer was a sweetheart, working with me to contort into the poses she knew would work. They even did a few shots with a fan! (I didn't end up liking my hair blown back like that, but it felt like a modeling shoot.)Armed with my new photos, I created a RomanceWiki www.romancewiki.com profile, sent my wonderful agent, Wes, a copy with a short bio which he will use to add me to his site, and will be sending one to the publisher for the book cover! It's hard to believe that my writing dreams are coming true. I just hope and pray people love the books!
Monday, September 18, 2006
Infuze E-Zine - A Great Place to Try Your Wings
A big "thanks" to Infuze again! Either they like my work or it's pretty easy to get published there (I'm going with, "they like my work")! It's a wonderful e-zine, a great mix of the known and unknown with a wide variety of creative work, opinions, and reviews. Check out my new poem that they published on http://www.infuzemag.com/creative/poetry - scroll down to Desert Rose. Thanks so much for any comments!
A big "thanks" to Infuze again! Either they like my work or it's pretty easy to get published there (I'm going with, "they like my work")! It's a wonderful e-zine, a great mix of the known and unknown with a wide variety of creative work, opinions, and reviews. Check out my new poem that they published on http://www.infuzemag.com/creative/poetry - scroll down to Desert Rose. Thanks so much for any comments!
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Is Anything too hard for the Lord?
Last week I signed the contract! A three book deal with Broadman and Holman, for three historical, inspirational, romance novels . . . it was a beautiful thing.
It came by Priority Mail. I ripped open the red, white and blue envelope, slid out all that lovely cream and brown marbled paper with the big B&H watermark in the middle. I found (read God provided) an amazing agent who helped me navigate the legaleze and an incredible editor who met us more than half-way, making the changes look like Christmas tinsel and trimmings on a present. My husband took a photo of me signing it . . . such a long time in coming, so many times he has encouraged me and told me, "years from now, you'll back on all of this [waiting] and laugh. It's going to happen." Well, I'm not laughing yet, but the hard years of waiting are already fading a bit. Like holding a newly birthed baby, the months of getting huge, uncomfortable, and psycho (I really struggled with being pregnant!) are fading in the face of what's sitting in my hands. It'll be even better when I'm holding the actual book!
All this brings to my mind the others that have waited. My sister, waiting for her "life" to begin and now, this fall going to Regent University for her beloved psychology degree. My husband, as he waited for years for me to grow up and realize I loved him as much as he loved me (he was sixteen when he knew - so give me a small break). And then there are so many examples God has given us in His word, people always waiting for the "appointed time."
Genesis 18:14 "Is anything too hard for the Lord? At the appointed time I will return to you, according to the time of life, and Sarah shall have a son." (Italics mine).
Sarah and Abraham waited such a long time for their promise. But I love that phrase . . . "the time of life." It makes me think that if a dream or desire comes before its chosen time, would it be the time of death? Would be too much? Not enough? Could it destroy us? Only God knows.
And He does. He really does know when the culmination, the fulfilling prophesy, the time, is exactly right.
All I know, is that I feel like I've been pregnant for ten years and if I don't birth something soon, it's gonna blow! But I've learned patience and hard-won, gut-deep, persistent faith. He wouldn't let me stop believing.
So if you're struggling with wanting something, something that you can't give up on, know I feel your pain and there's a purpose in it. He wouldn't let us languish on the vine. He wants us to bear fruit and fruit . . . sweet, beautiful, succulant fruit, takes time.
I wrote this poem a year or so ago and it just seems fitting, showing how He has it all in the palm of His hand, that He's enjoying us as we come into His purpose.
Can You Imagine
Can you imagine how He made it
created from nothingness
the promises and possibilities of heaven
brought into being by a few spoken words
Can you see His hand as He threw out the stars
like seeds on wind
floating to their place with names of their own
the sun and the moon taking turns, like parents
leading and guiding and lighting our way
What of the great expanse
that perfect combination of breathable air
the puffy clouds that He knew would float
into shapes we could imagine
Then there were fish
in so many shapes and sizes and colors
some make us laugh out loud at their funny faces
others inspire a still silence
so huge, so sleek, so deadly
Fur and feathers, scales and skin
coverings for creatures
scurrying in their forest homes
roaming in hunter stealth among jungle grass
lurking bright-eyed from trees and holes and caves
There are no homeless here
sunning on rocks in the hot of the sun
sparkling backs on slow creeping legs
darting tongues from dragon-like faces
What imagination
What might
What glory
And then, while the hosts of heaven watch
see them gasp as He begins His masterpiece
a sculptor with the perfect mix of clay
He molds the delicate eyes
knowing the glory they will behold
He thoughtfully creates the tiny bones of the ear
knowing the music they will make
Can you imagine it?
