Michelle Ule's Blog, page 96

How Long is Too Long a Book?

I finally finished rereading Vera Brittain‘s Testament of Youth last night, all 660 pages of it.

I had to finish it–the library refused to let me renew it a third time and I couldn’t quite remember how it ended. It was due today.

Written in 1933, it’s the intense story of Brittain’s lost youth during World War I. Masterpiece Theater did a production of it in 1980–which is why I originally read the book and its subsequent sequels: Testament of Friendship and Testament of Experience.

Because I’m working on a World War I saga, it was important I read primary source material about that time and Brittain’s work told me things like August 4, 1914, was hot and people fought over ham at the store. Some sections of the book are lyrical with beauty, “it was one of those shimmering autumn days when every leaf and flower seems to scintillate with light,” and the poetry Brittain shares with her fiancé Roland Leighton is heartbreaking.

Hedauville, November 1915

The sunshine on the long white road

That ribboned down the hill

Around your window-sill

Are waiting for you still.

Again the shadowed pool shall break

In dimples round your feet,

And when the thrush sings in your wood,

Unknowing you may meet

Another stranger, Sweet.

And if he is not quite so old

As the boy you used to know,

And less proud, too, and worthier,

You may not let him go–

(and daisies are truer than passion-flowers)

It will be better so.

Roland died early on, and the rest of the book chronicles Brittain’s shattering of hope as two other friends and then her most beloved brother Edward also perish in the war.

Some sections are brutal and make you want to weep.

Edward Brittain is buried far left, second row

But it’s long.  The print is small. The paragraphs are lengthy. The chapters are extensive.The descriptions sometimes feel over the top.

Is it in need of a modern editor, or a less critical eye?

Is it possible, my brain with 21st century expectations of writing style, is the reason it took so long to read?

Many studies have shown the shortened attention span of our generation. I call it “google-brained.” We need to take things in shorter snippets. We just can’t seem to read with the same focused depth I remember people having a mere twenty years ago.

I’ve always paid attention to how words, sentences and paragraphs look on a page when I write. I try not to have more that four or five sentences in a paragraph. After my training as a reporter, I started using shorter sentences. Why invoke a semi colon when you can just start over with a new sentence?

Blogging is even worse.

The shorter the better.

White space rules.

Don’t you think?

And yet, in reading Brittain’s words, going deep into the story as I concentrated on just what picture she painted, what emotion she evoked, what tears were shed, I felt transported back into a different time and place.

Because so many of her friends were poets, poetry appears often. Edward Brittain was a fine musician, so we get references to music and the text of oratorios.

It did not read like a modern memoir. It almost felt timeless. I slowed down with that time and place until I could see the red poppies and know the stink of trenches. The slimey mud of France marched into the room with me and I felt with Brittain the agony of gut-tightening fear that the telegram at night always brought bad news.

I’m glad I worked through Testament of Youth again. I won’t be moving on to the sequels because I don’t need their feel or information. But it’s given me pause about my own manuscript–not to mention my google-modified-brain.

I’m saddened, though, that I’m not sure I could enjoy anymore the lengthy novels I savored in my youth. Could I do Doctor Zhivago justice now in rereading it? How about Gone with the Wind?

Is it the length that intimidates or the subject matter?

Should it make a difference with a classic story?

How long is too long? How do you judge? In reading a modern novel of that World War I time period, do you want it in terse 21st century writing, or in the languid prose of the past?

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How Do You Decide Which Story to Write?

Thursdays are my writing days. This Thursday, however, was a pondering, praying and plotting day. I finished my latest novella, The Gold Rush Christmas, and sent it to the editor earlier in the week. Now it’s time to prepare to write the next book.

I’m in the gloriously embarassing position, however, of having two big deal stories to write. They both will stretch me as a writer and a person. They both are clamoring for attention.

Here’s a peek of my dilemma. We’ll call them CW and WW.

CW: “She needs to write me first. She’s done all the research and was ready to go, and then you came along.”

“I can’t help it if my story line is more timely than yours,” WW laughed. “She needs to write what will sell first. If she starts with me, you’ll catch up.”

“But she’s been to my locales! She knows the houses where my characters lived. She cried at their graves!”

WW shook his head. “She’s been to London and Paris a half-dozen times; she can manage the locations just fine.”

“Michelle’s already told people, however, that she’s not going to Egypt,” CW said. “Half the story takes place there, how can she adequately describe the smells, sand and heat of that place without visiting?”

“She’s been reading Amelia Peabody‘s works,” WW said. “And enjoying the stories along with the descriptions. She’s got a bunch of photos and books about the campaigns. She’s even got friends who’ve been to Cairo recently. They’ll help her. Not to mention that great photograph of her grandmother riding a camel with the pyramids in the background.”

