Susie Finkbeiner's Blog, page 8

Waiting for Emmanuel

 

I was reminded just the other day that we’ve entered Advent (the liturgical season leading up to Christmas). When I was a kid, Advent was a big deal at my church. We changed the colors on the altar and the stoles on our acolyte robes. We’d start singing different hymns. One family each week would light the Advent candles, reading the significance of each week.

I sure miss attending a liturgical church this time of year.

I remember vividly how sorrowful I felt when singing “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel”. The longing in that hymn pulled at my soul. And I recall wanting so desperately to get to the chorus so we could sing “Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.”

It’s a hymn about waiting. About sorrow and hope living together. Emmanuel shall come. But not quite yet.

This past weekend I was reading about the suicide bombing in Nigeria. Clicking through articles I came upon one with pictures. I didn’t know. I didn’t know they would be so close up on the gore. I didn’t know that they would be so real.

When I close my eyes sometimes I see those pictures again.

One of them was especially horrific. I clicked away from the article right away. And my first thought was, “Jesus, come get us”.

I’ve been praying that more and more often lately.

Jesus, come get us.

And today, with the trending news of terror and bombings and abuse and human trafficking, I say it again.

Jesus, come get us.

And today I hear that old refrain. And today I really listen.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee…

And today I sit, with sorrow and hope blended together, and hum that hymn.

Will you hum along with me?

 

For my writer friends – When you’re stuck

Every once in awhile I get an email from one of my writer friends asking for advice. Sometimes I feel ill suited to answer the question because I feel I’m still a beginner in this writing game.

I kind of hope I always feel like a beginner. I hope I’m always learning more and more about this job I have.

Well, yesterday my buddy – let’s call him Paul – sent me a message I feel well equipped to answer. It went something like this:

Okay, okay. So, his name is Nathan and I just screen shot his question. Oh. And, Nathan. Is it cool that I used a screen shot of your question? Thanks.

See, Nathan is participating in NaNoWriMo (the month in which writers write 50,000 words of a novel). He’s a gifted writer. And he isn’t afraid of the hard work. Mark. My. Words. Nathan’s got what it takes to make it as a writer.

Here’s my answer to Nathan and to anyone struggling to get the words out.

 

Here’s the thing about writing a first draft: It’s going to be garbage. Rubbish. Trash. Junk. Poo Biscuits. You’ll be embarrassed by how idiotic some of the scenes play out. You’re going to feel like a fraud as a writer. You’ll wonder why some scenes flow and others are like hacking at frozen ground.

NaNoWriMo is all about the first draft. And that’s all right.

And it’s all right to feel stuck. But you can’t stay stuck. You’ve got to gnash your teeth against it, claw at it, drag yourself out. Remember how you learned that getting out of quick sand requires one to be still.

Well, that doesn’t always work in writing.

Sometimes you just have to force those fingers to move.

You know how I get unstuck? I turn on music that moves (Debussy piano music or a movie soundtrack). I make a note in the manuscript that looks like this:

THIS IS GOING TO SUCK, BUT…

And then I make things happen to my characters. I force them to go for a walk in those scary woods or open a door they’re told to keep closed. I write straight up dialogue as if I’m writing a script and see what my characters have to say.

I allow myself to screw something up. To write what I don’t want to have happen in the book. Why not? I can always slash it with my purple pen later. It’s cool.

And sometimes I get out of my chair. I put in a load of laundry or do the dishes. I run in place for 30 seconds or play piano. I stare out the window and watch the birds.

These things aren’t a distraction (watching TV is a distraction, gazing into the fridge is a distraction). No, these are brain breaks and they’re good for you.

No joke. Some of my better ideas for my novels came when I didn’t have my keister in the chair.

My last nugget of wisdom is this…come close…listen…

Trust yourself.

Trust yourself enough to let go. Trust yourself enough to know that if what you write isn’t perfect you’ll have the power to fix it later. Trust yourself enough to know that you CAN do this.

