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How to Blog with Focus

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Our Purpose As Artists
I teach in a building next to the School of Music. So it’s not uncommon for college students to practice their instruments in the adjoining courtyard. On any given day, multiple melodies fill the atmosphere. But in the early morning, when I’m arriving for work, I hear the sounds of a lone clarinet drifting through the hallway.

I pause to listen.

At first, the notes are scales — ascending and descending. Soon, the notes transform into familiar refrains by Beethoven and Bach. Eventually, the young clarinet player abandons the notes on the page and begins to improvise. He creates an aural art, a cadence pregnant with mystery, uncertain of where it will lead.

The clarinet player in the courtyard has no idea how much a writing professor down the hall enjoys his musical gift.

I wonder how many bloggers can relate to this clarinet player.

As bloggers, we sometimes wonder:

  • Is anyone even listening?
  • Is all this blogging worth the effort?
  • Does my presence online make any difference?
  • Am I just another voice in a cacophony of noise?

When we ask ourselves these questions, we open ourselves to self-doubt and become susceptible to false ideals about blogging. We start to listen to other voices — voices that talk about numbers.

Subscribers. Visitors. Page views. Comments. Likes. Shares. There’s a statistic for everything.

In a sincere effort to increase readership, it’s not uncommon for bloggers to start chasing these numbers. A blogger begins, writing from the heart, and she finds a small but receptive audience who appreciates her work. Then she reads advice online — a prescribed methodology for blogging success. As she emulates these “best practices,” she becomes a clone of other bloggers. What made her unique in the first place has dissipated.

The fastest way for a blogger to lose her focus is to focus on numbers.  {Share on Twitter}

That’s not to say all numbers are bad. The information we glean from statistics can be helpful. A well-frequented post can tell us what strikes a resounding chord with readers. A weekly tracking of page views might reveal which days of the week are more likely to receive visits. Such data can inform our strategies and guide our blogging decisions.

Bloggers are wise, however, to view their statistics with discernment. Because numbers abide by the law of diminishing returns. Once we’ve achieved a numeric goal, we simply up the ante with another number. This never-ending chase perpetuates a cycle that saps a blogger’s creativity, resulting in a spiritless body of work.

We must decide ahead of time what kind of blogger we want to become and what kind of reader we want to reach.

Yes, the allure of bigger numbers is an ever-present reality. Our society revolves around numbers because we’re conditioned to believe that numbers translate into happiness or beauty or success. We’re told bigger statistics will provide access to better opportunities. Which may or may not be true.

But I do know one thing that is true:

Numbers neither define me nor fulfill me.
Numbers neither determine my worth nor control my fate.

Whether we have many readers or few, we overcome the seduction of numbers when we’ve already settled within ourselves a sense of purpose.

When we know our purpose as artists, we retain our focus as bloggers.  {Share on Twitter}

I want to blog with the same focus as the clarinet player. He’s committed to developing his craft, and he’s not following the noisy crowd. Nor is he playing louder in an attempt to be heard. In fact, he doesn’t seem concerned with being noticed for his talent. He’s found his own space, and he creates music because that’s what he does. It’s inside him. He may have dreams of playing in an orchestra someday, but whether that dream ever comes true or not, he’s a musician.

And a true musician will continue to play his instrument for the simple love of music.

12 Editing Tips for Writers

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Editing Tips
When it comes to writing and feedback, I’m always reminded of my grandma’s words: When yer eatin’ fried chicken, swallow dat meat and spit out them bones.

My grandma’s advice speaks to the truth of editing tips too. Swallow the meat and spit out the bones.

The following are twelve editing tips for writers. If any of these suggestions ring true, then great. But if any of the following suggestions don’t resonate with you, I believe you know what’s best for your process and your style. Pick and choose the approach that works best for you.

Writers are at their best when they’re trusting their instincts. <Tweet this!>

These twelve editing tips discuss when, where, and how to edit:

1. Begin the editing process with rest.

Once you’ve finished your writing project, put it away for a few days — or longer if possible. Don’t look at it. Go outside. Hang out with friends. Watch a football game. Engage your mind on something else. Then, when you return to the words on the page, you’re able to see your work with fresh eyes.

2. Schedule a time for editing.

Put it on your calendar. And enlist the support of those nearest you. When family and friends know we’re nearing the end of a writing project, it helps to have their support. This, of course, pertains to lengthier works. If it’s a shorter work, like a blog post, simply set aside a separate time to review it before publishing.

3. Sit in a location other than where you write.

This may not seem like a big deal, but editing is a different activity than writing. When we edit in a location that’s different than where we normally write, we’re alerting our subconscious to prepare for a different kind of mental endeavor.

4. Edit from a hard copy.

Yes, this requires the use of paper, but it’s more effective. When we read on a computer screen, our eyes are accustomed to scrolling quickly through the text. With a hard copy, each section is contained on a separate piece of paper. This helps us slow down and focus. We’re also less likely to tinker endlessly with cutting, pasting, and rearranging. We can write our editing notes in the margin and move on. We can recycle the paper when we’re finished.

5. Use a colored pen — preferably red.

English teachers are notorious for bleeding on essays with scathing red ink. In fact, some educators have suggested that red ink shouts at the reader, similar to the use of ALL CAPS. So I’ve tried editing in every color possible, and I’ve discovered that blue, purple, and brown ink pens don’t contrast enough with the black toner on the page. It’s easy to skip an editing comment when it’s so close in shade to the black toner. At the same time, most orange, pink, yellow, and green ink pens are too light. The eyes are forced to squint while deciphering the individual letters.

Red ink isn’t about shouting. It’s about contrast. Our eyes don’t have to strain as much to discern the red ink from the black toner.

6. Develop your own coding system.

Whether it’s a word that needs omitting or a letter that needs capitalizing, English teachers use a canonized set of symbols to indicate the specific change required in the text. But the actual symbols don’t matter as much as the meaning behind them. As long as you know what you mean when you mark your page, you can use whatever coding system you like.

7. Read your work aloud.

The importance of reading your work aloud cannot be stressed enough. This is one of the best techniques for catching your own errors. When you read aloud, mark every place where you stumble over the words. If you have to stop reading to figure out what you’re saying, then you can be sure your readers will too.

8. Read with a ruler under each line.

This may feel awkward at first. But we already know what comes next because we wrote it. Using a ruler helps us slow down and concentrate on one line at a time.

9. Read backward.

Again, this technique may feel weird. But if we read one sentence at a time, starting at the end and working our way backward, then we’re less likely to “hear” the content, and we can focus on the form.

10. Read a section at random.

Another way to pull ourselves out of the content is to randomly select a paragraph and examine the form. I’ve caught more typos and minor mistakes this way.

11. Focus on one editing technique at a time.

Either read with a ruler or read backward or read a random section. But don’t try to do all three in one sitting. Pick and choose. And spread it out.

