It shouldn’t be too complicated getting a tetanus booster. Maybe I just complicate everything. It shouldn’t have been too complicated to pull nails from the old decking boards in our barn.
But I managed to step on the edge of a board and felt the sharp point of a rusty nail slide right through my inch-thick boot soles and through the padded sole of my foot. “Ah…” I took a deep breath. “I just put a nail through my foot.” Tommy looked up quickly from the board he was wrestling with on the dusty floor and said cheerfully, “Well, I hope you’re up to date on your tetanus shots.” Josiah shook his head and sighed. “Um, actually,” I answered, slowly removing my boot and staring at the quickly spreading bloody spot on my striped socks, “I haven’t had one since I was eleven. That’s when I ripped my leg open on a rusty nail in the pond dock.”
So I limped inside and, while the boys finished pulling nails from the pile of lumber, I washed my wound and poured in peroxide. Mom just went about fixing lunch and Papa continued Bible studying. My parents are clearly given to panic. Will having a nail-pierced foot make me more like Christ?
After a year and a half in Arkansas, I still don’t have a doctor. I haven’t needed one. Really, the wound looked pretty good, so all I was concerned about was the tetanus shot. Tetanus is not something to fool with. I lost a baby goat to tetanus—actually, I spent days treating her, getting up with her at night and trying to get her through before Josiah and I finally put her out of her misery. Misery it was, too, stiff-legged and resembling a rocking-horse with spasms shaking her until she bleated in pain. Not something I want to risk getting.
The health department said they’d give me a booster—Thursday. Another doctor we called needed to see me—to the tune of a hundred twenty dollars. The ER, well, that would be expensive. Backi suggested telling the Health Department what had happened, which prompted them to say that I need to see a doctor. Finally the Millard-Henry clinic said I could walk in and get a shot from the shots nurse.
It sounded too good to be true.
It was.
Dathan and Josiah dropped me off before heading over to see Donnie. And then I discovered that I had to be an established patient. The doctor on call couldn’t even see me that day and it would cost several hundred dollars for an appointment.
See, I’m an adult daughter, not a full-time student, so I have no medical coverage. Which makes getting a tetanus shot difficult. Just a shot, that’s all I needed.
I arrived at Choices a little late. The only client on the schedule was an abortion-minded girl who hadn’t shown up the week before. I was limping by the time I showed Becki my foot. “Do you think I can wait for a shot?” She cringed. “I hate to mess around with tetanus.” But she was impressed with how clean the hole was. “It’s deep,” she told me. “I can see into it. It’s at least an inch deep. That must hurt a lot.” I shrugged. Actually, it wasn’t too bad.
And in walked a frightened little couple. “Can I help you?” I asked and they exchanged glances. “I sure hope so,” the young man told me, chewing on a lip ring. “We think she’s pregnant.” I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: never judge a book by it’s cover. Ponytails and piercings often cover the kinder hearts—beware the people who look like they have it all together. Those are often the most hard-hearted of all.
I’m forced to draw a curtain before much of my visit with them. I spent two hours with this couple and when the girl on the schedule came in, Sherry had to see her instead. At the beginning they wanted an abortion—it seemed like the quick fix. But never did they truly want that abortion. They had some true concerns and some real fears, but as we talked the Lord worked to show them truth, to relieve their fears and also to open the way to show Himself to them—as a very real Creator and sustainer of life. They left clutching an ultrasound picture—the best ultrasound picture I’d seen, though it was only seven weeks—and planning to come back to discuss adoption. In their eyes and words I could see and hear sincere conviction—that child would live!
As Josiah and I crowded into Dathan’s pick-up, I praised the Lord, entirely forgetting the possibility that I might die a miserable death of tetanus since I’d never gotten that all-important shot. The Lord can heal. The Lord is in control. He can move hearts. He is the Creator and sustainer of life and my life is in His hands.
Father, Thou art life and ever living
Thou gives life and in Thy giving
Thou gives all that I might need
To be conformed to Thee indeed.