Because you can.

Oh! And, when you’re stuck, find a friend who just must be kind enough to tell you to get back to work.

At this  moment, that’s me. So…

Quit goofing off and get back to writing!

WIN My Mother's Chamomile

You could win a copy of my new novel MY MOTHER'S CHAMOMILE plus other fun prizes!

Head on over to http://susiefinkbeiner.wordpress.com/...

Have a super Saturday!

Missing Teen – Keep Your Eyes Open

Please keep your eyes open for Indica. She’s the cousin of my good friend.

She is only 16 years old…and is high risk for human trafficking.

I know the poster says Utah…but traffickers move people quickly. So, take a look at her face, pass along this picture (don’t bother sharing this blog post. Instead, copy and paste the picture onto Facebook, Twitter, Etc.).

And if ever you see something suspicious or alarming, call the Human Trafficking Resource Tip Hotline at 1.888.3737.888 In fact, program the number into your phone.

9,796.6 Miles

Last November, I sat at this table in the Gerald R. Ford Airport. A cardboard cup of vending machine coffee had made a ring of brown on the table. I’d spilled because, to be perfectly honest, I was nervous.

I was meeting Megan Sayer. For real. Face to face. An Australian was coming to spend time with me.

She’d come 9,796.6 miles. That’s a lot of them.

When she arrived, it seemed as if she’d only been a few states over. Maybe like she’d been in Idaho or Missouri. And that she’d only been gone a few days.

The nerves wore off right away.

She ate Vegemite in my kitchen. Weetabix at my table. Had fish and chips and lemonade (when what she really wanted was Sprite…I think…). Ate a Krispie Kreme. She had Thanksgiving. Twice. And both times I was thankful for her being part of my family on those days. And thankful that she loved the pumpkin pie. Even if it was out of a can.

She’d come 9,796.6 miles. And we couldn’t find her a REAL Twinkie. A friend brought over a fake one. But it worked.

After her few days in Michigan. She packed her bags full of sugar laden cereals and fun gifts for her family. I took her back to Gerald R. Ford Airport. We said our ‘good-byes’. We hugged. Tried to convince one another that a few years (even 5) go by quickly.

I watched her until she went too far past customs for me to seem non-stalkerish. I’d planned to wait until her plane took off. But I couldn’t do it.

Walking back out to my van, I felt lonely. Sad.

It would be a very, very long time before I’d see her again. I just knew it.

But, sometimes I’m wrong. And, I’m happy to say, that day, walking out to my van. I was wrong.

Because Megan’s coming back. And soon! I’ll see her in less than a month. And she’s bringing the whole clan!

This time, we’ll get to attend TWO writers conferences together. We’ll have a Sayer/Finkbeiner vacation (that will be ridiculously fun and uber relaxing).

What I thought would be years has turned out to be only months. And that, my friends, is pretty amazing.

Today’s Megan’s birthday. Well. Her American birthday. Yesterday was her Aussie birthday. But, when you live 9,796.6 miles away, you get two birthdays.

So.

Happy Birthday, Megan!

And…

Kangaroo, I guess!

Tell me. Have you had a long distance friendship? How did it work out? Are you still in contact? And…well…how about we all sing a little happy birthday song to Megan!

So Far Away – Guest Post from April McGowan

 

 

Today, I’d like to introduce you to April McGowan. Her first novel, Jasmine, just released in paper back. Go on over and check it out!

Jasmine tells the story of a women returning home after having run away twenty two years earlier to escape the abuse of her father. On the rocky path to attempted reconciliation, she has to face lost memories, the family she abandoned, and the boy (now man) who never gave up hope that she’d return one day. She’s been a counselor for at risk women for many years, helping those that remind her so much of herself. The last thing she ever wants to do is go home again— but the death of her mother forces her hand. As soon as she hits town, she’s confronted with the last thing she expected: people who loved and missed her. Perhaps none more than her brother, Bill.