The man
so strong and sure in his beauty
intelligence rests on his brow
strength upholds his chest and mighty arms
adventure lures his thoughts
made to protect and guard
made to provide and father
made to delight His maker
We even surprise Him sometimes
picture His surprised delight in man
Now see the woman with me
how lovely in her graces
how her lithe strength is displayed in her garden dance
she dances for her man and her God
See Him implant within her secret places
the seeds of all mankind
See Him gift her with the power of the nations in her hand
How pleased!
how blessed He must have felt to see the handiwork of His creation.
Can you imagine the adventures He planned for us?
When Columbus first sailed and the earth became round in our minds
Sit back with Him on His throne or ride with chariotÂ’s wings
as He watches the play He has made
His heart wrenching with our tragedies
and soaring with our triumphs
but knowing, always knowing
and hoping that we will choose Him
Can you see His joy when we discover the hidden secrets of our world
when the mysteries of fire and light and heat are made known to us
when the infinite miracles of our bodies, just clay but so much more
are explored as the depths of the oceans or the black of space
Blank pages becoming the stories of our lives
Even now, can you see Him in the laboratory peeking over a shoulder
peering through a microscope on the verge of a discovery
His breath is held still
awaiting the moment when we rear back in sudden understanding
when we get a glimpse of what He knows
Can you see His smile when we studied the birds
took our first flight
see Him beside us in his chariot of fire booming with laughter
at the pure joy of it
Wasn't He center stage when moon dust coated our boots
and we had inched a little closer to Him in His heaven
Beloved, can you see Him smiling and triumphant
when we see the mysteries He made for us
planned since before time began to share with us
just waiting for us to notice
Then, in a moment and yet a lifetime
after we've looked and seen and experienced
can you see His thudding heart
when we look up and notice His Son
when our eyes are full of the blood-spilt glory of Him
the Great I AM
can you imagine His welling heart of love
when we open to Him and return it
He waits for it . . . He longs for it
He planned for it all along . . .
Last week I signed the contract! A three book deal with Broadman and Holman, for three historical, inspirational, romance novels . . . it was a beautiful thing.
It came by Priority Mail. I ripped open the red, white and blue envelope, slid out all that lovely cream and brown marbled paper with the big B&H watermark in the middle. I found (read God provided) an amazing agent who helped me navigate the legaleze and an incredible editor who met us more than half-way, making the changes look like Christmas tinsel and trimmings on a present. My husband took a photo of me signing it . . . such a long time in coming, so many times he has encouraged me and told me, "years from now, you'll back on all of this [waiting] and laugh. It's going to happen." Well, I'm not laughing yet, but the hard years of waiting are already fading a bit. Like holding a newly birthed baby, the months of getting huge, uncomfortable, and psycho (I really struggled with being pregnant!) are fading in the face of what's sitting in my hands. It'll be even better when I'm holding the actual book!
All this brings to my mind the others that have waited. My sister, waiting for her "life" to begin and now, this fall going to Regent University for her beloved psychology degree. My husband, as he waited for years for me to grow up and realize I loved him as much as he loved me (he was sixteen when he knew - so give me a small break). And then there are so many examples God has given us in His word, people always waiting for the "appointed time."
Genesis 18:14 "Is anything too hard for the Lord? At the appointed time I will return to you, according to the time of life, and Sarah shall have a son." (Italics mine).
Sarah and Abraham waited such a long time for their promise. But I love that phrase . . . "the time of life." It makes me think that if a dream or desire comes before its chosen time, would it be the time of death? Would be too much? Not enough? Could it destroy us? Only God knows.
And He does. He really does know when the culmination, the fulfilling prophesy, the time, is exactly right.
