Reading, Running and Real Science

2012-01-17T13:08:00.000-08:00

Look closely. One word. Toward the bottom.

My husband's birthday is today. He turns nineteen. You think I'm kidding.

But the Hunk of Italy is a genetic freak who never seems to age. He recently went to the eye doctor for a checkup and was told him that somehow, in middle age, his eyesight is actually improving. Near-sighted in his thirties and forties, he now sees almost 20-20.

As Adrian Monk would say: It's a blessing, and a curse.

I hope the age-defying mean he'll be around a long time; but it's going to be like living with Dorian Gray.

His 19th birthday --- a High Holy Day in this house -- prompts me to share some thoughts about Spouses of Writers.

When we married, imaginary friends were already part of my life. So you could say my husband knew what he was getting into. But that's not fair, or true. Even writers don't know what they're getting into because each project comes like a fresh slice of heaven -- inspiration, enthusiasm, love -- and Hell -- failure, despair, hate.

Over the years, I've concluded that a supportive spouse is as much a gift to the writer as talent. Even when that support varies. Some spouses tolerate imaginary friends the same way they deal with meddling inlaws at Thanksgiving. Others might say that the vows about "in sickness and in health, for better or worse," doesn't mean listening to you whine about characters who won't behave.

If that's the case, be grateful. Write in solitary confinement. God gives us our crucibles. And writers sometimes need cocoons to give birth to all the words begging from within.

Always: Be grateful.

I've had some difficult writing seasons both before and after marriage. Each challenge has taught me that wrestling agasint God's sovereignity -- protesting because I'm unsatisfied with what He's given -- only worsens the problem. In fact, ingratitude blocks the very road that all good stories must travel in order to reach the writer.

No doubt that I've been blessed with an uber-supportive spouse. He also came equipped with instant recall of every plot device in the universe. Whenever I will toss out a story idea, the response is always the same variation on a theme: "George Raft already did that in 1939. The movie was called Each Dawn I Die..." Or: "Jimmy Cagney, Sinner's Holiday, 1930. He played a tough guy who...."

This used to annoy me. Really annoy me.

Then I realized my pride was responding.

Once I stopped struggling against God's sovereign choice, I saw that my husband's instantaneous recollection of every story seen/heard/read was forcing me to get more creative with the Raleigh Harmon series.

The guy deserves a medal.

But I would contend that all Spouses of Writers deserve some kind of medal.

There's an terrible fact waiting to ambush every writer before she even begins. And the fact is this: The world doesn't need your words.

You might think it does. You might think the world would be immeasurably better if only your book was out there, in people's hands, filling their mind with your excellent thoughts. You can probably find a self-help book that will agree with you.

But here in Realityville, the world already has plenty of stories. The Bible alone gives us enough drama and narrative to occupy our imaginations from birth to death -- and that book was written thousands of years ago.

This is why Spouses of Writers are so special. Each time they grant you time to write, or help you find a place to write, or listen to Your Next Great Idea, they are implicitly defying the world. By their actions, they are saying: Yes, it's all been done before, but you haven't told your story. And your story matters.

If you're a writer with a supportive spouse, kiss them.

Kiss them -- a lot.

Even if they are the picture of Dorian Gray.

2012-01-16T09:16:00.000-08:00

Some moments on earth are so wonderful, they feel like glimpses of heaven.

For me, those moments revolve around people. Sharing time with them. Enjoying their great company. Laughing.

But that beyond-the-veil feeling also comes from nature. In particular snow. I can never thank God enough for letting me grow up in Alaska.

Yesterday, the Seattle area got enough to blanket the world in white. After sledding with the kids and baking good food, I strapped on my running shoes and took off.

I'm plotting the next Raleigh Harmon mystery, and there is no better way to dream and create inside my head than running. Especially in snow. There are so few distractions -- for the eyes and the ears. Normally I just listen to steps. Cold breath. The rare bird that sings through ice.

But yesterday I decided to listen to my own soundtrack, which I'm calling Winter Wonderland. Maybe someone can add a few ideas here.

Winter Snow   Chris Tomlinson featuring Audrey Assad
It's True Sara Groves
Peaches and Diesel   Eric Clapton
100 Years Five for Fighting
When It's All Said and Done Robin Mark
Carol of the Bells George Winston
Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring   Celtic Woman (although any version seems excellent)
Forgiven and Loved    Jeremy Needham
Song for a Winter's Night Sarah McLaughlin (Maybe even better than Gordon Lightfoot's own)
Galveston Glenn Campbell (What can I say? I love this song)
These Days in an Open Book Nanci Griffith
Jesus, Jesus, Rest Your Head George Winston
And finally
This Guy's in Love With You Herb Alpert and Tijuana Brass

If that last tune doesn't sense now, it will when The Stars Shine Bright comes out this summer.

2011-12-24T06:34:00.000-08:00

Okay, I goofed. This was supposed to post on Christmas Day. But I'm a living example of why we need so much advice
about "how" to do Christmas. Too busy, too busy.

Welcome to the 12 Pearls of Christmas!

Enjoy these Christmas "Pearls of Wisdom" from some of today's most beloved writer's (Tricia Goyer, Suzanne Woods Fisher, Shellie Rushing Tomlinson, Sibella Giorello and more)! Please follow the series through Christmas day as each contributor shares heartfelt stories of how God has touched a life during this most wonderful time of the year.

AND just for fun ... there's also a giveaway! Fill out this simple form and enter for a chance to win a beautiful pearl necklace and earring set ($450 value). Contest runs 12/14 - 12/25 and the winner will on 1/1. Contest is only open to US and Canadian residents. You may enter once per day.

If you are unfamiliar with Pearl Girls™, please visit www.pearlgirls.info and see what we're all about. In short, we exist to support the work of charities that help women and children in the US and around the globe. Consider purchasing a copy of Pearl Girls: Encountering Grit, Experiencing Grace or one of the Pearl Girls products (all GREAT gifts!) to help support Pearl Girls.

Jesus -- The Reason For the Season

By Rachel Hauck

Through the narrow scope of 2000 years, Mary, the mother of Jesus, appears to be one lucky woman. Chosen by God to give birth to His son, the Savior of the world? All right, Mary, way to go.

“Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you,” Gabriel said.

How many of us would like a declaration like that? Highly favored. The Lord is with you. But Mary was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be.

The angel told her, “The Holy Spirit will come on you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God. Mary’s seems confident and resolved when she responds, “I am the Lord’s servant. May your word to me be fulfilled.”

She’d just been told the Holy Spirit will come upon her, that God’s power will overshadow her, that she’d become with child even though she wasn’t married, and she said, “I’m the Lord’s servant. Let your words be true.”

I find this amazing! A young woman. Ancient Bethlehem. Unwed mother. They stoned women for such things in her day. But Mary believed in God. And submitted to His will. He gave her the Holy Spirit – the same Holy Spirit given to us. If He gave her confidence, He will give us confidence. Even though, like Mary, our situation seems impossible.

Listen to Mary’s song later on in the first chapter of Luke.

“My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant. From now on all generations will call me blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for me Holy is his name…”

Conceiving a child out of wedlock, by Divine intervention. Not a girl’s every day existence. Yet she had a Yes in her heart to God. She rejoiced. She boldly said, “Generations will remember me!”

How we struggle to trust God with our children. Our finances. Our emotional well-being. We worry. We fret. And wonder why we have no peace.

Christmas is the season where words like joy, peace and love are bantered around like Christmas candy. Let’s not take them as just words, but as truth. Let’s be like Mary and embrace God’s favor on our lives. Boldly declare "He’s done great things for me!”

Out of the grit of our own souls, we can reach His heart, and feel Him reaching for ours. No matter the pain of our past, present or future, God is there for us. He is able. Best of all, He is willing. “My soul glorifies the Lord this Christmas!”

***

Rachel Hauck is an award winning, best selling author who believes God has done great things for her. She lives in Central Florida with her husband and ornery pets. Her next release is Love Lifted Me with multi-platinum country artist Sara Evans, January 2012. Then in April, look for The Wedding Dress. www.rachelhauck.com.

2011-12-24T06:24:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the 12 Pearls of Christmas!

The Panhandler's Breath

By Robin Dance

He slipped in sideways between the closing elevator doors, as if he were late to a meeting; he pressed the "5" without looking. Instead of suit and tie, though, baggy pants and faded navy hung on his tall, slim frame...and his stealth entry stiffened the hairs on the back of my neck.

I had noticed him a few seconds earlier, just after we had parted a sea of clamorous teens. He was smiling, grandfatherly, standing maybe 30 feet away where the electric shuttle picks up.

I had no idea he had been watching us, studying us, predator patiently awaiting his next prey.

The four of us were sealed in a four- by six-foot metal tomb. Tomb--that thought really scampered across my mind. I wondered if he had a knife in his pocket. I wanted to protect my son. Fight or flight pumped adrenaline but there was no where to run.

Extreme and ridiculous, these thoughts - and more - flashed through my mind. The Stranger began speaking.

"Yessir, I see you're a family man with your wife and your son here..." and he nodded in my and my son’s direction.

"...you see I'm homeless and all I've got..." and on queue, he reached into his left pocket and pulled out two old pennies blackened with age. Two cents to his name?! It was all too contrived, too practiced, and I didn't believe a word he was saying.

It was then I smelled it ~ the small space lent itself to that ~ and I doubted my doubt.

His breath.

It wasn't the scent of alcohol. His eyes weren't red, his voice didn't waver; his wizened face matched his graying hair.

His breath was morning's zoo breath, the pet name I'd given to the scent inhaled when kissing my children awake when they were little.

He needed to brush his teeth. I wondered how long it had been since he brushed his teeth.

The elevator door opened and I handed him my leftover pizza as my son and I brushed past him. My husband handed him a bill and the Stranger thanked and God blessed him.

The elevator door closed behind us. Conflicted, I was relieved.

We got in the car and blurted first reaction--

"I didn't believe a word he said."

"That made me nervous."

"I wonder if he'll really eat the pizza."

In the quiet, we were left to our own thoughts, contemplating the right thing to do. At the end of the day, this is what I decided: It doesn't matter whether or not his story is true; for an old man to resort to begging, he has to be desperate. The money my husband gave him will never be missed. It was a reminder we've been entrusted with much and given much. Materially, yes, but more so spiritually. Loved, chosen, forgiven, redeemed, graced, lavished--every spiritual blessing. E v e r y.

There's a part of me that wishes I would have been brave enough to ask the man his story, made sure he knew he was loved...and bought him a tooth brush.

Later, it occurred to me he could have been an angel. Doesn’t that mean generosity, kindness and hospitality is always the right response? Then it's not about you or the stranger or the circumstance, it's about a simple, God-glorifying response.

Had we entertained an angel unaware? We'll never know.

But it wouldn't be the first time the Breath of Heaven smelled like a zoo.

***

In a decades-old, scandalous affair with her husband, Robin also confesses mad crushes on her three teens. As Southern as sugar-shocked tea, she’s a recovering people pleaser who advocates talking to strangers. A memoirist, Compassion International Blogger, and Maker-upper of words, Robin writes for her own site, PENSIEVE, and also for (in)courage by DaySpring (a subsidiary of Hallmark) and Simple Mom. She loves to get to know readers through their blog comments and on Twitter and Pinterest. www.pensieve.me

2011-12-23T09:17:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the 12 Pearls of Christmas!

Now, here is today's Pearl from a woman who makes me laugh, Debora M. Coty.

Inside Out Christmas

by Debora M. Coty

My veterinarian friend, Dr. Katie, tells the story about the December when a woman brought a very sick black lab into her clinic. The dog was only ten months old, so she was really just a big puppy, but she’d been vomiting incessantly and her worried owner didn’t know what was wrong.

“Why don’t you go on home?” Dr. Katie told the owner. “I’ll need to run tests for about four hours. We’ll give you a call when we’re finished.”

Dr. Katie’s assistant took x-rays and hung them on the light panel for Dr. Katie to examine. Hmm. Something looked a little peculiar. Dr. Katie called her assistant over.

“Is it just me, or does that look like a … a camel to you?” she asked incredulously.

“Matter of fact, it does,” replied the astute assistant. “And look, there’s an angel here, a shepherd there, and down there in the colon, it’s Baby Jesus!”

At that moment the phone rang. It was the dog’s distraught owner. “I can’t believe this! I just got home and glanced at the coffee table where I put my manger scene yesterday. There’s nothing there but an empty stable!”

As I thought about this quite literal technique for internalizing the true meaning of Christmas, it occurred to me that sometimes I have the opposite problem. With all the bustling busyness, my inner joy in celebration of my savior’s birth never really makes it to the outside.

Oh, I have plenty of glittery, festive evidences of the holiday in decorations, baking galore, and gifts under my tree. But those things are for show. They’re merely the pretty wrappings, not the gift itself.

Can people really see the core-deep joy that radiates within me when I think of the true gift that Papa God sent the world in his son, Jesus? Is my immeasurable gratitude for eternal life evident as I dash through this hectic season?

I’m afraid all too often, the answer is no.

I’m just too preoccupied to allow my outside to reflect my inside so that nonbelievers recognize that I rejoice because of the hope that is within me. My joy is obscured by the mounds of clutter. Gratefulness is sucked out of my soul by the vacuum called urgency.

“But let the godly rejoice. Let them be glad in God’s presence. Let them be filled with joy” (Psalm 68:3, NLT).

This verse has become my prayer this Christmas season – that I would make the time to give priority to rejoicing, being glad in God’s presence, and letting my inner joy show for those who may be silently desperate to know the giver of true joy.

Yep, there’s a better way to internalize the gift of Christmas than the black lab technique. We can lodge the Little Lord Jesus in our hearts rather than our colons.

***

Debora M. Coty is a humorist, inspirational speaker, and award-winning author of twelve books, including Too Blessed to be Stressed, and coming in March, More Beauty, Less Beast: Transforming Your Inner Ogre. Debora would love to swap Christmas hugs with you at www.DeboraCoty.com.

