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A night of baseball, a lifetime of memories: Review of Steal Away Home by Billy Coffey

I would read anything Billy Coffey writes (cross-reference: reviews to his books here, here and here) sight unseen so I was more than a little bit thrilled to discover his newest book, Steal Away Home, is a baseball book.

It’s also so much more than a baseball book.

Coffey has a way of turning ordinary and familiar events and moments into a work of art. To call this only a baseball book would be an insult. It’s a story about a heart divided, dreams broken, love lost, and love found.

For most of his life, Owen Cross has loved two things: baseball and a girl named Micky Dullahan. He dreams of the day when he can pursue both at the same time–a quest that will leave him wanting in the end, if he continues to run from the truth.

Steal Away Home is structured around a baseball game between the New York Yankees and Baltimore Orioles that really happened on June 5, 2001. The story weaves back and forth between the innings as they occur and the past as it is remembered. It is a unique storytelling device, and as a baseball fan and a Billy Coffey fan, this is quite possibly the perfect book. (If you aren’t at least a casual baseball fan, maybe skip this one. While the themes in the book are universal, I’m not sure you’ll enjoy it as much if baseball is a foreign concept.)

Coffey’s books are full of mystery and longing and unanswered questions that still leave you feeling satisfied with the outcome.

Disclosure: I received a copy of this book from the publisher. Opinions in this review are my honest-to-goodness thoughts.

Read some of the author’s thoughts about the subjects in the book here.

The dream and the reality

“Do you want to be a librarian when you grow up?”

A few weeks ago while I was shelving books at the library in the kids’ school, one of the younger elementary students asked me this question. I smiled and told her no, that I just enjoyed helping out at the school. I wanted to add that I’m already “grown up” but I didn’t because this question–what do you want to be when you grow up?–is more complicated than ever.

It used to be that people knew how they would spend their lives after school was finished, whether they graduated from high school or college. The future was laid out in a factory or a corporation or a professional career. Maybe it’s still like that for some people.

Photo by rawpixel.com on Unsplash

When I graduated from college, I’m not sure what I pictured myself being when I grew up. I got a job at a newspaper and I stayed there for years then moved on to another newspaper, all the while wishing I had more time to write things I wanted to write, like stories, true and fictional. When I was writing for a living, it was hard to write for fun or enjoyment. I learned this about myself in those years of full-time work and singleness.

Then I had children and stayed home with them. I began to write out of necessity because it was a habit from the journalism years. Millions of words live inside my head and only a fraction of them make it to a page or screen, but some of them have to get out or my brain rejects any other kind of information. Sometimes, if I haven’t written for a while, I forgot how to do normal everyday life things. My brain is too full of the words I have thought but not written. This is my head space.

I have been casually writing from home for almost 10 years. I have a few successes to show for it. A teensy bit of money. A lot of unpublished, unedited words. Turns out the dream of being a writer is still hard work and I am easily pulled in other directions. Volunteering. Coffee dates. Housework (the bare minimum!). Cooking. Yes, I’ve been writing, too, and it’s not nothing. But it’s also not enough.

—

Two months ago, we started to have the talk in our house about how we were going to increase our income. Adding a part-time job made the most sense and I wrestled with the familiar shame of being capable of earning and falling short. (The truth about being a freelance writer is it requires building momentum and planning ahead and some entrepreneurial effort, many of the things I lack. Maybe this is not how it is for all freelancers.) Even when I did write something and got paid for it, the payment often came months after the writing was over. This was not the way to a sustainable income.

After some tearful discussions and some heart wrestling, I applied for a part-time job that fit with our family’s life and schedule. It took weeks for all the paperwork to clear and for everything to line up but it’s official–as of today, I am employed part time outside of the house.

I’m excited about the opportunity, and the regular income will help our family pursue our dreams and goals.

Still, there’s a part of me that feels like I’m giving up.

