Posts
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!
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
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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