Jennifer L. Wright's Blog, page 9

My Cursed Birthday

It’s my birthday!

That’s right–I’m an October 13th baby and, naturally, I think it’s the perfect date: the colorful leaves, the subtle crispness to the air, the scent of all things pumpkin. I consider myself pretty doggone lucky to have been born at such a perfect time of year.

Except, of course, for those few years–like this one–where my birthday happens to fall on a Friday.

Friday, October 13.

Then, instead of cozy, happy, fall-inspired birthday wishes, I get to see the shake of heads and hear the rap of knuckles on wood: “A birthday on Friday the 13th? How unfortunate for you!”

*Sigh*

Even if my day ends up being wonderful (which it usually is), I still have to hear the superstitious comments and low-key melancholy of a world convinced there is something unwholesome about the date. (I won’t even go into the fact that my THIRTEENTH birthday fell on Friday the 13th–oooooh, boy, would that get some feedback).

So, naturally, it got me wondering: why is it, exactly, that so many hold to the belief that Friday the 13th is unlucky? Where did this idea come from? And why does it permeate our culture so thoroughly?

While the idea of Friday the 13th is a purely western one, the notion of an “unlucky” date is not. In Greece and Spanish-speaking countries, it is Tuesday the 13th that is considered a day of bad luck, while in Italy, it is Friday the 17th that is met with fear.

Like many superstitions that have evolved over time and across cultures, it is difficult to pinpoint the precise origins of Friday 13th. What we do know, though, is that both Friday and the number 13 have been regarded as unlucky in certain cultures throughout history. In the Christian tradition, for example, Jesus was crucified on a Friday. Friday was also said to be the day Eve gave Adam the fateful apple from the Tree of Knowledge, as well as the day Cain killed his brother, Abel. According to folklore historian Donald Dossey, the unlucky nature of the number 13 originated with a Norse myth about 12 gods having a dinner party in Valhalla. The trickster god Loki, who was not invited, arrived as the 13th guest and tricked the blind god Hodr into shooting his brother Balder, the god of light, joy and goodness, with a mistletoe-tipped arrow, killing him instantly. The whole earth went into mourning afterwards, shrouding the land in darkness. The number of guests at the Last Supper–13–added to the digit’s unlucky reputation. But while, historically, both Friday and the number 13 have been seen as ill-omened, there is no record of the date Friday the 13th being seen as anything but ordinary until the 19th century.

The first mention of what we all know as Friday the 13th comes from an 1834 French play written by Les Finesses des Gribouilles. In it, he writes: “I was born on a Friday, December 13th, 1813 from which come all of my misfortunes”

An early documented reference in English also occurs in H. S. Edwards’ biography of Gioachino Rossini, who died on Friday 13th of November 1868:

“Rossini was surrounded to the last by admiring friends; and if it be true that, like so many Italians, he regarded Fridays as an unlucky day and thirteen as an unlucky number, it is remarkable that on Friday 13th of November he passed away.”

However, it is widely believed that the superstition only came fully into the public’s conscience with the 1907 publication of the novel Friday, the Thirteenth written by Thomas William Lawson. The popular book told the story of a New York City stockbroker who plays on fears about the date to create chaos on Wall Street and make a killing on the market.

So…is that all there is to this supposedly cursed day? A few ancient, far-fetched beliefs strung together over centuries to eventually become fodder for a book that planted a fledgling superstition into the public’s collective mind? Is there any merit at all to this belief? Has anything bad every actually happened?

Well, yes and no.

According to history.com, “On Friday, October 13, 1307, officers of King Philip IV of France arrested hundreds of the Knights Templar, a powerful religious and military order formed in the 12th century for the defense of the Holy Land. Imprisoned on charges of various illegal behaviors (but really because the king wanted access to their financial resources), many Templars were later executed…In more recent times, a number of traumatic events have occurred on Friday the 13th, including the German bombing of Buckingham Palace (September 1940); the murder of Kitty Genovese in Queens, New York (March 1964); a cyclone that killed more than 300,000 people in Bangladesh (November 1970); the disappearance of a Chilean Air Force plane in the Andes (October 1972); the death of rapper Tupac Shakur (September 1996) and the crash of the Costa Concordia cruise ship off the coast of Italy, which killed 30 people (January 2012).”

When laid out as a series of facts, Friday the 13th does seem prone to bad luck. However, these events, however horrific, pale in comparison to any myriad of other events that have occurred at any other date on any other calendar. It’s highly unlikely that the date on which they took place had any bearing on the tragedy that unfolded.

Or did it?

Ice Cream and Sin

Although I will never bemoan the blessing of getting older, I have to admit there are certain aspects of it I would rather do without. My eyes that tire when reading way faster than they used to. The soundtrack of pops and creaks my joints make every time I walk up the stairs now. The gray hair creeping into my dark locks that looks in no way as distinguished as my husband’s.