12. Take planned breaks.

I prefer to work in long stretches of focused time, but after a few hours, my brain is tired, and I’m ready to stop editing for the day. So I’ve learned that I can prolong my productivity if I schedule intermittent breaks. For me, I try to walk away from my desk every sixty minutes or so. Even a five-minute break each hour can yield positive results. Oftentimes, my brain continues to mull over my current project while I take a walk outside. When I return to my editing desk, I’m ready to re-engage.

The editing process can be as unique to the writer as her voice and style. <Tweet this!>

So try a few different methods and see what works best for you.

 

What are your favorite tips for editing?

 

12 Editing Tips for Writers on the Allume blog today! <Tweet this!>

 

Responding to Irreverent Readers

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Responding to Irreverent Readers

I still remember the first time someone left a scathing comment on my blog.

I had written about an encounter I once had with a stubborn old man who lived in a briny mansion on the edge of the ocean.  His property was worth millions, but he clung to his decaying home and his view of the sea because it was worth more to him than all the money in the world.

My reader didn’t buy it.

How could I remember all the details of an event that happened nearly a decade ago, she demanded?  How could I recall the word-for-word conversation I had with a crusty old sailor about life and eternity?

I couldn’t have, she said.

I was a liar.

I had broken the sacred trust between author and audience.

She had lost all respect for me, and she didn’t hesitate to leave comments on all my social media sites telling my readers that I was a fraud. She would be unsubscribing from my blog and unfollowing me, but not before she took as many readers as she could with her.

It was a gut-punch. 

I was nauseous, hurt, confused, and angry all at the same time.  I could not comprehend how anyone could so misunderstand my intentions as a writer.  Never before had anyone reacted to my words with such vehemence.

I wrote five different responses to her comment, and deleted them all.  The first was sheer justification.  “Did you even read the story?” I demanded.  The second was an education on the art of writing and the definition of the word “true.”

By the time I got to the fifth response, God had done a work in me.  I ended up weeping for the woman who was so broken, she felt she had a right to break me too.

I realized then that writing, like any other ministry, means being vulnerable and more than a little exposed to criticism.  Most readers understand the kind of nakedness that comes with writing and respond accordingly.

But there are a few who see the written word as an open invitation to argue, berate, and even slander the author.  They read blogs not to learn, but to find fault.

If you blog for any amount of time, you are likely to encounter one of these broken people.  When that happens, it is helpful to keep the following in mind:

1)      Hurtful comments are not personal.

As much as you feel like you live your life out in print, irreverent readers often forget that writers are real people.  They use words in their comments that they would never have the audacity to say to you in person because they feel safe in the anonymity of cyberspace.

Strangely, they may also feel a sense of ownership over you and your words.  By virtue of their reading, they feel entitled to correct or rebuke you, demand information from you, or simply say whatever they want to you because, after all, you have said whatever you want to them.

Be very careful not to respond with similar forcefulness.  Remember what your insensitive reader forgot: the person on the other side of the screen is a real soul.  Handle it with care.

2)      Writing is a two-way relationship.

Unless the only words you write begin with the phrase, “Dear Diary,” your writing is one- half of the communication equation.  Your reader is the other half.

Some readers will get your message loud and clear.  Others may interpret your words in a way you never intended.   A few rare ones might not get past the title before they’ve condemned your piece as heresy.

Hold your words loosely.  Once they are out in public, they are not just yours anymore.  Do your best to write clearly and carefully, but be prepared for a variety of responses.  If you must correct misinterpretations, do so lovingly.   If you have a difference of opinion, state it respectfully.  And if all else fails, delete.

3)      Be teachable.

No writer is infallible.  As a community, sometimes, we mess it up.  We do not write lovingly or carefully.  We mislead.  We offend.  We slander.  If we write at all, it is almost guaranteed that at some point, we will write mistakes.  It doesn’t have to be intentional to be wrong.

If a reader calls attention to an error, whether technical, moral, or otherwise, do your best to make it right.  Apologize in the comments. Correct the error.  Strive to do better.

More than anything, learn to appreciate your readers’ input.  Consider each comment and search for the truth, even if you have to sift out the rude words.  Becoming a great writer often means listening to and learning from your worst critics.  Let their sharpness sharpen you.

If you write long enough, you’ll certainly encounter an irreverent reader or two.  If you respond to them correctly, those readers will only make you into a better writer.

Four Questions a Blog’s Home Page Should Answer

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Four Questions
Since I teach writing to college students, you would think that writing for a blog would be a natural fit.

After all, I love words. And I know the rules of grammar fairly well. How hard could it be?

Needless to say, when I started blogging five years ago, I committed just about every “blogging sin” possible.

  • I wrote long paragraphs.
  • I wrote even longer posts.
  • I followed all the grammar rules I learned in school.
  • I covered three to four different points in each post.
  • I neglected to engage my readers with a call to action.
  • And I never bothered to include a picture.

Basically, I treated online writing the same as regular writing — with black words on a white background. I didn’t see the need for a header or a tagline or even an About page. I’m a word-girl, so I wanted to write words. Lots and lots of words.

Yet, in my earnest effort to focus on the craft, I made the most critical error of all:
I failed to connect my words to a larger message.

Without a core message, our words float adrift on an endless sea of meaningless syllables.

As writers and bloggers, our words should have a destination. They need to lead somewhere.

This is why it’s so important for blog-writers to have a header and a tagline and an About page. A reader wants to know who we are and what we’re about and where we’re going.

As a reader, whenever I visit a blog for the first time, I instinctively ask the following four questions. And I look for the answers to these four questions on the home page, preferably “above the fold,” which means I shouldn’t have to scroll down in order to find the answers to these four questions.

1. What is this blog about?

The theme of a blog should be apparent. Is this a food blog? A DIY blog? A mommy blog? A faith blog?

Since our eyes are naturally drawn to the header across the top, it makes the most sense for our blog’s theme to be evident in the header. I realize, of course, that many bloggers (including myself) use our name for our blog’s domain. When this is the case, the tagline becomes especially important.

A reader should be able to glance at the top of a blog and know immediately what the blog is about.

2. Who is the writer behind these words?

When I started blogging, I loathed the idea of putting a picture of myself on my blog, much less any information about me. I wanted my blog to be about the writing, not about me. It dawned on me, though, that when words are divorced from the context of the writer, they are nothing more than mere words.

A person and a person’s words are inseparable. How can I expect a reader to take my words to heart if I’m not willing to put a face to mine?

Every blog should have an About page that introduces the writer. However, it’s wise to briefly introduce yourself on the home page too. The sidebar is a good place for this. Then invite your readers to learn more about you by providing a link to your About page.

3. Why should I come back?

This is the most important question every first-time reader asks, and it’s the content of our writing that makes a reader come back.

