I am a 50-something Texan with a feisty cat and a supportive husband of 25+ years. With a Master's degree in English with an emphasis on creative writing, I have taught creative writing at Texas Tech, won awards for my writing and been blessed to be mentored by Horn Professor and poet Dr. Walt McDonald. I earn a living by helping my husband's family run a health food store, but my avocation is writing. I hope you enjoy reading about some of my triumphs and tragedies as I continue to work on figuring out what life is all about and on growing my ability to share my writing. May your own journey be a blessed one.
Flyers go up for months
as if a single citizen would forget
the day in early Spring when Mesquite Bend
crowns what is the best among them.
She must glide like a dew drop
on a blade of grass early Fall mornings,
blossom like a cactus flower,
wear the pungent scent of cotton ginning
like Chanel No. 5.
Roberta Watts held court
for five years running, but her
days of glory have dried up
like the creek bed cracked
more days than water flows.
Young Lucy Mann reigns these days,
her twenty-something youth
the image of glory they all
long for. How many crops
have withered no matter how hard
they pray nightly, through years
of war and drought and even
slaughtered Presidents? Yet she
donns the finely-woven fibers
of the county and parades
around the square as if the world
were watching.
Her world watches, for no
Cotton Queen would dare
to long for any higher honor
than that paid by hands cracked
with blood wrung from their dusk
to dawn reality, this life they chose
at the mercy of Mother Nature
and the calling of those
who came before.
He is up hours before dawn come Sundays,
searching for that silent place
where anyone who is willing
can find God. The Holy Spirit
moves in and out from him,
especially on those days that begin
with calls from Mrs. Stiles,
who has her own thoughts
about his sermons, the Ladies’ Tea Club,
the meal committee, even the young
Youth Minister whose pencil moustache
is somehow the first step to evil.
But this first day of the week
belongs to Reverend Nunnelly,
whose job it is to reflect
the One and Only for a congregation
of sheep one misstep from wandering.
As he stares out into faces
he has known since childhood,
the weight of his obligation to lead
pushes down on him, pushes out
the One who really leads them,
leaving him on his knees
early Sundays, praying to be emptied
and filled with the only thing
that matters.
From his pulpit, looking in the eyes
of his forty-five-year bride, he longs
to feel for all of them the love
of a Savior who showed strength
through a willingness to die.
This feed store, filled with fly bait
and the musty scent of alfalfa bundled,
centers the world of Josiah Smith,
known as Jelly Bean to every
Mesquite Bend local. He runs
the old munitions-factory-turned-city-heart,
this place where even the women
from the Tea Club gather
to share gossip and peppermint sticks
Jelly Bean keeps in a large, glass jar
on the wooden counter smoothed
by years of transactions filled with men’s sweat
and the honesty of a sturdily shaken hand.
Only Molly Nunnelly never ventures
into the aisles of threepenny nails
and cattle feed, through the inventory
of d-rings and nylon rope that Jelly Bean
carries in his very cells. Sweet Molly
who moons after Jack Long, the one
Molly has loved since all of them made mud pies
in the back of the cemetery, scaring
each other with stories about the ghosts
of scalped ancestors. Even after Roberta Watts
walked down the aisle with him, Molly still
watches Jack with dreamy eyes
Jelly Bean would give all
his coveted fly traps to own.
But Jelly Bean, well past thirty,
hopes as he watches Molly in her pew
every Sunday, her hair in perfect ringlets
hugging the stiff collars of her best dresses.
Only old Ben Hurley knows Josiah
is more man than any of them. Who
would answer to a childhood cruelty
except a man more than comfortable
in his lonely skin?
Every morning, he greets the sun,
his oatmeal sitting heavy with the third cup
of black coffee in his belly.
His face bears the lines of days spent
out in the open, where wind whips
grains of sand or pellets of ice,
both in one day many an early Spring.
His hands, old since his twenties, curl
in a perpetual claw that makes the young bride
at the farm two miles over wince,
but they still guide reins as well as any cowboy.
Hurley strokes the collie at his knees,
his 80-year-old eyes roving the bent and brittle fields
that define all the world needs to know
about “poor Ben,” who went to Europe
to save the world and came back a blunt
and dark-eyed man.
Even the pain in his belly he tries
not to think about cannot keep him
from walking the rows of cotton spiking
as it has struggled for generations
of Hurleys holding sharp bolls in practiced hands.
If he hadn’t left that pretty red-head in the pub
at the east end of London, Ben might not be the last
of cotton men in a family that once
ruled this country where the sand follows the rain.
