What can I say about my guest today? Kathryn J. Bain is my friend as well as my critique partner. She’s zany and witty and wild, and today we’re celebrating the release of her debut novel, Breathless. Here’s an inside look into why I treasure this writer’s humorous take on life:
The economy has taken a dive, and a lot of people are suffering because of it. People have lost their jobs and their homes, and now it’s started to affect our youth.
While at the mall the other day, after watching a bunch of teenagers, I came to the conclusion many are living in poverty.
Young men can no longer afford to buy belts. Many have to wear jeans so big and baggy they hang low on their hips exposing their underwear. It was obvious the clothes were hand-me-downs from someone much larger. They aren’t even good jeans. Some had holes or were terribly faded. I was tempted to buy a decent pair of pants for a few of them, but they were too busy talking on their cell phones to come with me.
The girls had the opposite problem. Their apparel was way too small for them. It was apparent they had owned the items since they were children. Their jeans barely went over their hipbones. The tops were way too small scarcely covering their midsections. They were trying to hold their heads up with pride, but I knew it had to be hard to be so brave. It’s a sad sight when almost grown women are stuck having to wear children’s clothing.
However, it was their underwear that bothered me most. Because of the improper fitted outfits, they had their under garments exposed. It appeared the panties were so old they had deteriorated to nothing more than string.
Something needs to be done about the economy. It’s bad enough we, as adults, have to suffer, but when our children are lacking, it’s too much to handle. The time has come to take matters into our own hands. Write your congressman, and let him know you will no longer tolerate your children having to wear ill-fitted clothing. Go to thrift stores and buy clothing that will cover these teens. If everyone does their part, the malls will no longer be overrun by poverty stricken children who cannot afford to dress properly.
Kathryn J. Bain has been writing for over ten years now. Her first release Breathless is available January 13, 2012. Her novella Game of Hearts is set to be released in March. She has two daughters and is the former President of Florida Sisters in Crime. Currently, she is the Public Relations Director and Membership Director for Ancient City Romance Authors. To survive and pay bills, she has been a paralegal for over twenty years and works for an attorney who specializes in guardianships, probate, and estate planning. She moved from Idaho to Jacksonville, Florida in 1983 and has lived in the sunshine since.
Leave a comment here or at the other two blogs listed below. Kathy will be drawing names to give away one free e-Book. http://blameitonthemuse.com/ or http://home.comcast.net/~jo.glenncarter/site/?/blog/
Everyone has a favorite in their family. My guest blogger this week, is one of my favorite cousins. Believe me, he has to be something special. At last count, I had twenty-six first and second cousins on his side of the family alone. I asked Bob if I could share his most recent blog about his Black Friday shopping experience, and he took the dare:
Disclaimer: Any similarities between characters in this blog post and women suffering from Black Friday Traumatic Stress Syndrome are purely coincidental.
Another Black Friday has come and gone. Every year I say to myself, never ever again will I even open the blinds on Black Friday and peek out. But every year I am lured outside by the promise of some new gadget that I really don’t need, but think I can’t live without because the price is just insanely low. Such was the case this year.
All I needed was a new flash drive. After all, how crowded could an office supply store be on Black Friday? I even waited until the sun came up thinking all the hard core BF shoppers would be back home. Little did I know I would end up like Jeff Bridges in Tron, stuck in a video game fighting for my life.
Usually I prefer MMORPG’s like World of Warcraft to FPS games like Gears of War, although occasionally I do venture in to the faster paced kill ‘em all let God sort ‘em out games. Not in my worst nightmare did I envision being lured into the Dead Island live survival event known as the BF Shopping Mall Parking Lot!
The office supply store was great, not crowded at all. I got what I wanted and got out. I even stopped to pick up a few impulse buys. “Wow, that wasn’t so bad,” the game narrator in my head told me. “I bet other places aren’t bad either.” It went downhill from there!
Twenty minutes later I was scrambling, ducking, and running for cover, trying to make it back to my truck. Geritol-crazed, blue haired little zombies, spurred on by the thoughts of falling prices, slashed and careened their Buicks across parking aisles, over top of planters, blowing horns and talking on cell phones. The tails of their jackets hung out the bottom of their car door and their packages remained precariously atop their car rooftops.
The saddest sight was one little mummified shopper, barely tall enough to see over the steering wheel of her battle- scarred Oldsmobile. I couldn’t tell if the elderly gentleman in the back with his panic-stricken face pressed up against the window was a hostage or her husband. With a cell phone pressed firmly to her ear she jumped the curb and shredded shrubberies. The poor soul in the backseat was tossed around like a rag doll in a spin cycle. With his last ounce of energy, I saw him cling to the seat, look out the back window and mouth, “Save me.” But it was too late. With a puff of blue smoke and a backfire, the Oldsmobile was out of sight.
Using all the of the zombie skills I remembered from playing Left for Dead, I managed to make it to my truck. I dove in and locked the doors just as I saw another shopper exit the mall and make a dash for her car. She was being followed by a walking mound of packages, obviously some sort of undead mage performing a magic trick. As I backed out, I learned it was not magic at all, but a frazzled minion carrying her bounty.
I navigated out of the labyrinth of the parking lot and onto the main road, returning by back streets and alleyways to the fortress of my home. Never again, I told myself for the umpteenth time, will I venture out on Black Friday. This time I mean it.
****
Bob New lives in Berea, Kentucky, a small town along the I-75 corridor. By day, you will most likely find him sitting behind a desk, designing heavy equipment. During the evening hours, though, you may see him discussing politics and campaign strategies, attending a board meeting for one of the non-profits he works with, consulting with small businesses, or occasionally raiding villages in World of Warcraft.
Online you may have come across his work and not realized it in the form of one of the many websites he has helped design, or read his work on any of several blog sites and electronic magazines he contributes to.
And on the rare weekend he is unplugged and disconnected from the cyber world you may run into him browsing through a bookstore (more than likely the non-fiction aisles) or enjoying a steak dinner or cup of coffee with friends.
Today’s guest blogger is author Staci Stallings.
