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“ I hate the work of those who fall away;
We run through the obligatory script, the way you do every time you approach a checker at the grocery store.
Last October, Dave and I went to Israel. I can't even express how much that trip affected me. When I've had sufficient time to process all that I saw and heard and experienced, I'll no doubt write more about it. But today, I'm thinking of the tomb.
On my left arm and hand, I have two identical scars. I received both in the exact same way, doing the exact same activity ... two years apart. I know what you're thinking, but no, I wasn't bull-fighting. Nor was I bungy-jumping, sky-diving or knife-throwing, although when I want to impress someone, I claim to have done all of those things. No, I earned my scars during a different teeth-clenching, death-defying activity: teaching. Both times, I was teaching a history lesson about the Revolutionary period to a group of homeschooled children, and both times I dribbled hot wax on myself while demonstrating the safe and proper way to wax and seal an envelope.
“You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again?” - Matthew 5:13 (NASV)
Inconceivable: Finding Peace in the Midst of Infertility
My daughter was almost three before I first laid eyes on her. I'd gone to the home of a new friend to swap stories and get acquainted. Not long into our talk, Kari said, "Wanna take a peek at my new foster daughter?" I did, so we tiptoed upstairs and to the last door on the right. When the light from the hall burst into her room and over her little toddler bed, Tera lifted a head full of blonde curls and turned mischievous eyes toward me.
I'm heading into the home stretch with my work-in-progress. The book is due to my publisher April 15th and everything's coming together. But I heard from the marketing team the other day and they'd like to change my title. Please read both and weigh in on which one would best grab your attention:
My new friend, Robin (a.k.a. HerWryness), kindly offered to interview me this past week. Feeling up to the challenge, I agreed to jet over to the Bahamas and sit in her beach shack and share life stories over big glasses of freshly squeezed mango juice ... or maybe I just answered her questions via email. I can't quite remember. Here are the highlights:
"I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again." ~ Oscar Wilde
“Use every piece of God's armor to resist the enemy in the time of evil, so that after the battle you will still be standing firm.”
A friend of mine is in desperate need of a home for his dog. He LOVES this dog and says it's well-trained and kid-friendly, but his wife insists he get rid of it. She claims that "it stares at her all day long" and says it creeps her out. Please, please, please ... just take a quick look at this puppy:
Labels: too amazing/amusing not to share
Labels: my littlest friends
I'm busy today going over notes for a class I'm teaching tonight at a Seattle writers' group, Northwest Christian Writers' Association (NCWA). My class is entitled, "Fear Factor," and I'll be discussing five of the most common fears writers face. It's funny, because I only have one fear about this evening: I'm afraid of my Power Point projector. It's a finicky, wicked-bad projector; it can smell my fear the way a horse can and delights in making me sweat. So if you're of the praying sort, please pray that tonight, I win.
When my sister Tarri used to sit around the table with my mom and Megan and me, listening to tales of "the time we went there" or "the time we did that," she'd grow impatient to hear her own name.
I've added a guestmap. If you don't mind telling me where you're from, click the "Click here ... place a pin" button (the one with the globe), which you'll find on the right side of the blog, just under my "links" list.
When Zac was a little boy, we used to go out on "berry walks." I'd bring a big plastic bowl, he'd bring my two-cup capacity measuring cup--the one I use every time I bake--and we'd hold hands and head down the road. I can still hear, without much effort at all, the sound of his tiny black rubber boots skipping and hopping on the hard dirt road; can still feel his warm little hand in mine.
In a previous post entitled "writers & ritual," I fessed up about my own daily, pre-writing routine. For those who did not read that post and do not care (or have time) to click on the link in that first sentence, I'll give you the brief version: every morning, before I've composed a single word, I get myself coffeed-up and comfortable in front of my laptop and navigate to the online edition of our local paper, where I read the obituaries. I won't go into the "whys" of that ritual; for that, you're going to have to click on those blue words above. But now you know. I've bared my soul.