All I know, is that I feel like I've been pregnant for ten years and if I don't birth something soon, it's gonna blow! But I've learned patience and hard-won, gut-deep, persistent faith. He wouldn't let me stop believing.
So if you're struggling with wanting something, something that you can't give up on, know I feel your pain and there's a purpose in it. He wouldn't let us languish on the vine. He wants us to bear fruit and fruit . . . sweet, beautiful, succulant fruit, takes time.
I wrote this poem a year or so ago and it just seems fitting, showing how He has it all in the palm of His hand, that He's enjoying us as we come into His purpose.
Can You Imagine
Can you imagine how He made it
created from nothingness
the promises and possibilities of heaven
brought into being by a few spoken words
Can you see His hand as He threw out the stars
like seeds on wind
floating to their place with names of their own
the sun and the moon taking turns, like parents
leading and guiding and lighting our way
What of the great expanse
that perfect combination of breathable air
the puffy clouds that He knew would float
into shapes we could imagine
Then there were fish
in so many shapes and sizes and colors
some make us laugh out loud at their funny faces
others inspire a still silence
so huge, so sleek, so deadly
Fur and feathers, scales and skin
coverings for creatures
scurrying in their forest homes
roaming in hunter stealth among jungle grass
lurking bright-eyed from trees and holes and caves
There are no homeless here
sunning on rocks in the hot of the sun
sparkling backs on slow creeping legs
darting tongues from dragon-like faces
What imagination
What might
What glory
And then, while the hosts of heaven watch
see them gasp as He begins His masterpiece
a sculptor with the perfect mix of clay
He molds the delicate eyes
knowing the glory they will behold
He thoughtfully creates the tiny bones of the ear
knowing the music they will make
Can you imagine it?
The man
so strong and sure in his beauty
intelligence rests on his brow
strength upholds his chest and mighty arms
adventure lures his thoughts
made to protect and guard
made to provide and father
made to delight His maker
We even surprise Him sometimes
picture His surprised delight in man
Now see the woman with me
how lovely in her graces
how her lithe strength is displayed in her garden dance
she dances for her man and her God
See Him implant within her secret places
the seeds of all mankind
See Him gift her with the power of the nations in her hand
How pleased!
how blessed He must have felt to see the handiwork of His creation.
Can you imagine the adventures He planned for us?
When Columbus first sailed and the earth became round in our minds
Sit back with Him on His throne or ride with chariotÂ’s wings
as He watches the play He has made
His heart wrenching with our tragedies
and soaring with our triumphs
but knowing, always knowing
and hoping that we will choose Him
Can you see His joy when we discover the hidden secrets of our world
when the mysteries of fire and light and heat are made known to us
when the infinite miracles of our bodies, just clay but so much more
are explored as the depths of the oceans or the black of space
Blank pages becoming the stories of our lives
Even now, can you see Him in the laboratory peeking over a shoulder
peering through a microscope on the verge of a discovery
His breath is held still
awaiting the moment when we rear back in sudden understanding
when we get a glimpse of what He knows
Can you see His smile when we studied the birds
took our first flight
see Him beside us in his chariot of fire booming with laughter
at the pure joy of it
Wasn't He center stage when moon dust coated our boots
and we had inched a little closer to Him in His heaven
Beloved, can you see Him smiling and triumphant
when we see the mysteries He made for us
planned since before time began to share with us
just waiting for us to notice
Then, in a moment and yet a lifetime
after we've looked and seen and experienced
can you see His thudding heart
when we look up and notice His Son
when our eyes are full of the blood-spilt glory of Him
the Great I AM
can you imagine His welling heart of love
when we open to Him and return it
He waits for it . . . He longs for it
He planned for it all along . . .
Friday, June 16, 2006
I published my first short story! Check it out at http://infuzemag.com/creative/ under The Knitting Box.
If you haven't discovered it yet, Infuze Magazine is a really great source for artists. Here's what they say about themselves, "Infuze Magazine is about creative people and what they create -- art and entertainment such as film, music, novels & short stories, poetry, artwork, some television shows, comic books, and even video games. We make no distinction between "Christian" and "non-Christian," materials, leaving such labels to the discretion of the reader. But we will only cover creative work that has some measure of moral redeeming value." Homepage is http://infuzemag.com Enjoy!