A stay-at-home mom with a husband, three kids, and a writing addiction on the side, Staci Stallings has numerous titles for readers to choose from, such as The Price of Silence. Not content to stay in one genre and write it to death, Staci’s stories run the gamut from young adult to adult, from motivational and inspirational to full-out Christian and back again. Every title is a new adventure! That’s what keeps Staci writing and you reading. Although she lives in Amarillo, Texas and her main career right now is her family, Staci touches the lives of people across the globe every week with her various Internet endeavors including:
Books In Print, Kindle, & FREE on Spirit Light Works: http://stacistallings.wordpress.com/
Spirit Light Books–The Blog: http://spiritlightbooks.wordpress.com/
And… Staci’s website http://www.stacistallings.com Come on over for a visit . . . You’ll feel better for the experience! You can also connect with her on Twitter: @StaciStallings
Today, Staci shares with us, The Best Mistake Ever:
When my first book was published, I soon learned writing the book was the easy hurdle when compared with promoting a published book. Strapped for time and energy to give to promoting, much less to promoting and writing more, I took a friend’s advice and started publishing “cyber-serials” through my website. Basically, a cyber-serial is one of my novels, published through my newsletter by e-mail two chapters at a time, free for anyone who’s subscribed to the newsletter. The idea was a hit although at the time I only had about six-hundred subscribers. People were writing to say how much they liked the book (and then books when I began the second one the next year). I felt God had truly led me to publishing like this—at least for that time—because it solved so many problems I was having with the other way of publishing.
Then shortly after sending out a set of chapters midway through my second cyber-serial, I received an e-mail with the same subject. Figuring it was either an “unsubscribe” or a comment, I opened it. There in brilliant red-on-black were the two chapters I’d just sent out—line edited. That’s right. Just like your high school English teacher used to do to your papers when it looked like she had bled all over them!
It took me a full minute to get over the shock. I mean, I’m sure you’ve found mistakes in books before, but have you ever actually taken out a red pen, marked up two whole chapters, and sent it back to the author so they can see what they’ve done wrong?
I finally shook my head in disbelief and clicked off the message, still trying to figure out what to do with it and how anyone would have the audacity to do such a thing. A month went by, and it was time to send out the new chapters. About two hours after I did, I received a new message from this same person. Figuring I would find another set of marked-up chapters, I opened the email, which began: “Dear Staci, I am soooooo, sooooooo sorry! I really REALLY messed up! When you sent me the chapters last month, I thought they were chapters from my critique group! I am so very, very sorry! Can you ever forgive me…?”
It went on thus for about a page and a half. As I read it, I laughed! It took another twenty or so messages between the two of us before she finally quit telling me how sorry she was and ceased asking for my forgiveness. That’s how Love Inspired author Debra Ullrick and I became best friends.
It was one of the best mistakes ever made!
Copyright Staci Stallings, 2004
Lynn Squire, author of Joab’s Fire, is our guest today. Her inspiring devotional will help those writers “On the Ledge.”
Charity…”seeketh not her own…” I Corinthians 13:5
Our dog, Jasmine, turned a year old this spring. Before her, we had a sweet, old dog named Bizmark. Where Jasmine is all about fun, Bizmark was all about loyally guarding and lending an empathetic ear—well, that is how we choose to remember him.
We tend to give dogs high regard for their faithfulness, their loyalty, and their friendship. I love dogs, and I confess, much prefer their company to some people’s company (dogs are less judgmental), but truth is, they’re all about themselves.
Jasmine loves grand adventures and can’t resist the great temptation the front door (rather the world outside the front door) presents. She whines and howls and paces when we enter or exit the house. She even breaks the “no dog on the couches” rule. You might mistake her antics as missing us or worrying about where we are. Boy is that wrong.
First chance Jasmine gets, she bolts out the front door, smiling face, tail straight out and running like a crazed lunatic from house to house, through flowerbeds, greeting each neighbor’s dog, and dodging cars, kids, and anyone who threatens to stop her.
No, all that whining in the house had nothing to do with missing us and everything to do with her love of adventure.
We go after her whistling and calling, and what does she do? She plays the Gingerbread Boy Game, “Catch me if you can.” She runs straight at us and between our legs and the expression on her face is one of pure ecstasy. Oh, she’s having fun. Then like lightning, she’s down the street at the next
neighbor’s house and stops. She looks over her shoulder and laughs…well, that’s what it seems like. As soon as we get close enough to grab her collar she streaks by us with her tail straight out, a taunting flag of victory.
Eventually she tires (after we’ve wasted precious minutes and experienced several embarrassing nose dives) and allows us to capture her.
No. I’m quite certain that Jasmine does not love us…at least not when a good chase can be had.
I confess that I too can fake a great concern for someone with a motivation to obtain what I want. Come on now, you’ve done it too. We all have plural motives. Sometimes we help someone in order to have a good standing with God or our church, sometimes to get attention, and sometimes we help someone so that he will owe us later.
But true love, a Christ-like love, will not go through life seeking to satisfy her own desires.
God didn’t need to create us with a will. He didn’t need us at all. But He did for His glory and His good pleasure—and then we let Him down.
The sin in our life is repulsive to Him. Yet, He seeks us out (amazing, isn’t it).
Have you ever lied? Read Proverbs 6:16-19.
These six things doth the LORD hate: yea, seven are an abomination unto him:
A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, An heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief, A false witness that speaketh lies, and he that soweth discord among brethren.
Everyone has told a lie at some time in his life. Therefore, everyone has done abominable things.
Did you know that liars are destined for the lake of fire? Read Revelations 21:8.
But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.
Now picture God agonizing over the thought that you are going to be in that lake of fire. Because He loves you, He doesn’t want that for you. He’s going to do all He can to rescue you. So He comes down to earth as Jesus Christ, endures all sorts of hardships, and ultimately submits Himself as the perfect sacrifice on the cross, dying for your sins.
He didn’t have to do it. No one could make Him, but He chose to because He takes no pleasure in the death of the wicked (yup, that’s you and me).
Ezekiel 33:11 says: …I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked; but that the wicked turn from his way and live:…
Can you beat that for love? God didn’t seek His own. He could have destroyed us and created a new being to worship Him (He has the angels, after all). We don’t deserve to live, but He gave up Heaven, and chose to suffer and die just for us. Indeed, He has shown us what true love is…and it is far better than that of a dog named Jasmine.
