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Ms Malibu and I traveled 2307.6 miles on the book tour.
“All by yourself?!” person after person exclaims.
I love traveling alone, just me and the radio and long expanses of time to think and just to be, comfortably settled into the driver’s seat, an open snack and bottle of water at my side.
GPS would make sense for me, especially given my sense of direction. If we humans come equipped with an inner compass, mine was put in backwards. My biggest navigational mistake—I made it three times on this trip—is to think I’ve gone the wrong direction and turn around and travel for a while only to discover that I’d been right in the first place.
But I’m not enamored of GPS as of yet. One reason is that I like stopping to ask for directions. I meet interesting people and pick up information about the area. Like in Kenosha, Wisconsin where I visited my high school chum (“We are the mighty Warriors, our hearts are brave and true…!”). Ms Malibu and I drove to and fro on the main drag, unable to find the right road. We stopped twice for help, the second time being informed that their signs identify roads only by number, not name. Oh. “That’s why I gave you the numbers, too,” my friend said when I finally found her. Oh. I didn’t write that part down—because I like to stop and ask for directions, I guess.
Much to my relief, there were no weather complications. I wouldn’t have intentionally planned a late Nov-early Dec. trip in snow country. The original plans were centered on a family wedding subsequently cancelled, by which time I was committed to the events. I did suffer some anticipatory anxiety, however, since I abhor driving in wintry conditions. The day before I left northeast Illinois for a five hour drive to northeast Indiana, Indiana schools were closed by ice and snow. But the toll road was clear as I sailed through the next day. How blessed I felt to enjoy the flat, white fields on either side, farms stretching into the distance, silo after ever-tinier silo—another coming home experience and time to savor the memories of my Indiana years.
Speaking of coming home experiences—NEXT: Friends and Family
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Book Tour 2011--Drama
I love involving others in my readings and presentations. The stories come across more vividly and effectively when others join me—I always play the part of Rose—to portray her people. I was afraid, though, that this dramatic element might not be possible on tour because my “road show,” entitled “Advent Readings from Sunday by Sunday,” didn’t get put together until the last minute. With the first Sunday in Advent less than a week away, I almost gave up on the idea of recruiting actors. But through prayer and meditation, I was guided and energized to give it the old college try.
Yikes. I quickly contacted my “handler” at each venue to request volunteers and emailed the “scripts” so that those portraying Mindy, Pastor Sauer, Jim and Anita from next door, Stephanie Rose and others would have time to review. In 4 out of 5 cases, everything came together and drama happened!
We hit the jackpot for the premiere performance at Our Saviour Lutheran in Arlington Heights, Illinois. Their drama team responded enthusiastically and was joined by my sis and her husband as Anita and Jim (as mentioned in “Book Tour 2011—Serendipity”). Smashing performances! The stories and characters came to life in this place—and then in other settings—as evidenced in audience laughter, silent reflection, and even spontaneous participation with sound effects and commentary. What fun!
“I must be Sarah or Elizabeth from the Bible,” quipped an 80-something actress taking the part of the pregnant Anita. The character Chelsea from book III, a wide-eyed 5-year-old, was movingly interpreted by people of all ages, including an 11-year-old. And an interesting and amusing layer was laid on when a pastor most ably took on the role of Jim, skeptic atheist.
I read all the parts myself, when necessary, but, as you can easily imagine, the experience is vastly enhanced by people willing to step onto the stage. How very grateful I am to each and every one of them.
Yikes. I quickly contacted my “handler” at each venue to request volunteers and emailed the “scripts” so that those portraying Mindy, Pastor Sauer, Jim and Anita from next door, Stephanie Rose and others would have time to review. In 4 out of 5 cases, everything came together and drama happened!
We hit the jackpot for the premiere performance at Our Saviour Lutheran in Arlington Heights, Illinois. Their drama team responded enthusiastically and was joined by my sis and her husband as Anita and Jim (as mentioned in “Book Tour 2011—Serendipity”). Smashing performances! The stories and characters came to life in this place—and then in other settings—as evidenced in audience laughter, silent reflection, and even spontaneous participation with sound effects and commentary. What fun!
“I must be Sarah or Elizabeth from the Bible,” quipped an 80-something actress taking the part of the pregnant Anita. The character Chelsea from book III, a wide-eyed 5-year-old, was movingly interpreted by people of all ages, including an 11-year-old. And an interesting and amusing layer was laid on when a pastor most ably took on the role of Jim, skeptic atheist.
I read all the parts myself, when necessary, but, as you can easily imagine, the experience is vastly enhanced by people willing to step onto the stage. How very grateful I am to each and every one of them.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Book Tour 2011-- Infrastructure Incidents and Accidents
One night my ultimate hostess sister and her husband took me out for supper. When he went to pay the bill, we were laughing at the thickness of his billfold. Sorting through his cards, he hilariously justified the need to have each one in his hip pocket at all times. Playing along, I pulled out my measly-in-comparison stack, from Voter Registration to Belk’s Bra and Panty Club. (“Betcha’ don’t have one of these,” I kidded.) (He didn't.)
All well and good—until the next morning when I went to pay a bill online using my credit card. Not in my wallet. I hate that feeling—which I’ve experienced several times, unfortunately. After the usual thorough search of pockets, purse, and car, I called the restaurant. Hadn’t been turned in there. So I zeroed in on my most recent transaction and called a gas station downstate where I’d stopped. Yup, they had it. Great. Could they please mail it to my sister’s address? Nope. They had to destroy it.
Thus began my major infrastructure accident while on the road. Card was cancelled, a new one issued with a different #. Could they mail it to my sister’s address? Nope—had to go to home address—where mail was not being delivered-so, I called… Okay, this story is essentially quite boring, with many more details of managing finances on a major trip without benefit of a credit card. And yet, there were gains.
Even though there was some insecurity, I found the challenge of a “hand-to-mouth” existence invigorating. Could I sell enough books at an evening event to fill my gas tank the next morning?Another good part was being reminded anew of my privileged life and able to stay calm in the assurance that my resources would not fail me. Friends and relatives would cash my checks, if necessary. Or I could do this… or that… I wouldn’t be on the street. I wouldn’t miss a meal. Not knowing exactly where the next dollar would come from was “faux poverty,” not the debilitating daily grind endured by those actually living in poverty.
There were two other infrastructure issues woven into the tour: using my car as a warehouse, continually having to shift books and materials around so that I had what I needed going into each event; and, my brand new android smartphone. While enabling me to receive email on the road as well as process credit cards, the learning curve for a person of my limited tech savvy is steep and the transition time lengthy… which keeps me yearning for the days when phones could not be lost or go dead or ring in church.
Anyway, my infrastructure hung together fairly well on this major journey. In the next installment, I shall tell about my surprise and delight at how drama became an important part of my book tour adventures.
All well and good—until the next morning when I went to pay a bill online using my credit card. Not in my wallet. I hate that feeling—which I’ve experienced several times, unfortunately. After the usual thorough search of pockets, purse, and car, I called the restaurant. Hadn’t been turned in there. So I zeroed in on my most recent transaction and called a gas station downstate where I’d stopped. Yup, they had it. Great. Could they please mail it to my sister’s address? Nope. They had to destroy it.
Thus began my major infrastructure accident while on the road. Card was cancelled, a new one issued with a different #. Could they mail it to my sister’s address? Nope—had to go to home address—where mail was not being delivered-so, I called… Okay, this story is essentially quite boring, with many more details of managing finances on a major trip without benefit of a credit card. And yet, there were gains.
Even though there was some insecurity, I found the challenge of a “hand-to-mouth” existence invigorating. Could I sell enough books at an evening event to fill my gas tank the next morning?Another good part was being reminded anew of my privileged life and able to stay calm in the assurance that my resources would not fail me. Friends and relatives would cash my checks, if necessary. Or I could do this… or that… I wouldn’t be on the street. I wouldn’t miss a meal. Not knowing exactly where the next dollar would come from was “faux poverty,” not the debilitating daily grind endured by those actually living in poverty.
There were two other infrastructure issues woven into the tour: using my car as a warehouse, continually having to shift books and materials around so that I had what I needed going into each event; and, my brand new android smartphone. While enabling me to receive email on the road as well as process credit cards, the learning curve for a person of my limited tech savvy is steep and the transition time lengthy… which keeps me yearning for the days when phones could not be lost or go dead or ring in church.
Anyway, my infrastructure hung together fairly well on this major journey. In the next installment, I shall tell about my surprise and delight at how drama became an important part of my book tour adventures.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Book Tour 2011--Serendipity
Surprises popped up throughout the tour, naturally, and most of them were good.* I herein share four of them.
To set up for surprise #1, here is an excerpt from my blog way back on August 25, 2010: “A small spiral notebook in which I jotted ideas and thoughts before they were forgotten proved to be most helpful in the writing of the first two books. I outfitted such a notebook with tabs for characters and topics for Sunday by Sunday III, and for months prior to beginning III, scribbled many plot possibilities and bits of dialogue in it as they came to me. I lived in eager anticipation of utilizing them at the appropriate time in the writing process. Alas, in the midst of major redecorating of my house, I lost this wealth of time-saving, inspiring tidbits. The likely scenario is that I’ll find it the day after the book goes to press, of course. How lovely if I would find it sooner—like, say, tomorrow!”
I did not find it on that tomorrow, but rather on tour, shortly after publication. I was at my cousin’s, and he and I were chatting as I reorganized a carryall. I ripped open the Velcro on an outside pocket of the satchel and immediately recognized the small red notebook with a rose sketched on the front. I haven’t delved into it too much, for fear of regret at all the dynamite ideas and clever phrases lost. Oh, well. I’m still glad I found it.
Surprise # 2 came when my brother-in-law and sister agreed to act out a Sunday by Sunday skit with me for a Sunday morning event. They portrayed the characters Jim and Anita, and I asked them because my brother-in-law is an amiable smart aleck, just like Jim. I was pleasantly astounded when—after reviewing the script—they were up for it! In a phone conversation the day before the event, my bro-in-law joked that he’d practiced five hours so far and had a one-way ticket for Hollywood, leaving Sunday night. My crazy sister teased me right before performance that, “Oh, by the way, we’ve re-worked things a little. Jim and Anita are going to…oh,” she dismissed with a little wave, “you’ll see…” Just kidding. They were fabulous. Very fun, very cool.
I was on my way to Office Depot or someplace similar to have a new supply of bookmarks printed when Surprise # 3 hit. Seeing a storefront print shop, I wheeled in there to see if they could do it. Yes, indeed, and I met two delightful brothers working in this family-owned business. One of them was a voracious reader, and we had intense conversation about contemporary literature while they were turning out the job—and he wound up buying the whole set of my books in its lovely deluxe gift box. Yee-haw!
The owner of the bookstore in Woodstock told me on the day of my signing that a customer had been in a few days prior and was excited when she saw my exhibit, announcing that I would be speaking at their church in Indiana. Surprise # 4 was revealed a week later when the pastor of the church in Albion that was on my schedule told me that she was that person. She’d been visiting family in the area and stopped by Read Between the Lynes. Purely coincidental!
*For the not-so-good surprises, see the next entry, “Infrastructure Accidents and Incidents.”
To set up for surprise #1, here is an excerpt from my blog way back on August 25, 2010: “A small spiral notebook in which I jotted ideas and thoughts before they were forgotten proved to be most helpful in the writing of the first two books. I outfitted such a notebook with tabs for characters and topics for Sunday by Sunday III, and for months prior to beginning III, scribbled many plot possibilities and bits of dialogue in it as they came to me. I lived in eager anticipation of utilizing them at the appropriate time in the writing process. Alas, in the midst of major redecorating of my house, I lost this wealth of time-saving, inspiring tidbits. The likely scenario is that I’ll find it the day after the book goes to press, of course. How lovely if I would find it sooner—like, say, tomorrow!”
I did not find it on that tomorrow, but rather on tour, shortly after publication. I was at my cousin’s, and he and I were chatting as I reorganized a carryall. I ripped open the Velcro on an outside pocket of the satchel and immediately recognized the small red notebook with a rose sketched on the front. I haven’t delved into it too much, for fear of regret at all the dynamite ideas and clever phrases lost. Oh, well. I’m still glad I found it.
Surprise # 2 came when my brother-in-law and sister agreed to act out a Sunday by Sunday skit with me for a Sunday morning event. They portrayed the characters Jim and Anita, and I asked them because my brother-in-law is an amiable smart aleck, just like Jim. I was pleasantly astounded when—after reviewing the script—they were up for it! In a phone conversation the day before the event, my bro-in-law joked that he’d practiced five hours so far and had a one-way ticket for Hollywood, leaving Sunday night. My crazy sister teased me right before performance that, “Oh, by the way, we’ve re-worked things a little. Jim and Anita are going to…oh,” she dismissed with a little wave, “you’ll see…” Just kidding. They were fabulous. Very fun, very cool.
I was on my way to Office Depot or someplace similar to have a new supply of bookmarks printed when Surprise # 3 hit. Seeing a storefront print shop, I wheeled in there to see if they could do it. Yes, indeed, and I met two delightful brothers working in this family-owned business. One of them was a voracious reader, and we had intense conversation about contemporary literature while they were turning out the job—and he wound up buying the whole set of my books in its lovely deluxe gift box. Yee-haw!
