Joy E. DeKok's Blog, page 2

Resisting

Note: This photo is from Pixabay, but I love goats. Or the idea of goats.

A melancholy resistance hits me every time I finish and publish a book. I try to prepare by praying and promising myself, “This time, it will be different.”  I let new ideas into my writing dreams and place them before the Lord.

As soon as I complete my current project, the pacing starts – literally. I walk into my office. It’s a room I love. In this funk, I head back down the hallway instead of sitting down at my desk, and the lid on my laptop stays closed. I miss the feeling of my fingers on the keyboard but still, I walk away.

Instead, I pace the hallway reminding myself this has happened before, and I’ve overcome it and will again. My inner voice nags loudly, “Maybe not this time.” I try to shut out the doubter, but the nagging gets loud, and I listen to it.

When I walked into and right back out of my office the other day, I almost cried. I wanted to stay, but my want to was puny.

Angry at myself, I finally sat down and wrote the prologue. I printed off the pages and headed to the hallway to pace. I was sure they were pure junk. I resisted reading them for a couple of weeks and told myself that all the pondering I was doing was enough.

Oh, stubborn woman that I am!

My resistance grew until, in the dark of a recent night, I realized how much I miss my job – the work of writing—even the hard parts. A rush of hope washed over me, and I slept.

But I didn’t stop resisting quite yet.

Today I took a step in that direction when I opened The War of Art – again.

On the first page, Pressfield writes about his writing routine, and while I’ve read them at least three times before, today, they were what I needed to “hear.” I read them out loud to myself instead of pacing the hallway.

“It’s about ten-thirty now. I sit down and plunge in. When I start making typos, I know I’m getting tired. That’s four hours or so. I’ve hit the point of diminishing returns. I wrap for the day. Copy whatever I’ve done to disk and stash the disk in the glove compartment of my truck in case there’s a fire, and I have to run for it. I power down. It’s three, three-thirty. The office is closed. How many pages have I produced? I don’t care. Are they any good? I don’t even think about it. All that matters is I’ve put in my time and hit it with all I’ve got. All that counts is that, for this day, for this session, I have overcome Resistance.”

A funny thing happened on the way back to my keyboard . . . I decided I might need to take time first to figure out if I wanted to store my backup in my glove compartment. Or somewhere more secure. But where?

That’s not resistance. That is distraction and procrastination, and I’m pretty good at them too.

Today I took Pressfield’s words to heart. I grabbed my red pen, ready to slash the prologue to bits. Instead, I discovered that while every page needs work, the story is a good one and what I’ve written so far is okay.

It feels great. Now I’m praying I’ll continue to resist the enemy called resistance by daily repeating the process of firing my laptop up and putting words on the pages.

My heart whispered, “Lord, let this be a step in the “write” direction.”

Is there something you love to do that you’re resisting? I’d love it if you let me know in the comments.

Until Next Time,

Joy

P. S. I’m not always feeling so great these days, and I know that has something to do with the struggle this time, but today, facing down the resistance, I feel a little better, and I’m grateful.

Just in case you’d like to read The War of Art, click HERE.

The post Resisting appeared first on Joy DeKok .

Joy’s Author News – April 2022

 

Hello! I hope you have a few minutes to check out this blog post, which is also my newsletter.

#AmWriting

It’s slowly settling in: The Northern Lights series is complete.

No more Olivia. Or (big gulp) Lucy. Or our sweet Gertrude Rose. No more stopping by The Baked & Brewed.

My first response was a giddy little rise of happiness in my tummy. You know the kind that you feel when you finish a big project. And no more of the Lyons.

“To read more, click here.”

#AmBlogging (Click the titles to read the posts.)

At the Ready 

Chap-peep! This is an excerpt! AND the ebook is going on sale for 99 cents on April 8th! See the link below. 

And . . . get an excerpt from Beyond the Lies

Last but not least: No Longer Incognito.

#AmSocial

I used to be on many social media sites but have simplified my online time recently. You’re invited to join me in these spaces . . .

Facebook (Personal) https://www.facebook.com/joy.dekokFacebook Author Page https://www.facebook.com/JoyDeKokAuthorBlogger/MeWe https://mewe.com/i/joydekokAmazon Author Page https://www.amazon.com/Joy-DeKok/e/B0049RU8HU/ref=dp_byline_cont_pop_ebooks_1

I hope to connect with you somewhere out there.

Please share this news post with your reading family and friends if you enjoyed it.

#AmMarketing

On sale for 99 cents! April 8 – April 15, 2022! Click the graphic to go to Amazon and this link to see all the other places you can buy Under His Wings.

Are you looking for good, clean, Christian books? Take a look at Mosiac and 1531 Entertainment!

 

Until Next Time,

Joy

The post Joy’s Author News – April 2022 appeared first on Joy DeKok .