But perhaps the most frustrating thing I’ve encountered is the change to my digestive system. Slowly but surely, over the past few years, I have become lactose intolerant.

Milk, cheese, ice cream–especially ice cream–now has an unpleasant and painful after effect, causing me to cut almost all dairy products from my diet. Or, rather, it should have caused me to cut almost all dairy products from my diet.

But ice cream is a really, really hard thing to say no to.

On those days when I crave in, I know what’s coming. I understand that this fleeting, temporary, creamy chocolate and vanilla goodness is going to haunt me in a few hours, when I am bowled over with stomach cramps and indigestion. I know this. But, on those days when the craving and temptation gets intense, the threat of “after” is never strong enough to stop me.

Kind of sounds a lot like sin, doesn’t it?

It would much easier to avoid temptation if sin didn’t look so doggone good and bring so much pleasure. But that’s what makes sin so dangerous. If sin scratched my skin or gouged my eyes or broke my legs, I wouldn’t be tempted to do it, would I? Likewise, if sin looked ugly or putrid or evil, it would be pretty easy to run the other direction.

Unfortunately, sin often plays out a lot like ice cream (at least in my case): it looks good. It smells good (hello, hot fudge!). And the experience of eating it is oh so lovely.

It’s not until afterward that it’s true nature is revealed.

Perhaps that is why “sin acceptance” is so prevalent in our culture today. So many of what the Bible declares are sins feel good. So good, in fact, that it’s become popular to rationalize and even justify their occurrence in our lives.

“Do not get drunk on wine, which leads to debauchery. Instead be filled with the Spirit.” (Ephesians 5:22)

But I’ve been so stressed out with work and the kids. Alcohol helps me to relax and have a good time. I always feel better after a few drinks.

“You shall not commit adultery.” (Exodus 20:14)

But I just don’t love my spouse anymore. He/she doesn’t make me happy. This other person does. I just feel better when I’m with him/her.

“For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs.” (1 Timothy 6:10)

But my money is my money. I don’t need to share it or be generous. It makes me feel good to buy everything I want to buy.

Did you happen to notice the common thread within every single one of these sins–drunkenness, sexual immorality, and greed? They all feel good in the moment. There is pleasure to be found in giving into the temptation.

But how long does that good feeling last?

Drunkenness leads, not only to physical ailments, but also family strife, career issues, and sometimes legal ramifications. Affairs break up families, destroy trust, and often lead to a pattern of infidelity over generations. The hoarding of money (or, conversely, stuff) very rarely leads to peace but rather brings about the exacerbation of fear and loss.

As Thomas á Kempis writes in The Imitation of Christ:

“‘But,’ you may say, ​’What about those who find such plea­sure and delight when they give in to temp­ta­tions?’ To be sure, there is plea­sure for them, but how long does it last? It is like smoke — it van­ish­es quick­ly. Soon even the mem­o­ry of the joy is gone. They will nev­er find rest, and they will live in bit­ter­ness and weari­ness and fear.

The very thing they think will bring them joy will bring them sor­row; that which they think will bring them plea­sure will bring them only pain. Because of their blind­ness and numb­ness they may nev­er see or feel how mis­er­able they are. They may not even know that their soul is slow­ly dying.”

You see, any pleasure that we derive from sin–i.e. those things not of God–is not true pleasure at all. The world would like you to think that pleasure is anything that makes you feel good in the moment; true pleasure derives from being in right standing with the One who gave you life.

á Kempis continued:

“But, if you want to have true delight, here is the way: have con­tempt for all world­ly things and all low­er delights, and rich con­so­la­tion will, in turn, be giv­en to you. In pro­por­tion as you with­draw your­self from the love of these things, so you will find con­so­la­tions from God much more sweet and potent.”

Yes, sin may offer us fleeting, momentary pleasure. But don’t believe the lies that our life consists only in our fickle, short-lived feelings. No excuses or justification of fleeting pleasure can ever match up to an eternity of true happiness with God. Temptation will inevitably come, but that does not mean we must give in to it, nor accept the notion that it is not dangerous because passing delight can be found in its depths. Rather:

“If we made an effort to stand firm­ly and coura­geous­ly in the strug­gle, doubt­less we should see the help of our Lord from heav­en, for he is ready to help those who trust in his grace; he gives us occa­sions to fight that we may win. If our spir­i­tu­al progress relies only on out­ward obser­vances, our devo­tion will not last long. Let us lay the axe to the root, so that being purged of unruly pas­sions we may have peace of mind…this out­side com­fort is no small detri­ment to the inner com­fort that comes from God…Final­ly, I want to teach you the way of peace and true lib­er­ty. There are four things you must do. First, strive to do another’s will rather than your own. Sec­ond, choose always to have less than more. Third, seek the low­er places in life, dying to the need to be rec­og­nized and impor­tant. Fourth, always and in every­thing desire that the will of God may be com­plete­ly ful­filled in you. The per­son who tries this will be tread­ing the fron­tiers of peace and rest.”