Every moment death might claim,
But I am claimed by Thy own name
Which is a confidence I have
That I will live beyond the grave.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Some people sing in the shower. I’m likely the only weirdo who writes songs in the shower…and then watches helplessly as they slip down the drain, lost in the sewer of thoughts gone by. In a desperate attempt to salvage my melting muse, I threw on my bath robe, wrapped a towel around my soggy hair and dashed out to my desk and the drawer full of blank paper pads. I wound up appearing late for supper, but discovered tolerance through my embarrassed excuse: “A song showed up to talk and just wouldn’t go away.” I suppose that’s better than past meals, where I’d leap from the table, knocking over my chair, and dash to my desk for a mad scribble before the lines had marched by and vanished into the distance. Were I to sit down at my desk, faced with a blank page, an empty hour and the command to compose, I could come up with absolutely nothing. Capricious is this writing urge. Unpredictable. Untamable. Unstoppable. And I have yet to grasp the eternal purpose.
Once upon a time, men who loved the Lord scribbled madly in response to His Holy Spirit, and we now hold the most precious mirror in the world—better than any “mirror, mirror on the wall.” In these writings we see God’s eternal purpose of bringing glory to His name by creating and then redeeming fallen man, and we see ourselves reflected back in truth. Fallen. Sinful. Helpless. Enemies of God. Through the blood of Jesus Christ, I am purchased, raised, made righteous, a friend of God. These loyal scribes stood by, recording God’s words, His deeds, His power, His love. That’s what I want to be: faithful to record God’s work, God’s moving, God’s presence.
Savior, sing the precious love song
Spelling out eternity
That I might somehow catch the strains
And sing it back to Thee.
I’ve nothing new to write in praise
For Thou the Ancient King of Days
Has taught my lips and schooled my tongue
To praise Thy everlasting Son.
Spirit, capture every effort
That I make to magnify
Work Thy will to make it holy,
Pleasing to my God on High.
Where might I look to offer ought
But what Thy precious blood has bought?
Once Thou formed my inward parts
Again, Thou purchased back my heart.
God Almighty, Abba, Father
Hear and answer this my plea:
Thou sent Thy Final Word to earth,
May He speak through even me.
Once upon a time, men who loved the Lord scribbled madly in response to His Holy Spirit, and we now hold the most precious mirror in the world—better than any “mirror, mirror on the wall.” In these writings we see God’s eternal purpose of bringing glory to His name by creating and then redeeming fallen man, and we see ourselves reflected back in truth. Fallen. Sinful. Helpless. Enemies of God. Through the blood of Jesus Christ, I am purchased, raised, made righteous, a friend of God. These loyal scribes stood by, recording God’s words, His deeds, His power, His love. That’s what I want to be: faithful to record God’s work, God’s moving, God’s presence.
Savior, sing the precious love song
Spelling out eternity
That I might somehow catch the strains
And sing it back to Thee.
I’ve nothing new to write in praise
For Thou the Ancient King of Days
Has taught my lips and schooled my tongue
To praise Thy everlasting Son.
Spirit, capture every effort
That I make to magnify
Work Thy will to make it holy,
Pleasing to my God on High.
Where might I look to offer ought
But what Thy precious blood has bought?
Once Thou formed my inward parts
Again, Thou purchased back my heart.
God Almighty, Abba, Father
Hear and answer this my plea:
Thou sent Thy Final Word to earth,
May He speak through even me.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
I’ve discovered the best way to get through Lowe’s in a timely manner. The only way, probably. I call this new game plan: Find Zach. I picked up Miss Emily for a companion in running Mom’s errands. Arrived at Lowe’s we were greeted by none other than Welchy himself, who made sure we found the person we needed, the caulking we needed and even opened another register just to check us out. “Young lady, I need to see your ID,” he quipped as I slid Mom’s debit card. “Are you Lane or Marcia?”