_______________________________
About the author:
Lynn Squire is an avid writer who artistically intertwines Biblical truth with colorful narrative.
Her childhood farm life, coupled with her equestrian experiences, brings authenticity and heart to her stories. Lynn actively serves her church through her writing and in other ministries and is currently the president of the American Christian Fiction Writers San Francisco Bay Area Chapter in California, where she resides with her husband and three children.
Lynn’s newest release, Joab’s Fire, contains a novel and a Bible study.
Joab Black and his wife Sarah overcame the worst of pioneer hardships in order to establish a prosperous farm in Alberta, Canada. But those challenges never prepared them for the tragedy they now faced—a staggering loss and intense pain causing them to doubt everything they had ever believed. In the midst of their sorrow, even their closest friends interpret their sufferings as a result of God’s judgment. Has God abandoned them?
Sergeant Dixon, the local North West Mounted Police officer, investigates the events leading to the Blacks’ plight. While his work gives them a ray of hope, his probing into the activities of a certain stranger possibly connected to the case may cost him his job and even his life.
Inspired by the Biblical book of Job, this novel includes a Bible study exploring the perfection of God’s plan and the bounty of His love even in the most inexplicable and intense sufferings.
You can purchase Joab’s Fire at http://www.amazon.com/Joabs-Fire–Distant-Hope-Squire/dp/1935245511/ref=sr_1_1? qid=1309182959&sr=8-1.
To learn more about Lynn Squire, visit www.lynnsquire.com.
On the Ledge welcomes guest blogger, Jennifer Slattery. A great big thank you to Jennifer for proving this writer isn’t the only one on the ledge:
I snap open my laptop and click to my Gmail account, a smile broadening my face. That editor who kept my article on “pending” decided to use it. Yay! Happy day! Steak dinner on me.
I’d already signed the contract and sent my bio, the only thing left was…
Oh, no! My smile disappeared behind a mammoth frown—one I’m sure accentuated my beetle brow, deepening that aged crevice extending from my hairline to the bridge of my nose. Said editor wanted a headshot, and not just any headshot—a high resolution one.
Turning to my picture files, I sifted through countless images, most snapped at a wrinkle-diluting distance. I glanced at the file sizes…10 KB, 800 KB—better, but still not high-res. Only the higher the resolution, the deeper my wrinkles grew.
Ugh! Despite my efforts to the contrary, I knew there was only one solution.
I called my honey. Poor guy. If he only knew the hornets’ nest he was about to walk into, I’m sure he would’ve run the other way. Although I doubt he was clueless. He’s been married to me for sixteen years after all. And this isn’t my first…gulp…headshot.
A grin plastered across his face as he dashed into our closet and emerged with…
The camera with the telephoto lens.
Seriously? I cringed and backed into the mantle, the only area in our home not surrounded by clutter. Only problem, it’s white, with no eye-diverting details to detract from my leathered face and the protruding jaw line a well-intentioned dentist told me would diminish if I quit chewing gum. (Didn’t work, by the way.)
After maybe ten shots—none of them flattering—my husband gets a crazy idea. “Let’s go outside!”
I stare at him with raised eyebrows, mouth clamped shut to keep from spewing not so Christ-like thoughts. Had the man lost his mind? Outside, in the sun, where shadows can settle into my wrinkles and the streaks of gray in my not so lustrous hair sparkles like glitter hair spray?
Oh, no! I shake my head and grab his camera, using every ounce of self-control to keep from stomping it into the ground.
As I rolled my eyes with enough fervor to catch a glimpse of the back of my skull, I noticed something lying on the coffee table—like a beacon of light.
My iPhone! I picked it up and sifted through the pictures filed inside. Would it work?
I smiled and held it in the air, grateful it lacks a flash.
My poor, frustrated, husband-turned-photographer sighed and shrugged. “We can give it a try.”
And now you want to know the end of the story, right? You’re going to have to get a copy of the Bible Advocate’s September and October issue—the one with the not-so-high high resolution photo. But please don’t tell me what you think. Some things are better left unsaid.
Jennifer Slattery writes for Christ to the World Ministries http://www.christtotheworld.com), the Christian Pulse (http://www.thechristianpulse.com/) and Samie Sisters (http://www.samiesisters.com/) and is the marketing manager for the literary website, Clash of the Titles (http://www.clashofthetitles.) You can find out more about her and her writing at her devotional website, Jennifer Slattery Lives Out Loud (http://jenniferslatterylivesoutloud.com) and her writing website, Words that Keep, (http://wordsthatkeep.wordpress.com)
I’ve never felt the need to review another writer’s published work. I enjoy reviewing by way of critique and editing many stories prior to publication. These range from being well-written to having potential. I believe every story in a writer’s imagination has promise. It’s what the writer does with it that counts.
For a few months prior to reading one particular work, I read blogs and saw the author’s posts about her soon-to-be-released novel. I probably wouldn’t have been so attuned to the upcoming publication, but I know a writer who has a tremendous story on the subject. She was rejected by the same publisher of this novel because the book that won the contract was edgier than my friend’s story. In other words, both authors took the same message and came to two completely different viewpoints: One is biblically correct, the other nothing but lies. You’re smart. You can figure out which one I believe would have been the better published story.
The other reason I was so curious about the book is that in my wildest imagination I couldn’t believe the publisher would publish it—unless I was misunderstanding the storyline. I wanted to make sure my mind had not completely misconstrued the author’s intent.
When the novel became available on Amazon last week, I downloaded it. And I read it. In one day. The story wasn’t meant to be a horror story, but that’s exactly how I felt as I read it.
The fact that it was written by a Christian writer and that a Christian publisher saw fit to publish the novel still horrifies me.
You see, I have no problem with inspirational stories that are simply fun reads—safe for the eyes and the imagination. Not all stories are meant to be evangelical. Some stories are light and fluffy. A steady diet of them can bloat you, though. They can also make you soft in the head.
That’s the only reason I can fathom that the publication of this story by a Christian publisher hasn’t been challenged. But I’m ahead of myself here.
