Five Minute Friday: Fly

Fly

Gentle Reader,

A bit of business: There will be no new content – Facebook page, newsletter, posts – from June 10 – June 16. I’m headed to the coast to celebrate 12 years of marriage. I thought about scheduling some things, but then I’d have to get online to share those things via social media, and I really, really want to be completely unplugged for a whole week. More than that, I need to be unplugged for a whole week. So I’ll catch you on Tuesday, June 19, for some chit-chat about The Beatles.

Kate says: fly.

Go.

I hate flying.

I was 16 the first time I hopped on a plane. The ride was less than an hour, but I was pretty sure I was going to die. My dad told me later that all the color drained from my face and he was concerned that I would pass out. All by myself, in a tin can of terror, surrounded by people I didn’t know who might want to talk to me. It was terrible. I buried my head in a book and prayed that nobody would notice me. And that the engine wouldn’t catch fire.

Several years passed before I flew again. Chris took me to Alaska to meet his family. When we arrived in Anchorage, we had to transfer to a small commuter plane to get to his hometown. (By small, I mean seats less than 20 people). The crew left our luggage behind because the plane was too heavy due to a load of fish – and transporting the fish was way more important than me having pajamas. As we barely skimmed over the tops of trees and narrowly missed crashing into mountains, I was again convinced that death was immanent.

The worst, by far, was the 17-plus hour ride to London. Do you have any idea how freaky it is to fly over the North Pole? All kinds of existential questions assaulted me – Who am I? Why am I here? Can polar bears jump high enough to reach the plane? What time is it when you’re standing at the North Pole? I’m going to die, aren’t I? Add in a screaming baby and a husband who needs to stretch his legs and can’t and I was not happy, in any way.

But then…

The destination is reached and the horror of flight quickly fades. It was worth pushing through the fear to visit my aunt and uncle for a week, worth meeting Chris’ family, certainly worth visiting Buckingham Palace.

I think that applies to life, too. Sometimes it sucks. It hurts. It’s scary. But for those whose faith is in the Risen Savior, the destination will blot out all heartache over the journey.

Stop.

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Five Minute Friday on a Monday: Return

Unknown

Gentle Reader,

I was cranky last week. Anvils hammered in my head. Had a “crying mad” moment over something. Opening the laptop to chat with my blogging buddies simply didn’t happen. That’s life, I suppose. And so, this late entry.

Kate says: return.

Go.

I haven’t shared much about my attempt to read through the Bible this year. There’s the fear of sounding prideful – “Well, look at what I’m doing…” – and the fear of somehow jinxing the project – “Well, I told them about it and now I’m three weeks behind so I suck.” And to be real: I didn’t read my Bible last week. As stated above, I was in and out of a wicked headache and what I was feeling kept me from reading. Because that’s a spot that Satan loves to press; I’m feeling angry, condemned, so don’t read Scripture because that will make me feel worse because God, in reality, probably doesn’t like me very much.

Yes, I still struggle with that. Not as much as I used to, but I’m not yet free. I’d like to claim that I was, but does the world really need another liar?

Anyway, I’ve made my way to Job’s story, which I love. Many hate this book because there are no answers. We don’t get to know why God allowed Satan to wreak havoc in Job’s life. We don’t get to know why God chose to test his servant like that. Job is a mystery to us and we don’t like it. We want to be able to unravel the strands of human responsibility and Divine movements. We want to be able to say, “This is what and where and when and – most importantly – why.”

And he said: “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, And naked shall I return there. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

– Job 1:21 (NKJV)

That’s a profound statement. This man has just lost everything. He doesn’t know why. He maintains his innocence and his devotion to God. He puts up with his probably well-intentioned but ultimately idiotic friends spouting hot air at him. In the end, he encounters God, who gives him no answers, instead expressing His majesty and sovereignty. In short and amazingly simple language, the message of Job’s life is: We don’t always get to know.

Will we keep trusting God?

Will we return to Him, over and over?

Stop.