The Tylenol Scare of 1982

On September 29, 1982, a twelve year-old girl by the name of Mary Kellerman of Elk Grove, Illinois woke up with a sore throat and runny nose. By 7 a.m., she was dead.

Later that day, a twenty-seven year-old postal worker named Adam Janus from Arlington Heights, Illinois also died. His brother Stanley, 25, and sister-in-law Theresa, 19, of Lisle, rushed to his home to comfort his grieving family. Stanley died later that day and Theresa, two days later.

Within the next few days, Mary McFarland of Elmhurst; Paula Prince of Chicago; and Mary Reiner of Winfield all died in similar incidents.

Unexpected. Unexplained. Unnerving.

The deaths, although seemingly unrelated, were all similar, with the victims mimicking symptoms of a heart attack. But Kellerman, for one, was only 12 years old. Was there some kind of new virulent pandemic on the horizon? Paramedics who had responded to the Janus incident, disturbing in its multiple deaths within the same home within a matter of hours, were quarantined out of caution.

An off-duty fireman, Lieutenant Cappitelli, was listening to a police radio in his home and immediately became concerned, especially when his mother-in-law, a friend of the Kellermans, came home in tears over the death of Mary. He phoned another fireman, Mr. Keyworth, who was also listening to a police radio from his own home in Elk Grove, Village. Both firemen called their stations, where colleagues read them reports of the deaths. They were flabbergasted by the only common word within each report:

Mary’s father Dennis had given her Tylenol at 6:30 a.m. By 7 a.m., she was unconscious on the floor of her bathroom. Paramedics were unable to revive her.

Adam Janus had stayed home from work because he had felt like he was getting a cold. When he went to pick up his kids from preschool, he stopped to get some Tylenol. He came home, they had some lunch, after which he said he was going to take two Tylenol and lie down. A couple of minutes later, he came staggering into the kitchen and collapsed. He, too, was unable to be revived. Later that day, as his family grieved together back at Adam’s house, his brother Stanley, who suffered from chronic back pain, and his wife Theresa, who was fighting a headache, both took Tylenol from the same bottle. They, two, both collapsed and died.

At an Illinois Bell store in Lombard, Mary McFarland told her coworkers she had a bad headache. She retreated to the break room, took two Tylenol, and collapsed within minutes.

After landing at O’Hare from Las Vegas, Paula Prince, a flight attendant with United Airlines, stopped at a Walgreens to buy some Tylenol. Her body was discovered in her apartment two days later.

Mary Reiner had recently given birth to her fourth child. Fighting pain and feeling unwell, she took some Tylenol and collapsed, dying just hours later.

Tylenol. Tylenol. Tylenol. Tylenol. Tylenol. Tylenol. Tylenol.

Seven people with unexplained death. The only thread tying them together? The most common and widely used pain reliever on the market.

It couldn’t be the Tylenol.

Could it?

Thomas Kim, medical director of Northwest Community Hospital’s intensive care unit, who had been present to assist with the Janus deaths, was puzzled. The only thing he could come up with for the symptoms he had witnessed was cyanide. But it was both improbably and unlikely. How would a postal worker and his brother come in contact cyanide? Even though he didn’t really expect it to yield any answers, he had the victim’s bloods tested for cyanide. When he got the reports back, he could hardly believe it: Janus’s blood revealed a massive amount of cyanide. Over 1,000 times more than a lethal dose.

Meanwhile, investigators, grasping for straws, gathered up all the other over-the-counter medication in the Janus and Kellerman homes. Although nothing looked out the ordinary, Investigator Nick Pishos with the Cook County medical examiner’s office noticed that the control numbers on the bottles of Tylenol were the same. He called Deputy Medical Examiner Edmund Donoghue, who told him to open the bottles and smell them. Again, nothing looked out of the ordinary. However, Pishos did notice one peculiar thing. Both bottles of pills smelled like almonds.

It was in that moment that both Pishos and Donoghue knew.

The source of the cyanide was Tylenol.

Warnings were then issued via the media and patrols using loudspeakers, warning residents throughout the Chicago metropolitan area to discontinue use of Tylenol products, of which there were currently over 31 million units on shelves. Because the tainted capsules were found to have been manufactured at two different locations – Pennsylvania and Texas – police believed the capsules were tampered with after the product had been placed on store shelves for sale.

Someone was deliberately trying to poison people.

Contaminated containers were eventually discovered in several more stores throughout the great Chicago area, although all had–thankfully–been unpurchased and unconsumed. Unfortunately, copycat attacks erupted across the United States in the months that followed, resulting in the deaths of several more people. A few of these cases were solved. The Chicago murders, however, despite several possible suspects, were not. The murders remain some of the most senseless, cruel, and terrifying in history.