Granted the very definition of fiction is “the action of feigning or of creating with the imagination.” But even in telling our tale, truth is important, especially in a contemporary novel. Maybe not so true in science fiction, yet unless you explain why the same law of physics does not apply in our universe as it does in your fictional universe, the reader is going to balk.
In contemporary or historical Christian fiction—in those stories meant to drive an issue home—a writer has a double duty to tell the truth. Christian writers should not skew Biblical truths.
But the story I read did. Big time.
The author’s character that should have traveled a spiritual arc was said to have already arrived. He was redeemed simply because he was good, kind, attended church every Sunday, and slept with a New Testament on his night stand (and believe me there is probably a very good reason he didn’t have a complete Bible). The one character holding the truth at the beginning of the novel was presented as a bigot and a self-centered woman whose distaste and hesitation to interact with the sinner and the sin made her less of a Christian. The story took us through her character arc, and at the end of her journey, she was asking repentance for something truly not a sin—unless you believe that hating the sin and loving the sinner is something we need to repent of. The true sin, which was the subject of his novel, was never dealt with as sin. It was condoned and accepted by the characters, by their church, and by their pastor. Those characters in the book that would dare despise the sin but love the sinner were attacked like the liberals attack Tea Party members. They were labeled as abusive extremists who would, or might cause, someone to attack and kill an individual engaged in this type of sin.
Okay, I’ll give it up. The story was about sexual sin. Scripture isn’t silent on sexual sins. God plainly lists them. And if God lists a sin, it isn’t likely not to be a sin because the world comes to accept it. And if Scripture is so clear on the mattter, how does a writer get away with pretending God doesn’t care about the sinner? How does a Christian publisher get away with choosing one sexual sin and providing it with a non-sin label? Let me tell you, there’s no way the other sexual sins would be dealt with in this way by Christian publishers. Christians wouldn’t tolerate it—not unless the main characters were going to go through a spiritual character arc that would lead them, and thus the reader, to the truth.
In the end, the character engaging in the sinful lifestyle never grew, never overcame his sin. And why should he? In this story, he wasn’t the sinner.
So why does this upset me so much?
This blatant disregard for God’s truth about sin rocked my trust in Christian writers and publishers. I so naively thought all Christian writers and publishers looked to the Scriptures and not to a worldview. I thought in an industry that says it is Christian Christ would be the standard, not the world.
I was further shaken when the larger picture came into view. Many in my Christian network began to post glowing reviews of the book, to provide interviews of the author, and to tout the message of this story.
Excuse me for being so crass, but I really wanted to vomit thinking of the brown noses all around me in Christian writing circles.
Had they read the book first? In one instance, my communication with a blogger made it plain she had not. The author had provided her with wrong information for her blog—information that clearly was not about the story which was the subject of the blog. I wrote to inform the blogger of the error.
So is this what has become of Christian fiction? Authors get on the network and cry foul when they receive a bad review from another Christian writer. “We should stick together!” they scream. “It’s not Christian to give a bad review.”
The climate of Christian fiction today is one that pits the traditionally published against the independently published. Christian writers in each camp hover around one another, pat each other’s backs, and give each other a boost. This isn’t a bad thing unless we have a Christian brother or sister who needs to receive exhortation and not accolades, but because we are afraid of the backlash, we bite our tongues. If we would add a little exhortation with our encouragement, maybe Christian fiction could be raised to a higher standard in all venues.
There’s a reason I’m not revealing the title or the author of this book. If you’re a Christian writer in any of the Christian networks, I’m certain you know the story I’m writing about. If you’re a reader, I want to protect you from the blatant falsehoods.
As I stated, I’m not a reviewer of books. I like to critique, edit, and provide my opinions before publication. However, if I ever become a reviewer, you can bet it won’t be a review to get a review to get another review. You’ll receive my honest opinion because I won’t be accepting a signed copy of the story from the author, or a guest blog spot, or an equally-glowing review.
I wonder how many in the Christian networks will begin to call for accountability in our writers and publishers. Should a character be allowed to dance, should she be baptized by immersion or sprinkling, or should she let the man kiss her before marriage—these aren’t the important issues. I don’t even care how God is depicted when someone visits with Him in a shack—unless the author attaches mistruths to the story. But I do care when God’s clear truths, as set forth in Scripture, are falsely represented by a writer.
Do you?
Quilting has always fascinated me in the way that most things that elude me do. Wielding a needle, whether in my hand or on a machine has resulted in many a mishap. I’d much rather see the work of others than to stand with a punctured finger in my mouth, stopping both the blood flow and a curse.
Despite that fact, I was determined to attend the Shady Ladies’ Quilting Show at Lake Logan. One important fact deterred me. I knew Lake Logan was somewhere in the vicinity, but I had no clue as to where in these mountains it lay hidden.
Armed with the directions etched in my brain and with my equally directionally-challenged mother-in-law in the car, I set out on this grand adventure. The directions were clear enough. Main Street to Pigeon Road. I know Pigeon Road. It runs out past legendary Cold Mountain. At least that’s what they tell me. When asked which mountain is Cold Mountain, the locals wave their hand, “Over there yonder.” Five mountain peaks rise up to greet you. I wonder if they really know.
On Pigeon Road we were to travel to a small place called Bethel. In Bethel, we would find Route 215.
“Which way on 215?” my mother-in-law asked.
With my finger in my mouth to stop the curse, I envisioned my illegible scrawl upon the blue-lined paper. “Right,” I said, wondering if I sounded confident enough.
No matter. One thing anyone who spends two minutes with me on a road trip will learn is I’m left-right dyslexic. Yes, this condition does exist. I’m living proof. As a child, I had a freckle on my left hand, one small dot. When a teacher told me to raise my right hand, I looked for the spot.
Freckles fade as you get older though. This one not only faded. It disappeared. It wasn’t until a couple of years ago that another left-right dyslexic told me to hold up my index fingers and thumbs. The hand that makes the right-facing “L” is your left hand. Eureka. Years of confusion removed—if I took the time to double check my right-facing “L.”
But on this day, I didn’t take the time. No need. There was only one sign in Bethel pointing the way to Route 215. I took it. Five miles down a thin, curving road, the stacks of the most dreaded of sights came into view. Somehow, we had wound ourselves back to the far side of where we’d begun. The Canton paper mill loomed before us.
