writers' express

I am off on this beautiful spring morning to Writers’ Express, a “full day of useful presentations for new and experienced writers.” If the day lives up to brochure promises I will come away with:
- six ways to grab readers by the throat
- six techniques to reassure editors that I can give them what they want
- seven books and seven ways to promote them
- nine tips for using words that hit the target every time
- five ways to keep fit at my desk
- ten ways to make rejection work for me.

Hopefully, gentle reader, this will also serve some benefit for you. For as Sol Stein says in Stein on Writing, good writing results in a good experience for both partners - the writer and the reader.

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Addendum: For an example of a good reading experience read Amanda Witt's article "Distant Neighbors" - on keeping children innocent when lesbians move in - published in the latest issue of Touchstone Magazine.

visual dna

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good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over

"Give and it will be given to you; good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over will be put into your bosom. For with the same measure that you use, it will be measured back to you." - Jesus, Luke 6:38

Who doesn’t salivate at Jesus' word picture of abundance? Yes, bring it on!


But I wonder how often I don’t recognize the abundance I already have.

We have an abundance of food in our freezer and a well-stocked pantry


We have an abundance of books (this bookshelf x about 5).

I have an abundance of clothes.

We have an abundance of good memories in shelf-fulls of photo albums and many more photos in boxes and on computer disks.


We have an abundance of CDs (these are just the ones in my office).

I have an abundance of pens, pencils and paper.


I have an abundance of Bibles (many more than this!)

You get the picture?

I think this "good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over" has already hit me in many areas of my life. I think what I'm needing most now is an abundance of thanks!

woe!

Saturday afternoon driving into Vancouver we again passed the site, in front of the Chinese Consulate, where for five years Falun Gong members demonstrated against the Chinese Government. They were protesting the persecution of their brothers and sisters China.

The city tried to shut down the protest last summer. Thus people no longer sit and stand there 24/7 as they used to. But there are still posters and banners. As we sped by, I caught sight of a woman’s face on a poster, emaciated and bruised, hair a mess, eyes filled with pain. I thought of how much she looked like pictures of persecuted Christians I have seen.

This morning when reading Jesus’ woes in Luke 6: “Woe to you who are rich....Woe to you who are full....Woe to you who laugh now....Woe to you when all men speak well of you....” I thought of my rich, full, accepted life, and what a contrast is the life of Christians in places where persecution is the norm. And I also thought of that Falun Gong protest site.

It was not my choice to be born in Canada – a land of tolerance and plenty. But I do have other choices. One of them concerns what to do about my persecuted brothers and sisters in India and Uzbekistan and Pakistan and China and Myanmar and Thailand etc. etc. Like the Falun Gong, should I consider making myself a little uncomfortable and unpopular by protesting against governments that deal oppressively with Christians and which my country supports with respect and trade? That Granville Street monument of Falun Gong's dedication is a rebuke to me.

At the very least, I know I should pray regularly for my persecuted brothers and sisters. For if I don’t take some of their present woe on myself in this least (and perhaps most) thing I can do – intercession – I can consider myself warned. Jesus said someday the tables would be turned:

“Blessed are you poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who hunger now, for you shall be filled. Blessed are you who weep now. Blessed are you when men hate you, and when they exclude you and revile you and cast out your name as evil....For your reward is great in heaven (Luke 6:20-23).

To find out what’s happening to Christians around the world check out:

WorldServe Ministries

Voice of the Martyrs

Persecution blog

spring

The Outing

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As you may have guessed, this family photo is not this year’s brood.

Thursday Challenge

Next Week: COLORFUL (Bright Colors, Primary Colors, Clashing Colors, Harmonious Colors, Flowers, Buildings, Cars,...)

blossom time

did Jesus make lists?

That's the question that came to me this morning as I was thinking about the day ahead and the list of things I’d like to get done. List-making has always been for me an efficiency tool or self-check guide to focus me and help me make sure I’m staying on-task. As such, though, lists can easily rule me, making me resistant to serendipity and interruption.

Jesus, on the other hand, comes across as a very anti-list person, the way He drifted from incident to incident – one day in Galilee, another in Capernaum, then Bethany, then Jerusalem – with seemingly no plan or agenda but to do His Father’s will.