No Longer Incognito – Flash Fiction

 

No Longer Incognito – Fast Fiction by Joy DeKok

Hello! My name is Simone. I own Cups & Cupcakes at 2511 Main in Uffdah, MN. I lease the first floor of a large, beautiful old home owned by Octavia June Baldwin. It’s my honor to introduce you to her. She’s on her way down the curved walnut staircase now.

Watching her, I am amazed at her grace and quiet elegance. She’s lived in this one-hundred-year-old building all her eighty-five years.

She smiles and says, “Good morning, Simone. What is my favorite cupcake flavor today?”

This question hints at the little girl she once was. Green eyes sparkle, her white hair is styled in a short pageboy, and her Elizabeth Arden lipstick is a lovely shade called Tulip. I know because I get it for her when she needs a new tube. Her sweet dog, Poppy, is tucked under her left arm as she glides down the stairs. Her left hand barely touches the banister.

Today she is wearing her soft, well-worn ballet slippers, which indicates all of us in my little bakery are about to be blessed. I am thankful for my early morning habit of dusting her baby grand piano and polishing the brass pedals.

Her voice is strong, and her delivery gentle. She asks me, “Shall I play first or after?”

Christopher, a young author who is here to write and drink strong black coffee, and lots of it stands, pulls out the piano bench for her and says, “Perhaps you’ll join me for a cupcake with sprinkles after?”

He holds out his hand to her, she accepts and they walk to the alcove where her piano stands. My heart warms again as they finish their almost courtly ritual. She settles in on the red velvet upholstered bench, does a few hand exercises, and clasps her hands in her lap. As her head bows, Christopher and I retreat. Our friend always prays before she plays.

Her warm-up song is Marching to Zion, which she plays with so much gusto her bottom sometimes raises slightly from the bench.

A customer not familiar to us walks in and stands behind her. He is a robust man about her age. I startle startled when he picks Poppy up, kisses her on her doggie head, and without a moment of hesitation, starts to sing the words, his enthusiasm matching hers. The hymn comes to an end none of us says a word, and there is no spontaneous applause because they mesmerize us.

I feel like I’ve been to church, and someone should pray. It is a holy moment.

She turns to face him, and he asks, “What is your name? Surely, I’ve heard you play professionally.”

The blush that crosses her cheeks is only slightly softer than her lips. “My Daddy used to call me June Bug, but you can call me June. Almost everyone does. I have three more songs to play. If you know the words, feel free to join me.”

After His Eyes is on the Sparrow and In the Garden, the concert ends with How Great Thou Art. Elvis would have bawled. Edgar, my head baker, hands me a tissue and blows his nose in one himself.

The singer gives Poppy another kiss on her silken head between her sweet pointy ears, comes to the counter, orders a cupcake with chocolate frosting and sprinkles to go while I deliver June’s sprinkles-only cupcake.

On his way out the door, he says, “Your talent is still amazing, Octavia.” My breath catches. He knows her real name. Only a few of us do.

She says, “And so is yours, Charles.”

He bows low and lifts her hand to his lips.

Her voice holds a quiver when she asks, “Will you come again soon?”

The man called Charles nods, “I will.”

The door closes behind him, and she motions for me to join her and Christopher. Her eyebrow arches, and she asks me, “You want to know who the singer was?”

I nod but ask no questions because she prefers it that way.

Tears fill her eyes, and she reaches for my hand. “Charles is my beloved cousin. I have not seen him for a very long time. We sang together in our younger days. I’ve hoped I would see him again soon.”

Christopher doesn’t hesitate to ask, and for some reason, she doesn’t take offense on this day. “Why?”

June uses one of her favorite avoidance techniques and takes a big bite of her cupcake, chews as if she is eating beef jerky, takes a drink of her tea, and wipes her mouth with a napkin. I’m afraid she will leave and take Poppy upstairs with her.

Thankfully, she stays and changes the subject before we can probe deeper. “Which one of you is taking me to church this Sunday?”

I break her no questions rule. “You want to go out?” It’s been years. I am Poppy’s part-time caregiver and take her for potty breaks and long walks. Never have I seen June leave the building.

June looks me straight in the eyes. “Last night, I asked God for two things.” “Yesterday, you told me again Jesus loves and asked me to read the Gospels. I told you I didn’t have a Bible. You gave me yours, and I accepted it and read all day and into the night. Before falling to sleep, I asked Jesus to save me and to send Charles to me soon. At that moment, He answered the first prayer, and today He sent me Charles. I made God no bargains with that prayer, but a sweet desire to be with God’s people is rising in my heart. I know both of you go to church, so which one of you will it be?”

Christopher jumped right in. “It will be a privilege to escort you, June.”

I felt a sting of jealousy and hope it doesn’t show.

The young man stands and puts on his backpack. “Simone and I go to the same church, so I can pick you both up if you’d like.”

I accept. To hide my emotions, I take Poppy for a quick outside break. Back inside, I walk my lovely friend to the stairs. Her sweet dog nestles back into the crook of June’s arm. They both yawn, and I know a nap is in their very near future.