“How’d we get in Canton?” my mother-in-law asked.
Again, I put my finger in my mouth, staunching the curse. Then realizing I needed my hand, I held up both my index fingers and thumbs, just before smacking my forehead with my right hand. “I turned left,” I informed her.
She said nothing. The time for speaking had passed. She should have said something on Pigeon Road. She’s never mentioned it, but I wonder if she’s left-right dyslexic as well.
With a shake of my head, I stopped not too close to the paper mill. I got out of the car and asked a local for directions. He was a sweet looking man, rather countrified, with a twinkle in his blue eyes and a shiny bald head.
You’ll find nowhere on earth where directions are given like those given by mountain folk. “Well, ma’am, I know right where you can find Lake Logan. You head out on this here road. You’ll travel just a bit to an old boulder. Turn that away.” He actually raised his (let me double check the “L”) right hand—a helpful technique for the left-right dyslexic, probably given by another so inflicted. “You’ll follow that there road a ‘fer’ piece until you come upon this there intersection. Pay never mind, except you’ll need to stop at the stop sign.”
Duh!
“After stopping. . .”
Duh, again.
“. . . go on through and keep traveling for a good stretch. You’ll run right into Lake Logan.”
I didn’t tell him my driving skills were such that I’d never drive into a lake. After all, I was now, as far as I could tell, a “fer” piece from where I’d begun. I thanked him and trudged back to the car.
My mother-in-law remained silent.
A good thing.
When I saw the boulder and turned, we found ourselves back on the same road we’d traveled to get to Canton. “I wonder where we went wrong?” My mother-in-law became talkative once again.
I had answers, but I didn’t want to ruin this enjoyable outing by telling her once again that I’d turned left.
“I didn’t see any intersection. Did you see an intersection?” she asked.
She was full of questions but I had to agree. The road was a winding mess, but I couldn’t recall one intersecting point.
You’ll never guess where I found “this there intersection.”
Yep, right back on Pigeon Road.
Silly me. I never thought of a place in the road where you had to turn left to turn right as an intersection. And to my credit, there was no sign for Route 215.
Nope, the sign on the part of “this there intersection” where I should have turned right said, “Lake Logan Road.”
Lake Logan was worth the county-wide road trip. An unspoiled vista of water and towering trees. We got out of the car and walked toward the building to the quilt show. Tranquility is the only word to describe the setting. Peace emanated from the surroundings. At least that’s what my mother-in-law said over and over and over again, not leaving much room for peace and tranquility for me.
Still, my journey was not over. More lay ahead.
I mentioned before that no one with a right mind (or is that left? Let me hold up my fingers) would insist I wield a needle. That did not include my mother-in-law, who once insisted I learn to sew. Note I said she only made the suggestion once. The dear woman is a gifted quilter. She once pieced together and quilted a jacket for me. Imagine, a jacket, cutting the pieces and putting them together to make sleeves, a collar, and designing it such that I could wear it—as a jacket. My mind is boggled by that. Of course, the thought of long hours piecing squares together to make a flat cover is enough to send me into a seizure. Add the stitching, and I’m in cardiac arrest, finger in the mouth to stop the blood flow.
Stepping into the little wooden building out in the middle of Nowhere, North Carolina, I was drawn to the craftsmanship and to the photographs hanging beside the artistry displayed. The quilts were the artists’ interpretations of the pictures shown beside them. Some were abstract—very abstract—shaking-the-head-with-a-dumbfounded-stare abstract. Other quilters offered a literal interpretation, their cut squares and other pieces, mirroring the photographed image. Some offered a slight twist to their interpretation.
I was drawn to the quilters with their twisted views in much the same way I’m drawn to and write stories with a twist. The idea that someone could do this with cloth fascinated me. In my own writing, I pretty much follow the picture of life, but in between I throw in a few odd twists. I like to add something to the image I draw with words, a little surprise my readers don’t see coming. One that makes them sit back, fold their arms across their chest, and say, “Hmm. Great twist.”
One quilt that caught my fancy seemed only a literal view, but it touched my imagination like no other. The pattern showed three elderly ladies as they stared at a picture of a sweet faced, blue-eyed, bald-headed older man.
Beside me my mother-in-law kept saying, “I’ve seen this guy somewhere before.” I ignored her. We were in small town North Carolina. She’d probably seen the old fellow plenty of times.
I went back to studying the quilt. The photo and the design were almost mirror images, and you got the idea the women admired the man in the photo. A good literal interpretation.
I was in for a pleasant surprise. The quilted piece with the three elderly ladies had a twist after all. It came when I meandered around a corner about three aisles down. Starting at me was a larger quilt depicting the man whose picture had graced the quilt that caught my imagination. I stood back, folded my arms across my chest, and said, “Hmm. Great twist.”
Again my mother-in-law declared, “I’ve seen this guy somewhere before.”
We finished looking at all the wonderful artistry, and delighted with the turn in events (pun intended), we headed back home. As I drove away from Lake Logan I recalled where my mother-in-law saw the old man depicted in the quilt. A delightful twist to my directionally-challenged quilting tale.
You know the old local who gave me the helpful directions, the sweet face, the twinkling blue eyes, and the balding head.
The quilter captured his likeness very well.
Today marks a very important day in the heritage the Lord gave to me. May 11—the day my father was born Herbert James Thompson. I suspect immediately upon his birth, he was given the nickname “Doodle.” Not too many people would know him by his real name, but many people knew Doodle.
For days I’ve been thinking about him.
Funny how a daughter can miss a father who was mostly absent from her life, but daughters are like that. Our Heavenly Father made us to need our earthly father’s love. Even when our dads are the most imperfect beings one can find on this earth, a daughter’s love still sees him as a hero.
I’m no different.
Doodle Thompson was the most handsome, the most heroic, the most ideal man I’d ever met—until I spent quality time with him as an adult.
Oh, he was handsome. Cary Grant handsome. He grew up in Titusville, and when he died, I received a sweet note from a very elderly woman who said she wanted me to know when Doodle was in his prime, he was the best-looking man alive. “Movie-star looks,” she said, and that from a woman twenty years his senior. So, I have at least one witness. This isn’t just a little-girl dream.