A blog is more than an online writing space. It’s a doorway into a writer’s life.
<Tweet this!>

With a blog, we can share our lives and experiences. We can encourage others who may be in similar situations. We can help people know they’re not alone.

Readers come back when they feel like they connect with the writer and they benefit from the writing. <Tweet this!>

4. How can I subscribe?

If we want our readers to come back, then we need to invite them to join us on our writing journeys. So we should make subscribing easy.

For further connection, invite your readers to connect with you through Twitter or Facebook or whichever social media venue works best for you.

Blogging is at its best when it’s about connecting with people through great messages. <Tweet this!>

●  ●  ●  ●  ●

As a writer, my own blogging journey meandered awhile. And that’s okay too. But once I was able to address these four questions on my blog, my online writing experienced a major course correction. And my blog-writing all of the sudden had a defined destination.

Does your blog answer these four questions on your home page?

How to Write Your Story

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How to Write Your Story - Allume
Many bloggers venture into this online space because they have a story to tell.

So if you’re interested in blogging your story, here are some tips on how to write your story.

First you’ll want to determine your borders. Then you’ll want to use the three-pronged approach to story-crafting.

Determine Your Borders

For most writers, getting started is the hardest part. Beginning a new writing project is like trying to hold a blob of JELL-O in our hands. It’s shapeless and messy. And we can easily become overwhelmed at trying to figure out how to contain it. So our first order of business is to determine our content and give it some borders.

To get started, think of the individual “scenes” from your story that you might want to include. Sketch a short list of these scenes. Then select one scene. In other words, select a part of your story that happened in one location on the same day.

By drawing these parameters and working with one scene at a time, we can avoid becoming overwhelmed by the enormity of the entire writing project.

Use the Three-Pronged Approach to Story-Crafting

In the literary world, every written work can be categorized as either fiction or nonfiction — except personal narratives. They’re a literary breed of their own, and they employ the techniques of both fiction and nonfiction.

A personal narrative must read like a novel with an overarching theme. It has all the elements of fiction — characters, setting, plot, conflict, and resolution — except that it’s a true story. Since personal narratives tell a true story, they should follow the same three-pronged approach to story-crafting.

The three ways to present a story are 1) description, 2) dialogue, and 3) narration.

The difference between description and narration lies in the advancement of the plot. When we describe, we stop to notice what the setting or a character looks like. When we narrate, we move the storyline along by showing what happens next.

1. Description

When describing, include the five senses: sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch.

Who is in this scene?
Where does this scene take place?
When does this scene take place?
What is happening in the scene?

To craft a well-written story, we want to follow the advice: Show. Don’t tell.

The “sin of telling” is least probable in dialogue.
The “sin of telling” occurs most often in description and narration.

If a sentence begins with one of the following constructions, then it’s likely a “telling” statement. Scan your writing for any sentences that begin with these phrases. Then try to rewrite them.

It is/was . . .
It has . . .
There is/was . . .
There are/were . . .
There has/have . . .
I remember when . . .
I remember that . . .
She is/was . . .
He is/was . . .

2. Dialogue

When writing dialogue, aim for a conversational sound. People don’t usually speak in complete sentences. Most people talk in fragments, so our dialogue should reflect the way people actually talk.

Let your characters speak. Allow your readers to follow your story by listening to the conversations that take place.

3. Narration

To write your personal narrative, choose the following two things:

  • your point of view
  • the tense you will use

For point of view, some narrators have the ability to know the thoughts of other characters in the story, but since you’re a character in your own story, it’s more realistic if you present your story from your own perspective. So be careful not to “head hop” and portray other characters from their perspective.

For tense, you need to decide if you will write your story in the present tense or past tense. Obviously your story took place in the past, so you might automatically begin writing in the past tense. But remember that your reader is experiencing your story for the first time. It might help your reader feel like she is “in the moment with you” if you write your story in the present tense.

For the Blogger

If you’re a blogger who writes DIY kinds of posts, many of these same tips apply.

It’s important for all bloggers to determine the borders of each post. Containing a post to one singular focus helps our readers to follow a consistent train of thought. It’s also helpful when bloggers include descriptive words regarding sight and sound and touch. This helps our readers visualize what we’re saying.

And if you’re a blogger who wishes to write your story, I want to encourage you. Your story matters. Try some of these tips. See what works for you. And no matter what, don’t give up.

What are some of your favorite writing tips?

Tips on How to Write Your Story @Allume <Tweet this!>

When Your Voice is an Idol

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We spend more time analyzing ourselves than ever before. With the rapid expansion of social media and technology, we live in a world constantly bombarded with self.

Which profile picture will I use for my avatar? What do my liked pages say about me? What interests do I showcase that make me look good?

We live in a culture that capitalizes on more than our personal tastes, it capitalizes on our persona, our brand. 

Whether it’s the TV shows we like, the books we read, the stores we frequent, or the places we go, there is a growing desire to share bits of who we are with others. You can tweet during your favorite shows, share excerpts of the books you read, capture your pumpkin spice latte and map your location down to your favorite neighborhood Starbucks.

Some would argue that this narcissistic bent is why connection is often difficult, why comparison and insecurity arise when everyone else’s Instagrams are so much cooler than yours, because you never eat watermelon in cowboy boots and a floral dress whilst leaning over a vintage table with the perfect yesteryear wash bathing the photo in golden hues. You just stand at the counter in your faded yoga pants and spit seeds into the garbage pail next to the pile of dirty dishes you have yet to get to.

And maybe you’re doing it wrong. Maybe the life you live is less than. Or maybe you are the girl with the cute boots and impeccable taste Instagramming away your seamless life? Even you know there’s more to your story than the pictures you share.

default of the heart

But social media or not, I think the human heart always seeks to compare. Our default is to be concerned and consumed by our own glory. If ever there were an idol of our times in the blog world, I believe it is our voice. Our need to always be heard saying something.

There are the shock value bloggers capitalizing on every current event, every controversial divisive line needing to be parsed and severed and inspected with scathing sarcasm and open letter rants.

There is the desire for our words to reach further, to impact more, to challenge or encourage or matter. But there is a grace-less way about always needing to have our voice heard. And there is the quiet despair for those who faithfully share their voice and stories to the humble reception of silence and wonder if they matter at all.

We gather at conferences and wonder about the elevator speeches we’re supposed to prepare summarizing who we are and what we offer. And sometimes I think we’re too practiced at saying all the right things that we never stop to listen.

Because at the heart of it all, we tie our performance with words and platform and branding to our worth. If our story doesn’t matter, maybe we don’t either?

And I know I’m not the only one, but I’m tired of it.  I’ve felt the sticky fingered lure of candy coating what is, at it’s core, pride. The syrupy tongued words that pave the way to a bigger audience have sent me writhing back to silence, like a child found in bloated emptiness amid a flurry of candy wrappers the day after Halloween.