Photo by James Pond on Unsplash

—

Once upon a time, I had this picture in my head of how dreamy it must be to write from home. To write books and have a publisher send them out into the world, or to publish them yourself and send them out. I thought it was possible to spend my days in front of my computer reflecting on life while sipping coffee and creating characters and plot lines out of nothing more than my imagination. If I’m honest with myself, I thought it sounded perfect. And if I wasn’t doing that–devoting every waking moment to my writing–then I was doing it wrong.

Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

Fifteen years ago, I didn’t even know that people who weren’t NY Times Bestseller famous could even make a living writing. That’s when I first started dreaming about the possibilities. It’s a frustrating art sometimes, especially if you want immediate results, especially if your definition of success is some kind of tangible like a paycheck or a publishing credit.

To me, staying home to write was “living the dream” even if it was sometimes more like a nightmare.

Now that I’m starting a “real job” it feels like I’m giving up on the dream. There’s a little voice–it’s really quiet–that tells me this. It whispers that if I had worked harder, if I was more disciplined, if I was smarter or more clever or had taken one more marketing or self-publishing course that I could be “living the dream” with actual results to show for it.

This voice is mostly quiet and I mostly ignore it because I’ve seen differently, especially in the last few years. I’ve seen writers I admire and respect work another job to pay the bills, sometimes even on the day of publication of their first book. I’ve heard how some of my favorite writers squeeze in their art between work and sleep or during lunch breaks, how they’re basically always writing but not always sitting in front of a blank page or a computer screen.

I think what I’m beginning to see is that sometimes the dream and reality are more linked than I want to admit. That there can be both a dream and a reality and I don’t have to give up one in favor of the other. 

I’m working an outside-the-house job, yes, and I’m going to keep working at my writing. I haven’t failed or given up on my art because I got a job. I suspect that having a job will make me more motivated to keep at my writing.

I think most of us writers, creators, artists wish our creating paid all the bills. Someday it might. And for some people it does. But it definitely doesn’t happen overnight or without effort. For most of us, we’re going to create right alongside some other work we’re doing.

Because the truth is that I’m a writer at my core. It’s what I was made to do. And I don’t have to be at home, sitting in front of a screen all the time to be writing. I don’t have to sit in my favorite coffee shop gazing out the window or taking a walk in the park with a notebook to be a writer.

I. Am. A. Writer. Having a job doesn’t change that.

But I do have to get the words out some time and somewhere. That is my goal for this year. To make a regular practice of getting some words out of my head, whether I publish them here or not. You might see less of me around these parts. Or you might not.

Rest assured that even if I seem a bit absent here, I’m still writing. (This is the assurance I’m giving myself, too.)

New year, new word

Every year since 2013, I’ve picked one word that I want to focus on, a guide for the year to come. (You can see all the words I’ve chosen and reflections on those years here.) It still sounds too simple to be effective, but at the end of each year, I can testify to the changes these words have brought about in my life.

This last year might be the year that I’ve written the least about my word and its impact on me. In December of 2016, after life circumstances left my heart feeling hard and impenetrable, I chose to focus on “tender.” I needed to let in the things that hurt. I needed to feel things deeply. I wanted my heart to break in the kind of way the ground needs to be broken every spring in preparation to receive a seed that will grow up from the dirt. 

When I look back on the year, there was heartbreak, for sure, circumstances I didn’t understand. We started the year with my husband unemployed and then the transmission went out in our van. After my husband found a job, his unemployment compensation was denied and we ended up needing to fight the decision months into the new year. A project I had emotionally invested in fell through. We struggled to dig out of a financial hole, and when we desperately wanted to take steps forward on buying a home, we were denied a loan.

These things stirred up a lot of bitterness and resentment and while I would normally want to just stuff those feelings right back down, all of these disappointments were like manure spread across my heart, making the ground more fertile. (Can I put in a plug for regular appointments with a therapist or counselor? My therapist’s office became the place that my heart busted open again and again as we turned over things I thought I had buried.)

Before I chose to be more tender, I feared what would happen. I worried that cracking my heart open just a little would break me completely until I was shattered–like innumerable pieces scattered across the kitchen floor. I was cracked, yes, and I was broken, yes, but I learned that I could be pieced back together. Different. Stronger, somehow. 