2011-12-22T02:00:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the 12 Pearls of Christmas!

***

Simple or Sparkle?

by Tracey Eyster

It’s a simple ornament made of thin cheap metal and it looks quite out of place on our CHRISTmas tree. But each year I lovingly and safely nestle it amongst its expensive and sparkly peers, without a care as to how unglamorous it appears.

Many of our CHRISTmas ornaments have a story and an uncanny way of welling up emotion in me, but this certain one causes an intense stir.

You see the ornament is engraved with the name of my grandmother, Sara, and was given to me by my mother, who ordered it from Hospice, after Grandmama’s death. Yes, the months leading up to her death carry memories of a frail and failing grandmama, but that ornament carries my thoughts to sweet CHRISTmas memories of the past.

CHRISTmas Eve dinners in her home, laughing, singing, gathering and celebrating a year filled with blessings as we remembered the birth of our Savior. CHRISTmas mornings, she was always there participating with glee, in our raucous CHRISTmas happiness. Her gifts were always bank envelopes gently tucked into the pine needles of our CHRISTmas tree, fresh cut from the property she grew up on.

All memories of my Grandmama make my heart swell. You see she was my Jesus with skin on. She lived her life full of joy, serving others and approached life selflessly with an attitude of, “What can I do for you?”

Just months before she left us, even as the Alzheimer’s was robbing her mind she shared her love of Jesus with a sweet little old lady friend, who came to know the Lord – a divine appointment. The very next day that little old lady silently slipped away to meet in person the One Sara introduced her to just the day before.

At the time I wept, realizing that regardless of our own frailties and failings, God can still use those of us who are willing to do His work and are well practiced at hearing His voice...no matter our lack of sparkle in comparison to others.

A simple life lived for Him, a simple ornament in memory of Sara...a simple truth for you to ponder.

***

Tracey Eyster wife, mom, relationship gatherer and Creator/Editor of FamilyLife’s MomLife Today is a media savvy mom making a difference where moms are, on-line. Through speaking, writing and video interviews Tracey is passionate about encouraging, equipping and advising moms on every facet of momlife. Her first book, Be The Mom will be released August 2012. You can connect with Tracey at www.momlifetoday.com, her personal site www.traceyster.com or www.twitter/momblog.com.

2011-12-21T00:30:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the 12 Pearls of Christmas!

Enjoy these Christmas "Pearls of Wisdom" from some of today's most beloved writer's (Tricia Goyer, Suzanne Woods Fisher, Shellie Rushing Tomlinson,and your's humbly). Please follow the series through Christmas day as each contributor shares heartfelt stories of how God has touched a life during this most wonderful time of the year.

***

Enjoy the Ride!

Susan May Warren

We sit poised on the top of a cliff, a near drop off before us, that falls to a rushing river. In the middle, a bridge of snow and ice hints at our destination. My husband guns the snowmobile engine. “Ready?”

Ready? For a face plant into a tree, maybe reconstructive surgery? To feel my stomach ripped from my body as we plummet down the mountain? Let’s do it!

We live on five acres of woods in northern Minnesota that butts up to a national forest. Hence, our backyard is about a hundred thousand acres. Aside from harboring deer, lynx, fox, cougar and bear, it also makes excellent snowmobile terrain. And not long ago, Mrs. Claus gave her Santa a snowmobile for two.

I love snowmobiling. Flying over the snow, catching air over drifts. I love to drive, to be at the helm of the beast as I weave around trees and over hill and dale, my husband sitting behind me. I also love riding behind my husband as he drives, feeling those powerful arms as he’s muscling the snowmobile into the wilds. We follow unknown trails, driven by a Magellan spirit, hoping that we have enough gas to get us back to civilization. I love hanging on, simply trusting him, knowing that wherever he’s taking me, he’s going first.

But there are times, when I see where he’s taking me, and I just have to bury my head in his back. Like straight down a cliff.

However, my heart cheers, despite the terror as we gun it down the hill, over the river, up the opposite side. And, if we hadn’t let ourselves go, we would have never discovered the beauty of a winter river, a hidden jewel buried deep in the forest. Nor the exhilaration of facing the challenge together.

Further on, we find an enchanted forest of towering white pine. Catch a view of Lake Superior, discover an old cabin in the woods.

It occurs to me that snowmobiling is much like my spiritual life. Occasionally, I drive, and it’s me setting our course, weaving through the trees, getting us hopelessly lost. But when God takes the “wheel” and I hang on, trusting Him for the speed and destination, I see the scenery. I trust him to keep me safe. I trust him to bring me home, where there is an eternal supply of hot chocolate.

As Christmas season becomes more hectic, what if I let God drive? Maybe everything doesn’t have to be perfect, and maybe I don’t have to control every tradition, every holiday nuance. What if I just held on for the ride?

I’ll bet I’ll still get there, and I might even enjoy the scenery along the way.

How have you let go, and “enjoyed” the scenery of this hectic, exhilarating Christmas season?

Merry Christmas!

***

Susan May Warren is the RITA award-winning author of thirty novels with Tyndale, Barbour, Steeple Hill and Summerside Press. A four-time Christy award finalist, a two-time RITA Finalist, she’s also a multi-winner of the Inspirational Readers Choice award, and the ACFW Carol Award. A seasoned women’s events speaker, she’s a popular writing teacher at conferences around the nation and the author of the beginning writer’s workbook: From the Inside-Out: discover, create and publish the novel in you!. She is also the founder of www.MyBookTherapy.com, a story-crafting service that helps authors discover their voice.

2011-12-20T10:33:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the 12 Pearls of Christmas!

Enjoy these Christmas "Pearls of Wisdom" from some of today's most beloved writer's (Tricia Goyer, Suzanne Woods Fisher, Shellie Rushing Tomlinson, and your's humbly). Please follow the series through Christmas day as each contributor shares heartfelt stories of how God has touched a life during this most wonderful time of the year.

AND just for fun ... there's also a giveaway! Fill out this simple form and enter for a chance to win a beautiful pearl necklace and earring set ($450 value). Contest runs 12/14 - 12/25 and the winner will on 1/1. Contest is only open to US and Canadian residents. You may enter once per day.

If you are unfamiliar with Pearl Girls™, please visit www.pearlgirls.info and see what we're all about. In short, we exist to support the work of charities that help women and children in the US and around the globe. Consider purchasing a copy of Pearl Girls: Encountering Grit, Experiencing Grace or one of the Pearl Girls products (all GREAT gifts!) to help support Pearl Girls.

***

Family Traditions: A Glimpse into Christmas Future

by Tricia Goyer

Have you ever thought about family traditions? As I helped my 1-year-old place ornaments on the Christmas tree this year I imagined her doing the same thing with her children—and maybe even grandchildren—one day. Traditions are beliefs and customs handed down through generations. By sharing meaningful moments with your kids you're sending yourself into the future. How amazing is that?

Sharing family traditions cause us to slow down from the busy, adult world for a while. We ignore the laundry to set out the nativity set with our kids. We set aside time in our schedules to drive around and look at Christmas lights.

Holiday traditions aren't only fun, they also help strength family bonds. Through traditions kids trust in the security of family unit. They think, “This is our family and this is what I do.” Of course, the most important thing to share isn't just what we do ... but why. Why do we put out a nativity? To remind us the real meaning of the season—Jesus coming to earth. What do the Christmas lights represent displayed on homes and on trees? They represent the Light of the World, Jesus.

Using traditions to bond our families and share our faith isn't new. I love these two Scriptures that talk about that very thing.

Exodus 12:25 says, “When you enter the land that the LORD will give you as he promised, observe this ceremony.”

Psalm 78:4 says, “We will not hide them from their children; we will tell the next generation the praiseworthy deeds of the LORD, his power, and the wonders he has done.”

What are you're traditions? Here are a few of ours:

Baking a Birthday cake for Jesus

Buying a new ornament every year for each child

Acting out the Christmas story (with props!)

Praying together before opening presents

What are your traditions? Write a list and appreciate them in a new way this year. Then ask, “If I could add one new tradition this holiday season, what would it be?” I'd love to hear what you choose! It also makes me smile to think of your children's grandchildren doing the same.

***

Tricia Goyer is a CBA best-selling author and the winner of two American Christian Fiction Writers’ Book of the Year Awards (Night Song and Dawn of a Thousand Nights). She co-wrote 3:16 Teen Edition with Max Lucado and contributed to the Women of Faith Study Bible. Also a noted marriage and parenting writer, she lives with her husband and children in Arkansas. www.triciagoyer.com

2011-12-19T10:14:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the 12 Pearls of Christmas!

If you are unfamiliar with Pearl Girls™, please visit www.pearlgirls.info and see what we're all about. In short, we exist to support the work of charities that help women and children in the US and around the globe. Consider purchasing a copy of Pearl Girls: Encountering Grit, Experiencing Grace or one of the Pearl Girls products (all GREAT gifts!) to help support Pearl Girls.

***

Let The Baby Grow Up This Christmas

By Shellie Tomlinson

When I was a little girl, Christmas seemed to take forever to make its way back to our little house on the end of a dirt road called Bull Run in northeast Louisiana. We kids started counting down the days before the leaves ever began turning. Sure, the adults said it came once a year but I wasn't so sure. Once Santa Claus left our humble abode it seemed like light years before he found his way back to the Delta.

That was a child's perspective. I imagine it hasn't changed all that much for today's kids. On the other hand, I'm operating under a completely different time frame these days. It seems like it was just yesterday when I pulled the boxes down from the attic and began pulling out the nativity scene, the miniature lights, and the keepsake ornaments. And now, just that fast-- Christmas Day is right around the corner. Soon the tree will be striped naked and the piled up presents will all be distributed. After a few more day it'll be hard to remember who got what from whom, and once again, I'll start packing all the decorations away for another year.

I was thinking about how bare and cold the house always looks after the holidays when I realized that, sadly, this scene would play itself out in many hearts as well. A lot of people will have had expectations that weren't filled and many of those same souls will be left with hurts that don't seem to heal. Unless this year is remarkably different from past seasons, my bet is, the New Year will bring magazines full of articles on combating depression and the talk shows will have experts on offering ways to fill the long days ahead and cure the winter blues.

I'm no expert, dear readers, but I'd like to offer you a suggestion that will go far beyond the creature comforts of a nice warm bath or a delicious bowl of hot soup. Your heart doesn't have to be bare and naked after the holidays. Do you want to know the real secret? It's simple, really. Don't pack up Christ with Christmas! As beautiful and special as the Christmas story is, it's only a part of heaven's miracle. The Christ child grew into a man and the man became a Savior.

This year, may we be determined to let the babe from Bethlehem live on in our hearts. If we'll allow Him to become the Messiah He was born to be, the joy of Christmas can be ours all year long.

***

Shellie Rushing Tomlinson is an author, speaker, and radio host from Louisiana. Her latest release Sue Ellen's Girl Ain't Fat, She Just Weighs Heavy was endorsed by Jeff Foxworthy as "laugh out loud funny!" You can find Shellie's weekly southern features, podcasts, video chats and more at http://www.allthingssouthern.com/ Make sure to get by the blog and read about the Super Christmas Giveaway Shellie is hosting for her readers and secure your chance to win a Mort Kunstler print valued between $700 and $1400. www.allthingssouthern.com

2011-12-18T12:51:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the 12 Pearls of Christmas!

I hope you're enjoying these Christmas "Pearls of Wisdom" from some of today's most beloved writer's, including Tricia Goyer, Suzanne Woods Fisher, Shellie Rushing Tomlinson, and your's humbly. Please follow the series through Christmas day as each contributor shares heartfelt stories of how God has touched a life during this most wonderful time of the year.

If you are unfamiliar with Pearl Girls™, please visit www.pearlgirls.info and see what we're all about. In short, we exist to support the work of charities that help women and children in the US and around the globe. Consider purchasing a copy of Pearl Girls: Encountering Grit, Experiencing Grace or one of the Pearl Girls products (all GREAT gifts!) to help support Pearl Girls.

Now here's the Fifth Pearl post, from somebody I am privileged to call my friend: author Deb Raney.

***

The Snowflake Party

By Deborah Raney

The first snow of winter hasn’t fallen yet, but in our kitchen tonight we’re doing a pretty good imitation. The whole family is circled around the huge old oak table. The snip, snip, snip of scissors is background music as tiny scraps of white paper float down, making our floor look like a giant brownie sprinkled with powdered sugar.

Tonight has turned out to be the night for our annual Snowflake Party, a tradition that began when our children were toddlers. There has never been a date blocked out in red on our calendar, but one day we wake up and the brisk autumn air has turned bitter cold. Naked tree branches trace their stark calligraphy on a dull grey sky and we need a taste of the joyful promises of Christmas and snow. It’s the perfect time for a party.

On such a day, one of the kids will fly in the back door, fresh home from school, and declare “Hey, Mom! Tonight would be a good night for the Snowflake Party!” First we round up every pair of scissors in the house. This is one time when sharing is not a virtue. While the kids search for scissors, I cut white paper into squares and fold them caddy-corner multiple times. The resulting triangles are artfully arranged in a basket, awaiting the beginning of the party.

Later, while the supper dishes dry on the counter, I recruit a volunteer to help me stir up a big pot of hot cocoa. For the next hour it will warm on the back burner, tantalizing us with its aroma.

Now the fun begins with careful cutting and snipping, shaping plain white paper into intricate works of art. Each snowflake we create seems as unique and spectacular as the genuine variety created by God himself. As each masterpiece is unfolded, collective oohs and aahs go up.

When the last dregs of our creative juices are drained, Dad oversees the vacuum patrol while I pour cocoa into generous mugs. We spread our handiwork on the floor around us and sit, quietly admiring our work while we dunk marshmallows and sip rich chocolate.

