How Do You Solve a Problem Like Latin?

I know it seems a long way off, but it’s a huge undertaking and rehearsals have been underway for over a month already. Next November, when the Prairie Players stage The Sound of Music, I will portray one of the nuns.

Don’t laugh. I’d make a terrific nun.

If I were Catholic. And sweet and kind. And celibate. And knew Latin.

It’s my first musical and I have no spoken lines. I don’t even have a name, so I’ve chosen “Sister Twisted” for myself. I’m not the greatest singer, but that only makes this feel like a greater privilege. With the talented Nita Wiebe belting the alto line into my ear, I can usually stay on key. Or close to it, although “close, but no cigar” is the rule in choral singing. If they ask me to start lip syncing, I will take it as a pretty strong indication that I’m no longer an asset to the abbey.

I auditioned because it seemed like a lark. It should have occurred to me that these particular larks do most of their singing in Latin. I can’t say learning Latin ever appeared on my bucket list, even if joining the cast of The Sound of Music did. The language is relatively simple in that, unlike our ridiculously complicated English, it has no silent letters. And vowels are always pronounced the same way. Even so, memorizing a list of random syllables, pronouncing them correctly (“tall” vowels, not “flat,” as our music director James Reynolds keeps harping about), matching them to the correct note, keeping the right tempo, and later adding the choreography seems like an insurmountable challenge to this amateur. No fudging allowed!

So I’ve typed out the illusive syllables phonetically and hung them beside my bathroom mirror to work on while I do my hair and makeup each morning. (How very un-nun-like!)

Thus, “Rex admirabilis Et triumphator nobilis” becomes “Rex awed mee rah bee lees, Et tree oom fah tor no bee lees.” If Hubby didn’t know what I was up to, he’d haul me off for psychiatric evaluation or exorcism.

Now the last thing I need is to learn I’ve been unwittingly chanting some voodoo curse, calling down terror on my neighbourhood as I apply my Maybelline. So it became imperative to research the meaning of what I’m singing, and I made an interesting discovery. Did you know the nuns’ opening piece of The Sound of Music is taken from Psalm 110? When you look at the words and understand the political backdrop of the story’s setting, I’m convinced Rodgers and Hammerstein in all their genius had even the nuns making a subtle but strong rebellious statement. As their beloved Austria feels the looming shadow of the Third Reich, their chant proclaims:

“The Lord says to my lord: ‘Sit at my right hand until I make your enemies a footstool for your feet.’  The Lord will extend your mighty scepter from Zion, saying, ‘Rule in the midst of your enemies!’ Your troops will be willing on your day of battle. The Lord is at your right hand…”

 So, with the ever-nearing echo of Nazi boots on cobbled streets, the cloistered sisters cling fast to the God who is their solid rock.

A life lesson for us all, in any language and under any threat.

Why I'll Never Win "Mother of the Year"

I’ll never forget one frigid January evening in 1987. Our third child was all of two weeks old and I was venturing off for my first outing away from him. It was only a grocery shopping expedition, but when you’re home with preschoolers 24/7, even food shopping in the dead of winter can seem exotic if you get to do it alone. The plan was to drop all three kids at my mother’s house so I could shop in peace.

I carried the baby’s car seat out and set it on the hood while I opened the car doors for the other children. I heard it before I saw it. In one horrifying split second, the car seat slid across the hood’s icy surface and landed with a sickening crunch, face down on the frozen crushed rock below—with my newborn baby in it.

Few words can describe what a parent feels in that moment, and “competent” is definitely not one of them. I upturned the car seat and examined my son. Snuggled in his snowsuit, he still slept peacefully. It seemed the straps had held him to the seat and only the seat’s edges actually touched the ground. Shaking, I loaded him into the back seat facing backwards, with a sibling on either side facing forward. Then I climbed behind the steering wheel, not knowing whether I’d be driving to the hospital or carrying on with my original plan.

All the way to town, I kept asking my older son, “What’s the baby doing?”  “Is the baby okay?” “Is he breathing?”

I held myself together until we reached Mom’s house, but when she came to the door, I became a hormonal puddle. “Mom,” I blubbered. “You won’t believe what I’ve done.” She let me cry it out of my system, assured me the baby would be fine, and sent me on my way.

