My first article was published last Monday. You can read it here: There's something special about hugs from a teenager.
I will post links to all of the articles as they are published.
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
Reader Columnist for the News Tribune
My first article was published last Monday. You can read it here: There's something special about hugs from a teenager.
I will post links to all of the articles as they are published.
Monday, January 9, 2012
The Other Side of my Mind
The Other Side of my Mind
My mind slips and I along with it,
dreaming of you.
Snippets of the life I missed.
Memories created through the stories of others with my small scraps thrown in.
Hasty memories drawn on the canvas of my mind,
each stroke hesitant.
Not fully formed.
My thoughts go to you almost every day, even in the smallest of moments.
How my life would be different if you were there.
How your life would be different if you’d known me longer.
I know you see. I know you’re there.
But it’s not the familiar touch of life I was accustomed to,
nor the warm rumble of your laughter
that I can’t seem to remember.
It’s not your touch as we should’ve danced at my wedding.
It’s not the everyday minutes that others take for granted.
It’s the gentle breeze that blows across my face
culling moments, flashes, seconds lost in time.
It’s your painting in the sky that welcomes me to the morning.
Slipping back, I don’t want to go.
Fading, like my sanity.
My mind slips and I along with it,
dreaming of you.
Snippets of the life I missed.
Memories created through the stories of others with my small scraps thrown in.
Hasty memories drawn on the canvas of my mind,
each stroke hesitant.
Not fully formed.
My thoughts go to you almost every day, even in the smallest of moments.
How my life would be different if you were there.
How your life would be different if you’d known me longer.
I know you see. I know you’re there.
But it’s not the familiar touch of life I was accustomed to,
nor the warm rumble of your laughter
that I can’t seem to remember.
It’s not your touch as we should’ve danced at my wedding.
It’s not the everyday minutes that others take for granted.
It’s the gentle breeze that blows across my face
culling moments, flashes, seconds lost in time.
It’s your painting in the sky that welcomes me to the morning.
Slipping back, I don’t want to go.
Fading, like my sanity.
Dingle Races
When Andy and I were in Ireland, we stayed in Dingle for a couple of days. We were fortunate enough to be there when the Dingle Races were being held, actually, right across the street from the hostel we were staying at. I wrote this poem in remembrance of that day and the races. I've attached a couple of pictures from the races.
“Dingle Races”
The cars line up along the road aside the rock hewn walls,
On rising hills and in the dirt.
Trucks and trailers side by side beneath graying skies alive with rain, being held
In honor of the day when boys become men in colored silks and
Tight white pants with boots right to the knee, holding crops like their breath.
They’ve been waiting for this day to break from stables and quiet fields;
To round the corners with shouts in their ears of Irish near and far,
(And a few Americans come for holiday). Being seen by girls on
Father’s shoulders hoisted up to see them run in the shadow of
Brendan who journeys still, blessing this and that and all who come
To see the races in makeshift bleachers or standing near metal posts
Where they’re an arm away from horses decked out for this day, like warriors
Getting face paint when headed into war.
With braided manes and soft brushed tails.
They race on grass, still waving in the wind until trodden down by hooves flying
By and as quickly as it was all begun, it ends with horses being loaded home and
Jockeys slapped on the back until Brendan stands alone and smiles at Dingle’s race of man.
Selective Hearing
This is another poem I wrote during the month-long writing experience. I just love looking back and experiencing through the words and feel of the poem, what I was feeling the moment I wrote it.
“Selective Hearing"
I heard him say, “It’s a jungle out there”
and I’d smile and look for monkeys swinging in the trees
long arms reaching for the next grasp of hope to propel
them forward. But I didn’t know what he meant.
I heard her say, “Look before you leap”
but I must admit I closed my eyes before
I jumped off the swing momentarily flying like a kite
before realizing I was a rock. And I didn’t know what she meant.
I heard him say, “I love you”
and I flat-lined right there, suddenly speechless
and appalled that I’d never known life before that moment
and I breathed. But I didn’t know what he meant.
I heard them say, “Your life goes by quickly”
but it felt like I was a seed that had just been planted
and I was watching myself grow with stunted petals
that wouldn’t respond to the sun. And I didn’t know what they meant.
I heard myself say, “For better or for worse”
and I visualized poverty and tears from both of us
and laughing nights and dancing days and even
the silence that penetrated our lives. But I didn’t know what I meant.
I heard him say, “I hate you”
but knew it couldn’t be the case for we’d never
met before that day when anger appeared before my
eyes, blue tongue lapping. And I didn’t know what he meant.
I heard her say, “I’m glad he died”
and my heart just disappeared encased in silent
throaty tears that slid across the notion I had that she
was really kind. But I didn’t know what she meant.
I heard them say, “Time heals wounds”
but I’d spent some time with time and he healed nothing;
no respecter of my grief, he only wrapped my loneliness with
a bow and delivered it unannounced. And I didn’t know what they meant.
I heard myself say, “It’s time to move on”
and I gathered up the memories, like books in a library,
categorized and numbered, some worn, some sparkling but I couldn’t
leave them there alone and trembling, orphaned. “They are a part of me”
the words spoke aloud hesitantly. But I knew what they meant.
“Selective Hearing"
I heard him say, “It’s a jungle out there”
and I’d smile and look for monkeys swinging in the trees
long arms reaching for the next grasp of hope to propel
them forward. But I didn’t know what he meant.
I heard her say, “Look before you leap”
but I must admit I closed my eyes before
I jumped off the swing momentarily flying like a kite
before realizing I was a rock. And I didn’t know what she meant.
I heard him say, “I love you”
and I flat-lined right there, suddenly speechless
and appalled that I’d never known life before that moment
and I breathed. But I didn’t know what he meant.
I heard them say, “Your life goes by quickly”
but it felt like I was a seed that had just been planted
and I was watching myself grow with stunted petals
that wouldn’t respond to the sun. And I didn’t know what they meant.