Behind me, I hear our dear Edgar clear his throat. Octavia smiles up at him and asks, “Have you been praying for me too?”

He nods and wipes his tears on his apron.

At the bottom step, my fingertips tingle when June says, “You may call me Octavia. As of today, I am no longer living incognito. God and Charles have found me.”

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now am found
Was blind, but now I see

Lyrics written by John Newton – Public Domain

 

Dear Readers,

I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I did writing it!

Until Next Time,

Joy

P. S. Here’s a flash fiction story I wrote a long time ago.

What It Takes

 

 

The post No Longer Incognito – Flash Fiction appeared first on Joy DeKok .

Beyond the Lies – The Prologue

Beyond the Lies – An Excerpt

Prologue

McKenna looked perfect, standing on Mickey’s front porch. When I peeked out my studio window, his eyes and smile gripped me in a way I’d never known before. I waited in the shadows until he knocked on the front door, gently enough that the pitted beveled glass didn’t rattle.

He was picking me up for our first double date.

Butterflies floated in my stomach. He was the most handsome man I’d ever seen.

When I opened the door, and he said, “Hello, Olivia,” his voice vibrated through me, increasing the beat of my heart.

I picked up my purse and tried to swallow the nervous giggle that rose in my throat before turning to him. My voice was little more than a whisper when I said, “Hi, McKenna.”

He smiled at me. “You sound as nervous as I feel.”

His words relieved the stiffness in my jaw, which allowed the corners of my mouth to rise. “I am.”

“Why? We’re just friends, remember?”

The friendship thing was my idea, and the reminder made me determined to keep my word to myself. And him. “Yes. And we’re doing this for Pete’s sake.”

I locked the front door behind us to the music of his laughter.

***

When McKenna turned the key in the ignition, someone with great talent on the piano played Chopin Nocturne Op.9 No2. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes while the music wrapped us in its beauty.

When we arrived at The River House, I wished our trip had taken longer.

The host, who reminded me of a young Mel Gibson, escorted us to a lovely table in a quiet corner where Pete and Newman waited for us. I smiled when her favorite FBI guy quickly pulled his hand back from hers. I might have to ask my friend Gertrude Rose if that was a good sign – she was far better at this true romance thing than me.

After a few moments of small talk, Newman ordered a steak, medium-rare. The rest of us decided on the Cajun Salmon.

Pete cupped her chin in her hands. “Isn’t the river beautiful tonight?”

McKenna nudged me and nodded toward Newman, whose eyes remained on my sister when he said, “Yes. Beautiful.”

Our salads arrived, and we eased into a comfortable conversation. McKenna asked Pete, “Any new legal developments in Oak River these days?”

She wiggled her eyebrows and said, “None that I can talk about.”

Newman pushed his salad plate back, almost untouched.

Pete touched his arm. “Not hungry?”

“I’m starved, but I’m saving all that emptiness for the entrée.” It’s a good thing he did – the steak our waiter delivered to him arrived on a small platter. His jumbo-baked potato came on a side plate with extra condiments.

For a moment or two, we focused on our food, then Newman asked, “How about you, Olivia? Any new unsolved crimes the authorities need to know about?”

“Nope. My mystery calendar is clear.”

A lovely voice from behind me said, “But we’re hoping your creative calendar is full.”

I stood to give Leah from The Stonebridge Gallery a quick hug. She continued, “We can hardly wait to showcase your talent.”

McKenna invited her and her husband, Todd, to join us for dessert. Our waiter brought two more chairs and plates of chocolate cheesecake with a carafe of fresh coffee.

To keep the focus off my gallery showing, I asked Leah and Todd about their son. “Has Kyle finished his Northern Lights exhibit yet?”

Leah smiled, allowing Todd the pleasure of answering. “He has.” Then he slipped a small envelope across the table. I opened it and found I was invited to a private showing the following Friday night, to my great delight. Leah leaned in, “It’s short notice, but we’re all hoping you’ll be able to come.”

My promise came easily. “I’ll be there.”

After Leah and Todd left, the four of us enjoyed a final cup of coffee.

McKenna caught us up on his beautiful niece, Isabella, and her adjustment back to normal life in Oak River. “She’d like to talk to you, Olivia. She said something about nightmares and seeing shadows where there are none. Bella is seeing a counselor she likes but wants to touch bases with someone who has experienced trauma first hand.”

I promised I would call her the next day.

Newman seemed mesmerized by the river outside. “McKenna, do you fish or know of anyone who does? I’ve lived in Minnesota my whole life and have never held a pole, baited a hook, or reeled a fish in.”

McKenna said. “You know one of the best fishing experts in the county.”

Newman’s eyes lit up. “Great. Want to show me the ropes?”

McKenna grinned. “I’m not talking about me. Your date holds the record for winning the most fishing contests in Oak River and the surrounding area.”

Pete gave her date a dimple-revealing smile. “I do love to fish.”