And then this morning, just after thinking about Jesus and lists I came to the place in Luke where He made one! Yes indeed, in Luke 6:12-15 Jesus comes to His flock of followers one morning with a list of twelve people He’s picked to be disciples. Though I’m sure he didn’t make His list because He was in a panic, feeling overwhelmed, or wouldn't otherwise remember (more reasons I make lists), I imagine He had one reason in common with mine -- His time was limited. He had lots to get done and needed to focus His efforts.

But there is also a big difference between Jesus’ list-making and mine, and that is what He did while He was making that list: He “continued all night in prayer to God.” Luke 6:12. Now there’s a novel thought – praying over my lists. Presenting them to God and letting Him strike out some items and add others to my to-do list, prayer list, grocery list, list of people I’d like to have over, books I want to read, things I’d like to do before I die ...

I’m definitely a list person, though I must admit that more than once I’ve questioned the lists I’ve made because they so easily spin me off into my own little agenda. But if Jesus made lists surely it’s okay for me to make them too – as long as I don’t forget to invite Him to be part of the process. Oh, and I just thought of a way to shake off the tyranny of any list that thinks it's the boss. I'll make sure that "serendipity" and "interruption" are always on the list!

book review - My Feet Aren't Ugly: A Girl's Guide to Loving Herself from the Inside Out

Title: My Feet Aren’t Ugly
Author: Debra Beck
Publisher: Beaufort Books, April 2007
Genre: Self-help, Youth nonfiction
ISBN: 082530542X

If Debra Beck ever meets the guy who told her, at 15, that her feet were ugly, I hope she thanks him for us. Because if it hadn’t been for that mean remark then, we might not have My Feet Aren’t Ugly: A Girl’s Guide to Loving Herself from the Inside Out now.

Debra’s goal for writing this 130-page self-help book for teen girls was to give them a hand in achieving the self-esteem and healing she missed when she was their age. She begins in a lengthy first chapter that talks about learning to like oneself by doing things like living with integrity, finishing projects, taking care of personal health and appearance, and being a good friend. The following eight chapters relate that foundation of healthy self-esteem to the many other challenges modern teen girls face in areas of conquering fears, risking creativity, maintaining physical appearance (including a discussion of eating disorders), encountering drugs, resisting suicide, dealing with the physical changes that accompany adolescence, and developing a healthy outlook toward sex. She also lists web links to help-agencies in appropriate sections.

Debra’s understanding of and love for teens shines through all the way. From a girlhood plagued with low self-esteem, mothering two teens of her own, and continuing to work with young women in Spirited Youth comes a voice that is part big sister, part mentor, part cheerleader and always encourager. In a warm, chatty style she shares her own struggles, lists fears, tells lots of stories from her life, and through it all challenges girls to be their own person.

The inviting cover, cartoon-type illustrations (by Maggie Anthony - bottom), and Debra’s own occasional lapse into humorous girl-speak (e.g. talking about street drugs: "One big problem is that a lot of them are made in someone’s lab at home mixing the ingredients [a guy probably high out of his gourd]") make the book a lot of fun. It is interactive too with numerous journal prompts, lots of space to write, lists, and quizzes sprinkled amongst blocks of text.

If the book seemed weak in one area it was in the discussion of spiritual health. Described as "moving forward, evolving and growing . . . . taking care of business" the subject appeared little different from all that had already been said about gaining healthy self-esteem on one's own – as opposed to joining with God or a higher being in this quest, which is what I expected to find when I read "spiritual health." However, the way Ms. Beck doesn’t take sides on religion may turn out to be an asset, in that the book’s neutrality would make it easily adaptable to girls of many faiths.

All in all, I would have no problem recommending this book to any 10- to 16-year-old girl – or their caregiver. For as well as providing a great way for teen girls to gain confidence and a sense of who they are on their own, I think the book could be an excellent discussion starter between girls and parents. I wish I’d had it when I was a thoroughly self-conscious and self-loathing teenager.

she

Isn’t she lovely? This card is another that came from Turkey. Inside are the words: "She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. - Proverbs 31:25

My sister-in-law, who recently returned from spending a month in Turkey, forwarded to me a request to pray for the women of Turkey. Specifically she mentioned a Turkish Women’s Conference to be held at the end of May in Antakya. Though Turkey is officially secular with a stated policy of religious tolerance, it is 99% Muslim and persecution is certainly not unheard of.