Tuesdays, half past two,
the ladies of Cornerstone Baptist sit
in formation to a pattern as old
as Miss Thelma, the 92-year-old founder
of this gathering of faded teacups, lace doilies,
and the stretchy jeans and gym suits of women
with laundry drying on the clothesline and supper
dangling like a loose participle in the back of their minds.
Only Molly Nunnelley, eldest daughter of the Reverend who has served
this congregation for four, long decades, shows Miss Thelma
her full due, the young Molly’s hair always coiffed just so,
her full frame forced into a fashionable dress
made perfect for a woman half Molly’s size.
Roberta Long, confirmed coffee drinker,
mocks the Earl Grey swirling with cream,
her tall mug of Arabica wafting circles
towards Molly’s lavender-scented kerchief,
Molly’s only link to a reality
where a handsome bachelor once
held hands as they strolled
down the dusty path near Hurley’s cotton patch.
Roberta knows those hands better than Molly now,
fifteen years later. Thin Roberta with her
curvy hips and Miss Thelma’s happy smile.
The Tea Club loves Roberta, who mocks
them all with more than her coffee cup.
If only one of them would notice
Molly’s neatly trimmed nails
and sling back heels. If only her days
were more than Tea Clubs and steamy novels
stashed away from Reverend Nunnelley’s watchful eyes,
the only pleasures of a grown woman
still sleeping on her childhood bed.
Just a blink in the road, this one-mile stretch
of highway in the midst of farmland eked
from sand and spotty rain.
Mostly, people stop here only
at the tin-roofed station where gas pumps
and jam made by practiced hands
sells for pennies more than the cost
to make it.
Come Sundays, the population doubles,
as three churches fill with souls seeking
solace from the sun and wind
that goes on forever.
Only the people who know
how many cracks line the sidewalk
outside Big Martha’s Antique Emporium
know there is more to this row
of stores and houses and vacant lots
then what passes by the windows
of the cars that zoom through daily
on this lonely stretch of highway.
I have never been a parent, unless you want to count my cat. He is a true tomcat who prefers to watch you from a good five-foot distance. He does not want my bids for affection unless they involve some fish-flavored kibble or tuna flakes. Despite the claw and tooth scars I have to prove his need for independence, I continue to try to figure out ways to cuddle him and still respect his “space.” He has trained me to turn the tub faucet on at his command. I have learned to “punish” him with unwanted hugs even when I might want to knock him across the room instead.
If I, being human, can go through all of this for a furry “child,” how much more must my parents feel for me, how much more any parent must feel for his/her child, no matter how rebellious that child sometimes becomes. Even when a child goes against what his parents want him to do, I can understand how much the parent must long for the child to return to the roots of his raising again, or themselves struggle with trying to understand the world from their child’s perspective to find a place of restorative peace.
This Sunday, we are geared up to celebrate the most merciful “parent” of all time–our living God! His mercy is always present, always available, and always ours alone to lose because He has given us the free will to choose the gift of His grace which was His sacrifice on the Cross to bring us back into relationship with Him.
You will read a lot of Scripture from the New Testament this week if you are studying about Easter, but I want you to consider a passage from the Old Testament instead: the story of Jonah. When the reluctant prophet decides to do the job he didn’t want to take from God, the LORD doesn’t immediately destroy the people who don’t want to listen to Jonah’s message from God.
So, Jonah does what any of us humans would do at times like this. He pouts. He goes and sits at a distance from the town of Nineveh and waits for God to drop down the punishment God made Jonah go talk about. Instead of destroying the city, however, God has a plant grow over Jonah, offering the pouting prophet shade from the unrelenting sun. However, almost as quickly as it grew, the plant gets infected by a worm, withers and dies, leaving Jonah exposed to the elements again and ready to himself die:
Then God said to Jonah, “Is it right for you to be angry because the plant died?”
“Yes,” Jonah retorted, “even angry enough to die!”
Then the Lord said, “You feel sorry about the plant, though you did nothing to put it there. It came quickly and died quickly.But Nineveh has more than 120,000 people living in spiritual darkness, not to mention all the animals. Shouldn’t I feel sorry for such a great city?” (Jonah 4:9-11)
You might be tempted to read the Old Testament and think that God is a judgmental, even brutal, Creator. But, the Old Testament is as full of His merciful attitude as the New. Think about all the times that the people God talks to often argue with Him. There is more than one instance when a prophet will repetitively ask God, will you save the city if you can find 50 good people? 40 people? 20 people? 10? God patiently agrees each time. He tolerates a created thing that deigns to argue with its Creator! He wants to save not only the people of Nineveh, but the animals as well.