And heroic. Yeah, he was. He didn’t brag about it. He hated it, actually, but Dad was a member of the first Underwater Demolitions Team (the early Navy Seals). They swam onto the Pacific islands and set explosives to clear the way for the Marines. Dad and his team got stuck on Iwo Jima with the Marines. He once told me that the Navy claimed he could walk through steel. “And I could,” he said as he stared at me over his beer one night. Then he recounted the horrors of Iwo Jima, and I came to understand a little more about him. He was a reluctant hero, and for maybe the only time in his life, he got the job done.
No, Doodle wasn’t the ideal man. He wasn’t the ultimate father. There is only one ideal man and perfect Father. God.
I contend that my father was a genius, an idle genius. For sure, his elevator didn’t run to the top floor, but that’s what I loved about him. Amazingly, the same has been said of me, but I don’t have the genius to back it up.
I used to question God’s sanity when it came to dropping me on this earth between the two craziest people one will ever meet. Imagine Monk meets Dupree (You, Me, and Dupree). Yeah, that’s my heritage. How Colleen Mildred New and Herbert James Thompson met and fell in love is one of those mysteries ranking up there with Easter Island. They proved that opposites do attract—at least for a while. Two such people cannot stay together long. It goes against all laws of nature.
Mom, well she was a bit uptight to say the least. She could smile. I saw her do it once or twice. She was programmed a little differently than the rest of the world. Sometimes I think of her as an old record with the deep scratch where the needle bounces over the same spot until you remove it. Like the day I had to sweep the porch for five hours because she saw a grain of sand I didn’t catch. I contend it was the color of the concrete, but I hadn’t begun to argue with her then. I continued to sweep until she said I could stop. About a year or two later, she wouldn’t have gotten away with such a demand.
Mom was all about the work ethic, about paying your bills, living up to your responsibilities.
Then there was Dad.
I suspect that after Iwo Jima, Dad was tired of the responsibility.
So, I’m a little more amazed that I ever came to be.
Enter me.
Exit Doodle.
Oh, I can understand why he left town. You have a madwoman trying to put you in jail for lack of child support—a madwoman who knows all the cops in town because she was shot trying to support your offspring—and the safest place for you is as far away from her as you can get.
But Arkansas? Really?
Then I learned the story. I don’t know why it surprised me. The tale was so typically Doodle. You see, he’s sitting in a bar in Key Largo. . .
You know the signs “Washington slept here”? I believe there once were signs on bar stools that read, “Doodle sat here.” As a very small kid, I sat beside him in a lot of them—every other weekend—every bar in Titusville, except Pearl’s Bar. Even Dad wasn’t crazy enough to take me in that place.
Okay, back to the typically-Doodle story. He was sitting in a bar in Key Largo when this beautiful woman shows up with the sheriff of Sharp County, Arkansas. She’s there with him for a sheriff’s convention. Can anyone else see the humor in a man running from his hometown to avoid the sheriff and ending up flirting with the date of one of the lawmen attending the conference?
Typically Doodle.
She approaches the bar, and Doodle says, “You know, if you weren’t with that guy, I’d marry you.”
Great pick-up line, huh? Yeah, I’m so proud.
Anyway, this beautiful woman returns home, dumps the sheriff, and about a week later shows up at the same bar, probably the same bar stool, and says, “About that marriage proposal . . .?” Did I tell you my dad was handsome? Yeah, you wouldn’t do that for just any guy sitting on a bar stool.
Next thing I know I’m sitting in the back of my grandmother’s car with emotions I can still feel as I write this today. Grandma didn’t know I could read, but I read the package she’d taken from my dad’s apartment. “Mr. and Mrs. Herbert James Thompson.” I only needed a little bit of Doodle’s genius to understand that this meant he was gone. Not wanting my grandmother to see me cry, I sat stiffly in my seat, hands folded in my lap, pressed down hard, and tears coming to the edge of my eyes. I didn’t blink or they’d fall—kind of the way I’m sitting here today. God makes little girls this way.
Yeah, Doodle was gone, and he stayed gone until I was about fifteen or sixteen, returning with his lovely wife for a few months before breezing out of my life again only to turn up for my grandmother’s funeral about ten years later.
Absent might be an understatement when it came to my dad.
When I became an adult, God gave me the opportunity to learn why he’d given me to a pistachio and a cashew (two completely different nuts).
Always, as I struggled to understand my mother, to live with her demands I wondered why dad left. I struggled with self-esteem and self-worth.
There’s something very liberating about the sudden understanding that if you’d lived with your father as a child you’d have nothing for anyone to esteem and there’d be no worth in the life you lived. Even more liberating is learning that because of the separation, you can love a man who probably didn’t deserve that love.
Kind of the way Jesus loves you.
While Mom wore responsibility like a heavy suit of armor, Dad shrugged it off as easily as he would a worn t-shirt. He lived on his mountaintop with his wife and his dogs. He worked when he had to, turning the ability to avoid labor into an art form. He was well-loved by most, well-hated by some. (I think I loved him more than anyone.) He was a live-and-let-live kind of guy. On the surface that’s great, but you can’t raise a child on those values. I’m glad he didn’t try.
Now, lest you think this is a beat up on your mom and dad kind of post, I must explain. While I didn’t have two perfect parents, I have come to realize how perfect they were for me. You take a heaping-helping spoonful of my mom’s work ethic and her stick-to-it-ness, and you combine it with my dad’s ability to look upon the world without guile and what do you get?
Now, this is me looking at me, and I hope I’m seeing things clearly here. I think you get an imperfect human being–just as imperfect as her parents. But she’s someone who works hard, has a healthy imagination, loves to laugh, desires to make others laugh, wants to help others, and who can look at most situations gone bad and veer in another direction.
In other words: I’m exactly who God intended me to be. I have been given a perfect heritage by a God who loves me and doesn’t make mistakes. My perfect Heavenly Father.
So with that in mind . . .
As earthly father’s go, Doodle Thompson, you were the greatest. Happy birthday, Dad. I’ve had a lot of practice at this, and I still really, really miss you.