I heard myself say, “For better or for worse”
and I visualized poverty and tears from both of us
and laughing nights and dancing days and even
the silence that penetrated our lives. But I didn’t know what I meant.
I heard him say, “I hate you”
but knew it couldn’t be the case for we’d never
met before that day when anger appeared before my
eyes, blue tongue lapping. And I didn’t know what he meant.
I heard her say, “I’m glad he died”
and my heart just disappeared encased in silent
throaty tears that slid across the notion I had that she
was really kind. But I didn’t know what she meant.
I heard them say, “Time heals wounds”
but I’d spent some time with time and he healed nothing;
no respecter of my grief, he only wrapped my loneliness with
a bow and delivered it unannounced. And I didn’t know what they meant.
I heard myself say, “It’s time to move on”
and I gathered up the memories, like books in a library,
categorized and numbered, some worn, some sparkling but I couldn’t
leave them there alone and trembling, orphaned. “They are a part of me”
the words spoke aloud hesitantly. But I knew what they meant.
Never Never Land
As my friend Becca can attest to, I was a day dreamer when I was young and in school. My mother received report cards with glowing reviews, but comments that said something like, "she daydreams in class" or "she talks too much." Like that's a bad thing? One of my favorite things to do was to write poetry and stories. A couple years back, I wrote this poem for a monthly challenge where we were to write a poem a day. This poem so captures my youthful imagination where I drifted in school to a completely different place, or when I spent hours stretched out in the waist-high grass of our fields before they were cut for hay quoting The Highwayman and dreaming of tennis. I re-found the poem today and smiled. It's still me.
“Never Never Land”
She swirls up high, touching her head on
clouds – not the puffy, white thunderheads
that threaten rain but the wispy, foamy
ones that lazily dance in the sky, moving
only when a child gazes from their back
to make pictures: pirates, dragons and
elephants. Imagination soaring, waiting
for the moment when her dreams become
her every day, when she’s given birth to
a whole new form of art that no one can
claim, save herself. Her toes stay grounded
by the bed, where she still hears her mother
call for dinner and her homework still
beckons, wrapping her in mathematics
until her thoughts divide themselves, reducing
down to the lowest common denominator.
But at night she stands on her tippiest toes, her
points all pink and raw, to see the place she
knows she’s from, that only she can see; with
brightest yellows covering all: yellow cats and dogs
and yellow people, with yellow shirts and yellow
pants and yellow shoes with yellow laces and yellow
socks and yellow hair with yellow ribbons. Yellow
grass that’s glorious, like butter spread on thick,
yellow flowers that smell like cake and yellow skies
that contain the slightest trace of pink. She sighs,
her breath coming out in yellow puffs, she knows
the night grows long and down from her toes
she must come, returning to the place where they
call her Amelia, instead of Cordelia, as the yellow
people named her. She’ll be back again tonight,
or maybe even today during Science class.
“Never Never Land”
She swirls up high, touching her head on
clouds – not the puffy, white thunderheads
that threaten rain but the wispy, foamy
ones that lazily dance in the sky, moving
only when a child gazes from their back
to make pictures: pirates, dragons and
elephants. Imagination soaring, waiting
for the moment when her dreams become
her every day, when she’s given birth to
a whole new form of art that no one can
claim, save herself. Her toes stay grounded
by the bed, where she still hears her mother
call for dinner and her homework still
beckons, wrapping her in mathematics
until her thoughts divide themselves, reducing
down to the lowest common denominator.
But at night she stands on her tippiest toes, her
points all pink and raw, to see the place she
knows she’s from, that only she can see; with
brightest yellows covering all: yellow cats and dogs
and yellow people, with yellow shirts and yellow
pants and yellow shoes with yellow laces and yellow
socks and yellow hair with yellow ribbons. Yellow
grass that’s glorious, like butter spread on thick,
yellow flowers that smell like cake and yellow skies
that contain the slightest trace of pink. She sighs,
her breath coming out in yellow puffs, she knows
the night grows long and down from her toes
she must come, returning to the place where they
call her Amelia, instead of Cordelia, as the yellow
people named her. She’ll be back again tonight,
or maybe even today during Science class.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
And the results are in
Well, the Christian Writer's Guild finally announced what was supposed to be 20 semifinalists (but turned out to be only 10 of them) in the Operation First Novel Contest, and sadly, I was not one of them. But c'est la vie! Life goes on and so shall I. My next step is to get my query letter written and start querying agents to see if I can get representation to a publishing house. The query letter writing is my least favorite part, but once it's done, I can start researching agents and go from there. Good luck to the 10 semifinalists and congratulations!
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Writing Contest...still waiting
As I mentioned in Sept./Oct., I submitted my Christian fiction novel, Ace, to the Christian Writer's Guild Operation First Novel contest. Originally, they thought they would announce semi-finalists (20 of them) in November and finalists (5 of them) in December, but they had over 140 entrants and apparently, they are quite good this year, so the judges are having a hard time getting through them all and deciding. As a result, they have not announced the semifinalists or the finalists! I'm dying to find out, as I am sure the other 140 contestants are as well. Waiting stinks. I'm hoping they will make an announcement this week. If I am fortunate enough to be named a finalist, I have to pack my bags, book some airfare and hightail my tail down to Denver in early February for the conference where they will announce the winner. I'm trying to be patient...I can hear Andy laughing now. It is something I constantly work on and pray that God will develop in me (hey, maybe that's why...oh boy!).
Anyway, I will keep you all posted, win or lose or not even qualifying. If I don't qualify, I will get busy trying to query agents to publish on my own. I think it's good enough for publication, but you just never know. On the other writing front, I've decided to take my first novel based on the poem, "The Highwayman", and re-write it as a screenplay! Problem is, I've never written a screenplay before, so I just ordered a great book that is supposed to help me out! Here's hoping!!!
