Rachel Allord

The 12 blogs of Christmas #7: Ponder

(This is a re-post. *First Ponder was written shortly after the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting in Connecticut in Dec. of 2012)

Today is a snow day. A perfect day to ponder and lately, I’ve been pondering what it means to ponder….

But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. (Luke 2:19)

Mary did not endure packed Wal-Mart aisles. She wasn’t in charge of baking the Christmas ham, didn’t stress over gingerbread cookies or family coming over or finding last minute stocking stuffers. She wasn’t hunting down the scotch tape or waiting in line at the post office, or figuring out what to wear or what dish to bring to what party.

Mary was pregnant. And she was a virgin. Which made her prime suspect for public and private ridicule, slander, and jokes. We believe her now—at least I do—about the virgin birth thing, but not many believed her then. Not many understood what she was going through, what she’d been called to, what carrying this baby meant for them. For her. For the world. No doubt she was misunderstood. Assumed crazy? At the very least she must have gone through some kind of identity crisis to be the center of such scandal, one that could result in her being stoned to death. She didn’t have to buy any presents but she did ride on a donkey for miles and miles, bumping along with an aching low back. She did do Lamaze breathing (even though she didn’t know it would one day be called Lamaze breathing) on a contaminated barn floor. She did deliver her child without the comfort of her mother or the wisdom of a midwife or the empathy of another woman. And she did have unexpected raggedy visitors show up, strangers, with animals in tow, to worship her baby. She did have to rise in the middle of the night when her husband nudged her and said they needed to leave. Now. She did have this insidious King bound and determined to murder her baby. She did know the world would never be the same.

She had much to ponder, much to turn over, quietly, reflectively. “Me, Lord? You chose me to be a part of this plan?” And what a surprising plan it was.

We don’t take the time to ponder, and we have much to ponder. Right now it feels like the whole nation is weeping,* and I know there’s much to debate, but I think we need to ponder first. Ponder things like… who are we, really, and what are we doing here? You know, nothing deep.

I’ve been pondering who we are not.

We are not walking accidents, the result of random chance and millions of years of soup. If we were, tragedies like what happened in Connecticut* wouldn’t pierce our hearts. If life were merely the result of chance, we wouldn’t all know, to the depths of our being, that killing the innocent is evil and wrong. If survival of the fittest ruled we wouldn’t, rightly so, call teachers who give their life for their students heroes. But we all agree that defending the innocent is good and right. Why?

Because someone put that in us.

Who are we? We are image bearers. The pinnacle of God’s creation. Beings with souls that outlive our bodies. Sojourners in the preface of our never-ending journey. But we—all of us—have really messed things up. Big time. So we stumbling along in a broken world and our remedy will not come from legislature. Don’t put words in my mouth—I’m not saying legislature can’t help, I am saying it can’t fix us. It can’t fix what’s broken to the core because before guns there were knifes and before knives, stones, and before stones, fists. We are broken to our core and our remedy does not come from ourselves, nor can it come from other people because they, too, are broken to their core. I know my own struggles and I know I needed someone to reach down and pull me out, and a rulebook can’t do that. I needed a God who is so full himself that not only does he claim he has truth, he claims that he is truth. A God so humble and selfless he came to be with us—stepped into our mess—in the meekest way possible.

I wonder if this is, in part, what Mary pondered. At any rate, this is what I’m pondering, treasuring up today, as the snow is coming down.

“Come now, let us reason together,” says the LORD. “Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool…”

The 12 Blogs of Christmas #6: little kicking kings

The Christmas story contains a villain and it isn’t Ebenezer Scrooge. Naturally, we focus on the angels, the extraordinary star, the sweet baby. But in the midst of all this lurks a villain: King Herod.

King Herod the… um… Great.

Or so he said. If he felt anyone was a threat to his power he had them slaughtered—including his wife, her mother, and several of his own sons. In fact, Augustus Caesar said it would be better to be Herod’s pig than his son! Ouch. King Herod the Paranoid Tyrant is more like it. He was all about control. Having it, exerting it, and holding on to it. Herod was a man of power, and he wanted to stay that way by any and all means necessary.