There were, however, several positive changes to come about because of these heinous crimes. Johnson & Johnson, the maker of Tylenol, introduced new tamper-proof packaging, which included foil seals and other features that made it obvious to a consumer if the bottle had been altered. These packaging protections soon became the industry standard for all over-the-counter medications. The company also did away with capsules, which were easy to contaminate as a foreign substance could be placed inside without obvious signs of tampering, and replaced them with “caplets” — a tablet coated with slick, easy-to-swallow gelatin but far harder to tamper with.

In 1983, Congress passed what was called “the Tylenol bill,” making it a federal offense to tamper with consumer products. In 1989, the FDA established federal guidelines for manufacturers to make all such products tamper-proof.

None of these changes or regulations could bring back the lives of victims. But they could ensure that such a senseless, evil crime would never happen again.

Workin’ 9-5 for the Lord

Writing ‘Christian fiction’ is more than just a job.

For me, it is a unique brand of ministry.

Although I often joke that I have the best job in the world because I get paid to sit at home in my sweatpants, making up stories, the reality is so much more than that. I have the best job in the world because I get to use my God-given gifts to encourage people, inspire them, and hopefully lead them to (or strengthen them in) a relationship with Jesus Christ. No matter the character, no matter the setting, no matter the plot, my goal is always to point others toward the Savior. What could be better than that? I’m doing what I love AND working for God at the same time. (The sweatpants are just an added bonus). I’ve felt called to write from a very early age, and being a Christian fiction author feels like the most natural fit in the world.

Which is also why it’s the area in my life in which I have to be the most diligent.

Much like Christian singers, pastors, and leaders, Christian authors are still just people, flawed and sinful, besieged by the same doubts and temptations that seek to ensure everyone attempting to walk the straight and narrow path. But when your career overlaps with your kingdom work, a unique kind of sin can often sneak in.

Sometimes, I can get so focused on the work I’m doing for God that God Himself almost gets lost in the process. When I’ve spent hours writing words to inspire others to follow Him, I can sometimes get lulled into thinking I’ve done enough for Him that day.

For example, one day, after a particularly rough stretch of editing, my mind and body were spent. I had a headache AND a backache (I really need work on my posture when typing), as well as a nagging case of “imposter syndrome,” which rears its head often during the course of work on a new novel. I wanted nothing more than to grab a bag of popcorn and zone out on the couch with Netflix for a few hours.

And that’s the moment my children decided to start fighting.

I knew as a mother it was my job to get up and help my children work through their petty squabble. More than that, it was my duty as a follower of Jesus to help them dissect the heart issues that were causing it, redirecting them to biblical truth and God’s grace as the ultimate means of resolution.

But I was tired. I’d already put in 8 hours of ministry (i.e. God’s) work for the day. Surely that was enough.

It wasn’t.

Kingdom work never stops. Because no matter how big and grand your efforts for the Lord may be, the truth remains that they are never what God wants the most.

God wants obedience.

God wants our hearts.

A great illustration of this is found in 1 Kings 6. For 38 verses, we learn about the lavishness with which Solomon is constructing this building for the Lord. The gold, the stones, the timbers–all of it ornate and beautiful. All I could think about while reading this chapter was an oft-repeated line in the original Jurassic Park movie in which Jon Hammond, the architect behind it all, continues to re-iterate that they “spared no expense” in the grounds’ grandiosity. Solomon, indeed, spared no expense when it came to building a dwelling place for the Lord.

And yet, right smack in the middle of these verses, we learn that “the word of the Lord came to Solomon” (verse 11). Having just read about all the magnificent work Solomon was doing, we expect to hear oodles of approval coming from God’s mouth.

Instead, we hear this:

“As for this temple you are building–if you walk in my statutes, observe my ordinances, and keep all my commands by walking in them, I will fulfill my promise to you, which I made to your father David. I will dwell among the Israelites and not abandon my people Israel” (verses 12-13).

This is no pat on the back or even “well done, faithful servant.” This is God reminding Solomon that what He really wants is obedience.

Keep in mind, Solomon knew this was his calling. God had told David all the way back in 2 Samuel 7 that his son would be the one to build a temple for Him. Solomon was doing what he was supposed to be doing, and he was doing it in style.

Yet, still, God reiterated, even in this, that His number one priority wasn’t the work to which He’d called Solomon. It was obedience springing from love. The work was important, of course; God never wastes anyone’s time. But the worker’s heart was even more so.

The same is true for us, whether we are in “professional” ministry or not. God doesn’t keep a check-list each day, wherein He crosses off “kingdom work” every time I write some words on a page. My work for Him doesn’t stop the moment I take my author hat off because that’s not what “kingdom work” really is. Yes, the writing is important. But what’s most important is maintaining a heart that follows in obedience every hour of every day, whether I’m at home or at work, being an author or being a mom, serving my church or serving my family. Sometimes that obedience is writing 3,000 words a day; sometimes it’s writing zero and engaging with my kids.

But the sad truth is I often miss out on God’s calling for my day because I assume following His calling for my life is enough.

