A Writer's Prayer From "The Valley of Vision"

If you follow me on facebook or twitter, you might know my love and affection for a little paperback, first published in 1975, called The Valley of Vision - A Collection of Puritan Prayers & Devotions. I try to share a few lines every Monday in a #mondaydevotion.

We have so much to learn from the spiritual giants who came before us. It was their wise and timeless words that guided my thoughts in a right and fitting prayer over my writing today.

Thy cause, not my own, engages my heart. 
Not my name, my reputation, my followers, my talent, or my success. Neither is perfection my cause, because I don't have it in me to make the story perfect. It will be full of mistakes, theological and artistic. The world may scorn it, but to the one who's eyes are open, or whose eyes are soon to be opened, it will make the Lord and his dealings with his people something beautiful. That's my hope, my prayer, and the cause which engages my heart.

And I appeal to thee with greatest freedom to set up thy kingdom in every place where Satan reigns.
There is no time and no place like the one I'm living in right now. No freer citizen of an earthly kingdom existed. I have so much time, so much access to information, so many avenues to proclaim his name, and so much freedom to do it without fear of persecution.

Glorify thyself and I shall rejoice, for to bring honour to thy name is my soul desire.
Lord, make this so in my heart, which is so dark, so bent toward my own glory. Destroy my pride so these words are always on my lips, so my joy is in you alone.

I adore thee that thou art God, and long that others should know it, feel it, and rejoice in it.
Lord, make my heart to ache for the lost, for my soul to weep over them, for my grief to be inconsolable. Let that be what drives me finish this work.

...To the eye of reason everything respecting the conversion of others is as dark as midnight, but thou canst accomplish great things.
My words, my story, are as refuse to much of the world. I am incompetent at best to tell the story I long to tell, and have it be used to soften hard hearts. Yet you can accomplish great things through feeble hands if you desire. It is only for me to stay faithful to the task and lay it at your feet to use or discard as you will.

The cause is thine and it is to thy glory that men should be saved.
Not mine. Not mine. Heaven forbid I would try to rob you of your glory.

Lord use me as thou wilt, do with me what thou wilt, but, O, promote thy cause, let thy kingdom come, let thy blessed interest be advanced in this world!
How good of God to put a version of this prayer on my ignorant, faltering lips many years ago when I first began to write. And how sweet of him to set my eyes on these words, written and preserved by men much smarter, holier, and closer to the Lord than me. How I praise him for this, and for his word which never changes.

Give me to grasp for multitudes of souls, and let me be willing to die to that end.
Can I truly make these words my own? Do I even understand them, after a lifetime of worshiping, working, praying, and writing whatever I please, without fear of persecution in America? The people whose story I long to tell were willing to die for this. Am I? If the world grows dark, and some wicked ruler puts my neck in a noose for the words I write, would I say, "Yes, those are my words."? Lord grant me the courage I require should that day come.

And while I live let me labour for thee to the utmost of my strength, spending time profitably in this work, both in health and in weakness.
O, how I need him every hour, every minute, every second, to stop my mind from being distracted, and my hands from being idle. There is so much in this world that seeks to destroy my productivity. Let me labor, Lord, to my dying day, stringing words together, crafting stories which honor you, if it pleases you to have me do it. And if it doesn't, take this longing from me, and set my heart on another.

Amen.

Why I Write: Young Adult

Continuing my summer series on Why I Write.

Last week I explained Why I Write: Fiction.

Today I'll tell you Why I Write: Young Adult (or YA). I didn't intend to write YA when I began. I was reading a lot of Francine Rivers and Deanne Gist back then, and beginners emulate. It's the way of many creative pursuits.

Well into my first draft I began to have some doubts. Was my character too young? Were her problems too juvenile? Were her friends too immature? Near the halfway point, I had a sudden, liberating realization: I was actually writing YA.

This freed me in many ways, and excited me. I have always loved YA. My favorite course in college was Dr. Shively's YA Lit class, where I was reintroduced to brilliant authors like Lois Lowry, Chris Crutcher, S.E. Hinton, Sandra Sisneros, Harper Lee, and L.M Montgomery. I had read their books as a kid, but now, studying them as an adult, their work became something new, fascinating, and wonderful to me.

They speak a different literary language. They're frank, bold, and unapologetically serious about problems that plague young adults.

They don't shy away from topics, or water things down. I love that. They don't talk down to their audience, or assume their young readers need words, sentences, issues, or stories simplified. They respect their audience, and the stage of life their audience is in.

Young readers need that. I needed that.

I was such a confused, love-sick, angst-filled young reader myself. I know this because I left a paper trail of all my confusion and heartache. I desperately needed to know I was not alone. I needed to know God was still real, and he was still near; still active and working in my life and in the world.

It was a time of questioning, and doubting, and seeking answers in the wrong place, and being so darn sure about every single thing I decided was true. It was a time of rebellion, of taking risks, of making mistakes. It was when I realized how important friendship was, and now that I'm an adult, I see how important my choice of friends was.

Most tragically, it was a time when I was obsessed with trying to figure out what would make me happy. The world was constantly shoving down my youthful throat that my happiness was all that mattered. Not my parents, not my future, and certainly not God.

"Do whatever makes you happy," is Satan's battle cry. It's an insidious command that leads to irreparably broken relationships. Young adults are so dangerously susceptible to it. Even faithful young adults.

That's why I write YA.

This question of personal happiness is my character's biggest struggle. It's why she teeters on the edge of a family that expects her to obey, and why she might miss out on sharing in their great destiny on the Mayflower. She believes obedience will lead to a life of misery, and she has an opportunity to leave her family and seek her own happiness. Will she take it? Will her desire for what she thinks will make her happy win in the end? What will become of her if she chooses happiness over duty, sacrifice, and perseverance?

Readers, even young readers, who have much to learn about consequences know the answers. They know her desire for happiness will lead her down a dark path, even though they may despise her father for saying it. They still know.

It's different to see this play out in someone else's life rather than one's own. An observer can see more clearly, with less emotion.

Readers will (I hope) yearn for her to choose obedience, to see her make the treacherous ocean crossing with her family, and watch her persevere with the rest of them in the New World.

And my earnest, constant prayer, is that readers will be encouraged by this story, so that when the time comes for them to choose obedience or happiness, they will be ready, strengthened, and buoyed. Capable of seeing the grand scheme, the next step, the joy to be had in a life of steady perseverance.

Why I Write

It's summer (no stay-at-home-mom of school-aged kids needs this reminder). It has not been a season of prolific creativity and productivity for me. More like road trips, incessant bickering, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. That's okay. I'm forever grateful for these years, and for my presence in them. I'm not complaining. But I do miss writing. It's been weeks since I've had those long, quiet, isolated hours before the screen. All I have time for right now are quick bursts of words, dumped into a blog in the early morning hours before the monsters begin to stir in their lairs.

I needed something easy, something to get the juices flowing, something to get me writing. Writing about writing is about the easiest thing there is for a writer, so here it is: a summer series on Why I Write.

Why I Write Fiction, Why I Write Young Adult, Why I Write Historical, and others are planned and coming shortly.

Today, I'll tell you simply why I write.

1. I enjoy it. 

Every part of it. I love to feel the throb of a story aching to coming out, and the gush of words when I finally put fingers to the keyboard. I love the fine-tuning, the hours spent staring at a paragraph, a line, a word, even when I return to it the next day and decide to delete it.

I also love the hard, intellectual labor, the constant refining, and the continuous learning. I know I'll never know all there is to know about writing, and that knowledge pushes me, awakens me, and drives me.

It gives me something to work at until it's finished. I know what I'm going to do every day, from the moment I wake up.

It gives me purpose. It makes me feel useful to my Lord, who has given me the luxury of time, freedom, and a gift with words.

2. It keeps me close to the Lord. 

Not because I think writing, in and of itself, is so noble and godly a thing to do, but because I'm constantly talking to him about it. Is this a fitting labor? I ask. Does it please You? Take this dream from me if it's not from You, I beg him.

I ask for practical things too: for my time to be well-used, to be kept from distraction, for Him to show me what's missing, and what to cut.

I confess my sin to him: my pride, my shame, my hesitancy, my laziness, my fear of man.

When I get frustrated by what I perceive to be silence, as I often do, I back away from writing. I can't help it. My confidence wains, my work slows, my heart constricts.

And like clockwork, my prayer life dries up.

But I am always (so far) pulled back somehow to the labor of writing, and with it, I return to praying as I should.

I realize anew with every return, that if my writing never amounts to anything in the wide world, if it never yields earthly fruit that I can see, and taste, and spend, it doesn't matter. My writing bears the kind of fruit that matters to God. It keeps my heart tuned to His grace, mercy, and sovereignty.