I’m an advocate for story because I believe the word of God’s people, the testimony of His beloved brings glory to Him, connection to the body, and light in the darkness but there will always be the temptation to focus so much on ourselves, our story, our path, our contribution to this writing world, that we forget that to live a good story, we’d be wise to listen and slow to speak.

Because grace happens in the pauses, when we stop to soak in words that are not our own. We live better questions when we stop reciting what we have to offer and start to champion other people’s voices. Start to believe in the storyteller who’s writing our moments with a master’s precision. When we find our humanity not just in the words we craft but also in the words we cultivate. When we worry less about our own voices being heard and allow God to speak.

crafting words

 I will always champion God’s people using their voice, but let us also learn to hold our tongues and listen with bold ears and hearts wide open, and maybe then, God will speak and our words will be tinged with grace, soothing to our souls, and full of life.

Worth Tasting

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Worth Tasting

My college professor spread out our creative writing papers before her like a feast.  The sight of 12-point font made her eyes sparkle like Thanksgiving china.  When she took a paper up in her hands, she read it with the expectation that something in it was going to be worth tasting.

Miss Williams loved words.  She delighted in the way you could mix them up and create something so profound, it lingered on your tongue for days.  She read our own words back to us, slowly savoring the sentences  in her mouth and searching for the tasty bits of well-turned phrases and clever dialogue that clung to our unpracticed writing like bits of bacon.

“Oh, Lawd!  Oh, sweet Jesus,” Miss Williams said when the words tasted so good, it was like chocolate. “Girl…hmmm…I gotta read that again.”   And she would, double-dipping without an ounce of shame.

Sometimes, one of us nailed it.  When that happened, well, we may as well have served her warm cherry pie with vanilla ice cream dripping off the sides because she was going to eat every crumb, and lick the plate besides.

“Bless me,” she said when everything was cleared away and grades were scribbled at the tops of pages and she was wiping her eyes because she was so full, it squeezed the tears right out of her.

If you’ve ever made anyone cry over the stuff you put down between one-inch margins, you know it feels like being the person who brings homemade Butterscotch Blondies to the church potluck, only better.  It’s like being the caramel sauce. 

I thought I was the caramel sauce, too, until I found my old writing folder from Miss Williams’s class.  I was horrified to read through my final class project and find a typo right there on page two.  I wanted to call her up and yell, “You gave me an A+ when I had a typo on page two?!”

But I knew what she would say.  She would say that it was Mrs. Johnson’s fault I had a typo on page two because Mrs. Johnson taught grammar, not she.

Mrs. Williams’s singular job was to teach us how to cook up a good story.

“The hardest thing about being a writer is not remembering where to put the commas!” she’d say in class, suffering a plastic desk to carry the weight of her bosom as she leaned into her tirade.  “The hardest part about being a writer is writing.  You have got to get over the fear of putting words on paper imperfectly.  Perfect writing is just imperfect writing that has had practice.”

It’s too bad because I always liked perfection more than I liked practice.

“Nonsense,” Miss Williams said whenever I hesitated to show her my half-cooked words.  “We’re just tasting as we go, that’s all.  It’s the only way to make sure it turns out right.”

It was agony.  I auto-corrected in my mind as the words came off my lips, but Miss Williams wasn’t listening for dangling prepositions.  She was savoring the words and anticipating the way it was going to come together in the end as if she could taste it, even when there was nothing in the pan but baking soda and flour.

Always, Miss Williams made me feel like it was better to have something imperfect on my page than nothing at all. Because Miss Williams loved words, even words that needed a little bit of stirring before they were done.

When my final story came of the printer, hot and smelling of ink, it was exactly what Miss Williams hoped it would be.  She licked the plate and scribbled A+ on the top, not because it was perfect, but because it was good.

It can be crippling, knowing people are reading my work who might not love words the way Miss Williams did, the kind that pick at words instead of tasting them.

I encountered one such person recently.  She believes that writers are so uneducated and lazy these days, she stops reading as soon as she finds one mistake.  She says she can’t take a writer seriously after that.

One mistake. 

I agonized over her statement for days because that’s the kind of thing that keeps my pages blank.  That’s the part that makes writing hard, when I can’t start because I’m afraid of failure or what other people will think or whether I’ll end up with burnt oatmeal instead of strawberry crepes.

Because I have a typo on page two.  There is probably another one on page five.

But there is bacon on page three and caramel sauce on page four and it is worth putting the words on the page even if not everyone is willing to read along while you learn how to do it better.  It is worth the try because excellence doesn’t come without practice and practice doesn’t happen without mistakes. 

But there are always people like Miss Williams who will think it’s worth tasting, burned edges and all.

The Seasons of a Dream

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I’ve neglected my children.

I made allowances for my need to write, to follow hard after dreams. But I’ve done it all wrong.

Because a vacancy moved into their lives as the rabbit’s hole of my laptop screen beckoned and swallowed me up.

But didn’t my ministry and passion need to be tended too? The reading and interacting. The tweets and status updates and link-ups. The silence and time to write.

It seemed I killed my blog just when I was seeing fruit. Just when I had built up subscribers and was feeling like the hard work was paying off.

God was being glorified, right? This is after all, the dream He gave me. The call I was responding to. The call I felt God confirmed in so many different ways. 

She told me I have the potential to be great. That I’ve got a voice and skill and passion and that if I learned to combine those with a little direction, I could really rock this whole writer thing. Maybe get published and have a real book on a real shelf instead of piles of journals stacked in old boxes in the garage.

She said that as an encouragement to me, her eyes warm and expressive, the kind that make you nod like a puppy and lap up anything she says, because after all, she is living this dream. And when my feet finally landed back on earth, I was giddy with dreams I’d always held but never dared speak aloud.

I wanted to rip her words from the air and type them into a crisp contract I could present to God to sign.

After all, everything I’m passionate about, everything that makes my fingers fly at the keyboard, everything that inspires me and draws me out to splash around on a canvas of words starts with God’s glorious inspiration.

The breathing of words and story into the wounds of my past, the joys of my present, the fears in my moments, and the dreams of my future. It only seemed right that any platform built is going to shine directly on Him.

 But I couldn’t get past the Holy Spirits prompting that I was getting it wrong. Again.

I’ve found myself failing at the dream.

The time to write and pour myself into this ministry of words is spotty at best. The time to invest in those dreams, spaced and erratic.

And the kids are ready to be tucked in and pleading for one more story and I’ll lay there resenting my time  being used up on another rendition of “If You Give A Mouse a Muffin.”

