A Rotten Thing

Imagine that you’ve worked at the same company, in the same position, for 14 years. You like the job. You’ve never missed a deadline. You’re pretty decent at it and the clients/customers love you. Then one day, you receive a second-hand message from the new boss:

While you are welcome to continue coming to work, you will no longer be paid.

What do you do?

Essentially, this is what happened to me with my newspaper column in July. The new owner decided freelancers would no longer be paid—take it or leave it. Sure, I realize I wasn’t an employee and it’s not quite the same. It sure felt the same, though. It may have gone down more smoothly if I’d been told, “Sorry. Although we appreciate your work, we can’t afford to keep paying you.” At least I wouldn’t have felt so undervalued. But there was zero communication from the new owner—just a message conveyed by my editor, with his regrets.

I chose to leave it—and then felt like the greedy one for not staying on to work for free.

I felt bummed, but I’d also been in similar situations before—often enough to know that if I waited awhile, I’d see why it needed to happen. My faith in God has taught me that he truly does have my best interest at heart, even when I can’t see it.

A couple of months later, I was gearing up to launch another book. I was also starting a new writing class which had me teaching three hours a week for eight weeks. When my mother suddenly required round-the-clock care, my available time was cut in half. For six weeks, my sister and I tag-teamed in caring for Mom. Between that, the class, the book launch, my regular homemaking tasks, and other writing commitments, I felt completely overwhelmed. Having to meet a weekly column deadline on top of it all would have finished me. By Thanksgiving, I was truly grateful for that column’s demise.

I still think what happened to me—or, more accurately, the way it was handled—was rotten. But I hope my experience encourages you. Next time something rotten happens to you, as it inevitably will, wait. Wait with a “watch and see” expectation. “What are you up to, God?” is a great question.

He won’t always show you. Sometimes, he does.

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." (Jeremiah 29:11)
 

Let's Hear It for those THOUGHS

I am learning to love the word “though.”

Last month, I enjoyed the privilege of being guest speaker at a Christmas banquet in MacGregor. The women of the Sommerfeld Mennonite Church were warm, welcoming, and responsive. They laughed in all the right places and grew quiet right on cue. And if you ever doubted the adage that Mennonite girls can cook, doubt no longer. I stuffed myself with delicious food even though I could only sample a fraction of their potluck offerings.

That night I shared with the group some of my funniest stories, but also some serious ones. We looked at a short passage from Habakkuk chapter three, clearly written to an agricultural community during a bleak time.

“Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines,

though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior.

The Sovereign Lord is my strength.”

Do you see all the “thoughs” in that passage? The writer is telling us we can rejoice even in the middle of hardship and pain. I encouraged the women to fill in those “thoughs” with their own “thoughs.” We all have them. Make a list, whatever yours might be. Though my marriage is broken, though I am not receiving healing from this illness, though I am still unemployed, though my loved one has an addiction…you know what yours are, and maybe the list seems extra-long. Once your list is done, add the YET part, like Habakkuk did. Yet I will rejoice in the Lord.

Why? Because your story isn’t over. God is in the business of great reversals. We see it all through the Bible. Think of Esther. Job. Gideon. Lazarus. But nowhere more powerfully than at the cross of Christ. What our enemy thought was his greatest victory—the Son of God, dead—turned out to be his greatest defeat. Not only did Jesus return to life, but his resurrection made a way for us all to live forever. The greatest reversal ever.

And God can do the same with your pain. Your “though.” You may not see it today or tomorrow, but one day you will tell the complete story. The ending will be so triumphant, greater than you could have ever imagined (see Ephesians 3:20).

I’ve never jumped on the bandwagon of choosing a theme word for a year, but I’m beginning to think “though” might be a great word for 2020. One day, we will have perfect twenty-twenty vision. We’ll see our lives—past, present, and future—the same way God sees them. We’ll view with clarity the great reversals he performed in our lives when we continued to worship him no matter what.

And we’ll realize the precious value of a little word like “though.”

A Quarter Inch from Crazy

I’m doing it all wrong.

Thanks to our friend Harv, I recently had new laminate flooring installed in my home office. Which prompted some rearranging of the furnishings. Which prompted some rearranging of the wall décor.

I thought I’d go a little funky displaying my canvas book covers. I Googled “cute ideas for hanging picture frames crooked” but the only images that appeared were crooked picture frames and none of them were cute. I charged ahead anyway, and this is what I ended up with. It was much cooler in my head.