With empty mugs piled up in the sink, it’s time for the judging to begin. There will be awards for ‘prettiest’, ‘most unusual’, and as many other categories as we need for everyone to be a winner. Dad is the judge because he studied art in college. He also usually wins one of the top prizes––because he studied art in college.

Snowflakes deemed runners-up might be pasted in scrapbooks or hung on the refrigerator. A few even “melt” into the trash that very night. But the winners are taped proudly to the picture windows in the living room for passersby to enjoy while they long for the day when genuine snowflakes will color the world clean and white.

Our oldest daughter went away to college last September. She called just after Thanksgiving to tell me that her dorm window was covered with snowflakes. No, not the real thing, but the ones she remembers from her childhood––paper ones that she spent an entire evening cutting and snipping while sipping hot cocoa.

That’s the neat thing about traditions: They go with us no matter how far from home we travel.

***

DEBORAH RANEY's first novel, A Vow to Cherish, inspired the World Wide Pictures film of the same title. Her books have since won the RITA Award, ACFW Carol Award, HOLT Medallion, National Readers' Choice Award, Silver Angel, and have twice been Christy Award finalists. After All, third in her Hanover Falls Novels series will release next spring from Howard/Simon & Schuster. Deb and her husband, Ken Raney, enjoy small-town life in Kansas. Their four children are grown now and having snowflake parties with their own children––and they all live much too far away. Visit Deb on the web at www.deborahraney.com.

2011-12-16T23:44:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the 12 Pearls of Christmas!

Here's the Fourth Pearl, by Elizabeth Musser.

I hope you're enjoying these Christmas "Pearls of Wisdom" from some of today's most beloved writer's (Tricia Goyer, Suzanne Woods Fisher, Shellie Rushing Tomlinson, and your's humbly). Please follow the series through Christmas day as each contributor shares heartfelt stories of how God has touched a life during this most wonderful time of the year.

If you are unfamiliar with Pearl Girls™, please visit www.pearlgirls.info and see what we're all about. In short, we exist to support the work of charities that help women and children in the US and around the globe. Consider purchasing a copy of Pearl Girls: Encountering Grit, Experiencing Grace or one of the Pearl Girls products (all GREAT gifts!) to help support Pearl Girls.

***

Why I Decorate for Christmas

By Elizabeth Goldsmith Musser

An old cassette tape of Christmas carols—received in a package twenty years ago when we had first arrived in France as missionaries—fills our den with delightful piano music as I place one more ornament on the already over-laden Christmas tree. This one is a little white wooden rabbit with pink ears that move back and forth. It actually doesn’t look much like a Christmas ornament, but I bought it for our baby Andrew when my husband Paul was in seminary, and I was working for less than minimum wage in the library. This ornament was literally all I could afford.

As I hang it on the tree today, I get goose bumps and then a rush of warmth. And that’s why I decorate for Christmas. Not to impress but to remember. I remember those lean, lean years, and God’s faithful provision for us.

There are the cross-stitched ornaments I made our first year in Montpellier—for the boys (for by now we had two sons) and Paul and me. How I ever had time to do that, I don’t know. I remember our puny little tree—the kind they sold in France back then—in a pot so that it could be replanted later. We perched that tiny tree on a small table out of baby Christopher’s reach. I guess I watered it too much, because about halfway through December, it started smelling and then stinking, and it rotted there on Christmas Day!

I smile with these memories.

I look at the other ornaments on the tree. Many were purchased—one for each boy—when we attended conferences around Europe, and that makes me smile too. Getting to travel on a missionary’s budget to exotic places! There are the waxed red bear and red baby carriage from Wales, the brightly painted clay sun and moon from Portugal, the blue and white porcelain windmill and wooden shoes from Holland, the hand-blown glass Snoopys sitting on gondolas from Venice, and the delicately decorated eggs from Prague.

Other ornaments include the little pinkish shiny ball ornament with Paul’s name written in glitter—I think he made it when he was about six , and the little red velvet bows, bought at Michael’s after Christmas one year for a dollar. They bring a unifying theme to the tree. I say this, smiling, because our tree is, and has always been throughout the years, a hodge-podge of our life. And I like it that way. I don’t think I could ever have a ‘theme’ tree. Mine is a ‘memory’ tree.

The music plays softly in the background and I smile through tears, remembering God’s incredible faithfulness to call and keep us here in France for so many years. Heart-breakingly hard years, overwhelmingly joyful years—the same years, the same amazing God, our keeper.

Before we left for the mission field, I memorized Psalm 121 in English and in French, and over the years I have held on tight to those last beautiful words of the psalm: The Lord will guard your going out and your coming in from this time forth and forever. (NASB)

Of course He will. He is God with us.

We decorate to remember Christmases past, our lives, our legacy, and mostly, for those of us who have embraced Christ, we decorate to honor and praise Him for coming to us—Emmanuel! We make our homes ready to receive the Christ Child, with soft music and candles burning and the sweet flickering of angel wings on an over-laden evergreen.

***

ELIZABETH GOLDSMITH MUSSER, an Atlanta native and the bestselling author of The Swan House, is a novelist who writes what she calls ‘entertainment with a soul.’ For over twenty years, Elizabeth and her husband, Paul, have been involved in missions work with International Teams. They presently live near Lyon, France. The Mussers have two sons and a daughter-in-law. The Sweetest Thing (Bethany House, 2011) is Elizabeth’s eighth novel. To learn more about Elizabeth and her books, and to find discussion questions as well as photos of sites mentioned in the stories, please visit www.elizabethmusser.com and her Facebook Fan Page.

2011-12-16T23:17:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the 12 Pearls of Christmas!

My protagonist Raleigh Harmon likes pearls. Not to wear -- she's nowhere near girlie enough -- but pearl geology offers us one of the best metaphors for overcoming life's challenges through grace.

Every pearl is the result of an irritation working its way into an oyster's soft tissue. Over time, the irritation gets layered with minute amounts of calcium carbonate, blanketing the hard object with smooth concentric layers. Eventually, the "irritation" turns into an object of beauty and value. Fine and iridescent. Breathtaking. Transformed.

Author Margaret McSweeney makes excellent use of this metaphor in her latest book, "Pearl Girls: Encountering Grit, Experiencing Grace." Host of the radio show Kitchen Chat and founder of Pearl Girls, which supports charities focused on women and children, Margaret has invited a dozen authors to join her for the 3rd annual Twelve Pearls of Christmas.

Grit and grace and gratitude. Each day, from now until Christmas, a different author will be reflecting on this most wonderful time of the year. I'm honored to join the likes of Tricia Goyer, Deb Raney, Suzanne Woods Fischer, Rachel Hauck and others with these daily posts.

BUT that's just half the fun. Or maybe just a quarter of it. Because there's also a giveaway. Yep: Bling!

Fill out this simple form and enter for a chance to win a beautiful pearl necklace and earring set valued at $450. You read that right. Margaret is putting all other authors to shame with her giveaway. The contest, which is open only to US and Canadian residents, runs 12/14 - 12/25. The winner will be announced on 1/1.

And since you can enter daily, hop back here each day for the next blog post. It's a great way to celebrate the twelve days of Christmas. And be sure to connect with Margaret Facebook or Twitter.

Here's the Third Pearl from Sandy Ralya.

***

Where is Comfort and Joy Found?

By Sandy Ralya

The year 2006 ushered unwelcome emotions into my life. My husband was unhappy in his job, two of my grown children were making poor choices, my mother-in-law was showing signs of Alzheimer’s, extended-family issues were surfacing, and I was writing a book. Things only got worse. Much worse.

Early in 2007, I was asked to represent the mentoring ministry for wives I founded, Beautiful Womanhood, and lead a women’s conference in Uganda, Africa. My husband wasn’t sure if traveling to Africa was a good idea, so we committed it to prayer. While we were listening for an answer, I sensed God asking me to fast from spending, except for groceries, for thirty days. Sometimes you know that you’ve heard God’s voice because you’d never have come up with those words on your own. This was one of those times. I’d never heard of a fast from spending. Tom needed no convincing that a fast from spending came directly from the mouth of God. He still gets excited just thinking about it!

During the fast, it became clear I had used spending as a way to gain a comfort fix. When I was spending money, I felt carefree and lighthearted. Instead of dwelling on the unpleasantness in my life, I was thinking of my purchases and how they would bring me pleasure. Not until I stopped spending did I realize how short-lived the fix really was. During the fast, when I felt the urge to spend—to anesthetize my pain—I pictured myself running into the arms of Jesus, the Great Comforter. Oh, what comfort I received!

One night, I told good friends my experience of gaining comfort through the power of the Holy Spirit rather than money. I exclaimed that I had never felt so comforted. One friend then told us about a dream he’d had shortly after hearing about the invitation from Uganda. After the dream, he had awoken and recorded the following thoughts:

“. . . this is for Sandy. Christ’s redemption of women is beautiful. Beautiful Womanhood is a result of redemptive wholeness. The visuals the ministry uses on the books, etc., are like a piece of beautifully veneered furniture. There is something going on with the ministry to the brokenness of abused women. In Uganda, there are hurting, abused women, and something is connecting their need and Beautiful Womanhood. Though there is nothing wrong with veneer, it is only the topping—the covering, and without good structure it is shallow and will not hold up. It is time to add a new depth to the ministry.”

Then these verses came to my friend’s mind:

All praise to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. He is the source of every mercy and the God who comforts us. He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When others are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. You can be sure that the more we suffer for Christ, the more God will shower us with his comfort through Christ. 2 Corinthians 1:3-5 NL

When my friend was finished sharing, everyone in the room broke down in tears, praising God for His work in my life. I’d learned to listen and God had spoken. I’d obeyed, and He’d acted. When He acted, I was changed.

Needless to say, I packed my bags and experienced some of the best days of my life in Uganda—offering God’s comfort to His troubled women.

***

Sandy and her husband Tom have been married since 1980 and live near Grand Rapids, Michigan. They have three adult children and a growing number of grandchildren. When not writing and speaking, Sandy enjoys shopping at yard sales for vintage clothing, cooking, travelling, and drinking really good coffee (black is best) with her husband. For more information, contact Sandy at sandy@beautifulwomanhood.com. Subscribe to Sandy’s blog at www.beautifulwomanhood.com/blog. Find Sandy on Facebook at Beautiful Womanhood. Follow Sandy on Twitter @MentoringWives.

2011-12-15T17:30:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the 12 Pearls of Christmas!

My protagonist Raleigh Harmon likes pearls. Not to wear -- she's not girlie enough -- but for their geology. And their metaphor.

Every pearl begins with an irritation which works its way into an oyster's soft tissue. It's not unlike the way anger and bitterness can worm their way into the human heart. But productive mollusks are wise, and they begin layering the hard object with tiny amounts of calcium carbonate, patiently blanketing the surface with smooth concentric layers. It's a long process but it produces something fine and iridescent. Breathtaking. The wound is transformed into a wonder.

Author Margaret McSweeney makes excellent use of this metaphor in her latest book, "Pearl Girls: Encountering Grit, Experiencing Grace." Host of the radio show Kitchen Chat, Margaret is the founder of Pearl Girls, an organization supporting charities focused on women and children. She has kindly invited a dozen authors to join her for the 3rd annual "Twelve Pearls of Christmas."

BUT that's just half the fun. Or maybe just a quarter of it. Because there's also a giveaway. Yep: Bling!

Fill out this simple form and enter for a chance to win a beautiful pearl necklace and earring set valued at $450. You read that right. Margaret is putting all authors to shame with her giveaway. The contest, open only to US and Canadian residents, runs 12/14 - 12/25. The winner will be announced on 1/1.

You can enter daily, so hop back here each blog post. It's a great way to celebrate the twelve days of Christmas.

Here's Day Two of the Twelve Pearls. Written by your's humbly.

hallelujahsbyholly.blogspot.com

Advent

Let's consider the bride's walk down the aisle. We all know where that woman in the white is going but somehow waiting for her to arrive at the altar is an essential part of the ceremony. In fact, the waiting is so essential that even cheapskate Vegas chapels include wedding marches.

Why?

Because the wait adds meaning to the moment.

At Christmas time, we tend to forget this essential truth about anticipation. We're lost to shopping malls and checklists, rushing toward December 25th so quickly that we forget the quiet joy of the month's other 24 days -- and then we wonder why we feel so empty on the 26th, amid ribbons and wrapping paper and our best intentions.

Because the wait adds meaning to the moment.

And that is why Advent is so important to Christmas.

I'm as guilty as the next harried person. This Advent was particularly tricky because just six hours before it started, I was still trying to finish a 110,000-word novel that was written over the course of the year -- written while homeschooling my kids, keeping my hubby happy, and generally making sure the house didn't fall down around us.

It's an understatement to say my free time is limited. But waiting adds meaning, and Advent is crucial to Christmas, so I've devised several Advent traditions that are simple, powerful and easy to keep even amid the seasonal rush.

When my kids outgrew the simple Advent calendars around age 7, I stole an idea from my writer friend Shelly Ngo (as T.S. Eliot said, "Mediocre writers borrow. Great writers steal." Indulge me.)

Here's how it goes: Find 24 great Christmas books, wrap them individually and place then under the tree. On the first day of Advent, take turns picking which book to open. When we did this, we would cuddle under a blanket and read aloud -- oh, the wonder, the magic! We savored "The Polar Express," howled with "How Murray Saved Christmas," and fell silent at the end of "The Tale of The Three Trees" (note: some of the picture books I chose were not explicitly about Christmas but they always echoed the message that Jesus came to earth to save us from ourselves and to love us beyond our wildest imagination. In that category, Angela Hunt's retelling of The Three Trees definitely hits the Yuletide bull's eye).

This Advent tradition lasted for about five years. It gave us rich daily discussions about the season's real meaning, without being religious or legalistic, and it increased family couch time. But like the lift-the-flap calendars, my kids outgrew the picture books.