Newman cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows. “Do you give lessons?” The question caused his cheeks to redden.

Pete took full advantage of his flustered state and winked. “I could be convinced.”

Newman folded his napkin neatly on the table. “Is there a place to rent a boat and equipment?”

Pete wiped the corners of her mouth then folded her napkin the way one might the American flag. “The Fish Filet has enough equipment on board for both of us. You say when and I’ll tell you where.”

Newman motioned for the check. After paying for all of us, the two of them got up and walked away, forgetting about us for a moment. Pete rushed back to the table. “That’s something – right?”

I felt my shoulders rise. “I don’t know – is it okay if I ask Gertrude Rose?”

“Yes! And text me as soon as you have her answer.” She took a deep breath and walked back to her date. As they left, I heard him say, “The Fish Filet?”

My sister laughed out loud. “Yep. I catch ‘em and filet ‘em.”

They laughed together, and it sounded like a song written by them for them.

The restaurant manager stopped by our table. “Is there anything else we can get you before we close?”

I looked around the room and realized we were the only patrons left. McKenna chuckled. “No – thank you for a lovely evening.”

***

Back on Mickey’s porch, I unlocked the front door before turning my eyes on the floor, I wanted this first date with him, my first date ever, to end with our first kiss, but it had to be completely up to him.

When he tipped my chin up, I gave no resistance. It felt like a question mark when he pressed his lips to mine, and I wanted an exclamation point. I couldn’t tell him that but was glad when he asked, “May I kiss you again – the way I want to?”

My yes was little more than a whisper, but he heard it. That was the kiss I’d wanted all my life.

He pulled back. “Just a sweet goodnight between friends, right?”

I stepped through the door as he turned to go, and I heard myself say tell him the truth. “That’s what you think, McKenna. That second kiss changed everything.”

When I faced him, the smile on his face made my heart twirl. “You’re right, Via. It did.”

 

***

As soon as I locked the door, my phone rang. It was Michelle Lyons, the wife of my ex-lover.

“Olivia. Can you meet us at Alan’s office tomorrow morning at ten? It’s time to release the rest of your investment income to you.”

Surprise bolted through me. “What investments?”

Her voice sounded tired. “Is it okay if we wait until we meet to explain it all to you?”

I had no desire to see Alan. “Wouldn’t it be easier to do this through our lawyers?”

“Yes, it would be, but he wants to do this in person. Besides, last I knew, I was your attorney.”

Dread washed over me. “I have plans in the morning. I can be there by one o’clock.”

She sighed. “That will work.”

When she gave in to my request, I felt a surge of relief that my small attempt at assertiveness worked.

When we came in from the backyard, my Irish setter, Lucy, raced upstairs while I made sure the doors were locked, and the security alarm was set. When I got to my bedroom, Lucy and my cat Ursa waited for me, already settled into their favorite spots on my bed. When I brought them home, I’d envisioned myself as the boss of them, but all three of us knew that was a joke.

Just before I shut the light off, my phone blinged, McKenna’s text pulled me right back into his goodness.

Good night, Via.

Good night, McKenna.

Another date soon?

Yes. But this time for our sake.

I like the sound of that.

So did I.

******************************************************************************************

Like what you’ve read so far? It’s available as an ebook only on most online bookstores.

Coming Up Soon:

The Stories Within the Story – readers often wonder about the authors whose books they enjoy. Where did that character come from? Is this part of the author’s personal experience? What was the easiest part of the book to write? What was the most difficult?And in early April 2022, Under His Wings (ebook only) will be on sale for .99!

Until Next Time,

Joy

The post Beyond the Lies – The Prologue appeared first on Joy DeKok .

At the Ready – A Gentle Lesson

Blue jays seem to like to argue although they sing a beautiful courtship song. The rest of the time they verbally spar with others like them and other kinds of birds and are often the ones to initiate. They will caw at the squirrels, who are more than willing to offer a verbal response right back at them. Jays often dive in at the feeders to chase the competition away.

Some go. Others stay. And most of them squawk back.

On this day, with this jay, things were a little different. We were the only ones at the feeders. In the stillness of the morning, we watched each other. I played music, and she (I’m gender guessing) listened with me. I felt a big smile pull across my lips.

For the first time in my life, I hoped the other birds would wait to come in for breakfast.

Not once did she relax. Instead, she chose to stand firm in this “at the ready” position.

I wondered if she heard something I could not. Her life and sometimes the lives of others depend on listening and then issuing a loud alert.

One other thing stands out from our time together: I heard no other jays. That’s unusual. They often arrive in small, loud groups.

Maybe she had already experienced something frightening.

What makes a blue jay sit that still for that long? I have no idea, but all it took to change our morning was the flit of a chickadee. The blues she wore shone as she lifted off (the photo does not do her beauty justice), and she flew away without so much as a caw.

After her exit, chickadees, cardinals, sparrows, woodpeckers, nuthatches, and other squabbling blue jays flew in. After watching them for a short time, I thought about the “at the ready” jay. Was this my gentle lesson for the day?