3. I can't not. 

Writing is quite possibly the most all-consuming activity I could have undertaken. Even when I have to remove myself from the screen and do normal things that normal people do, I'm consumed by writing. I may have a day that's full with bible study, and picking up my husband's uniform at the cleaner's, and shopping for ingredients to make minestrone soup and homemade bread for my friend who just had a baby, but all those things are punctuated by thoughts of my story. Dialogue streams through my mind as I drive. I feel the sun on my character's skin when I feel it on my own. I use my one precious hour alone to unload it all into the Word document, and read it over fourteen times to make sure I like it.


Whether or not God does anything with it, I think, for me, there will always be writing. It's a part of who I am. It's a part of how I function. The tap has been turned on, and it flows constantly for me.



And that's why I write.

The Value of Keeping a Journal

Thinking today about the importance of telling my own story as it's happening, instead of retroactively. There's something useful about that, I think. Not knowing how the story will end, but telling it anyway.

I've been a nearly lifelong journaler, though not with any sort of rigorous discipline. I do it when I feel like it. Sometimes I write two days in a row. Sometimes a week goes by. Sometimes a year. Somehow I've managed to fill several volumes over the years. These are the ones I've managed to preserve.

In the green box at the top of the heap are my earliest scratchings when I was an angst-filled, love-starved teenager. I didn't have a fancy book with a built-in ribbon bookmark back then. It was simply lined paper ripped from a spiral notebook in which I also did homework, folded up, and tucked away some place where no one would find it.

I don't know how they survived intact and unread all these years, but I found them this morning, stuffed in a storage bin in my closet, the breathings of my 17 year old heart, and I read them for the first time in nearly 20 years. When I plucked a random folded paper from the box, unfolded it, read my old bubbly script, tried to recall my world, my circumstances, and my heart, I cringed, as you might imagine.

It was painful to see how confused I was about the world, how obsessed I was with trying to figure out what would make me happiest, and especially, how far I was from God.

I was headed down what, I am confident now in saying, was a path to destruction. I was dating a boy I had no business going out with, probably as an act of rebellion against my parents, who I was sure were disappointed in me, and who, I frequently admitted in my writing, had no reason to be proud of me. It was also a rebellion against my sister, who had been doing things right, and was about to be married to a wonderful man.

I suppose you could call it a self-fulfilling prophecy. A head-first dive into a whirlpool in which I would be sucked voluntarily into a downward spiral. My shame in my poor decisions was compounded by each deliberate step I took down that path. And when shame doesn't result in repentance, it turns into something altogether different: contempt, anger, haughtiness, and pride.

I wrote many rambling pages before and during my relationship with this boy, justifying, rationalizing, and explaining why it was okay. Despite the youthful bluster, there is a sadness in my writing. A reigning cluelessness, a desperation to avoid pain and regret.

I spent a lot of time thinking (I had forgotten this) about moving out of my parents' house before I graduated. I had a job, after all (in 1997 minimum wage was about $5.15 an hour). And the people I had been hanging around--the family of this boy--were my picture of what this life looked like, which, in a word, was poverty.

But I didn't care. I wanted to be independent. I wanted to be away from my parents. I didn't see it at the time, but now I recognize that what I really desired was to be done feeling ashamed, which I felt every time they looked at me, or tried to talk to me.

That was a powerful longing, but there was a still more powerful being at work in me, and I didn't even know it.

I broke up with the boy before summer was over, though I feared he would probably never talk to me again (he didn't). I wrote on one of these folded up papers, "I don't know what changed. I just see things differently now."

That chapter ended--just like that. The page was turned and a new chapter began. Within a year I would be far away from that town and that life, studying for a teaching degree, and reconciled to my parents. I didn't pull myself out of that pit by my own maturity, wisdom, clarity, or strength. I had none of that. I was dragged out by my collar with a mighty hand, unwitting and unwilling, by a God who had already ordained my eventual salvation.

It would be another 6 years, a college education, a husband, a teaching position, and a child, before I would be converted. But the work was begun during that awful time of rebellion. My journaling revealed that to me.

God saved me by his restraining grace and I didn't even want it at the time. He took me off that path of destruction and set me on a path that will ultimately culminate in righteousness, and I can take no credit for it.

How I thanked him this morning when I read those cringe-inducing words of my youth. How grateful I am that he prompted me to write them down, even while I was in the pit, with no desire to get out of it, so that I could, 20 years later, sit on the floor of my closet, with tears in my eyes, praising him for the good work he began in me so long ago.

That's why I spend my days writing and editing a fictional story for young adults. It's why my heroine is 17 years old, why her heart churns with the same dangerous concoction of pride and shame that mine did so many years ago. It's why she teeters on the edge of a family that expects more of her, and comes dangerously close to missing out on sharing their great destiny.

This story is my witness to the world, in the way I know best how to communicate. It's my testimony to the faithfulness of God, my response to his saving grace.

Where would I be if he hadn't pulled me from that path of destruction?

Where would any of us be?

What's your story?

How are you sharing it?

20 Things That Matter More Than the Almighty Book Deal

When you have a voice inside your head that whispers, "You should write a book," and won't shut up until you do what it says, it's hard to believe there is anything more revered, more longed for, more dreamed of, than the Almighty Book Deal.

Almost every writer who makes it to this point is still facing years--YEARS--of waiting. The journey looks different for everyone, but the waiting is universal. In time, you grow weary of worshiping at the alter of the Almighty Book Deal, and become discouraged that the sacrifice of your time, imagination, and sanity may not be enough to appease its voracious appetite.

Take heart, Aspiring Author. Here is a list of 20 things that matter more than the Almighty Book Deal (ABD).

1. Obedience. You were called to write this book, as crazy at it sounds to your family and friends. You obeyed the call when you typed, "Chapter One," and when you followed those words with 70,000 more. Stay obedient to it now.

2. Humility. I'm going to be honest with you. If you recently typed, "The End," and have only read it a second or third time all the way through, it still sucks. Even if your mom told you it was great. The sound of crickets coming from the literary agency isn't a sign that you should give up and close the file forever. It's just a timely dose of humility. Swallow it and get busy fixing what you did wrong in the first draft.

3. Relationship with other writers. You probably started writing, in part, because you're an introvert. Worry not. You don't have to go far to leave your cocoon. For writers, email and social media can be as valuable (sometimes more so) as a cup of coffee and a conversation across a real-life table. Seek out writer friends, unpublished ones for the mutual critique and camaraderie, and published ones for the mountains of knowledge, wisdom, and experience they bring. Don't count anyone out and give back as much as you know how to give.

4. Feedback. Yes, feedback matters more than the ABD. By the time you have the book deal, it's too late to fix the problems your readers will notice. Get as much feedback as possible. Accept it with grace. Even if you don't agree. Even if it makes you angry. Fix the problems and then get some more feedback.

5. Rejection. It stings, I know. Think of it as athletic conditioning. The first workout makes your muscles scream and burn, and you would rather die than go back for more. Go back anyway. The next time it hurts a little less. And the next time you notice you're stronger. Keep going back for more. The goal is to be lean and ripped, and you won't get there until you begin to look forward to the pain, because you understand the benefit of going through it. Let the rejections pile up. Take a little pride in each one, knowing how it has served to strengthen your spine and thicken your skin.

6. Perseverance. This one is no joke. My own engine has sputtered and died on occasion, and for a variety of reasons: a rejection, an illness, a negative critique, a season of busyness that kept my mind far from my stories. It leaves me drifting and listless and disinterested. It's a dangerous place to stay because this is when it seems logical to give up. After all, who would know? It's not like you have an editor beating your door down for the next chapter. But it can also be a time of clarity. When your drive to finish has stalled, and your craving for the ABD is diminished, you can see more clearly why you've been working at this for so long, how far you've come, and how messed up it would be to quit now. Don't quit. Call a friend to give you a jump and get that engine to turn over asap.

7. Time to make it better. There's no substitute for time. Use it well. An artist's work is never really finished anyway. These aren't Bob Ross paintings, a stroke here, and a happy little tree there, and in thirty minutes, you've got a complete masterpiece. Up close those things are a hot mess. Writing is 1% creating, and 99% editing. It's cutting away large chunks, tightening up sloppy dialogue, and cleaning the mess you left in the first draft. So, let the time pass, get busy, and trust me: It. Can. Always. Be. Better.

8. Growth. As a writer, yes, but also as a human being. People who achieve success too easily are stunted. It ruins them. Embrace growth.

9. Time away from the screen. After the ABD you will be a slave to deadlines, edits, social media, marketing, book tours, and blog tours. You're not there yet. So, step away from the screen. It's ok. No one has to know. Go for a walk. Mop the kitchen floor (if that's your thing). Journal about something no one will ever see. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts.

