AARRRGGGHHH! Here I am again, after a LONG hiatus which included a trip to Paraguay and a host of other things which I won't bore you by listing here.

So I'm back to cogitating on this whole subject of writing, which becomes increasingly complex as I gain understanding through my connection with Jerry Jenkins Writers Guild. It has been wonderfully informative, but at the same time, rather disheartening. Jerry strongly discourages all of us "blooming authors" for the most part to avoid self-publishing. He says good writing is the key to getting published by traditional publishing companies. Then, of course, one has to build a platform or a tribe (gain followers), get shorter articles published first in magazines or other people's blogs, and build up one's own blog with a host of followers. I say, "Good luck with THAT." OK, I'm supposed to focus on ONE thing first, so I guess I'll do that with this feeble, futile, fumbling attempt at blogging. No, scratch all that! Gotta stay positive.

By the way, I'm still plugging away at my memoir, which might have the title, "The Crystal Bell of God's Protection" or something like that. I'll keep everyone posted...

Here's another one of my journal entries from long ago (from the date, I probably was the new mother of Baby Danny):

1974

"Lord, here I am in this cluttered room called 'daily life'—so many busy, though good things to do and in the midst of it all, a door—the entrance into your Presence. There you are, waiting for me, but the door is small and in the clutter, I pass by, always thinking 'I’ll go in' but continually distracted by the duties in this room. Beyond the door there is Peace, Quiet, Rest, Communion with You—just by turning the knob, opening the door, and entering. I can close it again on everything else, and just experience the  blessedness of an hour with you. There’s no need to ask you to help me enter—the door is there. All I need to do is open it. You’re waiting for me.

You are asking for an obedient heart—give me that kind of heart, Lord. I can’t promise you obedience if you don’t do it. I can’t live a life of faith if you don’t plant faith within me; I place absolutely no confidence in myself. It is only your grace that will bring me through. Increase that spark until I become a white-hot flame that can’t be quenched. Draw me above the realm of enjoying your blessings, to the place of enjoying YOU.

Lord, your promise is like a great mountain before me. Yet every time I climb the next hill I find there are yet more hills between me and the mountain. Someday I will reach it, in your time and way. There are no short-cuts. You are taking me from faith to faith—the hills yet to be climbed."

Forty plus years later, it's still true. If anything, there are more distractions than ever. Now, no longer a mommy of a tiny baby, I'm a grandma. Still needing to open that door. He always waits...

Maintaining a blog is the next challenge!

Maintaining a meaningful, engaging, powerful blog is my latest challenge. It's been several weeks since I last posted something (only had 5 readers on that one!) I thought the tag lines were good, but apparently not too many others thought so! :(

I’ve finally figured out the problem: I’m “full-time everything” – a full-time wife, housekeeper, grandma, piano teacher, volunteer for our mission organization, and wannabe author. There are not enough hours in the day and I’m stuck with the 15 or so waking hours I have.

Anyway, moving to another topic, I've been reading over past journals, going all the way back to the 70s. Many of the entries are drivel, but there have been some significant communications I've had with God--usually during moments of crisis, discouragement, or pain. And sometimes I demonstrate a down-right bad attitude.

Here's an interesting one:

Nov. 12, ‘84

At end of rope again – manifested rebellion towards the Lord—threw Bible against wall. Was dumb-struck at what I had just done. Resulted in deep breaking and repentance. The Lord spoke (I even sensed Him smiling): “I’m not surprised.” Long conversation with Him, brought rest and inner healing. I was drawn to Psalm 13 NIV

For the director of music. A psalm of David.

1 How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?
    How long will you hide your face from me?
2 How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
    and day after day have sorrow in my heart?
    How long will my enemy triumph over me?

3 Look on me and answer, Lord my God.
    Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death,
4 and my enemy will say, “I have overcome him,”
    and my foes will rejoice when I fall.

5 But I trust in your unfailing love;
    my heart rejoices in your salvation.
6 I will sing the Lord’s praise,
    for he has been good to me.

I'm glad the Lord isn't shocked by my attitudes. He still loves me, forgives me, and is ALWAYS good to me. Sometimes He has to let me see the stuff that’s buried deep down. It isn’t pretty, but being brought to the surface allows Him to deal with it.

The bottom line is that I can trust in His unfailing love and rejoice in His salvation.

Servant of All

Good Friday, a day when evil set itself to conquer, but instead, the Ultimate Triumph of all history was set in motion. A day of suffering, darkness, and horror--Jesus' followers thought it was the end. Instead it was just the Beginning.

Here's how I imagined that last gathering of our Lord with his floundering, failing, fumbling friends:

Smoking oil lamps created flickering shadows on the walls, and the very air in the room seemed dark and brooding. The men’s faces looked older in the dusky light, their increasingly somber mood making their features more pronounced. 

The evening had started out well enough, with friendly sort of conversation and banter among them, as the disciples took their places around the table. Yet, each of them got quieter as they noticed Jesus, sitting at the head of the table, His face pale, eyes looking down at His hands clasped in front of Him. Was He ill? They had never known Him to be sick, but something seemed amiss. No one wanted to ask Jesus what was wrong, and thus, one by one they fell silent. Casual conversation felt awkward, ill-timed.