Bed time

Because I feel like the poor child in the story, being overrun with requests, each one leading to another. If you put your child in pajamas, they will decide they only want to wear the batman ones, and you will remember those are in the wash, so you will bribe him with another story, and if you read him another story, he will fall asleep on you, so you will have to carry him to his bed, and if you carry him to his bed, he will wake up and want another story…

And I’ve bought into the urgency of now.

I see other bloggers succeeding, and I know they deserve it, but I’m also grieving and feeling left out.

I can’t keep up with the pace or demands of blogging, and mothering, and homeschooling, and ministry, and mentoring, and being a good wife. If you add in showering, cooking, and keeping house, you have the trifecta of failure.

I’m looking for dead weight to cut and I see nothing but my words. So the blog often goes silent. And numbers dive.

And I’m mourning the dream, pity washing over me when I remember, “It’s not a loss, it’s a sacrifice.”

It is laying my dreams and promises of God on the altar, trusting that in His time He will provide.

It is trusting that the path I’m on isn’t a race to the finish line but a slow steady obedience, each step moving me forward closer to Him, where dreams are birthed. It is trusting that blogs can be resurrected from the dead or slaughtered completely and it makes no difference as long as I’m faithful.

I have friends waiting on the Lord. Bleary-eyed new mothers craving a full nights sleep and shirts free from spit-up and days when they’ll have the energy to fix their hair again. Women facing vacant rooms in a once loud house, longing for Thanksgiving break, knowing  their kids will be visiting instead of just home. Friends who long for things I so easily take for granted, when kids climb up onto my lap asking for more of mommy.

I forget God created seasons. We brush past eternity every time we stop to really see where God is in each one. And that, when we choose what might seem like a sacrifice, it’s not a loss at all, because nothing is lost which is released into His hands.

Just a Mother

By

Spiritual act of worship

You are standing in the kitchen in the same sweat pants you went to bed in, trying to figure out how to feed the kids from the nothing that is in the fridge.  Real mothers go to the grocery store, you think, but you don’t know how to fit one more thing into your day, and you can’t help but feel a little sorry for yourself that the most exciting thing you’ve done all week is run to Walmart.

It seems like such a waste.  Anybody can go to Walmart.  Anybody can change a diaper.

But within your heart burns the desire to do more for God, to use the gifts he has given you.  You can write!  And you long to build a blog that is noteworthy, post something profound, or write something that will impact people beyond just your immediate family—and then cast the whole lot at the feet of Jesus so you can hear him say, “Well done.”

But here you are, smearing peanut butter and folding laundry, diligently raising up a kingdom of priests, which most days, looks like nothing more than refereeing fights and wiping noses with a Bible verse thrown in for good measure.

It is a struggle just to put two words together on a page, in between the churning of the washing machine and the roar of the minivan.  You feel that if you could just get your act together, maybe you’d have something more for to show for your talent then an inconsistent smattering of blog posts.

This is not real writing, you think, especially when your news feed is filled with the latest blog posts and book contracts your writer friends are managing to pull off in their spare time.

Everybody, it seems, has better and brighter gifts to offer.  They’re hauling grass-fat lambs into the temple to sacrifice and you’re standing there with a gaggle of kids around your legs and a pigeon in your hands.  You feel insignificant, foolish, and offering-poor. 

Just a mother. 

Do you think God wishes you could somehow manage to be more than that?

You know he does.

But you are wrong.

He sees the selfless acts of motherhood as an act of worship, a sacrifice holy and pleasing to him.  The daily mundane that keeps you from doing anything truly impressive, is an act of worship.  Knees to the ground, head in your hands, eyes on the kids worship.

It is the worship of a heart surrendered to the will of God, the will of God that made you a mother in the first place.  It is the soft submission of a woman who could do so many things, but chooses first to pour her life into her husband and children because she knows nothing else in this life is as important.  Not blog posts.  Not book contracts.

Just motherhood. 

It doesn’t look like glorious.  But then, true worship rarely does.  The right-ness of the priority and the sacrifice it requires does not lend itself to notice.  It will not catch a publisher’s eye or help to build a prosperous writing ministry, at least, not in the little years.  In fact, it can keep you from doing anything else as well as you can.    

And like Cain, you fight against it sometimes because that kind of sacrifice doesn’t showcase your strengths.  You begin to believe that God can’t really want what he’s asked of you.  Surely, he must want something more because you want to give something more.

He doesn’t.

The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit;

a broken and contrite heart you will not despise.

Psalm 51:17

Your offering, small though it may seem, is exactly what God wants of you.  And when the needs of your family push the words aside, God notices, and he breathes in the offering and counts it as worship.

Every extra bedtime story that steals away time for writing, every sick child that keeps important thoughts from being written, every dinner that is lovingly served to picky eaters when you could be doing things to build your name—all of it is known and accepted by Him just as if you had loaded up the altar with twenty-five best-sellers all dedicated to Jesus.

With what shall I come to the LORD

And bow myself before the God on high?

Shall I come to Him with burnt offerings,

With yearly calves?

Does the LORD take delight in thousands of rams,

In ten thousand rivers of oil?

He has told you, O man, what is good,

And what does the LORD require of you

But to do justice, and to love mercy,

And to walk humbly with your God.

Micah 6:6-7a, 8

When all you have to offer God is the daily task of working at home and humbly raising the children God has given you, know it is an offering pleasing to God.  Even when blog posts don’t get written and you postpone that book proposal yet again and all you are all day is just a mother, know this: he is more than satisfied with the offering. 

He is delighted.  

To Grapple with the Mystery

By

 

Isaiah 55:8

She was far enough along to know it was a boy.  The softening of her figure and the growing roundness of her belly made her look more like a girl than a woman who had endured the slow passing of a childless womanhood.

They named him, this little Isaac-baby, conceived after she had stopped hoping, years after she had realized that motherhood would be the thing that separated her from all the other married women she knew.   Motherhood, she had come to realize, was something she would never have.

But then, there was a strange illness and a doctor’s appointment and the most marvelous, incomprehensible news of all—after all this time, a baby was growing inside her barren womb. 

Her father—Grandpa!—could not hold back the grin.  The proud Italian immigrant called the baby Primo, meaning “The First.”

It was this grandpa who called to tell me that the doctors had seen something.   There was a problem with the baby’s heart, they thought, and he wanted us to pray.

But we didn’t get very long to pray.  A second call told me it was too late.  The baby had died.

This father’s voice broke on the phone because he was going to have to take his grown-up baby girl in to the hospital to labor and deliver a baby that would not cry or kick or nuzzle to her breast.  He would be born, this miracle baby, and she would hold him and memorize his face and marvel at his fingers and kiss his toes just like any mother would, but then the nurses would come and softly ask her if she was ready, and they would take her baby forever away.

I wept.  I wept for the little baby and I wept for my friend.  I wept because I didn’t understand.  This was not how the story was supposed to go.  How could God do something like this?  How could He open a womb, make a woman into a mother, and then take it all back except the part of her heart that could never be put back

“It would have been better if…,” I cried.