And having survived being broken once, I dared to let my heart break again.

It started a couple of years ago with refugees. I opened my heart. I took action. And they have changed my life. This year I took another step and started learning about racial injustice and how to be part of the reconciliation process. (Mostly I’m just learning and rethinking everything I’ve been taught.) Late this summer, my concern moved toward undocumented youth, those whose parents brought them to the United States illegally but whose entire lives have been lived here. They are fighting for a path to citizenship and I stand with them in that fight.

I ended 2017 softer than I thought possible but also stronger. My heart is not a bitter, barren place, and though there is much work to be done where justice is concerned, I am encouraged and energized by the things I’ve seen, the people I’ve met, the stands I’ve taken. Tender shoots of something green are growing in the soil of my heart again.

Where all of this will take me in 2018, I really don’t know. I have a lot to learn, and I don’t do nearly enough of the kind of work I think I ought to do where advocacy is concerned. But if 2017 was an internal decision to open myself up to caring about people and causes I hadn’t previously considered then 2018 is about getting out of my seat and standing, walking, singing, shouting, and doing more of what I see others doing. It is about sharing the tweets and opinions I’ve been too scared to share because someone might not like it. I’m not out to divide. I’m physically ill when I lose “friends” or get into arguments online (or in person).

But this year I also learned more about my personality (I’m a 9 on the Enneagram if you’re familiar) and my tendency is to keep the peace at all costs. To bury my head in the sand when the shots are flying. To engage in all kinds of diversions when I don’t want to feel one.more.thing.

That ends in 2018. (Or it lessens. Let’s be real.)

So my word for the year is “awake.” I am waking up to myself, my needs, my abilities. I am waking up to the world around me. I am waking up to the ways my upbringing was different than those in other parts of the country. I am waking up to the realities of life. I am vowing to live with my eyes open, to not turn away when what I see is too hard/messy/brutal. (And also to not turn away when it is too lovely/sparkly/beautiful. I have a problem seeing that, too.)

I want to live this life intentionally, not drifting along waiting for something to happen to me. (This is mostly a work-related vow. I will write more about this later.) I am a daydreamer by nature and if I’m looking at you, sometimes I’m not seeing you at all. I’m living a story I’ve made up in my head or thinking about a conversation I had last year. It’s going to be hard work for me to recognize this as it’s happening and pull myself out of it to be fully engaged with the person right in front of me.

So, this is me. And this is my work for the year. Awake.

What about you? Do you ever pick a word to focus on for the year? If you need some help getting started, I recommend the community over at OneWord365. (Join the Facebook group also!)

Stay tuned. It’s going to be an eyes wide open kind of year.

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What I would say if this was our Christmas letter

I love receiving Christmas cards and year-end letters from friends.

And I am terrible at sending them. I accepted this about myself years ago when the Christmas picture cards I ordered arrived too late and I sent out a handful of them and now have a dozen “extra” memories of our family from 4 years ago. I’m not some ungrateful soul and this doesn’t make me a bad friend. (My rule of friendship is basically if we’ve ever known each other for longer than a second, then we’re friends and always will be unless you decide differently.) I just can’t get myself organized enough to take family pictures and order cards and make sure we have enough stamps and envelopes and then actually write out all the addresses and such. I would need to start in July if I was going to make it happen by Christmas, and I’m just not sure that’s an option. (Let me repeat: I love that there are still people who send Christmas cards and pictures of their families, especially to us when we do not do that.)

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

This year, I sent a few cards as I felt the need and delivered one special basket of cheer. (Cookies for all the neighbors? Nope. 150 Christmas cards signed, sealed and delivered? Not a chance.) For my own self, this is the way it has to be. Again, I am in awe of those of you who spread the Christmas cheer to your neighbors, family and friends.

When the kids were littler, I enjoyed the chance to write a Christmas letter, wrapping up our year and looking ahead to the new one. I miss that. I don’t have a list to publish this year of best things I read or most meaningful moments. In the way of momentous occasions and big changes, this year was a dud.