“My story is about love and loss set against the backdrop of a brutal tragedy. People know about the Civil War. They’ll weep with my characters as they experience one difficulty after another.”

“Few people know anything about World War I. It’s important someone tell the story with an element of hope in it,” WW argued. “Michelle’s got a great hook and people will flock to see how her characters get through the agonies with their souls intact. In times like these, people need to hear that God is not surprised, even if he weeps with us.”

“Some of the principle characters die in your story,” CW said. “How can it be filled with hope?”

WW looked down his nose. “Don’t you have a tragic death, too?”

“Yes, but . . . “

An eyebrow lifted.

“My story is also about hope; how you can overcome a tragedy and pick up the pieces of your life. My story takes us beyond the tragedy to the future, yours does not.”

WW shook his head. “My story ends on that glorious day the Doughboys marched down the Avenue des Champs-Élysées to celebrate the end of the war. How can you top that?”

“My story has an exciting prison escape.” CW stamped her foot.

“I’ve got zepplins, camels and the pyramids.”

“What camels?” CW asked.

“Michelle could find a spot to put in some camels if she wanted to.” WW frowned. “Camels were used in the Middle Eastern theater.”

“You’re pathetic.” CW shook her head. “I have horses, lots of gorgeous horses.”

WW paused and chewed his lip. “I’ve got U-boats. You know how everyone loves to hear Michelle’s submarine stories.”

“U-boats are the enemy in your story. I’ve got handsome men in striking uniforms. Generals, pomp, excitement and two pregnancies. You don’t have any babies in your story.”

WW pointed a finger. “Babies are not fair.”

“I’ve got two weddings, too, and glorious clothes. You’re stuck with drab khaki.”

“Not at Shepheard’s Hotel in Cairo.”

CW laughed. “She doesn’t like those women.”

“I have a dynamic character that changed people’s lives,” WW said. “He pointed people to God and helped them in the hours of their distress.”

“My charismatic character was flawed,” CW sighed. “But everyone will fall in love with him. They always did. He was like a rock star.”

“Big Name Author loved my story. Janet likes it, too,” WW said.

“Michelle didn’t tell Big Name Author about my story. He’s from the South, he would have loved it. Besides, Janet likes my story and Jamie and Kim are chomping at the bit for Michelle to write it.”

“Michelle knows where my story begins. She has a twelve-page single spaced synopsis of the story. All she has to do is sit at the keyboard and it will flow from her fingers. ” WW crossed his arms over his chest. “Beat that.”

“She doesn’t know your characters as well as mine. She’s got lots of pictures of my folks, she knows them.” CW stood tall. “A personal relationship can go a long way, particularly when she’ll be writing for months.”

“That’s the rub, isn’t it?” WW looked with sympathy at CW. “Her soul will be fed while she writes my story. Why wouldn’t she start there?”

Well, which would you write if your agent asked you?

Tweetables

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What a Difference a Yes Can Make

I’ve always been fascinated by the effect of a choice –particularly when a seemingly innocent ”yes,” changes the course of your life.

Sometimes a word spoken true can make all the difference. Or a seemingly-off-the-cuff remark. Or maybe even a rash promise to sacrifice the first thing he saw made by a father hurrying home from battle.

God doesn’t take our words lightly, and neither should we.

I’ve been thinking about it this week because the woman who prompted my innocent ”yes,” died on Saturday, March 29, 2013.

Edith Schaeffer‘s example changed the course of my life.

I lay on the couch one rainy Connecticut afternoon reading her family story, The Tapestry. It’s a lengthy book which goes into detail about God’s work in her life (begun as the child of missionaries in China), that of her husband Francis Schaeffer, and their life together. They spent many years in Switzerland running a place called L’Abri where seekers went to hear about God.

God took them through many twists and turns–throughout their lives–but they prayed through their decisions and as I read the book, it seemed they always chose the harder option.

“That doesn’t make sense to me, Lord,” I prayed. “I’ve always thought if you don’t care, I might as well take the easier choice.”

But as I continued reading, my mind circled back to their decision-making process. “Okay, Lord,” I finally said (still lying on the couch with the book on my pregnant stomach). “The next time I have to make a decision, I’ll take the harder choice.”

And that’s why I’m writing from a house in northern California today.

The hard decision came through the door not an hour later.

At that time, my Navy lieutenant was up for orders. In the nuclear submarine ”career pipeline,” his natural next duty station would be a shore job, meaning we’d live regular hours like normal people. He’d go to work in the morning and come home in time for dinner. It sounded like a blissfully easy life after the swinging 12-hour shift work we’d lived through the last two years, not to mention the submarine in overhaul nightmare and deployment we’d survived the years before.

