Lisa J. Crane's Blog, page 2

Wonderful Wednesday: My Love Story

You may find it hard to believe, but at one time, I wasn't much of a romantic. Well, I probably still was, but I'd taken my romantic hopes and dreams, wadded them into a lumpy ball, and shoved them so far down inside that I had no intention of ever dating again, much less getting seriously involved with any man.

The problem, you see, was that on the heels of two abysmal relationships (and I thank God every day they both failed), I didn't trust my judgment in men. If those two men (and I use that word loosely) were the best I could do, I'd be better off alone. Obviously, I had no discerning judgment when it came to the opposite sex, and I was a loser magnet.

In 1991, I took a job as a technical writer for a telemarketing agency. Within a matter of months, the Senior VP of Operations needed an assistant, and I was moved to that position, in another office. Each morning, I'd park my little electric blue Dodge Dakota and walk into the building. Before long, this blond guy started talking to me. "I like your dress. Your hair looks pretty today. You smell nice." (Point of interest, I now know that blond guy got there early and waited for me to arrive for the sole purpose of walking me inside and talking to me.)

Throughout the day, each time I went for a cup of tea, water, coffee, etc., I had to walk from my office, through the call center, and back. The blond guy, who finally introduced himself, was a verifier. For those of you who've ever bought anything from a telemarketer, you know you'll be passed off to another person to verify your information (hence the title verifier). His job meant he was on his feet, which enabled him to step into my path, "accidentally" bump into me, and so on, to get my attention. A manager pointed out that the blond guy, Charles Something-or-Other, liked me. Yes, my Romance Radar had been so thoroughly shut down I hadn't realized this.

Long story short, nothing happened. Okay, not really. But nothing happened at the time. Charles, aka Flirty Blond Guy, quit. My boss, the Sr. VP, aka Lying, Cheating Embezzler (yes, you read that correctly) was fired. Fortunately, the man who hired me knew I had nothing to do with the other guy's nefarious dealings. (Really, how often do I get to use the word nefarious?) I wasn't fired, and was moved, again, to another office to work as the assistant to the Branch Manager of Operations (essentially the replacement for Mr. Embezzler, so my job didn't change much).

Flash forward to February of 1993 (from JUNE OF 1992, mind you). The receptionist told me I had a phone call. I thought she said the name of Flirty Blond Guy. Really? Out of the blue, eight months later? Skip a few rounds of phone tag, and he asked me out. I had plans for several weekends. (I was single, not a hermit.) I asked my boss and another male friend what they'd think if a woman had plans for several weekends. In unison, they answered, "I'd think she was blowing me off."

More phone tag ensued, and I rearranged some plans. We still didn't go on a date for two weeks, but talked on the phone (a lot) during that time. On our first date, he asked me what kind of wedding I wanted. When I recovered, I gave him an answer I figured would chase him away. It didn't.

Skip forward to June, sitting on the sofa of his tiny house. I said, "A fall wedding." He looked at me, not understanding. I smiled. "On our first date, you asked what kind of wedding I want. I want a fall wedding."

I got my fall wedding. I got the love of my life. Today I celebrate 21 years with Flirty Blond Guy. And he still compliments me all the time.

What Am I Doing?

Sometimes my blog writes itself. Other times, it's like pulling teeth. Sometimes I write about something I've seen in the news or on Facebook. Some days I write about my life. But that's the great thing about having a blog. It's mine and I can write whatever I want to write. Right?

So today's blog is about what I'm doing. I published Delaney's Peace at the end of June. Literally, within days people were asking what was next and when it would be out. Seriously. Part of me finds that very flattering and humbling. Part of me finds it somewhat ... pressurizing. Is that a word? I'm sure it must be.

As an author, there's a certain amount of pressure to keep your readers interested. There's a pressure to earn royalties, especially when you've had a couple of slower months. But more than anything, I want my readers to be pleased with what I do finally publish. Having said that, I'm here to say (or write), be patient.