But that’s kind of okay. We needed a year where things settled down and we settled in. To be honest, that is not how I thought this year was going to go. (Read last year’s wrap-up post and you’ll remember why.)

So, if this was our Christmas letter, arriving all sparkly and bright in your mailbox and you were reading it at the dining room table after dinner with your whole family gathered around, here is what it would say:

As far as years of our lives go, 2017 was almost uneventful. At least in the BIG NEWS sense of the word. Our biggest change was Phil starting a job at the end of the January after being unemployed for three weeks, and that happened so long ago, and the transition has been so smooth, that it almost feels like he’s been working there for years instead of approaching his first anniversary.

Okay, so there was also the transmission failure in our van during that same three-week stretch of unemployment when I thought that God might actually hate us because I felt kicked in the ribs when I was already on the ground after being punched in the face. January was a *fun* month for us.

After that, though, things settled down. We adjusted to Phil’s new work schedule (3 full-time days) and the kids did their things at school as if nothing happened. The biggest things that happened to us the rest of the year don’t seem that big on the outside, but they shifted something inside of us.

2017 became the year we spoke up for and stood with people on the margins. This was the year I started calling my elected officials and telling them what I think. It was the year I attended candlelight vigils in the city square and demonstrations in front of my representative’s office. It was the year I added my support vocally, visually and in writing to causes I had previously not considered.

(I didn’t realize this was a theme of the year until I received these two gifts from separate family members this Christmas.)

When it came time to choose an ornament for the tree that summed up our year, we had some trouble. We hadn’t taken any big vacations or really thought about it throughout the year, but when the opportunity came for us to buy this for our tree, we took it.

“Love lights a path” fits with our family and the ornament itself was made by trafficking survivors in Cambodia to benefit an organization that rescues and restores trafficking survivors in other areas of the world, so it’s doing double good.

For me, personally, it was the year I began to unstick my head from the sand. Last year I chose for my word “tender” and I have felt the bruises on my heart from caring about things and people more intentionally. I have cried and raged and shouted and lost “friends” on Facebook but I am ending the year with a heart this is softer than when the year started, and that was my ultimate goal. (More on my word for 2018 coming soon.)

The year wasn’t all activism and acclimation, though.

Phil and I took a trip to Boston in the spring and celebrated 10 years of marriage.

My daughter and I ran a 5K together.

Phil played soccer all summer. 

Our son rocked swimming lessons. Our daughter started learning to play the flute.

We visited numerous national parks, including a quick visit to Washington, D.C., in November to meet my grandmother who had flown in for the day.

This was the year I got an article published in a Chicken Soup for the Soul book. 

We tried new things like riding the bus, looking at the solar eclipse, and making new friends. As I scroll through the photos on my phone, I see things like visiting the Renaissance Faire, joining a group to visit the Islamic Center in our city, attending baseball games and concerts in the park. (We saw Arlo Guthrie live in concert!) We hosted family for a week of fun and went to Philadelphia. I went to a writing retreat and met one of my favorite authors. (FANGIRL ALERT.)

It was a year of small, seemingly insignificant moments but when I start to add them up, I can think of no other word but “full” to describe it. And that’s a very big deal when in previous years I have felt so empty.

I am sitting at my parents’ house in Illinois having twice driven through snowstorms in our short week here. The temperature is not even in the single digits (for the love of all that is holy) and I have complained all week about the northern Illinois weather I have left behind (while trying not to be jealous of my friends who are spending this week in warmer climates–love you!).

It is the second to last day of 2017 and I am worried that the weather will hinder our travel plans back to Pennsylvania or that when we get back to our farmhouse, we will find busted pipes from the colder-than-normal temperatures there or that our kitchen will be overrun with mice. (Aren’t I a pleasant person to be around?)

And yet, I end this year full of hope and possibility. This is not my default state of mind. 2018 holds promise. It won’t be easier or harder necessarily but different and new.

I’m ready.

How about you?