“You want to tell me where you’ve been all this time?” Bill questioned.
Gentle, but direct. He’d been like that growing up. She looked over her shoulder to
see where Elsie was.
He could read her then, too. “She’s gone to give the kids baths. We’re on our own.”
“I don’t know how much you want to know.”
“I know Lily and I ran out on you. Why don’t you take it from there?”
Her eyes locked to his. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, as soon as we were old enough to leave, we did, and we didn’t look back.”
“You always checked in with me.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t come back. I didn’t offer to get you out of there. I didn’t ask anyone for help with Dad’s drinking.”
She watched her hands as she rubbed the tension building inside her out through her fingers. Bill kept mentioning the drinking. Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe no one did. “I got myself out of there.”
 

Have you ever wondered what it’s like for kids who feel they have nowhere to turn but the streets? In researching what happens to runaways for my novel, Jasmine, I was shocked to discover how quickly these teens are inducted into sex-trafficking by those lying in wait. Within 48 hours of being on the street, nearly 1/3 of runaways have been approached by pimps. They are befriended, showered with gifts, and honored so they end up trusting the last person they should.

Within a few days, they are demoralized, often raped, beaten, threatened and enslaved by that same person. They don’t leave because they fear for their lives, or they’ve been so mistreated they have no hope of a future.

Sometimes pimps don’t wait for the kids to run away. They hang out at the mall, or at the edge of the school grounds and prey on the loneliest, the ones that feel like outcasts. They give them attention and make them feel special. They are devious in their manipulation—and they’re good at it. After all, it’s all about making money, and these kids are their chunk of a 32 billion dollar a year industry (internationally).

Even more horrifying to me was that when caught in stings by police, most of these under-aged victims are shackled, charged and arrested for prostitution. Many are back on the streets, and back under the power of their pimps within months if not sooner. Only 11 states have Safe Harbor laws—not only protecting the children under the age of 17 from arrest, but helping them get into programs that will keep them from returning to their pimps and help them heal from the physical and mental abuse they’ve succumbed to. If you’d like to help change those laws, please click here  and sign the petition to make 2013 the year of change for these victims.

Jasmine’s life took a turn for the better because someone reached out to her and protected her when she needed it most. For many of these kids, there’s no one there reaching out, or at least they don’t think so. They can’t look ahead to hope anymore because they are so mired down in the degradation of their lives.

There are wonderful agency’s out there, though, that give these kids and homeless women a hope and a future. Two I know about are Door To Grace  and Shepherd’s Door. Or you can search for a place in your own community. Please donate and let them know that hope isn’t so far away.

 

About the Author: April McGowan loves to read and write inspirational fiction. She  made her début into publication with Jasmine. She and her husband, two children, and her  mews, Spookers, live in the beautiful Pacific Northwest. April is a member of Oregon Christian  Writers and American Christian Fiction Writers. When she’s not writing, homeschooling her two  children, or playing board games, you might find her at her drum kit, imagining she’s on a world  tour. Hey, it could happen. Follow April on her blog at http://aprilmcgowan.com.

 

Letting Go – Kids and Writing

I’ve never been the kind of writer who thinks of her work as a baby.

The analogy has been used so many times, I’m kind of over it. So, I struggled to figure out a more fitting one. Something that better exemplified my writing life.

I found it yesterday on the play ground of my kids’ school.

We’re new to the school thing. I homeschooled my three last year in hopes of getting into a charter school. And we did get in. I’ll tell you what, that lottery thing is killer to those leaning on the edge of panic like me.

And, yesterday, we went to meet the teachers and have a popsicle (even though the August morning was a bit too chilly for icy treats).

It hit me. This is the first of me really letting them go.

I’ve been with these three pretty much non-stop, without a break for half a decade. I’ve taught them how to hold their spoons, to use their manners, the importance of the potty (we’re still working on closing the door, apparently).

I’ve gone over and over and over all the skills and values and ideas with them that our family holds dear. Sometimes daily. Other times hourly.