The owner of the bookstore in Woodstock told me on the day of my signing that a customer had been in a few days prior and was excited when she saw my exhibit, announcing that I would be speaking at their church in Indiana. Surprise # 4 was revealed a week later when the pastor of the church in Albion that was on my schedule told me that she was that person. She’d been visiting family in the area and stopped by Read Between the Lynes. Purely coincidental!
*For the not-so-good surprises, see the next entry, “Infrastructure Accidents and Incidents.”
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Book Tour 2011--The pitfalls of quantifying
Ms Malibu, my trusty wheels, underwent general maintenance and a major tune-up immediately prior to setting out on the tour. Hoping my gas mileage would improve after that considerable expenditure, I decided to figure mpg throughout the trip. I did the math once, forgot to the next time, wrote down numbers to get back on track, but then, oh, dear, drove away without a receipt and couldn’t remember how many gallons I’d pumped. So, I gave up, admitting that I didn’t really care that much anyway. “Quality is way more important to you than quantity,” my right brain reminded me.
Not that the two are unrelated. It’s just that attaching a value to an experience based solely on how much or how many or how long is only half of the picture. The half I find least interesting.
One of my favorite poems is Madeleine L’Engle’s “Let us view with joy and mirth/all the clocks upon the earth…” She draws strong yet whimsical contrast between human time and God’s time. Those opening lines often come to me when I sense too much emphasis on numbers, too much measuring and valuing them, too much quantifying.
A life view holding quantity and quality in proper balance is a mercy in the book business. At one event on the tour, only two people—a delightful mother and teenage daughter—exhibited any interest in Sunday by Sunday. Their purchase was my only sale. Less lucrative than I wished, but that conversation no less special.
To be sure, I’m not just sour graping or making lemonade. I wouldn’t be able to keep going with my enterprises without a steady response and big scores on occasion. But I don’t ever want to miss blessings that are not reflected in attendance or sales.
Not that the two are unrelated. It’s just that attaching a value to an experience based solely on how much or how many or how long is only half of the picture. The half I find least interesting.
One of my favorite poems is Madeleine L’Engle’s “Let us view with joy and mirth/all the clocks upon the earth…” She draws strong yet whimsical contrast between human time and God’s time. Those opening lines often come to me when I sense too much emphasis on numbers, too much measuring and valuing them, too much quantifying.
A life view holding quantity and quality in proper balance is a mercy in the book business. At one event on the tour, only two people—a delightful mother and teenage daughter—exhibited any interest in Sunday by Sunday. Their purchase was my only sale. Less lucrative than I wished, but that conversation no less special.
To be sure, I’m not just sour graping or making lemonade. I wouldn’t be able to keep going with my enterprises without a steady response and big scores on occasion. But I don’t ever want to miss blessings that are not reflected in attendance or sales.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Re-entry--Day 10
Maybe I need 26 days for a full re-entry, since that’s how many days I was gone. This harrowing process, tinged by a fatigue deeper than I could have imagined and doubts about my intrinsic value as a human being, is boiling down to an exercise in faith—as life always does. Trusting in a God who loves me no matter what, continually calms me down and builds me up as I try to get a grip after my big trip.
Last night I finally found the moment to fill out a little form and send in my receipt for a special offer of a free garment after buying two others. Had to be postmarked no later than December 14. Shucks.
And my poor car. When I drove Miss Malibu into my driveway the middle of last week, I had thoughts of washing her the next morning to be followed by a thorough inside cleaning asap. Not only has that not happened, but she still labors under hundreds of volumes of books in her trunk, another re-organizing task of inventory and sorting waiting to be done.
Last Saturday morning, a week ago today, I lay in bed listening to NPR, luxuriating in a slower pace to let body and soul catch up with each other. Marvelous--but not the mountain crossed, turning point panacea I had hoped for. So still, I slog on, overwhelmed and ridiculously tired, needing to update financial records and write thank you notes, my house a wasteland of disordered piles of papers and mounds of clothes.
Oh! and then there’s the job hunt. Yikes. I need a real job. With a real paycheck. Soon.
“Be still, my soul: your God will undertake to guide the future, as in ages past.” ~von Schlegel, 1752; Borthwick, 1855; Sibelius, 1899.
Yes, even with myriad undones nipping at my heels, I take refuge in and am bucked up by the fond memories and good results of the tour. And gratitude for special times during Advent with friends and family, and good health, and an attitude toward the unknown that is broader and more positive than my own limited vision give confidence to keep me inching ahead. In all things, give thanks.
NEXT: Book Tour 2011—The futility of quantifying
Last night I finally found the moment to fill out a little form and send in my receipt for a special offer of a free garment after buying two others. Had to be postmarked no later than December 14. Shucks.
And my poor car. When I drove Miss Malibu into my driveway the middle of last week, I had thoughts of washing her the next morning to be followed by a thorough inside cleaning asap. Not only has that not happened, but she still labors under hundreds of volumes of books in her trunk, another re-organizing task of inventory and sorting waiting to be done.
Last Saturday morning, a week ago today, I lay in bed listening to NPR, luxuriating in a slower pace to let body and soul catch up with each other. Marvelous--but not the mountain crossed, turning point panacea I had hoped for. So still, I slog on, overwhelmed and ridiculously tired, needing to update financial records and write thank you notes, my house a wasteland of disordered piles of papers and mounds of clothes.
Oh! and then there’s the job hunt. Yikes. I need a real job. With a real paycheck. Soon.
“Be still, my soul: your God will undertake to guide the future, as in ages past.” ~von Schlegel, 1752; Borthwick, 1855; Sibelius, 1899.
Yes, even with myriad undones nipping at my heels, I take refuge in and am bucked up by the fond memories and good results of the tour. And gratitude for special times during Advent with friends and family, and good health, and an attitude toward the unknown that is broader and more positive than my own limited vision give confidence to keep me inching ahead. In all things, give thanks.
NEXT: Book Tour 2011—The futility of quantifying
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Itinerary
My pathway for the book tour was established by my birthplace--Woodstock, Illinois. Long ago, in anticipation of publishing the final book, I scheduled a signing at Read Between the Lynes, an independent bookstore (owned by the Lynes family—cute, huh?) on the square in quaint Woodstock. What a cool, full-circle experience, greeting and meeting friends and family there as well as people not previously known. ‘Twas the Saturday afternoon of Thanksgiving weekend which was Small Merchants Day, with a good bit of hustle and bustle and Dickensian-dressed singers wandering the streets and caroling in the stores. I met a woman there who invited me to present a program at a church next time I’m in the area. She had read about Sunday by Sunday in the paper and was intrigued. A 10-year-old boy wearing a winter hat with earflaps and also wearing freckles and a big smile upon finding the book he wanted—from the Wimpy Kid series—was impressed in the most winsome way that I was an author and wanted to know what my books were about and listened intently while I told him. A couple high school girls were equally interested, all to my delight, of course. Met another author and a couple people who graduated from MCHS with my younger siblings. Very special time.
I scheduled the other ten events along my travel route at venues where I knew someone, screwing my Lutheran chutzpah to the sticking point and inviting myself. How grateful I am for eleven yeses! The church of a pastor friend in Lawrenceburg IN outside of Cincinnati was my first stop on a Sunday morning after worship after a 9-hour drive the day before.
Then, I drove to Normal IL to spend time with my cousin and managed to get in touch with a church book club in Bloomington and attend their monthly meeting one evening. My cousin’s wife graciously drove me to the home, and as we walked to the door I mentioned the name of the hostess, which rang familiar to her. Sure enough, when the door opened, there was the man of the house who had worked with my cousin for many years. No readings with the group, just questions about the what and why and how of my writing. I felt richly indulged!
And from Normal, I traveled north to McHenry IL, home territory with many family members still there. At my mother’s assisted living home, several elders gathered for a reading, and I selected flashbacks from the books that took us back to the 1930s, 40s, 50s, 60s, and 70s. Audience participation was excellent, with many poignant memories, happy and sad, pleasant and difficult. Mom was my main consultant on the "olden days" for these sections, so it was a privilege to have her there. And I treasured the presence of my uncle and his wife, daughter, and mother-in-law. Mom’s United Methodist church also hosted me for “An Evening of Advent Readings.”
I wound up for two events at a Lutheran congregation in nearby Arlington Heights, a Chicago suburb, because of my 30+ years friendship with a couple now there. Our acquaintance began in Atlanta when our children were being born, and they paved the way for my visit. I had the treat of worshiping there, along with some of my family, on the First Sunday of Advent. Then, a nice group enjoyed my Advent readings, greatly enhanced by an acting troupe informally assembled for the occasion. The following Tuesday evening I returned to meet with book club members and relished the discussion about the first book. “Why did you kill (So-and-So)?” one reader wanted to know. I had to laugh for a second, but the question led to conversation about “the author as God” and the other side of writing; that the characters and action come from beyond, and often the author’s job is to get out of the way and let it happen. A balancing act of control and acquiescence. So, did I cause that character’s death? Hmm…
From home territory, I continued on to Auburn IN where I once lived for 6 ½ years and where the books are set. Yes, Rose's town is named Shippensforge in the series but when I call up in my mind the physical setting, I see Auburn with its historic courthouse square. My three events there fell on the same day, a Saturday, beginning with a women’s Advent brunch at the church I’d attended, where I’d participated in several Advent brunches before. The experience was bittersweet because that congregation has left our denomination, but the warm welcome back made our unity in Christ a reconciling force. At MJs Bookmark, Auburn’s independent bookstore, I had planned to read excerpts that were clearly set there, including the Ku Klux Klan rally on the courthouse steps that I witnessed. With that startling scene as a starting point, I wove a tale in Sunday by Sunday II. Alas, not enough people showed up to justify a reading, but I appreciated the four faithful friends who did stop by. The evening event at a small Lutheran church in Albion was absolutely a hoot. After a yummy potluck supper, the group of about 20 or so, several of whom were familiar with the series, really caught the spirit and substance of the presentation. Laughter broke out at just the right times, and silent reflection in its proper turn. Pretty much impromptu again, the cast of readers was so fine!
The last stop in Knoxville TN two days later was another going home. My family and I had lived in that great city for 7 ½ years when my 30-something daughters were in elem-middle-high school. The schedule worked out perfectly for me to present my Advent program once again for my former Lutheran congregation’s Advent Tea. Yet another cast joined with me to give a unique performance and all went very, very well. Catching up with a whole crowd of dear friends all at once is intense—wonderful and satisfying but fast and fleeting, too. A couple minutes here hearing about new grandchildren, a minute there hearing about the passing of a dear one, a quick question about a lingering illness or brief report of a wedding is almost excruciating in its brevity. Nevertheless, like the rest of the stops on the trip, this night was rich with relationship grounded in common faith. As I drove through the mountains back to Columbia, I was steeped in memories and in the hope and light of the Advent season.
I scheduled the other ten events along my travel route at venues where I knew someone, screwing my Lutheran chutzpah to the sticking point and inviting myself. How grateful I am for eleven yeses! The church of a pastor friend in Lawrenceburg IN outside of Cincinnati was my first stop on a Sunday morning after worship after a 9-hour drive the day before.
Then, I drove to Normal IL to spend time with my cousin and managed to get in touch with a church book club in Bloomington and attend their monthly meeting one evening. My cousin’s wife graciously drove me to the home, and as we walked to the door I mentioned the name of the hostess, which rang familiar to her. Sure enough, when the door opened, there was the man of the house who had worked with my cousin for many years. No readings with the group, just questions about the what and why and how of my writing. I felt richly indulged!
And from Normal, I traveled north to McHenry IL, home territory with many family members still there. At my mother’s assisted living home, several elders gathered for a reading, and I selected flashbacks from the books that took us back to the 1930s, 40s, 50s, 60s, and 70s. Audience participation was excellent, with many poignant memories, happy and sad, pleasant and difficult. Mom was my main consultant on the "olden days" for these sections, so it was a privilege to have her there. And I treasured the presence of my uncle and his wife, daughter, and mother-in-law. Mom’s United Methodist church also hosted me for “An Evening of Advent Readings.”
I wound up for two events at a Lutheran congregation in nearby Arlington Heights, a Chicago suburb, because of my 30+ years friendship with a couple now there. Our acquaintance began in Atlanta when our children were being born, and they paved the way for my visit. I had the treat of worshiping there, along with some of my family, on the First Sunday of Advent. Then, a nice group enjoyed my Advent readings, greatly enhanced by an acting troupe informally assembled for the occasion. The following Tuesday evening I returned to meet with book club members and relished the discussion about the first book. “Why did you kill (So-and-So)?” one reader wanted to know. I had to laugh for a second, but the question led to conversation about “the author as God” and the other side of writing; that the characters and action come from beyond, and often the author’s job is to get out of the way and let it happen. A balancing act of control and acquiescence. So, did I cause that character’s death? Hmm…
From home territory, I continued on to Auburn IN where I once lived for 6 ½ years and where the books are set. Yes, Rose's town is named Shippensforge in the series but when I call up in my mind the physical setting, I see Auburn with its historic courthouse square. My three events there fell on the same day, a Saturday, beginning with a women’s Advent brunch at the church I’d attended, where I’d participated in several Advent brunches before. The experience was bittersweet because that congregation has left our denomination, but the warm welcome back made our unity in Christ a reconciling force. At MJs Bookmark, Auburn’s independent bookstore, I had planned to read excerpts that were clearly set there, including the Ku Klux Klan rally on the courthouse steps that I witnessed. With that startling scene as a starting point, I wove a tale in Sunday by Sunday II. Alas, not enough people showed up to justify a reading, but I appreciated the four faithful friends who did stop by. The evening event at a small Lutheran church in Albion was absolutely a hoot. After a yummy potluck supper, the group of about 20 or so, several of whom were familiar with the series, really caught the spirit and substance of the presentation. Laughter broke out at just the right times, and silent reflection in its proper turn. Pretty much impromptu again, the cast of readers was so fine!