The same is true even if you don’t work in any professional ministry capacity. Our goal on this earth is to “go and make disciples of all nations” (Matthew 28:19), sharing the good news of Jesus to all, no matter if you’re a plumber, a painter, or a postal worker. But, as we are doing so, we want to make sure we are remaining disciples by maintaining a life lived in obedience to Christ. Serving in a church soup kitchen matters little if our souls are destitute. Helping decorate the foyer for Christmas means nothing if our hearts are barren. Don’t get me wrong–doing those things is great. But only if you continue your walk in obedience long after that individual act of service is complete.

A heart overflowing with love and walking in obedience to God are the most important gifts we can ever offer the Lord. Bigger than our work and our calling, no matter how grandiose the result. When we allow His Holy Spirit to take over, His glory is magnified way over anything we could ever do on our own.

Don’t let YOUR work get in the way of HIS work in you.

The Mystery of Agatha Christie

Agatha Christie, the best-selling novelist of all time, is known for her 66 detective novels and 14 short story collections, as well as the world’s longest-running play – The Mousetrap. Her books have sold over a billion copies in the English language and a billion in translation, second only to the Bible in terms of sales.

And yet, despite all her literary mystery success, she is almost as equally well known for her own mystery: an 11 day disappearance in December of 1926 that remains, to this day, unexplained.

Agatha Mary Clarissa Miller was born on 15 September 1890 in Torquay, Devon, South West England into a wealthy middle class family. The youngest of three children, she was home schooled and spent most of her youth alone with her imagination. Because her siblings were much older and away at boarding school, it’s not surprising that the bright and inquisitive young Agatha taught herself to read by the age of five. As equally unsurprising was the birth of aspiring novelist dreams soon thereafter.

At 18, Christie wrote her first short story, “The House of Beauty,” a 6,000 word tale about madness and dreams. More short stories followed, all of them rejected by the magazines to which she submitted. In a style well-known by countless of other authors both before and since, Christie persisted, starting work on her first novel around the same time.

Marriage and World War I interrupted her literary dreams momentarily as her new husband, Archibald “Archie” Christie, was sent first to France and then back to Britain as a colonel in the Air Ministry. Christie herself served as a member of the Voluntary Aid Detachment of the Red Cross, working in the Town Hall Red Cross Hospital, Torquay, first as a nurse then as a dispenser.

Upon her husband’s reassignment to London, Christie again focused her attention on writing, trying her hand at detective novels, which she had always enjoyed. The Mysterious Affair at Styles was rejected by Hodder & Stoughton and Methuen, eventually finding a home at The Bodley Head, which not only published the book in 1920, but also signed her to a contract for five additional novels, all of which saw success.

But, with her growing literary success came pain on the homefront. Despite the birth of a child in 1919 and the luxurious lifestyle Christie’s career entailed, the relationship between Christie and her husband grew strained and, in August 1926, Archie asked his wife for a divorce, announcing he had fallen in love with fellow golfer Nancy Neale. Agatha was devastated.

On 3 December 1926, the pair quarrelled after Archie announced his plan to spend the weekend with friends, unaccompanied by his wife. After Archie stormed out, Agatha Christie got up from her armchair and climbed the stairs of her Berkshire home. She kissed her sleeping daughter Rosalind, aged seven, goodnight and made her way back downstairs again. Then she climbed into her Morris Cowley and drove off into the night. Although her car was discovered the next day at Newlands Corner in Surrey, parked above a chalk quarry with an expired driving license and clothes inside, Christie herself was gone.

She would not be seen again for 11 days.

What followed was one of the largest manhunts in British history. More than a thousand police officers, 15,000 volunteers, and–for the first time ever–even airplanes searched the rural landscape. Two of Britain’s most famous crime writers, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Dorothy Sayers even joined in, with Doyle giving a spirit medium one of Christie’s gloves to find her.

And yet still, she remained missing.

Rumors swirled. Since her car was found close to a natural spring known as the Silent Pool, where two young children were reputed to have died, some suggested that Christie had deliberately drowned herself. But the lack of a body squashed this idea before it could gain steam. Others believed the incident to be nothing more than a publicity stunt, a clever ruse to promote her new book. Still others began to point fingers at Archie, theorizing the estranged husband may have killed his wife.

Then, on 14 December 1926, Agatha Christie was located at the Swan Hydropathic Hotel in Harrogate, Yorkshire, 184 miles north of her home, registered as “Mrs Tressa Neele” from Capetown South Africa. She failed to recognize Archie when he arrived and couldn’t–or wouldn’t–give the police any information about how or why she was there. She was whisked away to her sister’s estate in Cheadle where two doctors diagnosed her with “genuine” memory loss.

That wasn’t enough to satiate a ravenous public.

Despite the public outcry for answers, Christie remained in seclusion for several months afterward, eventually granting Archie the requested divorce but refusing to speak with anyone about the disappearance. She eventually married again and went on to unparalleled literary success, including becoming a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature in 1950 and being appointed Commander of the Order of the British Empire (CBE) in the 1956. Several of her books were even made into films.