I know, I know. It basically looks like someone banged on the other side of the wall until everything went wonky. And I’m just OCD enough that I won’t be able to stand it for long. It helps that the wall is behind me as I work.

But my wall provides a metaphor. As an author, I often feel I’m doing it all wrong. I don’t plot out my books ahead of time. I don’t create clear story arcs. My main characters tend to be unlikable. Every week, my inbox is filled with articles about how to do it right until I become overwhelmed with how thoroughly I’m doing it wrong.

I don’t have my own website, only this blog. I don’t use Twitter, just Facebook. A friend reminded me recently that I “ought” to be on Instagram. I’m not. I’ve turned down every speaking invitation I’ve received since my first book came out. Not that there have been dozens, but experts would tell me I’m committing career suicide. Which is ironic, because it kills me to say no. 

It’s that right now, with my physical limitations, I know it’s logistically impossible to pull that off, maintain my day job, keep writing, and still get the rest I need.

So I say no a lot. And I torture myself, because I ought to do all these things. I ought to say yes and I ought to trust God to provide the strength and resources I need to keep saying yes.

Unless.

Unless God can be trusted to get my stories into the hands of those who need to read them, regardless of my shortcomings.

Unless, if a story is good enough, it will soar without my having to constantly push it in front of people’s faces. (Ever notice that the authors we love to read most are rarely the ones dishing out the how-to advice?)

Unless what Jesus said to Paul is the same thing he says to me: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:9)

Unless what he’s already accomplished with my books is more than enough.

Here’s the thing. There will always, always be more you ought to do. At some point, you must know your limitations and focus on what works for you. Yes, do your part. But trust God with his. And go write a really good book. Hopefully, without a wall full of crooked picture frames behind you.

What are you doing wrong? I'd love to hear about it. And here’s the rest of my office.

I love that I write WWII era novels on a WWII era desk.

Didn't change my book nook. Still love it.

Had to unload and move the bookcase to do the floor!

Drop of Doom

     It was twelve years ago, but I still remember thinking, “I must be crazy. We’re going to leave our oldest son bereft of parents and siblings.”

     Our two younger teenagers, my husband, and I drove to the Red River Ex, where we waited in a long line-up of cars for an hour before we could park. Then we paid $23 for the privilege of just entering the noisy, crowded grounds. Then we forked over another $20 and stood in line for an hour, awaiting our turn at the “Drop of Doom.”

     I could hardly believe we were doing this. “Oh well, once in a lifetime...go for the gusto...life is short...”

     They strap you into your seats, four abreast, then lift you 175 feet straight up and let you sit there for a  moment, feet dangling. The view would be outstanding if you didn’t need to focus so hard on not wetting your pants.

     Then it’s a free-fall drop until the brakes kick in, with about a third of the drop remaining.

     I would have to take the ride another ten times (which I won’t) before I could adequately describe how it feels. It happens so fast, yet you’re somehow suspended in timelessness, silence, and—for me at least—darkness, since I closed my eyes.

     My heart pounded, my hands shook, my knees quivered as I climbed off the ride and put my feet on solid ground again. But my goofy smile wouldn’t wipe off.

     What is it about us humans that we’ll put ourselves through all that—the wait, the expense, the risk—for a few seconds of rush? What odd creatures we are, hovering so near death, entrusting our lives to the unknown engineers who designed the machine— not to mention the questionably-clad carnies who assemble and disassemble it over and over.

     Why can we trust like that when we so often fail to trust an all-powerful, all-knowing God who made us and loves us beyond measure?

     Is it because we see the machine with our physical eyes, and we see people taking the ride and getting safely back to earth? Worked for them, it’ll work for me.

     When we learn to see with spiritual eyes, we don’t need to look far to see others around us taking the ride. People who have trusted God and not only survived, but thrived.

     This week, I read a blog entry by a woman who was in the Colorado theater with her two teenage daughters the night of the shooting. I encourage you to read her experience here.

     I’ve survived a few unnerving carnival rides in my life, including financial setbacks, health issues, a disabling accident in the family, and plenty of uncertainties.

     Maybe 53 years is too soon to say, but so far, God has proven himself someone who can be trusted, not only to catch me but to hold my hand on the ride.

     I’ll let you know if things change.

    Meanwhile, free-falling can prove freeing indeed.