I walked and prayed, and the only words that came to my mind were so obvious I almost tossed them into the wind. Instead, I let them walk across my mind and heart again.

“Be ready.”

I waited for more words.

None came.

So, I prompted the Lord. “For . . .?”

When all remained quiet inside me, I attempted to help God again. “Be ready for Your return? Or to give everyone who asks me a reason for my hope? Maybe be ready to serve and help and do good when an opportunity arises?”

Remembering this autumn story on a cold winter day, I wasn’t sure of the lesson, but I love the photo and thought to myself, if you start writing, the answer might come.

My questions were good ones, but they were not the lesson. Then came another inquiry that caused my whispery voice to shake slightly. “Lord, did You send that at the ready blue jay for my enjoyment?” (I always talk aloud to Him out there.) “Is that the lesson?”

That’s when I got to arguing with myself

Critic: that’s your spiritual lesson? Can you back that up with a Bible verse taken in context?

Me: No verse. Yet. Maybe if I keep typing, I’ll remember one.

Critic: How’s that going for you?

Me: Not bad. I was thinking with my eyes closed.

Critic: Really? What were your thoughts?

Me: I wondered what your address is so I could send you there.

Critic: What? You don’t think I’m the Holy Spirit?

Me: No. You sound just like me.

Yesterday, I walked through the almost spring muck to the branch the blue jay sat on that other day. It was empty, but the lesson had been given gently and received gratefully. I’m not sure my lips smiled, but it felt like my heart did.

Until Next Time,

Joy

The post At the Ready – A Gentle Lesson appeared first on Joy DeKok .

Simmering Softly – 1 Writer’s Way

Author’s  Note: After my discouraging health update the other day, I realized you might like a writing update. Here it is.

It’s slowly settling in: The Northern Lights series is complete.

No more Olivia. Or (big gulp) Lucy. Or our sweet Gertrude Rose. No more stopping by The Baked & Brewed.

My first response was a giddy little rise of happiness in my tummy. You know the kind that you feel when you finish a big project. And no more of the Lyons.

It felt good.

This was followed immediately by a twinge of sadness. I will miss Olivia’s world because it’s easy to love my imaginary friends over time.

But it’s time to move on, and guess what?

That feels good, too, because my new pretend friends are waiting.

Writing a series meant spending more time with my pretend peeps. I knew them better. Their quirks (even the ones not revealed in the books) were especially fun to discover, and my heart grew fonder of my paper people.

The funny thing about them is that they did not seem to notice me or care about me. I created their world and was welcome to enter but not participate in the story. I had my place, and they had theirs.

And yet, I’m all over every single page. Yeah – weird, I know.

Each writing day, when I walked into the story via my fingers and laptop keyboard, it was fun to “see” where the characters were and what they were wearing that day. I tried to slip in unnoticed and looked for a corner with a view where I could see and hear what was going on, and I might see details Olivia might want later would be seen by me first, and I could help her find them when she needed them most.

Another thing about them: They didn’t seem to notice my attire. In a moment of fatigue, I wondered if Olivia and Pete laughed together at The Baked & Brewed over my wardrobe choices when I closed the document.

I know better, but thoughts like this cross my mind sometimes.

After spending years with Olivia, it seems like it’s suddenly over. A break-up of sorts.

I’m not in Oak River anymore and am surrounded by reality. Since I like our reality, mine, and Jon’s, this is good.

But . . .

. . . a new project is nudging me. While Jon and I go for rides, ideas swoosh in, and they seem like good ones. I hope I’m right. When I wake up in the night, thoughts meet me in the darkness, and I like them too.

The pot that is my imagination is simmering softly. When it gets to the point of boiling, the characters will tell me their story, and I will type.

There are  242,403 words between the covers of these three books.

On those days when the words to new projects come hard, a glance at these covers will prove to me that what I think I cannot do, I have done in the past and can therefore do again.

Today I looked at the covers after Jon hung them and savored the soft simmering stage so full of possibilities.

It is essential to this writer’s way.

Until Next Time,

Joy

Here’s the link to my CaringBridge page. https://www.caringbridge.org/visit/joydekok

The post Simmering Softly – 1 Writer’s Way appeared first on Joy DeKok .

Amy & Me – Beyond the Lies

Author’s Note . . .

When I started writing Beyond the Lies, a real-life story showed up on the pages. It wasn’t part of the plan, but when I read our sweet memory to myself, it felt like a gentle exhale.

My goal was to finish the book and let Amy find our story on her own. A surprise of sorts. Maybe I’d “reveal” it to her at our favorite lunch stop – the Applebees in Albert Lea, MN. We might get tears in our eyes, but we’d smile and remember and thank God. It would be a blessed time. Thinking about how the new moments would go, I might have clasped my hands in front of my chest and smiled big. I was SO excited. In my mind, I could hear her voice, our laughter, and I would know I’d done something fun to honor her.