Anyway, I will keep you all posted, win or lose or not even qualifying. If I don't qualify, I will get busy trying to query agents to publish on my own. I think it's good enough for publication, but you just never know. On the other writing front, I've decided to take my first novel based on the poem, "The Highwayman", and re-write it as a screenplay! Problem is, I've never written a screenplay before, so I just ordered a great book that is supposed to help me out! Here's hoping!!!
Friday, December 10, 2010
Christmas Contrasts
I want to share something my mother wrote and then shared at her work during their chapel service. Christmas can be a time of hustle-bustle, running around shopping, etc... even for Christians. It's so awesome to stop and really think about what Jesus did for us, how that gift continues giving over and over and the magnificent inheritance we have in Him.
My mom (Lyn Thompson) is an amazing writer, among other things. I love the way her mind works and this article is proof positive that she draws me closer to God every time I talk with her. What an incredible attribute! I wish I could say the same about me. This list will become an annual thing for my family to stop, read and reflect and hopefully draw us further into the Word for God to continue revealing what His Son has done for all of us. Enjoy.
Christmas Contrasts and Comparisons
Today, as we take a bit of time to meditate on Christmas and its meaning, I’d like to help you think about some of the amazing contrasts and comparisons available to us in Christmas and Christ’s coming. Hopefully, these will give you a richer perspective on this season, on this event -- on this gift of God -- that will open Christmas to you in ways you’ve not experienced in the past.
He was born in a stable – that we might inherit His mansions. Jesus left the riches of heaven to be born in the meanness of a stable, so that one day, those who follow Him might live with Him in the mansions He’s preparing for those who love Him.
He was born away from home – that we might always have a place with Him. Jesus left His home in heaven … and He wasn’t even able to be born in His parents’ home in Galilee … to remind us that we are sojourners here – wanderers here on earth – and that our home is with Him, when we turn from our sin to receive His forgiveness and grace. He left His home to become our Savior that we might always be received, accepted and at home with Him.
He was born in the form of a servant – that we might rule with Him. Both at His birth and at His death, He was surrounded by the roughness of wood and simple cloth rather than the gold, satins and thrones Kings deserve. He reminds us that serving others is at the heart of ruling the universe. Our lives here are an apprenticeship to prepare us for ruling in eternity with Him.
He was born in obscurity – that we might have His light. Jesus, the Light of the World, the Bright Morning Star and the One who lights our way, entered a world darkened by sin and evil. And He entered in the dark of night, barely noticed, so that He might light our way and make us light for those who still live without Him.
He was born in poverty – that we might be made rich. Christ’s coming at Christmas threw the doors of heaven wide open to those who receive Him as Lord and Savior … even though the doors of the inn were shut to Him and Mary and Joseph when they were seeking shelter. “Behold, the Kingdom of God is at hand; it has come,” Jesus later told His listeners. The Kingdom of God supplies us with all we need to live richly, regardless of monetary wealth.
He was born in filth – that we might be cleansed. Jesus, called Wonderful and the Rose of Sharon, the Sweet Savior and Fragrance of life, was born in a dirty, foul-smelling stable. Jesus who is clean, enables us the unclean to become clean when He takes up residence in our lives and transforms our lives.
He was born in humility – that we might experience His glory. Jesus, the Author of All Life, came to earth as a Servant, to lay down His life and die for all. Jesus, the head of all things, completely sovereign and with all authority, was born a child under the authority of earthly parents, and Hebrews tells us that He who is perfect was perfected in His flesh through obedience and the things He suffered. As we surrender our lives in obedience to Him, we experience His glory in our lives, and it shines through us to a sin-sick and needy world.
He was born into limitations as a man – that we might partake of His divine nature. Jesus, limitless in power, knowing no boundaries, who created all things and holds all things together, limited Himself within the boundaries of human flesh when He was born as an infant and then wrapped in swaddling clothes, tying his arms and legs to his sides. Those swaddling clothes which held His arms and legs to His sides were a precursor to the nails which would later hold His arms and legs to the cross. Jesus, the gift of God, came wrapped, not in paper for us to unwrap and hold, but in human flesh to unwrap us from the sin, pretense and masks of our lives so that we might recognize our need and come to Him to be reborn by His Spirit.
He was born emptying Himself – that we might be filled with the wonders of His grace. Scripture tells us Jesus, the King of Kings, deserving of all praise, honor, worship and glory, left heaven and the rights and privileges of the Triune Godhead, emptied Himself and became a servant, that by His obedience to the Father, we might be filled up with the wonders of His unmerited favor, His amazing grace, for every need we might ever have and to become whole and complete as God made us to be.
He was born to know hatred – that we might know love. Despised, rejected, betrayed by those He came to, He endured it all that we might know the true, unconditional, self-sacrificing love of God.
He was born of no reputation – that we might be adopted by God the Father. Jesus, adopted by His earthly father, with an earthly lineage of prostitutes, murderers, liars and adulterers, makes the way for us, with similar lineage, to be adopted by our perfect Heavenly Father and to have reconciliation with God and a new family line.
He was born to a virgin – that we might experience a miraculous rebirth. A miraculous birth on earth – fully God and fully man -- so that you and I might hear Him say to us, “You must be born again, of the Spirit of God, so that you can become a new creation – no longer a slave to sin, now free to become all God created you to be.
He was rejected – that we might be accepted. Jesus, born of an unmarried teenage virgin who was rejected herself for an act of God upon her life when she became pregnant by the Holy Spirit with Jesus, gives us a picture of the rejection Jesus Himself would face for the work and purpose of God – all so that we might be forgiven of our sin and accepted by God.
He was born with a common name – that we might know Him as Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. He wasn’t the first man called Jesus, nor the last, but by coming to earth as a common man, Jesus took the transcendent God – the higher than all things, greater than all things, almighty, above all God – and enabled us to experience Him through His imminence – Emmanuel, God with us – when He came in human flesh. He gave evidence that God is involved in the nitty gritty details of our lives, the dirt, the commonplace, the daily situations of census, tax-collecting, oppression, abuse, rejection and difficulty of our lives. He enables us to know Him in our need and find our resources in Him.
