Just People I Wrote To

On Nina Laville’s eleventh birthday, September 3, 1939, her country declared itself at war with Germany. At the end of her street in Middlesborough, England sat two huge gasholders. Her mother, well aware of their community’s vulnerability should bombs be dropped, wrote to her Uncle Mark in Canada. Mark, a farmer, had emigrated and settled in Steeldale, Saskatchewan—a town so small, Nina couldn’t find it on the map. Mark replied that he was happy to host Nina if her parents could find the means to send her.

A private evacuation to Canada was beyond the Lavilles’ resources. But when the British government announced its CORB scheme (Child Overseas Reception Board), which would send children to Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa at no expense to the parents, Nina’s parents immediately registered her.

Nina had never been further than fifty miles from home, but by the following August, she was thrilled to be on her way, first on a train across England to Liverpool and then over the Atlantic aboard the SS Anselm. Traveling in a convoy of ships for safety, the awareness of enemy submarines hung over the CORB children like dark shadows.

When they safely reached Halifax, the children were sent by train to various host homes across Canada. Nina was traveling farther than anyone in her group until she was the lone English child aboard, a novelty in the prairies. She recalled her first sight of the endless prairies with bewilderment (“all that space just sitting there doing nothing”) and disappointment that she didn’t see "wild Indians and buffalo."

When Nina reached Regina, a CORB volunteer met her and drove her to her Uncle Mark’s farm. There, she immediately felt at home and fell in love with the land and the lifestyle that would be hers for the next five years. Had that not been the case, there’d have been little help for either Nina or her hosts, at least from CORB, since the next visit didn’t occur for an entire year.

Although her relatives had suffered several years of drought and crop failure, what struck Nina the most at first, was how well they ate. The nearly self-sufficient farm provided home-grown vegetables, butter, cream, eggs, and chicken once a week—to a girl who’d seen chicken only at Christmas.

Nina attended Gopher Hill School, which she described as a “funny little wooden shack” with everyone in the same room like one big happy family. For high school, she had to leave the farm and board with friends in Dinsmore.

Sadly, her parents back in England gradually faded in her memory into “just people I wrote to.” She was 16 when peace was declared, and she knew she’d soon need to return home. As an only child, she felt duty-bound to return. The adjustment was difficult for everyone. While her parents still viewed Nina as a child, she’d grown into an attractive, extroverted young woman who unwisely let everyone know how much better life had been in Canada and how she wished she was still there.

Although Nina stayed in touch with her Canadian friends, she never did return. But her war years in Canada would be remembered with fondness always.

Nina Laville was the inspiration for my fictional character, Nina Gabriel, whose story, "Even if We Cry," releases this December. The Kindle book will be available for pre-order on September 30.

Thick Skin is for Rhinos

We’ve all heard it. “You need thick skin to be a writer.” 

Photo from Canva

Author and mentor Jerry Jenkins even holds what he calls his “Thick Skin Critique,” where writers can submit a page of their work and watch while he edits and explains. It’s a wonderful learning tool, especially because the writer voluntarily submits himself to it.

I used to agree with the thick-skin philosophy, but over the years—after more rejections than I can count—I’ve become convinced the thick-skin image can cheapen our God-given human feelings and may even rob us of some healthy emotional processing and growth. I often hear people say, “I don’t think I could be a writer. I couldn’t handle the rejections. How do you do it?”

Oddly, the answer matches my answer to the question, “How do you handle praise?”

Throughout my 20 years of leading a church drama team, we’d frequently discuss how as Christian artists we should handle applause and congregational praise. After all, people with other gifts don’t necessarily receive praise. Ushers and technicians and children’s ministry volunteers don’t hear applause. Usually, they don’t hear anything at all until they goof up. Hardly seems fair.

At the same time, disregarding praise and appreciation can come off as false humility at best (“Oh, it was nothing,” or “It was all God”) or as an insult at worst (“Are you kidding? I was terrible!”) Dismissing the other person’s opinion is demeaning and a lousy way of connecting with your audience.

So, what’s the answer?

What worked for us as a drama team and what I’ve taught other Christian writers, is this. When you’re offered praise, whether in the form of a five-star review, kind words spoken face-to-face, or a gushing email from a reader, accept it as you would a lovely rose. Say thank you. Tell them it means a lot because it does. If you receive more than one, collect them into a bouquet. Enjoy their beauty, their fragrance. Relish the confidence they inspire in you.

Then, at the end of the day—because fresh flowers don’t last—lay them at the feet of the One who truly deserves them. The One without whom you couldn’t take a breath, let alone write anything valuable. The One who made you creative—your Creator. Say, “Here, Lord. These belong to you.” Leave them at His feet, where they belong. Start fresh tomorrow.

You might not think the same can be said for thorns sent your way, but I believe it can. I see no point in pretending rejections or bad reviews don’t sting. You’re human. God knows this. It’s far healthier to receive those thorns honestly, collect them into an ugly bouquet, and examine them to see if they might include a sliver of truth from which to learn. Allow yourself to feel the pain, cry if you need to, and get angry if you must. Just don’t use your anger for vindication or to rant on social media about your mistreatment.

Then, at the end of the day, take that bouquet of thorns and lay them at the feet of the only One who can truly handle them. The One who already experienced thorns pressed into his skull and nails hammered through his hands. He’ll receive them gladly because he knows your frailty and He loves you dearly. Say, “Here, Lord. Please take these because I can’t handle them.” Leave them at His feet, where they belong. Start fresh tomorrow.

Your character is tested both by the praise and the criticism that comes to you. Every compliment that graces your ears should ultimately rebound to your heavenly Father. If you hold onto it, pride will eventually infect your heart. Humility comes when you pass the praise to God. Likewise, negative criticism can tear you down, destroy your confidence, and keep you from doing the work God is calling you to do. Next time those thorns come your way, instead of allowing discouragement to take root or telling yourself you have thick skin and thorns don’t bother you, try feeling all the feels and then handing them over. Go through the physical motions with your hands if it helps. Say the words out loud. “Lord, this is for you.”

 “Whoever heeds life-giving correction will be at home among the wise.” Proverbs 15:31 (NIV)

 “Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time.” I Peter 5:6 (NIV)