The working title of my WIP is Love's Aim. This is a stand-alone, not part of either of my series, although Sam and Sophie Maxwell are in it. Remember them, from A Ghost of a Chance, in Seasons of Love? Yep. Just like Jazz and Riley got their place in Not His Type, Sam and Sophie are pretty important in this one. This one is about mistaken identities, quick judgments, and forgiveness. The heroine's name is Josephina Maria Santiago Vega, or Josie for short. The hero is Finnegan Maguire, or Finn, Chief of Police in Cupid's Hollow, Texas. That's the good news. The bad news is, I've only written about 15 chapters, and have only taken 11 of those to critique group. So yes, it's going to be a while.

Fear not. I'm also working on a short story for Christmas. It doesn't have a name yet, but I'm having fun with it.

There's also a story somewhere in the back of my brain about a reporter and a woman he meets while doing a story on speed dating, online dating, and dating services. I think Luke and Callie, from Reindeer Games (also from Seasons of Love) might make an appearance in that one.

Oh, and yes, at some point, I'll sit down and finish Maddie's Faith (Book 7 in the McKenna's Haven series). At some point. ;-)

So there you have it. That's what I'm doing. Hopefully a short story due out next month, Love's Aim maybe in the summer of 2015, and who knows what else in between there. Be patient. Y'all know my mantra by now, right?

You can have it fast, or you can have it good, but you can't have it both.

Faboo Friday: Be Still

I was talking with a friend last night. The topic was, in a nutshell, freaking out. Freaking out about finances, jobs, kids, and the general busy-ness of life. I need to call them. Email them. Pick up this kid. Take that one there. Have you found someone to fix the brakes on Bluebell? Did the doctor's office call in Charles' prescription (not likely)? Are you ready to do this? Do you still need to go there? What else does the Teen Queen need for homecoming week?

I said I don't actually freak out, I just get this anxious, scrabbly feeling. Sydnie and I agreed that scrabbly is the perfect word to describe that particular feeling.

"And then," I sighed, "You hear that voice saying 'Be still.' I love that voice."

That voice reminds me that I don't have to worry about all those things. I mean, obviously, we all have things we need to take care of, but worry? Does it help? Does worrying enable you to get things done more efficiently? Not if you're like me. If you're like me, that worry, that scrabbly feeling, only makes things more difficult. Harder to focus on what needs to be done. Sometimes it's overwhelming to the point that a person can become incapacitated by anxiousness and worry.

That voice tells me that, with God, I can take care of those things that are within my abilities. I can let go of those things that are outside my control.

So this morning I'm embracing the voice of the Psalmist: "Be still, and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth!" (Psalm 46:10) I'm going to be still.

This morning I'm going to remember to turn those worries over to the One who's more than capable of holding them for me. "Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God." (Philippians 4:6)

Be still. Just be still.

Wedding Smiles

Today's blog is not mine. The following was written by my brother, Rusty Miller, on Sunday, September 28, 2014. Sunday marked 62 years from the day our parents were married, and Rusty wrote this while stuck in the Cincinnati airport. He gave me his permission to share, and I'm happy to do so. This piece is exactly as Rusty wrote it, and I love it.

It hangs on the wall in our hallway, and there have been many days I have passed it without giving it any thought at all. Other days it calls like a siren, drawing me to look closer, to examine it and to think carefully about what it means.

It is a wedding picture, first and foremost, just two young people smiling as they cut a very simple wedding cake. In black and white as color photography was too expensive at the time, it has a quality that color wedding photographs don't have. The shadows cause the whites to jump out at you, while the blacks blend with the darkness. Consequently, after you see the white dress, the white cake and notice the groom's black suit, what you are left with, what actually draws you to the picture, are the smiles.

I know what you are thinking. The bride and the groom are smiling in every wedding picture. What makes these smiles any different?

In some ways, I guess they aren't any different, but because I know them, I see more than just a smiling couple. I see the lives they had lived to that point, the things they brought with them to this typical, almost cliched cutting-the-cake photograph.