Because the wait adds meaning, and Advent is crucial, I prayed for another way to celebrate anticipation of Christmas. By the grace of God, last year I found an enormous Advent calendar on clearance at Pottery Barn. Made of burlap, it has large pockets big enough to hold some serious bounty.

But my husband and I didn't want the kids focusing only on the materialist stuff for Advent -- we already fight that on Christmas day. We decided to fill the daily pockets with simple necessities and small gift cards. We also printed out the nativity story from Luke 2:1-21 in a large-sized font and cut each verse out. From Day 1 to Day 21, there is one verse to read aloud. The kids memorize it, then get to open their present (again, on alternating days for each person). Then we tape the verse to the wall in order. By Day 22, all the verses are on the wall, in order, and the kids now try to recite the entire nativity story from memory. That's not as difficult as it sounds because they've been memorizing one verse each day. Still, the entire recitation -- verbatim -- usually requires Day 23 and Day 24. Whoever does memorize the entire thing -- without mistakes -- earns a bonus gift of $25.

Does that sounds extravagant?

It is.

Because we want our kids to understand that God came down and humbled himself and taught us about love right before He suffered and died on behalf of the undeserving -- which is every one of us.

That's extravagant.

And in the waiting, we find even more meaning.

***

Sibella Giorello writes the Raleigh Harmon mystery series which won the Christy Award with its first book "The Stones Cry Out." She lives in Washington state with her husband and children, and often wishes there were 36 hours in a day.

2011-12-14T08:44:00.001-08:00

Welcome to the 12 Pearls of Christmas!

My protagonist Raleigh Harmon likes pearls. Not to wear -- she's nowhere near girlie enough -- but pearl geology offers us one of the best metaphors for overcoming life's challenges through grace.

BUT that's just half the fun. Or maybe just a quarter of it. Because there's also a giveaway. Yep: Bling!

And since you can enter daily, hop back here each day for the next blog post. It's a great way to celebrate the twelve days of Christmas. And be sure to connect with Margaret Facebook or Twitter.

Now, here's the First Pearl from novelist Suzanne Woods Fisher.

A Christmas of Kindness

By Suzanne Woods Fisher

"You can give without loving, but you can¹t love without giving." Amish proverb

I do it every year.

I plan for a simpler, less stressful Christmas season and, every year, by Christmas Eve I'm exhausted! After our delicious and very-time-consuming-to-make traditional Swedish meal to honor my husband¹s relatives (think: Vikings), it's time to head to church. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but the last few Christmas Eve's, I have sent my husband and kids head off without me. The pull to spend an hour of quiet in the house feels as strong as a magnet.

It's odd. My children are young adults now. Wouldn't you think that Christmas would be simpler? Instead, it's just the opposite. Jugging schedules to share the grandbaby with the in-laws, trying to include our elderly parents at the best time of day for them, dancing carefully around recently divorced family members whose children are impacted by the shards of broken relationships.

The thing is: you can simplify your to-do list, but you can't really simplify people. We are just a complicated bunch.

Here's where I borrow a lesson about simplicity from the Amish. It's easy to get distracted with the buggies and the bonnets and the beards, but there's so much more to learn from these gentle people if you're willing to look a little deeper.

Yes, they live with less "stuff" and that does make for a simpler, less cluttered life. But it's the reason behind it that is so compelling to me: they seek to create margin in their life. Not just empty spacebut space that is available to nourish family, community, and faith. Their Christmas is far less elaborate than yours or mine, but what they do fill it with is oh so right.

Christmas comes quietly on an Amish farmhouse. There is no outward sign of the holiday as we know it: no bright decorations, no big tree in the living room corner. A few modest gifts are waiting for children at their breakfast place settings, covered by a dishtowel. Waiting first for Dad to read the story of Christ's birth from the book of Luke. Waiting until after a special breakfast has been enjoyed. Waiting until Mom and Dad give the signal that the time has come for gifts.

Later, if Christmas doesn't fall on a Sunday, extended family and friends will gather for another big meal. If time and weather permits, the late afternoon will be filled with ice skating or sledding. And more food! Always, always an abundance of good food. Faith, family, and community. That is the focus of an Amish Christmas.

And it's also how the story begins for A Lancaster County Christmas, as a young family prepares for Christmas. A winter storm blows a non-Amish couple, Jaime and C.J. Fitzpatrick, off-course and into the Riehl farmhouse. An unlikely and tentative friendship develops, until the one thing Mattie and Sol hold most dear disappears and then. Ah, but you¹ll just have to read the story to find out what happens next. Without giving anything away, I will say that I want to create a Mattie-inspired margin this Christmas season. Mattie knew inconveniences and interruptions that come in the form of people (big ones and little ones!) are ordained by God. And blessed by God.

Creating margin probably means that I won't get Christmas cards out until the end of January, and my house won't be uber-decorated. After all, something has to give. But it will mean I make time for a leisurely visit with my dad at his Alzheimer's facility. And time to volunteer in the church nursery for a holiday-crowded event. And time to invite a new neighbor over for coffee. Hopefully, it will mean that my energy won't get diverted by a frantic, self-imposed agenda. Only by God's agendathe essence of true simplicity.

And that includes taking time to worship Christ's coming at the Christmas Eve service. You can hold me accountable! This year, I will be there.

***

Suzanne Woods Fisher is the bestselling author of The Choice, The Waiting, The Search, and The Keeper, as well as nonfiction books about the Amish, including Amish Peace. Her interest in the Anabaptist cultures can be directly traced to her grandfather, W. D. Benedict, who was raised in the Old Order German Baptist Brethren Church in Franklin County, Pennsylvania. Suzanne is a Christy Award nominee and is the host of an internet radio show called Amish Wisdom and her work has appeared in many magazines. She lives in California. www.suzannewoodsfisher.com.

New Life for First Novels

2011-10-31T12:09:00.000-07:00

Today we have a guest post from writer Lyn Cote, whose historical and contemporary fiction has won many awards, including this year's CAROL from American Christian Fiction Writers. Her books have also been named finalists for romance writing's highest honor, the RITA, and the HOLT Medallion and the National Readers Choice Award.
Lyn approaches her historical fiction this way:

I prefer to take history and gently fit my characters into the historical setting as if they were a true part of it. Many times when I do my research for a new story, I find that the true events are more wonderful than anything I could have made up. One example of this was in my WWII book, Bette. I read that before WWII, two Nazi agents were walking in NY City and arguing. The argument became so heated that they walked out into traffic and one was hit by a car and killed. The Nazis were being followed at the time and the FBI agent was able to find important papers on the dead Nazi. So I used this scene in my book. I mean--could I think of anything more bizarre?

Recently, Lyn went back to her beginnings. And for anyone toiling on their first book -- especially while taking care of little kids -- Lyn's story should give you hope. Her first novel La Belle Christiane is now available on Amazon and Nook sites for .99 cents. Print copies are also available.

Here's a short summary of this historical romance set in the 1770s:

"Can the beautiful daughter of a French courtesan find a love that lasts for a lifetime? Beautiful Christiane Pelletier is next in a line of French courtesans. Her family has been favorites through the reigns of two monarchs. But the winds of change are sweeping Europe, and after her mother's violent murder, Christiane flees France with her renegade father. Leaving wealth and privilege behind, she survives the Canadian wilderness and later finds herself involved in the burgeoning American Revolution. But through all the changes, one man lingers in her memory. Once he was her friend; now he has become her enemy. Will he also become her destiny?"

Also, check out Lyn's website where she offers tips on writing and self-publishing.

First Book, Now Available

by Lyn Cote

When I began writing my first manuscript, I literally ran after my two toddlers with a clipboard in my hand and wrote whenever they paused! I wrote that story without knowing anything about writing or marketing fiction. In fact, I told myself just to write the book and then I'd think about polishing and marketing it. The thought of that was overwhelming at that time. It took me three years of writing to finish my first manuscript-1,000 handwritten pages. Whew!

I found out that while it garnered interest from agents and editors, it never found a publisher. I think that's because there are "unwritten" rules for inspirational fiction and I didn't know them or follow them. I still think it's a good story and I've revised it and improved it once more. And now it's FINALLY available in digital and print. I did this because I didn't want it to sit ignored in my files forever. So now I'll let the readers decide whether it deserved to be published or not. I hope you agree with me and let others know about it.

Thanks.

-- Lyn

First page excerpt from Chapter One

British Canada, July 1774

Tonight, I’ll lie beside some stranger as his wife. Christiane blinked away the bright morning sunlight but could not blink away the dread. Once again she had embarked on another journey that would change her life. She sat between her Algonquin father Shaw-nee-awk-kee and his son in a birch bark canoe. To the rhythm of the dipping paddles, they were gliding farther down the Ottawa River. In the cramped space, she hugged her knees to herself and pressed her forehead against her tattered skirt.
She glanced sideways into the remorseless current, wishing for time, for control. But instead, the river, shimmering with molten sunlight, gave her glimmers of the past--candlelight on silver, soft lace against skin, frosting on the tip of the tongue. But she’d fled France with her father, here to Canada and then. . . She thrust all thoughts of the past year aside. She had to face today. Tonight, I’ll be some stranger’s wife.
The thought brought fear, a rush of sensation—as if the bottom of the canoe, her protection, parted, and she was plunged into the cool water. She fought her way to the surface of this feeling, gasping for air, pushing down panic. She pressed her face harder against her knees. I will not shame myself. Ever.

2011-10-14T11:00:00.000-07:00

A dear friend is expecting her first baby, while writing her first novel.

The baby news filled me with joy, the kind that put tears in my eyes. But the news also led me to think about threading that needle known as Motherhood and Writing.

I want my friend to cherish motherhood, and I want her to finish her novel.

With two kids, six years homeschooling, five published novels, and ten-thousand readings of "Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?," I almost feel qualified to offer some advice.

So here's my humble five-point offering to every mom serving in the happy trenches while trying to write.

1. Don't quit writing.

There will never -- never -- be a good time to write. Never. Ever. Stop thinking the world will someday agree with your compulsion to put words on paper. The world doesn't care. But YOU care and frankly, God cares because God made you a writer.

If that last statement strikes you as pretentious, congratulations. Feel free to pick up your glue-gun and complete all those Martha Stewart projects. You're not a writer.

Meanwhile, we blessed wretches will continue to comb through our minds, searching for meaning and wrestling with words.

Writers need to write. Need, not want. The same way some birds were designed to fly south every winter whether they feel like it or not, writers were designed to translate thoughts into words. You will know if you're among that flock if deep down inside, you feel like you might suffer some kind of death if you don't write. Soul, spirit, emotion. Maybe even physical death. Frank McCourt once said that he wrote "Angela's Ashes" because if he didn't, he would "die howling."

The sooner a writer recognizes this built-in need, the sooner they become a productive person rather than a garden-variety dysfunctional oddity understood by precisely nobody.

2. You're a mom. Make it manageable.

Motherhood comes first.

Scratch that.

Your husband comes first, even after baby arrives. Then baby. Then writing. Break that order and you'll build an idol.

But because of where it stands on the totem pole, mom-writing needs manageable goals. When my kids were toddlers and took naps, I placed a note card over my computer that read "500 words an hour." My daily goal. With a background in newspapers, my five hundred words seemed like a cake walk. Some days I was surprised by 1000 words. Other days I could squeak out six. (Yes, six: "My brain has turned into Jello.")

But on those difficult days -- both in motherhood and writing -- remind yourself that this glorious gift of life will only make you a better writer, eventually. If you don't quit. I guarantee this. With motherhood, a heart grows new chambers of understanding. It only improves your writing.

If you don't quit.

3. If somebody understands your blessing/affliction, cherish them.

My first novel,"The Stones Cry Out," arrived like a thunderclap. The story came complete with a cast of characters, a setting, and a plot.

Unfortunately, the timing couldn't have been worse: I was seven months pregnant with my first child.

But God's timing doesn't resemble man's timing. And the gift seemed perishable. So, despite the gasps of horror from polite ladies who probably had good intentions, I waddled into the FBI's forensic mineralogy department, asking questions about murder and mayhem.

Only a handful of people understood why I was starting a novel when it looked like my water was about to break. My husband. My dad who was battling stage-four throat cancer. My mom who was also a writer. And an elderly uncle who once attempted to write a novel but quit -- he really understood.

The rest of the world treated me as though the novel was a betrayal of the child in my womb.

Fourteen years later, not much has changed. The other day, a homeschool mom asked me in a baffled tone of voice: "Why do you even feel the need to write these books -- I mean, are you making a ton of money or something?"

4. You can answer those questions, but it probably won't help.

Any explanation will make you sound like a televangelist who can't afford glittery clothes ("God called me"), or just plain weird ("The day doesn't seem quite real until I write about it.")

Most people won't understand. But writers don't live an either-or existence. They live two lives. Here, and not here. Experiencing life, and imagining it.

Yes, I know. I just described a dual personality.

But as Dorothea Brande writes in her essential little book "Becoming a Writer," the writer's double existence is not a bad thing:

"A dual personality, to the reader who has a number of half-digested notions about the constitution of the mind, is an unlucky fellow who should be in a psychopathic ward; or, at the happiest, a flighty hysterical creature. Nevertheless, every author is a very fortunate sort of dual personality, and it is this very fact that makes him such a bewildering, tantalizing, irritating figure to the plain man of affairs who flatters himself that he, at least, is all of a piece."

5. All interruptions come from God.

As though stating the case for me, my kids just knocked on my office door. They want pancakes. They want to start their school work. They want me.

And I am happy to go.

Very happy to go.

I can always write about it later.

2011-10-09T18:19:00.000-07:00

My husband recently met one of his harmonica heroes, Charlie Mussselwhite. That's Musselwhite on the left, and Hunk of Italy on the right. (Cute, aint he?)

If you haven't heard Musselwhite's harmonica, you haven't heard the Blues. I could say the same for my hubby, only he's not as famous. Yet.