10. Maturity. It took a stint in federal prison for Prison Fellowship founder, Chuck Colson, to realize that nothing is more important than the maturing of the soul. Not wealth, not prosperity, not pleasure. Not even the ABD.

11. Prayer. Almost nothing is better for your prayer life than waiting, wondering, and striving toward something you think God has called you to. He will not grow tired of hearing your musings to him on the subject of the ABD. Write these prayers down and watch them change over time as you grow and mature in all ways.

12. Pleading. Like the deer that pants for the stream, plead with God to take from you this dream, and set your heart on another, if he desires that you do something else with your time and talents. When you find, day after day, that your heart is still tuned to it, plead with him to go with your on your journey, wherever it takes you. Plead with him to delay the ABD, slowing you down if your pride is likely to take you farther than he wants you to go. Plead with him to open doors of his choosing and to close others, and to help you in the fight to stay humble and obedient through every small victory.

13. Small victories. Celebrate every positive critique, every tough chapter you labor through to the end, and especially those long awaited words: "The End." Take note of the little gifts of divine inspiration that serve to reveal things in your writing you didn't see before. Let it encourage you to keep going, and fill you with hope that this labor is not all for nothing.

14. Acceptance. Another rejection, another contest lost, another year passed with nothing tangible to show for it. You're no closer than you were this time last year. The answer from God is, "Not yet." Accept it. Move on. There's no point arguing with him about the timing.

15. Contentment. Make your peace with what you've been forced to accept. This is how far as he's brought you, and this is where you'll stay for a little while longer. "Godliness with contentment is great gain." 1 Timothy 6:6

16. Self-sacrifice. It's so hard to pour so much of yourself into something no one else seems to care about. So many hours lost to dreaming, typing, staring out the window, perfecting a character's expression. The creative mind is a burden, churning constantly, leaving you in a fog while you perform daily responsibilities. It isn't normal to space off at Thanksgiving dinner, creating dialogue based on the bickering of your relatives, or to fantasize about visiting historical/exotic locales all by yourself. It's a lonely and secretive life. There's a cost to it. Give of yourself for something that will be much larger than you.

17. Introspection. Sometimes it feels like a punch in the throat to have to ask yourself, "Why am I even doing this?" after years of what feels an awful lot like wasted effort. But sometimes it's good to go back to the beginning, to remember why you started, to follow the thread of this thing you've been pursuing, and to look down and see your fist still firmly clenched around that thread.

18. God's presence. It's worth more than holding your work in your hands, seeing your name on the spine, more than royalties, more than winning a contest, or landing an agent, or the ABD. It just is.

19. God's sovereignty. Despite the Disney Channel's message that "if you work hard, your dreams will come true," it may not be God's will for you, or for me, to get the ABD. That has to be ok. No amount of waiting, or editing, or pleading for it will change God's already made up mind. How can you or I do anything but fall down before this holy, majestic, omnipotent God, who is so gracious to make our little lives matter?

20. God's glory. If I am focused solely on going after my own glory (which, let's face it, is what the ABD really is), I will not have eyes to see God's handiwork. Don't misunderstand. It is possible to balance excellence and ambition with godly humility. You can stay humble without staying hidden. Your talent can be valued and even celebrated without vainglorious self-promotion. You can strive toward excellence without being proud. You can work to hone and improve your skill without being self-obssessed. You do have to step back from yourself, your creation, your desires, your effort, your fear, your insecurity. Let your journey be interrupted. Let it go on longer than you expected. Let it sanctify you and glorify him. Let him worry about the ABD.

Hope to Keep Writing: Editing and Answered Prayers

I am in the editing stages of my second first WIP (that might actually become something worth reading). I've gone chapter by painstaking chapter, submitting them to my critique partners for the last seven months. That's probably twice as long as it took to write the first draft.

But first drafts are like this:

Not that it isn't hard. It is. But editing is sifting through all that sand. It's throwing out pieces of broken sea shell, scooping away big chunks of superfluous sand, and going in with a tiny brush to carve elaborate turrets, windows, brick facade, maybe even a moat to go around it that you didn't think to add before.

It's laborious, sometimes tedious. Some days I sit at the screen and stare at the same paragraph for three hours, and I don't know what to do with it until after I've left the computer in frustration and started doing the dishes, which have sat by the sink since breakfast because I was in a hurry to begin the day's editing.

But sometimes there are magical little moments, when I discover a gem I didn't know was there, and editing becomes exciting and energizing and I think maybe I'm on to something after all.

I was mulling over a chapter the other day, really struggling with it, knowing it wasn't where I wanted it to be. I read a line, maybe for the twentieth time since writing it. It wasn't an important line. It didn't stand out in any way. I stared at it until I saw the word, "her." Just a simple pronoun. It probably occurs 1000 times in the manuscript. But this one was different. It added a layer of meaning to the sentence I didn't fully understand when I wrote it, not even when I read it the first nineteen times. This day I saw it for what it meant. "Her," and no one else. Not the whole family.
Just her.
Plot twist.
New motive.
How exciting!
I added one more pithy line beneath it, a line of dialogue, which reveals a great deal about the character of the father, a characteristic the girl doesn't know yet, but the reader does. Now.

I've made maybe half a dozen little discoveries like this during the editing process. The light bulb goes on over a word or phrase, revealing a plot twist (usually a plot hole), and things come together in a beautiful new way.

I don't usually take any special note of these moments. I just squirm in my seat, rub my hands together, and smile wickedly as I type on.

I took note of this one because it felt distinctly like something outside myself, something smarter than myself, had a hand in that. I know there are lots of writers in the great big world who have these moments, but I am always praying over my writing, so when something like this happens, I wonder if God is answering my prayer to show me things I can't see. And then I wonder if God's hand is actually in my creative work, and if I'm being obedient to His calling, not mine, and if He's blessing me for it. I wonder if He's guiding me to the next step. I begin to think that this is not all for nothing.

It could all be my imagination, but it gives me hope. It makes me crave more time with my computer. It drives me to keep at it, even when I have normal things that normal people do that get in the way. I may have a day that's full with bible study, and picking up the dry cleaning, and stopping by the store to pick up ingredients for a meal for my friend who just had a baby. But all those normal things are punctuated by thoughts of my story. Dialogue streaming through my mind as I drive, feeling the sun on my character's skin when I feel it on mine, and using my one precious hour alone to unload it all in the Word document, and read it over four times to make sure I like it.

Whether or not God does anything with it, I think, for me, there will always be writing. It is a part of who I am. It is a part of how I function. The tap has been turned on and it flows constantly for me.

Lament of the Christian Artist

Overwhelmed today with the question--AGAIN--of what God has promised me. I'm studying the story of Balaam and his donkey, which I did not want to study this week. I put it off again and again. I even wrinkled my nose at it when I saw it sitting by my computer, and checked facebook instead. I finished it without putting forth too much effort and went to bible study not really understanding it, not sure what God was saying to Israel, or to me, with the exception of his steadfast promise: Blessed are you, my people; I am sovereign over every single thing. There was, I admit, a bit of a *yawn* response from me. It's the same word from God week after week, chapter after chapter.

But as I listened to my friends answer the same questions with such profound insight, I sat up a little straighter and reread some of those prophecies from Numbers

"The God who can predict outcomes is the God who is the author of history," my teaching leader said.

I believe this about my God. With all my heart, I believe this. But the old, persistent question came to me, like a dilapidated neon sign that blinks and splutters but never quite goes out.

What did you promise me? Am I to understand your words in light of eternal victory? Or in light of my small life, which only has purpose because you give me a job to fulfill? Do you promise to use me as a writer of stories that are worthy to be read? Do you promise that I will become a published author? Is that your promise to me?

When I got to the car with these questions in my mind, I groaned and asked God if he was tired of hearing me ask because, frankly, I was tired of asking. "If this is not your promise to me," I prayed, tearing up as I drove down Abercorn, "take from me this dream and set my heart on another task, another mission, another way I can be used." I am willing to do that. I trust him for that.

But if it is his promise...if it is his promise, I will strive toward that for a decade more. Two decades. A lifetime. But I cannot spend a lifetime chasing a fool's errand. I must know if my prayers are the prayers of a self-aggrandizing bag of hot air, or a (semi) talented writer who really may one day achieve publication.

It struck me on the drive home: what if I'm not the faithful donkey, with his eyes to see the Lord's angel, but I am really Balaam, who is so single-minded, so determined to go his own way that he will beat the gentle faithful one into submission? How do I know I am not a diviner, trying to create the path I want, and blind to the path God has actually set me on? How do I know the set backs and discouragements aren't the voice of the donkey, who sees more clearly than I, that God himself is blocking the way?

"The story of Balaam abounds in comic irony," my commentary says, and I suppose if I were a Jew, a recipient of the promise, on the other side of victory with Moab, I would see the humor in it. Though the promised Redeemer has come, and God's completed Word sits open in my lap, I don't know who I am in this story.