The Lord’s lovingkindness was new and overwhelming today. It would seem strange and unbelievable that always, when I come to the end of my rope and cry out to Him, He answers--almost immediately—if it weren’t for the fact that I’ve been told to expect that. Jacinda and I were conversing as I pulled up to Amber’s. “I’ve been praying for you,” she told me. “Really? Thanks! Mind praying a bit more? I’m here.” After knocking, I made a characteristic dash behind the stairwell. It’s tradition now, that I knock and then hide. Amber would be disappointed if she ever opened the door and found me standing there like any normal person. By the time I left the house I was floating and clouds of puffy whiteness and strumming a harp while singing God's praises. At lunch Jacinda asked me how it went. “Great!” was my fervent response. A grin broke out across her face. “I was praying for you,” she said. “First I was praying that God would just let you get through it, and that it didn’t have to be the best time ever, but just better than last week. Then I stopped myself. What was I thinking? I started praying that He would be present and that it would be an amazing time of encouragement. I figured I ought to pray for what I really hoped.” Lauryn and April joined us for lunch, and I found myself reveling at last in some “girl time”.
“You probably don’t remember us,” Jim and Gloria made excuses for me, after arriving at our house tonight. We knew them from the days of my infancy—the Gospel Chapel in Hutchinson, Kansas. “Yes, I do,” I defended myself, and began describing to them the breathing treatments they’d give Rachel, James’ piano playing, their dog Muffin and the house they lived in, right down to the wood flooring in the upstairs where we played hide-and-seek. I easily grasp and recall images—faces, moments in time, outfits, scenes—like snapshots in an interminable mental album. Oh, but those little tasks my Papa gives me slip through the cracks and fall neglected in my memory.
As a final touch to the day, Nathaniel called to chat with me on his way home from Kansas. A chat is defined as a two-hour conversation on every topic in the books—with a definite focus on recording and music. Soon I was caught up in pleasant memories of the days before his marriage, even the night before he arrived in Texas when I talked to him until the wee hours of the morning to keep him awake as he drove, having sent his sickly bride on to bed. Sometimes six months feels as if it were six years. And sometimes I get overwhelmed with sentimentality. Sometimes being defined as very occasionally.
If I were a truly talented writer, I’d be able to sum the whole day up in one word. As a talented-writer-wannabe, I’ll make an attempt: encouraging. Uplifting. Amazing! That was three. I guess I’ll never be a truly talented writer. But I’m something better. I’m alive with the joy of the Lord.
Lord, I often hesitate
To batter down Thy temple gate
With praise and worship for Thy deeds,
Yet this is what my spirit needs.
Today, I’ll take Thy court by storm,
And magnify Thy perfect form
Thy mighty works, Thy priceless words.
Today Thy praises will be heard!
The Lord’s lovingkindness was new and overwhelming today. It would seem strange and unbelievable that always, when I come to the end of my rope and cry out to Him, He answers--almost immediately—if it weren’t for the fact that I’ve been told to expect that. Jacinda and I were conversing as I pulled up to Amber’s. “I’ve been praying for you,” she told me. “Really? Thanks! Mind praying a bit more? I’m here.” After knocking, I made a characteristic dash behind the stairwell. It’s tradition now, that I knock and then hide. Amber would be disappointed if she ever opened the door and found me standing there like any normal person. By the time I left the house I was floating and clouds of puffy whiteness and strumming a harp while singing God's praises. At lunch Jacinda asked me how it went. “Great!” was my fervent response. A grin broke out across her face. “I was praying for you,” she said. “First I was praying that God would just let you get through it, and that it didn’t have to be the best time ever, but just better than last week. Then I stopped myself. What was I thinking? I started praying that He would be present and that it would be an amazing time of encouragement. I figured I ought to pray for what I really hoped.” Lauryn and April joined us for lunch, and I found myself reveling at last in some “girl time”.
“You probably don’t remember us,” Jim and Gloria made excuses for me, after arriving at our house tonight. We knew them from the days of my infancy—the Gospel Chapel in Hutchinson, Kansas. “Yes, I do,” I defended myself, and began describing to them the breathing treatments they’d give Rachel, James’ piano playing, their dog Muffin and the house they lived in, right down to the wood flooring in the upstairs where we played hide-and-seek. I easily grasp and recall images—faces, moments in time, outfits, scenes—like snapshots in an interminable mental album. Oh, but those little tasks my Papa gives me slip through the cracks and fall neglected in my memory.