Musselwhite is rumored to be the inspiration for Dan Akroyd's "Blues Brothers" character. More than just a musician; Musselwhite's an artist.

You can see that artistry in the simplest things. Take the liner notes on his most recent CD, "The Well."

"This tune," he writes of the title song, "tells my story in a nutshell about what happened when baby Jessica McClure fell into a well in Texas. I was struck by the courage of this child at the bottom of the well with a broken arm, singing nursery rhymes to herself. Suddenly my alcohol problem/addiction seemed very minor in comparison to her life and death struggle. I decided as a prayer for her, I would show some bravery too and not drink until she got out of the well. When she was rescued three days later, I was out of the well, too. I haven't had a drink in 22 years."

The story is amazing all on its own. But check out those undertones, resonating like minor keys. Don't we tend to fall into wells of our own digging? Doesn't God stand ready with the rescue crew, if we'll just admit we messed up and need help? And isn't it telling that Jesus waited for a truly messed up woman at a well in order to tell her about "living water"?

Maybe I'm reading too much into it (hey, I'm a writer). But then again, maybe not.

Here's Musselwhite playing the instrument God put in his hands. The song is "Christo Redemptor" from his very first album.

Wait for the harp to come in. And enjoy.

2011-08-20T21:56:00.000-07:00

I wrote the following blog post for Novel Rocket (if you haven't subscribed to that excellent feed, do it now. Especially if you're hoping to learn more about writing fiction).

I can still remember the ringing telephone.
Coming through the door -- beach sand still in my hair -- I lunged for the phone, always certain somebody has just died.

   But it was my editor at Revell.
   "You won!" she exclaimed.
   It will sound disingenuous but the truth often embarrasses: I didn't know what she was talking about. Several significant moments of silence passed. Then an idea dislodged itself from my beach brain.
   Oh. Christy Awards. This weekend.
   My first novel, "The Stones Cry Out,” was nominated for best first novel.
   "What's wrong?" the editor asked, as the silence stretched on.
   "Nothing."
   "You’re probably in shock. Isn’t it great news?!"
   Yes.
   And no.
   Despite the nomination, I never expected to win. Given the great novels competing in the same category, I didn't think my book would win.
   Actually, I didn't think it should win.
   My first novel reminded me of a knock-kneed colt struggling to stand up on its own feet. That it would win an award like the Christy seemed absurd. I wondered if a mistake had been made.
   Ever since, I've felt a certain ambivalence about winning that honor. I figured my problem was pride (I’m human; there is always pride). But four novels later, I can see some sense in my ambivalence. And I can share three important lessons.

One: Pray that your first book is not your best.
   Despite the award in my hand, I remained busy grieving my novice abilities. Fortunately, God countered the sackcloth-and-ashes with a spirit of perseverance. I decided the only way to get better was to keep going.
   “Most people won’t realize that writing is a craft,” said Katherine Anne Porter. “You have to take your apprenticeship in it like anything else.”
   Of course, you will find your own ways of enduring the early apprenticeship, but one of my favorites was The Tour of First Novels.
   One day, at my most frustrated, I stormed into the library and checked out first novels by my favorite authors. Within hours, relief was humming through my veins. Not that schadenfreude sort of relief, but something productive.
   Most of those first books were bad. Some even stunk. And none matched their author’s later output.
   Like most first novels, those first books read like seed pods yearning to bloom.
   Or: knock-kneed colts struggling to stand.

Two: In the modern era of e-books, the first book might not be so final.
   Some months ago, the copyright to "The Stones Cry Out" returned to me.
   Here came my colt, running for home.
   Unfortunately, temptation was riding with it.
   The rationalization went like this: It won a Christy. Received good reviews. Launched a successful series. You should just put it on Kindle. As-is….
   But we’re called to be workers who need not be ashamed, “rightly dividing the word of truth." (2 Tim 2:15). Since I still didn't love my first book, it was my responsibility to do something about it.
   With prayers for humility and discernment, I proceeded from Page 1 and continued to the end, rounding out scenes, adding flesh to characters, trying to bring the story closer to what followed in the rest of the Raleigh Harmon series.
   And when "The Stones Cry Out” was put on Kindle, I didn't hesitate to add the Christy Award honor.
   Because it looked different to me now.
   Not only for the new work done, though it played a large part. The difference was lesson three.
   I didn’t write that first book to win an award; I am grateful for it. But I am also grateful that the honor didn’t fill me with (more) pride. The simple fact is, I write because God made me a writer. That's what I’m supposed to do. Any honors, awards, or leading positions on the best-seller list can only be viewed through the lens of grace.
   Completely undeserved: And yet, there it is.
   And the apprenticeship carries on accordingly.

For the Love of Dog

2011-06-20T07:36:00.000-07:00

Our family dog, Jesse. Ever protective, she's watching the kids swim in the river.

Here's a short story by Ray Bradbury, posted on mockingbird.com. You will never look at dogs the same way again.

Read and reflect.

And rejoice.

The Poet as Prophet

2011-05-02T11:31:00.000-07:00

Today's news is that Usama Bin Laden is dead.

Today is also Holocaust Remembrance Day.

God's timing is ceaselessly fascinating. While each individual can draw their own comparisons between the two events, I found myself recalling lines from a W.H. Auden poem, "1st September 1939."

September 1, 1939 was the day Hitler invaded Poland. The 20th century was never the same again.

They say history repeats itself. It does. But history also rhymes with itself.

And Auden's poem fits both then, and now.

Here is the poet reading his poem.

The Blues

2011-04-19T10:09:00.000-07:00

Joe "Blue," bringing down the house

When it comes to music, I prefer long ballads and poetry.

But I married a blues musician. Our first years of wedded bliss included dancing every weekend -- with me thinking, "You're not going to repeat that line again, are you?"

The structure of a blues song is so simple it seems cruel. Usually there's nothing more than three stanzas with two repeating lines, followed by a third line -- that replies to the repeating line!

It's enough to drive a novelist straight into the arms of William Faulkner.

But a funny thing happened on the way to growing up: My appreciation for The Blues has deepened every year.

Rock music can obscure any shallow sentiments with decibels and lightning guitar licks. Folk singers can pirouette on brilliant phrasing, even if there's no feeling involved. Grunge grinds down on despair, proving misery loves company. And rap -- well, let's just say rap doesn't belong in this paragraph about music.

Meanwhile, the simplicity of a Blues song works like an auger for truth. The song's meaning doesn't come from its words or fancy chord progressions. Its meaning comes from the heart, and the repeating lines underscore the sentiment -- sorrow, pain, loss, affliction.

A good novelist can't simply type a book. And a true Blues musician can't just sing a song. The common goal is to reach the heart. Which often requires bleeding in public -- on purpose.

Some religious people describe The Blues as "the devil's music." But I think it's closer to the opposite. It's about those sighs "too deep for words."

Recently The Hunk of Italy and I attended the Washington Blues Society's annual awards show. For the second year running, The Hunk was nominated for best blues harp while his band -- Hot Rod's Blues Review -- was nominated for best band. (By the way, double nominations two consecutive years doesn't means poor supply. Just the opposite. Most states are fortunate to have one blues society. Washington has six -- six! -- grooving the Northwest from the Oregon border up to Canada and across the Cascades into Spokane. From April to October, there's a blues event nearly every weekend.) Although The Hunk lost to the gracious and equally talented Jeff Herzog, it was a lovely night at The Triple Door.

And it reminded me once again why The Blues and the people who play it are so special.

Here's the short list:

Age. Other than the beautiful Stacy Jones, who can belt it out like LouAnn Barton, most blues musicians are pushing 40 or 50. A serious percentage are giving 60 new meaning. And since age generally matures the heart, the older the musician, the better his Blues.
Take that, MTV.

Tone. Not just musically, but conduct. As wild, individualistic, and imaginative as these musicians are, nobody's shouting a blue streak through the microphone or grabbing his crotch or pulling a gun in the parking lot (although those impulses might wind up in a Blues song).

Men in suits. Zoot suits. Double-breasted sharkskin. Suits as green as parrots. Blood-red smoking jackets. Paired with two-tone oxford shoes. And fedoras.
Man, it's style.

Finally, most importantly, Truth.

These songs of pain and sorrow celebrate life.

Yes, it's a paradox.

Just like another paradox.

A homeless guy was tortured and mutilated and hung on a cross for everybody else's faults -- and we call that day "Good Friday." Scandalous and beautiful, the greatest story ever told reads a lot like a Blues song. A fallen world, the wicked human heart. A fallen world, the wicked human heart. But God came back, He came back.

Now get up and boogie.

Get up and boogie.

Poetry Month

2011-04-15T13:02:00.000-07:00

In honor of poetry month -- which, really, deserves to be 12 months long -- I dipped into one of my favorite anthologies.

"Northwest Verse" was published in 1931 by Caxton Press of Caldwell, Idaho.

Most if not all of these early poets from Washington, Oregon, Idaho and Montana have been forgotten. But here is just one of its delicious offerings:

Notes on a Concert

While scientists debated whether
'Twere wise to publish their decision,
The morning stars sang all together
In gay derision.

They said: "This planet is the greater,
And that the less, of those before us."
The stars lampooned each commentator
In ribald chorus.

Antares, Betelguese and Mira,
The big and little constellations,
Sang "fol-de-rol" and "tira-lira"
With variations.

For stars have little else to do
But chant in praise or sing in revel,
And glorify what things are true,
And shame the devil.

But the astronomers still peer
Through telescopes, and jot down data;
They are too occupied to hear
The great cantata.

And one will wag his beard and say:
"Behold, I've solved a hard enigma;
This star, ten billion miles away,
Shall be called Sigma."

---Stoddard King

Trivia!

2011-04-05T20:23:00.000-07:00

Thanks again for making the Raleigh Parteigh on Facebook such a wonderful event!

I can't think of better company than a lively group readers. Thanks for the smart and witty comments, beautiful pictures, and funny answers.

I'm grateful to each of you for coming out to play Tuesday night.

And because some of us require closure (your humble scribe included) the trivia answers are posted below.

See you at the next Raleigh Parteigh!

What did I do for work before I was an author? Newspaper and magazine reporter (also worked as a farm hand and bartender)

How many books are there in the Raleigh Harmon series? Five, counting next year's release, "The Stars Shine Bright."

How many daughters do I have? NONE! I have sons.

Do you think I have a subscription to Scientific American? Nope. And if you read the blog, you'll see why....

Now, for those of you who have read The Mountains Bow Down – here’s a few questions about the book:

Geert Van Broek is head of ship security. What country is he from? Holland. Bonus question: What agency trained him in law enforcement? Royal Marechaussee

How does Special Agent Jack Stephanson get to Alaska? He flies his plane.

What is a phillumenist? Someone who collects matchbooks. Bonus: Why does that word have two Ls? Because one root of the word comes from Greek (phila) and one root comes from Latin (luma).

Where does Raleigh's mom always go to find peace for her troubled mind? Church or chapel -- God's house.

What is the name of Aunt Charlotte's New Age store? Seattle Stones.

DeMott Fielding's family has lived on the same Virginia estate since the early 1700s. What is the name of that property? Weyanoke. BONUS: Can you name two of DeMott's family members? MacKenna and Jillian are his sisters. Harrison is his father. And Peery is his mother.

And the winner is ... Was it YOU?

2011-04-05T18:00:00.000-07:00

I'm thrilled to announce that

Cathy Wilcox from Texas

will soon be sailing on the high seas because she has won a $500 Vacations To Go gift certificate to put toward the cruise of her choice! Amy from Litfuse Publicity Group will be in touch for your info Cathy - congrats.

And thank you to everyone who entered and helped Spread the Word about The Mountains Bow Down!

2011-04-01T17:51:00.000-07:00

Well, we come again to the crossroads of science and theology-- which means it's time to make derogatory statements about creationists.

Writer Paul Horgan has penned a Scientific American piece in which he is forced to admit (publicly) that scientists have no idea how life began: "Geologists, chemists, astronomers and biologists are as stumped as ever by the riddle of life."

Call the New York Times!

Oh, wait. The news already ran in the the Gray Lady.

In fact, that's what sparked Horgan's editorial. The "paper of record" mistakenly pulled back the curtain on the evolutionary road show.

Horgan seems concerned that people might get the silly notion that evolutionists don't know what they're talking about. So he describes some previous evolutionary theories. One of the most popular was self-replicating RNA.

RNA -- DNA's sometime assistant -- was supposed to be capable of severing and reattaching itself. Since this was a self-directed action, the replication meant RNA was evolving on its own. There was only one problem. In order to "self-replicate," RNA needed a serious catalyst; it required the scientist to make it happen.

Let that sink in a moment. Not only was RNA not self-replicating, the person making it happen was an evolutionary scientist.

Since life can't recreate itself by itself Horgan was forced to type a quote that probably made his fingers bleed. ". . . (E)ven if RNA did appear naturally, the odds that it would happen in the right sequence to drive Darwinian evolution seem small."

The only known fact is that life came suddenly, and it continued swiftly. On that evolutionists agree. Horgan quotes one scientist saying our origins resembled "Athena springing from the head of Zeus."

Alluding to mythological Greek gods won't get you kicked out of any peer-reviewed journals, because referring to the fictional stories of an ancient, noble, and pagan culture only proves you went to the right college.

But try uttering words like, "Six days." Or even, "God breathed." You'll find yourself lumped in with those crazies who believe in aliens.

Well, maybe not aliens.

Because Horgan says evolutionary scientists are returning to a 1950s theory which speculated -- wait, wait, hold on! Did I say speculate? That's not right. Let me find the exact word Horgan used . . . ah, yes, here it is. Conjectured. Much better. Let me try again.

Horgan writes that evolutionary scientists have "conjectured that aliens came to Earth in a spaceship and planted the seeds of life here billions of years ago. This notion is called directed panspermia."

It must be a legitimate theory. There's a scientific term containing two Greek roots.