The last stop in Knoxville TN two days later was another going home. My family and I had lived in that great city for 7 ½ years when my 30-something daughters were in elem-middle-high school. The schedule worked out perfectly for me to present my Advent program once again for my former Lutheran congregation’s Advent Tea. Yet another cast joined with me to give a unique performance and all went very, very well. Catching up with a whole crowd of dear friends all at once is intense—wonderful and satisfying but fast and fleeting, too. A couple minutes here hearing about new grandchildren, a minute there hearing about the passing of a dear one, a quick question about a lingering illness or brief report of a wedding is almost excruciating in its brevity. Nevertheless, like the rest of the stops on the trip, this night was rich with relationship grounded in common faith. As I drove through the mountains back to Columbia, I was steeped in memories and in the hope and light of the Advent season.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Book Tour 2011--the team
Sunday by Sunday’s main character Rose Harris and I glory in teamwork. That’s why she wanted to have a high-five with the guy she inadvertently cut off in traffic to celebrate that they didn’t crash. That enraged fellow, however, did not share my and Rose’s viewpoint that driving is a team sport—and everyone on the road is on the same team. In fact, Rose and I take a team approach to all aspects of life. Our philosophy is, “Let’s all work together with grace and harmony—and be amazed at the results!” In my writing ventures, including the business aspects, I have been delighted by the teamwork that consistently under girds my operations. A great team came together to make my recent book tour happen.
At the top of the list are those people who I laughingly refer to as my “handlers”—the folks at churches and stores and book clubs who replied affirmatively to my inquiry about holding an event at their places and then followed through with publicity and warm welcomes and supplying my every need, sometimes on short notice. When I say “on short notice,” one matter I’m thinking of is the magical assembly of acting troupes to help me with my programs. (Read about the thespian team members when I write on the topic “Drama.”)
My hosts were equally crucial to the economy and pleasure of my trip, and I am deeply gratefully for their generous support along the way. My most extended stay was with the sister who has stayed in our hometown. Late night TV and breakfast conversations with her and her husband, a great storyteller himself, were both merry and meaningful. They’re easy people to be around, with their attentive yet relaxed hospitality. With her help, I upgraded my wardrobe with bargain deals, had the technology I needed to keep things rolling, did some personal banking, and much more. I had several special days and nights with another sister, as well, seeing her new place and relishing time together. Another sister’s family hosted Thanksgiving dinner in their lovely new home. A cousin and his wife provided bread and board and many kind accoutrements for a few days and nights. Reunion was in the air as I was treated to lovely meals and perhaps overnights with my brother, high school friends, former teaching colleagues, and fellow church members from days gone by. New friends, too. “One is silver and the other gold…”
Obviously, there would have been no tour without the books and my marvelous writing/publication team: consultants and resource people for various aspects of the stories, editors—the main one and three others, tech assistants, graphic designer, printer, manufacturer of the gift boxes, encouraging readers and fans. And I can’t forget Kickstarter, the online platform through which I raised the upfront money to publish Sunday by Sunday III. All my backers and all the folks at Kickstarter.com are most definitely part of my team.
I find the world to be a very friendly place. And (indebted to e e cummings) i thank you, God, for most this amazing team!
At the top of the list are those people who I laughingly refer to as my “handlers”—the folks at churches and stores and book clubs who replied affirmatively to my inquiry about holding an event at their places and then followed through with publicity and warm welcomes and supplying my every need, sometimes on short notice. When I say “on short notice,” one matter I’m thinking of is the magical assembly of acting troupes to help me with my programs. (Read about the thespian team members when I write on the topic “Drama.”)
My hosts were equally crucial to the economy and pleasure of my trip, and I am deeply gratefully for their generous support along the way. My most extended stay was with the sister who has stayed in our hometown. Late night TV and breakfast conversations with her and her husband, a great storyteller himself, were both merry and meaningful. They’re easy people to be around, with their attentive yet relaxed hospitality. With her help, I upgraded my wardrobe with bargain deals, had the technology I needed to keep things rolling, did some personal banking, and much more. I had several special days and nights with another sister, as well, seeing her new place and relishing time together. Another sister’s family hosted Thanksgiving dinner in their lovely new home. A cousin and his wife provided bread and board and many kind accoutrements for a few days and nights. Reunion was in the air as I was treated to lovely meals and perhaps overnights with my brother, high school friends, former teaching colleagues, and fellow church members from days gone by. New friends, too. “One is silver and the other gold…”
Obviously, there would have been no tour without the books and my marvelous writing/publication team: consultants and resource people for various aspects of the stories, editors—the main one and three others, tech assistants, graphic designer, printer, manufacturer of the gift boxes, encouraging readers and fans. And I can’t forget Kickstarter, the online platform through which I raised the upfront money to publish Sunday by Sunday III. All my backers and all the folks at Kickstarter.com are most definitely part of my team.
I find the world to be a very friendly place. And (indebted to e e cummings) i thank you, God, for most this amazing team!
Friday, December 9, 2011
Book Tour 2011
Wednesday afternoon, I drove back into town at the end of my 26-day book tour and vacation. A school bus approached from the opposite direction. Figuring Buddy Boy (grandson #1) would be on it, I slowed to let the bus make its right turn and then made my left turn, slipping in behind it. Sure enough, my first grade guy hopped off with a few other munchkins and pranced the short distance to his house. As he opened the side door to go in, I pulled into his driveway and tooted my horn. His excited dance at seeing me was the best welcome home imaginable. And then, my kids and other grandkids gathered for supper and a happy reunion that was oh! so excellent.
The welcome dance and fun of the evening mirrored my own joy at being home, but the trip itself was also part of the joy. Memories and reflections fly around my brain along with tasks and agenda items needing attention. Fatigue and disorganization keep me off balance a bit and measure out a gradual re-entry. As part of the process, I want to capture, nonetheless, the essence of this journey undertaken in conjunction with the release of Sunday by Sunday III.
To cover every detail would be not only impossible but also boring. So, blogging daily (at least that’s the plan), I will hit the highs—and maybe some lows, though there weren’t many of those. The following topics, which I jotted down with some notes on one of the last nights on the road, should provide a pretty good framework for documenting this momentous occasion in my writing adventures. And with a little luck, this document may be entertaining as well (at least that’s the hope).
• The team
• Itinerary
• Family
• Friends
• Drama
• Futility of quantifying
• Infrastructure accidents and incidents
• Serendipity
• Driving
• Weather
• Itinerary/Memory lane
• Re-entry
• Next
The welcome dance and fun of the evening mirrored my own joy at being home, but the trip itself was also part of the joy. Memories and reflections fly around my brain along with tasks and agenda items needing attention. Fatigue and disorganization keep me off balance a bit and measure out a gradual re-entry. As part of the process, I want to capture, nonetheless, the essence of this journey undertaken in conjunction with the release of Sunday by Sunday III.
To cover every detail would be not only impossible but also boring. So, blogging daily (at least that’s the plan), I will hit the highs—and maybe some lows, though there weren’t many of those. The following topics, which I jotted down with some notes on one of the last nights on the road, should provide a pretty good framework for documenting this momentous occasion in my writing adventures. And with a little luck, this document may be entertaining as well (at least that’s the hope).
• The team
• Itinerary
• Family
• Friends
• Drama
• Futility of quantifying
• Infrastructure accidents and incidents
• Serendipity
• Driving
• Weather
• Itinerary/Memory lane
• Re-entry
• Next
Friday, September 16, 2011
The joy of puttering
The joy of puttering around! Maybe I’ll write a book with that name to add to the library of The Joy of ... books—Gardening, Motherhood, Sex. Anyway, today is being a lovely, satisfying day of puttering, frittering, dawdling. Not inactive, high energy, actually, doing whatever I wish.
Worked out with Spike and the Bulldogs, my 35-minute, self-choreographed routine.
Had pancakes and eggs and read more in The Creed, What Christians Believe and Why It Matters for breakfast.
Communicated with friends and readers to try and get my Kickstarter campaign popping. Not looking good to reach my goal, but I’m not going down without a fight. Good to catch up with people I haven’t been in touch with for awhile. And, these contacts held encouragement, which is good because self-promotion and marketing require massive amounts of encouragement—and determination. There are days when I just can’t do it. But today—yes I can!
Listened to the inimitable Dorothea Benton Frank on the delightful Walter Edgar’s Journal. What a hoot that woman is, and she had so much inspiration for writers in their hour-long conversation. I’m going to listen again and take notes.
Cleaned my toaster oven while listening to Dottie and Walter. This is a household task I perform on a regular schedule—whenever the crumbs catch on fire.
Talked with precious daughter for a good while, professional to professional. Joy.
Hung out a load of wash. Another household task that needs doing is to take the dirty clothesline down, scrub it, and rehang it. I also rehang my clothesline on a regular schedule—whenever the sheets touch the ground. (I’m not that good at knots.)
Social networked for awhile and had fun doing it. Days off from the computer, nonetheless, are important, too.
Now, going to look for $5 summer shoes on the sale rack and get what I need to make a batch of oatmealers.
Then, PBS Newshour and Washington Week in Review, my typical wild Friday night—unless the news is so maddening and/or depressing I switch to reruns of Mash (the cleverest program on TV according to me) like I did the other night.
These are a few of my favorite things, and it’s a whole different deal to do them because I feel like it rather than because I must. Luxurious.
This free and easy schedule has a marvelous edge to it following the 12+ hours per day intensity of finishing the composition stage of the book, starting up the campaign, and scheduling events and book tour. I’m beginning to feel human again. Thank you, God, for all of this. All of it.
Worked out with Spike and the Bulldogs, my 35-minute, self-choreographed routine.
Had pancakes and eggs and read more in The Creed, What Christians Believe and Why It Matters for breakfast.
Communicated with friends and readers to try and get my Kickstarter campaign popping. Not looking good to reach my goal, but I’m not going down without a fight. Good to catch up with people I haven’t been in touch with for awhile. And, these contacts held encouragement, which is good because self-promotion and marketing require massive amounts of encouragement—and determination. There are days when I just can’t do it. But today—yes I can!
Listened to the inimitable Dorothea Benton Frank on the delightful Walter Edgar’s Journal. What a hoot that woman is, and she had so much inspiration for writers in their hour-long conversation. I’m going to listen again and take notes.
Cleaned my toaster oven while listening to Dottie and Walter. This is a household task I perform on a regular schedule—whenever the crumbs catch on fire.
Talked with precious daughter for a good while, professional to professional. Joy.
Hung out a load of wash. Another household task that needs doing is to take the dirty clothesline down, scrub it, and rehang it. I also rehang my clothesline on a regular schedule—whenever the sheets touch the ground. (I’m not that good at knots.)
Social networked for awhile and had fun doing it. Days off from the computer, nonetheless, are important, too.
Now, going to look for $5 summer shoes on the sale rack and get what I need to make a batch of oatmealers.
Then, PBS Newshour and Washington Week in Review, my typical wild Friday night—unless the news is so maddening and/or depressing I switch to reruns of Mash (the cleverest program on TV according to me) like I did the other night.
These are a few of my favorite things, and it’s a whole different deal to do them because I feel like it rather than because I must. Luxurious.
This free and easy schedule has a marvelous edge to it following the 12+ hours per day intensity of finishing the composition stage of the book, starting up the campaign, and scheduling events and book tour. I’m beginning to feel human again. Thank you, God, for all of this. All of it.
Friday, September 9, 2011
I just finished my book
I just finished my latest book, Sunday by Sunday III, a little past midnight. I had set last Friday as my deadline. And I take deadlines very seriously, not like Douglas Adams (The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy), who claims to “love deadlines…the whooshing sound they make when they fly by.” But, alas, Friday whooshed by, and I wasn’t done. Then, Monday, for absolutely sure. Nope. On Wednesday I wrote to a friend, “I’m finishing III today. I struggled all day yesterday for the exact right ending. Finally, this morning as I boiled my oatmeal, it came.” Discovering how to end it was about being still and knowing that God is God. About “getting out of the way,” as Madeleine L’Engle, and many others, put it. “Art is collaboration between God and the artist, and the less the artist does the better.” ~André Gide
Anyway, yee-haw! God and I are done. Tomorrow I’ll send the manuscript to my main editor and several other readers for final feedback Most of the characters will survive revision, I think, and most of the story lines are pretty well set, and yet, there is more work. (“A book is never finished, you just finally have to abandon it.”) But the hardest part, making it all up, is over. Thank God.
Composition is like taming a lion. Revising is like playing with a kitten. That’s how it is for me. I relish the fine tuning. Tightening is in order, striving to cut out every word that isn’t necessary. Making sure that the action builds on itself convincingly is important, and there will be some backtracking to make that happen. Consistency of facts is obviously important, too—and tricky. As I’ve delved back into the first two books in the series, I’ve discovered three major errors regarding consistency of factual information. I hope no reader ever discovers them, but if someone does, s/he will receive a free book (if s/he keeps her/his mouth shut).