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Making room for Christmas

We cleared a space by the window, pushing aside all the toys and games and accumulated stuff. The tree stands tall in the window, white lights shining forth into the dark night. The star touches the ceiling as if reaching for its brothers in the sky above.

This is the tree that was cut from the forest, shipped to the store, purchased by us and driven home. The other tree, smaller, is the one we bought when the kids were little and a taller tree was too much temptation for little fingers. We moved some plants and set it with its colored lights on a small table in the nook off the kitchen. The rainbow glow permeates the curtains, so even when they’re drawn, the Christmas spirit is visible.

At Christmas, it seems we are always making room. 

Read the rest of this post at Putting on the New, where I write on the 12th of each month.

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Soul-stirring poetry: Review of Between Heaven and Earth by Kelly Chripczuk

I have had a complicated relationship with poetry through the years–hating it because I didn’t understand it then scribbling dozens of them while on lunch break in the park during my journalism career then giving them up for years. I’m now back to reading–and occasionally writing–poetry with a renewed sense of awe and wonder. Poetry has a way of stripping things down to the barest essentials while still bearing a stunning beauty.

That is what I found in my friend Kelly Chripczuk’s new book Between Heaven and Earth. It is a book of poems–some inspired by biblical texts (Heaven), others by ordinary life events (Earth), and others about the moments where the two intersect.

Kelly has a gift for taking these ordinary events of life and familiar Bible passages and expressing them in a fresh way. I was moved to contemplation after reading each one, and I look forward to making this a regular practice–the reading of poetry and holding it for a few moments beyond the reading. These poems are soul-stirring, uplifting, and prayerful–a beautiful combination. (While I did read an advance copy of the book from the author, my opinion reflected her is my honest one.) If you are new to poetry or returning to it again after a time, Between Heaven and Earth is a good place to start.

The following is an excerpt from the book, shared with permission from the author. I had trouble choosing a favorite poem, as so many of them left me with a feeling of wonder and contemplation. One read-through is not enough. But this one, especially, evokes so much feeling in me and showcases the way Kelly uses imagery to draw attention to a familiar word or concept (resurrection) in a new way.

To Experience Resurrection

John 20:1-9

You have to return to the tomb
to experience resurrection.
Return to the place where once
you knew without doubt
all hope was gone, the last
dying gasp of breath expelled.
Return to silence and
the great tearing open
of sky and earth.

The first sign of spring
is the revelation of winter’s
destruction. Snow’s clean
slate hides decay. But,
when the sun’s warmth rises,
it discloses a depth
of loss – the grass,
brown and trampled, barren
broken limbs scattered, earth
exposed and the empty stretch
of field filled with brown stalks
of decomposition.

This is the time of waiting,
the time in which we grow
weary and lose heart.

You have to watch sleeping
soil, pull back brown leaves,
lean close scanning hidden
places. You have to stand beside
the stone, Martha would tell us,
your trembling hand pressed against
its cold, hard surface. You have to enter
the dark cave, Peter whispers, not knowing
what you’ll find.

You have to sit through the long,
dark night to see the first light of morning,
to feel the sharp intake of breath
as the sky’s closed eye, cold and gray
cracks open slowly, then with growing
determination. This is what you must do
to experience resurrection.

Pick up a copy of Between Heaven and Earth here. And follow Kelly’s other writings here. (She also has a book about chickens and the adventures that come with having them as part of your life.)

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The watching and the waiting

I leave the house with time to spare, but that doesn’t stop me from anxiously refreshing the app on my phone that lets me know when the bus might arrive at my stop. The walk from my house to the bus stop is short, but I can’t help the constant checking. Until I am standing at the stop, I am sure that I will miss the bus’s arrival. (There was the one time I was running and caught it as it turned the corner, between two stops. I would not repeat that moment.)

The monitoring often begins when I first wake up in the morning. I usually have the option of taking one of several buses at varying times of the morning, and the times don’t change from week to week. Still, I’m checking and double-checking to figure out what time works best for my schedule.