But I couldn’t finish that thought because to finish the thought would be to say something that wasn’t true.

It would not have been better if he had never been created because it is no small thing to make a woman into a mother.

So I sat in the church looking at the flowers the baby’s mother had made for her own son’s funeral, and I had no words.  Nothing I could say could make it right.  How desperately I wished God would show His hand, would reveal the sweet redemption behind this awful cross.  I wanted her to have the decency of an answer to the excruciating question of why it was okay for God to open her womb to fill heaven.

Even now, as I write the story, I long to tell you how it all came out right in the end.  But I haven’t written the story before now because there is no happy ending, not yet.  And the un-doneness of it rubs my heart raw because I want to be able to tell you how my God fixed this.

Only He hasn’t.  

My pen trembles to write the words, as if it is sacrilegious to say so, but there it is, all the same.  It is a great mystery, a question I can’t answer.  I do not understand why God did what He did.  

But the more I read of the Biblical struggles of life and death, the more I have come to believe that it’s okay to say so.  It’s okay to write in the midst of the confusion and to pen the stories that don’t tie up neatly in the end.  It is okay to shout, “I do not understand!” and to ask the questions that don’t seem to have answers.

Because that is life.

God is silent, sometimes, and mysterious and incomprehensible, and we write fiction if we write away all the tension that comes with that unknowing.  Some things in life are a mystery, and hurting people need to see that we get it, that we can look pain square in the face without numbing it with platitudes. 

Life can take the breath right out of you because it is terrible-hard, sometimes.  We should not pretend otherwise.  If we do, we miss the opportunity to minster to another mother who needs to know that her baby mattered.  She needs to know that his life was not without meaning and purpose on this side of eternity.  She needs to know that somewhere, another woman understands what is like to be forever changed by a person she never met.  She needs to understand that her baby is worth grieving over like a real person, because he was.

She does not need the why.

It helps enough to know that someone else has grappled with the mystery.

 

How Writers Can Overcome Fear with One Word

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Writers overcome their fears when they do one thing: Begin

My daughter grips the handle bars of her new bike — the kind without training wheels. With consternation and dread, she stands motionless on the sidewalk while the other kids ride their bicycles up and down our street.

Fear holds her back.

“Explain it to me again,” she asks.

But we’ve already given explanations and demonstrations. We’ve even promised to run beside her and hold her bike upright. It’s time for her to pedal. No one can do this for her.

When it comes to riding a bike, we learn by doing.

It’s the same with writing too.

We can observe great writing in others. We can listen to good advice about the craft. We can accumulate lists of dos and don’ts. But until we push a pen across paper, we’re merely gathering information.

We learn to write by writing. This sounds simple enough. But our fears paralyze us. Only it’s not a scraped knee we’re worried about.

We’re afraid of looking foolish.
We’re afraid of using incorrect grammar.

We’re afraid our work will bore readers.
We’re afraid our work won’t have any readers.

We’re afraid we’ll be misunderstood.
We’re afraid we’ll be understood but not liked.

These fears have one thing in common: They might come true.

But we’ll never know unless we begin.

We may think our words don’t mean much. But our words matter. Our stories matter. And a writer must be faithful in the telling. Maya Angelou once said:

“There is no greater agony
than bearing an untold story inside you.”

Are you carrying an untold story?

Would your story bless someone else?

Is fear holding you back?

 

If we could meet in a café and talk about writing, I’d tell you this:

 

  • Never let the fear of incorrect grammar hinder you from expressing your ideas. Yes, good grammar is important, but it’s reserved for the later stages of editing. For now, just write.
  • Let the writing flow from the deepest places inside you. Reveal the real you. Readers connect with humanity, not perfection.
  • Embrace the process as much as the final product. Through the act of writing, we acquire a deeper understanding of ourselves and the world around us. Take your readers on this journey with you.
  • Allow yourself to “fail,” and view each “failure” as a chance to grow and learn. No one ever achieves mastery on a first try. And if they did, no one else would be able to relate.
  • Keep writing. There’s mystery in momentum. Once we begin, we can usually find the next step, even when we’ve yet to uncover the final destination.

How Writers Can Overcome Fear: BEGIN

When it comes to writing, we’re halfway finished the moment we begin. Because getting started is the hardest part. It requires pushing past the fear.

My daughter discovers this same truth when she finally starts to pedal. At first, her slowness of speed threatens to topple her balance. So she has two choices. Either pedal faster. Or quit.

She soon hears the neighbors cheer.

“Keep going! You can do it!”

With her fears hanging on the verge of fruition, she leans forward and pedals faster. The momentum begins to work in her favor, and she feels the rush of wind against her cheeks. Shrieks of wild delight can be heard around the cul-de-sac.

I’m left standing in the street, breathless and panting and smiling at another milestone marked.

Will she ever fall and get hurt?

She might. But we remove the might — the power — from fear when we stop worrying about what might happen.

Will our words ever meet with disappointment?

They might. But they might also bring sheer bliss as we lean forward with fingers flying across keys.

Fear loses its stranglehold when writers refuse to let hypothetical scenarios dictate their destiny.

Writers can overcome the manacles of “maybe” and “might” when they choose to do one thing: Begin.

 

Do you have an untold story inside you?

What fears are preventing you from writing?

 

TWEETABLES:

“When it comes to writing, we’re halfway done the moment we begin.”  <Tweet this!>

“We remove the might—the power—from fear when we stop worrying about what ‘might’ happen.”  <Tweet this!>

“Writers overcome the manacles of ‘maybe’ and ‘might’ when they do one thing: Begin.”  <Tweet this!>

 

Ready to push past fear and begin writing?

Practical writing tips on how to get started are
HERE and HERE.

 

Ripening or Replicating: How are we growing as writers?

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When I first started blogging, I often heard,” Don’t compare your middle to someone else’s end.“  This was usually said at conferences by bloggers with platforms, RSS feeds bursting with subscribers, and years of experience being social media ninjas. As someone just starting out, I’d look at my one or two comments and think, I’m just not there yet, with yet being the operative word.

If I’d started in 2006 when the competition and noise on the internet felt more like the mingling at a cocktail party than an olympic stadium with the roar of the crowd drowning out the clacking of my keys, then I’d be further along too. I’d scribble the line in my notebook, or tweet it to my 25 followers, nodding my head because everyone knows comparison in blogging will make you . Once you go down that path, you may as well break out the duct tape to gag and bind yourself, because it’s pretty hard to write authentically while trying to replicate someone else’s success.

So I’d plod along faithfully, wrestling contentment down with each post, imagining when my “end” would come and I’d have arrived. When I could count myself a writer. Maybe get a book published or reach a certain number of subscribers. When I’d be the one dispensing anecdotes about the good old days of blogging and tips for building your platform. I’d dream of a time when my voice would matter.