Despite all this, she maintained a muteness about her disappearance until her death in 1976. She refused to speak or even acknowledge the events of December 1926. Even her autobiography, published in 1977, makes no mention of these 11 days.

But that hasn’t stopped people from trying to unravel the mystery of the world’s most famous mystery writer. Some, including her biographer Morgan, believe she disappeared during a “fugue state,” a rare psychiatric phenomenon characterized by reversible amnesia for one’s identity, including the memories, personality, and other identifying characteristics, usually brought on severe stress or trauma. The impending divorce as well as recent loss of Christie’s mother during this time certainly lends credibility to this theory.

The author Jared Cade takes a more cynical approaching, believing that Christie planned the event to embarrass her husband but did not anticipate the resulting public melodrama. Another Christie biographer, Laura Thompson, theorized that Christie disappeared during a nervous breakdown, conscious of her actions but not in emotional control of herself.

Whatever the case, the mystery of Mrs. Christie–both on the page and off–is one that continues to fascinate readers over 100 years after her name first became synonymous with the genre.

You *don’t* Do You

“You do you.”

It’s one of the most prevalent themes of popular culture, a rallying cry for those seeking harmony, unity, and peace among our fractured society. And, on the surface level, all seems well and good. “You do you” basically means you should do your own thing, whatever makes you happy. Likewise, everyone else should be free to do their thing–whatever makes them happy. It’s a pact to allow all to pursue their own fulfillment and joy without imposing judgment or restriction.

A shiny, happy “live and let live” world. And it works…for awhile.

But, what if the thing that makes you happy makes someone else unhappy? Or, what if the thing that makes someone else happy hurts you, physically, mentally, emotionally, or spiritually?

Therein lies the conundrum of this seemingly innocuous philosophy: each person pursuing their own individual brand of happiness can never lead to group or societal peace or contentment. Because the pursuit of isolated, self-serving happiness above everything else is, at it’s heart, not loving, but selfish.

Many mothers can probably relate to this. A vision of my own happiness would involve sleeping late, reading all day, and ordering take-out six out of the seven days of the week. But living like this would hurt my family (and my wallet!) My children would be neglected. My husband would be over-burdened. Our relationships (and our waistlines) would suffer.

But it would just be “me doing me” right? Pursing the things that give me the most satisfaction and avoiding those irksome things that cause me displeasure.

This is an innocuous example, for sure, but it proves the fallacy of a “you do you” mindset. Focus on self above everything never bodes well.

God, of course, is well aware of this. That is why, time and time again, His Word commands us otherwise. In fact, His instructions can be summed up as the opposite of “you do you;” instead, we should “do what is right for others.”

1 Corinthians 10: 24: “Nobody should seek his own good, but the good of others.”

Philippians 2: 3-4: “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.”

Luke 6:31: “Do to others as you would have them do to you.”

But this isn’t just a nice way of living God encourages us to follow. He Himself modeled this very behavior in the form of Jesus, “who, being in the very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient to death–even death on a cross.” (Philippians 2: 6-8, emphasis mine)

If Jesus had adopted the model of “you do you” and, during his time of earth, pursued his own happiness rather than the salvation of all people, He would never have survived the temptation in the wilderness. He never would have healed those around Him nor forgiven those who betrayed Him. And He most certainly would have never endured the humiliation or agony of death on a cross.

And yet He did.

Jesus willfully took on the form of His created, not for His benefit, but for ours.

He served, healed, suffered, and saved–again, not for His benefit, but for ours.

He came down from heaven, “not to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.” (Mark 10: 45)

How then can we, as those He has redeemed, live our lives in any other fashion?

If our Creator lived His earthly life for the good of other people, shouldn’t we do the same? Shouldn’t our focus be outward rather than inward, toward heaven rather than earth? While their is joy in celebrating the unique and special way God made each one of us, the philosophy of “you do you” lacks the basic principal to which God has called each and every one of us:

LOVE.

While on the surface it may seem loving to let others be, we must remember where we would be if God had chosen that same mentality. We were put here, not to selfishly seek our own happiness, but to show others the wonders of God’s love. Serving Him–and those around us–in humility, leading others toward Him by modeling Jesus and putting the good of our brothers and sisters above our own.

Because, as you grow in your relationship with Christ, you’ll come to realize that life isn’t about you at all. With the power of the Holy Spirit, we can rise above the “you do you” reasoning and, instead, do things God’s way.

And what is God’s way?

“He has shown you, O man, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” (Micah 6:8)

Happy Release Day to ‘The Girl from the Papers’!

“Inspired by one of America’s most notorious couples, Bonnie and Clyde, Jennifer L. Wright delivers a riveting tale set during the public enemy era of the Great Depression.