He was born to fulfill prophecy – that we might believe God. You’d think the birth of God’s Son would be publicized or announced by God in every place to every person, and especially to everyone of prominence and significance, on the face of the globe … but, no, this most momentous birth in history, which would affect every life ever lived, was announced by almost forgotten prophecies, a silent star in the sky and a choir of angels seen only by a few shepherds – society outcasts – people considered dishonest, often of lower character. Those prophecies and God’s faithfulness in sending His promised Messiah enable us to place our faith in a God who keeps His Word and is true to His character.
He was born into chaos – that we might know peace. Jesus, the Prince of Peace, and the only One through Whom there’s freedom from oppression and victory over evil, was born into a chaotic cultural setting at a time of great oppression for the Jewish people. His peace doesn’t start with an end to all oppression and all wars and by altering man’s outer behavior for a short time. It starts by changing the heart and character of a man, resulting in lasting change of behavior for all eternity.
He was born at an appointed time – that we might escape the bonds of time and live with Him for eternity. God does nothing haphazardly … there is an appointed time for everything … for each and every circumstance on earth. Jesus came at God’s appointed time that we might one day no longer be bound by age and health and finite things, but that we might live eternally with God with new bodies in a world that surpasses anything we can ever imagine.
He was born to be the payment for our sin – that we might be purchased and set free. Whereas the birth of babies are generally celebrated on earth with no thought of a later death, Jesus’ birth was planned from eternity past as the necessary preliminary event for the main purpose of His life – His death on the cross for the sins of mankind. At His birth, He was heralded as the Savior, the Deliverer, the Redeemer of His people, titles He received because He was to die in our place.
My mom (Lyn Thompson) is an amazing writer, among other things. I love the way her mind works and this article is proof positive that she draws me closer to God every time I talk with her. What an incredible attribute! I wish I could say the same about me. This list will become an annual thing for my family to stop, read and reflect and hopefully draw us further into the Word for God to continue revealing what His Son has done for all of us. Enjoy.
Christmas Contrasts and Comparisons
Today, as we take a bit of time to meditate on Christmas and its meaning, I’d like to help you think about some of the amazing contrasts and comparisons available to us in Christmas and Christ’s coming. Hopefully, these will give you a richer perspective on this season, on this event -- on this gift of God -- that will open Christmas to you in ways you’ve not experienced in the past.
He was born in a stable – that we might inherit His mansions. Jesus left the riches of heaven to be born in the meanness of a stable, so that one day, those who follow Him might live with Him in the mansions He’s preparing for those who love Him.
He was born away from home – that we might always have a place with Him. Jesus left His home in heaven … and He wasn’t even able to be born in His parents’ home in Galilee … to remind us that we are sojourners here – wanderers here on earth – and that our home is with Him, when we turn from our sin to receive His forgiveness and grace. He left His home to become our Savior that we might always be received, accepted and at home with Him.
He was born in the form of a servant – that we might rule with Him. Both at His birth and at His death, He was surrounded by the roughness of wood and simple cloth rather than the gold, satins and thrones Kings deserve. He reminds us that serving others is at the heart of ruling the universe. Our lives here are an apprenticeship to prepare us for ruling in eternity with Him.
He was born in obscurity – that we might have His light. Jesus, the Light of the World, the Bright Morning Star and the One who lights our way, entered a world darkened by sin and evil. And He entered in the dark of night, barely noticed, so that He might light our way and make us light for those who still live without Him.
He was born in poverty – that we might be made rich. Christ’s coming at Christmas threw the doors of heaven wide open to those who receive Him as Lord and Savior … even though the doors of the inn were shut to Him and Mary and Joseph when they were seeking shelter. “Behold, the Kingdom of God is at hand; it has come,” Jesus later told His listeners. The Kingdom of God supplies us with all we need to live richly, regardless of monetary wealth.
He was born in filth – that we might be cleansed. Jesus, called Wonderful and the Rose of Sharon, the Sweet Savior and Fragrance of life, was born in a dirty, foul-smelling stable. Jesus who is clean, enables us the unclean to become clean when He takes up residence in our lives and transforms our lives.
He was born in humility – that we might experience His glory. Jesus, the Author of All Life, came to earth as a Servant, to lay down His life and die for all. Jesus, the head of all things, completely sovereign and with all authority, was born a child under the authority of earthly parents, and Hebrews tells us that He who is perfect was perfected in His flesh through obedience and the things He suffered. As we surrender our lives in obedience to Him, we experience His glory in our lives, and it shines through us to a sin-sick and needy world.
He was born into limitations as a man – that we might partake of His divine nature. Jesus, limitless in power, knowing no boundaries, who created all things and holds all things together, limited Himself within the boundaries of human flesh when He was born as an infant and then wrapped in swaddling clothes, tying his arms and legs to his sides. Those swaddling clothes which held His arms and legs to His sides were a precursor to the nails which would later hold His arms and legs to the cross. Jesus, the gift of God, came wrapped, not in paper for us to unwrap and hold, but in human flesh to unwrap us from the sin, pretense and masks of our lives so that we might recognize our need and come to Him to be reborn by His Spirit.
He was born emptying Himself – that we might be filled with the wonders of His grace. Scripture tells us Jesus, the King of Kings, deserving of all praise, honor, worship and glory, left heaven and the rights and privileges of the Triune Godhead, emptied Himself and became a servant, that by His obedience to the Father, we might be filled up with the wonders of His unmerited favor, His amazing grace, for every need we might ever have and to become whole and complete as God made us to be.
He was born to know hatred – that we might know love. Despised, rejected, betrayed by those He came to, He endured it all that we might know the true, unconditional, self-sacrificing love of God.