 We often think of growth as a linear thing.

We back kids against door frames and etch pencil scratches along the years as the tops of their head stretch upward from chubby thighed toddlers to gangly teens. Failure to thrive would be, well, failure.  We think of growth as the raise you get after each faithful year on the job or the beater car with the tricky alternator that turns into the minivan or new SUV as each new child comes along. The dorm room of your college years to the 4 bedroom 3 and one half bath home with the wrap-around porch.  Growth means bigger, and bigger means better.

But what if growth isn’t always linear?

What if my end never looks like theirs because my journey isn’t taking me in that direction? What if growth was less about replicating and more about ripening ? Less about measuring up and more about pouring out?

file000986939609

Because lately, I’ve been looking down the road and I don’t see the horizon brimming with the things I once thought I was headed for. Even the things I thought I wanted. And I’m realizing there is a great freedom in that. That in my corner of the internet, my words are enough, no matter how small.

I feel a collective pull of my writer friends, back into their lives, to write what they love, not just what gets tweeted or shared. There is a dedication to the seeking of words and story and truth that all writers wrestle with, but there is a calm too.

So many of us, who started with God sized Dreams of doing the big things, have learned that God works those out in the small things. That growth often comes in the deep blush of fruit swollen and ripe, and not just the arching branches seen from miles away saluting the skies. It comes in tiny rings spreading modestly across a trunk year after year, no more than the width of a fingernail. It comes in pruning season and it comes in harvest. It comes in roots grown wide and long under scorched earth, seeking out water and life and bedrock with which to sustain it’s might.

We don’t always see it. We just sink our teeth in, letting the juice gush lavishly down our chins, we taste and know it’s good.

psalm 348

On Pancakes And Perseverance

By

pancake_Allume

For years I couldn’t make a decent pancake. I could grill picture perfect steaks and bake bread that could amaze, but pancakes were impossible.

It’s been nearly 14 years since I first tried to make a pancake, and I can’t believe I am saying this, but it’s only been in the last 3 years that I have at last conquered pancake making with both consistency and near perfection.

The other night, I stood flipping my practically perfect pancakes, considering how a couple of years ago, I  had found the whole process so frustrating that I wanted to quit trying.

One day, probably at the request of one of my children, I got out the pan and tried again. I hovered anxious the whole time. I watched each bubble form on the upside of every pancake. I read and re-read the directions, while muttering prayers to  finally get this right.

And then, as if I’d been doing it my whole life, they turned out perfectly.

This is both a small miracle and also?–the fruit of perseverance.

I’ve thought about that moment repeatedly, trying to figure out why it took me so long to get such a simple meal right. Afterall, in the last 14 years I’ve prepared and cooked much more challenging dishes, so why was this one so relentlessly hard for me?

Here’s what learned:

Pancakes are a somewhat delicate food. Too long in the pan (by a mere matter of seconds) and they turn too dark and tough. Not enough time in the pan and they are gooey and raw inside, which is plain nasty.

For me, I needed to find the balance. I started with my cooking temperature. I discovered that for the particular pan I like for cooking pancakes, there is only one very specific setting the burner can be on. One notch higher, and the pancakes are impossible, every time. Once I figured this out, the pancakes were at least fully cooked (score!).

After fine-tuning my cooking temp, I discovered that while my pancakes were thoroughly cooked, they were too thick and not “floppy” enough. This I recognized was not a heat issue, but a batter problem. For years I hadn’t been stirring the batter enough. Because my cookbook cautions over mixing, I erred on the side of super-lumpy-barely-mixed. Again, crappy pancakes.

It turned out that my batter needed a more vigorous blending, and actually requires (sometimes) a splash or two more milk than the recipe calls for.

That’s it. Perfect pancakes. Every time.

And it only took 10 years of practice.

As I reflected on all of this, I saw the parallel to my writing journey. Even the very best writers “burned a few pancakes” when they first started writing. Writing is a gift, but also a skill to be honed and tweaked over time.

All serious writers learn the necessity and value of perseverance. <–tweet this

It takes practice and evaluation of our work to make it better. When something isn’t working, we go back to the beginning and look at where we went wrong. Maybe the words need to rest longer on the page before being served up. Maybe we’ve gone overboard on the salt and we need to add a bit more sugar. Maybe it works with oil, but tastes better when you use applesauce instead.

The thing about writing is, that while there is a basic formula for good story telling, there is always room to tweak the technique. Sometimes, more than anything, we just need a lot of practice–maybe even more than we think. On the surface, writing seems easy enough. But when you read writing that seems easy, you’re reading the work of a gifted, practiced writer. That’s what good writers do–make it seem easy. 

So get back to the desk. Sit down and start again. Read the words of those who have done this before. Tweak your methods. Believe that eventually, your perseverance will pay off. And pray–ask God to equip you for the task He’s called you to.

For some great books on writing check out a few of my favorites, Stephen King’s On Writing, Ann Lamott’s Bird By Bird, Luci Shaw’s Breath For The Bones, and Madeline L’engle’s Walking on Water. These are just a few brilliant writers who make it look easy, but in reality persevered through many a burned pancake.

So tell me, how are you at making pancakes? 

Why You Should Share The Stories That Scare You

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write scary

Ann Lamott says that “we write to expose the unexposed”.  For some writers, this may not be all that difficult. Some people are naturally good at sharing the sensitive underbelly of life, without getting tangled up in fear and apprehension about how these delicate subjects will be received. I’m not really talking to those writers today.

These words here, are for those of us who are afraid to tell the stories that rattle around inside of us. Consider this your pep-talk, I’m going to tell you why it’s okay tell the stories that scare you.

I think it’s fair to say that we are all living with stories we haven’t told yet, most of us, are not as transparent as we want to think we are, and to some extent, this is good. Not every story can or should be shared in the public arena, and discernment makes a wise and responsible writer. Unfortunately, determining which stories we can (or should) share is not black and white. I have seen writers catch all maner of flack for telling stories, others didn’t believe they had the right to tell–and the plain and simple truth is, we are responsible for the words we share, and how we share them.

But what about the stories we can share, but we’re afraid to? Does it matter if we keep them to ourselves?

Yes. It does.

God cares more about our stories than we might think. This recently came to my attention as I was looking back over the landscape of my life. There are stories in my past that scare me. They remind me of a time when I was less spiritually healthy, when I was fumbling through dark rooms, hiding in corners and suffering in shame. These are moments I’d prefer not to recount. Why would I tell these stories? What good could come of it?

These are the questions I asked God, as I felt Him nudging me to tell these stories. I begged Him not to make me, but through His gentle, yet persistent prodding, He led me to open up.

And almost immediately, He revealed the purpose behind sharing the scary truths–healing. 