Even the requests are revealing. Here are some of them:

- For the husbands to give permission and for the children to be provided for.

- For the speakers, worship leaders, prayer leaders, small group leaders, seminar leaders to have the Holy Spirit leading them as they lead others.

- For trust and good communication between workers, organizers, Turks and non-Turks and for the women coming.

- For unity among the churches in Antakya.

- For blessing and protection over the women wanting to come. Some travel quite a distance and some have trouble leaving the home for a few days.

- For women to get saved if they are not.

- For finances for hosting.

- There will be about 85-90 women from outside our city we have to house, so pray for smooth organization.

- For women to get set free from the lies they are believing.

- For the women’s homes to be touched with the Gospel as they return to their settings (some of which are very oppressive).

- For husbands, children, relatives to be touched as a result of letting their women attend.

- For a spirt of life to be our strength and breath as we plan it and give to it. That the women would in turn receive the breath of life!

So if you are reminded – join us in praying for the women of Turkey and this conference.

rest

A Gypsy Finds Jesus - Part 2

part 1

part 2 - as told by Gypsy Smith in Gypsy Smith - His Life and Work

My father was now terribly in earnest. There were a great many gipsies encamped in the forest at the time, including his father and mother, brothers and sisters. My father told them that he had done with the roaming and wrong-doing, and that he meant to turn to God.

They looked at him and wept.

Then my father and his brothers moved their vans to Shepherd's Bush, and placed them on a piece of building land close to Mr. Henry Varley's Chapel. My father sold his horse, being determined not to move from that place until he had found the way to God. Says my father "I meant to find Christ if He was to be found. I could think of nothing else but Him. I believed His blood was shed for me."

Then my father prayed that God would direct him to some place where he might learn the way to heaven, and his prayer was answered. One morning he went out searching as usual for the way to God. He met a man mending the road, and began to talk with him - about the weather, the neighbourhood, and such-like things. The man was kindly and sympathetic, and my father became more communicative. The man, as the good providence of God would have it, was a Christian, and said to my father, "I know what you want; you want to be converted."

"I do not know anything about that," said my father, "but I want Christ, and I am resolved to find Him."

"Well," said the working-man "there is a meeting tonight in a mission hall in Latimer Road, and I shall come for you and take you there."

In the evening the road-mender came and carried off my father and his brother Bartholomew to the mission hall. Before leaving, my father said to us, "Children, I shall not come home again until I am converted"

I shouted to him, "Daddy, who is he?" I did not know who this Converted was. I thought my father was going off his head, and resolved to follow him.

The Mission Hall was crowded. My father marched right up to the front. I never knew him look so determined. The people were singing the well-known hymn ––


"There is a fountain filled with blood
Drawn from Emmanuel's veins,
And sinners, plunged beneath that flood,
Lose all their guilty stains."
The refrain was, " I do believe, I will believe, that Jesus died for me."

As they were singing, my father's mind seemed to be taken away from everybody and everything. "It seemed," he said, "as if I was bound in a chain and they were drawing me up to the ceiling." In the agony of his soul he fell on the floor unconscious, and lay there wallowing and foaming for half an hour.

I was in great distress, and thought my father was dead, and shouted out, "Oh dear, our father is dead!"

But presently he came to himself, stood up and, leaping joyfully, exclaimed, "I am converted!" He has often spoken of that great change since. He walked about the hall looking at his flesh. It did not seem to be all quite the same colour to him. His burden was gone, and he told the people that he felt so light that if the room had been full of eggs he could have walked through and not have broken one of them.

I did not stay to witness the rest of the proceedings. As soon as I heard my father say, "I am converted," I muttered to myself, "Father is converted; I am off home." I was still in utter ignorance of what the great transaction might mean.

When my father got home to the waggon that night he gathered us all around him. I saw at once that the old haggard look that his face had worn for years was now gone, and, indeed, it was gone for ever. His noble countenance was lit up with something of that light that breaks over the cliff-tops of eternity. I said to myself in wonderment, "What marvellous words these are –– 'I do believe, I will believe, that Jesus died for me.'"