Have I kicked someone under me? Neglected them? Despised them for interrupting my course, for keeping me from my writing desk, and my pursuit of my own glory?

I want to say that I am not Balaam. Balaam sold his soul for riches from Moab and died by the sword because of it. Balaam was willing to take a bribe. Balaam exacted revenge through wicked means when he didn't get his way.

God knows my heart. He knows it beats for him. He doesn't really need me to tell him how desperate I am for a word from him, a hint of a promise, a glimmer that I have heretofore missed because I blinked.

In asking God for an answer, I am taking a risk. I did my best, most prolific writing when I was not concerned with agents and contests and contracts. For so long I have successfully pushed aside the fear that it would be wasted, that no one would ever read it. I have convinced myself to write something down, anything, even if it's terrible, knowing that I can go back and fix it later. It has been enough to keep my fingers on the keyboard through 4 1/2 manuscripts. All without knowing for certain if this was even God's plan for my life. Without the assurance that this is his promise to me.

I stubbornly hope despite the odds.

I look at books from the library sitting on my bedside table. I see their paper, their ink, their cardboard spine, covered in that awful plastic film. I see the cover art and the dedication and I think, "This is impossible." I'm just a housewife. A nobody. Every author was at one time, I suppose. Every author wrote a terrible first draft and stuck with it until it got better...and then the clouds parted, and the heavenly chorus sounded from above, and God set them on their path to the promised book deal.

I realize now that I am still on the pendulum that swings wildly from total narcissism to crushing self-doubt, only now it has become unhinged and swings in a new direction that is a combination of both. Narcissism and doubt.

I'm sick of thinking about it. I'm sick of thinking about myself.

I won't quit. It's not a question of my quitting. It's a habit now, to turn my brain to story mode in the car, or the shower, or on a walk, or lying in bed. There is a drive to finish that will keep me at the computer every available minute of the day, even if the answer is no.

Until I am sure the answer is no.

The things that have gotten me to this point, the ways God has worked things out for me, kept me encouraged, spared my crooked little flash drive, protected my time and my health, put inspiring things in front of me, kept my computer from crashing, built me up, torn me town, taken my hand as I rebuilt again, shown me things that made my work better, given me a husband who allows me to indulge in what I have always tried to pass off as a glorified hobby, plucked me out of my old life and set me down in one of calm, and peace, and ease, so that I have an over-abundance of time to develop my craft, which I have grown to love so much--I have not imagined these things. They are not the outworking of my over-confidence, or my ambition, or my own feeble attempts.

Can I say that being a writer--an actual, legitimate, recognized, (dare I say it?) published author--is his promise to me? A promise that I should fight and claw and scratch and sweat to obtain?

God has brought me to this point and until he tells me, "No," I am powerless to stop trying.

The Prayer of a Christian Writer

You know how hard I've worked. You've been there, all those dark, lonely hours while I pinged away at a keyboard. You helped me tell the story, sustained me with time, a computer that didn't crash, a crooked little flashdrive that has never been lost. You watched me type the first word and the last word, and You knew when I changed the first word through 16 revisions.

You know how my ego has swelled with every compliment and You know how hard I have fought the battle against pride. You've seen me struggle to make myself less when my heart cries out for recognition, admiration, and fawning praise. You know how I yearn for that "someone" to notice me and make my dreams of success come true.

Don't give it to me. The same way You denied Moses when he asked to see Your face in Exodus 33:18, because You knew it would be too much for him.

If You don't go with me on the difficult road to publication, don't send me. Don't let my ears be tickled with compliments that will skew my view of myself. Don't let me hear encouragement that will push me farther than You want me to go. Don't let others whisper empty promises that deliver false hope.

Just go with me. That's what I ask. You and me. Knowing You are there and You are pleased is worth more to me than a contract, more than the pleasure of seeing my words in print.

To be published, respected, and influential--those are good things and You will guide me toward that in Your time, in Your way. I am not like the others. There are talented aspiring writers in the great big world who don't know You. They clamber for attention and due praise, and buy followers, and fight for room on a tiny stage. But I do not cross my fingers for luck when I query. I do not receive rejection bitterly. I do not blame. I do not pout. I do not lose hope as long as You are with me.

Your ways are different and your presence separates me from the pack.

Your presence is all I truly want. More than success, more than royalties, more even than sincere praise. Because those things don't guide my steps. Those things don't linger. Those things don't care about the souls of my potential audience.

So, with humility, I ask for Your presence so that Your presence will supply the boldness I need to move forward in this pursuit.

Finding Grace in the Story of Joseph

If there is anyone in the Old Testament for us to root for, it's Joseph, that unlucky guy who was sold by his own brothers into slavery, and then falsely accused of attempted rape and imprisoned unjustly for it. We know that everything about this is unfair. He has gotten a punishment he doesn't deserve.

When a couple of men who personally know Pharaoh join him in prison, he thinks he's got a ticket out.

Joseph to Pharaoh's cup bearer:

Genesis 40:14 "And please remember me and do me a favor when things go well for you. Mention me to Pharaoh, so he might let me out of this place. 15 For I was kidnapped from my homeland, the land of the Hebrews, and now I’m here in prison, but I did nothing to deserve it.”

How many nights did Joseph stare at a rotting, festering ceiling and pray, with chains on his ankles, that God would free him? How many mornings did he wake to find that there was no answer? When he begs the cup bearer to plead with Pharaoh on his behalf it seems to be a move of desperation for Joseph, as if Pharaoh and not God has the power to free him. He is clinging to a spider's thread of hope that if God was willing, or perhaps if Pharaoh was willing, he might get to sink his toes into the desert sand as a free man again.

My heart breaks for him. I can't imagine the conditions of an ancient Egyptian prison where these human lives were worth less than livestock. But my heart doesn't break for the third prisoner, the baker, who is executed three days later in a disgusting and agonizing way, and I wonder why. Part of it is due to desensitization, thanks to a world history that makes impaling, beheading, drawing and quartering, gutting, and other horrific ways to die commonplace. But part of it is because I assume he was guilty of whatever he must have done to "offend his royal master" (Gen 40:1).

It is in our nature to want justice. The guilty should be punished. They get what they deserve.

But Joseph is guilty too, of his own offense. By chapter 40 we see a faithful, humble, intelligent Joseph, an endearing underdog who is no longer using dreams to tear people down, but to lift God up. But don't forget how we watched him in previous chapters goad his brothers to jealousy and hatred, (fueled also by their father) in a childish display of self-serving arrogance. Make no mistake. He is guilty too.

So, Joseph and the baker deserve the same fate, really. While we're at it, let's take this all the way to the top. Pharaoh deserves that fate too, as an unbelieving man, and I suppose his fate will ultimately be the same as the baker's, only it will likely be much less gruesome and will come much later. But what difference does it make how tidy your death is when it's what comes after that matters?

Pharaoh thinks it's his job, his prerogative, to administer this type of justice but that's just a game we humans play. God is over all. He's over life. He's over death. He's over dreams, and prisoners, and Pharaohs, and cup bearers who forget. He's over mercy and he's over judgment.

He was over Joseph at the close of this chapter, as Joseph faced another night staring up at that rotting, festering ceiling, with the chains still firmly clamped around his ankles.

When the time was right, God would act. He would not give Joseph the fate he deserved. Instead he would lavish mercy on Joseph. Before the end of the next chapter, Joseph would know freedom and luxury beyond what he imagined or dared to ask for during those late night prison prayers.

This is the kind of God we serve.

The kind who does not treat us as our sins deserve, but instead condescends to bend down to us, to hear our cries, and to deliver us from our chains, to exalt us in ways far greater than we can imagine.

Encouragement To Keep Writing

"Perhaps." 

Adverb. 1528. Possibly but not certainly.

"Perhaps the Lord will be with me," Caleb says in Joshua 14:12b. Which is it? Possibly? Or not certainly? Maybe or maybe not? If He is not with Caleb disaster will surely reign. Caleb will be defeated, probably humiliated.

I entered a writing contest last month.  I stumbled on it and I had just given my manuscript a read-through so I uploaded the doc and clicked submit before I could talk myself out of it.  I've been scared to submit it to actual publishers.  Scared of being rejected, of being criticized, of feeling foolish for trying.  Of doing it too soon, before the work is ready.  So, obviously it wasn't ready for a contest either but I prayed really, really hard that "perhaps" God would cause the judges to like my work. I thought it was good enough to at least place. Turns out it wasn't.  "Perhaps" turned out to be defeat.

I was discouraged the day they announced the top 30 and I went to bed without an email from them to say congratulations. My confidence wavered to the point where I wondered why I even do this. Why do I think up these stories and ping away at the keyboard of my mini-HP for hours and hours and hours? It was confirmed that my work was not that good (I even found simple, stupid flaws in it when I looked at it again) and I despaired.