Being able to plan our life–as in, when do you want to go on vacation?–seemed an extraordinary luxury I could hardly wait to savor. I was looking forward to it.

But my husband is an exceptional engineer and that day he came home excited about his prospects.

All I had to do was look up from my book.

“The detailer called today. He offered me the engineer’s position on the USS Skipjack. What do you think?”

I thought of the toddler still taking a nap and the baby in my womb kicking at Edith’s book. An engineer’s tour on a nuclear submarine is one of the hardest jobs in the Navy–not to mention the Skipjack was the oldest submarine in the Atlantic Ocean and would have lots of mechanical problems.

I thought about the fast attack submarine deployment schedule and how his focus would be on keeping her at sea, and not staying home to play with the children.

I thought about how far we lived from our relatives–3500 miles–and how much time I would spend alone in an old house in the woods with an aging car and only a wood stove to keep us warm in the winter time.

I thought we had decided he would take a shore tour so things would be easier on the family.

I wanted to narrow my eyes and scream, “no!”

But I had made a promise not an hour before.

He was grinning with such excited anticipation.

What else could I say?

“Okay.”

“You mean it?”

“Yes.”

He bounded upstairs and I closed my eyes. I may even have cried at the thought of what the future held.

But because of Edith Schaeffer’s example, I had promised.

We took the harder choice.

I look back on that day, now, and see it as the hinge of our life. Because of that engineer’s tour–which nearly broke me in a number of ways and was just as long and challenging as I anticipated–the rest of my husband’s Navy career changed.

Which led us to Monterey, Washington, Hawai’i and then northern California to now.

That “yes” inspired by Edith Schaeffer made all the difference.

It wasn’t easy. But I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Thanks, Edith Schaeffer.

What hard decision has God asked you to make? How do you decide which road to take? Did it make a difference?

Tweetables:

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The Good Friday Passion of Tenebrae

Perhaps we did replay holy week when we entered the sanctuary at dusk on Good Friday. We waved to friends, found a pew and settled down for a moment of calm. The picture of Jesus wearing a bloody crown of thorns on the bulletin cover suggested this was a solemn night, but until we began, I had no idea what Tenebrae meant.

From the Latin for shadows or darkness, Tenebrae is an ancient service that underscores the solemnity of Jesus’s last day on earth as a man.

Tenebrae services usually involve candles lit in a darkened church. The officiant reads passages of Scripture about Jesus and a hymn is sung, as one-by-one the sober accolyte extinguishes the candles until the service ends in total darkness.

As writer Carolyn Weber recounts about Tenebrae, “those of faith will extinguish candles, rather than light them, in symbolic movement toward crucifixion.”

That Good Friday the pastors wore black robes, no colorful stoles, and the lighting was turned down low. The altar had been stripped to bare wood the night before (Maudy Thursday) and the shrouded cross on the wall loomed black. Seven candles were lit on the altar and the hushed service began.

In our Missouri Synod Lutheran Church, we use the grand hymns of the faith to experience Good Friday’s melancholy emotions. We began with the soul-haunting spiritual “Were You There when they crucified my Lord . . . sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.”

That’s how my soul felt.

The readings began with Jesus’s experience at the last supper (Matthew 26:20-25), “the shadow of betrayal,” and proceed through the high points of his last dreadful 24-hours, ending at the tomb.

Go to Dark Gethsemane tells “all who feel the tempter’s power, Your Redeemer’s conflict see. Watch with him one bitter hour, Turn not from his griefs away, Learn from Jesus Christ to pray.”

One candle was snuffed out.

The lack of one candle’s faint glow hardly made a difference, just a softening of light. We still could read the words in our bulletin as we moved through several more passages of Scripture.

The Shadow of Desertion (Matthew 26:30-35) marked Peter’s vow to stay with Jesus no matter what will come. We sang a hymn along the lines of “Jesus, I Will Ponder Now on Your holy passion. With your Spirit me endow For such meditation Grant that I in love and faith May the image cherish Of your suffering pain, and death That I may not perish.”

The second candle, too, didn’t shed a lot of light but as the service intensified, the room felt darker, heavier, grimmer.

The Darkness of Praying Alone (Luke 22: 39-46) came next. His disciples asleep, Jesus pleaded with his Father to take the cup away–if that was His will. “O Darkest Woe! Tears, overflow! What heavy grief we carry! God the Father’s Only Son In a grave lies buried.”

The next flame was quashed.

