Still learning to write...

Over the last year I’ve been “working on my craft.” I joined a writers’ society, a critique group, attend monthly Schmooze groups and the odd writers’ conference. I had to after I received multiple rejections for my manuscripts: clearly I needed help.

What an understatement! I started writing children’s books as a blindfolded mountaineer might approach an unknown peak – clueless and unprepared. Not to say I couldn’t do it, only that I didn’t have the necessary tools or information to face the challenge.

This became obvious at the first Schmooze group. The presenter talked about pit falls and bonuses in publishing contracts. I’m pretty sure she spoke English because I understood the occasional “the” or “and.” Other than that, it could have been Peace Corps language training all over again. “Lord God, what was I thinking? Why did you let me do this?” crossed my mind several times.

I’ve talked to writers, listened to more presentation, read hundreds of children’s books, and researched the publishing world a little more since then. And I still feel faintly sick, if better prepared after each writers gathering. Sometimes I wonder if climbing the mountain blind might be less overwhelming.

I brought a chapter of one of my stories to the last meeting. I knew it had problems but couldn’t define them myself. After reading it, my fellows writers said, “You have style, but you don’t know your characters. You don’t have a central problem. Without that, you have no theme, no plot, no change in the main character. It’s not a real story, just an episode and a bit boring at that. But – love the title!”

They said it pleasantly. They gave me suggestions. We discussed possible themes and plot developments. But wow! When you boil it down, after a year, I still can’t manage even the basics of writing a children’s story. I think walking blindly off a cliff is more attractive than dealing with this.

And yet I cannot quit. That critique group removed the blindfold, or at least uncovered one eye and pointed me in the general direction I need to climb. I know my problem; now I have to solve it. But man is that mountain steep! Whose idea was it to climb this anyway?

From Apples to Hungary

One moment I'm biting into an apple slice on the way to the gym (in Oklahoma City) and the next I'm standing in Budapest, looking up at a warehouse-like shopping centre. That tangy burst of apple juice on my taste buds took me back 12 years to one little forgotten incident in Hungary.

I was in Peace Corps; Sandy was a church volunteer – both in Bulgaria. One spring, we spent a week exploring Budapest and environs. Needing bread, meat, cheese, apples – meals for travellers on volunteer incomes – we went grocery shopping. Playing through these memories, I could remember the difficulty in finding the place. Its location far outside the tourism centres. That we even had to walk a ways because it was off the bus lines. I can remember our excitement upon entering and seeing aisles upon aisles of food. Sandy and I went a little crazy picking up this and that. Exclaiming how long it had been since we’d seen such a product. Forcing ourselves to buy only what we needed. Grocery shopping. Isn’t that what everyone loves about Hungary? No? Maybe it’s only special to two volunteers visiting from Bulgaria. And even then – I didn’t really remember this whole scenario until I bit into that apple.

Back in Oklahoma City, I wonder at my apple. I can’t imagine the apple is the same kind as those we ate in Hungary. But there was something about the taste because the effect on my brain was immediate. Apples as transporter devices…who knew.

Is this fair?

As I watch the insidious beast of cancer bite chunk after chunk out of my Dad, witness his decomposition before my eyes, a part of me cries, "Is this FAIR?" He served so earnestly and faithfully – look at his work in Malawi! Why is this happening to him of all people?

We like to think we have a right to health, success, the good life. Haven’t we donated our time, given to charity, served faithfully? These are like grimy fingers used to scrub ineffectually at equally grimy faces. We like to think there’s a chance we’ll eventually show some clean skin, but God knows we’re not even close. There’s no way for us to wipe away our sin – it is part of us, the very skin we’re trying to clean. We’d have to gouge it away like that cancer does to my Dad’s skin. And that’s slowly killing him.

Our only chance is to replace our dirty, disease-ridden skin with clean, uncorrupted tissue. Like that’s just lying around for the asking! And how would we transplant that organ in its entirety, may I ask? We’d definitely need a qualified physician…like God. He takes his own son’s skin – pure, uncorrupted by sin – and fits each of us in its perfection. We leave the operation room healthy, our substitute skin smooth, silky, clean.

Is this FAIR? No. It’s not fair that Jesus had to give up his skin for us, sorry lot that we are. But fortunately, God’s idea of FAIR is different from ours. It doesn’t matter to him if we’ve served 40 years or come breezing in like Johnny-come-lately. It doesn’t matter that our best service is like the questionable help of a toddler. We don’t DESERVE anything. But he gives us Jesus’ skin to cover ourselves. He attributes Jesus’ perfect works to us. He welcomes us to heaven saying, “Well done, you good and faithful servant!”

I don’t know why God allows Dad to suffer so. Maybe this is a Job-like test of his faith. Maybe this is a strengthening exercise – working Dad’s spiritual biceps. Maybe Dad’s suffering is a lesson for someone else. God knows. And, given what God has done for us, that should be enough. I must take a deep breath, close my eyes, and trust that God not only knows what he is doing, but is doing it for Dad’s good.

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.
~Romans 8:28~