I thought, perhaps...perhaps the words I string together are only intended to be shared with Him. Perhaps all the hours writing have been in vain. Perhaps God does not wish for me success the way I have defined it. Perhaps in 5 years I will look back on this time of floundering creativity and laugh at what I once thought possible.

Perhaps paralyzed me.

But I studied more closely the Joshua 14 passage and I saw that Caleb was not shrinking nor wavering in confidence. He approached Joshua with boldness, recounting all the ways God had been faithful to him over the years. He had equal boldness in facing the still uncertain future. Excitement even, energy and enthusiasm for what he expected God to do--what he was confident God would surely do.

Perhaps his "perhaps" wasn't a hesitating, self-defeating, doubt-filled request, but a proclamation of humble expectancy. Perhaps this is Caleb saying, "God is God and does not march to the tune of my fife.  It is He who makes the winds blow until the grasses bend and break under the howling, invisible force of it.  I am but a man who knows naught but what God has already done and what He promised so long ago."

Can I say the same thing?

God has done so much for me and I know his promise is this:

Yet I am confident I will see the Lord's goodness while I am here in the land of the living. Psalm 27:13

So maybe...what if...who knows?  Perhaps He is with me.  Perhaps He sees my efforts.  Perhaps He is in this fight with me. This fight to be heard, to bring Him glory, to get better at my craft, to get my words out into the world so that they would teach, edify, and uplift young readers who are barraged with words that tear Him down.

This is a fight that is so easy for Him to manipulate to His favor (it seems insurmountable to me but He is God after all). But how much would it please Him for me to go forth into the scary world of publishing, with everything I have, committing everything I do to Him? Trusting Him to help me when I cry out to Him for help, and patiently waiting for Him to act in His time, in His way?  Perhaps He delights to surprise His people with what He can do.  Perhaps "perhaps" is enough for me to venture my call on a God like this.

Perhaps the Lord is with me.

How God Comforts Through Grief

The Goodness of God in the Evening Breeze

Life is so good, sometimes I forget that God is under no obligation to make it so. This is where so many people get hung up on faith, I think: How can a God who is supposed to be good allow bad things to happen?  It's the burning question, isn't it?

We wonder about big things, of course, like cancer, war, famine, natural disaster, suffering on a grand scale, and the most ugly, fearsome father of it all: death.

But seemingly little, personal things are just as troubling, aren't they?
"I didn't get that job. Now look where we are."
"My friend betrayed me."
"I can't kick this illness/pain."
"The timing of this is just...awful."
Why, why, WHY?
My divorce.  My wayward kid.  My bully.  My addiction.  My inner-demon.  My parents.  My pride.  And on and on.  Isn't God out there? Can't he hear me?  Why won't he make himself known?  He's supposed to be good and kind and loving and merciful.  His mercies are supposed to be new every day.  This feels like a dead end.  It feels like a sort of death.

I could go on for 10,000 words, describing the senseless, often preventable suffering in this world.  Despite all of our knowledge, our GPS, our technology, our information, our compassion, our money, our resources, our superior intellect, we have not figured out how to eliminate it, or even to alleviate it.  Isn't that remarkable?  All the lessons humans have learned over the ages and we still make the same mistakes.  We still suffer for the same stupid reasons.

Yet, for all that is wrong in the world, I can still sit on my patio, which isn't really even mine.  I just get to stay here for a little while.  On it I have placed a cushioned chair and a table.  A cup of coffee.  A notebook and a pen.  A pleasant breeze.  A dog at my feet.  The sun is up.  The kids are not.  Just for a moment, this is really good.  LIFE is really good. My life.  It isn't perfect.  It would be melodramatic of me to say that I suffer but have my demons, I suppose, just like everyone.  For this moment they are quiet and THIS, my life, is beautiful.

I think this is what Adam and Even felt in the garden after they ate the fruit.  They didn't die like God said would happen.  Maybe there was a shaky sigh of relief as they walked away from the serpent, who, as it turned out, wasn't totally dishonest with them after all.  But something was broken in them and they knew it because they hid in shame.  It's difficult to fathom the dread they must have felt as they tried in vain to cover themselves, attempting to bandage what they broke by sticking a band-aid made of fig leaves to a wound that gushed and disfigured their souls.

I can only imagine (because the bible doesn't say) that before their eyes, what was once paradise became pestilence.  The flies and mosquitoes probably started bothering them.  The sun burned too bright and caused them to perspire.  Maybe Adam's sinuses began to swell with an allergic reaction to the pollen in the air.

And then God did something surprising.  Genesis 3:8 describes, "cool evening breezes."  Isn't that an interesting detail to include in this spare narrative?  God knew of their transgression, right down to the second it happened.  He understood it, probably better than they understood it themselves.  Yet he sent them the small comfort and joy and sweetness of a cool evening breeze.  He did that anyway.  An undeserved gift.

The hammer came down, as they knew it would.  They took the curse and walked out of the garden, sorrowful, humiliated, and realizing, finally, that God was truthful from the beginning.  There was a death sentence.  It just wouldn't be carried out right away.  They would get to live out their lives and yes, there would be suffering before it was all over, but there would also be "cool evening breezes."  There would be knowing smiles, and inside jokes, and laughter, and joy, and beauty.  There would be family, there would be friendship, there would even be art.

They deserved none of those things and neither do I.  God gives those gifts anyway and perhaps he adds to them the greatest gift of all--the dreaded death sentence.  With death comes the release from the suffering of this life.  Death brings life eternal.  Without death, there would be a never-ending life of shame and separation, which would be far, far worse than any suffering humans have concocted for ourselves on this broken earth.

Yes.  God is still good.

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The Emmaus Road and Bible Study

Easter is behind us now and because I like to look at the crucifixion and resurrection as a historical event in addition to a spiritual experience, I've been looking at the scriptures that describe the days after in Luke 24:13-34.  They were awful days for people who put their faith in the man, Jesus.  They didn't understand, even after everything he had been telling them, that he would rise again.  Even the disciples hid in fear and confusion, disbelieving the reports that Jesus had appeared to witnesses here and there.

On Sunday Jesus made an appearance to two despondent travelers on their way out of Jerusalem after what had to have been the most bizarre and violence-filled Passover in history.  The men didn't recognize Jesus as he walked with them, and they described to him the horror that had transpired over the weekend.  They said, "We had hoped he was the Messiah who had come to rescue Israel."  They must have seemed so disappointed.

"Then Jesus said to them, 'You foolish people!  You find it so hard to believe all that the prophets wrote in the Scriptures.  Wasn't it clearly predicted that the Messiah would have to suffer all these things before entering his glory?'"

Jesus probably could have stopped there.  The men would have been familiar with Psalm 22, when David prophetically described the anguish of crucifixion hundreds of years before the Romans would invent that form of execution.  And Isaiah 53, which describes the Lord's servant--despised and rejected, pierced for us, beaten, whipped, led like a lamb to slaughter.  There are so many more.

Maybe that should have been enough for these men.

But Jesus didn't take for granted that they could connect the dots on their own because sometimes we just need things spelled out for us.  Even when we've seen events with our own eyes, they don't always add up.  We are often left confused and disappointed when things don't turn out the way we expect them to.  It can take years--sometimes a lifetime--for us to be able to look back on the events of our lives and make sense of them.  Sometimes we die bitter, still confused.

Jesus wanted these men to know that nothing that happened to him was by accident.  In the same way, nothing that happens to us is by accident.  God will make things clear and Jesus gave these men on the road to Emmaus the same tool that we have at our disposal today.

"Then Jesus took them through the writings of Moses and all the prophets, explaining from all the Scriptures the things concerning himself."

When I study this story, I see it as a teaching for me, right where I am, in my humble little life.   It is God's way of saying to me, "Is something not adding up, dear one?  Are you confused about the crooked path you've been on?  Open up your bible.  I will make all things clear to you whose eyes are open to my teaching."

After Jesus made himself known to the men, and then disappeared from them, they said to each other, "Didn't our hearts burn within us as he talked with us on the road and explained the Scriptures to us?"  Every single day I can walk that Emmaus Road with Jesus when I lay my bible open on my lap.  My heart can burn with the same exhilaration of discovery as I search the scriptures to understand where I am in redemptive history, why the world is so screwed up, how deeply the Father loves his creation, and yes, to make sense of my own crooked path.

It's all in there.  Let us not neglect it.

My Greatest Desire as a Writer

The more I write and the more I think critically about what I'm reading, the lower my threshold for bad writing.  I can spot it almost instantaneously when I see the words, "derisively," "sardonically," "prettily," "languidly," or any such cringe-worthy, superfluous adverbs.  I also cringe when I come across short sentences such as, "She stiffened."  Or "His eyes pierced hers." 