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Five Minute Friday: Settle

Contemplate

Gentle Reader,

Our Fearless Leader was busy celebrating her book launch, so for the first time in the history of everything, there was no prompt shared around 6:45 (Pacific Daylight Time) last night. I guess we’ll forgive her. This time.

No, seriously: We are all so happy for you, Kate! Your book is awesome. You deserve all the accolades and sales. Truly.

So, this morning, she says: settle.

Go.

We don’t have to settle, you know
For castles made of sand
And kingdoms prone to burn
For frauds who prance as princes
And trends so fast to turn

We don’t have to settle, you know
For offices tucked in corners
And accounts that bulge with cash
For grandiose titles after names
And powers gone in flash

We don’t have to settle, you know
For the building of the platform
And the chasing of the “like”
For the hollowing out of voice
And the statistics, hope they spike

We don’t have to settle, you know
For the things this place can give
And what we’re supposed to want
For all that will fade one day
And the stuff that others flaunt

We don’t have to settle, you know
Because there is more than meets our eyes
Because there is deeper than this
Because there is One who loves us so
Because righteousness and peace, they kiss

Stop.

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Just a Bit of Creative Crisis, Please

Where Now

Gentle Reader,

If this is the first time you’ve ever come across this little blog, first, welcome. Second, apologies. You find me in the midst of wrestling with what direction all this writing is meant to take. Such a “creative person” stereotype, to be filled with doubt, questions and even a bit of self-loathing when considering what it means to have been out here, online, for over a decade. To think about the dozens of journals I have filled since age 12. To sift through sketches, ideas, bits and pieces that have yet to see the light of publication.

That word – decade – is probably what’s causing the consternation. You see, we never stop growing up. At least, we aren’t supposed to. Each new ten-year span brings about change. I remain as curious and thoughtful as I was when I was a child, but there is no doubt that the woman who stares back at me from the other side of the mirror is not the same person she was even a year ago.

There is an itching underneath my skin, the kind that cannot be soothed by potions or ointments. Something is coming. A change whistles on the wind. A longing for…what, I don’t know.

Certainly not fame. There are, of course, times when I covet the spot at the top of the New York Times bestseller list, but I would be a terrible famous person. I want to be able to go places and do things without interference. Essentially, I mind the obscurity less and less. Truly, most of us labor in obscurity. The James Patterson’s of the world, who are able to churn out several books a month, are rare. And, candidly, wedded to a formula. There’s nothing wrong with that; after all, the famous authors are famous for a reason. They are able to quickly discern what works for them and keep at it. The rest of us, we put out some good things, even some great things, but there’s a lot of dross surrounding.

Sadly, I suspect that I am in what I shall term a “dust period,” a time of writing nothing very special at all. It is tempting to step away from here until the magic of inspiration strikes again. All writers need breaks. In fact, a very important part of the creative process is found in doing things like staring out the window, reading about the Treaty of Utretcht, cuddling the newest goddaughter and generally finding anything to do but write all while feeling vaguely guilty that the writing isn’t being done.

But then…I think about what I want this blog to be about. What I want my writing to be about. The words of my journalism adviser roll around in my mind: “Tell the story, whatever the story is.” The truth is that life isn’t always glorious and inspired. More often, it’s mundane. Pulling weeds in the garden, folding laundry (again), wondering what shape my hair is going to take today (as all curly-headed people know, you do not control the hair, the hair controls you), drinking coffee, mild bickering with the husband over what to watch on television. Another truth – writing is much more cussed determination than it is talent. I keep doing it not because I am the best, or hope to ever be the best, but because there is no alternative. Perfection is the impossible dream, right up there with Don Quixote’s quest. If I were to wait for the “right time” or the “best subject,” then I’d never write again.

So – I don’t know where we’re going from here, but I do know that we won’t stop going. Just, perhaps, instead of boldly the scaling the heights of spiritual Mount Everests, we’ll walk through quiet neighborhoods, allowing ourselves to take the slow, less glorious path. Instead of searching these words for brilliance or entertainment, rather imagine yourself linking arms with me, looking ahead, as we talk about everything and nothing at all.

Cozy little picture, isn’t it?

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