Seriously, typos can occur even with a spell checker and half a dozen proofreaders. Inconsistencies arise even with the search function and diligent editors. A book is a big document, and the writing process complex. I guess for that reason, I don’t get upset or (too) embarrassed when my mistakes are caught. Oops. Darn. Sorry. I re-e-eally wanted it to be perfect, but… Do I sound lame, as though I have low standards? Maybe self-published works like mine typically do have more errors. But I’ll say this: I recently read a hard cover novel by a best-selling, very prominent author published, of course, by a huge publishing house, that had a lot more typos than any of my books. What’s my point here? Maybe I should omit this paragraph.
Anyway, whew. Annie Dillard told authors in The Writing Life, “Your one necessity: …to dangle from it limp, wherever it takes you…” I am definitely limp, so maybe I’ve done something write. Oops, I mean right.
Anyway, yee-haw! God and I are done. Tomorrow I’ll send the manuscript to my main editor and several other readers for final feedback Most of the characters will survive revision, I think, and most of the story lines are pretty well set, and yet, there is more work. (“A book is never finished, you just finally have to abandon it.”) But the hardest part, making it all up, is over. Thank God.
Composition is like taming a lion. Revising is like playing with a kitten. That’s how it is for me. I relish the fine tuning. Tightening is in order, striving to cut out every word that isn’t necessary. Making sure that the action builds on itself convincingly is important, and there will be some backtracking to make that happen. Consistency of facts is obviously important, too—and tricky. As I’ve delved back into the first two books in the series, I’ve discovered three major errors regarding consistency of factual information. I hope no reader ever discovers them, but if someone does, s/he will receive a free book (if s/he keeps her/his mouth shut).
Seriously, typos can occur even with a spell checker and half a dozen proofreaders. Inconsistencies arise even with the search function and diligent editors. A book is a big document, and the writing process complex. I guess for that reason, I don’t get upset or (too) embarrassed when my mistakes are caught. Oops. Darn. Sorry. I re-e-eally wanted it to be perfect, but… Do I sound lame, as though I have low standards? Maybe self-published works like mine typically do have more errors. But I’ll say this: I recently read a hard cover novel by a best-selling, very prominent author published, of course, by a huge publishing house, that had a lot more typos than any of my books. What’s my point here? Maybe I should omit this paragraph.
Anyway, whew. Annie Dillard told authors in The Writing Life, “Your one necessity: …to dangle from it limp, wherever it takes you…” I am definitely limp, so maybe I’ve done something write. Oops, I mean right.
Friday, August 19, 2011
My neighborhood meeting last night disturbed me
My neighborhood meeting last night disturbed me, and I sat on my front step this morning and prayed a lot and cried a little over it. Crime is up in our neighborhood and city. One man has had his house broken into twice in the last year, his car broken into twice, too. Wrong. Bad. Air conditioning units are being destroyed left and right for the copper. Four houses/buildings (all vacant) across from me have had their units destroyed. The church fellowship hall in which we sat was uncomfortably warm because they were hit by the copper thieves the other day.
Police were on hand to exchange information, defend and explain their work, listen sympathetically. Anger escalated with each account of being victimized and afraid and pretty soon, the question that always gets asked at this moment was asked of the officers:
“What’s the law about me protecting my property? Can I shoot someone?” and we began to smile and laugh in our discomfort, in our relief at the thought of taking control, fighting back. Some murmured “shoot to disable,” others “shoot to kill.”
We talked of absentee landlords, too, a problem on my block that leads to bigger problems from vandalism to falling property values to rats (the worst of the three in my mind!). And how landlords rent to convicted sex offenders and other felons. Not good. But I asked myself, for Christ’s sake, where is mercy for these offenders? Are they to be denied a place to lay their heads? Denied a fresh start? Do I want to live next door to a sex offender? Not particularly. But I ask, for Christ’s sake…
In broad daylight in Chicago c. 1967 I was attacked, rape was attempted, and my purse stolen. The perpetrator had my address and the keys to my apartment. I’m pretty sure he tried to get in before the locks were changed but was stopped by the safety chain. Which is to say I know fear and violation and outrage. But still I ask, what is the best response, for Christ’s sake? WWJD? Seriously, what would he do? What did he do? What has he told us, time and again in the Scriptures, to do? Be not afraid. Trust in God. Show mercy.
Like Renee Splichal Larson said in her sermon just now at the churchwide assembly of my denomination, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America /ELCA (I attended the closing communion service virtually), “I just can’t get my mind around how different the world’s idea of justice is from God’s justice.” She said something close to that, and my head was spinning with that same confusion in the meeting last night, when we were laughing about killing someone. We are good, decent people, not killers, and yet we laughed at the prospect, even the satisfaction, of ending another human life. Pastor Larson’s passionate sermon was precisely relevant to our community meeting and to living out God’s justice even when it’s hard and risky. But last night, I felt alone sitting on my molded plastic chair in that hall, and I felt weak that I could not speak for mercy and a reasoned approach to the problem, couldn’t seem to live out my convictions at that exact moment, even when I was pretty sure that there would be others who would share my perspective.
In my prayers this morning, I heard words of grace: 1) Stop bemoaning your presumed guilt for not being a super-hero of faith in a complicated situation; you’re not the point, and, more importantly, you’re baptized. Live in grace, for crying out loud. 2) There are always more chances to behold God’s light in the world and witness to it. “Don’t worry what you have to say; don’t worry because on that day, God’s Spirit will speak in your heart…” 3) Call Margaret. So I called my friend Margaret, steeped in the African-American church and that style of preaching so that sanctified, encouraging Bible verses and faith slogans roll off her tongue like honey. She talked me down—or up, actually, as in lifted my spirits, reminded me of what we believe and what God promises. Sweet words, sweet as honey.
I’m not alone at all, I realize once again. Seems strange, now, how often I forget that.
I took communion in front of my computer with the ELCA crowd in assembly. And I prayed for Earlewood, my neighborhood; and for all victims of crime, including crimes of oppression and economic injustice; and for those who would shoot to kill and those who would shoot to disable and those who would rather die than shoot; and for sex offenders and law-breaking citizens, that they might find enough mercy to repent and heal; and for irresponsible landlords, that the same might happen to them.
Whew. I’m better now. Thank you, God.
“Kyrie eleison, on our world and on our way, kryie elieson everyday…”
Police were on hand to exchange information, defend and explain their work, listen sympathetically. Anger escalated with each account of being victimized and afraid and pretty soon, the question that always gets asked at this moment was asked of the officers:
“What’s the law about me protecting my property? Can I shoot someone?” and we began to smile and laugh in our discomfort, in our relief at the thought of taking control, fighting back. Some murmured “shoot to disable,” others “shoot to kill.”
We talked of absentee landlords, too, a problem on my block that leads to bigger problems from vandalism to falling property values to rats (the worst of the three in my mind!). And how landlords rent to convicted sex offenders and other felons. Not good. But I asked myself, for Christ’s sake, where is mercy for these offenders? Are they to be denied a place to lay their heads? Denied a fresh start? Do I want to live next door to a sex offender? Not particularly. But I ask, for Christ’s sake…
In broad daylight in Chicago c. 1967 I was attacked, rape was attempted, and my purse stolen. The perpetrator had my address and the keys to my apartment. I’m pretty sure he tried to get in before the locks were changed but was stopped by the safety chain. Which is to say I know fear and violation and outrage. But still I ask, what is the best response, for Christ’s sake? WWJD? Seriously, what would he do? What did he do? What has he told us, time and again in the Scriptures, to do? Be not afraid. Trust in God. Show mercy.
Like Renee Splichal Larson said in her sermon just now at the churchwide assembly of my denomination, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America /ELCA (I attended the closing communion service virtually), “I just can’t get my mind around how different the world’s idea of justice is from God’s justice.” She said something close to that, and my head was spinning with that same confusion in the meeting last night, when we were laughing about killing someone. We are good, decent people, not killers, and yet we laughed at the prospect, even the satisfaction, of ending another human life. Pastor Larson’s passionate sermon was precisely relevant to our community meeting and to living out God’s justice even when it’s hard and risky. But last night, I felt alone sitting on my molded plastic chair in that hall, and I felt weak that I could not speak for mercy and a reasoned approach to the problem, couldn’t seem to live out my convictions at that exact moment, even when I was pretty sure that there would be others who would share my perspective.
In my prayers this morning, I heard words of grace: 1) Stop bemoaning your presumed guilt for not being a super-hero of faith in a complicated situation; you’re not the point, and, more importantly, you’re baptized. Live in grace, for crying out loud. 2) There are always more chances to behold God’s light in the world and witness to it. “Don’t worry what you have to say; don’t worry because on that day, God’s Spirit will speak in your heart…” 3) Call Margaret. So I called my friend Margaret, steeped in the African-American church and that style of preaching so that sanctified, encouraging Bible verses and faith slogans roll off her tongue like honey. She talked me down—or up, actually, as in lifted my spirits, reminded me of what we believe and what God promises. Sweet words, sweet as honey.
I’m not alone at all, I realize once again. Seems strange, now, how often I forget that.
I took communion in front of my computer with the ELCA crowd in assembly. And I prayed for Earlewood, my neighborhood; and for all victims of crime, including crimes of oppression and economic injustice; and for those who would shoot to kill and those who would shoot to disable and those who would rather die than shoot; and for sex offenders and law-breaking citizens, that they might find enough mercy to repent and heal; and for irresponsible landlords, that the same might happen to them.
Whew. I’m better now. Thank you, God.
“Kyrie eleison, on our world and on our way, kryie elieson everyday…”
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Rainbows
Last week I mentioned on Facebook a little rainbow hunting excursion that ended rather precipitously. I put the account in the form of a (lengthy) sentence poem (I’m getting quite a collection of those). Here it is: I woke from a lazy Saturday afternoon nap to find a gentle rain falling as the sun shone and put on flip-flops so my good sandals wouldn’t get wet and headed out the front door and carefully down the slippery steps but fell on my keister anyway, and there was, unaccountably, no rainbow, so I just went and took down the wet clothes from the line.
Today was quite a different story. I hit the jackpot with a double! The sun was blinding me as I neared home at the end of a Sunday evening walk. To my right was the community garden, 20 or so beds of lush plants in an expanse of very green grass. When a steady rain started up, I stopped and paused before turning around, thinking, “There just has to be a rainbow out of this; it’s purely a law of physics—light shining into water.” Sure enough, as I gazed into the heavens I saw pale colors taking shape on the left, and second by second—absolutely as if by magic (yeah, and physics)—the arc of pastels appeared, perfectly spanning the gardens. Each end of the rainbow disappeared into tree tops.
By now, the curved stripes were as vivid in color as any I’ve ever seen. Roy G Biv, I began, starting at the top and identifying distinct red, orange, yellow, and green stripes. I was trying to break down Biv—the blue, indigo and violet were pretty indistinguishable —when something above it all caught my eye. Another pale, multicolored patch! As I watched in amazement, the process repeated itself exactly, the same celestial magic, faint colors deepening and shaping into another perfect curve in the dome of heaven, two of them hanging over my community and the verdant vegetation in silent blessing. God, it was gorgeous.
The gentle shower waned and the fading began, but I didn’t want to leave them hanging there in the sky without me, so I determined to stay until they disappeared. How gracefully the process reversed itself. First, the higher one dulled but was still fully visible. Then, sections began to get so light that I wondered if I was still seeing color or just seeing where it been a moment before. I could still see parts of it, barely, and it naturally came to the point that when I looked away and looked back it was gone, utterly gone.
The lower won was still quite sharp. In fact, it outlasted me. Some clouds covered part of it and gradually, only a faint half was still visible. Turning my back on it, I walked the half block to my street and looked around one last time before I hung a hard right for home. Still there, still magical.
What privileged moments for me, and I have no profound reflections to add to what the Creator has already reflected in these and all rainbows!
Today was quite a different story. I hit the jackpot with a double! The sun was blinding me as I neared home at the end of a Sunday evening walk. To my right was the community garden, 20 or so beds of lush plants in an expanse of very green grass. When a steady rain started up, I stopped and paused before turning around, thinking, “There just has to be a rainbow out of this; it’s purely a law of physics—light shining into water.” Sure enough, as I gazed into the heavens I saw pale colors taking shape on the left, and second by second—absolutely as if by magic (yeah, and physics)—the arc of pastels appeared, perfectly spanning the gardens. Each end of the rainbow disappeared into tree tops.
By now, the curved stripes were as vivid in color as any I’ve ever seen. Roy G Biv, I began, starting at the top and identifying distinct red, orange, yellow, and green stripes. I was trying to break down Biv—the blue, indigo and violet were pretty indistinguishable —when something above it all caught my eye. Another pale, multicolored patch! As I watched in amazement, the process repeated itself exactly, the same celestial magic, faint colors deepening and shaping into another perfect curve in the dome of heaven, two of them hanging over my community and the verdant vegetation in silent blessing. God, it was gorgeous.
The gentle shower waned and the fading began, but I didn’t want to leave them hanging there in the sky without me, so I determined to stay until they disappeared. How gracefully the process reversed itself. First, the higher one dulled but was still fully visible. Then, sections began to get so light that I wondered if I was still seeing color or just seeing where it been a moment before. I could still see parts of it, barely, and it naturally came to the point that when I looked away and looked back it was gone, utterly gone.