The app, while helpful, is not always accurate. There have been times I’ve arrived at the stop, thinking I had five minutes or more to wait and the bus comes roaring around the bend a minute or two later. I’m not upset when the bus is early, although when the margin shrinks to minutes, I worry for the next time. What if the bus is early? What if I’m running late?

I worry, too, sometimes that the bus driver won’t see me standing there at the side of the road. If the lights that indicate the bus is stopping don’t flash soon enough, then I wave my hand to draw attention to myself. If the children are standing with me, my son waves his arms wildly to get the bus driver’s attention.

But the driver is trained to see. To watch for the waiting people. I notice this as we travel the route. From their position at the front of the bus, elevated above regular car and truck traffic, they can see from afar the people who might be waiting to catch the bus. They know where to look, when to slow down.

I’m watching, too, as the bus travels its path. I wait for the familiar buildings to come into view, then I pull the yellow cord to let the driver know I want to get off the bus. They pull over, open the doors, and my journey is complete–for now.

Photo by Matteo Bernardis on Unsplash

—

Before I started riding the bus regularly, I paid little to no attention to the buses around the city and the county. Maybe I would see them and maybe I would be annoyed when they stopped in front of me and I had to figure out how to get around them.

Now, though, I can imagine the people on the bus. I know to hang out in the left lane if there’s a bus ahead of me on the road because they travel in the right lane as much as possible. I recognize the signal that means they are about to stop. I can guess how long it takes for the waiting person to board and pay fare and be seated. I read the route numbers and the destinations. Sometimes I’ll point out “our” bus to the kids when we are traveling the same route. I have yet to learn any of the bus driver’s names. Maybe someday.

I see, too, the people waiting for the bus. I know they are waiting because I know the waiting. I see them sitting–grouped yet separate–sometimes sheltered from the cold, sometimes in the open air. Sometimes they stand by the side of the road. Or lean against a post. Maybe they sit in the grass or clasp the hand of a child.

Sometimes I pass the person waiting and farther up the road, I pass the bus, on its way to the next stop, and I smile.

It’s coming, I whisper. The wait is almost over and I can feel the relief.

—

It is Advent now, a season it seems I am still learning to celebrate. It is not enough for me that it is a countdown to Christmas. It is a season rich with meaning on its own.

When I think of Advent, I think of the waiting. Advent feels a bit like showing up at the bus stop at the appointed time, like knowing something is coming around the bend, even if I can’t see it, even if I can’t be certain. It is sometimes like noticing fellow travelers by the side of the road, then seeing the bus coming in the distance, and announcing the good news: It’s coming.

Sometimes the “it” is not as obvious as the bus, though.

Christmas is coming. Jesus has come. He is coming again.

These are the things I know about this season yet I’m still unsure what it is I’m waiting for.

At a retreat a couple of weekends ago, I was asked to ponder what it was I wanted Advent to be and, conversely, what I didn’t want it to be. It had not occurred to me that I could choose a rhythm, a goal, for this season. The time between Thanksgiving and Christmas always feels full of obligation and, at the same time, lacking. Not enough time. Not enough money. Not enough of me to go around.

So I knew almost without thinking that I wanted this Advent to be about intention and purpose and not about what other people wanted. Saying those things out loud gave me strength. I could choose.

During our solitude time, we were invited to ponder an image, a phrase or a word that would represent our longings for Advent. I sat near the water–a large creek or a small river, I’m not sure–and wondered if that was my illustration. I am a glutton for water. If there is a body of it nearby, I have to see it up close, though I seldom get in it.

I read a Psalm and the words settled on me.

You open wide your hand …

I thought about the feelings I had of not enough and how an open hand says the opposite.

An open hand …

invites,
gives,
releases,
receives,
accepts,
allows.

It is not a natural act. It requires intention.

Since then I’ve been trying to keep that image of open hands at the forefront. I’ve read the words more than once and been challenged to sit, literally, with palms open.

—

“What are you waiting for?”

A devotional writer asked this while posing this posture of open palms.