As a final touch to the day, Nathaniel called to chat with me on his way home from Kansas. A chat is defined as a two-hour conversation on every topic in the books—with a definite focus on recording and music. Soon I was caught up in pleasant memories of the days before his marriage, even the night before he arrived in Texas when I talked to him until the wee hours of the morning to keep him awake as he drove, having sent his sickly bride on to bed. Sometimes six months feels as if it were six years. And sometimes I get overwhelmed with sentimentality. Sometimes being defined as very occasionally.
If I were a truly talented writer, I’d be able to sum the whole day up in one word. As a talented-writer-wannabe, I’ll make an attempt: encouraging. Uplifting. Amazing! That was three. I guess I’ll never be a truly talented writer. But I’m something better. I’m alive with the joy of the Lord.
Lord, I often hesitate
To batter down Thy temple gate
With praise and worship for Thy deeds,
Yet this is what my spirit needs.
Today, I’ll take Thy court by storm,
And magnify Thy perfect form
Thy mighty works, Thy priceless words.
Today Thy praises will be heard!
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The sound of a sparrow twittering and singing outside my window, startled me from my quiet time this morning. Is it possible that spring is just around the bend?
A pig is a critter of worth, I am firmly resolved, and will go to great lengths to prove it by rhyme, story or science. I simply wish our internet connection could pick up a little speed to aid me in my research endeavors. Counting the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin while waiting for a page to load gets to be rather a boar. But someday, when I hold in my hands a stiff, new copy of my book, smelling of glue and wet paper, I’m sure I’ll forget the agony and pain involved in the researching process for the joy of finally holding my “baby”. Notice I said “when”, not “if”.
Back in time with Moses and the children of Israel, enslaved in Egypt for four-hundred years, I found myself sucked into the story of the ten plagues which Yahweh sent on the land of captivity. “Pharaoh will harden his heart,” he warned Moses, “And against all the gods of Egypt I will execute judgment—I AM YAHWEH.” One by one He proceeded to challenge, attack and prevail over the primary gods of the Egyptian religion. Did the Nile give life, through the aid of Hapi and Osiris? It was turned to blood, the symbol of life and yet dealing death to the land. Did frog represent good crops, insect control and blessings in the afterlife? Let us enjoy an overabundance of frogs—followed by a place of insects and destroyed crops. As the Lord moved down through each of the ten plagues He showed Himself to be God Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth. The last and final plague was directed at Pharaoh himself, believed to be a god, yet unable to protect his own heir. The Egyptians worshiped so many false gods, depended on everything but Yahweh for their sustenance, and finally crumbled and fell into ruin, no longer a splendid world power as at one time. Why? Because God is opposed to the proud, but gives grace to the humble. He opposed the conceited Pharaoh, dragging him through the mud as he foolishly and repeatedly refused the advice of his counselors. Because Pharaoh refused to listen to God, God clouded his judgment so that he couldn’t even think clearly. His heart was hard. What a sober warning to me, to humble myself before the Lord, soften my heart to His word and seek Him while He may be found.
Lord, Thou opposes haughty men,
To trust ourselves is such great sin.
We will find our hearts grown hard
If we turn deaf ears to Thy word.
Teach me, Lord, to count my days
That I will offer all my praise
To Thou who rulest earth and sea
And yet attends Thy ear to me.
A pig is a critter of worth, I am firmly resolved, and will go to great lengths to prove it by rhyme, story or science. I simply wish our internet connection could pick up a little speed to aid me in my research endeavors. Counting the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin while waiting for a page to load gets to be rather a boar. But someday, when I hold in my hands a stiff, new copy of my book, smelling of glue and wet paper, I’m sure I’ll forget the agony and pain involved in the researching process for the joy of finally holding my “baby”. Notice I said “when”, not “if”.
