The Voice of the Bird

I call it time management, He calls it stewardship.

I read a little book that changed my life last week. No, not the Bible, though that, too. This one is called A Life God Rewards by Bruce Wilkinson, and I'm going to unabashedly sing its praises.

Here's a picture, because I like to have color on my blog. And here's a link, in case you want to check it out for yourself. I have no affiliation with Dr. Wilkinson--simply great admiration.

Now let me tell you how this book changed my life.

I'm new enough at this re-activated Christian living that I'm still dealing with tons of old garbage. There are, of course, the ever-present results of past decisions that were made without the benefit of the Lord's guidance--those products of my own rebellion, in other words. No need to elaborate there. And as if gut-wrenching soul-searching weren't enough, there's always the office: my previous stint as self-directed creativity coach produced an enormous pile of papers to sort through and obligations to meet, some of which have nothing to do with my present life but which must be cleanly dealt with before I can move on in the direction I now feel led. Transition: in music, my dictionary says, it's a "momentary modulation." Let's hope so.

This little book came like a piercing ray of sunshine. Although it presents a complex message to which I cannot do justice by merely describing it, I can share with you one aspect that touched me, and touched me deeply. It introduced into my thinking the concept of stewardship.

The definition of steward that's important in this context is "a person responsible for managing another's property." I've certainly heard all my life that everything I have is on loan from the Lord. And it's been just another homily I never paid much attention to. Let me repeat: EVERYTHING YOU OWN IS ON LOAN.

My house, my husband, my dog, my gifts and abilities, my view of the sea, every slip of paper on which I've scribbled a To-Do list...Everything is given to me by the Lord to take care of for Him. He has given to me according to my abilities, and as I show that I can take care of more, He will give me more. He wants me to invest and multiply His property for Him in the special way He has in mind for me. I'm beginning to glimpse what living for God actually means, and how it impacts on my eternal life.

The moment I put the book down, I could see that my entire attitude toward my daily activities had changed irreversibly. Every moment is now suffused with awareness of stewarding for God.

Shaping a life of creativity and prosperity without the Lord is the most shallow and meaningless of human endeavors. It is also a perilous way to live. If you've never reflected on the depth of what you're doing here and how you will be rewarded (or not), please read what Dr. Wilkinson has to say. His full message draws directly on Scripture; there is no way I can replicate it here.

What I can do, however, is move resoltuely through my piles and obligations and present results until the filing system of my life is in order. And this is finally a joy.

One more thing, though, and a surprising thing it was to me, is that the space reserved in my head for my writing has become delightfully crystalline. The piles of paper don't weigh it down, the murky To-Do lists don't cloud its clarity. It is the Lord's property, and as I surrender everything I "own" to Him, as I transfer my allegiance from the things of this world to the kingdom of God, He is making sure that I can do what I've been charged to do.

I'm beginning to realize that my greatest task as a fiction writer is learning to convey the sheer thrill of following Christ. Stay tuned.

But rather seek ye the kingdom of God; and all these things shall be added unto you.

(Luke 12:31)

Why no one ever needs to grouse again.

So Moses brought Israel from the Red sea, and they went out into the wilderness of Shur; and they went three days in the wilderness, and found no water.

And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter: therefore  the name of it was called Marah.

And the people murmured against Moses, saying, What shall we drink?

And he cried unto the LORD; and the LORD shewed him a tree, which when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet: there he made for them a statute and an ordinance, and there he proved them,

And he said, If thou wilt diligently hearken to the voice of the LORD thy God, and wilt do that which is right in his sight, and wilt give ear to his commandments, and keep all his statutes, I will put none of these diseases upon thee, which I have brought upon the Egyptians: for I am the LORD that healeth thee.

And they came to Elim, where were twelve wells of water, and threescore and ten palm trees: and they camped there by the waters.