My father's brother Bartholomew was also converted that evening, and the two stopped long enough to learn the chorus, and they sang it all the way home through the streets.

Father sat down in the waggon, as tender and gentle as a little child. He called his motherless children to him one by one, beginning with the youngest, my sister Tilly. "Do not be afraid of me, my dears. God has sent home your father a new creature and a new man." He put his arms as far round the five of us as they would go, kissing us all, and before we could understand what had happened he fell on his knees and began to pray.

Never will my brother, sisters, and I forget that first prayer. I still feel its sacred influence on my heart and soul; in storm and sunshine, life and death, I expect to feel the benediction of that first prayer.

There was no sleep for any of us that night. Father was singing, "I do believe, I will believe, that Jesus died for me," and we soon learnt it too. Morning, when it dawned, found my father full of this new life and this new joy.

He again prayed with his children, asking God to save them, and while he was praying God told him he must go to the other gipsies that were encamped on the same piece of land, in all about twenty families.

Forthwith he began to sing in the midst of them, and told them what God had done for him. Many of them wept. Turning towards his brother Bartholomew's van he saw him and his wife on their knees. The wife was praying to God for mercy, and God saved her then and there.

The two brothers, Bartholomew and my father, then commenced a prayer meeting in one of the tents, and my brother and eldest sister were brought to God. In all thirteen gipsies professed to find Christ that morning.

A Gypsy Finds Jesus - Part 1

I find stories of how people come to Jesus fascinating. I discovered one yesterday in the research I am doing for an article on Gypsy Smith (who became an evangelist in England and later America; he lived at the same time as William Booth and Charles Spurgeon). It is of the conversion of his father, Cornelius.

I’m going to share it on here. First I’ll give some background, and then tell the story in Gypsy Smith’s own words in two parts (though it's even too long for that), pieced together from an online book Gypsy Smith - His Life and Work by Himself (first printed in 1901).

Rodney (Gypsy) Smith was born in England of Gypsy parents Cornelius Smith and Mary Welch, the fourth of their five living children. One day when he was quite young, his oldest sister became sick. The family drove their wagon to the doctor in the nearest town but when he stepped out to have a look, immediately recognized small pox and sent the family out of town.

Cornelius set up a tent for his wife and healthy children in an isolated laneway, then drove the wagon further down the path and spent the next weeks nursing his sick child. The mother prepared food for the two every day and left it midway between the two sites. But she was distraught at not being able to look after her little girl and each day came closer to the infected wagon. One day she must have come too close, for shortly after she became ill herself and eventually died. The grief-stricken father then had to bury his wife and do his best to carry on, mothering and fathering his five young children. We take up the story here as told by Gypsy Smith:

The wild man in my father was broken forever. My mother’s death wrought a moral revolution in him. As he had promised to her, he drank much less, he swore much less, and he was a good father to us. When my mother died, he had made up his mind to be a different man, and as far as was possible in his own strength he had succeeded. But his soul was hungry for he knew not what, and a gnawing dissatisfaction that nothing could appease or gratify was eating out his life.

For years my father had greatly added to his ordinary earnings by fiddling to the dancers in the public-houses at Baldock, Cambridge, Ashwell, and elsewhere. Even after my mother’s death, though his fiddling led him into great temptations, my father continued this practice.

All this time, while my father was living this life of fiddling and drinking and sinning, he was under the deepest conviction. He always said his prayers night and morning and asked God to give him power over drink, but every time temptation came his way he fell before it. He was like the chaff driven before the wind. He hated himself afterwards because he had been so easily overcome. He was so concerned about his soul that he could rest nowhere. If he had been able to read the Word of God, I feel sure, and he, looking back on those days feels sure, that he would have found the way of life.

His sister and her husband, who had no children, came to travel with us. She could struggle her way through a little of the New Testament, and used to read to my father about the sufferings of Christ and His death upon the tree for sinful men. She told my father it was the sins of the people which nailed him there, and he often felt in his heart that he was one of them.