In The Shadow of Accusation (Mark 14: 43-63 ) Judas led the Roman guards to Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemene and they hauled Jesus to the rulers. It was noticeably darker in the church now as we sang a hymn like “O Dearest Jesus, What Law Have You Broken? That such sharp sentence should on you be spoken? Of what great crime have you to make confession, what dark transgression?”

Another candle extinguished.

The Darkness of Cruxifiction (Matthew 27: 27-38) reflected on the Son of God hanging on the cross. Stricken, Smitten and Afflicted described Jesus–”see him dying on the tree. This is Christ, by man rejected; Here my soul, your Savior see. He’s the long expected prophet, David’s son, yet David’s Lord. Proofs I see sufficient of it: He’s the true and faithful Word.”

The gravity  was underscored by another candle’s death.

The Shadow of Death ( Luke 23: 44-49) told of Jesus’ anguished cry of triumphant: “it is finished,” and Bach’s music written 450 years ago underscored the agony: “  O Sacred Head, Now Wounded, with grief and shame weighed down, Now scornfully surrounded With thorns, your only crown. O sacred head, what glory And bliss did once combine, Though now despised and gory, I joy to call you mind.”

With this candle’s flame snuffed, the sanctuary sat in near-blackness.

The Darkness of the Tomb (John 19: 38-42) ended the service by marking the moment Jesus was laid in the tomb. The final candle was blown out. Surely He Hath Borne Our Griefs?

The church fell into total darkness and silence save for the pastors carrying the still lit Christ Candle from the sanctuary to symbolize the death of Christ–Jesus leaving the earth. The back door closed softly behind them and suddenly, seemingly out of nothing, came a dramatic

thud.

We flinched at the sound of the stone rolled shut on Jesus’s tomb.

One last song, a smidgen of hope: There is a Redeemer.

We exited in silence, trembling from the grim majesty of what we witnessed. The Son of God, died on a cross, laid in a tomb.

It is finished.

Sin and death reign no more.

But Easter Sunday morn is just around the corner.

Thanks be to God.

How do you experience Good Friday?

Tweetables:

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A Dream of a Writer’s Conference

I’ve been at the Mount Hermon Christian Writers’ Conference all week in the mountains above Santa Cruz, California.

It was an exhausting and exhilarating time, as usual.

I first went to the conference ten years ago at the encouragement of an old friend who had remembered I always planned to write books. Be careful what you talk about in your youth–some people will remember.

I had no idea what to expect ten years ago and was very nervous. I didn’t know a soul there and was traveling far from home on a trip that felt a little indulgent.

After checking in, I wandered into the dining room where I sat at a table with two women: Shannon Hill and Becky Germany. They were editors and we talked about what editors did. I brought up Maxwell Perkins and his outstanding work. They nodded politely.

I took a magazine writing “track” (series of morning classes) during my five days there. As a trained reporter and editor from college, I felt confident I could write a magazine article–I’d done it before. Roger Palms was very encouraging and his course sprang my mind alert with optimism.

Unfortunately, the magazine editors that year were very discouraging.

Indeed, as the rain poured down in that redwood-studded valley, I grew more and more discouraged. It came to a head on Sunday afternoon as I watched the misty rain.

“You know, Lord,” I prayed. “I don’t know why I came here. Maybe I should forget about getting published and just go home to raise my daughter. It will be a bummer if I never publish a book, but it will be worse if I botch my daughter’s childhood.”

Just then it stopped raining.

The clouds parted.

A beam of light split the clouds.

It did not hit me.

But it might as well have. I started laughing. “Okay, God. I’ll take that as a yes.”

I cheered up considerably.

One of the speakers that year was writer T. Davis Bunn and he mentioned that he had written seven novels before he finally sold one. I decided to use that erudite and skillful man as my marker. I wouldn’t worry about publication until I had written seven novels.

So, I went home and raised my children, practiced my craft, found a part-time job in publishing, attended more conferences and grew in my skill and confidence. My daughter’s junior high years challenged me, and I’ve always been thankful I didn’t have a contract during that time. I was able to focus on my family’s needs and I “grew” in even more ways.

I’m glad God took his time.

And when I got discouraged and malcontented, I remembered that sun beam and those seven novels I needed to write.

I got my first contract, for A Log Cabin Christmas Collection, the day we drove our daughter to college.

Becky Germany was my editor.

I’m not sure if it was the seventh project I’ve written, but it was close. 

God puts dreams into our hearts and asks us to hold them lightly. Giving them up to God to use to His glory was easier knowing I “sort of” had a promise.

My children are total delights. I’ll have published four works by the end of this year. Almost all the good things that have happened to me professionally have been the result of attending the Mount Hermon Christian Writers’ Conference.

That, of course, and God’s peculiar blessings for me.

