To Plant an Oke

As a twenty-year-old newlywed transplanted from the Canadian prairies to a small Texas city where my new husband would pursue his degree at a Christian college, I took refuge in the school’s library. Its books would become a source of companionship, inspiration, and emotional health. There, I discovered the earliest novels of Janette Oke and devoured them with passion. I could not have dreamed that, nearly forty years later, I’d find myself seated in an elegant Nashville banquet room filled with authors, editors, and agents from the Christian publishing world while they announced the recipient of the 2016 American Christian Fiction Writers Lifetime Achievement Award: Janette Oke.

Mrs. Oke was not present to receive that award, but it didn’t stop my tears from forming as I saw her photo on the screen and heard the wonderful tribute to her and her work. I’ve never felt prouder to be a Canadian Christian writer!

I thought back to those lonely days of feeling swept away by Mrs. Oke’s Love Comes Softly stories. The way Clark and Marty came together through difficult circumstances built my faith and my commitment to marriage and family. Not only did those books inspire me to be a better wife and more devoted disciple, but I believe a tiny seed was planted. Could I be a writer, too?

As the years passed and children joined our family, my writing opportunities were limited to Christmas family newsletters. Later, when I took the lead of my church’s puppet team and then a drama ministry, I began to learn the art of script-writing. This was followed by a column in the church newspaper, which I also edited. Little by little, the seed—perhaps an acorn—received enough water to sprout.

When I had the privilege of hearing Mrs. Oke speak at an Inscribe conference, I felt stirred by her ability to remain so humble and encouraging. Once again, she inspired me. My little seedling grew stronger. I returned home and continued to pursue writing through articles, short scripts, and Chicken Soup for the Soul contributions. The idea of tackling a novel seemed far too lofty.

Then, while praying for me one evening, a dear friend received a spiritual image. She saw me, sitting on top of an old-fashioned silver suitcase. The case was filled with papers, trying to escape. From that picture—at age fifty—I began writing what would eventually be my first novel, The Silver Suitcase. I chose historical fiction largely due to the influence of Janette Oke. (It didn’t hurt that my middle name is Janette.) I felt elated when a beta reader of that first rough draft said, “I felt like I was reading a Janette Oke book!”

Although seven years would pass before The Silver Suitcase was published, it would go on to win awards, accumulate over seven hundred reviews on Amazon, and be quickly followed by two other inspirational, historical novels. Next year, it will be translated into Macedonian!

I started a little late in life and will never be as prolific an author as Janette Oke. But I’m confident I would never have started at all had it not been for the seed her books planted in my heart. I believe that little acorn has grown into a sturdy enough oak to become a source of shade, comfort, and inspiration to my readers. Nothing would thrill me more than to one day learn I played a role in planting a similar seed in a young writer’s heart.

One question I’ve heard repeatedly throughout 2018 is “when is your next book coming out?” I wish I knew the answer. I’ve finished two more books since the last released, but my publisher discontinued its fiction line and my agent is seeking a new publisher. It’s a long process when you’re committed to the traditional publishing method. Although I’ve not released a book in 2018, it has been the greatest privilege to receive a couple of writing awards. One of those was the Janette Oke Award given out every other year by Inscribe Christian Writers Fellowship. The essay I’ve shared above helped bring this award home to Portage la Prairie.

I wish my readers all the best in 2019!

Sparks and Embers

Our city is looking for more part-time firefighters. I was reminded of this recently by our Fire Chief, on his daily breeze through City Hall (some say he stops in to pick up mail, but it’s really to inspect the premises for fire hazards and it’s always a mad scramble to extinguish my candles before he comes around the corner.)

He asks me if I want to become a part-time firefighter. Of course, there’s always the remote chance he is teasing. But, assuming the department actually wants out-of-shape grandmothers with weak lungs and a fear of fire, I tell him I’ll consider it. I might look kinda cute in the gear.

Unlike a lot of kids, “firefighter” never appeared on my childhood list of things I wanted to be when I grew up. Perhaps that’s because back then, they were called “firemen,” like police officers were called “policemen” and mail carriers were “mailmen.” Most of the girls I knew wanted to become teachers or nurses, but maybe that’s because we considered those our only options. I figured I’d follow in the footsteps of my mother and sisters, all teachers. But a month of teaching Vacation Bible School in my teens cured me. Now, the only times I regret not becoming a teacher are summer, Christmas, and Spring Break.

I remember playing “secretary” a lot. I’d set up my desk with Mom’s old portable typewriter, a toy telephone, and an overturned toy cooking pot with red and green dots painted on it for my intercom—essential for alerting the invisible boss in the next room to incoming calls.

My Grade 8 English teacher, Mrs. Armstrong, told me I showed promise as a writer. For that, I’ll love her forever.

In high school, I studied office procedures, shorthand, and typing. While the shorthand turned out useless and obsolete, the typing has served me well both as an administrative assistant and as a writer. Sometimes when I’m doing nothing, my fingers are mentally typing the words I am thinking. Does this happen to you?

In an informal Facebook survey, I asked a few friends what their childhood aspirations had been, and was surprised by how many women said “veterinarian.” I remember having that thought briefly myself.

“Athlete” proved popular for both genders. One person (possibly related to me) confessed she is probably the fastest runner in the world but is relieved to have kept that talent under wraps since she hates running.

How about you? Do you still dream dreams you wish you had followed? What are you waiting for? Maybe you’re young enough to have a variety of sparks still burning, but for many of us, only a fragile ember remains. One thing none of has is the option of starting sooner.

I think I’ll pass on the firefighting opportunity and hope stronger, braver, healthier people apply. What I get to do suits me fine, and I concur with King David who, in Psalm 16, said: “Lord, you have assigned me my portion and my cup…you have made known to me the path of life; you will fill me with joy in your presence.”

(And I was kidding about the candles, Chief.)

Editing Shmediting

YAY! It's sent off!
     Have been working for weeks on editing my novel to enter in CWG's Operation First Novel contest. This is the same novel and the same contest from a year ago, when it placed in the top ten. In the last year, I've learned enough to see hundreds of needed changes and try again. Next year I'm sure I will learn still more. How long do I keep this up? I told myself ten years, so I've got a way to go. Published or not, I am learning and, I hope, becoming a better writer. But for now, I am completely tired of the thing. I hope to not look at it again for a long, long time. I'm so sick of the characters, I'd probably kill them all off just for spite.

     How about you? Got dreams and goals that you've let die because it just got to be too much effort? Too little reward? If it's something God called you to, don't quit. I'd feel sick right now if the first (or second, or third) draft of my book had been published. God knows when it will be ready, and he knows when it's time for your dream to come to fruition, too.
     But if you quit, it never will. And you'll never know. And God will have to find someone else.