Beatrice Carraway has dreams. Although she’s aged out of the childhood pageant circuit, she’s intent on carrying her talents all the way to the big screen—if only she can escape the poverty of West Dallas first. But as the Great Depression drags the working class further and further under, Beatrice struggles just to keep herself, her mother, and her younger sister afloat. After a string of failed auditions, she feels defeated.

And then in walks Jack Turner. Though Beatrice is determined to pull herself up by her bootstraps, Jack has decided on a different path out of the gutters. It isn’t long before Beatrice is swept into an exciting and glamorous life of crime beside the man she loves. Keeping one step ahead of the law, she sees her dreams of fame come true when her name and picture are plastered in newspapers across the country. Yet as their infamy grows, the distance between them widens. While Jack begins seeking bigger payouts and publicity, Beatrice starts to long for a safe, quiet life and something deeper to fill the emptiness in her soul. But when the danger of Jack’s schemes ratchets up, Beatrice fears her dreams—and her future—will end up going down in a hail of bullets.”

Today marks the official release day of my new Bonnie and Clyde-inspired novel, ‘The Girl from the Papers’! I am so excited to share this book with readers, and I truly hope it both challenges and encourages you on your faith journey. You can find purchase links to many of your favorite retailers here or wherever you prefer to buy books!

Happy Reading, and God bless!

Exciting news!

I am so excited to announce that ‘Come Down Somewhere’ is a semi-finalist in the Historical Novel category for the 2023 Carol Awards!

The Carol Awards are awarded each year by the ACFW (American Christian Fiction Writers) to honor excellence in the field of Christian fiction for the previous calendar year. You can find the complete list of semi-finalists here.

To say that I am honored to be listed among this group of authors I both respect and admire would be an understatement. I am truly humbled by the love shown to me by my readers and by the Christian fiction community at large. Thank you so much for allowing me to share these stories with you.

Summer Hiatus!

Both ‘History Friday’ and ‘Wellness Wednesday’ regular features are on hiatus for the summer, allowing me some much needed time with my family. They will return in September will all-new articles.

Have a great summer!

The Mystery of Kaspar Hauser

On May 26, 1828, a young man appeared on the streets of Nuremberg, Germany. He was a stranger and, though the boy appeared to be around sixteen years and in good physical health, he was seemingly intellectually impaired. He was babbling, incoherent, and confused. Concerned citizens took him to local authorities who discovered a note on him, addressed to the captain of the 4th squadron of the 6th cavalry regiment, Captain von Wessenig, which read: 

Von der Bäierischen Gränz

daß Orte ist unbenant 

1828

“From the Bavarian border 

The place is unnamed 1828.”

The letter was purported to have been written by a laborer, into whose hands the boy was given as infant, back on October 7, 1812. The man claimed he had that he had taught him to read, write, and understand the basics of Christianity, but also claimed he had never let the boy “take a single step out of my house.” The letter stated that the boy would now like to be a cavalryman “as his father was” and invited the captain either to take him in or to hang him.

Also on the boy’s person was found another letter, this one supposedly from the boy’s mother, left with the laborer who’d raised him. In it, the woman claimed the child’s name was Kaspar and that he had been born on April 30, 1812. His father was a now-deceased cavalryman of the 6th regiment.

For his part, the boy himself–Kaspar–had a limited vocabulary, only saying the words “I want to be a cavalryman, as my father was” or “Horse! Horse!” Upon questioning, it was discovered he could, indeed, read and write a little, but further inquiries into his past only resulted in frustrated tears. Unsure what to do, authorities had him held as a vagrant, though it wasn’t long before his story spread and throngs of the curious began to visit him in his cell in Nuremberg Castle.

During this time, both the mayor and law enforcement tried to extract more information from Kaspar, trying to ascertain who this mysterious “feral child” could be. At first, he would speak very little about his past, but he soon began offering snippets. He claimed to have spent his life in solitary confinement in a darkened cell with only a straw bed to sleep on and, for toys, two horses and a dog carved out of wood.

During his time in Nuremberg Castle, Hauser would only accept bread and water, saying it was all he had been offered during his confinement and, thus, all he needed to survive. When pressed about the laborer who’d been his caretaker, he said he’d never met the man; the first human being he’d ever met, he said, was a man who visited him not long before his release. The man took great care not to reveal his face to him, but taught him to write his own name by leading his hand. After learning to stand and walk, Hauser was brought to Nuremberg. The stranger allegedly taught him to say the phrase “I want to be a cavalryman, as my father was” (in Old Bavarian dialect), but Hauser claimed that he did not understand what the words meant.

As more and more information leeched from his cell, gossip began to swirl about Kaspar Hauser’s true identity. Many believed him to be the prince of Baden, child of Charles, Grand Duke of Baden, and Stephanie de Beauharnais, who was believed to have died in October 1812. Because Charles had no natural-born son, the line of succession went to his uncle, Louis, and then, later, Louis’s half-brother Leopold. Rumor had it that Leopold’s mother, the Countess of Hochberg, had kidnapped Charles’s son and replaced with a dying infant, in an effort to secure the succession of the throne for her own sons. Kaspar Hauser, many believed, was that kidnapped son. Still others believed he may have been the misplaced son of Hungarian nobility.