(Exodus 15:23-27)

The photo, by the way, is a view on the west coast of Corsica, around Tuccia. I camped there by the waters once, a very long time ago.

Hey, I write like I paint!

...In layers, and all over the paper at once!

Today was my day to drop water on my characters and let them blossom. There are seven of them altogether, which may be a lot for a novice fiction writer to handle, but those are the petals the flower bloomed with and there doesn't seem to be much I can do about it. One less and the balance is gone. One more and...well, it's just not right.

The most amazing aspect about this process has been the element of "rightness." As I concentrate on George, say, there's a rightness to his personality. I just know, for example, that George does not like to play Monopoly, but he loves fixing fiddly broken things like chains and alarm clocks--as distinct from the refrigerator door, which has no handle, or the screen door, which squeaks and slams. How do I know this? Got me. Unless George actually exists somewhere and is watching me describe him.

Speaking of which, check out Stranger Than Fiction.

Oddly enough, this character-development process was very scary for me when I first tried it out many years ago. As I recently described it on a discussion list, I felt a bit like a mad scientist. This time, there's a lovely, soft rightness about it all.

That doesn't mean I know where these people are coming from, only that I trust Wherever it is.

Tomorrow, I'm taking five of my characters and setting them down together in one place, then describing that place through the eyes of each of them, colored as it is by their individual vision. Then I get to bundle it all together and send it in as my current assignment.

Am I loving this process? Ask George.

Unfortunately, we can't take everything with us.

These are our mountains, opposite the billowing clouds in the picture below. Sigh.

I know how beautiful Vermont is, and the Good Lord created the Green Mountains just as surely as He created Calvi Bay. Nevertheless, there are a few things to be let go of.

We're leaving the island in March. That leaves six months to organize a trek across the ocean with a Labrador (see below) and two cats. We won't be taking too much else, as Starting Over Fever has seized us and we'll be undergoing a major cull. This, if nothing else, makes me very happy.

The house-selling process has taken an enormous amount of time from my everyday life. It became everyday life for a while, cutting into writing and weaving time, rearranging our dining schedules, and making cleaning the house a full-time job. I'm mighty pleased it's over. Now it's time to slide into transition. Will is flying to Vermont in a couple of weeks to activate his visa and, not incidentally, find us a home. He's bringing his computer, camera, and phone as he drives around Windham County, trying to imagine what I would like.

Me? I'll be here with the dog, who's certainly too old to make a quick hop across the sea and back. I'll be trusting God to find us a great house. And I'll be letting go of the mountains.

I might even get some writing done.

SOLD!

Welcome to the windy Balagne, where anything at all can end up on the roof.

Nevertheless, it's official--we've sold our house! Endless streams of strange people from all corners of the western world tromping through our most private spaces, finally over!

Our house has been on the market since last January. Anyone who's sold a house knows the horror of it. I've been to the doctor twice with stress symptoms, and the day before it sold I truly wondered if I could go on. But, like the song says, "He never promised that the cross would not get heavy / or the hill would not be hard to climb. / He never offered victory without fighting. / He said help would always come in time." And it did.

Last Monday a lovely couple, actually living not too far from us, called and requested to see the house the next day. They came in the morning, flipped head-over-heels in love with the place, made an offer in the afternoon, and two days later we signed the papers. Everything turned over to God comes in His time and in His way. And I wouldn't want it otherwise. I felt the hand of the Lord through the entire event--clarity, speed, decisiveness, and joy. A win-win situation if there ever was one. We signed the papers Thursday morning and then went to lunch in the village, the four of us (plus One), and everyone is delighted with the transaction. What a blessing, indeed!

And now, Will and I are slowly turning our attention from the rocky mountains and fragrant maquis of the Mediterranean to the lush green forests and rolling hills of Vermont. My mind is drifting to Victorian houses, New England furniture, and colorful quilts. A life change, to say the least.

Anyone out there from Vermont? I'd love to hear from you!

My word!