In her book, Bird By Bird, Ann Lamott says this:

If there is one door in the castle you have been told not to go through, you must. Otherwise you’ll just be rearranging furniture in rooms you’ve already been in. Most human beings are dedicated to keeping that one door shut. But the writers job is to see what’s behind it, to see the bleak unspeakable stuff, and to turn the unspeakable into words–not just any words but if we can, into rhythm and blues.

That’s exactly what I’d been doing. I’ve spent years of my life, shuffling the uncomfortable stories of my life around, covering them with table cloths and fake flowers, keeping the curtains drawn tight, so that I wouldn’t have to examine them in full light.

But God is light, and the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it (John 1:5 NIV). God wanted to heal me and in order to do so, I had to be willing to push back the curtains–to share the scary stories. What the enemy intends for harm, the Lord uses for good. (Genesis 50:20)

Our scary stories lose their power to torment us once we allow God to redeem them. <–Click to tweet

As writers, our willingness to expose the uglier experiences of our lives opens the doors for healing, not just our own, but often for our readers as well. 

The next time that scary memory re-surfaces, don’t be so quick to shove it back into the corner of your mind. Perhaps the Lord is prompting you, cracking the door a bit to let some light in.

Hold your story out to Him, ask Him for wisdom–He will tell you what to do.

 

 

Bread and Crumbs

By

Enough

I should be networking, I know.  That’s what people do at writing conferences.  They network.  They do not slink away to their cars when no one is looking.

I stare at my reflection in the window and chastise myself for not being a better faux extrovert.

That’s when I see her, a middle-aged woman hiding out in a red minivan some spaces away.  I peer at her because it’s okay to spy on people if you’re a writer.

She does not see me, but I notice the anxious wrinkles that spread across the bridge of her nose and grip her blue eyes in their hold.  She clutches a stack of papers in her ringed hands.  They are the hands of a woman who has held a lover and bathed children and coaxed shadow-thoughts into words in the dark of the night while the children were sleeping and the dishes were growing crusty in the sink.

Everything she has ever written has come down to this: a book proposal and a fifteen-minute time slot with a literary agent carved into an afternoon of sessions on how to be a better writer.  It’s an opportunity she plunked down fifteen dollars for and then cried about, as if this dream of hers wasn’t worth fifteen dollars and a trip to Portland to go to a writer’s conference where she might learn she’s not even a real writer.

Uncertainty wears so heavy on her face, I can feel it from three cars over.  Her eyes stumble over every double-spaced word, even though it is too late to change anything.  It is printed.  It is done.  But she can’t stop chewing on the words, churning them over in her brain to quell the gnawing in her stomach.

She is hungry for this. 

The realization startles me because I am hungry too, and I see on her face everything I see in my reflection.  Just three cars over is another sword-slinger, another wordsmith, another hopeful.  Just three cars over is a woman who wants this just as much as I do and possibly deserves it even more.

I feel a certain seizing in my heart, the kind I felt when I stumbled across a very successful blog and realized the author was someone I vaguely remembered from college, someone who didn’t even major in writing,  someone who had the audacity to say she never intended to be a successful blogger.  It just sort of happened.  Accidentally. 

How nice.

I read through her words and searched her blog, first looking for errors to feed my jealousy and then searching for crumbs to satisfy my longing.  Maybe she would remember me and read my blog and share it with her ample readers and then, then…

…then maybe I would get a piece of that bread that seems to be in short supply.

It hit me then, when the gritty crumb melted into my tongue and I groveled around in the dirt with the dogs, waiting for something to drop, that there is nothing under the table that is not more readily available around it. 

He whispered to me, “I broke my body to feed you, Child.  I will not let you go hungry.”

Bread and Crumbs

I glance back at the woman.  We are a part of a community of those who can get so busy talking about bread that we forget there is plenty to eat.  We are hungry.

And in our minds, God is limited to five loaves and two fishes, and there is a multitude that needs to eat.

But our God is not limited by loaves and fishes.  In His hands, there is bread in abundance, bread so plentiful, I cannot stretch my belly big enough to contain it all.  There is bread for her and there is bread for me, and more than enough room at the table for us all.

We need not want for the crumbs.

I hear a car door open and the woman steps out.  She sees me then, and I smile.  She is hungry.  I am hungry.

And I know just where we both can find the bread.

May You Fail

By

 Vision

Today, three fans took the time to unlike me on Facebook.  Three.

I stare at the number in disbelief and wonder what I’ve done to cause three people to unlike me all in one day.  The heavy weight of fear and inadequacy presses down on me.  There are dishes in the sink and an unfinished post and a houseful of children who have waited while their mommy writes and for what?  For three less fans than yesterday.

My gut hurts.

I hide for a while, but God finds me.  I am a bit ashamed to see Him here because I have failed.  I have failed to make a return on my talent.  I have failed to live up to my calling.

God bends to whisper a prayer in my ear.  May you fail.

May I fail?

May you fail to make this gift your identity.  May you lose a few readers now and again to remind you that you are already adequate, already loved, already enough.  I have formed you, and I know you.  I knit you together and wove this gift of writing into you so that it is almost inseparable from you.  Almost.

But you are more than the sum of your followers, you are more than the success or failure of your last post.  You are more than a writer.

You are my beloved child. 

And I have chosen you for this.  But I love you in spite of this.

When you fumble with the words, I do not love you less.  When you pen something powerful, I do not love you more.  Separate yourself from the gift enough to know that I am the only thing that defines you.

May you fail at penning words that have no power.  It is tempting, isn’t it, to fill a page with beautiful, soulless words?  It is tempting to write for men rather than Me.

But you—you have the words of life.  You have the gospel, the very words that shape eternity.  Write them even if they earn you no earthly fame.  Write them boldly.  Write them well.  But do not fail to write them.

Some will hear and turn to me.  But others will hear and turn away.  Leave it up to me, Child, to change the hearts of your hearers.

May you fail at growing numbers without growing your heart.  Let the words rumble around and refine you first.  Tell your story from the cracks because that’s where my light shines the brightest.

Can you see me glorified in your brokenness?  Press your pen into it.  Strive to be transparent, a little broken, and a lot redeemed.  Let people in to your story—all of it.  Leave out the parts that leave out grace.  Trust me to work in and through and in spite of your weaknesses.

You may be surprised to see how I can make something beautiful of it after all.

May you fail at doing something great for me.  Let me do something great through you.  I do not need your offering, Child.  I do not need your sacrifice.  All I want from you is your humble availability.

Be willing.  Be moldable, and do not worry about what I have given to someone else.  Be more interested in my vision for you than in your dreams for yourself.  It may not look the way you think it should, and you might stumble and trip along this path.  You may fail in the eyes of men, but not in mine.  I will accomplish my purposes in you. 

There is no failing in that.

Kristen, Five in Tow

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