Hauser was eventually adopted by the town of Nuremberg and money was donated for his upkeep and education. He was given into the care of Friedrich Daumer, a local schoolmaster, who was charged with teaching the boy, not only various educational subjects, but also the basics of civilized life.

And that’s when things started to get weird. Or, rather, weird-er.

On 17 October 1829, Hauser was found in the cellar of Daumer’s house bleeding from a newly cut wound on the forehead. He claimed he had been assaulted while sitting on the privy. The hooded assailant had threatened him with the words: “You still have to die ere you leave the city of Nuremberg.” Hauser related he recognised the speaker as the man who had brought him to Nuremberg.

Curiously, however, the blood trail led from the privy to Hauser’s bedroom and then, rather than alert his caretakers, he had gone downstairs and climbed through a trap door into the cellar. Alarmed officials called for a police investigation and protection for Nuremberg’s most famous resident. The alleged attack on Hauser also fueled rumors about his possible regal ancestry. Others, however, questioned whether Hauser had inflicted the wound himself to arouse pity or attention. Even Daumer himself had begun to remark on the boy’s tendency to lie.

Hauser was transferred into the care of Johann Biberbach, a municipal authority. Less than six months later, in April 1830, a pistol went off in Hauser’s room at the Biberbachs’ house. Hauser was found bleeding from a wound to the right side of his head. The boy soon revived and stated that he climbed on a chair to get some books, the chair had fallen, and then, while trying to find a handhold, he had by mistake torn down the pistol hanging on the wall and caused the shot to go off. Yet again, there were doubts about the authenticity of his story; many believer Hauser had, once again, staged the accident for attention or deflate an argument that had arisen between Hauser and Biberbach (supposedly over Hauser’s incessant lying). Whatever the case, Hauser was transferred to the house of Baron von Tucher, who would also eventually complain of Hauser’s “exorbitant vanity and lies.”

Eventually, in late 1831, a British nobleman, Lord Stanhope, took Hauser into his custody. His interest in the boy, however, was born less out of genuine care and more out of a desire to finally get down the bottom of Hauser’s mysterious origins. Stanhope spent a great deal of money researching the boy’s past, even going so far as to take Hauser on two trips to Hungary, hoping to jog his memory. Not only Hauser recognize nothing in the country, meetings with the country’s nobility offered no definitive identification of the boy’s heritage. Frustrated–and believing Hauser to be a liar–Stanhope abandoned the boy into the care of a schoolmaster named Johann Georg Meyer in December 1831, though he continued to pay for his living expenses and promised to come back one day and take Hauser to England.

Meyer disliked Hauser immediately, and the sentiment was quickly returned. On 9 December 1833, the two, by all accounts, had a horrific argument. Lord Stanhope was to visit soon, and Meyer was threatening to reveal the truth about Hauser’s lies and bad behavior to his benefactor. Five days later, on 14 December 1833, Hauser came home with a deep wound to his left breast. According to him, he had been lured to the Ansbach Court Garden, where a stranger stabbed him while giving him a bag. When police searched the Court Garden, they found a small violet purse containing a pencilled note that read:

“Hauser will be able to tell you quite precisely how I look and from where I am. To save Hauser the effort, I want to tell you myself from where I come _ _ . I come from from _ _ _ the Bavarian border _ _ On the river _ _ _ _ _ I will even tell you the name: M. L. Ö.”

Hauser died of the wound three days later.

But, even before then, police were already questioning his story. Tipped off by inconsistencies in his story, police began to take a closer look. The note in the purse that was found in the Court Garden contained a spelling error and a grammatical error, both of which were typical for Hauser, who, on his deathbed, muttered incoherently about “writing with pencil”. Although Hauser was eager that the purse be found, he did not ask for its contents. The note itself was folded into a specific triangular form, in the way in which Hauser would fold his letters, according to Mrs. Meyer. Police suspected that he had wounded himself in a bid to revive public interest in his story and to persuade Stanhope to fulfill his promise to take him to England, but that he had injured himself more deeply than planned. Others, of course, only saw it as further proof of Kaspar’s mysterious, possibly royal, heritage–he had been killed off to keep his identity a secret.

So who was Kaspar Hauser? A long-lost royal prince? Or an attention-seeking habitual liar?

The world may never truly know.

Hauser was buried in the city cemetery in Ansbach, where his headstone reads, in Latin, “Here lies Kaspar Hauser, riddle of his time. His birth was unknown, his death mysterious. 1833.” A monument to him was later erected in the Court Garden, the site of his murder/unintentional suicide (depending on which side you believe) which reads Hic occultus occulto occisus est.

Its meaning?

“Here lies a mysterious one who was killed in a mysterious manner.”