Category Archives: Life

I’m Not Dead

Although the silence of my blog might have indicated I might have. I’ve been busy! I’m rewriting a sequel — which may seem kinda silly since the first one isn’t published, yet. A friend read the first one and asked to read the second. I realized that I should probably polish the second one before sharing it, though. I’m about a third done.

I’m also co-editing a flash fiction magazine called Havok. The first edition will be released January, 2019, so if you like flash fiction in multiple genres (mystery, sci-fi, fantasy, comedy, and thriller), go check it out. So far the stories we’ve acquired are amazing (and no, I’m not getting paid to write that). For the first month alone we received over a dozen stories in the fantasy genre alone, so even for the first edition, there’s no shortage of stories.

Now I need get over this cold my son gave me yesterday. I accomplish a lot more when I’m not sneezing and coughing all over my computer.

Taking Pride

“I am proud to be a woman!”

Even as a woman, statements like that make me cringe. I take pride in many things; being a woman is not one of them. The answer is simple: I didn’t choose it. Do I like being a woman? Sure! Granted I have no experience being anything else, but I still wouldn’t change it if given the chance.

Taking pride in anything that requires no action on my part is foolish. How many of us take pride in our eye color, the fact our innards work how they’re supposed to, or that we breathe? How is taking pride in my genitalia and other genetic traits any different?

Other things I don’t take pride in: any other physical features, my heritage, or my ancestor’s accomplishments. I am responsible for none of that, so claiming it for myself isn’t right. It also diminishes those who did the work.

While I didn’t choose the country I was born in, I can still take pride in that, because I choose to stay. I also contribute to my country, my state and community’s success through my hard work, purchasing ability and voting in elections.

I take pride in my work, my home and immediate family, because my success is theirs, and their success is at least partially mine.

What I’d like to see, instead of claiming pride in our sex, heritage, etc., we express our gratitude to God for creating us the way he did.

It was You who created my conscience; You fashioned me in my mother’s womb.

“I praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Your work is wonderful; I know it very well.

“My frame was not concealed from You when I was shaped in a hidden place, knit together in the recesses of the earth.

“Your eyes saw my unformed limbs; they were all recorded in Your book; in due time they were formed, to the very last one of them.” ~ Psalms 139:13-16

Story Matters

An author recently posted on Facebook asking for feedback on one of his series. Unable to turn down an opportunity to read a book in one of my favorite genres (two actually. The series is a combination of sci-fi and fantasy), I eagerly accepted.

I ended up loving the story and characters, and the author graciously sent me the other two in the series as well as a prequel novella.

In one of the emails, he mentioned that he was pushing the release of the final two (out of five) due to an illness. I was bummed, but I also know the importance of one’s health takes precedence.

Yesterday, the author posted that his cancer had returned, and the doctors gave him about two months to live.

My completely selfish response was what you might expect. I thought, “Oh, no! I’ll never read the rest of the series now!”

As you also might expect, I mentally berated myself for thinking such a thing. I did post a comment saying that I would pray for him and his family, but it felt hollow as I typed.

Do I want him healed, or if not, that his family experiences God’s strength and comfort? Absolutely. But my prayers still feel tainted by my selfish and silly desire to read the final books, when a man is dying and a family is soon devastated. What’s an incomplete series compared to that?

Or am I wrong?

I heard a story years ago where a woman dying of cancer wrote Stephen King. She asked him to tell her what happened at the end of his “Dark Tower” series, because she wouldn’t live long enough to read the remaining — and as yet unreleased — books.

Sadly, he couldn’t answer, because even he didn’t know at the time.

Studies have found that those who read fiction are statistically more empathetic. Understandable when you think about it.

When reading about fictional characters, we learn their thoughts, motivations, loves, hates, fears and desires. Something we don’t always see or get in real life, because few of us lay ourselves bare with the exception of a scant few — if that. As we read, we place ourselves in the shoes of the characters, and we can’t help but correlate their experiences, thoughts and feelings into our own life and those around us.

To give an example, I’ve never been clinically depressed. I didn’t understand how debilitating it can be, and I used to quietly scoff at those who did. Until I read “Becoming Olivia” by Roxanne Henke. The book is about Olivia who has a great life, but can’t shake the depression that seemed to come out of nowhere.

After reading it, I will never again scoff at anyone who suffers from depression again.

Now it may seem at this point that I changed subjects on you. First I talked about selfish prayers, then I jumped to how stories make us more empathetic.

What both illustrate is the importance of stories in our life. They not only entertain, but can convey certain truths. Stories, like most other arts engage us emotionally, spiritually and intellectually. They can also live beyond the creator’s own life. Plus we never want the story to simply stop with no end in sight.