Back in time with Moses and the children of Israel, enslaved in Egypt for four-hundred years, I found myself sucked into the story of the ten plagues which Yahweh sent on the land of captivity. “Pharaoh will harden his heart,” he warned Moses, “And against all the gods of Egypt I will execute judgment—I AM YAHWEH.” One by one He proceeded to challenge, attack and prevail over the primary gods of the Egyptian religion. Did the Nile give life, through the aid of Hapi and Osiris? It was turned to blood, the symbol of life and yet dealing death to the land. Did frog represent good crops, insect control and blessings in the afterlife? Let us enjoy an overabundance of frogs—followed by a place of insects and destroyed crops. As the Lord moved down through each of the ten plagues He showed Himself to be God Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth. The last and final plague was directed at Pharaoh himself, believed to be a god, yet unable to protect his own heir. The Egyptians worshiped so many false gods, depended on everything but Yahweh for their sustenance, and finally crumbled and fell into ruin, no longer a splendid world power as at one time. Why? Because God is opposed to the proud, but gives grace to the humble. He opposed the conceited Pharaoh, dragging him through the mud as he foolishly and repeatedly refused the advice of his counselors. Because Pharaoh refused to listen to God, God clouded his judgment so that he couldn’t even think clearly. His heart was hard. What a sober warning to me, to humble myself before the Lord, soften my heart to His word and seek Him while He may be found.
Lord, Thou opposes haughty men,
To trust ourselves is such great sin.
We will find our hearts grown hard
If we turn deaf ears to Thy word.
Teach me, Lord, to count my days
That I will offer all my praise
To Thou who rulest earth and sea
And yet attends Thy ear to me.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Herein I celebrate the three month anniversary of my segue into Arkansas living.
Curiosity caused me to run a word count on my journal, and I discovered that the enormity of simply living this change spans enough journaling to fill a novel. A rather interesting correlation: were I to spend the same amount of time each day on one of the novels I’ve started, I could expect to finish within three months. Somehow those projects seem a bit more manageable with my newfound knowledge.
Lydia and I moved into Mom and Papa’s room for the day and stoked their small stove as full as it could handle. When the boys joined us a short time later to show off a video they’d shot in the living room, they were amazed how toasty we were. Actually feeling hot seemed such a luxury that I made no effort to delayer. Silly videos shot with Dathan’s puny digital camera set the wheels of creativity spinning, and soon we’d developed a who production team: Josiah and Dathan starring as Li’l JoJo and Dat Udder Dude in the short film “Homely Hobos: Upside down or Rightside Up?” field directed by Mr. Penguin (a.k.a. Nick) and produced and scored by Yours Truly. “Proud of ourselves” hardly even begins to describe our feelings upon viewing the finished short.
Since the move, three months ago, so many things have changed, shifted, become clear or grown more confused. I remember the excitement, the expectancy when we moved, as I waited to see what God would do. Much of that has faded. Some has even tarnished into worry, confusion and doubt. What has He done so far? Only He knows fully. The mystery still remains. What will He do? Only one thing can I say for certain: He will glorify Himself.
Lord, Thy plan is simple, truly:
Thou wilt have the praise that’s due Thee.
Complications come when man
Adds amendments to Thy plan.
My mind can’t grasp the Pleiades tail
And yet I think their Maker fails
And, by my wit, rewrite Thy story
Thinking to bring greater glory.
Curiosity caused me to run a word count on my journal, and I discovered that the enormity of simply living this change spans enough journaling to fill a novel. A rather interesting correlation: were I to spend the same amount of time each day on one of the novels I’ve started, I could expect to finish within three months. Somehow those projects seem a bit more manageable with my newfound knowledge.
Lydia and I moved into Mom and Papa’s room for the day and stoked their small stove as full as it could handle. When the boys joined us a short time later to show off a video they’d shot in the living room, they were amazed how toasty we were. Actually feeling hot seemed such a luxury that I made no effort to delayer. Silly videos shot with Dathan’s puny digital camera set the wheels of creativity spinning, and soon we’d developed a who production team: Josiah and Dathan starring as Li’l JoJo and Dat Udder Dude in the short film “Homely Hobos: Upside down or Rightside Up?” field directed by Mr. Penguin (a.k.a. Nick) and produced and scored by Yours Truly. “Proud of ourselves” hardly even begins to describe our feelings upon viewing the finished short.
Since the move, three months ago, so many things have changed, shifted, become clear or grown more confused. I remember the excitement, the expectancy when we moved, as I waited to see what God would do. Much of that has faded. Some has even tarnished into worry, confusion and doubt. What has He done so far? Only He knows fully. The mystery still remains. What will He do? Only one thing can I say for certain: He will glorify Himself.