And in a few weeks, I’m letting go. Well, a little.

They will have other influences in their lives. Teachers, friends. People who will teach them other things. New things. And old things in fresh ways. They will grow. They might have some bad days. They’ll definitely have some wonderful days. People might criticize my parenting. Other kids might not like mine. I know that a few will. They’ll make new friends. They’ll be loved by their teachers.

Without a doubt, I’ll have a lot of growing to do as a parent.

If that isn’t a larger scale of how I feel about my novels, then I can’t come up with a better one.

I work and work and work on the thing. Day after day. Then, I let it go. Give it to my editor. And it grows and expands. I have a lot of growing to do as a writer.

And some people won’t like it. They’ll find reasons for their aversion. They’ll (ack) write a review saying what they didn’t like. And it will hurt when people I know say those things.

But others might like it. They’ll say nice things.

Fortunately, though, at the end of the day, both the kids and the novel are mine. Really. They came from me.

And, fortunately, I understand that regardless of what people say about my kids and my novels, they are what the Lord has given me. My job as Mom and novelist are part of my bigger calling. And if God is for those two ministries, who can be against them?

It still tugs a few tears from me when I think of letting them go.

Especially the kids. The novel is just paper.

 

My Friend Patt

Today, my friend Patt would have turned 71. Today, I edit a scene that reminds me a whole lot of her. 

Today, I’d like to share with you a little post I wrote a few years ago. 

I miss my friend. My mentor. My sister in Christ. 

 

My dear friend Patt was dying.

For years, she’d suffered falls and strokes and heart problems. More than that, even. Too much. Joy-grief filled my confused heart and I begged God to be gentle and kind. Especially for her family’s sake.

I first met her years before. My friend Tim, her youngest son, introduced me to her. He told me that I would love her. And he, of course, was right. She checked up on me, sent me letters and cards. Being new to town and to that church, she took me right under her warm wing. Sometimes I called her my Grand Rapids Mom.

Of all the people who heard news about me, Patt was one of the first. When I got engaged. Pregnant. My ups. My downs. Even in the ICU, she wanted to know about me.

“Susie Finkbeiner,” she said when I visited one day. “Twins? How wonderful!”

Miss Patt called my daughter ‘Pickle’, our nickname for her when I was pregnant. She gave her pickle ornaments. For a three year old, that’s pretty special.

And I’d have to tell my little girl that Miss Patt was dying. My heart swelled with grief.

“Honey, we need to pray for Miss Patt,” I said as I tucked her into bed. “She’s really sick, remember?”

“Yes. And we pray that she gets better,” my daughter said.

I pushed the hair out of her eyes. “How about we say ‘thank you’ to God for the time we’ve had with Miss Patt.”

“Okay,” she said. “Dear God, thank you for Miss Patt. Make her better. In Jesus’ Name we pray, Amen.”

I let my little girl see the tears in my eyes. She needed to see that I was sad.

“Miss Patt is going to get better,” she said. “We prayed.”

I kissed my daughter. Sang a song with her about trusting the Lord. About not leaning on our own understanding. Turned off the light. Sat in the living room and cried.

If Patt had gotten better, if she’d survived yet again, she would just be in pain. More and more pain.

Going to sleep that night, I prayed frustrated words. I didn’t know what to pray, really. And I knew that was all right.

The next morning I got the news that Patt had died. I felt sick. Grieved for my friends who had just lost their mom. Too soon. Tragically. Then I mourned that I would have to tell my daughter that her prayer hadn’t been answered. That Miss Patt hadn’t gotten better.

“Hey, I have to tell you something,” I said, pulling her onto my lap. “Remember how we prayed for Miss Patt last night?”

She nodded her head. Smiled with her whole face.

“Well, honey,” I said. “Miss Patt died.”

My daughter gasped. Put her little hands over her mouth. My heart ached for her. This was the first loss she’d really understand.

“Mama,” she said. “My prayer worked. God did it. He made Miss Patt better!”