Before I could finish the book and we could meet and order the Oriental Chicken Salad with crispy chicken and extra dressing one more time, Amy went to Heaven.

So instead, I get to share our story with you and then you get to experience it again when you read Beyond the Lies. I hope it blesses you.

Amy & Me

It was the summer of 1987. I was introduced to Amelia Bedelia books, The Mississippi Squirrel Revival (on a cassette, sung by Ray Stevens, and played by Amy’s husband Steve), Michigan blueberries (the best!), and shopping in copper country. We went to the dump to bear watch (it was and maybe still is a real thing!) and learned that when someone is a real jerk, they are a J – U – R – K. That lesson was taught to us all by my husband.

All of this and more happened when we joined some of Jonathan’s family at Gitche Gumee Bible Camp.

My favorite moments happened on the shores of Lake Superior. Amy and I rolled up our jeans and walked barefooted in the cold sand for a while. Our friendship was already a natural – we both loved Jesus, our husbands, Steve and Jonathan, who are brothers, her kids, leaves, pumpkins, and teapots.

We also liked counted-cross-stitch, reading, coffee, tea, and mischief – the good kind and how we loved to laugh!

While we walked, Amy asked me if we could be REAL friends. We’d been family and friends for about nine years already. We enjoyed and knew each other in a nice, fun, easy way. The woman walking beside me wanted to go deeper. She hoped we would communicate faithfully in ways that went beyond the surface – more than a card now and then. Our sharing would happen via increased letters, cards, and sometimes phone calls. If we agreed to this relationship, we would pray for each other often – perhaps daily, and when we could, we’d pray together. Our friendship would involve deep trust, and we’d keep each other’s secrets. When we disagreed, as all real friends do, we would always, always, always find our way back to each other. We would forgive no matter what.

We sealed the friendship with a hug, and I wondered how she’d known that this was the desire of my heart since we’d met. She dared to ask for the committed friendship I wished for with her.

Over the years, we fell more and more in love with Jesus and our husbands. We loved her kids so much we cried tears of gratitude for them when we prayed for them. And oh, my goodness, we laughed. We cried. It was a rare treat, but I loved singing with her in church and singing along with the Beach Boys or Rich Mullins loud while we headed somewhere to shop for tiny treasures for our homes. We faced her first cancer and broken bones via the phone and emails.

And as we knew we would, we sometimes disagreed. Thank God we always, always, always found our way back to our promise.

We encouraged each other in real ways that usually involved hazelnut coffee (or a different delicious flavor she’d found). When someone hurt her, they hurt me and vice versa. When we found a Bible verse we loved, we wrote it in our frequent notes to each other. We wrote poetry, and sometimes, we shared those words too.

Then, we shared a diagnosis. Cancer. The kinds that, without a miracle, don’t go away. Prayers. Side effects. Prayers. Tears. Prayers. We shared the Bible verses we loved the most. The ones we needed to hear and the ones we needed to say. And most of all hoped that if He chose not to heal us, we would honor God. More than anyone, Him.

And then, Amy went Home. My heart, so often comforted by her, grieves.

As I write those words, I can hear her gentle reminder, “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.” 2 Corinthians 1:3-5 ESV

We said I love you a lot throughout the years, and at the end of her earthly journey, they were our last words to each other.

On my home from her that last day, I had to pull the car over at a wayside rest near Blue Earth, MN. Tears soaked the front of my shirt, and my face was tight from the salt they’d left behind.

There were many people there, and I needed to go in but hesitated. Even behind my Covid 19 mask, someone would surely notice my swollen eyes and messy shirt. Then, I thought to myself, “I hope someone does ask – I’ll tell them about Amy!”

Silly me, no one noticed.

By then, I wanted to tell someone about her. When I got back in the car, I talked to God. Then called Jonathan. Then told God again.

Now, over a year since she left here for There, I’m telling you about Amy and me and our walk to remember where promises were made and the long, but not long enough, walk of life where we kept them.

What a Heaven-sent privilege to be loved by and love my Sister-Friend Amy. I love her still and always will.

Until Next Time,

Joy

The post Amy & Me – Beyond the Lies appeared first on Joy DeKok .

I Should Be Writing – A Writing Life Essay

I Should Be Writing – A Writing Life Essay – by Joy DeKok

Sometimes, when I’m out having fun with Jon, our families, or friends, I think to myself, “I should be writing.”

And in a way that might not be fair to these people I love, I am. Thoughts are zigging and zagging through my mind . . .

That’s a great line. Olivia (the main character in the novel I’m writing) would say that. If Jon said it, I might want to “hear” McKenna (the Medical Examiner from my current work in progress) say it.I see a younger than me woman across the restaurant is wearing the perfect outfit for Isabella. I try to take down the details in my head.A car passes us on the road, and I try to figure out what make and model it is in case someone in my story might drive a car just like that.When I’m really into the story, I dream in my sleep about my characters. You know when dreams are kind of gauzy and weird? You walk from one room to another, and you’re in a completely different place? Sometimes one of my characters is one of those rooms. Far away, and when I try to get closer, they dissolve into thin air or suddenly appear behind me as if I walked right through them.