I don’t know if I know what I’m waiting for. A phrase from the retreat keeps running through my mind: Advent is a time when we wait for what we’ve already been given. Maybe that’s what I’m waiting for–what I already have.

I could easily forget to keep my hands open. I could easily forget to wait. So, I’m going to have to do the hard work of remembering. This tree makes it a little bit easier. It is a gift, the result of an unexpected kindness. God opened his hand and so have other people.

I want to live like that, too.

Watching. Waiting. With open hands.

The darkness and the dawning

The whole house is asleep. I am seldom the one burning the midnight oil but there are too many things to say, my body too alert for rest, my mind too active for sleep.

My son turned 8 today, which means I spent the day baking. Because there is also a full moon, it meant that I spent part of the day barking as well. I’m not proud of this. I yelled at my kids and snapped at other members of the family and my soul was generally distressed. Even now, as I look back on the day, I cringe as I remember how I behaved, what I said. It is as if my soul bled black today and like tar it covered everyone in my path. No one was safe as the darkness seeped from me.

//

It was not all darkness today. There was chocolate cake and candles. Phone calls from family. One dollar chicken pho. And an unexpected kindness related to our Christmas tree. These are the things I wish I could remember about today, but the darkness hovers over them.

//

The prophet Isaiah says,

“The people walking in darkness
    have seen a great light;
on those living in the land of deep darkness
    a light has dawned.” 

//

It is the eve of Advent. Maybe the first Sunday of Advent by the time you read this.

And it has come at just the right time.

//

We are a people walking in darkness. I used to think that only referred to spiritual darkness, as in, those people who didn’t know anything about Advent or the “real” meaning of Christmas or Jesus.

But the more I see of humanity and the more I examine my own heart, the more darkness I see.

Some of us are walking in a darkness of our own making. Some of us are walking in darkness because others have turned out the lights. Some of us are walking in darkness because it is a natural rhythm of the earth as it turns on its axis. Maybe it is a combination of all three. Or something else entirely.

The candles are my favorite part of Advent because they are such a small and ordinary act of rebellion. They can’t help but stand in contrast to the darkness. Even the smallest flame illumines a corner of a dark room. More than Christmas Eve or New Year’s Eve or Easter Sunday, I want to greet the dawning of Advent. It is dark outside now as I type this, and it will stay dark until much later in the morning than I’d like, but I am desperate enough to want to wake again in the darkness and light a candle as the new (church) year dawns.

I want to declare that the darkness will not win, that even if the light is small, it is enough to push back the darkness.

I need to believe again that hope, though small, is what carries us through the dark days. Days past. Days present. Days to come.

//

Light is always breaking through.

Let’s look for it, shall we?

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A love letter to writer me

In conjunction with the release of her book Love Letters To Writers, Andi Cumbo-Floyd encouraged writers to compose a letter to their writer selves. This is my offering.

Dear Lisa,

Do you remember how you used to fill notebooks with the stories that filled your head? How your mind came alive when you read words–yours and others’–on the page? You would shove those notebooks in the hands of anyone who happened to be within five feet of you and stand nearby, waiting for their comments, looking for someone to tell you that what you had written was good.

You’re still doing that, aren’t you? Pouring out what’s inside of you into a space for others to see, sitting back, waiting for their approval.

Can I make a bold statement? You don’t need it. The approval. Not really. Not where it counts. Because this writing thing is not simply a thing that you do. It is who you are. And who you are needs no stamp of approval from anyone else. You already bear the Divine Image. That you might bear it differently than others doesn’t make it any less worthwhile.

Photo by Chris Becker on Unsplash

Do you remember how the writing part of you shifted when you aligned your life with its Maker? It is like what happens when the chain falls off your bicycle–you still have a bike but you can’t really go anywhere until you put the chain back on the chain ring. Then, the places you can go! You pushed that bicycle along for years, wanting to toss it aside for a more reliable ride. But then something happened and everything clicked into place. Your bicycle–your writing–began to operate as it was meant to, and it took you on a journey and you’ve never really stopped.