In most sitcoms and books, you’ll have the mother and father who ponder over allowing their children to adopt a pet. This concept truly amazes me because our sons were always the one rolling their eyes at my husband and me—well mainly, me. I could never refuse a pair of sweet, innocent puppy dog eyes or the purr of an adorable cat. For that reason, we have never housed less than four animals at a time.
I inherited this tendency from my grandmother who in her lifetime kept dogs, geese, orangutans, and a one or two monkeys. I’m so glad for the experience with the latter. Monkeys don’t like me, and the feeling is mutual. Thankfully, she had the orangutans when my father was young. According to him, the apes were smart enough to know that when my uncle finished his paper route, he’d have shiny little coins from the money he collected. The beasts would shake him down and eat the money.
The monkeys, however, were around when I was a kid. I spent a lot of time with my grandparents, and maybe the little brats were jealous, but they would come out of nowhere wearing their little diapers, squealing and chasing me through the house. The clash of cultures: Southern Matriarch and Zookeeper still amazes me today. I think she’s a character waiting to be written.
My husband and I have had birds, rabbits, cats, dogs, fish, hamsters, and one steadfast rule. If an animal comes through our door, it stays for life. Oh, how many times I havewished to chuck that law out the window—especially at times like this when one of our most precious creature is at the threshold of death. With six currently, do I really want to face this five more times?
Like giving birth—in the moment, I’d say no. But give me a year, and I’m sure another scraggly little fellow will show up at my door and ask to reside within. They always do. Seldom do we go looking for them. We believe there’s an invisible sign in our front yard visible to those who walk on four legs. It says, “Lamb’s Home for Wayward Animals.”
My husband always said I should write a book about one of the most notorious creatures to ever grace our Sherwood Park neighborhood. He was a scalawag. The first family—the one he broke free from—named him Little Bit. That name never seemed to fit. We called him Tramp.
This little golden creature with a nub for a tail and the sweetest brown eyes showed up on our back porch during a grill out, and before Marc could say, “Don’t feed that dog,” I slipped Tramp a few bites of my steak. For awhile, Tramp would pop in and out of our lives scurrying between our house and his real home. Then one Christmas Eve—a grand time in our old neighborhood when people drove through to look at the Christmas lights and the luminaries—Tramp’s real family pulled up as we were sitting outside shouting Merry Christmas to the line of vehicles. They gifted us with him.
By that time, we should have known better. Our neighbors were already unhappy with Tramp. Yeah, their teasing was good natured enough—except for this one miserable man. Although, if I’d been sitting with my family at my dining room table and a dog tore through my screen to play with the family cat, I don’t think I’d be too happy. There was also the most embarrassing moment in neighborhood history when the guy next door chased Tramp out of his garage. “He took my wife’s underwear from the laundry basket,” he called. Now, what do you possibly say to that? Even I could not offer a lively retort at that moment we did laugh about Tramp’s burglary later. Surprisingly, when that family moved, we were still friends.
Tramp had a favorite game—Catch Me If You Can. His rules: I will get out as many times and in any way I can, and you need to find creative ways to bring me back. Most of our creativity centered on getting in the car and making him run after us until he was too tired to move. Then he’d climb into the car, go home, and rest for a few minutes before finding another way to get to another screen and tearing his way to freedom. A few times, we had to plan his escape from the local pound.
We had many memorable moments with the Trampster. I’ll never forget the time we were on vacation, and my mother-in-law called to report how well Tramp and his five, six, or seven other four-legged brothers and sisters were behaving. She was so proud. “He hasn’t gone through a screen yet,” she declared. Then a strained silence fell across the line followed by a horrible screech. “Bad dog! Bad dog!”
“What did he do?” I asked.
Taking a few deep breaths, my husband’s dear mother said, “I put him on the chain on the porch. Apparently, he wanted inside this time. He tore through the screen, and he’s sitting in the living room wagging his nub.”
At first, Catch Me If You Can was a potentially deadly game for Tramp. The neighbors had pointed a finger at the lovable scamp because the duck population in the pond began to diminish. They all knew Tramp’s favorite pastime during his many escapes was to take a swim in the murky waters. We protested. Tramp wasn’t an angel, but he’d never kill Daffy or Donald. At one point, I envisioned the neighbors gathering with torches and pitch forks much like the castle scene where the villagers gathered to end the terror of Frankenstein. When trappers showed up and pulled a bull gator and his lady love from the pond, Tramp was vindicated.
So, why have memories resurfaced today? Because the rule of the house has come into play once again. Tramp is long gone and several other precious four-legged family members are no longer with us, and we are losing another. This one has owned my heart since his birth one July morning eleven years ago.
You see, we’d adopted his mother and when we went to have her spayed, intuition told me to tell the vet, “If she’s pregnant, don’t kill the kittens.” Well, Momma was pregnant, and her two babies were saved.
Archie is a ginger cat, and that’s probably the reason his liver and his gallbladder are failing. We’ve been fighting the disease with him since Christmas.
Having watched Archie and his sister PittyPat come into this world, it is very difficult to watch him leave, but like Tramp, there are memories. These are painful now, as I watch the life ebb from our precious boy, but with time, I know I will smile when I think of him usurping the rights of the other pets to nightly gain the spot between our pillows each night.
As a kitten, we called him Simpleton because his sister had to teach him everything, including how to jump out of the crate to begin their adventures in this world. Now, we call him Pudding ‘n Pie or Pumpkin. We scratch his head, and we feed him through a tube.
Archie’s wiser than us, though. When I cry over him, he purrs as if to say, “It’s okay, Mom,” and I enjoy just one more precious moment with him.
So, the rule that I sometimes want to chuck out the window is a valuable one. Without it, what would my memories hold? When my husband and I sit back and reflect on our life together, we might not have tales of travel or other adventures, but we will have many stories—stories of Tramp, Lady, Teak, Sissy, Swiss, Maggie, Rascal, Hobo, Max, Herbie, Dinky, Baby, Melly, PittyPat, Archie, Charley, Harvey, and so many others and how they lived a life as full as they made our lives for us.