A servant came in and set out the Passover meal in front of Jesus—a flat circle of unleavened bread, an unadorned wood flagon of wine.

Suddenly, instead of beginning the Passover ritual, Jesus stood resolutely to His feet and went to the corner, where a washbasin stood, removing his outer garment as he went.  There was something vulnerable in His appearance as He carried the basin back to the table. Stooping, their Sovereign Lord, King of all kings—began to wash their feet, the lowly task of a slave.

 His strong, muscular arms glistened with drops of water; his tanned, callous hands were capable, yet gentle, as He knelt before them by turn.

Each man seemed to react differently to Jesus' actions: The first bowed his head, tears beginning to flow; one turned pale and put his hands over his face; others looked embarrassed, awkward, humbled; Judas seemed annoyed—his face flushed red.  John leaned forward, and putting his arms around Jesus' neck and shoulders, wept against Jesus chest. 

Peter— bold, brash, outspoken Peter—shrank back in aversion. "You shall never wash my feet!" He seemed to always want to outguess, outsmart, outdo anyone else, even Christ his Messiah. 

"If I don't wash you, you won't have anything to do with me." Jesus was very blunt in his response. Unless Peter could accept this simple act of humility—the Highest King washing the dusty feet of his friends—he could not move to the next level of relationship. "Then wash ALL of me!" Peter blurted out.

Jesus went on to describe the "trap" he had set for them. "I have set for you an example that you should do as I have done for you." If He, as Supreme Creator God could wash their feet, His servants could do no less than serve each other.

I wonder if it occurred to any of the disciples to step in and take Jesus’ place as foot-washer, washing each other’s feet. What would have happened if one of them offered to wash Jesus’ own feet?

They didn’t seem to GET IT right then. Somewhere, in the backs of their minds was this lingering fixation that Jesus would soon take His earthly throne, throw out the Romans, and THEY, His humble, yet worthy followers would have immediate positions of importance. Foot-washing didn’t fit into the picture they held firmly in their minds: Jesus, seated on a royal throne, the davidic kingdom restored; his faithful friends lolling on splendidly elegant cushions nearby, ready to participate in messianic decision-making, while slaves served refreshments on silver trays. If they played their cards right and manipulated people and circumstances, they could rise to the top of the heap.

These men that Jesus had chosen—for reasons known only to Him—had even engaged in an argument at the Last Supper table over who would be the greatest—perhaps Prime Minister or Grand Vizier?  Maybe Viceroy? Certainly an Ambassadorship would be fitting; or how about Assistant-Messiah?

It’s not difficult to imagine Jesus rolling His eyes and sighing as He explained that this was not the Kingdom way. “He, who would be great among you, let him be servant of all. Didn’t you boys pay attention when I washed your feet?”

Jesus saw into the looming future. After His death and resurrection He would send the Holy Spirit to guide His disciples and those countless ones who would follow Him, down through the centuries—into all truth. Without His Spirit to indwell, enable, impart into, and anoint them, they were—and we are— incapable and unwilling to grasp these concepts He was trying to teach.

The Messiah could also foresee the persecution and martyrdom that awaited a number of these His friends. They would learn. The Holy Spirit would come. And servant-hood and humility would be acquired through the fires of testing.

Like the old song, “If you want to be great in God’s Kingdom, learn to be the servant of all…”

There is no other way.

A Goodly Heritage

I've been thinking a great deal about what kind of heritage I'll leave behind (not that I'm planning on "popping off"--to quote my Grandma Cole--any time soon.) We attended a funeral recently for an 89 year old lady, who left a great heritage for her family. In the remarks made by family members, they all acknowledged she "wasn't perfect" but loved the Lord and loved her family.

Genesis 18:19, the Lord said in regards to Abraham: "Indeed, I've made myself known to him in order that he may encourage his sons and his household that is born after him to keep the way of the LORD, and to do what is right and just, so that the LORD may bring about for Abraham what he has promised." 

Abraham was not perfect, either, but he "encouraged his household to keep the way of the Lord" by his own obedience and faithfulness.This was the heritage he left for his family and for all of us down through history.

My own dad and mom set the bar high. They lived in private what they preached publicly--modeling in their own lives what they taught us by principle and precept. Seeing Mom reading the Word, hearing Dad pray, observing them put God and others first; themselves and their own needs last, had a lasting impact on us.

The following quote is the end of Chapter One of my memoir, after the episode of my illness: "Though there would be countless battles ahead, Dad and Mom had weathered a major crisis, this testing by fire in which the enemy attacked them at their most vulnerable place.  By God’s grace they came through, undeterred from their call. The kingdom of darkness in Indonesia and beyond would be shaken by their sacrificial obedience and faithfulness."

I would like that to be the heritage I leave for my own family: simple obedience to the Lord and faithfulness in everything I put my hand to. In spite of my fumbling failures, by His grace, I will.