Don’t be surprised, then, when you discover that the God whose shoulders are big enough to take every complaint you have to hurl in His direction still loves you enough to die for you. He wants a relationship with YOU. And He is patient about waiting for you.
The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. Instead he is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance. (2 Peter 3:9)
I can’t rely on my cat for anything except his desire to be fed on a regular basis. Even my husband of twenty years sometimes gets angry with me. But God is the only ONE in my life who is reliably merciful. Read His word from beginning to end, forwards and backwards, and what you will discover is a God just waiting to show His love for you.
As you celebrate the risen Christ this Easter, don’t forget to celebrate His reliable mercy as well. He is waiting and much more ready to show you love than the anger we all deserve.
For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life. (John 3:16)
The personal, life events of the last eight days have brought to mind a song I wrote many years ago when a dear friend of mine was having to say goodbye to the last member of her immediate family. Last Wednesday, I lost my last grandparent. She was almost 92. I look forward to seeing her again in that amazing place where there are many rooms.
For now, I wanted to share the lyrics that reflect a little bit of what we all have to go through at some point or another:
Boxes
It was just a pile of boxes,
labelled by a shaky hand.
And I knew this day was coming,
but it’s not the way I planned.
50 years of family living,
all packed up and put away.
And it’s not the way I planned it,
but the boxes go today.
There’s the box of Mama’s trophies,
15 years of county fairs,
quilts crafted through hard winters,
with a hint of country air.
There’s my daddy’s favorite novels,
all Jack London ever wrote.
He’d read to us on Sundays,
his voice ringing with pure notes.
There’s the photo of my sister,
chasing butterflies in Spring.
She’s the girl that I remember,
but her memory’s all I bring.
What I wouldn’t give
to hear my daddy’s voice again,
see my sister’s curly hair,
smell my mama’s smooth, clean skin.
50 years of family living,
all wrapped up and put away.
And it’s not the way I planned it,
but the boxes go today.
And I place the generations,
in piles to give away.
And a part of me goes with it,
but I can’t afford to stay,
wrapped in memories while my own kids
wait at home for my return.
Closing down the family homestead
feels just like a bridge that’s burned.
~~~
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid. (John 14:27)
Watching a video on early church history with my life group, I was struck by one of the biographies of early church leaders. I believe it was John Wesley who was so zealous for God that he had even been to America to mission there. On the return trip home, Wesley was caught in a great storm at sea and found himself falling way short in the faith department as he faced possible death.
I wondered why someone who had enough belief to go out and share God’s word would be so quick to fall from faith (or at least blame himself for falling). Then, the documentary continued to explain the most important next step of Wesley’s faith story. The man who would go on to lay the foundations for the Methodist movement learned the difference between a salvation that is earned and one that is freely given. Wesley learned to embrace grace.
As Paul teaches in many of his letters, our salvation is not earned. We are saved from the damnation we deserve only because Jesus chose to die on the cross for our sins, make us right with God once and for all, and send the Holy Spirit to dwell in us and pull us toward the kind of living that reflects the kind of loving life Jesus lived.
When we have asked Jesus to be our Saviour and admitted our need for His offer of salvation, we are saved. Even in the face of our most immediate, physical dangers, we can take comfort in knowing that our souls are safe. We will join Jesus in heaven. We will see God. We will know that eternal place where there is no fear, no pain, no doubt.
When you release the need to earn salvation, you are free to embrace the humanness we all share. You are free to love the way that God intended us to love. You know that you cannot be proud since none of us are good enough because of anything we’ve done. We are only good enough because God made us all equally “good enough” by dying on the cross for us.
What a different experience John Wesley would have had on that scary boat ride if he already understood that his faith was enough to ensure his salvation through grace! He would not have feared his future thinking he had not yet sown enough fruit for God to be saved. Instead, he might have felt that “peace which surpasses understanding,” knowing that whatever happened, it would be God’s will.
None of us know for sure how we will react to life-and-death moments until we have actually experienced them. But all of us can practice living out our faith by doing what Jesus commanded: “‘AND YOU SHALL LOVE THE LORD YOUR GOD WITH ALL YOUR HEART, AND WITH ALL YOUR SOUL, AND WITH ALL YOUR MIND, AND WITH ALL YOUR STRENGTH.’ “The second is this, ‘YOU SHALL LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR AS YOURSELF.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.”… (Mark 12:30-31).