The first thing that catches the eye is her smile, wide, supremely happy, as if she is living a day she has dreamed about for 22 years. Finally, it is her innocence that shows through the smile. She is happy because this is what her life was supposed to be. In retrospect, I am struck by what the eyes in that smile had not seen. She had grown up in a small town, and even when she went to the "big city" it had been to stay at the home of her sister, still insulated from the outside, sheltered by a protective brother-in-law.

By the time I came along, she had seen more; I was, after all, her third child, and they had known some difficult financial days. But in so many ways, she never lost that innocence, and it was a quality I admired in her, even if it sometimes frustrated me. In this picture though, the innocence seems warranted; it expresses all the hope she had for the future, of children and a home and a life, all with the man she loved, just like she'd imagined.

Contrast that then, with his smile. At first, it goes unnoticed; he's the groom and grooms are always, always outshone by brides. Choose to notice him though, and you see something different. It's not in the smile; in fact he's barely smiling at all, although it is the smile I most remember seeing from him.

What's different is in the eyes. There is more of the world in those eyes, more of what he had already seen, and more concern for the future. Those eyes reflected a man whose character had already been shaped by a trip to Korea. He had bandaged bleeding men, and had come to recognize what it looked like when those bleeding men died. He had heard, from the safety of a foxhole, a wounded soldier's cry, and he knew what it meant to leave the foxhole and cross a hill under machine gun fire to bring that soldier back.

All of that meant he knew how harsh the world could be, especially for an innocent, and so his eyes betray his thought on that day, knowing it was now his responsibility to protect and care for her. He knew what it would take to build the life she wanted, and there is determination in those eyes that he was he was the man to do it.

There is also confidence, an almost cockiness that says he knows he's the only man who can deliver on the promises he'd just made. And there is something that says he understands that his life will be shaped by these seemingly opposing forces of concern and confidence.

When I stop to notice the picture, of course my thoughts are colored by what came later. I can see a man who did deliver on every promise, even if their lives were simple. And I see a woman who did not lose the innocence, love and admiration she had for that young man that day, even when his health weakened him.

It is a picture I try to notice more often these days since they are both gone. It is a picture I will notice today, 62 years after it was taken, and I will thank God for giving me both of them to shape who I am.

An Opinion on Racism

As I mentioned a few weeks ago (and you probably didn't need me to tell you) I can be opinionated. I'm going to share another one with you today.

No single race has a monopoly on racism. No single race is the sole owner of hate. No single race has cornered the market on crimes against their fellow man.

During this past week, I asked a question on a friend's Facebook post. It was a legitimate, sincere question, to which I wanted a legitimate, sincere answer. What I got instead was pure hatred. Not from my friend, but from one of their friends. What I got was the kind of response I see all too often in the news or, sadly, on the Facebook pages of one or two of my friends.

I'm still hurting over this guy's hate-filled words. Oh, he was very clever in his comments. "They should go back where they came from." He never flat out said "You should go back." But that's what he meant. He further went on to use scripture to imply I should be killed. (I'm not making that up. There is no other way for me to have interpreted it.)

My point? For once, I'm not even sure I have one. Maybe I'm just venting. Maybe I'm still shocked, because the truth of the matter is, as a white person, my life has been pretty easy. I've never been called names or told I should be slaughtered because of my skin color. I've never had venom and hatred spewed at me because I happen to be the descendant of Europeans who came to this country hundreds of years ago. (As an ironic side note, this discussion stemmed from the belief that Europeans stole the land from its rightful owners, some of the twelve tribes of Israel. This land wasn't promised to them, was it? Did I miss that promise in the Bible?)

As is often the case, as I'm writing, my point has become clear to me. And it's a pretty simple one. Ready?

STOP SPEWING HATRED.

Wow, isn't that profound? Seriously, raise your hand if you have friends who believe they are faithful, godly Christians who use their Facebook page as a platform for racism. Yeah, I see a lot of hands.