Has God given you any promises? What dreams do you hold lightly? What God-given dreams have come true?

Tweetables:

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On Being Thankful–For Eyes that See in Color!

Cats see differently than we do, I’ve always heard.

Their eyes are designed for hunting and some of their “cones” have been sacrificed so they can see better than humans in the dark. They see in shades of black, white and gray, with occasional color tints.

Which explains why they can’t tell the difference between the red string toy they can play with and the green ball of yarn we’re trying to tuck away.

I’m so glad I’m not a cat.

Spring is the best time of year to remember that. All around me Sonoma County color is exploding with joyful color–and often in the most unlikely places.

I watch for this neighbor’s tree every year to herald spring. Shaped like a lollipop, it’s an ornamental plum tree.

The poor cat would just see an unappetizing gray tree with filtered light. She’d probably note movement: a bird lighting on the branches, but wouldn’t see anything more. I, however, can see and smell the beauty and appreciate the flying bird is carrying a piece of red string to weave into a multi-colored nest.

Sonoma County gets cold enough we can have bulbs. I love hyacinths and daffodils. How about you?

Even the local hens are excited about the season: fresh insects! Our blind dog became excited when the hens arrived to clear out the local pests. She couldn’t see, but she could sniff and I’ve seen her ”admiring” the flowers, too!

Ceonothus is also known as California lilacs. They come in many sizes and are very popular with bees. No scent, but the color is subtle and sweet.

I’ve never figured out how the calla lilies determine when to unfurl. They’re up now, their bugles facing the sun and calling us to admire. Red berries cover the hillsides as well, beckoning wrens and red-breasted robins to return home.

Sonoma County still has large swaths of open farmland and the gnarled old valley oaks have yet to green up with new leaves. I spotted these sights driving to Sebastopol, right on the edge of the laguna. You can catch a hint of yellow mustard plants behind the tree.

Across the road half an hour later, the clouds have blown away to show the true colors of spring:

It’s a time for growth and pushing through into new places. We don’t usually like invasive ivy, but you can’t help be but cheered by this plant’s optimism!

But alas for this old Bandit, it’s all black and white.

 

What does spring look like where you are today? What’s your favorite marker that spring is here?

Tweetables:

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Dreams and Action in the Book of Matthew

One of the advantages of studying the book of Matthew in the spring is the ability to read about the nativity without the distraction of Christmas carols, presents, cards and other cultural activities.

It enables you to see items in the story you may have overlooked before.

How many times have I read or heard the story of the birth of Jesus in Matthew?

How many times have you?

Do you know how many dreams motivate action in the first two chapters?

Five.

Four times to the same man through the agency of an angel.

Joseph

Many people remember that Joseph was an honorable man, resolved to divorce Mary quietly when she was found to be pregnant. (His other option was to lead the stoning of an adulterous young woman). But he was a thoughtful man and when an angel appeared in a dream, he paid attention and accepted the astonishing words: “that which is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.”

(Would he  have known who the Holy Spirit was, 400 years after the last prophecies of Malachi?)

Something about the angel’s words stirred his soul and he accepted what he was told.

When he woke from his dream, Joseph took Mary as his wife.

You’ll remember they traveled to Bethlehem shortly thereafter.

Wise Men

Wise men living far away saw a star in the sky which heralded a marvelous event. Whatever it was, it convinced them to pack up and head after that star in search of a newborn king.

(They may have heard the prophecies from Jewish folks still living near Babylon long after the captivity ended).

They followed the star to Israel, where they appealed to the ruler of the kingdom, certain he would know where this wondrous event would be taking place.

Herod didn’t know anything about it and asked his wise men what was up.

They knew the prophecies and where the Messiah would be born–they just hadn’t noticed a spectacular stellar event. Perhaps they looked from the wrong angle? Maybe they were blinded from seeing it?

The text notes Jerusalem was in an uproar about these wise men from the east. Herod met them secretly and sent them on their way, undoubtedly to not give them or their quest any more publicity.

The wise men–and we don’t know how many there were–kept their eyes on the heavens. The followed that star to the house where Jesus lived with his parents. In a dream they were warned not to return to Herod and returned home by an alternate route.

It would be interesting to know how they were warned in a dream. Did they all get the same dream? Did just their leader?

The text does not mention an angel, so one may not have appeared–but these were men used to responding to wonders and mysteries–acting on faith. They had journeyed across the desert following a star, going home a different waywouldn’t have been a problem.

Joseph, again

Soon thereafter, maybe even the same night, Joseph had another vivid dream whereby an angel told him he needed to “rise, take the child and his mother and flee to Egypt.”