It would be easy for me to think that there are really only two stages to the writing process and that all the writing I do could be broken down into one of these two stages: Writing and Not-Writing. Or rather, first Not-Writing, and THEN Writing.

Two days ago, Not-Writing looked something like this: Take the dog for a walk…I wonder what kept George from getting drafted?…complete a translation job…how spacey can I actually make Clover?…finish off a really good novel (and cry)…Leo definitely needs a new hair arrangement...find out that (once again) we did NOT sell our house...can you still legally change your name to Moonbeam?…

You get the picture. From the outside, it looked like a pretty normal day. From the inside, Not-Writing ruled.

Yesterday, I would have liked to stay home and write, but instead Will and I set off in the morning for the vet to have stitches removed from the dog, then head for a market fair in a nearby town to buy a birthday gift for someone I love. In the midst of all that, we had lunch at a café close to the sea, where lots of folks from different parts of Europe tend to vacation. We had fun and a lovely meal, plus I had the bonus of seeing three very intriguing people who triggered all sorts of story ideas in my mind. This is also what Not-Writing looks like: thinking of George and his flat feet while waiting for the vet to see the dog and trying to figure out how to squeeze my lunch neighbors into a work in progress.

Recent experience tells me that this Not-Writing stuff may be the bigger part of fiction writing, as it is of poetry.

However, there is yet a third stage and this is what I came up against yesterday when I finally did sit down with pen in hand. It’s called Really-Not-Writing and it looks like this:                        . Really-Not-Writing is when there’s really nothing there. No matter how hard you try to call up your characters, your lunch neighbors, or even the room in front of your face, there’s really nothing there.

I don’t know how it is for other people, but there are times when I feel the Lord tugging at me. It’s a feeling like no other. He wants me to sit down with Him and empty my heavy heart, no matter what’s in it. Yesterday, I wanted to write, but He wanted me to sit, so I sat. I sat with the Lord and He took my heavy heart where He wanted it to go, and believe me, my little writing dilemma wasn’t even on the agenda. When we were done (and I’d wiped my face, rejoiced to heaven, and sung to the dog), the words (and everything else) started coming again.

No, it’s not magic. It’s something truly wonderful that this newly re-activated Christian has only recently learned. Being a follower of Christ means I’m saved and I’m forgiven, and I can look forward to eternity with my Savior (and I do). But it doesn’t mean I get to just walk away from everything I’ve ever done that’s grievous to the Lord, and there’s been plenty of that. Becoming aware of stuff both old and new, and really dealing with it—hand in hand with God—is a process that will continue until there’s no more stuff, and it’s anyone’s guess when that will be. It’s called surrender: I let go and He sends a tsunami of grace rushing through my soul, cleansing everything it touches, and leaving me just that much higher up the mountain, in thinner air and in brighter sun.

If I believed that my life revolved around art, I might think that all of this happened for the sake of my writing. But I don’t. All this happens because it must. I can’t be with God without it. Repentance glorifies Him, and everything that glorifies Him benefits me. That’s how He set it up. It’s no wonder the words start pouring forth once the pipes are clear.

I announced I was “Following Christ and learning to write (in that order),” and it is a fact that only when I do things in that order do the words come. He takes me at my word and gives me His.

By the way, the dog is fine.

Photo op

The biblical clouds of Corsica. Just sharing our wild weather for your visual pleasure.

Ouch. Thanks, God.

Everyone likes to know their prayers are being answered. "Make me a good writer for You," I said. And in what I thought was an unrelated request, "Make me humble." Ever efficient, the Good Lord immediately found a way to cover both of these areas at once: He just sent me the results of my first fiction-writing critique.

Several weeks ago, I started a course in Christian fiction writing with the Christian Writers Guild and I couldn't be happier with the quality of the text and the challenge of the exercises. My fiction writing, such as it is, has always followed the splatter-gun technique: random descriptions, notes, dialogues, and assorted vignettes splashed on bits of paper and stored in ancient folders I keep shuffling through but can't figure out what to do with. This course is giving me the leverage I need to smush the splatters together into a few good blobs.