Lord, Thy plan is simple, truly:
Thou wilt have the praise that’s due Thee.
Complications come when man
Adds amendments to Thy plan.
My mind can’t grasp the Pleiades tail
And yet I think their Maker fails
And, by my wit, rewrite Thy story
Thinking to bring greater glory.
Monday, November 26, 2007
I read through First Corinthians and Galations this morning. It was an outstanding read. Afterwards, I promptly crawled into bed and slept for an hour and a half. This nasty congestion infection is leaving me constantly drained. Upon waking, I don’t believe I could remember a single word of what I’d read. I seem to be stuck in a spiritual rut, spinning, spinning, throwing up dirt in frustration, but not going forward. Positively, I don’t believe I’m going backward, either.
These days I simply seem to be overwhelmingly tired, instead of overwhelmingly conquering. I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.
So, let’s discuss what the Lord has for me to learn through this. In all things give thanks, for this is His will for me. Rejoice in the Lord always. Again, rejoice! Be forbearing. Do everything without grumbling or complaining. Seek the Lord while He may be found, call upon Him from a pure heart…and He will hear my voice.
Lord, I find myself struck ill.
Do I still resist Thy will?
Discontent to wait for Thee
To glorify Thyself in me
And in my weakness make me strong.
It is for this I wait so long.
For, truth be known, I’m weak through hating
Solitude and patient waiting.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Lydia stumbled in, mumbling, “I want to go back to bed.”
Mom glanced up quickly. “I think you’ll be sorry if you do.”
I swallowed, willing my sore throat to open and close, and leaned against the stove as I began to crack an egg. “Why?” I asked, shaking my head. “I want to go back to bed, too.”
“Because you’ll be…um…hungry later?” Mom looked at both of us. Josiah was down all day yesterday, and Papa still lay in bed, wishing he didn’t have to go to work. “Okay,” she said, cheerfully. “Both of you can go back to bed. I’ll handle breakfast—if anyone even wants any.”
I crawled back into bed without even taking off my jeans and jacket, and didn’t wake up again until almost nine. Papa was leaning over us, asking how we felt. We spent the day like a household of sick puppies—excluding Mom, who never has time to be ill. She called her family tonight to share the news that we wouldn’t make it up for Thanksgiving dinner after all. What did I tell you? My prophetic gift is growing stronger every day.
I spent the rest of the day getting some R and R, which translated, means simply that I was lazy all day long. I wrote another rap piece, and after smugly listening to it over the sound system, played some of the music I have—and discovered it barely even resembles the “real stuff”. I haven’t decided yet if that’s a negative or a positive—mostly because I’m trying to keep a sunny outlook, and pretend it’ll work.
Intense labor finally yielded words to the piano piece I composed Saturday night. I’ve not decided if I’m satisfied with it, or not. It comes from the book of Job, and I know the chorus is right, but I’m not sure if I like the verses—if it really preaches what I had in mind. I shared it with Lauren over the phone just before supper. It was good to catch up with her again. She’s been feeling frustrated by all of the good, Christian kids seemingly straying—wondering what’s gone wrong and why are they being encouraged to express doubts without seeking answers. It’s hit her hard lately that the real issue is a misunderstanding about God. I couldn’t agree more.
Why do the rebellious remain alive
The wicked and sinful thrive
While I am broken?
And why do I languish all alone?
Aren’t you strong to save Your own?
But You have spoken.
My eyes are opened.
I close my mouth, for
You do whatever You please,
And nothing You plan can fall through.
Humbled, I fall to my knees;
May my prayer please You.
Why do my adversaries increase
When You promised You'd give peace?
I have tribulation.
And God, to obey, my only desire,
It is trust, not fire You require.
Through revelation
My eyes are opened.
I close my mouth, for
You do whatever You please,
And nothing You plan can fall through.
Humbled, I fall to my knees;
May my prayer please You.
Hear now, I’ll ask You
O God, instruct me.
I speak of things too wonderful for me.
But You do whatever You please,
And nothing You plan call fall through.