If you haven't discovered it yet, Infuze Magazine is a really great source for artists. Here's what they say about themselves, "Infuze Magazine is about creative people and what they create -- art and entertainment such as film, music, novels & short stories, poetry, artwork, some television shows, comic books, and even video games. We make no distinction between "Christian" and "non-Christian," materials, leaving such labels to the discretion of the reader. But we will only cover creative work that has some measure of moral redeeming value." Homepage is http://infuzemag.com Enjoy!
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
A Glorified and Fulfilled Humanity
I have been listening to the audio book of “A History of God” by Karen Armstrong and am struck by the repetitive nature of man’s quest to become more than we are. It would seem that since the beginning, man has strived to attain godliness - power over our circumstances and fallen state by means only restricted by our imaginations. The thought that we need to believe in something greater than ourselves to transcend our own experience, a hope of a greater good, a belief in a place of eternity where there is no death, a connection with a powerful being that loves us, protects us and carries us through the pain and travails of life, seems universal and as deeply imbedded as our DNA.
But therein lies the trap. The first Biblical account of man trying to establish his own religion is found in the building of the Tower of Babel. “Come, let us build ourselves a city, with a tower that reaches to the heavens, so that we may make a name for ourselves and not be scattered over the face of the whole earth.” (Gen. 11:4) It then says that God came down to see the city and tower that they were making. I can just imagine Him coming down to look it over, impressed but saddened by their rebellion to come up with a religion that they made and controlled. It must have been a dangerous turning point in history, because God stepped in to stop them saying, “If as one people speaking the same language they have begun to do this, then nothing they plan to do will be impossible for them.” Again, God knows so much more than we do. He could have sent an earthquake and caused the tower to tumble, He could have caused their bricks not to dry in the sun, giving them nothing to build with, but He did something far more dramatic, far more reaching into the future. He assured that they couldn’t communicate, confusing their language so they could no longer understand each other. This effectively put a stop to a whole race of unified people starting a religion – for a time. It was only the beginning of our (and Satan’s) efforts to place other gods before Him.
Man invented gods they could understand, relatable with every-day life – gods of fertility, gods of war, gods of health, gods of life after death, gods of nature, tribal gods and household gods. Imagine living your life trying to please all these gods, trying to gain their favor so that they could affect the circumstances of your situation. Imagine the sacrifices (possibly your own children), the fear, the emotional ups and downs depending on whether or not you were “doing it right” so that they might notice you and move something in some heavenly realm for your sake. Is anyone else thinking . . . slavery?
In listening to this CD, I have been struck by my own compulsion to manipulate my God, Jehovah. This last year has been a real test of faith and patience for me, waiting, waiting, waiting for what I hope and believe is my calling to come into being. I’ve had moments of peace and days of doubt, times of faith and times of hopeless, depressive thoughts. As I’ve lived these up and downs, I am horrified to realize that I behave no differently than these previous races. That I have changed God into a god. I’ve begged and fasted, prayed and sprawled face-down on my bedroom carpet in an effort to make Him who I wanted Him to be for me at the time. God help me, God fix this, God intervene on my behalf (in the way I think He should), God take away this trial, God pacify me with some scrap of encouragement. As usual, my thinking is upside down and based on my emotions at the time. Instead, I should be praying, Your will be done, thank-you for never leaving me or forsaking me, Lord I will trust You, I will keep my eyes on You, I will follow You.
Our God, the one true God, is nothing like the false gods of past and present generations. He can’t be manipulated and controlled because He has something that none of those other gods have. Our God is Love. He is love. He . . . is . . . love. The essence of love, the look of love, the feel of love, the sovereignty of love, the majesty of love, the glory of love, an incomprehensible Being of love. His love is beyond anything our imaginations could ever fathom or craft or reach. His love is worthy of our trust. And, for reasons I don’t know, He decided to create us . . . to create me. He is my Creator. I don’t have to manipulate this God of love to move heaven and earth on my behalf. He already has. I just have to believe in it. And if those people in the past could bow down and worship a golden calf, something I know doesn’t have any power because it was created lower than man, then why do I struggle to believe in an all knowing, all powerful, all loving maker of me.