Yuck.

I hate to say it but often times, this is the case with Inspirational Fiction, a genre that is close to my heart, but which I can hardly stand to read anymore.

It didn't used to bother me until I started taking note of what makes good writing good.  I began to see that wonderful, literary authors never do those things.  Good writers balance simple sentences with complex, they use interesting words but not in an arrogant way.  They describe just enough to let my imagination take over.  Their writing is so fluid, so fast-paced, so free from unnecessary clutter, that my fingers begin turning pages without realizing it.  I become lost in the world they have created without remembering that I'm supposed to be paying attention to their writing techniques.

That's such a wonderful gift, isn't it?  When the black and white, flat, hard object in your lap morphs into a world that you can smell, feel, and taste?  

I was reading a wonderful book this week that I was completely lost in. The writing was wonderful, the setting was historical and authentic in every way, the story was full of tension, the heroine was sympathetic and I ached for her.  It wasn't a Christian-themed book but it was clever and well-done, and I was enjoying it immensely.  

And then the most annoying thing happened.  In one awkward paragraph, the story became lost in a modern feminist issue.  I have been struggling to get through the second half of the book but I've completely lost interest in the story and I'm so totally disappointed.

This has happened to me so many times.  It seems that the best and brightest women authors happen to also be highly educated, intellectual elitist, feminist liberals.  Yes, I said it.  Their writing is spectacular, smart, funny, filled with the most artful, subtle, delicious similes and allegories.  I can begin and finish a mammoth book by one of these authors in one or two days of constant reading and I always feel smarter for having read them.  

But I'm also constantly barraged with women's politics: abortion, gay issues, equal rights, and on and on.  

Blah, blah, *yawn.*

I wish I could be a dissonant voice in the literary world.  This is my great desire as a writer.  Greater even than being published.  I could die happy never being published if I knew with confidence that my writing was smart enough to stand up to the great women authors of my day, telling stories that help young readers see that it's okay to want to be rescued.  It's okay to desire a man who is capable of rescuing you, and to admire the dignity in that man who would lay down his life for you.  It's okay to feel as if being married and having children is synonymous with living happily ever after.  It's okay to describe religion in a respectful and helpful way.

Those are the kinds of stories I write and as of this moment, I write them when no one is looking and they lurk in the shadows of my computer, rarely seeing the light of day.  I haven't had the guts yet to submit anything for publication--partly out of fear of being criticized (I think that would be worse than being rejected--it's strange how fragile my confidence is when I have enough of it to keep me typing for 80,000 words). 

But it's partly because I have a gut instinct that what I've written really does kind of suck. I mean, it's better than a lot of fiction out there, but it's not great either and SO WHAT if I can self-publish, if it's unreadable garbage? The whole point is to draw readers into a story that helps them know God better. If I'm unable to do that, what's the point of self-publishing?  Who would read it?  Who would want to?

I read books by great authors that are completely antithetical to faith and I think, "God, I want to do that in a way that glorifies you but I don't know how." Three years after I first starting writing fiction, I've improved a little but not much and I feel tapped out on what I've been gifted with. I can only do so much with what I have.  Somehow, against my better judgment, I've stayed encouraged and continued writing, but I struggle sometimes with the question of whether I should keep trying to make it better, or just accept my limitations and move on to something more fruitful.

More than anything, I struggle to understand why God would gift so many people who hate his truth while people who love him just can't compete artistically.  

Please tell me I'm not the only one.

Dying Well

Hank DuBose died on a Tuesday.  It was a beautiful day in early March and he commented on it several times to his wife because it followed a string of cold, wet, miserable days.  He may have secretly, briefly thought of the things he'd be doing to his yard if he was in his own home instead of in this place for "Old Fogies" as he called them, but he didn't let on because that's the kind of man Hank was.  He thought you needed a little darkness to see the stars and he always looked forward to things to come.

His wife Alice made him take his jacket before they went to dinner.  He protested but she knew the deceptive nature of these March days.  It would be summer as long as the sun shined but as soon as the shadows of evening came out, it would be winter again.  He had taken the jacket from her, and hooked it over his arm, and talked of the pulled meat sandwiches they would eat in the cafeteria.

There was a lull in the conversation as they walked together on the sidewalk.  Then he collapsed.  She tried to break his fall but she was surprised at the heaviness of his body.  His arms stayed down at his sides and he scraped his elbow and his forehead on the sidewalk when he landed with a sickening thud.  She knew instinctively that he would never wake up.  Fear filled her as she always knew it would but there was a calm in her too.  She rolled him flat on his back, flicked the dirt off his sleeve, and held his hand until the medics arrived.

The next day, when Hank's daughter told her friends the news, they clucked and sighed and apologized and their eyes welled for her.  She held her hands up and said with a sad smile, "It's ok.  Really, it is.  He was a Christian for most of his life and this is the way he always wanted to go: in possession of all his faculties, next to the woman he loved, looking forward to things.  He always wanted it to be sudden."

It was a comforting thought to us, her friends, and the prayer flew into my mind before I could stop it: God, let me go like that too.  Still healthy at the end of a long life, not sick and bedridden, my body wearing out before my heart is ready to stop beating.  In the presence of my family who still loves me, thinking I'm going to dinner in 15 minutes.  Just walking along and BOOM.  Or maybe as I sleep, dreaming of the breakfast I'm going to eat when the sun comes up.  That's how I want to die.  Thank you for taking Hank that way.  Take me like that too.

That's what dying well looks like, I thought.

But even as I said the prayer I knew that God already sees the end of my days.  He knows how it will be, whether or not there will be suffering, and the answer to that plea for things to be comfortable at the end might be "Yes," but it also might be, "No."

And then I thought of the story of Abigail Smith, who suffered so greatly in her young life before cancer took her.

And I realized the pointlessness of such a plaintive request for God to make things easy for me.

It was His goodness that Hank should have had such a comfortable death but it was also His goodness that in Abigail's suffering, 30,000 people would hear through her story that He can take something evil and make it His business to redeem it for something good.

That's what God is about.

Not making life or death easy.

So my prayer is different now.

God, take me in Your time and in Your way.  All I ask is the courage to face it in a way that brings others to a closer understanding of Your goodness.  Amen.

The Big D: A Hard Week

02 August
I tried to update you all on this past week last night but it turned into a boring rant (this has kinda been the week from hell) so I deleted it. You don't need to know all the details about how much my husband and I are missing each other, or how down in the dumps he is about a few specific things that will probably be of little or no benefit for me to share so I'm just going to let you know that even though I put on a brave face and smile through my hard weeks, all is not well all the time over here in ArmyWifeLand.

I do want to share with you this image:


I believe in this with every single cell in my body so I'm going to list a handful of things I am thankful for.

-I am thankful for the Word of God, which reminds me to focus on things that are lovely, and admirable, and excellent, and worthy of praise, instead of things that irritate the living crap out of me.

 -I am thankful for the calendar, which tells me that this deployment is more than half over because in my heart the end feels about as far away as it's ever felt.

 -I am thankful for the Army and all it's given us even though it feels like it's causing a lot of heartache right now. I have only to close my eyes and remember what our lives were like the day before we got the news that our waiver was approved and he could swear in--how much we hoped that it would happen and feared that it might not! We had reasons--good reasons, and it's easy to forget them a year down the road when the struggles we faced back then are now a distant memory and are replaced by new, different struggles that we kind of knew were coming but had no way of really being able to prepare for.

 -I am thankful that this week will pass because that's the thing about time--it's always moving forward even when it feels like it's not.

You guys have a BLESSED week and feel free to list things you are thankful for too

The Big D: Convoy

I am very relieved and happy to report that my husband texted me at 7:30 this morning with the words, "Made it."


 I like to say I'm not a worrier (and usually I'm not) but I would be lying if I told you I didn't go to bed last night with images of him, sweating in the heat of the day, in full gear, rattling around in an armored vehicle, down some awful, dusty, dangerous road, and WORRYING about what could happen. I mean...HOW COULD I NOT?!?!

So I did what I do and I opened my bible. I could not have fixed dinner for my kids, or helped them with their homework, or bathed them, read to them, and tucked them into bed with a kiss goodnight, or found sleep for myself, if I did not have a source of comfort and security to turn to.

Every single person alive has to put their trust in something just to get through their day. During that difficult day, I could have put my trust in my husband's training but it can only carry him so far. I could have put my trust in the leadership of our country and of the Army but they are human and fallible. I could have put my trust in body armor and vehicle armor but that is penetrable. So I chose to put my trust in God, not only to protect my husband, but to protect my heart if the bad guys got their way.

It's the only way I know how to have peace during a time of unrest. I sincerely don't know how people who do not believe in SOMETHING can get through times like this. 


This is my favorite "worry Psalm."