So why in the world would he feel threatened by a tiny newborn?

He’d heard about the prophecies concerning the birth of Christ, and this alarmed him. So when the scholarly astronomers from the east arrived (aka the Magi) and told Herod they’d been charting stars to find the newborn king of the Jews so they could worship Him, King Herod the Great Big Liar said, “Oh yeah, Me too!”

Fortunately these were wise guys. They found Jesus, presented gifts—not bottles or rattles or diapers or clothes or toys—but gifts truly befitting a king, and worshiped him. And then God warned them in a dream to get out of there. Don’t go back to Herod, just scoot, and take the long route home. Which, when he realized he’d been left in the dust, sent Herod off the deep end. How dare they? So he takes matters in his own hands and makes this manic, monstrous mandate: to kill every Jewish baby boy under the age of two. God warned Joseph in a dream as well: Get up! Take your family and go to Egypt! And so baby Jesus escaped.

This was no ordinary baby.

But did this newborn really pose such a threat? Yes and no. Not to Herod’s earthly kingship maybe, but to something greater: his soul.

Who will reign?

From time to time, we all have a little king herod within us who runs rampant screaming, “No! and Mine! And ME ME ME!” Ugly little brute. We all have control issues that manifest themselves in varying degrees and ways; we all want things our way. And we simply can’t stomp out that little beastly king on our own. Good news—that’s why Jesus came. Because we need help. We need saving, from ourselves.

Who will reign?

Surrendering to Jesus means surrendering control and that can sometimes seem impossible. (You want me to do what? You want me to go where? You want me to forgive who? You want me to love how?) Yes, blessing following but sometimes the blessing is a long time coming, and doesn’t always look how we expected.

The crazy irony is that surrender brings freedom. Attempting to manipulate a situation that is beyond our control leaves us feeling frustrated, anxious, and angry. When I open my hand and relinquish control (that I never had anyway) to the Lord, whose ways and thoughts are higher than my own, who loves me and wants what’s best for me, I find joy. I find peace. In the height of the child’s tantrum, sometimes the best thing a parent can do is wrap their arms around that little kicking brute and love them. Sometimes anger melts into genuine grief, or fear, in the arms of a loving parent.

Don’t let that little kicking king reign. Let the King of Kings step in and love you down to size, love you into quietness, love you into peace.

Christmas Paradox

Paradox enhances any story and the Christmas story is paradox at its best. Maybe unexpected is a better word, as in Who would have thunk it? or Say what?! Lots of people were waiting for the messiah but his entrance wasn’t like anything they were expecting.

A few Christmas surprises:

The glorious becomes an embryo. Remember Moses? Remember how in the Old Testament God gave him a glimpse of His Glory, but only a glimpse, because if Moses were to see all of God’s glory he would die? Well now all that glory is condensed and concealed in the most hidden of places—Mary’s womb. Vulnerable. Dependent. Entering the world, like everyone else on the face of the earth does. Inexhaustible glory encased in tiny human form. But that’s not all…

A virgin gets pregnant. In terms of the unexpected, we could stop right here. An ordinary girl (with extraordinary faith), engaged to an ordinary man, plucked from her ordinary life and dropped in the center of the glorious. Oh Mary, how your head must have been spinning as you yielded to the unexpected will of God for your life!

The shepherds get to spill the news. Of all people! The lowest on the Jewish ladder, a shepherd’s testimony didn’t even stand up in a court of law and yet they were the first to know. And, and, they got to be the ones to tell everyone. And see the baby… first! Unbelievable. Talk about the tables turning. The angels said the birth of Jesus is “good news that will bring great joy to all people.” The nobodies of society, the overlooked, entrusted with the best news ever. You bet they went back to their flocks rejoicing.

A King born in muck. Where there are animals there is manure. And stench. And filth. And flies. And no clean linens, no room service, no call nurse button. But there is a trough, and Joseph and Mary procure a swaddling cloth, and there is God’s presence, thick and rich and sustaining, and there are angels rejoicing like never before and slacked-jaw shepherds bowing down in utter adoration. Yes, it was a stable, but it was a holy stable.