Having seen wonderous things happen–including the surprise visitors bearing extravagant gifts for Jesus, Joseph didn’t question.

 This time, the angel added a promise to return: “remain there until I tell you, for Herod is about to search for the child to destroy him.”

Joseph packed them up immediately.

Joseph, a fourth and fifth time

Joseph took his family to the fertile lands of the Nile where they lived in peace while Herod’s soldiers rampaged through Bethlehem killing every boy under two.

Rich Mullins wrote a wonderful song about that sojourn: My Deliverer.

They remained in Egypt until Herod died and the dream angel appeared once more: “Rise, take the child and his mother and go to the land of Israel, for those who sought the child’s life are dead.”

The family got up and hit the trail back to Israel.

The text seems to indicate they were headed to Bethlehem–they may have liked the town after Jesus’s birth.

(My husband contends all the neighboring Jewish mothers would have taken in that baby from the manger as soon as they were alerted to his presence by the excited shepherds. Of course their husbands would have offered a job; they were all related to each other, right? Of course right).

The political news in southern Israel upon their return, however, sounded frightening.

By now, Joseph knew to sleep on it.

Yet again, an angel appeared to Joseph in a dream and warned him away from Judea.

Joseph, Jesus and Mary turned north and moved to the hills of Galilee in Nazareth–to fulfill a prophecy, “He shall be called a Nazarene.”

And the record of extraordinary dreams in the book of Matthew, ends.

What about your dreams?

I have vivid dreams all the time, but none have motivated me to action other than a humorous recounting.

I once dreamed I was reading a newspaper and one line was brightly lit: “And Father Jabro will speak.”

It haunted me–it haunts me still–and the following Sunday I went to my local church looking for Father Jabro–a priest whom I knew.

What word could possibly have come to me from him?

Father Jabro preached the homily that day. Even then, I didn’t think it memorable and I don’t remember what he spoke of 40 years later.

I just knew the dream beckoned me to action.

So I went.

Sometimes God calls us to do things that make no sense to us, but have consequences to other people. He uses whatever means he needs to get us moving.

Some people respond to Scripture, others to prayer. But how do you know if something prompting you to action is really from God, or merely wishful subconscious yearnings?

You run it by the Bible, of course. Does it line up with the truth of Scripture?

Joseph would have known the prophets foretold a baby born to a virgin.

I doubt he expected to be involved, but when the situation presented itself to him and God sent an angel to explain–he acted.

After that first response, the second dream with an exhortion may have come easier– Joseph knew Herod’s reputation and when the angel spoke, he got up immediately and headed to Egypt.

With the success of two dream responses, Joseph probably relaxed into trusting that angel–particularly when he told Joseph not to move until the angel told him to. Responding to the fourth dream probably was a relief–because it correlated to his own understanding of the times and perhaps he knew the prophecy about the Messiah–the one who was born of a virgin, the one who was called out of Egypt–also being known as a Nazarene.

God’s like that.

We take the steps of faith, then he provides confirmation.

It’s glorious; whether you get an angel to direct or not.

Fear not.

What about you? Have you ever been motivated to do something because of a dream? Has an angel ever spoken to you in a dream?

What’s Your Story?

My father told the story this way:

He and my mother had been in Las Vegas during the years the Rat Pack flourished and when live bands were popular in even the smallest of clubs.

They looked up a relative, checking in to see how she was doing playing in her husband’s small jazz band, and she met them after a set. They talked about this and that in a haze of cigarette smoke, with booze bottles clicking in the background the rattle of ice in glasses.

“What’s it like living in Las Vegas?” My dad asked.

Her platinum blond hair shone in the light and she drawled slowly, “everyone in Vegas has a story.”

Everyone has a story.

I don’t know how old I was when my father recounted that incident, but I remembered that line. It resonated somewhere deep inside m, where it took root and flourished into avid curiosity which could only be contained when I had an answer to the simple question: “What’s your story?”

We all know how powerful story can be. I’ve grown up asking, begging, “tell me a story.”

But where do the best stories come from?

From the people who lived them.

Some people are born story tellers–my father was one. Others have an ability to ask questions that prompt people to “spill the beans.”

My father was like that, too.

As a traveling salesman, he spent a lot of time on the road trying to make friends with buyers. He spent a lot of time in bars chatting with patrons.

Dad also spent a lot of time listening. So much so, he’d often begin a recounting of events by saying, “I put on my chaplain’s collar and they told me everything.”

Even if he didn’t want to listen. Something about him brought out the urge to talk in other people.

Embellishing or merely entertaining?

Fortunately, he enjoyed a good story. He also enjoyed embellishing a good story. It can be a good business trait.

It can also be very entertaining.