Writing a Memoir Is Hard!

I've discovered that writing a personal memoir is exceedingly difficult. Does one catalogue the sequence of events, or pick out the most important? How can one create dialogue and drama in historical circumstances from 50-plus years ago? Is it possible to re-imagine the emotional settings and memories? Will anyone want to read this?

The advice that Jerry Jenkins gave me when I asked him about writing a memoir was: 

"Good memoirs are not hard to sell, Connie. Look for the transferable, universal principles; leave out the boring parts; grab the reader by the throat from the first line and never let go; write what would keep you reading and hope there are thousands like you out there."

So here's the continuation of the previous section of the memoir. I hope it "keeps you reading!"

...In their [my parents] own words, “In a daze we made little Connie ready.  She was quite lively and smiled as sweet as ever—like a little doll in her white dress with a touch of blue. She almost looked ready for heaven to us and it truly seemed as though we were taking her to her funeral as we went to that hospital.  Sensing something was wrong, Connie kept hugging her sister Cathy, as though this comforted her somehow.”

As the word spread through the mission headquarters, many people rallied to pray, both of the missionary group as well as nationals.  Mom and Dad, on their way to the hospital by taxi with me, were in a state of shock, disbelief and numbness. 

“The hours felt like years were compressed into them and time seemed to stand still,” Jack wrote later.  They were still dazed as the doctors examined me again.  Jack and Marian could read the verdict in their faces and the terrible reality began to sink in.  Their own little baby had polio! This fearful, deforming, often fatal disease had been the scourge of the decade.  Every parent of the 1940s knew the symptoms well, as millions, mostly children, had fallen victim to this world-wide epidemic."

...To be continued. I hope.

Zero Degrees?? You've Got to Be Kidding!

This weekend is ridiculously cold here in Western NY (zero degrees, mean temp, tomorrow -- and I mean MEAN.) So, I will stay inside, cuddled in my electric fleece throw ($20 at Walmart--should have bought one years ago) and work on my authorship endeavors.

One of the points Jerry Jenkins has strongly made is the need for Ferocious Self-Editing. This basically involves shredding your manuscript, using it to start your fireplace and going into another line of work, like a Caller at Bingo or something. Not really. He took some poor, benighted soul's first page of a novel and reworked it down from 150 words to some 50. It definitely was enlightening and helpful. One has to be thick-skinned and tenacious to be a writer. Learn proper grammar and punctuation, for heaven's sake (do people on F.B. ever self-edit their postings?)

So here's another snippet from my rough-draft of memoir:

It was all in the category of normal missionary adjustments, with its ups and downs, frustrations, and adventure. Then May 18, 1947 dawned—the muggy, tropical heat already rising in waves—and with it, an encroaching event by which life was measured before and after. Dad and Mom were up, preparing for the day, which mostly involved language study at this point. Neither of them had any premonitions of what was about to take place…

Plucking me, a toddler of 19 months, out of the crib, Mom lovingly began dressing me, but noticed I looked pale and feverish. As she put on my shoes, I winced, as if the action hurt me somehow. Then she set me on the floor and I fell, cutting my tongue badly. Mom noticed right away that my feet and legs didn’t seem to support me. Dad had seen me fall also and they looked at each other with fear mounting in their hearts. What could possibly be wrong with their baby? Dad tried to appear confident but quietly checked the reference for polio in their medical encyclopedia. The clammy hand of dread clutched even tighter as he confirmed the symptoms.

A doctor came and after checking my reflexes, chest, and back, he told them that all indications pointed to polio. He said they must immediately take me to the Catholic hospital in Makassar, where there was a Chinese pediatric specialist.

....to be continued. Maybe.

I'm Supposed to Blog Again!?

Well, after a very long hiatus, I'm back, trying out this blogging thing again. The main reason being that I've joined Jerry Jenkins Writers Guild (which is GREAT, by the way!) and he encourages all of us "wannabe authors" to get our feet wet by blogging, getting published in magazines, periodicals, etc. One of the principal motives as to why I quit long ago was because it seems to be very difficult to build up "followers." But, I'm not going to whine about that -- yet. I'll give it another whirl and see what happens first.

As a way of explanation: I am working on my own memoir--(do I hear quickly departing footsteps as you immediately think of something quite urgent that is calling you away?)

The title will be something like, "The Crystal Bell of God's Protection" and tells mainly the story of how I had polio as a small child and the long road God has brought me along to where I am today.

Here is a short excerpt:

 “In a daze we made little Connie ready.  She was quite lively and smiled as sweet as ever—like a little doll in her white dress with a touch of blue. She almost looked ready for heaven to us and it truly seemed as though we were taking her to her funeral as we went to that hospital…”

Very early in my life God provided a Crystal Bell for me, in His sovereign omniscience, knowing what would be needed to protect and keep me for my planned destiny. I was only a toddler but my heavenly Father could see clearly through the mists of time which shrouded the future. I would not be able to understand this until later."   

So, there you have it -- the first two paragraphs of Chapter One. Stay tuned for more...I hope.