I arrived an emotional
wreck. I left the memorial service early, an emotional jumble, and
arrived in Portland soul scattered. The memorial for Wayne wasn't
possible to push out of my mind. Wayne left his mark on the world.
Saved by the gift of a new kidney, Wayne literally fed
people with heart, soul, and hands. Food and soaking up the words of others
were his imprint; his way of saying thank you to God for a new lease
on life. Then the unexpected hit him and us: heart attack.
I'm mad at you God for
taking Wayne. His story wasn't over yet. It was just beginning.
My heart ached as I drove
north. “What exactly am I celebrating?” I asked myself as I
battled Portland traffic. Stuck in my mind. Stuck in the slow lane.
Stuck.
A
2014 finalist in the Cascade Awards, I was again à
table; a 2015 finalist for unpublished children's picture
books. Would anything come of the awards banquet, or the presence of
my story? Would my stories find their way into a larger world, one bigger than my mind?
I've certainly asked Him more than a
time or two. This God, who plops me in His lap and reads stories to me; He seems to be my only audience. Yet like an eager 4 year old, I try to
repeat back my favorite parts, learn them well and remember, and
then make them come alive for anyone who will listen. But what will
become of these stories? Will they be told by future generations, or
simply stay on my hard drive?
Stilling my soul on the
hotel porch, the mighty Columbia River rolled by. While Ipad pings
interjected, I sought an inner calm amid the roaring of PDX jets
overhead. A Safe Families situation vied for my attention. A message
about a family needing to place children in temporary care, and a foster to adoption story, riveted my beating
heart. I wanted to be with them in their stories right then, and
forgo mine.
Be still my soul.
I
finally got up and changed, putting on cool but dark summer clothing,
i.e., putting on what I hoped would be a class act. I'm pretty sure
it failed, and that's fine. I'm definitely not a girl who is
driven by her outward appearance. Much of my life is lived in the interior, and I've finally begun to accept and embrace this inner dimension of mine. Sitting in the banquet room,
surrounded by linen and china, I put on a smile and tried small talk,
but really, I wanted to be headed for a starry hill draped black.
I
wanted to be with Wayne in the community kitchen chopping vegetables.
I wanted to be on the phone helping make sure that family found
resources for their crisis, and I wanted to meet the young girl who
was meeting her adoptive parents for the first time. A young girl
who's been in 19 foster homes in 12 young years of life. I wanted to
be in the middle of their stories, not mine. I wanted this awards banquet to be dinner at Sylvia Beach Hotel, a haven for readers and
writers. Yet here I was with God's story surrounded by a sea of people, and He wasn't parting the sea for me.
Both the tiny Sylvia Beach Hotel and the massive hotel I was enclosed within perch
above mighty waters. Both have dining rooms that birth stories, but are
they stories of consequence? Surrounded by glass, tinkling china, and
extroverts I wanted to know.
Surrounded
by readers and writers, I wanted to know.“What do you
carry in your pockets?” I
wanted to ask, “Do you carry precious stones a boy child
has given you? Do you carry the ordinary turned extraordinary? What about feathers? Do
you?” I wanted to ask, “What
are you doing with your one wild and precious life?” If
we sat around the table at Sylvia Beach Hotel playing Two
Truths and a Lie, what would
your truths be and what of your lie? I
wanted to ask you how you keep the burning at bay, or if wild words
burn a hole in your pocket. Spilling into the world. I wanted to ask
if like George Eliot you bear the burden of words with joy or grim
determination, or a bit of both. I wanted to say: “Remember
you've been given a womb to spiritually carry children, birth, and incarnate
stories.”
I
wanted to ask you what makes you afraid. Are you afraid of
all the awards represent, or afraid to ask yourself and others if
they don't represent anything at all?
Oh
mighty agent and editor, instead of the raging river out the window,
I dipped my toes in lukewarm waters and asked, “Do you
have hope in the industry?” You
said you still loved story, but your eyes seemed doubtful.
For what
is the recognition of men and mankind when our inner burning is to
know and be known? To see and be seen is not what we seek. Is it?
Receiving my award, I
rose awkwardly early. He was still reading the text of Callie's story, and
poorly at that. I arrived on the platform a nervous mess, but trying to
trust. I left that night a nervous mess, trying to trust. I came for
dinner and left after worship. I didn't stay for the key noter. I'm
sure it was lovely, but another story called me.
That story had
me unloading sweet alfalfa from the back of my rig for still sweeter
lambs and sitting under twinkling stars. That story had me
sitting under the Perseid meteor shower, pondering what's a life
well lived, and worshipping the Creator of my stories in the black of
night, and doubt. Maybe I should have stayed.
Maybe
I should have attended all week. Would my story have found its break
and opening if I'd been more present? Yet conference fees are
extremely high, and I wasn't sure my tribe was in Portland. One pays
those high conference and hotel fees for two reasons: If your tribe
is found by the river, and if you know your story will find its path
by your presence à table. I was sure of
neither. I write children's stories, and the Christian market is not
risking upon children right now, or unknown children's authors. But
children are my whole life. Right now. Safe Families, my own family,
and my stories are all about and for children.
Oh mighty agent and
editor, at linen cloth and crystal cup, you made it known you only
want authors with an existing platform, memoirs appealing. Yet if
authors are called to risk writing the words God has given them,
should you not risk supporting them? Is the book industry, secular or
religious, for author's and stories and souls these days, or just a machine? The world is watching. Us. I show up and write,
but I cannot sell my soul to tell a story, or sell story that is not
sacred. Are we selling souls or blessing souls? The exclusivity of
God1
must sit ever on the page. It must be first.
Will my award propel
Callie forward? I don't know. I believe God propels words forward in
the world, in their write time. Book awards are not trophies,
but maybe they're a recognition of beginnings. I'm thankful for the
award. I'm thankful for the lovely editors and agents who judged my
work worthy of winning. I'm thankful for the recognition of new
beginnings, and I have hope the ending is being written by the Great
Storyteller and the pliant hand that picks up the pen.
Out
the window of the large Red Lion, a bridge spans the Columbia River
and I ask, "Are we are bridges?" I wonder if anything I write, or we
write, will stand the test of time. Will our words, my words,
withstand a shaking? Will the bridges we build in this world hold up for crossings into another world? The other world. I hope the collective community of writers upon the
shores of the river, in a man made palace of glass, breathe in and out streams of
refreshing words. And may those words wash over mankind. May they stand. May they prevail.
And so today, I get up
and write. Crumbs lay all around me in the coffee shop. I'm a messy
writer. I want more. I want food and story to mean something.
Like at Sylvia Beach, the Red Lion, or Fishtrap, I want conversation
and deep connections long after dinner is over.
And suddenly you know:
It's time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.
1Walter
Brueggman, Sabbath as Resistance