When we truly have faith, we act out our faith through our deeds. We actively seek to shine the Light of God. We study His word. We seek relationship with Him in prayer. We seek fellowship with other believers. We do things for even strangers that we would appreciate being done to us.
I’m gonna walk by faith, an’ not by sight
‘Cause I can’t see straight in the broad daylight
I’m gonna walk by faith, an’ not by fear
‘Cause I believe in the one who brought me here
When I taught college freshmen English, a lifetime ago, we used a textbook titled, Works in Progress. The concept was that any writing is a process of planning, researching, planning some more, writing, editing, and editing, and editing. We would require multiple drafts of the same paper from our students. We emphasized group critiquing to help them find their own mistakes better once they had the easier practice of seeing the mistakes in somebody else’s writing.
In other words, if they learned nothing else, the students learned that writing is most definitely a serious business. But they also learned that writing is a fluid one too. I would remind them that even published poets have been known to interrupt a reading to correct a word and explain that the next time that particular poem was published, the poem would be “corrected.”
Mark Twain put it this way: “Find the right word, not its second cousin.”
Admittedly, my blog posts are thoughts I have prayerfully crafted to convey thoughts I feel the Holy Spirit has laid on my heart to share, but there is an immediacy to blogging that doesn’t lend itself to the laying aside of a finished draft for the needed perspective that makes for truly great editing.
My fiction writing is different. Once I complete a novel, I have to let it set for a while before returning to it. I need the “this is my baby, so it must be perfect” feelings to wear off so I can more truly see the novel for what it is.
I know that there are as many ways to craft a novel as there are people out there trying to do it. Of course, there are core truths to a good story that any good novel should have. If you are new to writing, you should study the kinds of novels or writing you want to do to help you determine those elements and patterns.
Of course, my master’s degree in English is with an emphasis on creative writing. I have even taught creative writing at the sophomore level at university. But, I always have new things to learn about improving this craft that I love.
My latest draft is a spin-off of my last novel, The Texas Stray. It is giving me fits because it covers themes and characters that are outside my comfort zone and experience. One character does not know Christ. Another is on the path to finding Christ again. The novel covers issues like divorce, alcoholism, and adultery because some of my characters are truly broken. My goal is to create a story that shows how God unbreaks us.
There are questions that keep me up at night about this draft. Can I do some of these subjects justice? I am not experienced first-hand with the three issues I just mentioned (by the grace of God). My main hope is to tell God’s truth about these types of things without being judgmental or insensitive. I know it can be done because I have known people who have survived these things and held on to their belief or found their belief in the Creator.
My other worry is how I have labeled my novels so far. I call them Christian Fiction because God is at the core of the writing I do. However, do I mislead? In other words, even though it is possible to grow up in a household where people don’t curse or get divorced or cheat at Monopoly (I know because I grew up in such a household), is it wrong to call a novel a Christian novel if some of the characters are not so good? What if even your main character says a bad word or makes a dumb decision?
These questions are especially perplexing to me with my latest draft because my main characters are really fallen people in a fallen world who have a hard time finding their ways to redemption. They have material distractions, a wavering moral compass, and holes in their souls they don’t even know how to define, much less fill. In other words, I am telling a story that is largely overshadowed by what not to do. Does that make it a less Christian novel in some way?
As I begin the true editing process of this work, I have narrowed down the overriding themes of my first draft. Do I have too many or are they closely-related enough to work together? Most importantly, how do I integrate God’s answers to my characters’ struggles without it seeming to be “preachy” instead of being woven naturally into the narrative?
These are not questions I expect anyone to answer for me. I have to answer them myself. I offer them here as a peek through the looking glass that is the writer’s process. It is a laborious task with very little benefit at the end of it for most. (There can be only so many Francine Rivers or Tracie Petersons out there.) But, I do it anyway because I feel compelled to write.
My goal is not to eventually quit my day job. My thought is that I will continue to labor in full faith that God will get His message to the people He put me here to use this talent to get the message to. That’s why I write a blog as often as I feel I have something to contribute. That’s why I spend my free time sweating over storylines and characters knowing that the finished work will be something I publish myself, my only hopeful goal the other-worldly one we all seek, that of the Father blessing our final journey with these two words: “Well done.”
Like the essays my college freshmen grudgingly turned into their overworked TA so many years ago, this life of mine is too a work in progress. Thank YOU for joining me for part of the journey. This yoke we share is not a heavy one, according to the ONE WHO SAVES. May your burdens this day be light.
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