I have seen my father when we children were in bed at night, and supposed to be asleep, sitting over the fire, the flame from which was the only light. As it leapt up into the darkness it showed us a sad picture. There was father, with tears falling like bubbles on mountain streams as he talked to himself about mother and his promise to her to be good. He would say to himself aloud, “I do not know how to be good,” and laying his hand upon his heart he would say, “I wonder when I shall get this want satisfied, this burden removed.”

One morning we had left Luton behind us. My eldest sister was in the town selling her goods, and my father had arranged to wait for her on the roadside with our waggon. When our waggon stopped my father sat on the steps, wistfully looking towards the town against the time of his daughter’s return and thinking, no doubt, as he always was, of my mother and his unrest. Presently he saw two gypsy waggons coming towards him and when they got near he discovered to his great delight that they belonged to his brothers Woodlock and Bartholomew. Well do I remember that meeting. The brothers were as surprised and delighted to meet my father as he was to meet them.

The three men sat on the bank holding sweet fellowship together, and the two wives and the children of the three families fathered around them. Soon my father was talking about the condition of his soul. Said he to Woodlock and Bartholomew, “Brothers, I have a great burden that I must get removed. A hunger is gnawing at my heart. I can neither eat, drink, nor sleep. If I do not get this want satisfied, I shall die!”

And then the brothers said, “Cornelius, we feel just the same. We have talked about this to each other for weeks.”

As the brothers talked they felt how sweet it would be to go to God's house and learn of Him, for they had all got tired of their roaming life. My father was on the way to London, and fully resolved to go to a church and find out what it was his soul needed. The three brothers agreed to go together, and arranged to take in Cambridge by the way.

They drove their waggon to the Barnwell end of the town, where there was a beer-shop. The three great big simple men went in and told the landlady how they felt. It is not often, I feel sure, that part of a work of grace is carried on in a beer-shop, and with the landlady thereof as an instrument in this Divine work. But God had been dealing with the landlady of this beer-house. When the brothers spoke to her she began to weep, and said, "I am somewhat in your case, and I have a book upstairs that will just suit you, for it makes me cry every time I read it." She brought the book down and lent it to the brothers to read.

They went into the road to look after their horses. A young man who came out of the public-house offered to read from the book to them. It was "The Pilgrim's Progress." When he got to the point where Pilgrim's burden drops off as he looks at the cross, Bartholomew rose from his seat by the wayside and excitedly walking up and down, cried, "That is what I want, my burden removed. If God does not save me I shall die!" All the brothers at that moment felt the smart of sin, and wept like little children.

On the Sunday the three brothers went to the Primitive Methodist Chapel, Fitzroy Street, Cambridge, three times. In the evening the Rev. Henry Gunns preached. Speaking of that service, my father says: "His points were very cutting to my soul. He seemed to aim directly at me. I tried to hide myself behind a pillar in the chapel, but he, looking and pointing in that direction, said, "He died for thee!"

“The anxious ones were asked to come forward, and in the prayer-meeting the preacher came to where I was sitting and asked me if I was saved. I cried out, ‘No; that is what I want.’ He tried to show me that Christ had paid my debt, but the enemy of souls had blinded my eyes and made me believe that I must feel it and then believe it, instead of receiving Christ by faith first. I went from that house of prayer still a convicted sinner, but not a converted one."

To be continued...

green

Green Seen

Thursday Challenge

Next Week: SPRING (Budding Trees, Birds, Sunny Days, Baby Animals, Mud Puddles, Spring Cleaning, Bouncy, Thermal Spring,...)

el nino spring

            Worn out from all the push and bluster
          trees lean wearily northeast
        or lie broken and surrendered
      across limb-strewn streets.
     Drains are clogged with stubble of pine
    hair of cedar. Curbs catch
  once nubile catkins, fugitive leaves
pink drifts of downed petals.

           My poor crocuses
         who faithfully held high
        fistfuls of closed buds
       hoping one day soon to pay
     bright homage to the sun
   conquered and crushed
  on soggy ground.
Enough already!
 

- Copyright 2003 - V. Nesdoly


It's been that kind of spring again this year. Lots of blustery winds. But we'll gladly take Spring anyway -- no matter how she arrives. HAPPY FIRST DAY OF SPRING!!

primulas

I love my kitchen window. It’s over the sink and since we got rid of our dishwasher I spend a fair bit of time there.