OYSTERS AND PEARLS
I have a confession to make. My sense of humor comes from my sense of despair, or worry, or fear. I’m the person who laughs when the boom of the sailboat misses my head because I ducked and it clocks my sweet cousin on her head. Yeah, it could have killed her, but I still laughed. I’m not sure if she’s forgiven me for that one.
So, the one who laughs so hard at a mishap—that would be me.
I can’t help it.
And if many of you are truthful, you know God has given you this silly little quirk.
It’s called a coping mechanism.
So, when one of my friends was hurting recently, you’d think, true to my nature, I’d laugh or try to cajole. No, I cried for her, and I prayed for her. My friend hadn’t gotten conked on the head. Her heart was crushing under a burden, and her pain touched somewhere deep inside of me. As we corresponded, I read each of her notes with tears running down my face because I wholeheartedly disagreed with her—at first.
You see, my friend has a ministry—a wonderful ministry of light and life. She has a desire to reach people with the Word of God, to proclaim God’s Truth. She also has a desire that none be glorified except Christ. I love her for that desire. I value her friendship because she teaches humility and trembles at anything close to pride. I need to see that in her because I struggle to maintain humility and fight against arrogance.
She’s an oyster with a pearl inside and despite all her efforts, her pearl shines—oh, and how brightly it shines. She’s radiant—the type of pearl you hold to the light and look for imperfections. And yes, she has imperfections—flaws are what make pearls unique.
Oysters sit on the sandy bottom of the waters, and they grind at the grit inside. Some never produce a thing. They have nothing within them to develop. Some could have developed valuable pearls, but someone came along and pulled them out of the depths of the water and served them raw or steamed—with plenty of rich, creamy butter. In other words, the world has eaten them up. They were enjoyed, but nothing about them was lasting. Hollywood is full of such oysters.
My friend is one of two types of those who produce brilliant gems. Because of her efforts, she has a beautiful pearl inside. Try as she might, she can’t keep the beauty from showing. God keeps opening up her shell.
I countered my friend’s thinking, claiming God does want us to produce shiny pearls. Our heavenly Father wouldn’t call some of the shiniest by name if it weren’t so.
And at this point my soul really began to weep, finding no humor in this situation. I was burdened for my friend because I thought she was meant to shine brightly and without apology. My heart was also heavy because while she might not want to shine—it has always been my desire to do so.
Yeah, I’ve always wanted to be a bright, shiny pearl. While I contend that I’m quite the shy, backward person when you first get to know me, I am well aware I have a smidge of my mother with a heaping helping of my natural father inside of me. I like to make people laugh. While at most parties, you’ll find me a shadow on the wall, when in my element, I can be the life of the festivities.
So, it was with this heaviness of spirit that I began to ponder why her stance bothered me, and why I was so opposed to her way of thinking. To get to the bottom of this, I had to understand the true reason why I crave success—yes success. Okay, bottom line, all I’ve ever wanted is to shine as a Christian author. I want a story that reaches out and touches hearts. I want to encourage other writers who work for Christ. Notice the beginning of my last two sentences, and hold on to the thought.
My friend desires the same thing. I know she does because she’d a talented writer, and she has mentored so effectively in my life. Yet, her anguish over her brilliant glow still tugged at me.
Other oysters came to mind.
Paul and Barnabas. People knew them by name or reputation. Some even thought they were gods. These powerful men of God dispelled that thought immediately, and they shined—with the light of Christ.
Job, Abraham, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, and Elijah. God didn’t say, “This rich man who lived in Ur who lost everything,” or “the nomad,” “the guy from Whom I created a nation,” “the pharaoh’s second in command,” “the man who led My people,” or “the prophet who slaughtered the priests of Baal.” He carefully recorded their names, and the names of so many others.
Even with such proof at my disposal, I still bore a heavy heart.
Then realization took root. I needed to ask myself some important questions. Why do I want so badly for God to open the shell and to let my pearl shine? Is it ambition, greed, or do my desires truly align with God’s will?
The “aha” moment struck like lightning and resounded with thunder. Remember those two sentences above. They started with “I want.”
My aching, churning, twisted heart wanted a good thing—but for the wrong reason. The words “I want” put me at the center, and that was my friend’s stance. She didn’t want to be the center. Her aim is that God’s will for her to glorify Christ always be at the heart of whatever she accomplishes.
And the burden was lifted as I began to see what she so humbly tried to show me.
Whether I produce a pearl or not might be up to me. I can waste my life working outside God’s will and produce nothing of value, or I can get busy and produce a pearl. God may or may not open up the shell and lets it shine for someone other than Himself, but the value will still be the same.
Sometimes God pulls people out of the crowd. He makes them recognizable. Sometimes he leaves them anonymous but yet He does great things through them.
Finally, put in my place, I bowed before God and proclaimed, “Yes, I’d love to be a bright shiny pearl for Christ. I’m not going to lie. I’d love to shine, but dear God, whether the pearl I produce is seen by many or whether my offering remains hidden from everyone but You, my prayer is that You never allow me to forget to glorify You so that other oysters might produce pearls.”
God led me to His Word, penned by Paul in Romans 12:1-2. This Scripture is the key to producing any pearl—and whatever our goals, we should all want to produce for Christ: “I beseech you, therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service. And be not conformed to this world, but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God.”
Kind of like my cousin when she was hit by the boom of the sailboat, I was struck silent by this truth. Maybe God is laughing because the joke was on me.
The list of Biblical saints I mentioned earlier—none of those—not a one went about looking for fame. They simply did God’s will, and God opened their shells—not so the world could see their pearls, but that Christ might be shown to the world.
My friend shines because she can’t help it. She has produced the pearl, and God has opened up the shell to allow her offering to be seen by others. With awe inspiring humility—something I’ve always lacked—she introduces Christ to a world hungering for Him.
So, I’m going back to work—to the “grind” of everyday living—doing what God has called me to do—ministering to unique individuals—writers and a few oddball friends, a/k/a non-writers, who put up with me. I’ll continue to write my stories and seek a venue for publication, but that bestseller list and, in fact, my entire life, are better left in God’s hands. If my story is never told, or if my novels never makes the bestseller’s list, my prayer is that this oyster be used to produce a pearl that will cause another oyster to produce a pearl that will allow another oyster—well you get the message.