Except I'm not sure those roots are correct. The actual term for this theory is panstupidia. Definition: Widespread and obstinate resistance to any truth that extends beyond man's comprehension.

Horgan concludes his essay -- of course -- with an obligatory jab at people who believe in God.

"Creationists are no doubt thrilled that origin-of-life research has reached such an impasse . . . but they shouldn't be. Their explanations suffer from the same flaw: What created the divine Creator? And at least scientists are making an honest effort to solve life's mystery instead of blaming it all on God."

My kids used to argue like this, around age four. "Oh, yeah? Well, he did the same thing. And at least I tried to help."

If Horgan were intellectually brave enough to leave the peer-reviewed echo chamber, he would discover Christians and Jews wrestling with those very same questions -- and with the great questions of science. Faith-based thinkers don't view science and theology as binary. The mysterious equation is more algebraic, containing the unknown: God.

Scientific American boasts a long record of bias against biologists, geologists, and physicists who believe in God, and the think tanks that facilitate their work, such as The Discovery Institute.

But the real problem with Horgan's editorial -- and the voluminous yet vaporous tomes by Richard Dawkins et al -- is that it resembles nothing so much as a magic show. The magician on stage can't afford to let the audience see what's really going on, so he must move his hands back and forth, back and forth, conjecturing if you will, until the moment when he can finally reach into his hat and pull out . . . hang on . . . it's coming . . . really . . . pretty soon, you'll see, God had nothing to do with any of this . . . please, stop believing in Him.

But thousands of years ago, a more humble scribe wrote the truth. Long before DNA was discovered. Long before supposedly self-replicating RNA. Before aliens and spaceships and seed pods. Eons before Scientific American.

"In his pride the wicked does not seek him," wrote the Pslamist (10:4), "in all his thoughts there is no room for God."

2011-03-30T11:00:00.000-07:00

On this day, in 1867, the United States paid Russia $7 million for Alaska. Personally, it's my favorite purchase.

But the anniversary has me thinking about how much the state has changed, particularly in recent years.

My great-grandparents arrived in Juneau in 1885, and my grandmother was born that same year, the youngest of eight children. She was rumored to be the first caucasion baby born in Juneau. At age five, she was kidnapped by Tlingit Indians. Her eldest brother later saved her, toting his best shotgun.

My grandmother's story was later dramatized in a play, "Hootchinoo and Hotcakes." The play was primarily staged for tourists who came to town by cruise ship. But sometime during the 1970s, a bunch of folks moved to Juneau from Outside -- the lower 48 states. They didn't like the play. It was "culturally insensitive." "Politically incorrect."

The play was taken off the stage.

Despite historic fact, we weren't supposed to say that during territorial days the Tlingit Indians behaved like ruthless savages. But they did -- and good for them. The Tlingits were the only Alaska Native tribe the Russians couldn't conquer. And that's saying something: The Russians were plenty ruthless too.

Six years ago I went back to Juneau for my parents' memorial services. At the time my youngest son was five. He wore a coonskin cap and carried a toy rifle wherever he went -- even to bed. Having heard the heroic story of his great-grandmother's rescue by shotgun, he wanted to find a toy replica in Juneau.

But the Juneau toy store owner told us she didn't carry guns -- not even cap guns. She couldn't. "I would like to carry guns, but the parents in town would boycott my store. They'd drive me out of business."

Our son was crushed. So we walked down the block to the bakery, hoping a doughnut would lift his spirits. When we walked into the bakery, a bunch of boys immediately gravitated to the kid with the coonskin cap and toy rifle. Happily, our son let them hold the rifle. He let them pet his hat. And his face beamed. But suddenly women began rushing forward, yanking the boys away.

I didn't understand. Until one of the women stomped up to me and declared: "WE don't play with guns!"

I wanted to shoot her.

That afternoon, we went back to the house where we were staying. Our host was a dear old family friend who had lived in Juneau for eighty-five years. Born and raised in Alaska, and a die-hard Democrat, he was instrumental in drafting the state Constitution, and later served as a highly respected judge. He was also a WWII veteran, having served with the 10th Mountain Division. When he saw my son's interest in weaponry, he brought out his old Army .45. What a thrill!

But somebody in the room wasn't happy. She was, in fact, head of Alaska's department of fish and game. Though she didn't grow up in Alaska, she was now in charge of telling Alaskans how to manage their living natural resources. And here's what she told us: We were encouraging "violence" by encouraging our son's appreciation of this historic weapon. (Nevermind how she glared at the toy rifle.)

Back when "Hootchinoo and Hotcakes" got banned, the Outsiders came north in droves to work on the oil rigs. But just as many came to Alaska as environmentalists and lawyers and "activists" of various stripes. As a girl growing up, it seemed like an exciting time. The Alaska Pipeline was going to change everything -- there were even rumors we would get TV reception.

But I can still remember the day in August, 1974, when I begged my dad to buy me a sweatshirt that showed a picture of the Pipeline. My dad refused. He refused to buy anything heralding the Pipeline. And not because of the oil.

A lifelong Alaskan -- District Attorney during Alaska's territorial days and later a justice on the Alaska Supreme Court -- my dad hated what was happening to his state. Not the jobs. Not the revenue. Those were good, he said.

"But the do-gooders," he said. "They're coming. These are the people who know what's good for you -- better than you know yourself. And they always pave the road to Hell. Someday you'll understand."

At the time, I thought he was wrong. I wanted the sweatshirt. And the Outsiders seemed like very nice people. They just wanted to make things better; they just wanted Alaska to be more like the other states.

What was wrong with that?

There's a significant rite of passage, and it comes when you realize your parents were right.

The day after these incidents with the toy rifle, I scattered my dad's ashes in Juneau. My gun-toting five-year-old stood by my side.

I told my dad he was right.

And then I told him good-bye.

Raleigh is back...and she brought some fun with her.

2011-03-22T14:40:00.000-07:00

Are you ready to party? Ring in Spring with fabulous gifts? Grab a getaway aboard the cruise of your choice? Then join me for a month of Raleigh Harmon fun!

I'm celebrating the release of The Mountains Bow Down with a blog tour, a Cruise prize pack worth over $500 and a Facebook Party!

The blog tour (see what people are saying here) and Cruise giveaway kicked off last week. The Facebook Party is scheduled for April 5th at 5:00 PM PST (6 MST, 7CST & 8 EST) and we’re going to party like it's 1999 (appreciative nod to Prince, or Symbol, or whatever he named himself). Come rock out at the Raleigh Harmon Book Club Party on Facebook, where I’ll be announcing the winner of the cruise (could be you – picture it. Go ahead, feel that ocean breeze?). The "official" details and points of entry are below!

New to the Raleigh Harmon series? Start fresh with the first book, The Stones Cry Out! It's available NOW on Kindle or Nook for ONLY $2.99!

One Grand Prize winner will receive:

A $500 gift certificate toward the cruise of their choice from Vacations To Go.
The entire set of the Raleigh Harmon series.

To enter click one of the icons below. Then tell your friends. And enter soon - the giveaway ends on 4/1! The winner will be announced at Sibella’s Raleigh Harmon Book Club Party on FB April 5th, 2011! Don’t miss the fun – prizes, books and gab!

About the Facebook Party: Join me and fans of the Raleigh Harmon series on April 5th at 5:00 pm PST (6 MST, 7 CST & 8 EST) for a Facebook Book Club Party. I'll be giving away some fun prizes, testing your trivia skills and hosting a book chat about the Raleigh Harmon books. Have questions you'd like to chat about - leave them on the Event page.

2011-02-19T07:26:00.000-08:00

By Kate Beaton

Unless you're running drug rehab centers for Hollywood actors, you've probably had enough leisure time to notice a massive paradigm shift taking place in book publishing.

Brick and mortar stores closing. Borders declaring bankruptcy. Kindles and Nooks and E-Readers. Self-published authors climbing the New York Times Bestseller lists.

Old ideas are passing away.

But nobody knows what will grow from this scorched earth. Current theories range from Amazon ruling the universe -- after fighting Apple for the heavyweight title -- to every writer becoming his own publisher.

When theories cover that much range, the only certainty is uncertainty: Literally, nobody knows.

On that note, a friend passed along this darkly humorous yet telling perspective from author Margaret Atwood. Poet, novelist, literary lioness, Atwood has been writing longer than I've been alive.

Her question was simple: what about the writer?

By modern standards, her presentation isn't short. It's about 30 minutes long -- or 29 minutes forty-five seconds beyond the modern attention span. And the delivery isn't "snappy." But I would encourage writers to watch it for the same reason Atwood's books are worth reading.

I don't always agree with her perspective, but Margaret Atwood comes at things from singular angles. She's one of those writers -- a dying breed -- who will cogitate until some elemental truth appears. Then she applies the rapier word.

When I first stumbled upon her books, I was a teenager who had never heard of her. But she had written a poem that described winter dawn in the far north. The imagery was so clear, so haunting, that to this day I can close my eyes and still see the blushing hues on the frozen tundra. It's as easy as recalling a melody to a favorite song.

Since then I've come to appreciate her as an intellectual who isn't effete. For example, check out the image in her presentation borrowed from the butcher shop.

Morbidly funny, terribly true.

Poetic in its own way.

2011-01-11T13:59:00.000-08:00

For the first time in more than a decade, I stayed awake until midnight on New Year's Eve.

I wanted to see 2010 go away.

A year of strife. Family died, friends died. Cancers, brain tumors, strokes, heart attacks. Financial ruin for even the hardest workers. Jobs evaporated. What seemed like good marriages got struck down. Close relationships fractured, past drug addictions roared back to life.

There were days last year when I felt like I was tiptoeing through a field of tall grass embedded with land mines. More often than usual, my family huddled, forming a tight knot of human hope, praying for hearts and minds and help.

God is sovereign; everything flows into his larger plan, even the bad stuff. Especially the bad stuff. During his time on earth, God's own son repeated this truth over and again -- and then was mocked, scourged, nailed to a cross, and killed by religious people.

And I'm weary from one tough year?

I am human. Sometimes that walk from here to eternity feels like the longest path ever taken. But I'm also a writer and it seems as if writers -- those who choose to take up this difficult calling --- get issued a sort of dual citizenship. The worst circumstances in the world provide the best material for the imagination: It's the really rotten childhood that gives us Angela's Ashes.

But only eventually.

Wordsworth said that poetry came from "emotion recalled in tranquility." I think most really good books come from writers who gaze into the rear view mirror and describe what they see, while still moving forward.

But every writer faces certain battles. The first battle is sitting down to work. And the biggest battle might be finding quiet time to think, to work through the land mine detonations in order to figure out what you're really trying to say.

"If you cannot express yourself on any subject, struggle until you can," writes the great Oswald Chambers. "The author who benefits you most is not the one who tells you something you did not know before but the one who gives expression to the truth that has been dumbly struggling in you for utterance."

Writers conquer their particular battles in any number of ways; I've been helped by an army. Without my family, particularly my husband the Italian Stallion, none of it would happen. And in a previous post I mentioned my agent, Brian Peterson.

But I've also been blessed by my editor at Thomas Nelson publishing.

Amanda Bostic holds the stopwatch -- and cattle prod -- for all my deadlines. By the grace of God I've managed to make every deadline.

Until this year.

When it comes out in March, I know readers will enjoy "The Mountains Bow Down." And they'll enjoy the next book, coming in 2012, "The Stars Shine Bright." But they'll probably never realize what went on behind the scenes to get these books out on schedule, and still offer this writer time to wrestle with words, to struggle with what she really wants to say.

The constraints of publishing don't allow for such words to appear inside a book's cover, but I'd like to post a Public Service Announcement.

It goes like this:

"These novels are brought to you by a gracious and word-loving editor who adjusted her tight schedule so that you could read a better book. It's a thankless job."

Usually.

Amanda Bostic, Thomas Nelson: Thank you for the time.

2011-01-08T19:30:00.000-08:00

This is my agent, Brian Peterson.

When we first met, I was a stay-at-home mom writing for magazines. I also had a first novel stored on a floppy disk.

Yeah, it was awhile ago.

But let me back up. Before I met Brian, a highly respected writer who runs with America's best literary crowd, offered to send my novel to her agent in New York City.

Her literary agent was a woman known as Dr. No. The woman could make or break a writer's career with one word. Usually that word was. . . No.

But the word that came back to me was Maybe.

We like the book. We think it has potential. But you'll need to change the main character from a Christian to an alcoholic.

I smacked myself on the forehead -- why didn't I think of that?! Faith in God. Self-destruction. Yes! They are totally equivalent!

The literary agent went on to say that I needed to remove every passage in which Raleigh Harmon, forensic geologist and Christian, reveals her belief that the Earth was created by God and that the people who live here didn't evolve from pond scum. (Well, most of them didn't. I had serious questions about the literary agent.)

After reading the agent's letter, several friends begged me to keep my mouth shut. "Just do what the agent asks," they told me. "You need people like this to get published."

My reply was succinct.

"Thank you for your time," I wrote. "You should get out of New York City. Fast."

There was no further correspondence.

Writer Lee Knapp heard of my travails. She had just published her terrific book of essays, "Grace in the First Person." I didn't know Lee well but she said to me, "I have an agent. He's a super nice guy. His mission statement is to help other people reach their goals. Do you want to send your manuscript to him?"

Several weeks later Brian Peterson and I had dinner. We laughed -- a lot-- and talked about writing and later I sent him the manuscript. He sold it to Baker publishing. "The Stones Cry Out" went on to win a Christy Award for best first novel. The rest, as they say, is hard work.

To this day Brian Peterson remains my great friend. He's among the most honest people I've ever met. And this picture of him seems particularly appropriate.

Over the years, without goading, he made sure I didn't stop or stand still. He opened doors to new opportunities, new vistas. And he never lost his cool, even during turbulence.

Okay, once.

Once, during a really nasty battle over a manuscript, Brian called somebody "a manipulator." That's about as low as the guy can go.