That window looks out into our small backyard and the garden, which always lifts my spirit at this time of year because of the primulas.





That garden is where most of my primulas end up. After they have finished putting on their show in various other places I have, over the years, dug them into shady spots between perennials where they languish through the summer with not a hint of their previous glamour.



But come spring, my how their nondescript greenery changes.






They’re in their prime now – clumps of yellow, pink, red, royal and orange, brightening my waterlogged plot and giving me a very cheery distraction from the dishes.

an opposite spirit

Meekness is the character trait of a strong person who is continually surrendering his or her rights to God. Jesus was the perfect example of meekness, for as He said, he did nothing except what His Father told Him to do. Jesus was meek when He took out a whip and drove the money changers from the temple, just as He was meek when he stood before Pilate and refused to utter a word to save Himself.

When Jesus said that the meek would inherit the earth, He was telling us His master strategy for winning the war against Satan and demon forces on this earth. God is going to utterly defeat Satan, and He’s going to do it with individuals who move in the opposite spirit to the forces of darkness. We are going to win the victory, but only as we discern what the devil is doing and do the opposite thing in the power of the Holy Spirit.

-- Loren Cunningham, Making Jesus Lord

promptings' potpourri

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Don’t know what to read? Visit Semicolon’s blog for her popular Saturday post which links to book reviews from bloggers of all shapes and sizes.

Don’t know what to wear? Consider a Faveur t-shirt!

Bryan Atwood who founded Faveur with his brother James explains in this interview on Infuze: “...we look at the verse in Revelation 12:11, which says, 'They overcame by the blood of the Lamb and by their testimony.' It was our idea to create something where you can share your testimony and you can have a conversation with someone rather than just billboard evangelism.”

Their cool designs caught the eye of Laura Moody, art director for the Museum of Design, Atlanta. She invited them to be part of an exhibit which was designed to show that the t-shirt is the new billboard. As James explains: “They are the new canvas. They're the new graffiti. It's become a whole culture, like you said. It's an expression of whoever you are, what music you listen to, your faith, your likes and dislikes or the books you read.”

In the bio they sent in for the show, the brothers said: "This is who we are. We're a faith-based clothing line and these are expressions of our faith in Christ." That bio went on display, along with four samples.

Check out t-shirt designs. Most designs also contain a link to the ‘lyrics’ - i.e. what the design means.

Don’t know what to watch? Watch nesting eagles - again!

An eagle cam in Maine is trained on a nesting pair which laid eggs on March 5th and 8th. You can watch live streaming video - two links on that page - but limited to 2 minutes. The home page has a still shot that refreshes every 15 seconds. (These birds are certainly rocking and roiling in a storm today!) Hatching comes after about 35 days of incubation.

There is also a blog which is updated about once a week. This post contains a link to a video that caught the laying of the second egg (6 minutes).

and the winners are . . .

Some weeks ago I came to you with hat in hand, asking you to vote for my poem in Infuze Magazine’s “Best of 2006” contest. The results are now up – and “Some Words” made it! To everyone who voted for me – Thank you so much!! The winning entries will be published in Infuze’s second 'Best Of' book.

Let me draw your attention to some wonderful writer colleagues whose poems and story will also be in the book – these are all members of my favorite writing organization Inscribe Christian Writers Fellowship:

“Claim the Horizon” by Valerie Coulman

“One Winter’s Day” by Marcia Lee Laycock

“Gasping for Air” by Lorrie Orr (who lives just across the pond from me in Victoria. I love this story!)

Congratulations to my writing friends!

The top vote recipients of the whole shebang were:
- in the poem category - “American-American” by Rachel Holmes
- in the story category - “The Knitting Box” by Jamie Carie

water

River Triptych

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These rotted pilings at the bend in the Serpentine River (Surrey, B.C.) are a favorite hangout for cormorants. Sometimes they perch with wings akimbo, drying out their feathers. Other times they strike this somewhat haughty pose.

Thursday Challenge

Next week: GREEN (Frogs, Reptiles, Peacock, Grass, Plants, Vegetables, Fruit, Jade, Money,...)