I prayed to the Lord, and he answered me.
He freed me from all my fears.
Those who look to him for help will be radiant with joy;
no shadow of shame will darken their faces.
In my desperation I prayed, and the Lord listened;
he saved me from all my troubles.
For the angel of the Lord is a guard;
he surrounds and defends all who fear him.
                                                Psalm 34:4-7


I read once that the word "surrounds" is translated from a Hebrew word which means, "encamped."  That's particularly helpful to one who's praying for a soldier, don't you think?

The Big D: Countdown to the end

12 September
Every day that passes gets me closer to the end of this.  Until then, I just continue to carry on and stay active, putting things on the calendar and taking care of things that need taking care of but I think this last little bit is going to feel like the longest of the whole deployment.

I have a handful of friends whose husbands just returned in the last week or so and I'm not going to lie to you. It is so hard to see them with their husbands. I had to watch a friend and her family sit in front of me at church last Sunday and their little boy (who looks SOOO much like his daddy, who I had never seen before) was crawling all over him, clinging to him and whispering in his ear, and I knew how happy they were because I watched her cry, 10 days before his return, overwhelmed by the absence they had endured and the excitement of him finally coming home. But there I was, still alone and fighting the urge to be insanely envious of her. In those moments, it feels like I still have SO LONG to wait!

There are so many of those hard moments when it feels like this separation will never end, and maybe it even feels like the cost of this life is just too great.  I've heard from several women who are struggling and I'm the kind of person who says we have to be master of our emotions and turn to something that encourages us.

I happen to be reading "Bonhoeffer," right now, a book about a German pastor who stood up to Hitler in the years leading up to WWII and was arrested and executed for his part in an assassination attempt. He spent 18 months in prison before being executed by the Nazis but during those long months he was permitted to write letters and he had a fiancé named Marie who received many of them. Something he said to her in one of his letters has encouraged me and I go to it in my mind every time I want to feel sorry for myself or I wonder if this is all worth it:

"No, you needn't have a moment's worry--I'm not worried either. You do, of course, know from the little we've said to each other that danger exists not only out there [on the battlefronts] but here at home as well, sometimes rather less so, sometimes rather more. What man of today has the right to shun it and shrink from it? And what woman of today should not share it, however gladly the man would relieve her of that burden? And how indescribably happy it makes the man if the woman he loves stands by him with courage, patience , and above all--prayer." Dietrich Bonhoeffer

I want to encourage you who are struggling. The separation will end, the hard moments will pass, and when you are reunited, the painful memories will fade. I don't say this as an expert because I am still living through it. I say it because I believe it will happen. Be courageous, have patience, and pray.  If all else fails...

    

The Big D: The end is near and the pressure is on

02 October
With my mind on reintegration (we have such an unbelievably short time left--and the date is still holding!!) I've had some strange thoughts swimming around in my head and I've resolved some of them, which has removed a huge amount of pressure I stupidly placed on my shoulders, so I thought I would share some of my stupidity and how I am getting past it:

I am an over-achiever. Let's just get that out there. You might have been able to figure that out through reading my other posts, or if you know me personally. If you ask me to do something, I will not only do it, but I will do better than that if at all possible. I also like order. I like when things make sense and that's a big reason why I am even writing all of this. For so many young wives, enlisting in the army and sending a husband off to BCT makes them feel like their life is a suitcase that's been dropped down the stairs and all the insides have been dumped out and scattered all over the place. I like to walk up behind you, pick up your things, fold them neatly, tuck them back in, then hand you back your suitcase with a smile, having made sense of it all for you.

So now you will understand, maybe, the range of emotion that has been running through my brain at having such a close homecoming date to hold on to. I have gone from "This doesn't feel real yet," to "I've got to drop EVERYTHING and make the house perfect," to "Forget perfect, I need to finish this project before he gets home because he will totally not 'get' why I'm spending so much time on it and I won't be able to work on it much after he's here," to "Crap. What else about the way I've been doing things is going to have to change?"

Let me clarify...it's not "change" that scares me. We've been married a long time and have been through lots of things that have changed us as individuals and as a couple. Change is just a part of the marital package. What's had me all wound up is the fact that I have ordered my life in a very intentional way that makes sense to me. I have priorities--for me, they're spiritual things (church is where we are on a Sunday morning; yes, Bible study is an hour away twice a week but I wouldn't miss it for ANYTHING, if there is a social thing or a service thing going on with church, I do my best to be there). Doing life this way is how I feel I am being obedient to God (maybe if you're not a person of faith you have nothing to relate this to, but maybe you do, so I'm just going to put it all out there).

A couple of days ago, I had this raw, panicky thought: how do I continue to live in what is, for me, a God-honoring way, when I now have to share my daily life and these priorities that I have had the ultimate say in, with another person--a person who hasn't been on the same journey as I have and who isn't where I'm at spiritually? My husband and I make a really good partnership but my walk with God is something about me he appreciates from a distance, y'know? Anyway, this thought really threw me for a loop and I shared my concerns with my bible study friends (who are much smarter and wiser than me, lol) and one of them said to me, "Can I say something? You're breaking my heart a little bit by thinking you have to have everything perfectly ordered when your husband comes home. It doesn't have to be, ok? Just take it a day at a time and quit trying to be everything to everyone." I burst into tears when she said that. It was such a relief to hear someone say those words and I didn't even realize that's what I had been doing in trying to anticipate what my husband's reactions would be to the way I'd ordered our lives (let's face it--it's been a year and a half since we sold our house in Kansas City and had anything resembling a normal life as a family unit so there's bound to be some surprises for him), and trying to fit all the mixed up pieces together beforehand.

So, I'm not doing that anymore and it is SUCH load off! I do anticipate that some of my habits will have to change but I will give them up and not require my husband to conform to my routines because it just shouldn't be that way...in my very old-fashioned opinion, anyway. My husband has never been one to aggressively be "The Man of the House" and he's never played that card with me to get his way, but I think deep down, that's what men really are when they are at their best, God-given potential as leaders, lovers, providers, and protectors. I want him to slip back into that role without being hindered by my whining about what I'm giving up. And even though it feels like what I am giving up is good (and I've been fortunate to have the alone time to develop some of the life-long disciplines I didn't have before), I am resting in the knowledge that by submitting to the way my husband wants to order our lives--it's ok, because God gave me my husband and in being a good, and happy, and undemanding, and uncomplicated wife, I'm still honoring God with my life. It will look a little bit different after the big day but I'm not really losing any ground with Him. He knows.

Wowza. That ended up being really long. I'm sorry if this makes absolutely no sense whatsoever, lol. But I still hold onto the off-chance that there is someone out there who can use this to make sense of their own unique situation and so I'll hit "post" instead of "delete."           

The Woman Who Didn't Belong: A Parable

There once was a very large house on a very large hill that was lovingly maintained and owned by a man of obvious privilege.  The house was surrounded by acres of carefully manicured grass, fruit trees that produced in abundance, and a beautiful marble fountain crafted by a talented artist who loved and revered the master of the house as if he was family, and in fact, he was.

Surrounding this house and its property was an ornate fence of wrought iron.  It stood taller than a man and beheld enough beauty of its own to prompt passersby to admire it.  Between its twisting bars, one could plainly see all of the comings and goings of the fortunate souls who were permitted entry through the gate and allowed to partake of the master's generosity.


During the course of many years, hundreds of those who belonged inside entered through the gate but there were millions who could only stand outside and wonder what it was like within.  Over time, some on the outside grew jealous.  They spat in the dirt and shook their fist at the gate as if anyone inside would be moved by such a display. Most on the outside however, simply walked away and carried on with their little lives in their little houses inside their own humble little gates.

One day the master of the very large house received a very important visitor.  The visitor, a skilled physician, was long awaited and highly anticipated.  However, the good doctor was outspoken in his positions, stirring up the anger of the most prominent of the privileged guests.  They harrumphed and turn on their heels and stomped outside upon his arrival.  Unwilling to depart completely from the safety and comfort of the gate, they sat in the manicured grass outside and pouted. 

This created such a foofaraw that many on the outside returned to the gate with fascination to see what would happen next.  They wrapped their fingers around the iron work and craned their necks to see.  They were slightly disappointed to see the unflappable physician wave good-bye to the ones who didn't want his company and return quietly to the party that was being thrown in his honor.

Later, no one would recall quite how it happened: that a poor woman from the outside came to enter into the house.  It was surmised that she slunk in through a secret passageway for there she stood in the opulent foyer where she clearly did not belong.  And then, in front of an audience of shocked onlookers, she stooped down and knelt in front of the doctor.  She proceeded to lower herself until she was prostrate on the floor at his feet.  Hushed whispers made their way round the room about the condition of the floor and the condition of her soul, that she would humiliate herself so.