My family loves the Tim Burton movie Big Fish. Edward Bloom has a penchant for telling “whoppers,” as he recounts the events of his life to his family. Bloom was a traveling salesman also–perhaps all those hours driving on the road enable a man to shape their tales into something entertaining.

But in the movie, Edward Bloom’s journalist son Will is frustrated at not being able to get to the facts about what really happened in his father’s life. He was angry with his father’s embellishment–how the stories were bigger and more extraordinary every time.

Edward Bloom’s version of Will’s birth always had a bigger-than-life aspect to it, which the young man found irritating.

But the family doctor, a long-time friend finally told Will the true, boring story of the day he was born: “Your mother came in about three in the afternoon. Her neighbor drove her, on account of your father was on business in Wichita. You were born a week early, but there were no complications. It was a perfect delivery.”

Nothing like Edward Bloom’s version at all.

 The doctor patted Will’s hand and ended with, “I suppose if I had to choose between the true version and an elaborate one involving a fish and a wedding ring, I might choose the fancy version. But that’s just me.”

Obviously, telling the truth is important, but do the facts always tell the whole story? Even in football, the commentators include a “color” commentator–someone who can fill out the basic football game story with amusing asides or interesting points.

I like to see myself as a “color” commentator on life.

And I’m not above turning the story slighty, to make it more interesting. But I try to stay true to the real meaning of whatever tale I’m telling.

When we finished watching Big Fish for the first time, I felt energized and excited. I turned to my family and exclaimed, “Who does the big fish remind you of?”

I expected them to say my father.

Instead, they all pointed at me.

Hmmm.

They may have had a point.

After all, I sort of agree with Edward Bloom. What’s the point of telling a story if you can’t make it interested?

What’s your story? Do you agree with Edward Bloom–about the need to make a story more interesting than the bare facts?

Tweetables:

Does everyone really have a story? Click to Tweet

How far are you willing to stretch the truth to tell a good story? Click to Tweet

What Happens at a Book Launch?

Best adult costume

When you think of a book launch party, do you imagine a New York City penthouse with a waiters, stacks of the book, cigarette smoke, fantastic food, champagne and perhaps dramatic evening wear?

Maybe a party like the type Nick and Nora Charles used to throw?

When we planned the launch for my Bridging Two Hearts, I thought it would be fun to throw a party like that. I sketched the idea to my husband who shook his head. “Your book is about a Navy SEAL and a massage therapist. They’d be drinking beer and sparkling water, not champagne.”

He had a point.

So I regrouped.

I hadn’t had a party in a while, and decided to invite anybody I thought would be interested. I posted the invitation on a bulletin board at church, mailed it to friends I hadn’t seen in awhile, emailed it to anybody living remotely near me, talked it up with my hairdresser and passed out copies at my Zumba class.

It was Saturday night. We had a lot of fun.

The invitation reminded guests about our hero and heroine’s occupation and told them we’d be giving out prizes to those who came in the best costume: “dress like a SEAL or as if you were going to a massage.”

Several clever persons suggested coming dressed as an ocean seal, one wanted to wear her seal hat, and one nervously explained she didn’t wear anything when she had a massage. I suggested a bathrobe . . .

You can see my brother-in-law chose to put on his scuba gear; those flippers were very popular, though he didn’t wear them long. I’m the one on the left wearing a kimono-type robe: pre-massage wear.

A number of children attended the party, and we had special favors for them.

Some of the children were hard to see.

We included food pertinent to the story. Amy bakes Josh chocolate chip cookies after one difficult encounter. My famous chocolate chip cookies were on the table.

We served MREs–meals ready to eat–which is what the SEALs ate on their mission two-thirds of the way through the story. Because Amy worked at the gorgeous Hotel del Coronado, we also featured a baked brie with crackers, assorted cheeses, quiches, fruit and a vegetable tray.

Drinks? Beer, punch, wine and bottled water–as you can see in the photo.

These were not “real” MREs, I selected desserts to make them more palatable to my guests. But, they got the idea of what military members eat when they’re in the field. The box reminded us the food was good for five years . . .

The party included opportunities to purchase copies of Bridging Two Hearts, of course, and I happily autographed away.

We held drawings throughout the evening which featured book theme-related prizes: a SEAL hat, a balaclava, lotions, scented candles.

Midway through the evening, I gathered my guests together and made a small speech thanking, among others, my personal patron of the arts: my husband.

He and I then did a dramatic reading from the book.

We began with the opening chapter. My husband, of course, read all Josh’s lines as well as those of the other male characters. I had Amy’s part. As we read, I was surprised at the many times we had to wait for laughter to die down. I hadn’t realized how witty the opening was!