My mentor is a very capable and attentive man, but because he has a life of his own, I finally decided (to his great refief, I'm sure) to deploy reinforcements in the form of a critique group through the American Christian Fiction Writers.

For my first trial run in my new crit group, I submitted my latest completed assignment for the CWG, a scene that was intended to reveal as much about my characters as possible without relying on internal monologue or narrative description. This meant writing lots of action and dialogue, which I found to be really fun. My characters and storyline are each just beginning to reveal themselves, and writing a complete scene was rather like jumping off a rooftop and not hitting the ground, but not fully understanding why not. I worked hard on this assignment and I have to confess that I was pretty pleased with myself.

Until I saw my critique. The critter had marked her comments in red and I was blinded when I opened the document. I read through her observations with my heart in my throat. I decided that this woman (who is the published author of an astronomical number of books) didn't understand my style, had no sense of humor, and knew nothing about my subject. I began plotting graceful ways of fading out of the crit group. And I watched doubt begin to spider out like a drop of paint in a glass of water.

Then it dawned on me that God had me precisely where He wanted me.

When I woke up this morning, the first thing on my mind was "Following Christ and learning to write (in that order)." You may notice the change in my blog description. I went back yesterday and reread the critter's observations. I mulled them over for the rest of the day and realized that most of them were very valid and the rest deserved considered attention. In other words, I was finally open to what she had to say. Today I'll write to her and thank her for her good work. Then I'll set to again, learning to write.

Critiquing is never easy, and accepting a critique is worse. We know that both halves of the process are necessary in learning to write--or paint or draw or sculpt or weave. But the most important function a critique serves is in learning to live. I'm not the only one who's ever suffered the blows of correction. This isn't my first critique and it won't be my last. My prayer of thanks today is to those brave souls who are willing to speak the truth about our work when we ask them to. May we remember to take it with grace and humility. It's a gift.

"Take fast hold of instruction; let her not go:
Keep her; for she is thy life."
(Prov. 4:13)

What I'm listening to at the loom these days

No affiliation--I just love it. Randy Travis' Glory Train.
A word of warning if you're a weaver: Weave something simple.

Why The Voice of the Bird?

It's an image that jumped out at me from the pages of the twelfth chapter of Ecclesiastes.

The author of that book is sharing his wisdom concerning the impermanence of this world we live in. He writes that whatever we do in our busy human lives that is not anchored in God is worth less than the dust we will all return to. In fact, the whole of Chapter 12 describes the ending of a life in old age, perhaps also the ending of Time, but certainly a moment when the things of this earth are revealed as bits of fluff in comparison to the Spirit that created them. I was reading along this rather depressing passage, with words like "tremble" and "darkened" and "shut" and "low." Very dismal indeed.

Then suddenly I read "...and he shall rise up at the voice of the bird..." and then more dark images followed.

I'm sure that by this was meant the singing of a bird in the morning, awakening even the old. But nevertheless, here it is, a musical note like a high bright promise in a sea of low hums. In the midst of the crumblings into dust and the fadings away of earthly pleasures is heard the voice of a bird. It links us to the heavens on its way to the sky, and surely, no matter who is dying, the birds still sing their songs. I can't interpret much in the way of Scripture, but the poetry in this passage lifts my heart from a field of faded, dying gray to one sunlit tone that reaches up to God.

So here I am, singing my little heart out in a blog about trusting the Lord and writing stories that glorify Him. There are more challenges and pitfalls in this wonderful path than I have time to tell right now. But I'll be back, and more regularly than before, I hope. I'll introduce you to my work in progress, my oceanographer, and a truckload of good-hearted fictional (sort of) hippies.

By the way, here is the heart of the promise of Ecclesiastes:

"Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it."