Do I have all the answers? No. Yes, I have opinions, but not answers. My opinion is that it's devastatingly unfair for a teenager brought to this country illegally as an infant be sent "back" to a country they don't know. My opinion is that I had no control over the slave trade that went on over 400 years ago, and I have no clue how to make amends for that. (The same goes for the land stolen from the Native Americans. How am I supposed to fix that?)

But if you want some fact on which I base my opinion, here you go: If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. (1 Corinthians 13:1)

Can we stop making so much hateful noise? My opinion is the time is long past for us to shut up and love others.

Terrific Tuesday: Do Your Kids Like You?

Do you care if your kids like you? On the surface, my answer is, "I want my kids to respect me." But deep down, yes, I want my kids to like me. Do they? Not always. But most of the time, yes. And those times they don't are usually A) short-lived, and B) a result of my saying no to something they want to have or do. I'm fine with those temporary periods of dislike. And don't misunderstand me. I don't want to be my children's bestie.

The reason I ask is that I noticed something yesterday at my daughter's volleyball game. I should say, I'm a yeller at sporting events. Not a screamer, but I yell. I yell things like, "Come on, Chloe, you got this!" Or I might yell, "Yeah, Carly, do that again!" I might even yell, "That's okay, Chanel, that's all right! You'll get it next time!"

So while I'm sitting in the bleachers, yelling, I notice that every single time my daughter makes eye contact with me, I get a look. It's a quick raise of the eyebrows, a flash of a dimple. It's Chloe's equivalent of wagging her tail at me. To me, it says, "Hey, Mom, look at me, out here playing volleyball!" And it says she's glad I'm there.

Counter that with the look given to the woman next to me by her daughter. This woman's child is new to this team. This woman is also a yeller. She yells things like, "Come on, [Jane]! (not her daughter's name) What are you thinking?" She yells things like, "Come on, girls, pay attention!" She occasionally even yells things like, "Come on, Central, act like you know how to play!"

I bit my tongue quite a bit. Her daughter is a good little player. She doesn't make a lot of mistakes. But that seems to be all her mother sees. I also had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, "You may treat your daughter with disrespect, but you're not going to talk to my child and every other child on that court like that, so shut up."

But I noticed something about her daughter. For the most part, Jane never looked her mother's way. When she did, she had a look, too, but it was nothing like the look on Chloe's face. This girl's face was tense, tight, worried ... embarrassed. It called to mind a dog that's been struck repeatedly and that now cringes away from its master. While my child is wagging her emotional tail, this woman's child is cowering away from her mother's words.

Chloe and I talked about it this morning on the way to school. Chloe said, rather casually, "Oh, yeah, Jane hates her mother." I couldn't help feeling sad for this woman and her daughter. I thought of the other team parents. The mother who wants to get her hands on Chloe and help her with her serve. The father who makes it a point to work with the girls, and who's taken an interest in helping Chloe because of her height--the same one who made a beeline for me yesterday to tell me how much Chloe has improved. His daughter isn't even on Chloe's team. He's just that encouraging.

I'm not a fan of the every-kid-gets-a-trophy-just-for-putting-on-a-jersey mindset. But I am a huge fan of supporting your own child in their efforts. Cheerleaders don't stand on the sidelines screaming, "You'll never win this game if you keep that up!" No, when the score is a bajillion to 3, the cheerleaders are still yelling things like, "Push 'em back! Push 'em back! Waaay back!" as if their team can make a sudden and unheard of comeback to win the game.

And that's part of my job as a parent. Not so my children will like me, but so they'll know I love them.

Now go make it a Terrific Tuesday and cheer your child on to greatness, whether it's in a sporting event or potty training.

Opinions

I'm opinionated. I believe most people are if they're being honest about the subject. Sure, there are things about which I have no opinion, like, oh, who's a better rapper, Kanye or Eminem, or is liver better stewed or fried. I just don't think there's an answer to either of those questions. At least not in my world. But there are plenty of things about which I have opinions, some of them pretty adamant. Like, say, dark chocolate is better than milk chocolate, and white "chocolate" is a liar and an impostor.