Humbled, I fall to my knees;
May my prayer please--please make my prayer please You.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
With my room so secluded from the rest of the house, the one wing without it’s own wood burning stove, there’s a perceptible difference in temperature. As soon as I walk down the hallway into my room, I sense the shivers coming on. The one source of heat I can claim is from the dryer in the laundry room. And a very cozy, little hole it is, when there’s laundry to be done.
In other news, I woke up this morning with the creative urge, and for lack of beds to refinish, bathrooms to paint or futons to rebuild, I dug out my sewing machine, secluded myself in the sewing room and dove in. I conceived, developed and executed a pretty cute dress in a couple of hours and then felt nearly as listless as before.
I need another project to stress over.
My writing has dwindled and all but died over the last few months—besides this pathetic excuse for a journal, of course. Perhaps I should dust off my inkwell, trim my pen and drive myself to finally finish one of the many projects I’ve begun.
I’m waffling again, about my writing. Every so often when I dive into my Bible and read so much my head spins I open my hands and let go of everything—including my dream of publishing children’s books. I’m pretty irritated with the industry which has foolishly told us that we should write what children want to read, instead of writing things that will help them grow and serve the Lord and then disciplining them to read. It’s no wonder our literacy rates have plummeted. Kids don’t read because they aren’t made to. And so we write what they want to hear—about kids who solve problems without the help of adults, and who have extra powers through witchcraft, and who have immoral drives and frequently about kids with active sex lives. And we wonder at our unwed pregnancy rate? We write about kids in split homes, to reach those kids, but the message we’re sending is that split homes are “normal” and “okay”. Now we’re supposed to write about kids with sodomites for parents so that those kids don’t feel left out. It’s insane. Once upon a time writing for children was telling a gripping tale. Now it’s politics.
And I mistrust myself. I can’t bear sappy, fake Christian literature, so I don’t want to write preachy-peachy stuff. But I realized, with a sickened heart, that a project I’d started with much passion and enthusiasm, would end the end promote humanism—the strong child who overcame and escaped the evil that swallowed the rest of her family. I wanted it to open eyes to different addictions a father can have that can destroy his family. But I can’t credit a miraculous escape to the heroine herself, since it’s only by God’s grace that we can overcome. But I also want to market it in the secular world. How can I honor God and give Him the glory in such a way as the set people thinking about Him without being preachy?
Eternity stares at me, too, hungry, empty and waiting to be filled by my actions. Can my writing really have any effect on eternity? What am I accomplishing? Suppose I tell a gripping story that sells to a big publisher, wins a Newberry and leaves kids in tears, longing for another book. It’s pointless unless I’ve pointed them to the author of the only book of any account.
Truly, I am a divided mind.
Lord, confusion only seems
To come when I pursue my dreams—
The dreams I thought had come from Thee.
Lord, tell me what Thou want from me!
This dream I’ve sacrificed before
Yet still it knocks on my heart’s door
Demanding entrance in Thy name.
I must know if Thou’d have the same.
In Which I Get My Ducks in a Row
"Get Your Ducks in a Row" is the theme for the annual Kansas SCBWI conference next weekend, and I've finally finished all the brochures, flyers, press releases, advertisements and packets. After a couple of month of ducks dancing across my projects, through my mind and even working themselves into my dreams, it's a relief to be done.
And of course, I take pride in it. I love the way the brochure turned out, and the conference info packets look stupendous! It's a blast thinking up perfect titles for each section--Ducks Unlimited for the Breakout Session, The Mighty Ducks for our faculty and Feeding the Ducks for lunch information.
And the poem I was asked to write for the newsletter turned out better than I'd hoped. "Write about ducks or writing, if you can" the editor suggested. So I wracked my brain and did both! You can judge my success for yourself below.
As soon as the conference is over this weekend, it will be on with other things. Maybe I'll actually get some time to really focus on my own writing and finish at least one book!
The Write Duck
Let me introduce you to
The duck who likes to write
He fails at aviation
And the finer points of flight.
He can’t fly south each winter
To pursue the warmer weather
His tail and wings are pinionless—
His pens were once his feathers!
He fishes like an octopus:
Not only does he sink
The fishes see him coming
In a cloud of purple ink.
His writing habit doesn’t seem
To glorify his looks
But someday you’ll be begging him
To autograph his books!