"Good doctor," she whispered in a trembling voice, stretching out her fingers and then curling them into her fists, as if she wanted to touch his feet but thought better of it.  "Your skill is renown throughout the land.  I am in desperate need of your services.  You see, my daughter is very ill.  In fact, she is on death's door.  Please. Can you help her?"  When no response was made, she whimpered, letting her tears fall on the expensive tiles beneath her. 

Finally, those who were closest to the doctor spoke, urging him to send her away.  Her begging and whining, they said, was bothering them and spoiling the mood of the party that was, if he needed to be reminded, in his honor.   

"I beg of you, Doctor," she said, ignoring them.  "You alone can save her."

"Woman," the doctor said.  "How can I help you when I came here to give my services to the people who belong in this house?  It is not right for you to take the food from the children's table and give it to the dogs."

Though everyone thought it, no one expected him to say it out loud.  His friends became angry that he would allow himself to be put in this uncomfortable position.  They knew him well enough to know he preferred to err on the side of compassion.  Furthermore, they did not mind doing his dirty work; keeping the riffraff who constantly flocked to him, soiling the hem of his garments in their undignified posturing, at bay.  It was nothing personal.  He wasn't here for them.

What they did not understand was that his response was as much for them as it was for her, for they would learn volumes from watching what she did next.

She did not become angry or indignant, as she surely would have been justified in doing after being compared to a dog and the act of saving her daughter as being the food fit for dogs.  Nor did she shrink away from him and retreat from the house with what modicum of dignity she might have retained after this pathetic show.  

She raised her head slightly and said, "What you say is true, Sir.  I do not deserve your kindness.  But even the dogs under the table are allowed to eat the scraps from the children's plates."

It was painful to watch.  Again, the doctor's friends urged him to send her away, reassuring him that he was not wrong to do so.  He silenced them with a mere look and bent down to the woman, took her hand in his, and helped her to her feet.  "Good answer," he said.  "I will be glad to help you."

And with that, the two departed as if they were old chums reconciled, leaving the mouths of his friends agape with incredulity.



This parable retelling of Mark 7:24-29 and Matthew 15:21-28 attempts to make sense of the one time in scripture when Jesus comes off as a bit of an insensitive jerk.  Yes, I said it.  Mark and Matthew recorded these events as they happened whether they understood them or not.  To me, this story that  describes for us the first non-Jewish convert in Jesus' ministry, is a stark reminder to every single Christian alive today that He owes us nothing.  We are not entitled to His grace, or even a split-second of His attention, and we have done nothing worthwhile to deserve it.  The woman in this story knew she was undeserving and yet she came to him because she was suffering.  How many of us today approach Jesus because we are hurting and desperate for hope?  Thank God for the blessing of affliction, which prompts us to move when we might otherwise stay at home to wallow in our sadness.  That He stoops down to us in our darkest places and invites us to His table should bring us to fall on our faces before Him.  Never doubt His goodness.

"You do not desire a sacrifice, or I would offer one.

You do not want a burnt offering.

The sacrifice you desire is a broken spirit.

You will not reject a broken and repentant heart, O God."

Psalm 51:16-17

Being Blameless

It's cold in here.  That's what I notice first.  I knew it would be.  Places like this are always cold.  It was surprisingly easy to get in this room.  I never even had to show my ID.  But it's just a small county jail.  A couple of heavy doors with a small square of bullet-proof glass at eye level (if you're a 6' tall man) to push through and here we are in the common area.

Monochromatic.  That's the second thing I notice.  The walls, doors, floor, ceiling, even the heavy iron picnic tables that are bolted to the floor are the same shade of pale gray.

Every thing is hard.  There are no soft surfaces.  I glimpse two women who are new to the facility being given their bedding before being sent to their room.  They can carry it--mattress and all--under one arm.  That's the softest thing thing I've seen and it's pretty pathetic.

I stand awkwardly just inside the door as it clangs shut behind me and meet the stares of the women who are such a stark contrast to everything else about this place.  They are soft and feminine and clothed in that obnoxious bright orange that people only wear when they want to be easily found.  Though they wear no make-up and don't have blow dryers or flat irons, there is a beauty in them and I can easily imagine what they would look like if they were dressed for company. 

There are about 17 women in this common area waiting for us; all of them inmates of the Cleburn County Correctional Facility.  We have no idea what they've done to get here but it's probably better this way.  The less we know the less we judge.  This way, all I can see are women who are already paying the price for what they've done.  I don't need to condemn; I am just here to sit with them for an hour.

They stand up and form a line that stretches to the back of the room.  One by one they embrace me, my sister, and my aunt in greeting.  They've never seen me or my sister before and have no idea if we are even worthy of their hugs but the fact that we came here with their beloved teachers, Ray and Esther Clevenger, is enough for them to know we are. 

I am not generally a hugger but I would die before I would refuse a hug from any of these women.  As I wrap my arms around them, I feel the flesh at their back, the unique form and shape and feel of each individual, and though I don't speak I hope to communicate with my touch that I am glad to be here.  No.  I am honored to be here, included in this bible study, wholly accepted by these women--no questions asked.  There are not many groups of women who would do that.  How can I help but do the same?

I find a place among them as we sit at the tables.  Uncle Ray tells them to open their bibles to where they left off last time: Proverbs 29.  Several women slide pictures of their kids out from between the pages of their bibles and lay them down carefully, touching each one tenderly.  "My kids," the woman next to me whispers as she positions the pictures around her bible.  "They're beautiful," I whisper back and I mean it.  They are adorable--all four of them, and I ache a little, wondering who is caring for them in her absense and when she will get to see them again.

I did not bring my bible.  Uncle Ray said they'd share theirs with us, so I sit and watch them find their places.  I am astonished at how much they have written in the pages of their bibles.  I love the sight of scripture that has been lovingly, painstakingly underscored, starred, highlighted, and wrinkled from use and misuse.  Those are words that have been poured over and meditated on.  Words that have convicted and comforted, wrecked and solaced.

The woman who sits across from me, a grandmother I would later discover, slides her bible across the table so that I can look from it and follow along.  Uncle Ray begins with verse 1.  He goes down the page, telling a story from his life to impart the meaning of each verse and how it applies to the lives of these women.  He makes his way to verse 10: "The bloodthirsty hate the upright; but the just seek his soul."  I struggle to understand the meaning of this King James text but the women nod, rapt, transfixed by his teaching.  I have been doing bible studies for a long time--I'm not sure if I've ever seen an entire group so 100% committed to every word spoken.  There are no yawns to stifle, no cell phones to check, no watches to look at, no fidgeting children to quiet, no appointments that cause them to leave early.  Every word he says and reads is soaked in by every listener.  I wonder how they have looked forward to this hour all week long.

For some of them, this might be the first time they have heard these words and I marvel at the life-transforming power of them.  There is no stumbling block of good deeds that gets in the way of their salvation.  They know their wrongs and they know what a precious gift grace is.  They are taught that they are blameless now, that they are the ones Jesus died for, and they do not take it for granted like so many of us "good Christans" who have never found ourselves in this confining world of orange and gray. 

While they listen to Uncle Ray's preaching and concentrate on the scriptures laid out in front of them, they are probably more spiritually sure of who they are as daughters of the Most High than at any other time in their lives.  This is their safe place.  They are safe from the bad friends and temptations and stupid decisions that landed them here.  They are safe from the psychological devastation of being judged--or worse--the self-loathing that probably haunts them day and night.  They probably walk back to their cells after this hour of bible study with new promises in their hearts and new confidence that they will do things right next time because they serve a God of second and third chances. 

I know how it feels to hear the powerful message of redemption and be so full of love and gratitude to God you're nearly bursting.  And I know how it feels a few days later when the memory of the message has faded, the glow has waned, and the confidence wavers. 

They leave the safety of the gray walls so abruptly.  When the court date arrives they are walked from their cell to the judge, not knowing what the outcome will be.  If they are freed, they are turned out without even enough warning to call for a ride.  They go right back to the environment that got them here.  No more Ray and Esther.  No more godly women flanking them at those cold gray tables, encouraging them, keeping them in the Word, keeping the flame lit.

It's a miracle more of them don't find their way back.

I think about these women all the time. I remember their faces and I wonder about them.  I lift them up in prayer and hope they find themselves surrounded by godly women on the outside who will continue to pour into them. 

A few days later, my mind still on the verses Uncle Ray explained to the women, I look them up in my own NLT bible.  I want to understand them better.  I zero in on Proverbs 29:10 which says, "The bloodthirsty hate blameless people; [as for the upright, they seek their life.]"  Suddenly I realize who the blameless are.  They wear orange, condemned by the county, but considered blameless by a loving God.  I get to choose who I will be.  Will I be the bloodthirsty who hate them?  Or the upright who seek the same new life they now possess?

It's an easy answer.