This morning I played a game most of my Facebook friends are familiar with: The Ask a Random Question and See What People Say game. But this time I did it IRL with my husband. I said, "What's a good topic for my blog?" His answer? Should Roger Goodell lose his job?

Here's the thing: I may never know when Goodell saw the now-infamous video from inside that casino elevator. What I do know is if there's video of a man dragging a woman's limp body from an elevator and dropping her (facedown) on the floor, every authority involved should be asking, "Is there video inside that elevator? I need to see that."

My opinions based on the video I've seen?

- A man knocking a woman out, then calmly dragging her from an elevator, gathering her shoes and purse (not checking on her well-being), is a man who's hit a woman before.

- A man who makes his living with his muscles knows his own strength.

- A woman who hits a man who's hit her in the past may be hit in retaliation. (Not an excuse for either one's behavior.)

- A woman who stays with and proceeds to marry a man who has hit her needs help. Don't take this to believe I think she "got what she deserved." I'm literally saying a woman who stays with an abuser is in need of help, not just physical, but mental and emotional. The reasons a woman stays with an abuser are myriad and self-deceiving, and they're beyond my power of understanding.

Yes, those are (some of) my opinions. If you question them, I encourage you to read the statistics here. Read all of them.

So back to the original question: Should Roger Goodell lose his job?

In my opinion, absolutely. Not for this single incident, but for others like it in the past. Want my opinionated perspective?

Pete Rose, arguably one of the best players in the game of baseball, was banned from the Baseball Hall of Fame after evidence of his gambling was revealed. But wait, you might say. He could have purposely thrown games in order to win bets. Yes, he could have. But the key word in that sentence, in my opinion is games. Pete Rose gambled on baseball games. And yes, I realize the outcome of those games can be far-reaching, affecting the finances, living arrangements (i.e., trades), and more of many of the people involved. But still ... games. A man or a woman involved in an abusive relationship is gambling with their life (and possibly the lives of any children they have). And an individual in a position to bring sanctions against an abuser--sanctions that might make them seek the help they need--and ignores the opportunity to do so should lose his or her job.

Just my opinion.

Marvelous Monday: Disclaimers

I don't like disclaimers.

I should qualify that statement, because if you know me very well, you know I've used them. In my blog, tweets, Facebook, and the like. But they're usually tongue-in-cheek, meant to make my audience chuckle. But in reality, I don't care for actual disclaimers.

I view disclaimers as a way of saying, "I'm not responsible." Ever listen to the end of commercials for prescription drugs? Wow. The disclaimers are read so quickly you can barely understand them, but when you catch words such as injury, heart attack, and death, you certainly understand the company is disclaiming responsibility. In essence they're telling you (albeit very quickly), "Hey, we warned you about this stuff. If you take it anyway, that's on you. It's your choice." In other words, you've been warned, so the manufacturer no longer bears any responsibility to you. Or, um, your next of kin.

Occasionally, as I'm reading book reviews (for my own work and others), I'll see something along the lines of "I wish these Christian books came with a disclaimer." Wait, what? You need a warning about God? I posted something about this on Facebook once, and received mixed reactions. Many of my friends thought I should include that if it would keep me from getting a negative review.

But here's the thing. I don't want to tell people I'm not responsible for my belief in God.

I do nearly everything short of putting an actual disclaimer on my work. Sometimes, it's evident in the title, sometimes I clearly allude to faith in God in the description, but it's there. If a reader can't deduce that the characters in a book called McKenna's Prayer might pray, then that reader is certainly entitled to begin her review with the words, "Well ... there was just a little too much praying in this book." (Frankly, I'm good with that, because really, can one have too much praying?)