Writing is an almost all the time kind of occupation. But the “should” comes in when I’m not sitting at my computer with my fingers on the keyboard eight hours a day which I wasn’t capable of in my younger and healthier years. I know this, but the “should” still rises to poke and prod and nag.

Along the way, I got tangled up in the shoulds.

Here are a few writing shoulds that sometimes snag and nag at me are and (and my responses to them in italics) are:

Joy, you should set a goal to write 8 hours a day. After years of doing this, I know that my max is 4 hours of serious writing. Writing longer than is good for my spirit is bad for the project I’m working on, and my fingers don’t dance on the keyboard they pound. Don’t forget Joy, writing hours should be tracked. Over the years, I have created timesheets of different designs hoping for one that will “fit” me. I could have spent those hours writing instead. It’s healthier for me to quit when my dancing fingers start to stomp just before the pounding starts.You know, Joy, word goals should be set, tracked, and recorded daily. Precisely. Now and then works for me. I tend to beat myself up for every unmet goal and the tracking that shames me. Well, Joy, it’s likely that if a writer doesn’t do these exercises professionally and avoids them intentionally, the writer should consider themselves amateurs or hobbyists. Baloney!

I once read a quote credited to Brennan Manning.

He wrote, “Don’t let anyone should on you.”

My response to this quote is: When I let these suggestions get to me, the only one shoulding on me is me.

In an argument with myself over these things the other day, I prayed, asking God if my responses to these shoulds were pride. I’ve struggled with them for a long time.

I waited for an answer for about a mile (I was outside walking) as gentle truth crossed my mind. I didn’t hear an audible voice, but the words held gentle peace, so I’ll leave the who said it at that.

You’re a writer who writes to a different inner melody.

By now, you might be wondering if my writing life is the flying by the seat of my pants kind and that I don’t set any goals. I used to write down all of my plans. My to-do lists were long. Now I have what I call a done list. When writing or editing, I peek at the current word count, the number of chapters written, and the pages in the manuscript so far.

It isn’t until I finish a project that I seriously look at the numbers. There are numerical parameters for novels, essays, blog posts, FB posts, short stories, and novellas.

I sometimes wonder if my resistance to all this counting is because I have a problem with numbers. Even with extra help and finally hiring a tutor for myself as an adult, numbers and I do not work well together. The tutor shook his head when I failed his class the second time and wondered out loud how someone so good with words, history, and speaking could be so lost with numbers. He suggested that perhaps I had numerical dyslexia. I shrugged my shoulders and left in sadness again. It wasn’t just the multiple failures, although that hurt too, but I was sad I couldn’t “get” beyond the simplest addition and multiplication, with subtraction and division being the start of my mathematical stumbling blocks. I was thirty years old and had not advanced beyond fourth-grade math. I still haven’t. There are still times this feels like a defect, but I’m good with who I am most of the time. At the very least, I no longer tell myself I should be better at Math than this. Then I stop the shoulding and get back to wording.

Words without self-imposed shoulds are a marvel. At least to me.

Until Next Time,

Joy

P. S. What shoulds steal your joy? Let me know in the comments.

The post I Should Be Writing – A Writing Life Essay appeared first on Joy DeKok .

Sidewalk Sweepers – An Essay

Sidewalk Sweepers – And Essay by Joy DeKok

I’ve been cleaning out my memory boxes. These plastic drawers in our basement hold photos (thousands is not an exaggeration), letters, cards, souvenirs from school days and yesterday, and pages colored with love to us by the kids (now mostly adults) we love.

There is an Avon decanter of a pretty girl who is all yellow. She holds my favorite teen perfume – the first scent of my own I was allowed to wear. Sweet Honesty. I unscrewed the cap carefully, expecting the fragrance to stink. It smelled good still, and memories of the clothes I wore back then, fun times spent with family and friends and accepting Jesus as my Savior played through my mind in seconds like an old-fashioned slideshow on steroids.

When I came across some old papers Daddy sent me for a speech I did in my secretarial training at the Vo-Tech, I sat down and let my mind linger for a while. He worked at Tenant Company for years. They make sweepers for the inside and outsides of buildings. I sometimes see them in the Mayo buildings in Rochester, and pride for Daddy still overflows in my heart.

Those memories led me hither and yon. To and fro. Here and there. And to this . . .

One morning Grandma Joy taught me to sweep the sidewalk outside her home. The broom, much taller than I was, felt unnatural in my small hands. After bonking myself on the head, dropping the thing more than once, I made it to the end of the sidewalk. Thinking I was finished, I held the stick with bristles on the end of it toward Grandma. She pointed at the stairs. That’s when I learned wooden stairs were part of the sidewalk sweeping. I may have grumbled something to her like, “At our house, Mama does this.” This is possible because when I got home, Mama started teaching me the fine art of sweeping inside our house and the porch.