Sure, sometimes the bicycle needs a tune-up. And there have been times it has taken a bit of a beating and needed time to be repaired. Sometimes you fall and you just can’t get back on right away.

All of those things are completely normal parts of the journey. What matters most is that you don’t get rid of it–the writing. You couldn’t if you tried.

While it might seem that some people are enthusiastic about writing or think of it as a hobby, what I see in you goes deeper than that. Writing is buried so deep in the core of who you are that it is both essential to your very being and almost hidden from view. Where do you end and where does writing begin? It is a futile question. Stop asking. Embrace the truth: you and writing are soul mates. Inseparable.

Photo by John Jennings on Unsplash

You don’t always love it, and that’s okay. You don’t always love you, and that’s okay, too.

Sometimes you just need someone else to say what you can’t. Let me say it for you:

You are a writer. I suspect you always have been.

You have a gift. You don’t want to hear this because you think it sounds arrogant, but it is what you were given. Accept it. Receive it. Show it to the world and tell them Who gave it to you.

Your words are important. Hold on to the times when people tell you they have been affected by your words. And consider that for every person who tells you what your work meant to them, there are at least as many who have never told you that.

Your work has value. Even when you aren’t getting paid. Maybe even more so when you aren’t getting paid. You’ve heard others say that the writing is its own reward. Believe it.

You are not a mistake. I know there are days when you’d rather be anything else. You want the kind of regularity and security any other profession seems to offer. You doubt your calling even as it calls to you daily. Remember, you are a unique creation. Not everyone lives with a world of stories in their head. You do, and there is a reason for it.

These words won’t banish all the doubts or make you completely comfortable with who you are as a writer. But I hope they give you something to come back to when you have the kind of days that make you want to give it all up. (And maybe on the days when you have some measure of success. Come back, then, too.)

This writing life is hard, I know. But you don’t have to be hard on yourself.

Go easy, dear one. Be gentle with yourself. And don’t be afraid of what is new or next or different.

You are loved. Just as you are.

Love,
Me

 

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Like sitting at the table with a friend: Review of Love Letters to Writers by Andi Cumbo-Floyd

This book review is for the writers, and other creative types, so I won’t take offense if that doesn’t apply to you and you decide to skip this post.

Writing can be such solitary work. I didn’t realize until after I had left newsrooms how lucky I was to go to work every day with people like me–writers–and how lonely and difficult it can be to find those same people one by one out in the rest of the world. (We’re kind of a unique bunch and not everyone “gets” us. That’s not arrogant. It’s just true.)

While I have found fellow writer friends in real life, online writing communities have been a lifesaver as well. If you are a writer looking for your people, I can recommend this Facebook group, which is most valuable if you show up and participate. I’ve set goals weekly (and met them) for months because of this group.

The group is led by Andi Cumbo-Floyd, an experienced author, editor, writer, publisher, farm girl and all-around delightful human being. (If you can get to Virginia in June for the writing retreat she hosts, do it. It is magical in its simplicity.)

Andi has been writing letters to writers for years, sharing tips and encouragement from her own life and experiences. Now, she’s put more than 50 of those letters in a book that is officially out in the world. (Is that cover not gorgeous and inviting?)

Love Letters to Writers is an encouraging book to keep on hand for the days when you doubt yourself, your writing, or your path as a creator. Andi urges writers both to “keep going” and “wait,” to lean in to the changing seasons of a creative life. This grace-filled book is full of me-too moments.

I had the chance to read an advance digital copy of the book, and I can assure you that I’m getting a paperback copy to set next to me while I write so I can refer to its wisdom often.

If your writing life seems a bit lonely, or if you are wrestling with doubts, or if you just want to hear from someone else who understands how this creative brain of yours works, then don’t hesitate to get a copy of Love Letters to Writers.

Find out how you can get connected with Andi and the other writers in the group here.

And check out these links to order the book. (As of this writing, Barnes and Noble had the paperback for $10!)

For a digital copy of the book, all formats, click here.

Barnes and Noble for that paperback deal is here.

And, of course, Amazon has it as well here.

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