I don’t know if there’s a parent anywhere without a similar story. No mother or father can be on constant alert every second of a child’s life (and if you could, I’m not sure you’d end up with adequately independent offspring.) Most of the time, our momentarily lapses in judgement don’t carry heavy consequences. But sometimes they do. And when they do, it’s imperative for us to remember they happen to all of us. The passing of judgement on one parent by another at these times is unacceptable. If you have managed to keep your child alive to adulthood, it is a far greater testimony to the grace of God than to your excellent parenting skills.

So where is God’s grace when a child does not survive?

I believe it’s still present. It just looks a whole lot different. It looks like the compassionate support of a caring community of friends and family who know, deep down, that it could just as easily have been their own child. Why wouldn’t we extend the same compassion following an accidental death or injury as we do when a child succumbs to cancer? If possible, the parents’ pain would feel even heavier as they wrestle self-condemnation. They do not need ours, too.

This Mother’s Day, let’s remember those who are hurting due to the loss of a child from any cause, at any age. Though I have been spared this grief so far, I watched my sister and brother-in-law bury their only son last year, at age 46. It never gets any easier, and there is no deeper loss. There just isn’t.

A Funny Thing Happened on My Way to the Best Seller List

Folks have been asking how my book has been selling since its January launch, so I thought I’d write a blog post about it.

All right, maybe two people asked.

Okay, fine, it was one person who asked twice. 

The short answer is, it’s doing well. And I’m learning lots about this crazy business.

I’ve learned even the experts don’t always know.

I was told by more than one publishing professional that if I hoped to sell a book to an American publisher, I would need to move the setting of my story from Manitoba to the United States. I like to remain teachable, but this was one hill I refused to surrender and I’m so glad I didn’t! As I write this, over 6,000 copies have sold, mostly in Kindle format, over 99% of them in the United States. In fact, more have sold in the UK and Australia than in Canada! Judging by the kinds of books that win Canadian literary awards, I think Canadian readers might be too sophisticated for what I write. But don’t tell my American friends I said so.

I’ve learned who knows the tricks.

Because my publisher, Waterfall Press, is owned by Amazon, they’ve got all the marketing genius required to rocket my book into the bestseller category. For a few hours on April 6, The Silver Suitcase hit #26 in all of Kindle books (to put this in perspective, Kindle has over a million books available) and #1 in both the inspirational and historical fiction genres. While it dropped back to the six-digit range the very next day, it stayed at the top in the inspirational category for several days afterwards. 

Amazon achieves this by running a $1.99 special available to certain customers for a few hours. That shoots the e-book to the top of the heap for that day... which generates more reader reviews, which generates more sales, and so on. And in May, the paperbacks are going into U.S. Walmart stores!

I’ve learned patience pays off.

If I had gone ahead and self-published, I’d basically be done now. I’ve sold a copy to everyone I know who wants one and I’m not inclined to go peddling it from door to door. But I knew God was directing me to trust him and wait on his timing, and he is doing more than I could have orchestrated in a million years. Whatever you do, don’t miss out on something God has for you because you jumped ahead or gave up too soon! He works far beyond your horizons.

I’ve learned authors don’t get rich.

And for those of you wondering how many millions of dollars I’m earning, I hate to disappoint you. Most people assume, as I once did, that a bestselling book means—at least—an adequate income to live on. But when you realize an average of one dollar per book goes to the author, spread out over the seven years it took me to write and sell this one, you can see why I won’t be quitting my day job any time soon.

But something far better is happening. Every day, reviews are added by people I’ve never met and likely never will. The scathing reviews keep me grounded, and the kind ones keep me working on my next book. My favorite so far is this one, from an unnamed Amazon customer: 

“As I finish the last page of this book, I have to take a moment to reflect the influence it has made. I don’t think my life will ever be the same. This was a beautiful story that can touch the hearts of many. I found myself praying and digging into my own story for peace. I will recommend this book to everyone I know. Initially this was a random download, but now I’m not so sure.”

I’m not so sure, either. So let’s celebrate, shall we? If you’d like your name in a draw to win a free, autographed copy of The Silver Suitcase, email me at terriejtodd[at]gmail[dot]com by 10:00 p.m. on Sunday, May 1 with the words “Book Draw” in the subject line.