The lower won was still quite sharp. In fact, it outlasted me. Some clouds covered part of it and gradually, only a faint half was still visible. Turning my back on it, I walked the half block to my street and looked around one last time before I hung a hard right for home. Still there, still magical.
What privileged moments for me, and I have no profound reflections to add to what the Creator has already reflected in these and all rainbows!
Thursday, July 28, 2011
After the family reunion...
After the family reunion, my head and heart are busy with fresh memories—like of the oldest and the youngest arriving together, the 87-year-old matriarch (Generation 1) and her 9-month-old great-grandchild (Generation 4). Very cool moment. We gather on the shores of beautiful Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. The family is large, ten Gen 2ers, my siblings and myself. Grand total of the Fossum generations who made the trip this year was 47—and we sorely missed the other 16. With one exception, we’ve come together every other summer since 1987. There was an important reason that year: the desire of our mother to see all of her children and grandchildren upon her return from two years of Peace Corps service in the Philippines. The 11 reunions since then have happened on the general familial principles of staying in touch and having lots and lots of fun.
One of the funnest aspects for me is KP duty. We do our own cooking and each meal crew is headed by a Gen 2 and staffed by in-laws, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren. The littlest team members take pride in rolling silverware, decorating napkins, and fixing plates of cookies. Kitchen conversation is lively and informative—and you never know when there might be a rubber mouse in the sink to send a certain aunt into conniptions!
And the games are fun. One year a cutthroat Sungka tournament went on day and night, through blistered knuckles, until there was a winner. My one sister and I treated our match-up like afternoon tea, totally non-competitive, just to calm things down a little. The spectator crowd soon dissipated. Water balloon volleyball is a staple and always a hoot. Refreshing, too. Email me if you want instructions. The last few years, Apples to Apples, an adjective game, is a strong draw and sometimes continues into the wee hours of the morning. Favorite quotes from one of those sessions: “Taking from my own life, ‘Going to the gym’ is nerdy.” “Chimpanzees are so idiotic. I hate them.” Another hit this year was Minute to Win It. All ages participated and the older we were the bigger fools we made of ourselves; fools for fun. Then, there’s the Fossum trivia game. “Whose favorite food is potato chips?” “Which Fossum has lived on three continents?” We’re ready for an updated version of that. The talent show seems to have gone steadily downhill since the astonishing tap dance of our 60-something mother a couple decades ago. But we’ve got talent; we definitely need to revive that event.
Family is dynamic by nature and many changes always occur in the intervening two years. For starters, everybody’s two years older and now the kids we used to take to the candy store on the lake trail are taking littler ones. At any given gathering people are making geographical moves or changing jobs or starting kindergarten or graduating from college. We’ve lost several participants to divorce, something I didn’t expect in my family, but now we Gen 2s are at the national average in that regard. (I’ve had to come to terms with being typical; I don’t know why being above average used to seem so important.) There are always babies on the way or recently born as well as significant others we’re meeting for the first time. Shockingly, one of us is mobile in a wheelchair since the last get-together, and we rally round in sorrow and caring, marveling at that one’s determination and courage. Other changes, too, cause pain and confusion, but Don Henley got it right. It’s about forgiveness. Fortunately, we seem to be blessed with plenty of that.
Time always runs out too soon. People begin arriving on Thursday afternoon, everybody’s present by Friday night, and then we gradually leave after Sunday breakfast, out by 11am to make room for the next guests. And whoever sits down next to me is just who I want to be near. But the gala was over before I found out about that nephew’s job search or caught up very well with brothers-in-law or had enough time with little ones or swam or remembered to give Mom the book I brought along which I’ll now have to mail or...
But even though our brief time together seems incomplete in some ways, the reunion is a privileged, precious piece of life, a time of roots and wings. “Roots hold me close; wings set me free…” (from Spirit of Life by Carolyn McDade)
Thank you, gracious Creator, for life and for the gift of family.
One of the funnest aspects for me is KP duty. We do our own cooking and each meal crew is headed by a Gen 2 and staffed by in-laws, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren. The littlest team members take pride in rolling silverware, decorating napkins, and fixing plates of cookies. Kitchen conversation is lively and informative—and you never know when there might be a rubber mouse in the sink to send a certain aunt into conniptions!
And the games are fun. One year a cutthroat Sungka tournament went on day and night, through blistered knuckles, until there was a winner. My one sister and I treated our match-up like afternoon tea, totally non-competitive, just to calm things down a little. The spectator crowd soon dissipated. Water balloon volleyball is a staple and always a hoot. Refreshing, too. Email me if you want instructions. The last few years, Apples to Apples, an adjective game, is a strong draw and sometimes continues into the wee hours of the morning. Favorite quotes from one of those sessions: “Taking from my own life, ‘Going to the gym’ is nerdy.” “Chimpanzees are so idiotic. I hate them.” Another hit this year was Minute to Win It. All ages participated and the older we were the bigger fools we made of ourselves; fools for fun. Then, there’s the Fossum trivia game. “Whose favorite food is potato chips?” “Which Fossum has lived on three continents?” We’re ready for an updated version of that. The talent show seems to have gone steadily downhill since the astonishing tap dance of our 60-something mother a couple decades ago. But we’ve got talent; we definitely need to revive that event.
Family is dynamic by nature and many changes always occur in the intervening two years. For starters, everybody’s two years older and now the kids we used to take to the candy store on the lake trail are taking littler ones. At any given gathering people are making geographical moves or changing jobs or starting kindergarten or graduating from college. We’ve lost several participants to divorce, something I didn’t expect in my family, but now we Gen 2s are at the national average in that regard. (I’ve had to come to terms with being typical; I don’t know why being above average used to seem so important.) There are always babies on the way or recently born as well as significant others we’re meeting for the first time. Shockingly, one of us is mobile in a wheelchair since the last get-together, and we rally round in sorrow and caring, marveling at that one’s determination and courage. Other changes, too, cause pain and confusion, but Don Henley got it right. It’s about forgiveness. Fortunately, we seem to be blessed with plenty of that.
Time always runs out too soon. People begin arriving on Thursday afternoon, everybody’s present by Friday night, and then we gradually leave after Sunday breakfast, out by 11am to make room for the next guests. And whoever sits down next to me is just who I want to be near. But the gala was over before I found out about that nephew’s job search or caught up very well with brothers-in-law or had enough time with little ones or swam or remembered to give Mom the book I brought along which I’ll now have to mail or...
But even though our brief time together seems incomplete in some ways, the reunion is a privileged, precious piece of life, a time of roots and wings. “Roots hold me close; wings set me free…” (from Spirit of Life by Carolyn McDade)
Thank you, gracious Creator, for life and for the gift of family.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Taming the urban jungle some more
By 8 o’clock this morning, I had cut down two trees. Real trees with trunks over two inches in diameter. I got outside early before the h and h (heat and humidity) were insufferable. A lovely breeze was breezing and I was totally up for continuing my crusade against an overgrown, unsightly yard. Plenty of elbow grease was required to make the cuts with my modest hand saw (an electric knife might have made the job easier!), and as my physical strength reached its height, I became keenly aware of power surging through me. Power. Over trees, over nature.
Was I using my power well? We are charged by almighty God with caring for the creation. Aren’t we supposed to be saving trees? I didn’t get into serious reflection or self-recrimination, for my action was intended exactly as good stewardship. These trees—I don’t even know what kind they are—come up volunteer and there are now 11 of them along the fence in about a 12-foot stretch. Too many to grow well and be manageable. Even so, as I sawed through that young trunk, there was a keen sense of ending a beautiful, miraculous life.
And as I cleared the space behind my tool house of invasive vines and shrubs and a big pile of yard garbage accumulated for the last couple months, a foot-long skink slithered out. Undoubtedly, the creature was every bit as startled as I, but only one of us yelped. So, predictably, I thought of vanishing habitats for our animal co-habitors and how I was taking away hers. But it’s my place, space, yard, house—property.
Which made me think of native Americans who, I’ve heard, had no concept of private property. How can anyone own the ground, the sky, the water?! I really like their outlook. How many less problems would there be in the world, how many fewer wars and conflicts if everyone ascribed to that notion and held the land as a sacred gift from the Creator to be managed and shared and handled for the common good? BTW, I am not a communist. And I am a homeowner, so I speak confessionally as well as judgmentally on this topic.
Quite a morning of reflection in my back yard on this holiday! Thank you, great God, for all of it—the trees, the saw, the strength, the skink, the property, the reflective spirit. On this Fourth of July when we celebrate freedom, may you guide me to exercise the great gift of it in accordance with your good purposes and in the knowledge of your sweet and amazing grace. Amen!
Was I using my power well? We are charged by almighty God with caring for the creation. Aren’t we supposed to be saving trees? I didn’t get into serious reflection or self-recrimination, for my action was intended exactly as good stewardship. These trees—I don’t even know what kind they are—come up volunteer and there are now 11 of them along the fence in about a 12-foot stretch. Too many to grow well and be manageable. Even so, as I sawed through that young trunk, there was a keen sense of ending a beautiful, miraculous life.
And as I cleared the space behind my tool house of invasive vines and shrubs and a big pile of yard garbage accumulated for the last couple months, a foot-long skink slithered out. Undoubtedly, the creature was every bit as startled as I, but only one of us yelped. So, predictably, I thought of vanishing habitats for our animal co-habitors and how I was taking away hers. But it’s my place, space, yard, house—property.
Which made me think of native Americans who, I’ve heard, had no concept of private property. How can anyone own the ground, the sky, the water?! I really like their outlook. How many less problems would there be in the world, how many fewer wars and conflicts if everyone ascribed to that notion and held the land as a sacred gift from the Creator to be managed and shared and handled for the common good? BTW, I am not a communist. And I am a homeowner, so I speak confessionally as well as judgmentally on this topic.
Quite a morning of reflection in my back yard on this holiday! Thank you, great God, for all of it—the trees, the saw, the strength, the skink, the property, the reflective spirit. On this Fourth of July when we celebrate freedom, may you guide me to exercise the great gift of it in accordance with your good purposes and in the knowledge of your sweet and amazing grace. Amen!
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Elvis and other interruptions
Carol and I had agreed that I would stop by for a visit around 4 on a Saturday afternoon. She wasn’t in her apartment when I got there, though, so I followed my ears to the packed activities room where a good crowd, including her, was rocking and rolling with an Elvis impersonator. Foiled again, I groused inwardly, wondering how long I would have to wait.
I am routinely irritated by interruptions, and I guess that’s not unusual. Like many of us, I’m more often than not in a “people to see, places to go” mode. On the other hand, in my maturity, I have realized that what I perceive as an interruption, an undesired stop action, is often quite the opposite.
Wow, I hope Jesus wasn’t the personality type who found interruptions irritating. A quick read of Biblical accounts recording the days of his life can give the impression that he is just strolling around looking to see whassup, utterly available to whomever and whatever appears in his pathway. So, if he was trying to get to the synagogue on time or late for a dinner date, there might have been high stress. Ha! High stress in Jesus’ life? Ya’ think?
In a similar vein, I think of clergy who have to deal with the unplanned when trying to prepare for a funeral, get to the hospital, write a sermon, be on time for a meeting, etc. Out of nowhere, a needy person stands before them. Their vocation, their profession is geared toward serving people just like this one, but…
I was about to begin my writing day a while back when the phone rang and I was needed, if possible, to care for a grandbaby who was not feeling so hot. Oh no, oh dear, my day was interrupted! I wouldn’t meet my goal—but the deadline was unchanged. Boy, did we have fun! He was well enough that we would play for a while, and then he’d stretch out his arms for me to pick him up and nestle on my chest with a sigh. Joy. Peace. And he took an extra long nap, so I did okay with my work, probably even more efficient, seizing the opportunity.
Oh, and the Elvis event worked out fine, too. Of course, I slipped in with the crowd, reveling in the campiness of the moment. The guy really sounded like Elvis, voice as low as you can go and smooth as velvet. I laughed a lot on the fast ones; he really got us swinging! Then, after lovely time with Carol, I moved on wondering why I had even thought that the show was an inconvenient nuisance. After all, I didn’t even have to go to Vegas.
I’ll bet each of us could give a long list of initially irritating interruptions that turned out to be the very stuff of life.
I am routinely irritated by interruptions, and I guess that’s not unusual. Like many of us, I’m more often than not in a “people to see, places to go” mode. On the other hand, in my maturity, I have realized that what I perceive as an interruption, an undesired stop action, is often quite the opposite.
Wow, I hope Jesus wasn’t the personality type who found interruptions irritating. A quick read of Biblical accounts recording the days of his life can give the impression that he is just strolling around looking to see whassup, utterly available to whomever and whatever appears in his pathway. So, if he was trying to get to the synagogue on time or late for a dinner date, there might have been high stress. Ha! High stress in Jesus’ life? Ya’ think?
In a similar vein, I think of clergy who have to deal with the unplanned when trying to prepare for a funeral, get to the hospital, write a sermon, be on time for a meeting, etc. Out of nowhere, a needy person stands before them. Their vocation, their profession is geared toward serving people just like this one, but…
I was about to begin my writing day a while back when the phone rang and I was needed, if possible, to care for a grandbaby who was not feeling so hot. Oh no, oh dear, my day was interrupted! I wouldn’t meet my goal—but the deadline was unchanged. Boy, did we have fun! He was well enough that we would play for a while, and then he’d stretch out his arms for me to pick him up and nestle on my chest with a sigh. Joy. Peace. And he took an extra long nap, so I did okay with my work, probably even more efficient, seizing the opportunity.