I guess my point is, in an effort to not offend people, are we using disclaimers in our daily lives? Are we tempering our faith with phrases about love only, while skipping passages that condemn certain behaviors? And here's the real question: Does the Almighty God need our disclaimers? Does He need people apologizing for Him?

So, you might see faith alluded to in the descriptions, titles, or categories of my books and short stories. But you will never see a disclaimer for them referring to God throughout. If you insist on a disclaimer, here's mine:

"For I am not ashamed of the gospel, for it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes, to the Jew first and also to the Greek." (Romans 1:16)

So on this Marvelous Monday, stop making disclaimers for your faith, and go live for Him.

Wonderful Wednesday: Siblings

I am the youngest of four children. My parents raised us in about 1200 square feet. My brothers shared a room until Clint, the oldest, moved out. My sister and I shared a room until Rusty married and moved out. As you can imagine, the bedrooms in a 1200 SF house aren't all that roomy. We had trundle beds, where one rolled underneath the other one during the day. (Remind me to tell you about jumping out of bed because I thought someone or something would grab my ankle.)

In other words, we HAD to get along with each other.

But it was more than that. We were close because we truly loved each other. We walked to and from school together. We played games together. In the summer, we played outside all day long together. We built forts and go-karts, we had chinaberry fights, water pistol fights, played hide and seek, Red Rover, dodge ball, you name it. Sometimes we'd walk--barefoot, of course--to the little store at the end of the street. The Pik-n-Tote had a smooth concrete floor, and the kind of wood-frame screen doors that slammed shut behind you. (These are the doors I always think of when I hear someone say, "Don't let the door hit you on your way out.")

The four of us are adults now, and most of our children are adults, too. Some of us are even grandparents. But until our parents passed away, we still celebrated many holidays together in that small house. We laughed and ate (too much) and played games.

Sadly, we don't get together as often as we did, but I still love my siblings. It was driven home rather forcefully recently that not everyone feels that way. There are people in this world who feel no deep love or concern for their family and no loyalty toward them.

So this morning, I encourage you to talk to your sibling(s). Call, email, go knock on their door, whatever. Just tell them you love them. Because you may not always be able to do that. And if you were blessed with siblings, they were your first friends and playmates. They have seen you and loved you at your best and your worst. For the first years of your life, the only people who loved you more were your parents.

And one more thing I'd ask of you. If your siblings are married, remember that person is now your brother or sister, too, and treat them accordingly.

Now go find a water pistol or a chinaberry tree and tell your siblings you love them.

Fabulous Friday: To the Teachers

I wrote my blog yesterday with young people in mind as they're heading back to school. That reminded me there's another group of people going back to school, too.

I see you out there, teachers. I see the ideas you share on Facebook and Pinterest. I see the bulletin boards you spend hours decorating, the clothespins and craft sticks you painstakingly write student names on, and the doors you lovingly festoon with welcome messages to your new charges.

And I know that you face challenges every day that would bring many a corporate raider to his knees. I know you face fears (both your students' and your own sometimes), you face parents who oppose you at every turn, you face distraction and disruption, you deal with changing teaching methods and regulations. You go to work every day, never knowing what the day might bring after hearing of school lockdowns. You spend hours at home, be it grading papers or preparing for the next day. You look the dreaded TESTS in the eye, and you usually win.

And you do all of this for a paycheck that many people would laugh at. People would say you must be crazy to do what you do for that little thing.

But that's not why you do it, is it?

So when that first bell rings, and those sweet little first graders, or those obnoxious eighth graders, or those bored seniors come through that door, I want you to remember, just like I told the young people yesterday, you are not alone.

For every parent who opposes you or disregards your wisdom, there are ten, twenty, thirty who stand behind you and support you. There are those of us who pray for our child's teachers every single day. We pray for your success, along with that of our children. We pray for your patience and compassion. We pray for kindness on your behalf. We pray for easy students and understanding parents for you. And yes, we pray for your safety, too.

I know the teachers in my area will face the first day of school on Monday. And I want you to start the day knowing countless prayers are going up for you. Just for you.