He was born of no reputation – that we might be adopted by God the Father. Jesus, adopted by His earthly father, with an earthly lineage of prostitutes, murderers, liars and adulterers, makes the way for us, with similar lineage, to be adopted by our perfect Heavenly Father and to have reconciliation with God and a new family line.
He was born to a virgin – that we might experience a miraculous rebirth. A miraculous birth on earth – fully God and fully man -- so that you and I might hear Him say to us, “You must be born again, of the Spirit of God, so that you can become a new creation – no longer a slave to sin, now free to become all God created you to be.
He was rejected – that we might be accepted. Jesus, born of an unmarried teenage virgin who was rejected herself for an act of God upon her life when she became pregnant by the Holy Spirit with Jesus, gives us a picture of the rejection Jesus Himself would face for the work and purpose of God – all so that we might be forgiven of our sin and accepted by God.
He was born with a common name – that we might know Him as Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. He wasn’t the first man called Jesus, nor the last, but by coming to earth as a common man, Jesus took the transcendent God – the higher than all things, greater than all things, almighty, above all God – and enabled us to experience Him through His imminence – Emmanuel, God with us – when He came in human flesh. He gave evidence that God is involved in the nitty gritty details of our lives, the dirt, the commonplace, the daily situations of census, tax-collecting, oppression, abuse, rejection and difficulty of our lives. He enables us to know Him in our need and find our resources in Him.
He was born to fulfill prophecy – that we might believe God. You’d think the birth of God’s Son would be publicized or announced by God in every place to every person, and especially to everyone of prominence and significance, on the face of the globe … but, no, this most momentous birth in history, which would affect every life ever lived, was announced by almost forgotten prophecies, a silent star in the sky and a choir of angels seen only by a few shepherds – society outcasts – people considered dishonest, often of lower character. Those prophecies and God’s faithfulness in sending His promised Messiah enable us to place our faith in a God who keeps His Word and is true to His character.
He was born into chaos – that we might know peace. Jesus, the Prince of Peace, and the only One through Whom there’s freedom from oppression and victory over evil, was born into a chaotic cultural setting at a time of great oppression for the Jewish people. His peace doesn’t start with an end to all oppression and all wars and by altering man’s outer behavior for a short time. It starts by changing the heart and character of a man, resulting in lasting change of behavior for all eternity.
He was born at an appointed time – that we might escape the bonds of time and live with Him for eternity. God does nothing haphazardly … there is an appointed time for everything … for each and every circumstance on earth. Jesus came at God’s appointed time that we might one day no longer be bound by age and health and finite things, but that we might live eternally with God with new bodies in a world that surpasses anything we can ever imagine.
He was born to be the payment for our sin – that we might be purchased and set free. Whereas the birth of babies are generally celebrated on earth with no thought of a later death, Jesus’ birth was planned from eternity past as the necessary preliminary event for the main purpose of His life – His death on the cross for the sins of mankind. At His birth, He was heralded as the Savior, the Deliverer, the Redeemer of His people, titles He received because He was to die in our place.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Article published in Mia Magazine
I was very fortunate and blessed to have an article I wrote published in Mia Magazine, a magazine out of Oklahoma. I wrote the article years ago about my sisters, Kirsta, Kylla and Kendis and after my sister Kylla met with the editor and told her about me, I submitted a couple pieces, including this one, to them. They liked this story and asked to publish it. The article begins on pages 26 and 27 and continues on page 32.
Below is a link to their site where you can read the electronic version of the article. It is entitled, "The Noise of My Sisters."
http://www.miamagazine.net/readmia
Below is a link to their site where you can read the electronic version of the article. It is entitled, "The Noise of My Sisters."
http://www.miamagazine.net/readmia
Friday, October 8, 2010
My article is where?
So funny - I was "googling" some of the articles I've written and landed on this site...http://www.jobsinghana.com/resources/?view=3935&more=102 which had an article I wrote for Demand Studios about how to make a counter offer. It's crazy where stuff shows up!!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Wrapping it all up...
I've been pretty absent lately because I've been frantically working on finishing up my novel so I could submit it the contest I told you about previously. I am thrilled to say I finished it last night and will spend the next week doing last minute edits before I send it off. Having all the tournaments leading up to the US Open on ESPN has been extremely helpful, not to mention my extraordinary husband who allowed me, on more than one occasion, to lock myself in my room, put my headphones on, and just write for hours on end.
Now that I've finished, I have to start work on the second book in the series. I'm excited to see where this takes me!
Now that I've finished, I have to start work on the second book in the series. I'm excited to see where this takes me!
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Chapter from my tennis book
I've mentioned I'm in the middle of a novel about an aging professional tennis player. I thought I'd post a chapter so you can see what I'm working on. This is chapter one, the start of my book.
CHAPTER 1
“Out!”
The call rang clearly in my ears, crushing my dreams of winning the U.S. Open while dismantling the thin fragments of what remained of my pride. My opponent dropped to her knees across the net from me, arms raised in the air, the tears already coming from her tired, brown eyes. She’d beaten me. Again. In fact, she’d beaten me the last six times we’d met – on all different surfaces: grass, hard court, clay. It probably could have been water and she still would have beaten me. Okay, suck your pride up and walk to the net to shake her hand. Hurry up and get off your knees, Nina. I’m not going to stand here all day.
“Nice match,” I say as she finally makes it to the net, tennis racquet in hand.
“You, too,” she says with all sincerity, pumping my hand as if water were going to come out of it any minute. “It really has been an honor, Karen. I can’t believe this happened.”
I smirk and head for my chair after quickly shaking the umpire’s hand, to gather my bag and racquets and wait impatiently for the awards ceremony to begin. I can hear the crowd going wild, cheering as if Nina were their all-time favorite player, just as they did for me, six years ago when I won this title and the three other majors, becoming the third woman in history to win all four grand slams in one year. Just as they did for the four years after that when I took home the championship title at this tournament.