Oh, and the Elvis event worked out fine, too. Of course, I slipped in with the crowd, reveling in the campiness of the moment. The guy really sounded like Elvis, voice as low as you can go and smooth as velvet. I laughed a lot on the fast ones; he really got us swinging! Then, after lovely time with Carol, I moved on wondering why I had even thought that the show was an inconvenient nuisance. After all, I didn’t even have to go to Vegas.
I’ll bet each of us could give a long list of initially irritating interruptions that turned out to be the very stuff of life.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Taming the urban jungle
Taming the urban jungle
A friend of mine is an extreme gardener and asked me to save vines for a rustic weaving project in her ornately interesting yard. Vines? Not a problem, unfortunately. Got plenty of ‘em.
Wisteria vines, magnificently wicked, like clotheslines with knots or fistulas every so often that send out smaller roots in a circle. I used to love wisteria high in the trees with its clusters of purple blossoms, sweet smelling like lilacs. After battling it in my yard for a few years, I see it as a tree-killing, out-of-control monster, one of the woody-vined, invasive exotic plants causing problems in cities as well as undomesticated forests. “My” wisteria comes through my cyclone fence from a mother vine around a big pine tree in the next yard. I take a clippers to the new vines, reaching out like long, lacey tongues, and a few weeks later they’re “eating” my house again, twining into the vinyl siding.
Virginia Creeper vines, much more polite, thin and red and easy to pull up, also climb high into the trees, decorating them with their five-leaved, um, leaves.
And then there are the vines of the Evil Plant, my name since I don’t know the botanical name for this insidious, thorned monstrosity which also moves along under the ground in ropes, popping up in the middle of the grass, the edge of the grass, everywhere! Indiscriminately climbs up fences and trees and garbage cans and poles, making bushy formations with its shiny green leaves. Its vines are big and strong enough for Tarzan to swing on. Oo, ouch, except for the thorn issue.
English Ivy vines, my favorite, a lovely ground cover, but also something to control. Maintenance trimming year by year is important or this vine, too, will cover and destroy. But English Ivy vines behave, they respond to trimming and can be shaped and add beauty and class to flower beds and yard corners.
Poison ivy vines, which I will not pass on for the craft project! Again, these come into my yard from a neighbor’s, and I’ve already had an unpleasant bout with their poison when pulling the new, young ones up early in the spring. Now, I spray them with a vinegar-salt-detergent mixture, which dries up the visible plant but doesn’t seem to eradicate them down to the roots.
Think of all this in my yard when I live a pleasant walk from the state capital building! Good grief. The four yards that adjoin mine are not well-attended, hence…
I’m gaining a great deal as I try to solve the problem: getting to know my neighbors better, talking to “the city” and enlisting their services in the battle, discovering great online resources (controlling wisteria) and learning lots about plant pests. All advice welcome!
A friend of mine is an extreme gardener and asked me to save vines for a rustic weaving project in her ornately interesting yard. Vines? Not a problem, unfortunately. Got plenty of ‘em.
Wisteria vines, magnificently wicked, like clotheslines with knots or fistulas every so often that send out smaller roots in a circle. I used to love wisteria high in the trees with its clusters of purple blossoms, sweet smelling like lilacs. After battling it in my yard for a few years, I see it as a tree-killing, out-of-control monster, one of the woody-vined, invasive exotic plants causing problems in cities as well as undomesticated forests. “My” wisteria comes through my cyclone fence from a mother vine around a big pine tree in the next yard. I take a clippers to the new vines, reaching out like long, lacey tongues, and a few weeks later they’re “eating” my house again, twining into the vinyl siding.
Virginia Creeper vines, much more polite, thin and red and easy to pull up, also climb high into the trees, decorating them with their five-leaved, um, leaves.
And then there are the vines of the Evil Plant, my name since I don’t know the botanical name for this insidious, thorned monstrosity which also moves along under the ground in ropes, popping up in the middle of the grass, the edge of the grass, everywhere! Indiscriminately climbs up fences and trees and garbage cans and poles, making bushy formations with its shiny green leaves. Its vines are big and strong enough for Tarzan to swing on. Oo, ouch, except for the thorn issue.
English Ivy vines, my favorite, a lovely ground cover, but also something to control. Maintenance trimming year by year is important or this vine, too, will cover and destroy. But English Ivy vines behave, they respond to trimming and can be shaped and add beauty and class to flower beds and yard corners.
Poison ivy vines, which I will not pass on for the craft project! Again, these come into my yard from a neighbor’s, and I’ve already had an unpleasant bout with their poison when pulling the new, young ones up early in the spring. Now, I spray them with a vinegar-salt-detergent mixture, which dries up the visible plant but doesn’t seem to eradicate them down to the roots.
Think of all this in my yard when I live a pleasant walk from the state capital building! Good grief. The four yards that adjoin mine are not well-attended, hence…
I’m gaining a great deal as I try to solve the problem: getting to know my neighbors better, talking to “the city” and enlisting their services in the battle, discovering great online resources (controlling wisteria) and learning lots about plant pests. All advice welcome!
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Missing Madeleine L'Engle
Madeleine L’Engle died in September of 2007. I still miss her. She has enrichened my spiritual life immeasurably. She was the main presenter at a symposium I attended at Christian Theological Seminary in Indianapolis c. 1997. Being with her and actually meeting her was a thrill. When she was near the end of her life, I checked the obituaries regularly and, on this one day, there she was, gone. Even though expectant, I missed her immediately, with a sense that the universe was changed. But recently, I had something of a reunion with her that was ever so fun and rich. Here’s what happened:
At the end of the Lenten season several weeks ago, an appeal went out a few days prior to my women’s monthly circle meeting for someone to present the program. If nobody responded, the hostess for the evening, a high school math teacher, might have us doing arithmetic. Some responded they’d rather do math than give a program, but I always have a program up my sleeve. Shoot, I was “born in the briar patch” of giving programs. “Sure,” I said. “Be glad to,” confident in the knowledge that the facilitator is only part of what happens; between me and my circle sisters, I knew we’d have something unique and meaningful.
A couple hours before meeting time, I grabbed Madeleine’s The Irrational Season, a treasure of spiritual reflections, original poetry, and rich anecdotes framed by the liturgical church year. I turned to Lent; actually, I think Lent fell out in my hands. The book is my second bible, worn and tattered from using it for studies and classes and personal devotions for over 30 years. Ah, yes, I remembered as I perused the chapter. For Lent, Madeleine used the Beatitudes.
So we started the program by me reading the “Blessed are the…” part, and the group completing, “…for they shall be…” That worked beautifully. Next, we listened to the verses set to music by Sweet Honey in the Rock. Perfect touch. Then, I read a brief excerpt of what Madeleine had written about each one, pausing each time for responses from the group. Great participation, from our hearts, from the day. The final quotation from Madeleine was, “There is the power of life and death in his mercy, and it is good to remember this each time we receive the power of his mercy in the bread and wine.” A short poem by Ann Weems, “Communion,” from Kneeling in Jerusalem, wrapped things up beautifully. Many thanks to all these women for a very cool program!
At the end of the Lenten season several weeks ago, an appeal went out a few days prior to my women’s monthly circle meeting for someone to present the program. If nobody responded, the hostess for the evening, a high school math teacher, might have us doing arithmetic. Some responded they’d rather do math than give a program, but I always have a program up my sleeve. Shoot, I was “born in the briar patch” of giving programs. “Sure,” I said. “Be glad to,” confident in the knowledge that the facilitator is only part of what happens; between me and my circle sisters, I knew we’d have something unique and meaningful.
A couple hours before meeting time, I grabbed Madeleine’s The Irrational Season, a treasure of spiritual reflections, original poetry, and rich anecdotes framed by the liturgical church year. I turned to Lent; actually, I think Lent fell out in my hands. The book is my second bible, worn and tattered from using it for studies and classes and personal devotions for over 30 years. Ah, yes, I remembered as I perused the chapter. For Lent, Madeleine used the Beatitudes.
So we started the program by me reading the “Blessed are the…” part, and the group completing, “…for they shall be…” That worked beautifully. Next, we listened to the verses set to music by Sweet Honey in the Rock. Perfect touch. Then, I read a brief excerpt of what Madeleine had written about each one, pausing each time for responses from the group. Great participation, from our hearts, from the day. The final quotation from Madeleine was, “There is the power of life and death in his mercy, and it is good to remember this each time we receive the power of his mercy in the bread and wine.” A short poem by Ann Weems, “Communion,” from Kneeling in Jerusalem, wrapped things up beautifully. Many thanks to all these women for a very cool program!
Friday, March 18, 2011
Great fun at Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary
Great fun at Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary this morning! Dr. Shauna Hannan and her homiletics (preaching) students graciously welcomed me. Then, I managed to establish a comfortable rapport with a silly gaffe right at the outset. First on my outline was to have us sing two little musical versions of Psalm 118:24, This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it. We sang the first, but when I tried to lead the second tune, my mind was blankety-blank; so, I had them sit down with a promise to insert it at any time if I remembered it. After a few minutes, I thought I had it, so I interrupted myself and had them stand again and sing along in a rousing rendition of the second song—except that it was the first one again. A good laugh together served to make my point that preaching is an act of joy at the privilege of sharing the gospel. (Now, unstressed with full oxygen supply to my brain, I can remember both ditties quite handily.)
As I anticipated, the seminarians offered their insights and responses to enrichen our time together. Those steeped in the liturgical tradition helped to define the seasons of the church year and The Revised Common Lectionary for classmates unaccustomed to those practices. Sharing from their own experiences, they commented on why and how liturgy and lectionary deepen meaning in their worship and in their lives.
I encouraged them to use fiction as they develop sermons. One way is to read novels where the situations may not be true but are, mostly, from real life and more typical than one might expect, at first glance, to the lives of those they serve. Another way I suggested--actually creating fiction, in the form of modern parables or brief stories that connect with Bible-based gospel in strong and moving ways.
At Dr. Hannan’s suggestion, I explained the process I use for each lectionary-based entry I write, offering my process as my way and acknowledging that they will each find their own modus operandi. But there are common denominators important to any method devised: studying scripture, utilizing the many resources available for biblical background and theological reflection, allowing time (if/when possible amidst the demands of parish ministry) for ideas to percolate and synthesize, and turning it all over to the Holy Spirit through prayer and supplication (especially late on a Saturday night!). Sometimes, I duly noted, this process can seem dull and irrelevant, but follow your discipline anyway, trusting that God is at work. Eventually, usually, the sparks will start flying!
The final segment of my presentation was a reading of The Second Sunday of Easter from Sunday by Sunday II with an eye to recognizing connections to the gospel lesson, John 20:19-31. I had forgotten to have the scripture read at the outset and was most appreciative when Dr. Hannan inquired if we would be reading it. Her alert intervention helped me maintain the integrity and smooth flow of the activity. After the class, she asked me if I had chosen the John 20 text because I’d seen in the syllabus that it is the assigned text for the sermon the students will be writing and delivering this spring. The answer was no; I had not noticed that. Out of around 170 possible readings from my books, I just “happened” to choose their assigned text. Wow. Lovely.
Yes, I enjoyed this event immensely. I like the podium, the microphone. Making mistakes is not a big deal to me because 1) I make so many and 2) the average group is quite forgiving and bloopers just add to the fun. The best part was meeting these earnest individuals, brothers and sisters in Christ, companions on the journey. The tip-top of that has to be meeting Jason and discovering that we were both born in Woodstock, Illinois—a generation apart—at the old hospital! Wow, again. Connecting and reconnecting with people I’ve met here and there over the years who are now in this class which I got to address was very special. And, of course, meeting new friends, some of whom have already started reading Sunday by Sunday and are really into Rose Harris and her people and her faith is a double wow. I am very grateful for this experience in my life, very glad that I said, “Yes!”
As I anticipated, the seminarians offered their insights and responses to enrichen our time together. Those steeped in the liturgical tradition helped to define the seasons of the church year and The Revised Common Lectionary for classmates unaccustomed to those practices. Sharing from their own experiences, they commented on why and how liturgy and lectionary deepen meaning in their worship and in their lives.
I encouraged them to use fiction as they develop sermons. One way is to read novels where the situations may not be true but are, mostly, from real life and more typical than one might expect, at first glance, to the lives of those they serve. Another way I suggested--actually creating fiction, in the form of modern parables or brief stories that connect with Bible-based gospel in strong and moving ways.
At Dr. Hannan’s suggestion, I explained the process I use for each lectionary-based entry I write, offering my process as my way and acknowledging that they will each find their own modus operandi. But there are common denominators important to any method devised: studying scripture, utilizing the many resources available for biblical background and theological reflection, allowing time (if/when possible amidst the demands of parish ministry) for ideas to percolate and synthesize, and turning it all over to the Holy Spirit through prayer and supplication (especially late on a Saturday night!). Sometimes, I duly noted, this process can seem dull and irrelevant, but follow your discipline anyway, trusting that God is at work. Eventually, usually, the sparks will start flying!