We are built to both create and listen to or read stories. They’ve been used since the advent of language to remember our past as well as convey truth. Even non-Christians know the stories of Adam and Eve, Noah’s ark, and Jonah and the whale (although technically, it was a fish). Whether they literally happened is always up for debate, but their messages still stand many millennia later. The same goes for Dicken’s “Oliver Twist,” and “A Christmas Carol,” Shakespeare’s plays, many Greek tragedies, and countless others.

Stories matter. My selfish response and a dying woman’s letter is evidence of that.

Still, I do hope God will ignore my selfishness behind the words of my prayers, because I never want to see a person die so soon, and his/her family left to pick up the pieces.

Offending Jesus

I wrote six devotionals for my church dedicated to the minor prophets such as Hosea, Amos and Obadiah.

They were a bit difficult, because most prophets describe where the people (in this case the Israelites) are convicted of their wrong-doing. As such my devotionals are more convicting than usual.

Last Sunday I helped teach the kindergartners for Sunday school. A lady approached me and said, “I’ve really enjoyed your writing this month.” I had to think about it for a second. I thought, “You read my blog?” I don’t remember even inviting her to my author page on Facebook, so how did she find it. And then I remembered. She meant my devotionals.

“They’re convicting,” she said, “but in a very good way.”

“Oh, good,” I said. “I knew how convicting they were, and was a little fearful they would be offensive.”

“Sometimes that’s what we need.”

“That’s true,” I said. “Jesus himself was very offensive, and is part of why he was killed.”

“That should be the title of your next book,” someone else said. “The Offensive Jesus.”

An interesting idea, but I don’t know if I could write an entire book on the subject. My first thought is that it would contain little else but existing scriptural passages where Jesus offended people (usually the Israeli leadership such as the Pharisees). Still, as with all ideas, it’s worth thinking about.

To add a little brainstorming: I would have to start with why the Pharisees found Jesus so offensive, and perhaps seek to answer why so many today still do.

In Tears

Maybe because I had a difficult week dealing with a bad tooth, and now with it fixed, I have succumbed to exhaustion. As such, I’m feeling a bit more emotional than usual (or maybe it’s a hormonal thing).

Regardless, I just finished writing another devotional for my church, and more than once I had to fight back tears. Something about it struck me. It’s about God’s love and mercy, that no matter how egregious our sins, he will always pursue us to get us to accept his convictions, his mercy, and his love.

Perhaps there are a few sins of my own that I need to lay at God’s feet. Perhaps, although my head is well aware of who God is, and how much he loves me, my heart needs a bit more coaxing. I don’t always feel God’s presence even when I know he’s there.

Such as when my husband is sitting next to me. I know he’s there, loving me, however quietly. Yet sometimes I need him to hold my hand, so I can feel his love just as poignantly.

Toofwess!

Well, one tooth less anyway.

A few weeks ago one of my molars started to ache. Not enough to cause issues, so I didn’t do anything about it.

Until last Thursday night. It hurt so bad I almost went to the emergency room.

Instead, I took both Tylenol and Advil which took me through the weekend (my dentist is closed on Fridays).

I was able to get in the next Monday.

Turns out the tooth was cracked, so he referred me to an endodontist to get a root canal. Two days later, I went in only to find out that a root canal was unfeasible, because the crack went too deep.

So I was referred yet again to an oral surgeon to extract the tooth.

But the earliest appointment available was July 17, well over a month later. They did, however, put me on a cancellation list.

I gave them until early this morning waiting to see if a cancellation came available.

Since I heard nothing, I searched the dentist that had extracted one of my wisdom teeth almost 20 years ago. Surprisingly, unlike every other dentist in my area, they are open on Fridays.

I called them at 8:06 hoping they had something early next week.

The receptionist asked, “Where are you from?”

An odd question, but I told her.

“We have an opening at 8:20.”

I paused. “Today?”

“Yes.”

“I am on my way.”

I made it to their office at 8:22.

At 9:10, said tooth was removed.

As I paid (happily!), the receptionist asked what my plans were for the rest of the day.

“I’m going to grin through the rest of the day.”

The Worst Part of An Interview

It isn’t the anxiety beforehand.

Nor is it during the interview itself.

It’s the aftermath.

I just ended an interview for a magazine associate editor’s position. This was especially nerve-wracking because I haven’t done an interview in twenty years.

It took place over Google Hangouts which was interesting and kinda cool (I’ll describe why in a second) with two ladies involved with the magazine. They asked me about my writing, my editing strengths and weaknesses, and my expectations with the position. They will be interviewing several others, and will let me know either way within a few weeks whether or not I obtain the position.

Now for why the aftermath is the worst part of the interview.

For the next two hours I will mentally scrutinize every word I spoke, and every action of my face and rest of my body.

Did I stutter too much? Did I blink too much? Did I pick my nose? Did I yawn? Did I talk with my hands too much? Too little?

I could have answered that question better!

I should have said something else!

Why, oh why did I say that?!

The upside of it taking place over Hangouts was they couldn’t smell my bad breath due to nervous dry-mouth, or that my deodorant gave out three hours ago.