When people ask me what to look for in an agent, I say, Look for somebody you can really talk to. Somebody who will hold you accountable. Somebody honest.

But don't forget to look for somebody who stays in your corner, cheering you on -- making sure you never stop or stand still.

And then all you'll want to say to them is, Thank you.

Thank you.

Hello, and welcome to 2011!

2011-01-08T16:34:00.000-08:00

One week into the new year and already the days have gotten away from me. (Are you finding that to be true, too?)

I'm writing to let you know that I gave away a KINDLE last month. Yep. It's true. For those of you who knew this, you're probably wondering if I'm planning on announcing the winner. Or maybe you're thinking I was giving away the KINDLE to myself (sadly tempting). Well, I'm not keeping it and I am going to announce the winner.

But first I want to congratulate all of you who entered! You were smart enough to choose a contest that didn't cost you a dime -- proving yourselves smarter than all those dupes coining into their state lotteries.

Way to go, people!

Final congratulations, however, go to Norman Jackson of Delaware who was chosen by Random.com to win the Kindle and $25 gift card. Norman, savor every inkless word!

As great as this contest was, it's only an appetizer. The next Raleigh Harmon novel, The Mountains Bow Down, releases March 1st (check out the cover in the sidebar --->). Since it takes place on a cruise to Alaska, we're giving away the big kahuna. That's right: A FREE CRUISE! Once again, skip that state lottery and stay tuned for details -- coming soon. You do NOT want to miss this contest. And no, I won't keep the ticket for myself, though it's way more tempting than the KINDLE.

Thank you all for coming out to play, and thank you for supporting the Raleigh Harmon novels.

As a small gift of thanks, I'll be posting an excerpt of The Mountains Bow Down. It's not quite ready yet, but if you'd like to be the first to read it, be sure to click the LIKE button on my Facebook Author Page.

Thanks again, and happy reading,

Sibella

2010-12-24T12:09:00.000-08:00

Two days ago, I attended my friend Cynthia's graveside service. It was lovely, a quiet remembrance and committal before the standing-room-only memorial in the afternoon where her husband and father spoke movingly, her two children sang and talked about their parents' devoted marriage, and everyone left amazed at the poise and love Cynthia's children demonstrated in the midst of such profound grief.

These services are for the living, of course. It's what people call "closure," and we do receive some of that from these memorials and tributes.

But I'm a person who's a little on the fence about "closure." Sometimes I think we're a bit too quick to close the gate on the garden of mysteries that God has presented.

Personally, I like the gate to remain open so I can continue to ponder.

God is sovereign. God is loving. And I will probably never understand why he would choose to take such a faithful servant as my friend, or why it was necessary that she suffer before leaving. Some people are uncomfortable with these questions. But I think God's okay with ponderings such as this. Cynthia's father said it best, with tears welling in his blue eyes. "I wanted him to heal her. He didn't. But God is still on the throne."

Another mystery for me is how in life Cynthia lived in another city, but in death she became my neighbor.

I've written before about my daily runs through a nearby cemetery. Two days ago you could have knocked me over with an angel's wing as I stood on that same soft grass and watched Cynthia's casket lowering into the earth. She rests near that boy named Jacob.

Her committal gave me some "closure." But the next day I wanted to visit her in solitude.

So I ran to the cemetery.

The soil on her grave was still freshly turned and covered with strips of sod. The rough edges waited to form a complete carpet of green and her photo was placed where her headstone will eventually stand. As I gazed at her face, murmuring her name, I thought my feelings would tend toward sadness.

But I remembered something a monk told me.

Several years ago, as a young reporter, I drove to Trappist monastery in Berryville, Virginia to write a feature story. The Abbott gave me a tour of the buildings and grounds. As we walked the rolling acres, monks gathered in the stone chapel for their holy chants and the sound of their singing seemed to fill the summer trees. I gazed down to our right, and saw a row of white crosses. They followed a path that crested over a hill.

I pointed to the crosses. "What are those?"

The abbot smiled down at the grave markers.

"Those are graduates," he said.

Rest in Artistic Peace

2010-12-15T22:40:00.000-08:00

My friend Cynthia died yesterday. She left behind two gifted children, her husband Jon, and scores of families who took her art classes and fell in love.

Before she died, she posted these words on Facebook: "Life is full of twists and turns, and riddles and puzzles, that call us to figure them out. God is the mysterious giver of wisdom, by which to do this. We must face our challenges bravely, face to face, and learn from what is being given. C.Y."

Y stands for Youngblood. I gave her name to a character in "The Rivers Run Dry." Fictional Cynthia Youngblood runs a homeless mission in Seattle's Pioneer Square. Not only was that something the real Cynthia might do, I wanted the world to meet her.

She had large eyes, blue and intuitive, full of compassion, and when you spoke to her, she always held her head just-so, as if tuning her mind to the pitch of your words. Although a visual artist of abundant natural gifts, Cynthia also wrote verse.

One of her ballads struck me as an ideal children's book. It revolved around her husband, Captain Youngblood, an Alaskan fisherman, and a comical pursuit to find matching socks. The poem had everything a great children's book needs -- delight, rhythm, humor, surprises, and love. I asked Cynthia if I could share it with a friend, a multi-published children's book author. Cynthia was thrilled; she was an enormous fan of this writer's books.

What happened next still hurts.

The author tore Cynthia's poem to shreds. Not formal. Doesn't obey standard publishing rules. What is the poem's point, really?

On and on it went.

When Cynthia asked to see the author's comments, I prefaced the criticism: "It's only one person's opinion. I still believe your poem could be published as a children's book, and a great one at that."

The author's opinion stung. It stung Cynthia the way a pinprick punctures a balloon, deflating the contents, sinking the vessel.

Several days later, I sent Cynthia another note, more forcefully asserting the poem's strengths. And I described my own battles with rejection, including the top NY literary agents who insisted my books "would never make it."

I'm not saying there's a direct connection but sometime later Cynthia stopped writing. She was so busy. Teaching more art classes. Her own children needed her, so did her husband. She would get to it later.

The following year Cynthia began having stomach pains. She lost weight. When doctors found the cancer, it was deep within her organs. She had lost so much weight that her already large blue eyes became enormous, as if trying to see everything before time ran out.

Time did.

In my grief, I find myself wishing I'd encouraged her more -- and understood better the lancing pain of rejection, particularly for a sensitive soul. But blame and absolution are for God alone, if He so chooses.

But the real point is this: Our time is short.

"Life is full of twists and turns," she wrote, "and riddles and puzzles, that call us to figure them out."

Write, paint, speak. Love. Share what you find. Give. "God is the mysterious giver of wisdom, by which to do this."

And I would add: Refuse the mean critics their audience.

   Benediction
Time flows swiftly,

--the cool, sweet morning of your life-

and hours lie ahead before your sun sets

on the distant horizon.

How you spend these coming hours

cannot be bought again,

nor wound backward,

and choices made yesterday

blend into today, becoming part of who you will become

in the unformed future.

Life's path is strewn with defining moments

that reveal what lies within.

Sadly, we can only choose one thing

in any given moment,

so we must choose carefully,

knowing that this particular breath in time

will not come again.

Therefore,

bless, and you will be blessed;

give, and you will be given to;

love, and you will be loved.

This, God has promised us,

for whatever we give-out returns

like bread upon water.

And as you walk on,

may the good Lord bless

and keep you,

may your years be rich and long,

and may God complete

the patient work

that He's begun in you.

Cynthia Youngblood--April 4, 2007

2010-11-20T08:31:00.000-08:00

photo by Paul

Author Eric Wilson humbles me with his generous thoughts, once again.
   The Clouds Roll Away made his "a few favorites" list for 2010.
   If you haven't heard of Eric Wilson, someday you will. His Jerusalem's Undead trilogy is grown both famous and infamous for turning vampire-mania on its blood-dripping head. Booklist described his work as "suspenseful . . . original."
   Eric also wrote the NYTimes-bestselling novelization of "Fireproof," penning from truth; he's been married to the same woman for 20-plus years.
   Best of all, the guy follows Jesus Christ with the passion of a first-century believer.
   I admire him.
   Last summer, I had the privilege of meeting him. We were signing books at A Cup of Cold Water (a sweet bookstore now resting in literary peace). During a break, Eric and I walked around the store, talking about family and the writing life.
   But Eric kept glancing at the book shelves, his eyes like magnets finding metal. Every other sentence he reached over, pulled out a book, and asked, "Have you read this?"
   I would shake my head, invariably. In fact, I hadn't even heard of these books.
   "Oh, man," he'd say. "You've got to read this! It's about a guy who -- "
   I managed to sell some books that day, but I purchased far more. Eric's recommended stack proved worthy of every dollar and made me wonder if publishers shouldn't pay him a retainer. When Eric likes a book, I immediately want to read it -- partly because he doesn't like everything.
   In fact, he's picky.
   Which is another reason I'm humbled to make his list.
   So, just in time for Christmas, here is Eric Wilson's 2010 list of some favorites.
   Enjoy, and prepare to become his fan.

2010-10-27T09:54:00.000-07:00

Speak Up or Shut Up?

When I first started working on "The Stones Cry Out," I didn't say much about the project.

Mostly, I was concerned that talking about the book would rob the story of its power. Much like plucking that first green shoot of spring, only to later wonder why the grass didn't grow.

The people who knew about my novel-in-progress were my husband, my parents, and one very supportive uncle. As a young man in the Navy during WWII, this uncle wrote a novel but never sent it out to publishers. He told me about his regret, then funded several years' toil on "The Stones Cry Out." For that reason, and more, the novel is dedicated to him.

Only when my manuscript was complete did I tell friends about it.

Supportive friends. Not schadenfreude friends.

In retrospect, I see another sensibility to my silence. One school of thought believes that stating our goals out loud makes them more likely to be accomplished. But I've always disagreed --particularly when it comes to writing. Talking about a story-in-progress is probably one of the most detrimental things we can do.

Tell the story, lose the story. That's my theory.

But that adage might hold true for goals in general, according to an excellent post on Mike Hyatt's blog.

Read it.

Then do as Mary did: Ponder in your heart (Luke 2:19)

2010-10-01T22:13:00.000-07:00

When she worked as a reporter at the Richmond Times-Dispatch, Stacy Hawkins Adams gave every story her best effort. I saw it first-hand. Whenever one story was done, Stacy raised the bar for the next.

That work ethic, combined with her God-given talents, have led Stacy into the world of publishing. Within six years, she's written seven books, won national awards, and made several best-seller lists.

Plus, she maintains a very active blog (www.stacyhawkinsadams.com) and a newsletter packed with inspirational interviews and great writer quotes. If that wasn't enough, she just launched a new "group coaching" enterprise for aspiring authors to help others along the way.

Recently, Stacy carved some time from her busy schedule to talk about her successful career as an author. And I begged her to tell me how she balances her amazing drive with amazing grace.

Because here's something else you should know: Stacy Hawkins Adams is also one of the nicest people on planet Earth.

Your two latest books both deal with dreams. Does that topic intrigue you because your dream came true with writing books?

My novel Dreams That Won't Let Go is actually a book about dreams gone awry. Three siblings long to achieve their individual goals, but nothing seems to be going right. By book's end, the entire family understands that no one's dream stands alone; you have to support those you love and help them achieve their goals, even if their dreams are different from the dreams you have for them.

As for myself, yes - writing books has been a lifelong dream! I decided in third grade to become an author. As you know, I segued into a journalism career, which I loved. But I'm thankful to have fulfilled my childhood dream.

You've inspired so many people, Stacy, by example and with your written words. And in your latest non-fiction book, you make some profound points about the purpose of our lives. You write, for instance, "Sacrifice and calling often go hand in hand."

That reference comes from my nonfiction book, Who Speaks To Your Heart? Tuning in to Hear God's Whispers. Your question reminds me of a cliche': You have to work for things worth having.

I couldn't just dream about becoming an author, for example, without sometimes sacrificing time with friends and family, or giving up some hobbies, to make writing a priority. Spending time socializing, or playing tennis or the like are all "good" things that I enjoy, but making the sacrifice to meet writing deadlines allows me to publish books that I hope are helping transform lives. That makes my calling worthy of the sacrifice.

You also make some brilliant connections between dying to self and achieving a dream. To some people, those two statements seem counter-intuitive -- especially when the world constantly tells us that dreams come true only when we focus on what we want.

You tend to disagree with that viewpoint. Why?

I don't necessarily disagree with focusing on one's dreams, because I'm a believer in speaking blessings over your life, working toward your goal, then trusting God to manifest whatever is within in His will.

My point is that we often get caught up in thinking that our dream or our goal is just about "us," when it's really bigger than us.

There's a saying you've probably heard: A tree doesn't bear fruit for itself; the fruit is for others' enjoyment.

I feel the same way about our dreams and goals. If we're singers, we may love singing, but others who hear are touched and impacted by our music and lyrics. If we're carpenters, the furniture or structures we build benefits others.

Whatever your dream or goal is, try to look beyond yourself and understand that while this may be your passion, you may be meant to use it in service to others.

What sort of practical things can dream-wishers find in your book that will help them become dream-achievers?

In the novel, Dreams That Won't Let Go, they'll learn that as Ecclesiastes 3:11 asserts, God's timing is beautiful. As long as we keep the faith and keep focused on being our best selves, and working in excellence, our dreams will unfold. Readers of this book will learn through the characters' journeys the value of patience, truth and unconditional love. The themes in this book are also helpful to people who are trying to support others as they pursue a dream.

In my nonfiction book, Who Speaks To Your Heart?, dream-wishers will be encouraged to give up racing toward their goals and trying to succeed on their own, through their own might. If they'll slow down and find the courage to hear what God is speaking to their hearts, they'll find that the wisdom and assurance He gives will accelerate the process.