I have been listening to the audio book of “A History of God” by Karen Armstrong and am struck by the repetitive nature of man’s quest to become more than we are. It would seem that since the beginning, man has strived to attain godliness - power over our circumstances and fallen state by means only restricted by our imaginations. The thought that we need to believe in something greater than ourselves to transcend our own experience, a hope of a greater good, a belief in a place of eternity where there is no death, a connection with a powerful being that loves us, protects us and carries us through the pain and travails of life, seems universal and as deeply imbedded as our DNA.
But therein lies the trap. The first Biblical account of man trying to establish his own religion is found in the building of the Tower of Babel. “Come, let us build ourselves a city, with a tower that reaches to the heavens, so that we may make a name for ourselves and not be scattered over the face of the whole earth.” (Gen. 11:4) It then says that God came down to see the city and tower that they were making. I can just imagine Him coming down to look it over, impressed but saddened by their rebellion to come up with a religion that they made and controlled. It must have been a dangerous turning point in history, because God stepped in to stop them saying, “If as one people speaking the same language they have begun to do this, then nothing they plan to do will be impossible for them.” Again, God knows so much more than we do. He could have sent an earthquake and caused the tower to tumble, He could have caused their bricks not to dry in the sun, giving them nothing to build with, but He did something far more dramatic, far more reaching into the future. He assured that they couldn’t communicate, confusing their language so they could no longer understand each other. This effectively put a stop to a whole race of unified people starting a religion – for a time. It was only the beginning of our (and Satan’s) efforts to place other gods before Him.
Man invented gods they could understand, relatable with every-day life – gods of fertility, gods of war, gods of health, gods of life after death, gods of nature, tribal gods and household gods. Imagine living your life trying to please all these gods, trying to gain their favor so that they could affect the circumstances of your situation. Imagine the sacrifices (possibly your own children), the fear, the emotional ups and downs depending on whether or not you were “doing it right” so that they might notice you and move something in some heavenly realm for your sake. Is anyone else thinking . . . slavery?
In listening to this CD, I have been struck by my own compulsion to manipulate my God, Jehovah. This last year has been a real test of faith and patience for me, waiting, waiting, waiting for what I hope and believe is my calling to come into being. I’ve had moments of peace and days of doubt, times of faith and times of hopeless, depressive thoughts. As I’ve lived these up and downs, I am horrified to realize that I behave no differently than these previous races. That I have changed God into a god. I’ve begged and fasted, prayed and sprawled face-down on my bedroom carpet in an effort to make Him who I wanted Him to be for me at the time. God help me, God fix this, God intervene on my behalf (in the way I think He should), God take away this trial, God pacify me with some scrap of encouragement. As usual, my thinking is upside down and based on my emotions at the time. Instead, I should be praying, Your will be done, thank-you for never leaving me or forsaking me, Lord I will trust You, I will keep my eyes on You, I will follow You.
Our God, the one true God, is nothing like the false gods of past and present generations. He can’t be manipulated and controlled because He has something that none of those other gods have. Our God is Love. He is love. He . . . is . . . love. The essence of love, the look of love, the feel of love, the sovereignty of love, the majesty of love, the glory of love, an incomprehensible Being of love. His love is beyond anything our imaginations could ever fathom or craft or reach. His love is worthy of our trust. And, for reasons I don’t know, He decided to create us . . . to create me. He is my Creator. I don’t have to manipulate this God of love to move heaven and earth on my behalf. He already has. I just have to believe in it. And if those people in the past could bow down and worship a golden calf, something I know doesn’t have any power because it was created lower than man, then why do I struggle to believe in an all knowing, all powerful, all loving maker of me.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Copyright 2006 Elena Feliciano
http://stores.ebay.com/THE-BEEHIVE-ART-BOUTIQUE
Yeah! It's finally Spring! Here's a fun poem I wrote for Spring.