The final segment of my presentation was a reading of The Second Sunday of Easter from Sunday by Sunday II with an eye to recognizing connections to the gospel lesson, John 20:19-31. I had forgotten to have the scripture read at the outset and was most appreciative when Dr. Hannan inquired if we would be reading it. Her alert intervention helped me maintain the integrity and smooth flow of the activity. After the class, she asked me if I had chosen the John 20 text because I’d seen in the syllabus that it is the assigned text for the sermon the students will be writing and delivering this spring. The answer was no; I had not noticed that. Out of around 170 possible readings from my books, I just “happened” to choose their assigned text. Wow. Lovely.
Yes, I enjoyed this event immensely. I like the podium, the microphone. Making mistakes is not a big deal to me because 1) I make so many and 2) the average group is quite forgiving and bloopers just add to the fun. The best part was meeting these earnest individuals, brothers and sisters in Christ, companions on the journey. The tip-top of that has to be meeting Jason and discovering that we were both born in Woodstock, Illinois—a generation apart—at the old hospital! Wow, again. Connecting and reconnecting with people I’ve met here and there over the years who are now in this class which I got to address was very special. And, of course, meeting new friends, some of whom have already started reading Sunday by Sunday and are really into Rose Harris and her people and her faith is a double wow. I am very grateful for this experience in my life, very glad that I said, “Yes!”
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
I will be making a presentation to a seminary class
I will be making a presentation to a seminary class in preaching in a couple days. Dr. Shauna Hannan’s invitation to talk with her basic homiletics class at Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary honors and excites me. Christian Proclamation is the course title, and Dr. Hannan has asked me to use my Sunday by Sunday series and writing experiences to talk about "Preaching and the Christian Year" and "Scripture and Preaching." The 32 students represent several denominations, some with strong liturgical traditions and others more free wheeling in worship.
Already, I have great admiration for these future preachers even though I haven’t met most of them. What courage, to be willing to proclaim the Word of God! Their presence in seminary indicates a seriousness about the disciplines required to perform this holy task: deep study of Scripture; prayer; contextual awareness and sensitivity; devotion to a God who creates, loves, saves, sustains, and inspires us; and enthusiasm about sharing that great news.
My input is only part of the experience, of course. Another part of the equation is the students, and I am eager to hear their responses and observations. And then, there is the presence and the promptings of the Holy Spirit. I expect that we will have great fun as we learn together and share the joy of our common faith.
I’m a bit apprehensive about the opportunity--about being well-prepared and relevant. But, again, it doesn’t all depend on me. This thought from Marjorie Hewitt Suchocki in The Whispered Word, quoted in one of the course textbooks is calming and helps us maintain a proper perspective on our efforts: “For all you know, God may find a mustard seed in your miserable sermon for someone’s consolation…”
On Friday, I’ll blog about what happened!
Already, I have great admiration for these future preachers even though I haven’t met most of them. What courage, to be willing to proclaim the Word of God! Their presence in seminary indicates a seriousness about the disciplines required to perform this holy task: deep study of Scripture; prayer; contextual awareness and sensitivity; devotion to a God who creates, loves, saves, sustains, and inspires us; and enthusiasm about sharing that great news.
My input is only part of the experience, of course. Another part of the equation is the students, and I am eager to hear their responses and observations. And then, there is the presence and the promptings of the Holy Spirit. I expect that we will have great fun as we learn together and share the joy of our common faith.
I’m a bit apprehensive about the opportunity--about being well-prepared and relevant. But, again, it doesn’t all depend on me. This thought from Marjorie Hewitt Suchocki in The Whispered Word, quoted in one of the course textbooks is calming and helps us maintain a proper perspective on our efforts: “For all you know, God may find a mustard seed in your miserable sermon for someone’s consolation…”
On Friday, I’ll blog about what happened!
Friday, February 18, 2011
Gone Zooing--Be Back Monday
Sometimes you just get sick of being sick, you know? I have had a too long spell of the common cold and, it seems, a stomach virus mixed in. These last two weeks have been frightfully unproductive, and my anxiety level has shot up because I feel like I’m falling behind the publication schedule I’ve set for Sunday by Sunday III. My determination to work hard and do some catching up today was sky high; but, alas, I woke up once again tired and slightly nauseated, my brain foggy and addled. So I decided to go to the zoo and act like I was well.
The animals and I could commiserate together, I planned, bizarrely assigning them my funk. Those poor elephants and ancient tortoises and crazy little meerkats must surely be sharing my stress and sense of inadequacy. It would be pretty much me and them early on this February morning, I envisioned, our own little peaceable kingdom. Hardly. There were throngs of doting grandparents and their offspring, nursery schools, mothers and their play groups, nuclear families with 2.5 children, people with exceptionalities and their caretakers, young lovers and old lovers. I’d forgotten that Fridays are free at Riverbanks Zoo and Botanical Gardens in January and February—plus, today was sunny and warm, a first day of spring kind of day. At first, I felt foiled; this was to be my special time with the lions and tigers and bears. Oh, my, I whined to myself, and even thought about leaving. I didn’t, though, and I sure am glad.
Unwinding took some time. Seeing my friend David early on and being in his presence for a few minutes helped. He is a serious Buddhist of the Zen variety (after years as a Lutheran pastor), and is a peaceful fellow. He was there to meet his tai chi group and observe the movements of the animals; how’s that for mellow? He blessed my notion of getting a Starbucks drink, not a small matter for me, given my Scotch-Scandinavian background and overactive social conscience. In a bold move, I even got the rich latte with whipped cream instead of the house decaf. Wow.
I settled in the sun with the siamang gibbons, who were, as always, swinging easily around and walking their tightropes. Sipping deliciously, I closed my eyes for a while, but that only took me in to a swirl of the self-recriminations and insecurities I had come to escape. Better to be fully where I was, taking in all the sights and sounds and action. I watched the siamangs closely hoping to detect the first swelling of their funny throat sacs (diaphragms?), the telltale sign that they would soon be whooping at the top of their lungs. No such luck. Didn’t hear any whooping all day.
As the people population swelled, I headed for the gardens, trekking through the woods and along the Saluda River, intrigued by the granite outcroppings and boulders. Ah, solitude. Exercise, too. The commotion, sound and fury of the zoo faded into a distant background. Mind clearing. Breath deepening. It was happening—the unwinding, the restoration, the re-creation. The last leg of the trail up into the rose garden was steep and lovely. Winter pansies were the only color in the garden, the rose bushes just gray sticks, and I marveled to think how, at that very moment, something was happening that would result in green foliage and gorgeous flowers in the months ahead. All the gardens—the Asian, the shade garden, the Hispanic, the demonstration garden, the bog, the day lilies—were naturally dormant, but all promised beauty, and I vowed to return in their season of glory.
Then, back down into zooland on the tram, ready for people now. I spent what I’d saved on admission for a tasty lunch, sharing a picnic table with a family of five. Dad had gotten the food, 21st century hunter and gatherer, while mom waited with the kids. Mom wasn’t exactly pleased with his choices; poor dads, they try so hard.
I wandered for awhile to tell the animals good-bye. They were mostly napping, those crazy flamingoes sound asleep on one leg, looking fluorescent orange to me instead of their usual pink. The fruit bats with bodies the size of cats were hanging upside down; they freak me out because I used to live in a house with a bat problem, and the thought of these creatures flying around my dining room is truly daunting. (Heavens! I remember a dream last night where I outran a huge alligator in my backyard and slammed and locked the back door against it, just in the nick of time, and when I looked back out, it was a leopard.)
So, no writing again today. Instead, my soul restored—and a peaceful soul nurtures the writing process. Also, restored is my understanding that writing comes from beyond. Rather than making this book happen, I must let it happen. And another thought: since all of life is potential material, some of this day may well wind up in my stories:
· the expression on a pre-toddler’s face giving every indication that this was her first time ever to see a giraffe;
· a guy wearing a T-shirt that simply said Jesus, but the middle ‘s’ was a lightning bolt;
· an excited grandpa instructing his crew, “Now, we’ll see the GO-rillas!”
The animals and I could commiserate together, I planned, bizarrely assigning them my funk. Those poor elephants and ancient tortoises and crazy little meerkats must surely be sharing my stress and sense of inadequacy. It would be pretty much me and them early on this February morning, I envisioned, our own little peaceable kingdom. Hardly. There were throngs of doting grandparents and their offspring, nursery schools, mothers and their play groups, nuclear families with 2.5 children, people with exceptionalities and their caretakers, young lovers and old lovers. I’d forgotten that Fridays are free at Riverbanks Zoo and Botanical Gardens in January and February—plus, today was sunny and warm, a first day of spring kind of day. At first, I felt foiled; this was to be my special time with the lions and tigers and bears. Oh, my, I whined to myself, and even thought about leaving. I didn’t, though, and I sure am glad.
Unwinding took some time. Seeing my friend David early on and being in his presence for a few minutes helped. He is a serious Buddhist of the Zen variety (after years as a Lutheran pastor), and is a peaceful fellow. He was there to meet his tai chi group and observe the movements of the animals; how’s that for mellow? He blessed my notion of getting a Starbucks drink, not a small matter for me, given my Scotch-Scandinavian background and overactive social conscience. In a bold move, I even got the rich latte with whipped cream instead of the house decaf. Wow.
I settled in the sun with the siamang gibbons, who were, as always, swinging easily around and walking their tightropes. Sipping deliciously, I closed my eyes for a while, but that only took me in to a swirl of the self-recriminations and insecurities I had come to escape. Better to be fully where I was, taking in all the sights and sounds and action. I watched the siamangs closely hoping to detect the first swelling of their funny throat sacs (diaphragms?), the telltale sign that they would soon be whooping at the top of their lungs. No such luck. Didn’t hear any whooping all day.
As the people population swelled, I headed for the gardens, trekking through the woods and along the Saluda River, intrigued by the granite outcroppings and boulders. Ah, solitude. Exercise, too. The commotion, sound and fury of the zoo faded into a distant background. Mind clearing. Breath deepening. It was happening—the unwinding, the restoration, the re-creation. The last leg of the trail up into the rose garden was steep and lovely. Winter pansies were the only color in the garden, the rose bushes just gray sticks, and I marveled to think how, at that very moment, something was happening that would result in green foliage and gorgeous flowers in the months ahead. All the gardens—the Asian, the shade garden, the Hispanic, the demonstration garden, the bog, the day lilies—were naturally dormant, but all promised beauty, and I vowed to return in their season of glory.
Then, back down into zooland on the tram, ready for people now. I spent what I’d saved on admission for a tasty lunch, sharing a picnic table with a family of five. Dad had gotten the food, 21st century hunter and gatherer, while mom waited with the kids. Mom wasn’t exactly pleased with his choices; poor dads, they try so hard.
I wandered for awhile to tell the animals good-bye. They were mostly napping, those crazy flamingoes sound asleep on one leg, looking fluorescent orange to me instead of their usual pink. The fruit bats with bodies the size of cats were hanging upside down; they freak me out because I used to live in a house with a bat problem, and the thought of these creatures flying around my dining room is truly daunting. (Heavens! I remember a dream last night where I outran a huge alligator in my backyard and slammed and locked the back door against it, just in the nick of time, and when I looked back out, it was a leopard.)
So, no writing again today. Instead, my soul restored—and a peaceful soul nurtures the writing process. Also, restored is my understanding that writing comes from beyond. Rather than making this book happen, I must let it happen. And another thought: since all of life is potential material, some of this day may well wind up in my stories:
· the expression on a pre-toddler’s face giving every indication that this was her first time ever to see a giraffe;
· a guy wearing a T-shirt that simply said Jesus, but the middle ‘s’ was a lightning bolt;
· an excited grandpa instructing his crew, “Now, we’ll see the GO-rillas!”
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Fiction from Life
“Of course,” I say whenever asked if my fictional writings are based in real life. Sometimes, people are curious to know some examples of the factual being fictionalized. Here are some actual scenarios from my life or others’ recently added to my file that I may well incorporate into some story someday.
Watching the evening news, I was compelled to pull over a kitchen chair and get my out-of-date globe from the top of my entertainment cabinet and find Tunisia. I dusted the globe off and used it throughout the hour. So—Rose or some other character might have a similar experience sometime.
Family party – For a joke, sister 1 in the living room texts a message to sister 2 in the dining room, “I know where you live and I’m going to kill you tonight.” Sister 2 becomes distraught, is ready to call 911. Sister 1 tells the truth. Sister 2 is not amused. A yelling match escalates into a fist fight.
My seven sisters and I met for a weekend at a hotel. We got acquainted with the desk clerks, and managers and the hotel’s restaurant manager, Bob. We were enjoying dinner in the restaurant on Saturday night and Bob presented us with a complimentary bottle of fine wine, elegantly pouring it for us. Omigosh, I am just now reminded about Friday night at that sistahfest. Traveling from different places, we had started arriving around 3pm and the last three got in around midnight. We were settled into the lobby to greet each other and here came the manager with champagne, complete with floating strawberries! As he leaned over the coffee table and began to serve, the tray tipped and the flutes crashed and the champagne spilled all over us. Friday night is way more interesting than Saturday, isn't it?
A woman sitting in worship leaned over to her neighbor in the pew and whispered, “I think I forgot to turn the stove off.” She left and came back in about 15 minutes. (But in fiction, of course, this could turn out differently!)