I suppose I should be happy to have even made it to the finals at my age. Not that I’m old, really. Twenty-six. Except that my opponent is 16. My glory days are over, so my agent keeps telling me. Now is my time to just play the tournaments, make it as far as I can, keep earning some decent money and in a couple of years, when I’ve fallen so far in the rankings that people can’t even remember me, I can retire from the world of tennis. The world my life has been made up of since I was old enough to pick up a racquet. The world of my dreams and my experiences. The world I can’t imagine not being a part of.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said over the microphone interrupting my gloomy thoughts. The crowd started to quiet and Nina and I rose to our feet to head over to the makeshift podium that had been quickly constructed. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the brusque voice of former pro tennis player – turned sports commentator, Dan Sadler again spoke into the microphone. “What a tennis match!” The crowd went wild, again cheering what really had not been that extraordinary of a match, with screams of “We love you, Nina!” and “You’ll get her next time, Karen!” ringing through the air.
Nina and I reacted as we were supposed to, with acknowledgement to the crowd and a small wave to let them know we heard them and loved them back. Dan went through his speech, extolling our magnificent match and getting more applause from the crowd. Then came the part I hated, especially after losing a match.
“Karen, come on over here,” he said into the microphone while reaching out his thick forearm to rest on my shoulder.” I smiled and stepped closer to him. The crowd was quiet in anticipation of the what happened? questions we were about to hear. “Karen, you are undoubtedly one of the greatest tennis players of all time,” Dan began and the crowd erupted with cheers and approval. “We’ve watched you playing matches on the pro circuit since you were 16. What’s it like after all this time to watch an up – and – coming young player like Nina defeat you in this tournament which has been your most winning surface?”
“Well, Dan,” I began, feeling the heat rising on the back of my neck, “Nina played really tough tennis today. She is a great, young player with a great future ahead of her.” Oh, and it felt fantastic to be decimated by a girl 10 years younger than me in front of all these people. I hate these questions.
“You were up 5-2 in the second set and it looked like you might close the set out,” he continued. “You had a couple of double-faults and then it looked like your game sort of fell apart for a couple of points.” He thrust the microphone near my mouth like he had actually asked a question I was supposed to respond to.
“Yeah, I, well, I,” I stuttered. “It seems I lost my focus for a moment in the match. Nina was able to keep hers and so she closed out the match before I could regain my momentum.” Oh, hurry up, you moron. You’d think that you, of all people, would know what it’s like to answer these questions after the loss of a grand slam final!
“One last question, Karen…”
Make it painless, Dan.
“You came into this tournament playing the kind of tennis that we saw from you six years ago when you won this tournament for the first time. The kind of tennis that, frankly, we haven’t seen from you in almost a year.” My heart sank further into my chest. “You were the favorite going into the match. How do you feel now?” Well, I just love losing, Dan! Don’t you? You jerk! What kind of a question is this?
“Well, obviously I don’t like losing. I mean, who does?” I forced a smile. “I don’t dwell on the losses in my career. I try to dwell on the good points, the good matches and continue to improve from there. Tonight was Nina’s night. Nina’s match.” I paused long enough to look over at Nina and give her a sincere smile. “And congratulations to Nina on her first U.S. Open win.” I stepped back, obviously making everyone aware that I was through with the interview.
The crowd applauded, a little more zealously than they should have, probably feeling sorry for me after Dan’s insipid line of questioning. I stood there, half listening to Dan extolling Nina and asking her question after question about her incredible forehand and her deadly serve and half figuring out exactly how long this would continue so I could get back to my hotel room.
The next half hour drudged on with me only going through the motions, picking up my trophy and my $800,000 check for being the runner up and chatting briefly with Jimmy, my coach, who promised to call me tomorrow morning. After following security guards through the maze of the compound and finally making it to the car that would take me back to the hotel, I collapsed in the back seat and exhaled loudly.
“Rough night, Miss Keeler?” I looked up toward the driver of my car and gave a forced smile, one that I’d become so good at giving.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Glad it’s over, though.” I started rifling through my tennis bag for my ipod, hoping he’d get the hint that I was not interested in talking tonight. He didn’t say another word until we arrived at the hotel.
“Good night, Miss Keeler,” he said as I closed the door. I didn’t even try to respond. I managed to sneak into the hotel through the back entry the manager had allowed me access to and up to my room without anyone pestering me for an autograph. I collapsed on my back on the bed as soon as I had closed the door and had placed the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside handle. Every muscle in my body ached – sheer fatigue had replaced the adrenaline that had pushed me through the match less than an hour ago. As I was debating whether I should take a shower or eat first, the phone rang. I seriously thought about ignoring it but I knew who it was and he would just keep calling if I didn’t answer. I rolled over onto my stomach and reached for the phone.
“Hello,” I said wearily.
“It was your second serve, you know,” a voice almost sang through the phone. “We gotta work on that second serve, Ace and you’ll be back on top in no time.”
“Hi, Dad,” I said loving the sound of his voice even after a long day.
“Hi, sweetheart. Rough night?”
“Yeah, well, you know,” I started but couldn’t even think of any words worthy of completing the sentence.
“You coming home tomorrow?” he asked with hope in his voice.
“Yeah,” I said closing my eyes, enjoying the quietness of the room.
“All right,” he said. “You better go get in that shower and wash off today. Tomorrow you’ll get a whole new start.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I love you, Ace.”
“I know. I love you, too.”
“Goodnight.”
“Night, Dad.”
I hung up the phone and smiled. Dad always knew how to make me feel better, even if it just meant calling to say he loved me. I decided on a bath instead and ordered room service so I wouldn’t have to leave the hotel room. As I sat alone on my bed later that night, watching Nina’s perky brown ponytail bob up and down as she destroyed me on replay after replay of the championship match, I suddenly felt old and tired.