Ode to the Spring Shoe
Fun and flirty, pattern curvy
Ballerina sweet, flat feet
Beaded toes or tiny sweet bows
Home – slippers – cozy treat
Leather and suede, sashay raid
Swishing skirts, major flirts
Wedges in florals and mints and corals
Sassy sandals – painted toe feat
Girly and twirly, clunky and chunky
Python, croc, real and moc
Metal and stone, from black to bone
Young and old, ensemble complete
Church classic, Easter time basket
Cotton candy, Barbie-doll fancy
Textures unfurl on a good little girl
Mothers and daughters, head to toe treat
Sling-backs and strappy, energy sappy
The pump, the grind, the 5 o’clock mind
Pointy or round, that click-clacking sound
Bold and cold, power feet
Toes peeping out, round walk-about
Vampy high-flying, cute low-sighing
Heads turning, instep burning
The one hour moment, disco dancy beat
Thong sexy, racy – colors gone crazy
Credit card maxing, Rodeo Drive trancing
Stiletto, heart racing, long-leg chasing
A night to turn up the heat.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Without Gravity
“First this: God created the Heavens and Earth – all you see, all you don’t see,” (Genesis 1:1, The Message Bible, Eugene H. Peterson, italics mine). When I think of the creation week, I automatically think of the obvious – light/dark, sun/moon, animals/man, but God created a whole system of life, a system that often works in the invisible. As time has marched on we’ve discovered some of God’s invisible world: germs, bacteria, molecules and atoms, electromagnetic waves, light, wind . . . We’ve all felt and seen the power of this invisible force. Wind can be harnessed for our good but can also bring wreckage and havoc. Wind can be terrifying.
My mom fell today. This was the third fall in a year and they’ve all brought difficulties that she hasn’t had to suffer before. The first fall was from a ladder at work, causing neck, back and foot pain. The second was a small, tripping fall in a restaurant that wrenched the same foot, making her work in retail excruciating. She’s gone the rounds of doctors and physical therapy, did her exercises and taken her meds, okay, taken some of her meds. Who wants to be doped up all of the time? But today she fell in the parking lot on the way to work. Three days into spring and we get a big snowstorm. Great. I can picture her getting out of her car, clinging to it for as long as possible and then taking a few tentative steps onto the ice. She prayed, she always prays, but bam, she falls on her back hitting her right side, her knee swells up in two places, her whole body quickly grows stiff and painful. “I’m a little stoved up,” she tells me on the phone. “Did you go home and rest?” I demand. “No, no, they needed me.” She still works her shift.
I’m mad about this. Where is her protection? I don’t know a better woman, a better Christian. I can’t blame it on some weakness, except the obvious weakness of growing older; I can’t blame it on some besetting sin. She depends on God for everything in her life. I can blame it on the devil, and I do, but that doesn’t seem to be helping much.
As I’m praying for her today, praying for a miracle again, I start to think about gravity, about the unseen that God has created, and I wonder, “God, couldn’t you lighten the gravity in her small space in the universe for little while? Just enough so that when she walks she feels like she’s floating. You know, take away the external pressure bearing down on her so her body can heal?” Seems a little crazy, but that got me thinking about miracles.
Maybe that’s what miracles are. Maybe miracles are moments when God suspends His natural laws to right some wrong, correct a misstep, bridge a gap between the seen and the unseen. Jesus controlled the wind to safeguard his disciples and prove He was the Son of God. Doesn’t that prove that He’s not opposed to superseding His own natural laws if He wants to? Maybe, just maybe there are new ways to pray for miracles, ways we can barely get our minds around.
The Bible says His grace is sufficient, but what does that mean, really? What does grace look like? What does it feel like? People say all the time that God will give you grace, trust in God’s grace or pray for grace. Which brings to my mind a gritting of the teeth and waiting it out. The Webster’s dictionary says that grace is, “divine love and protection given to man by God.” That sounds good, doesn’t it? But I like some of the other definitions too, “good will, favor . . . a temporary exemption, as from paying a debt, a reprieve.” I like that one. How about, “seemingly effortless beauty, ease, and charm of movement, form, or proportion.” Wow, that sounds a lot like life without gravity.
So Lord, I pray for grace for my mother. Won’t you give her a reprieve . . . a temporary exemption from the laws of gravity? Won’t you put effortless beauty and ease back into her steps? Won’t you proportion her body to be in perfect alignment? Like the twelve she is a disciple, one of Your chosen daughters, so I humbly ask that you protect her from gravity. Lord, won’t You keep her from falling down?
Sunday, February 19, 2006
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