I've known you for a long time. You're an amazing and talented young woman (yes, you're young!). Award-winning reporter. Novelist. Acclaimed speaker -- and of course wife and mother. And yet with all that going on, you remain a genuinely warm and loving person.
I'm certain you're asked this question all the time, but, Stacy . . . how do you do it all?!

How do I do it? When I'm asked this question, the answer that always, always comes to mind is Through Grace!, and I really mean that. I've always been an "energizer bunny," who thrives on juggling many balls at once; but even I sometimes am amazed at the ideas that pour forth and the fact that I've been blessed to write seven books in six years.

And in addition to the books you maintain a very active blog and newsletter (subscribe at www.stacyhawkinsadams.com)

There are times when I move out of the "fast lane" and simply live and rest; but for the most part, I just try to prioritize and pace myself. I keep a running To Do list, pray over it, and ask God to help me make sure I take care of the most important things for that particular day.

I also try to take care of myself, by taking a few days away to rest after a really busy period; doing a better job of saying no to "good" things or opportunities that might tempt me, and by living in the present as much as I can. Plus, I have patient friends and family, who know that dinner might be partially take-out, the clothes may get washed but not folded right away, and while it may take a week or so to respond to emails.. I'll be in touch! LOL

So my secrets are grace and patience, for which I'm thankful.

That answer doesn't surprise me. It sounds just like you. Okay, woman of many talents, what can readers expect next from you?

I'm working on several proposals for new projects, fiction and nonfiction, and hope to be able to share more about that soon.I've also recently launched a group coaching service for aspiring authors called Author In You (www.AuthorInYou.com). I regularly receive emails from writers around the country who want advice or guidance on how to start or complete their manuscripts. Since my time for personal coaching is limited, this is a great alternative that allows me to offer personalized service in a format that also connects budding authors with like-minded writers.

2010-09-28T07:50:00.000-07:00

   Somebody once asked if awards had changed my life.
   No. And yes.
   During my journalism days, some of my stories won national awards -- stories about young fathers dying of brain cancer, and single mothers whose severely handicapped children blessed multiple lives, and a death row inmate who met weekly with his chaplain then killed himself right before the state planned to execute him. By grace beyond measure, my maiden effort at novel writing won a Christy Award.
   This month, Booklist, the magazine of the American Library Association, named "The Clouds Roll Away" one of the top ten romance novels of 2010.
   All wonderful. All joyful.
   But humbling.
   Because no matter what accolades have dropped from the sky, my life remains challenging. Dirty socks. Bills. Too much information about Lindsay Lohan. And every morning -- every single morning -- the blank page.
   Much more importantly, awards aren't the point.
   Sure, right. Awards aren't the point. Whatever.
   Yes, that statement does sound like platitude.
   But the point -- the crux -- of writing comes down to motive.
   Here's a list of good motives: Write to reach hearts. Write to show readers something extraordinary. Write to encourage good in the world. Write because God put the story on your heart.
   But never, ever write for awards. It's the equivalent of writing for money; before you know it, you've joined the world's oldest profession.
   My motive for writing "The Clouds Roll Away" was to show Raleigh Harmon's need for love. As a secondary motive, I hoped Raleigh's need would reflect the world's need, which is why the book takes place at Christmas, when "love came down" (thank you, Christina Rossetti).
   I didn't set out to write a romance. And I certainly never expected any award. I only hoped to show the God-shaped hole in the human heart.
   Ironically, when my publisher told me the Booklist news, my first thought was of the fallow years.
   That's what I've named the years when I quit writing. My family needed full attention, and then some. Young children. A dying father. A husband starting his own business. I walked away from the computer and spent most of my time at the kitchen sink, where Proverbs 11:25 was taped to the window: "He who waters will himself be watered."
   The fallow years blossomed into a garden paling my imagination. "Oh, what gracious lessons some of us have learned at sick beds!" wrote Charles Spurgeon.
   I'm deeply grateful to Booklist for recognizing "The Clouds Roll Away." Honored, and humbled.
   And now, if you'll excuse me, a good motive and a blank page are waiting.

Idiots Savant

2010-09-23T10:30:00.000-07:00

For several days, I've been ruminating on Stephen Hawking's latest "discovery" that God doesn't exist.

Though I admire many of Hawking's scientific theories, I'm left shaking my head at how even the greatest minds will contort logic in order to kill God.

It's like watching a genius ram a square peg at a round circle, insisting that's the way it should work -- if only he were ruling the universe.

Here's an excellent essay on the matter, written by a scientist, in The Daily Mail.

Customer Servants

2010-09-23T09:32:00.000-07:00

Sometimes we listen too much to "new wisdom."

Take, for instance, the idea of in-store book signings.

People who watch trends say, "Nobody goes to author signings anymore. Not unless you're a celebrity. Don't even bother doing them."

I've had my share of cricket-chirping events, including a Barnes&Noble signing where I was asked one question: "Where's the bathroom?"

Last Saturday, the Lifeway bookstore in Tukwila invited me to sign books as part of the store's one-year anniversary event.

I was very excited, yet also worried.

New wisdom said nobody would show up. I didn't want to let the store down. And I didn't want to give directions to the bathroom.
But people came. On a sunny Saturday.

   Sunny. In Seattle. During a very rainy year.
   Amid the worst economy in decades.
   Every minute, the door swung open, ushering in homeschool moms whose only vacations happen between the covers of a novel. Grandparents. Ladies with saucy walks. Black women sporting terrific hats hooting "Get outta here!" when I described the rap musician in "The Clouds Roll Away." My whirlwind friend from Facebook, Hurricane Priscilla, spun into the store to meet in person (finally), swirling around husbands buying books to surprise wives who were resting at home. Hopeful writers. Readers who devour fiction. People who buy books to comfort those in need. And I enjoyed a long chat with a woman wearing a jacket from Emerald Downs -- a setting that appears in the book I'm currently writing -- whose fiance proposed on a cruise to Alaska -- a setting for the book that will appear in March, The Mountains Bow Down -- and whose now-husband ambled over, only to realize that his wife and an author he'd never heard of had gone from strangers to friends in five minutes flat. He laughed and said, "What is it with you women?"
   But I don't think it was us.
   I think it's this Lifeway store.
   Granted, promotional events were going on during part of the day. My favorite DJ, Sam, from "Scott and Sam in the Morning" on 105.3 FM, broadcast live for short segments, filling the store with her laughter that like sounds like happy wind chimes. And the Veggie Tales characters greeted kids for awhile, too.
   But those two things were only a small portion of the morning. Sitting at my table for four hours, I watched the customers streaming through the door. Most were not coming for the promotions.
   When I packed up to leave, I mentioned to the sales staff that the store seemed unusually busy for this bad economy.

"Actually today was kind of slow," said one of the sales clerks.

   Two years ago, the Nashville-based Lifeway decided to close its three Seattle-area locations, consolidating the staff from Bellevue, Issaquah and Overlake Church into the new space just past Southcenter Mall.
   I liked those stores, but this location feels better.
   "Before we open every morning, we pray over this space," said another sales clerk.
   As I drove home that afternoon, I reflected on the eternal battle between "new wisdom" and ancient traditions. Plenty of people might mock that store's morning prayer. Some might even twist it into a picture of Christians treating God like the lottery -- pick the right words, win the money.
   But that's not what's happening.
   "You know what's the best part of this location?" said another sales person, who worked at the old Bellevue location. "We keep selling out of Bibles. Of course, I feel bad for the person who has to wait, but it just makes me so happy that we have to order more Bibles."
   Last Saturday, I was richly blessing in book sales and people-watching. But I also got to see genuine joy in customer service. The staff cheerfully helped people of all stripes and their attitude didn't change whether the customer's kid was spilling popcorn on the carpet or somebody was griping about an audio CD not working.
   It wasn't just good customer service.
   It was customer servants.
   And the spirit sustained.
   "The secret of a Christian," Oswald Chambers once wrote, "is that the supernatural is made natural in him by the grace of God, and the experience of this works out in the practical details of life."
   Certainly, "new wisdom" has its place, especially in a difficult economy.
   But nothing can replace the faithful promises of a loving God.

Time Away

2010-09-12T20:08:00.000-07:00

I'm a big believer in vacations. Rest, renewal, rejuvenation. Great stuff. Except I don't take nearly enough vacations. I'm a writer who thrives on routine, and get all hinky with altered mail delivery, unwatered plants, and empty refrigerators.

But mostly: the dog.

In this house, The Canine Queen is cherished. And she knows it. Whenever we left town, we hired sitters and dog walkers but her highness was never happy about it. Lately, her royal bark started leaving unmistakable "messages" regarding any extended absence. Last time I went away, I came home to a load deposited in the den, precisely where I enjoy reading books.

Not a dumb dog. Not a mean dog.

Just a dog who is very attached to her family.

We flew to Ohio to visit the rest of la familia. The dog stayed behind, and I held my breath all the way to the airport, wondering if I'd need to hold it when I walked back into the house seven days later.

But this time was different. I hired Time Finder.

It's a new business started by my friend Stephanie. Gifted with organizational skills and throwing parties, she offers a wide range of "you-can't-be-there-so-I-will" services, from personal shopping and running errands to "vacation services" that include everything from the dog stuff to restocking the fridge for your return. Her blog focuses on time management, organization, and enjoying life.

But above all that, Stephanie loves dogs. When I opened the front door seven days after we left, not only was there no "message," but the Queen was sporting a snazzy purple bandana -- as if to tell me she took the vacation. It wasn't just a relief to come home to that, but a joy.

And the kitchen had cut flowers from the garden, right next to a bowl of fresh fruit.

Happy happy dog. Flowers. No mail problems. And I didn't have to run to the grocery store when we got home.

Time Finder. Makes me wonder how to find more time for vacations.

If you're interested, contact Stephanie.

"

2010-09-10T09:50:00.000-07:00

Tessa Afshar -- remember that name.

Her first novel "Pearl in the Sand," is getting rave reviews. Right now you can read the first three chapter of this wonderful novel -- free -- by going to the the author's website. And then you'll probably want to know more. Tessa's life would make its own great adventure book.

Born in a nominally Muslim family in Iran, where she lived until age 14, Tessa enudred English boarding school before moving to the U.S. permanently. In her mid-twenties, she converted to Christianity and now holds an MDIV from Yale University.

When not writing, Tessa leads women's and prayer ministries for a New England church.

She was gracious enough to answer some of my questions.

Pearl in the Sand is a historical novel about ....?

Pearl is based on the story of Rahab, the Canaanite harlot who is famous for having saved Israel’s spies from death. She then went on to marry one of the leaders of Judah, and is in the lineage of Jesus. Think about that: some of the DNA of this former harlot swam in Jesus’ blood stream!

Is that what drew you toward her story?

My fascination with Rahab actually started in Italy. During a visit to Florence, I noticed that Ponte Vecchio—the famed bridge straddling the Arno River for almost seven hundred years—had tiny shops built right into its walls. They bulged out of the sides of the bridge like odd-shaped barnacles sticking out of the hull of a ship.

Walking over this bridge reminded me of the story of Rahab. The Bible tells us that she lived in the bowels of a wall too. Her house was built right into the defensive walls of Jericho. I wondered what it was like to live in a wall as I crossed Ponte Vecchio.

Then I realized that we all know a little something about that. Most of us have to contend with walls in the interior places of our souls. Walls built on foundations of pride, fear, rejection, loss; walls that keep others at bay and shield us from drawing close enough to get hurt again. Suddenly I was hooked. I wanted to write about walls, about living in them, about pulling them down. I wanted to write about Rahab.

Her imperfections appealed to you as a writer?

Pearl in the Sand recounts the tale of a woman whose world was a mess, whose life was a mess, whose heart was a mess, but in encountering God, she found to her shock that her life was salvageable. More than that—it was valuable. She found that she was lovable. For her, this process happened through the love of a godly and persistent man who was nonetheless, flawed.

God started the most significant part of Rahab’s life by literally pulling down the walls of her home around her. As traumatic as that moment must have been for Rahab, she could not have moved on to the future God had planned for her without it. In a parallel pursuit of healing for her broken soul, Pearl in the Sand portrays a God who just as determinedly set out to ruin the walls surrounding Rahab’s heart.

And there's a lesson in that for women today?

I think women today need to know God as the wooer and pursuer of their hearts. They need to know that sometimes the most glorious breakthroughs of life come through a vector of God-ordained pain. More than anything I hope the reader of this story will come away with a deeper glimpse into her own soul, and a more profound understanding of God the Father.

But you chose to write about that through historical fiction, not contemporary drama.

I love indoor plumbing and heat and air-conditioning and the miracles of modern medicine. But there is a lot that our world has lost through the ages: a true sense of community, a recognition of our dependence on others and on God, a clear sense of right and wrong, a general romance about life. Historical fiction is a way of getting more in touch with some of these things. It’s not the only way, but it’s one of my favorite ways. Besides, the clothes rock.

For the people out there hammering away on a manuscript, tell us about your journey to publication.

What I didn’t know as I wrote Pearl was that there was no market for biblical fiction at the time. Had I been aware of this fact, I would have thrown in the towel. However, just as I finished the novel, a shift started to occur in the market and Wendy Lawton from Books and Such Literary Agency, who had become aware of this change, took me on as a client.

Following a couple of close calls that didn’t work out, Moody Publishers contracted Pearl and will be releasing it on September 1, nine months after I had officially signed with them. I have to stop and say that I LOVE Moody; they have been phenomenal to work with. The whole process of writing to publication took just over two-and-a-half years, which is quite fast for a debut novel.

What's been the most difficult part, start to finish?

What has surprised me about this journey is that most of my experiences of rejection have been internal. Many times, I have had to battle the forces of discouragement as I write, so I am astonished at the doors God seems to open. I think that in spite of His faithfulness, this is a skirmish that I’ll have to face again. My heart is susceptible to self-doubt. But Jesus is greater than my heart. I don’t stand on my gifting or my strength, which are both limited; I take my stand on Him who holds my future. Or at least I press on toward that goal.