When had I gone from being that perky little teenager able to crush any opponent on the other side of the net to a twenty-six year old has-been who hadn’t won a major in over a year and a half? The tears came before I knew they were even there; an emotion I had suppressed for years not wanting to show any cracks in my impenetrable exterior that was all confidence and assurance. I didn’t try to stop them; I just let them flow over me as I sat in my bath robe on the heavy peach hotel comforter.
CHAPTER 1
“Out!”
The call rang clearly in my ears, crushing my dreams of winning the U.S. Open while dismantling the thin fragments of what remained of my pride. My opponent dropped to her knees across the net from me, arms raised in the air, the tears already coming from her tired, brown eyes. She’d beaten me. Again. In fact, she’d beaten me the last six times we’d met – on all different surfaces: grass, hard court, clay. It probably could have been water and she still would have beaten me. Okay, suck your pride up and walk to the net to shake her hand. Hurry up and get off your knees, Nina. I’m not going to stand here all day.
“Nice match,” I say as she finally makes it to the net, tennis racquet in hand.
“You, too,” she says with all sincerity, pumping my hand as if water were going to come out of it any minute. “It really has been an honor, Karen. I can’t believe this happened.”
I smirk and head for my chair after quickly shaking the umpire’s hand, to gather my bag and racquets and wait impatiently for the awards ceremony to begin. I can hear the crowd going wild, cheering as if Nina were their all-time favorite player, just as they did for me, six years ago when I won this title and the three other majors, becoming the third woman in history to win all four grand slams in one year. Just as they did for the four years after that when I took home the championship title at this tournament.
I suppose I should be happy to have even made it to the finals at my age. Not that I’m old, really. Twenty-six. Except that my opponent is 16. My glory days are over, so my agent keeps telling me. Now is my time to just play the tournaments, make it as far as I can, keep earning some decent money and in a couple of years, when I’ve fallen so far in the rankings that people can’t even remember me, I can retire from the world of tennis. The world my life has been made up of since I was old enough to pick up a racquet. The world of my dreams and my experiences. The world I can’t imagine not being a part of.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said over the microphone interrupting my gloomy thoughts. The crowd started to quiet and Nina and I rose to our feet to head over to the makeshift podium that had been quickly constructed. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the brusque voice of former pro tennis player – turned sports commentator, Dan Sadler again spoke into the microphone. “What a tennis match!” The crowd went wild, again cheering what really had not been that extraordinary of a match, with screams of “We love you, Nina!” and “You’ll get her next time, Karen!” ringing through the air.
Nina and I reacted as we were supposed to, with acknowledgement to the crowd and a small wave to let them know we heard them and loved them back. Dan went through his speech, extolling our magnificent match and getting more applause from the crowd. Then came the part I hated, especially after losing a match.
“Karen, come on over here,” he said into the microphone while reaching out his thick forearm to rest on my shoulder.” I smiled and stepped closer to him. The crowd was quiet in anticipation of the what happened? questions we were about to hear. “Karen, you are undoubtedly one of the greatest tennis players of all time,” Dan began and the crowd erupted with cheers and approval. “We’ve watched you playing matches on the pro circuit since you were 16. What’s it like after all this time to watch an up – and – coming young player like Nina defeat you in this tournament which has been your most winning surface?”
“Well, Dan,” I began, feeling the heat rising on the back of my neck, “Nina played really tough tennis today. She is a great, young player with a great future ahead of her.” Oh, and it felt fantastic to be decimated by a girl 10 years younger than me in front of all these people. I hate these questions.
“You were up 5-2 in the second set and it looked like you might close the set out,” he continued. “You had a couple of double-faults and then it looked like your game sort of fell apart for a couple of points.” He thrust the microphone near my mouth like he had actually asked a question I was supposed to respond to.
“Yeah, I, well, I,” I stuttered. “It seems I lost my focus for a moment in the match. Nina was able to keep hers and so she closed out the match before I could regain my momentum.” Oh, hurry up, you moron. You’d think that you, of all people, would know what it’s like to answer these questions after the loss of a grand slam final!
“One last question, Karen…”
Make it painless, Dan.
“You came into this tournament playing the kind of tennis that we saw from you six years ago when you won this tournament for the first time. The kind of tennis that, frankly, we haven’t seen from you in almost a year.” My heart sank further into my chest. “You were the favorite going into the match. How do you feel now?” Well, I just love losing, Dan! Don’t you? You jerk! What kind of a question is this?
“Well, obviously I don’t like losing. I mean, who does?” I forced a smile. “I don’t dwell on the losses in my career. I try to dwell on the good points, the good matches and continue to improve from there. Tonight was Nina’s night. Nina’s match.” I paused long enough to look over at Nina and give her a sincere smile. “And congratulations to Nina on her first U.S. Open win.” I stepped back, obviously making everyone aware that I was through with the interview.
The crowd applauded, a little more zealously than they should have, probably feeling sorry for me after Dan’s insipid line of questioning. I stood there, half listening to Dan extolling Nina and asking her question after question about her incredible forehand and her deadly serve and half figuring out exactly how long this would continue so I could get back to my hotel room.
The next half hour drudged on with me only going through the motions, picking up my trophy and my $800,000 check for being the runner up and chatting briefly with Jimmy, my coach, who promised to call me tomorrow morning. After following security guards through the maze of the compound and finally making it to the car that would take me back to the hotel, I collapsed in the back seat and exhaled loudly.
“Rough night, Miss Keeler?” I looked up toward the driver of my car and gave a forced smile, one that I’d become so good at giving.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Glad it’s over, though.” I started rifling through my tennis bag for my ipod, hoping he’d get the hint that I was not interested in talking tonight. He didn’t say another word until we arrived at the hotel.