Grandma Pater also handed me a broom at her house, and I swept her sidewalk to the door. Her sidewalk was longer (or so it seems now), but she didn’t have steps which seemed like a win.

These human sidewalk sweepers told me that in the “old country” where none of them had ever lived, this was an important message to people passing by. A swept sidewalk was a welcome sign. They were teaching me a generational lesson that didn’t matter to me then but does now.

One day at Grandma Joy’s, after I finished sweeping, a lady, who was out for a stroll in a hat and gloves, walked up the now clean sidewalk and visited with Grandma. I felt a strange kind of pleasure rise in me. Had she felt the welcome of a swept sidewalk?

Since I wasn’t part of the conversation, that part of the memory is foggy. The good feeling faded the way it did when I wanted to be doing something else.

Grandma Joy told me that my Great Grandma Pearl swept the dirt floor of their sod house in South Dakota and the dirt path that led to the door. Sweeping was that important.

The “old country” thing still delights me. Was it a Norwegian thing? A Dutch thing? Or a German thing? Since those are the countries of my family’s origins, the answer is yes.

Mama was a faithful sidewalk sweeper, too but preferred to sweep her own. I was good with that.

Not long ago, on the sidewalk around our house, hundreds of maple seeds waited for me and my broom. (again – no exaggeration – our maple windbreak is a generous source of these little helicopter seeds) Since being married, sidewalk sweeping has been my responsibility for the most part. Since this is one of my walking spaces, I grabbed the broom, determined to rid the cement of the irritating mess of seeds.

Right away, I was in trouble. Arthritis in my hands and the costochondritis between my ribs flared. Stubborn woman that I am, I did what I could before propping the broom against the house in tears and heading inside.

My beloved Jonathan saw that the pain in my body was bad, but the inside ache of not being able to do this normal chore hurt just as much. He finished the job for me that day.

After Jonathan left for work, I grieved the losses that illness, fatigue, and pain bring. As it so often can, grief became energy. When this happened to Grandma Joy, she played the piano. Mama rearranged furniture. Grandma Pater went to the Ben Franklin in Spirit Lake, IA. (she lived in Lake Park, so it was a short drive. And fast because she believed in putting the pedal to the metal.)

The backdoor shut tightly behind me. I walked our sidewalk determined to figure out a solution. My steps felt like a stomp, but perhaps they could be called a march.

Since then, I sweep each morning on my first circle around the house. Doing it every day like the women before me, I have far fewer seeds and other debris to remove, and my pain is far less. Those women knew stuff. And while it’s not fun, it’s an accomplishment. On harder days, I sweep as far as I can then get the rest the next day. I make sure the sidewalk to the front door is clear first.

Hard doesn’t mean impossible yet. And that’s a win for sure.

We don’t have people walking by our house out here other than our UPS and FedEx guys, but I hope they feel the welcome of a clean sidewalk. Those women I never met from the “old country” would be proud. So would the women born in “the new country” who taught me the value of sidewalk sweeping.

I kind of wish this appreciation had happened when I, as a girl bonking myself accidentally with the broom handle. Sort of. Some lessons are worth the wait.

Until Next Time,

Joy

I have a question for you: I’m terrible at marketing this blog and my books. The experts tell me that email newsletters are the best way to connect with readers and sell books. If you think the experts are right, would you leave the word “agree” in the comments?

The post Sidewalk Sweepers – An Essay appeared first on Joy DeKok .

Into and Out of a Writing Corner

In and Out of a Writing Corner – Joy DeKok

I’m taking Amy Tan’s Masterclass, and wow. She says things that get to the writer inside me.

Today the topic was writer’s block – the thing that holds most, if not all writers, captive from time to time.

I listened to a few words she spoke at least three times. I’ll likely listen again. And maybe again. Her words struck a beautiful chord in my mind.

She spoke about writing to an idea and ending up in a corner in a room with no place for the story to go.

After the last listen (for today), I wondered to myself, “If writing to an idea blocks a story, can writing from an idea set the story free?”

My inner response felt like someone pressed an old gate handle invited me to enter into a wide-open space.

Here’s what I mean . . .

When I started writing The Northern Lights Series, I wrote to the idea.

Writer’s block hit with a vengeance, and I realized I’d written her story into a corner with what looked like no way out. The harder I tried, the worse the story got.

Then, the story got cold, and my creativity hit a wall—nose to brick.

Although I’d written thousands of words, they amounted to a badly written outline. Instead of quitting, I started again.  But I didn’t go through the wall or take the bricks down.

I rewrote the first chapter from the corner facing out. From the idea. That was the moment I set the story free.

Until Next Time,

Joy

To learn more about Ms. Tan’s Masterclass, click on her photo.

 

 

The post Into and Out of a Writing Corner appeared first on Joy DeKok .