Authors work alone. Unless you think to read your story to your long-suffering family, I don’t know when you get to hear audience response.

We then moved further into the book and I got the “props.” My neighbor gasped when I entered: “You’re going to do that scene!”

Passion fruit gelato cones play a major role in one of the combative scenes of Bridging Two Hearts.

In the story, Josh purchases the cones from Bottega Italiana on Coronado Island. For my party, we bought passion fruit sorbet from Screamin’ Mimi’s in Seabastopol.

When the right moment came . . . you’ll have to read the book to find out what happened.

But our guests all laughed.

Afterwards, they all got passion fruit sorbet cones, too. A splendid way to end the evening.

How do you envision a launch party? What “props” do you think would work well in launch parties for famous books? What’s your favorite gelato?

Tweetables:

What’s a launch party? Click to Tweet

Making a book launch fun Click to Tweet

Thoughts on Fear and Control in the Book of Job

English: An early engraving by Blake for the Book of Job (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I recently finished teaching a study of the book of Job and took away an interesting angle on fear and control.

“Job’s comforters” is a term referring to people who attempt to console but just make you feel worse when they’re done visiting. Why is that? Why did Job’s miserable friends treat him in such an awful way?

I think it has a lot to do with fear and control.

Eliphaz the Temanite, Bildad the Shuhite and Zophar the Naamathite all meant well. They traveled great distances when they learned of the horrific calamities which befell Job. The tragic list includes the loss of his home, livlihood, servants, money, prestige and all ten children in an exercise overseen by God.

When Satan taunted God that Job still had his health, God gave Satan permission to take that away as well–to the point of death but no further.

The catastrophe was profound.

His friends came to sit with Job in silence for seven days. The four men said nothing, simply grieved. I suspect this is where the Jewish concept of sitting shiva comes from.

But after a week of mourning for the loss of his children–children for whom Job had daily made a sacrifice lest they had sinned and not confessed it themselves–the friends felt they had reason to speak.

Even though Job’s exemplery behavior was famous throughout the region, they were convinced he must be hiding a secret sin for which God was punishing him in this over-the-top way.

None of the actors in the book of Job knew about the deal made between God and Satan (described in the opening chapters for the readers).

Their intentions the first seven days were good–they had come to comfort their friend. The rest of the book details how they sought their own comfort at Job’s expense.

I don’t think they meant it on purpose, I think they were afraid.

If God could do this to Job, what could he do to them?

If they could figure out, force, Job to confess what dastardly sin he had committed for God to punish him in such a way, they could soothe their own fears because, well, they’d never do anything like that and thus they would be safe.

Right?

I don’t think so.

Such thoughts are mere superstition and that, definitely, is not at the core of the book of Job.

They wanted to calm their own fears by controlling God–because if they didn’t commit the same horrible sin, God would spare them, right?

How often do you see that in your own life?

How often are our behaviors motivated by fear?

How often do we try to control events so we won’t be afraid?

“The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,” Psalm 111:10 tells us, but the fear it refers to is not the knees-knocking, teeth rattling fear that happens when we confront our worse nightmare.

The fear in this passage means reverence for God–the Creator of the Universe, the being who spun the planets across the universe while he put together the tiniest bits of DNA in your body. It means holding him in awe and honor.

If we begin there, believing the being who created us is to be awed and worshipped–as Job did–we can take our fears and worry to him to control.

Job argues throughout the book with his friends and God that he did nothing wrong. He did not deserve the nightmare that happened.

He’s correct. The terrors that befell him–and which were never explained, by the way–had everything to do with God’s purposes and nothing to do with Job’s actions, or even the attitude of his heart.

When God arrived after 36 chapters of mourning and debate, He pointed out that He who controlled the universe, fed the birds, put the oceans in their place and originated the concept of “greenhouse effect,” didn’t need to be scolded by Job and his friends for God’s decisions. God chastized Job’s friends for their poor behavior and challenged Job on his attitude, but in the end rewarded Job with a double portion of everything God had allowed Satan to take away.

(We don’t hear in this book what happens to Satan, but those who’ve read through Revelations know God wins).

While Job received back all his possession and more, his ten children were not raised from the dead and that’s why I think this book has a bittersweet ending.

Ten more children were born to Job and his wife; ten children were in heaven with God.

Job and his friend learned the hard way, they could not control God–no matter what fear tactic they used.

How often do we think we know more than God about how the universe should be run? Do you really think you know better than God what you need? What inaccurate understandings about God has fear driven you to think?

Tweetables:

Thoughts on fear and control in Job. Click here to tweet.

What were Job’s friends thinking? Click here to tweet.

How to insult God from Job’s POV. Click here to tweet.