“Good night, Miss Keeler,” he said as I closed the door. I didn’t even try to respond. I managed to sneak into the hotel through the back entry the manager had allowed me access to and up to my room without anyone pestering me for an autograph. I collapsed on my back on the bed as soon as I had closed the door and had placed the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside handle. Every muscle in my body ached – sheer fatigue had replaced the adrenaline that had pushed me through the match less than an hour ago. As I was debating whether I should take a shower or eat first, the phone rang. I seriously thought about ignoring it but I knew who it was and he would just keep calling if I didn’t answer. I rolled over onto my stomach and reached for the phone.
“Hello,” I said wearily.
“It was your second serve, you know,” a voice almost sang through the phone. “We gotta work on that second serve, Ace and you’ll be back on top in no time.”
“Hi, Dad,” I said loving the sound of his voice even after a long day.
“Hi, sweetheart. Rough night?”
“Yeah, well, you know,” I started but couldn’t even think of any words worthy of completing the sentence.
“You coming home tomorrow?” he asked with hope in his voice.
“Yeah,” I said closing my eyes, enjoying the quietness of the room.
“All right,” he said. “You better go get in that shower and wash off today. Tomorrow you’ll get a whole new start.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I love you, Ace.”
“I know. I love you, too.”
“Goodnight.”
“Night, Dad.”
I hung up the phone and smiled. Dad always knew how to make me feel better, even if it just meant calling to say he loved me. I decided on a bath instead and ordered room service so I wouldn’t have to leave the hotel room. As I sat alone on my bed later that night, watching Nina’s perky brown ponytail bob up and down as she destroyed me on replay after replay of the championship match, I suddenly felt old and tired.
When had I gone from being that perky little teenager able to crush any opponent on the other side of the net to a twenty-six year old has-been who hadn’t won a major in over a year and a half? The tears came before I knew they were even there; an emotion I had suppressed for years not wanting to show any cracks in my impenetrable exterior that was all confidence and assurance. I didn’t try to stop them; I just let them flow over me as I sat in my bath robe on the heavy peach hotel comforter.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Writing weekend
This weekend is crunch time for me. The tennis novel I'm working on is moving a little slower than I'd like. I'm hoping to turn it into Operation First Novel, a contest for unpublished authors held by the Christian Writer's Guild. The contest deadline is October 1. All novels must be between 75,000 - 100,000 words. I'm only at 40,000 and it's August in two days!! So this weekend, I am fully dedicated to the task of writing and my goal is to get at least 30,000 words written so I can spend August finishing the last 5,000-10,000 words and give September entirely over to editing.
I'll let a couple of writer friends leave you with a few thoughts about my task at hand:
"The story I am writing exists, written in absolutely perfect fashion, some place, in the air. All I must do is find it, and copy it." ~Jules Renard, "Diary," February 1895
"When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen. But if you have not a pen, I suppose you must scratch any way you can." ~Samuel Lover, Handy Andy, 1842
"I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions." ~James Michener
"I love being a writer. What I can't stand is the paperwork." ~Peter De Vries
"Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead." ~Gene Fowler
"Being an author is like being in charge of your own personal insane asylum." ~Graycie Harmon
And finally, a few of my own words about this love of writing:
“Compulsion”
Picking up the metaphorical pen, my mind
racing with character quirks, a man with
brown hair and yellowed teeth, a child who
barks every time it rains, a woman afraid
of snails. Each face like a stained glass
window, colored and magnificent in my head
straining and pulling to get down on paper,
to walk the road I’ve imagined, to impart
the wisdom I’ve birthed, to flounder in the
fool’s mistakes I’ve done myself. Throbbing
forehead weaves the plot, a twisted maze
unraveling on paper, muddied more than
I wish for but the red pen will soon fly, crossing
out and chasing words, compressing my winded
declarations to pithy paragraphs quickly read
but not quickly forgotten, I hope. Comedy
edges his bony elbows in adding pointed lines
of shimmery prose, laughing at himself along
the way while turning up his nose at his little
sister Sentiment who wryly laces her affectations
in, scarcely seen or heard, but felt like a pin
pricking deep into the finger, quickly going to
the mouth to soften the pain. Compelled to go
on when my eyes say stop, genres calling
to be tried on, like overalls, quick on, quick
off. Compulsion should be synonymous with
writing.
I'll let a couple of writer friends leave you with a few thoughts about my task at hand:
"The story I am writing exists, written in absolutely perfect fashion, some place, in the air. All I must do is find it, and copy it." ~Jules Renard, "Diary," February 1895
"When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen. But if you have not a pen, I suppose you must scratch any way you can." ~Samuel Lover, Handy Andy, 1842
"I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions." ~James Michener
"I love being a writer. What I can't stand is the paperwork." ~Peter De Vries
"Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead." ~Gene Fowler
"Being an author is like being in charge of your own personal insane asylum." ~Graycie Harmon
And finally, a few of my own words about this love of writing:
“Compulsion”
Picking up the metaphorical pen, my mind
racing with character quirks, a man with
brown hair and yellowed teeth, a child who
barks every time it rains, a woman afraid
of snails. Each face like a stained glass
window, colored and magnificent in my head
straining and pulling to get down on paper,
to walk the road I’ve imagined, to impart
the wisdom I’ve birthed, to flounder in the
fool’s mistakes I’ve done myself. Throbbing
forehead weaves the plot, a twisted maze
unraveling on paper, muddied more than
I wish for but the red pen will soon fly, crossing
out and chasing words, compressing my winded
declarations to pithy paragraphs quickly read
but not quickly forgotten, I hope. Comedy
edges his bony elbows in adding pointed lines
of shimmery prose, laughing at himself along
the way while turning up his nose at his little
sister Sentiment who wryly laces her affectations
in, scarcely seen or heard, but felt like a pin
pricking deep into the finger, quickly going to
the mouth to soften the pain. Compelled to go
on when my eyes say stop, genres calling
to be tried on, like overalls, quick on, quick
off. Compulsion should be synonymous with
writing.
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