Today, I remember that Patt’s better. No more pain. No more ICU. No more being hooked up to beeping, whining machines. And, although she’s been gone for a few years now, I still miss her. 

She was a good friend. My friend Patt.

 

4 Things YOU Can Do To Fight Human Trafficking

Detroit is 158 miles from my front door. This isn’t a post about the bankruptcy. Or about government bailouts.

This is about how, over the weekend, 10 children were rescued from human trafficking. In Detroit. In all, over the course of the weekend, 105 children in the United States were rescued. 150 traffickers arrested.

When you see the words human trafficking, I want you to think of the word slavery.

And these 105 children were rescued from unimaginable slavery. They were abused. Raped. Dehumanized. These children were reportedly between the ages of 13 and 16 (according to CNN).

In the state of Michigan, a child 16 or under is unable to make a decision to have sex with anyone (see the statutory rape laws here). This was not their choice.

These 105 children were being raped by men several times a day.

And, now, they’re out of that situation. My hope is that they are receiving medical attention as well as psychological and emotional help.

My fear is that my state, particularly Detroit, is ill equipped to handle the situation.

Often, the youngest victims of human trafficking in the United States are criminalized. Put in juvenile detention where matters usually get worse. Or in foster homes that are not appropriate for their very specific needs.

According to The Manasseh Project, 80% of trafficking victims have been sexually abused in their past. They’re runaways…I’m sure they have something pretty awful that they’re running from. They’re what are called ‘throwaways’…they’ve been kicked out, rejected by their families. Some of them even struggle with gender identity, which makes them extremely vulnerable and looking for someone who will love them…and a pimp can be very convincing.

These kids aren’t criminals. They’re in need of help.

And, whether you believe it or not, they are in your community. Yes. Even the “safe” ones.

They need help.

And you can help them.

But how?

Let me tell you.

1. Learn: The Manasseh Project website has a list of resources. Go on over there and find the links. Read about trafficking in your community. Find a way to watch the documentary, ‘Very Young Girls’.  Scroll through Faces Of Prostitution, remembering that each picture is a person who was made in the image of God.

2. Write: Your government representatives rely on your vote. Most will do just about anything to get it. If you and a whole bunch of your friends and neighbors write to them, demanding action on the behalf of trafficking victims, they will listen. Traffickers should be prosecuted. Johns (the customers) should spend time in jail for rape, not solicitation. Victims need rehabilitation.

3. Give: Find an organization that is working to end human trafficking and give your money to them. Even little bits, over time, add up to make a huge difference. My personal favorite is The Manasseh Project here in Grand Rapids. They are reputable, qualified, and responsible with the gifts they receive.

4. Prevent: We will never end human trafficking if we don’t prevent it. And you can play a part in this by volunteering as a tutor, mentor, youth group leader. Show kids that they are worth real love and instill in them a little confidence. Give them a place to come for help. Kids who feel alone are more likely to become victims. This includes parenting with love and understanding. Make your home a place of emotional safety. And boundaries. But never with the option of disowning them. They need you. Even teens need their parents.

Slavery is real. It is everywhere. It is demolishing lives in every community around the world.

Hope is even more powerful.

Acting justly means standing up for those who are weaker, powerless. Doing the right thing for them.

Loving mercy means caring about their future enough to provide for them, pray for them, help them.

Walking humbly with God means knowing that your life isn’t more important than anyone else’s. Knowing that we are called to do that which serves God, not ourselves. Protecting the innocent serves God. Caring for the least of these serves God. And knowing that we can’t do that without His grace.

Sign Here Please

Just in case you missed the mega news from yesterday…

My second novel, MY MOTHER’S CHAMOMILE releases as an ebook, January, 2014 and a few months after as a paperback!

I’m thrilled. And busy getting it all together.

You wanna see a picture of me signing the contract?

I’m so excited! And so thankful to the folks at WhiteFire Publishing. They are a talented group. It’s an honor to work with them again!