In the post office parking lot during the holidaze, a woman inadvertently cut off the driver behind her as she swung into a parking place. He stopped his pickup truck behind her, waited until he had her attention through the rearview mirror, applauded, flipped her off, and drove on. They approached the entrance together, and she hastened to apologize. He was in no mood to accept the apology and when she urged him to go ahead of her in the line, he said, with a flourish, “Oh, no. I am a Southern gentleman.”
Late on a Sunday afternoon, traveling from Boston to Columbia SC, I pulled off the interstate at Blacksburg to get gas. Seeing signs to Virginia Tech, I decided to stop by the campus. This was just a few weeks after the tragic shootings and the day after commencement. There were only a few people around, but all the immediate, temporary memorials were still in place. I detailed the quiet somberness and many details of mementoes and messages in my journal.
Sometimes nothing more than a one-liner or overheard snippet or news item is sublimely useable or leads to an idea:
a child named Octavia because she was the eighth child
from an obituary—the person passed away “…from head trauma sustained in an accident on his beloved Harley Davidson.”
“I’m disgusted with being old.”
“Have you googled those talking cats yet?”
“Humans have been around for thousands of years…”
“Pollen is evidence of the romance of pine trees…”
“His wife got married to a black lady.”
“Sometimes the juice ain’t worth the squeeze.” Has everybody but me already heard this?
“She was born with crooked legs and put up for adoption.”
“I feel like a bird left without a branch to land on.” A Haitian talking about the earthquake and cholera outbreak
doctor to a patient needing to lose weight: “If it tastes good, spit it out.”
I love receiving anecdotes and sayings from readers and save them in case the right moment comes to fit them in. It’s quite true that “You’re never safe around a writer,” in the sense that all the turnings of the world are always potential material. But please relax around me. You are perfectly safe because I—and most writers, I believe—change or veil reality to try and ensure that no one ever feels exploited or suffers in any way when their lives become material.
Watching the evening news, I was compelled to pull over a kitchen chair and get my out-of-date globe from the top of my entertainment cabinet and find Tunisia. I dusted the globe off and used it throughout the hour. So—Rose or some other character might have a similar experience sometime.
Family party – For a joke, sister 1 in the living room texts a message to sister 2 in the dining room, “I know where you live and I’m going to kill you tonight.” Sister 2 becomes distraught, is ready to call 911. Sister 1 tells the truth. Sister 2 is not amused. A yelling match escalates into a fist fight.
My seven sisters and I met for a weekend at a hotel. We got acquainted with the desk clerks, and managers and the hotel’s restaurant manager, Bob. We were enjoying dinner in the restaurant on Saturday night and Bob presented us with a complimentary bottle of fine wine, elegantly pouring it for us. Omigosh, I am just now reminded about Friday night at that sistahfest. Traveling from different places, we had started arriving around 3pm and the last three got in around midnight. We were settled into the lobby to greet each other and here came the manager with champagne, complete with floating strawberries! As he leaned over the coffee table and began to serve, the tray tipped and the flutes crashed and the champagne spilled all over us. Friday night is way more interesting than Saturday, isn't it?
A woman sitting in worship leaned over to her neighbor in the pew and whispered, “I think I forgot to turn the stove off.” She left and came back in about 15 minutes. (But in fiction, of course, this could turn out differently!)
In the post office parking lot during the holidaze, a woman inadvertently cut off the driver behind her as she swung into a parking place. He stopped his pickup truck behind her, waited until he had her attention through the rearview mirror, applauded, flipped her off, and drove on. They approached the entrance together, and she hastened to apologize. He was in no mood to accept the apology and when she urged him to go ahead of her in the line, he said, with a flourish, “Oh, no. I am a Southern gentleman.”
Late on a Sunday afternoon, traveling from Boston to Columbia SC, I pulled off the interstate at Blacksburg to get gas. Seeing signs to Virginia Tech, I decided to stop by the campus. This was just a few weeks after the tragic shootings and the day after commencement. There were only a few people around, but all the immediate, temporary memorials were still in place. I detailed the quiet somberness and many details of mementoes and messages in my journal.
Sometimes nothing more than a one-liner or overheard snippet or news item is sublimely useable or leads to an idea:
a child named Octavia because she was the eighth child
from an obituary—the person passed away “…from head trauma sustained in an accident on his beloved Harley Davidson.”
“I’m disgusted with being old.”
“Have you googled those talking cats yet?”
“Humans have been around for thousands of years…”
“Pollen is evidence of the romance of pine trees…”
“His wife got married to a black lady.”
“Sometimes the juice ain’t worth the squeeze.” Has everybody but me already heard this?
“She was born with crooked legs and put up for adoption.”
“I feel like a bird left without a branch to land on.” A Haitian talking about the earthquake and cholera outbreak
doctor to a patient needing to lose weight: “If it tastes good, spit it out.”
I love receiving anecdotes and sayings from readers and save them in case the right moment comes to fit them in. It’s quite true that “You’re never safe around a writer,” in the sense that all the turnings of the world are always potential material. But please relax around me. You are perfectly safe because I—and most writers, I believe—change or veil reality to try and ensure that no one ever feels exploited or suffers in any way when their lives become material.
Friday, January 7, 2011
I ♥ Feedback, Negative or Positive
Readers’ responses to my books are treasures! Positive comments are encouraging, and if they’re well-written they’re likely to wind up on my Website or promotional pieces. Negative comments probably won’t be used for publicity (though I’m fixin’ to put some in my blog right now!), but I am happy to receive them for they help me grow as a writer. Four seminary professors have provided feedback, both positive and negative. Here are some of their comments and how they helped me.
The earliest of these appraisals came just in the nick of time from Laurence Hull Stookey, Professor Emeritus of Preaching and Worship at Wesley Theological. Dr. Stookey had been described to me as the guru of liturgy and worship in the United Methodist Church. One of his books, Calendar, Christ’s Time for the Church, was a great resource as I wrote Sunday by Sunday I; in fact, I quoted it at the beginning of the book. I had placed a courtesy call to him at the seminary to thank him for his book and tell him about the quotation and was surprised when he came on the line. We had a friendly conversation and when he said that my book sounded interesting, I summoned all the Lutheran chutzpah I had in me and asked if he might have time to review the manuscript and consider writing an endorsement. He said yes! I was elated. Important information: At that point, the title of the book was Sabbath by Sabbath. So, Stookey’s fabulous, affirming blurb arrived pretty much at press time. In a note he said, “Thank you for a good book. I would be even happier if it were called…Sunday by Sunday. The Seventh-day Adventists are right at one point which many of our Protestant Reformer forebears got wrong. 'Sabbath' means seventh and refers always to Saturday. Its appropriation by Christians creates great confusion.” I had lived with Sabbath by Sabbath for several years and liked the music of the words, but I immediately went online and discovered that there was, indeed, a war raging in Christendom over the use of the term “Sabbath.” Not wanting to get in the middle of that war, I emailed my graphic designer at 10 o’clock that night to re-do the cover, using the title Sunday by Sunday. Whew. I still feel “saved by the bell” with that critique!
Ginger Barfield, currently Academic Dean at Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary (LTSS), was on the faculty there in New Testament when she wrote the foreword for S by S I. Her foreword artfully provided many reader hooks. I especially appreciated her saying to the reader--more often than not a church person--“You will find something in this book that resonates within you.” She did, however, surprise me when she described the main character’s family as dysfunctional. Hmm. I decided that dimension might give the work a special appeal, since it seems fashionable these days to admit to a certain level of dysfunction in our families. (Realistic, too, I suppose.) And her comment also encouraged me to monitor closely the level of kooky and/or unhealthy interactions in Rose’s family and weave that dynamic effectively into the narrative. I am satisfied that the quality of the subsequent books has been strengthened by her input.
Another LTSS professor, Charles Sigel, Emeritus Professor of New Testament studies, provided me two full sheets of feedback after reading the first book; I treasure his thoughts. He started with the positive, and here is an excerpt: “I marvel at the number of situations you have been able to create and the number of issues on which you touch as Rose moves through the church year. The foibles, frailties, fractures and frivolities of life in a local congregation are an [other] area where I believe you have captured the essence of what ‘church’ (I mean REAL CHURCH) is all about.” But then, he said that, while he was moved at first by emotional scenes, the amount of weeping, crying, and gnashing of teeth became excessive. He used the word lugubrious. Upon reflection, I agreed with him. You can bet that human activity of this type is moderated in books two and three, and therefore, when someone is distraught, I hope, the scene is more effective. He also noted that I had identified ‘anawim’ as a Greek word when it is Hebrew. Don’t worry, he advised graciously; Rose is a laywoman who wouldn’t be expected to get such things right—but I sure wish I had. For all your counsel, many thanks, Charlie Sigel!
Lastly, is a response from Carl Ficken, also Emeritus Professor of Theology and Culture at LTSS and a Ph. D. in American Literature as well. He has read both books. I am deeply gratified that he “enjoyed them, appreciated the connections with the lectionary, the introduction to a faithful ‘church lady,’ and the thoughtful reflection on so many dimensions of life.” He thinks that I “have invented a new genre: part journal, part fictional narrative, part spiritual discipline, part theological and Biblical interpretation.” Perhaps that “new genre” element is the reason I’ve not yet been successful in finding a publisher or agent, for the Sunday by Sunday series does not fit neatly into a category. In my on-going survey of church fiction, I’ve not found anything quite like it. Thank you for that insight, Carl Ficken, which I choose to see as a compliment, if not an advantage.
More reader feedback is posted at http://www.sundaybysunday.com/
The earliest of these appraisals came just in the nick of time from Laurence Hull Stookey, Professor Emeritus of Preaching and Worship at Wesley Theological. Dr. Stookey had been described to me as the guru of liturgy and worship in the United Methodist Church. One of his books, Calendar, Christ’s Time for the Church, was a great resource as I wrote Sunday by Sunday I; in fact, I quoted it at the beginning of the book. I had placed a courtesy call to him at the seminary to thank him for his book and tell him about the quotation and was surprised when he came on the line. We had a friendly conversation and when he said that my book sounded interesting, I summoned all the Lutheran chutzpah I had in me and asked if he might have time to review the manuscript and consider writing an endorsement. He said yes! I was elated. Important information: At that point, the title of the book was Sabbath by Sabbath. So, Stookey’s fabulous, affirming blurb arrived pretty much at press time. In a note he said, “Thank you for a good book. I would be even happier if it were called…Sunday by Sunday. The Seventh-day Adventists are right at one point which many of our Protestant Reformer forebears got wrong. 'Sabbath' means seventh and refers always to Saturday. Its appropriation by Christians creates great confusion.” I had lived with Sabbath by Sabbath for several years and liked the music of the words, but I immediately went online and discovered that there was, indeed, a war raging in Christendom over the use of the term “Sabbath.” Not wanting to get in the middle of that war, I emailed my graphic designer at 10 o’clock that night to re-do the cover, using the title Sunday by Sunday. Whew. I still feel “saved by the bell” with that critique!
Ginger Barfield, currently Academic Dean at Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary (LTSS), was on the faculty there in New Testament when she wrote the foreword for S by S I. Her foreword artfully provided many reader hooks. I especially appreciated her saying to the reader--more often than not a church person--“You will find something in this book that resonates within you.” She did, however, surprise me when she described the main character’s family as dysfunctional. Hmm. I decided that dimension might give the work a special appeal, since it seems fashionable these days to admit to a certain level of dysfunction in our families. (Realistic, too, I suppose.) And her comment also encouraged me to monitor closely the level of kooky and/or unhealthy interactions in Rose’s family and weave that dynamic effectively into the narrative. I am satisfied that the quality of the subsequent books has been strengthened by her input.
Another LTSS professor, Charles Sigel, Emeritus Professor of New Testament studies, provided me two full sheets of feedback after reading the first book; I treasure his thoughts. He started with the positive, and here is an excerpt: “I marvel at the number of situations you have been able to create and the number of issues on which you touch as Rose moves through the church year. The foibles, frailties, fractures and frivolities of life in a local congregation are an [other] area where I believe you have captured the essence of what ‘church’ (I mean REAL CHURCH) is all about.” But then, he said that, while he was moved at first by emotional scenes, the amount of weeping, crying, and gnashing of teeth became excessive. He used the word lugubrious. Upon reflection, I agreed with him. You can bet that human activity of this type is moderated in books two and three, and therefore, when someone is distraught, I hope, the scene is more effective. He also noted that I had identified ‘anawim’ as a Greek word when it is Hebrew. Don’t worry, he advised graciously; Rose is a laywoman who wouldn’t be expected to get such things right—but I sure wish I had. For all your counsel, many thanks, Charlie Sigel!
Lastly, is a response from Carl Ficken, also Emeritus Professor of Theology and Culture at LTSS and a Ph. D. in American Literature as well. He has read both books. I am deeply gratified that he “enjoyed them, appreciated the connections with the lectionary, the introduction to a faithful ‘church lady,’ and the thoughtful reflection on so many dimensions of life.” He thinks that I “have invented a new genre: part journal, part fictional narrative, part spiritual discipline, part theological and Biblical interpretation.” Perhaps that “new genre” element is the reason I’ve not yet been successful in finding a publisher or agent, for the Sunday by Sunday series does not fit neatly into a category. In my on-going survey of church fiction, I’ve not found anything quite like it. Thank you for that insight, Carl Ficken, which I choose to see as a compliment, if not an advantage.
More reader feedback is posted at http://www.sundaybysunday.com/
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