And as Jesus grew, from infant to adolescent to man, the surprises continued. He came to do his Father’s will and, in doing so, said and did things that went against cultural norm and the expectations of the religious and, in doing so, he shook up everything.

Come thou long expected Jesus…

Yet we expect the unexpected. Because God never seems to do things just how we expect him to. Praise Him for that.

The 12 Blogs of Christmas #3: Light

I have found the hot spot in my house and I never want to leave. My loveseat is drenched in sunlight and I’m as warm as toast, even though it’s frightfully cold outside and the clouds zoom through the sky like boats on a lake. It is one of those rare and wonderful days where I don’t need to be anywhere for a few hours. I’ll grocery shop later. I’ll throw in a load of laundry later. Right now I’m all about basking in this light. I’m staying put. So is the dog it seems.

From this spot I’ve worked on my computer, done a little reading, made a phone call. How else can I justify sitting here all day? Fold laundry. Balance the checkbook. Write a blog. How much of my life can I live in this light? As the light inches across the room, I will move with it. I’ll scoot over the loveseat and disturb the dog just to follow the light. It’s so worth it.

Light warms, illuminates, shows us the way, and exposes everything. If there’s a “bad” thing about the light it’s this: it reveals every single smudge on my computer, every single dog hair (there are many) on my sweater, every dust fairy floating across the room. A dark house is a clean house. I once cleaned my whole house to ready for company but when the company arrived, late afternoon sunlight streamed through my glass front door, illuminating fingerprints and paw prints and your day-to-day grime. So much for clean.

The people who walk in darkness have seen a great light. Isaiah prophesied 700 years before Christ was born.

Because of God’s tender mercy the morning light from heaven is about to break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, and to guide us to the path of peace. Zechariah prophesied months before Christ was born.

Some didn’t recognize the light. Some didn’t understand the light. Some hated the light. King Herod tried to extinguish the light (when the light was just a baby) forever. But the light shone on. The light of the sun (son?) holds more power than us. Every parent who’s heard their child whine, “The sun is in my eyes!” from the backseat of the car knows this. “What do you want me to do, honey? Move the sun?”

“I am the light of the world.” Jesus said. “Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”

Light exposes the darkness of our souls, illuminates the path of our redemption—The Light Himself. And then we are called to stay there. In the light. Follow it around, pick up our chair or whatever it is we need to do and move our lives around to chase the light, to stay in the light, because there’s nothing better than living in the warmth and comfort and freedom of light. To be known and loved by the creator and to know and love the creator.

For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light. (Ephesians 5:8)

Linger, love, live in The Light.

The Twelve Blogs of Christmas: #2 Peace

I have lost the A in PEACE. The stockings are hung by the chimney in aggravation because my mantelpiece bears a typo:

P E C E.

So reads my stocking hangers. Rearranging them only renders further nonsense: CEEP. PEEC. ECEP. There isn’t much you can do without that A. I kind of need that A. Oh where oh where is that wayward A? Somewhere in my basement, no doubt, to be uncovered when I’m packing up the stockings.

Decoratively speaking, I have been robbed of my PEACE.

Peace is an illusive thing. Almost indefinable. Is peace the absence of war and conflict? But what if conflict or war leads to ultimate peace?

And He shall be called… Prince of Peace.

Thirty some years later the Prince of Peace said, “Do not think I came into the world to bring peace but the sword…” and went on to say how his coming will divide family and friends and nations.

Just when you think you can put him in a box….

We’ve all seen it, this tension, Christian or not, because The Prince of Peace says some pretty startling things: I AM the Way and the Truth and the Life. No one gets to God unless it’s through me. To some these words are life; to others, foolishness. Hence the tension.

Jesus is peace and promises peace, but it’s on his terms. 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) He says this right after he tells his followers he’s leaving for heaven. To get things ready for them. In the meantime he’ll be leaving them the counselor, the comforter (the Holy Spirit) and then, right after that, he says, Peace I leave you.

He’s leaving. He leaves us with the Holy Spirit. And peace. Hmmm…

A piece (no pun intended) of God living within us. To give us peace.

Maybe peace comes down to this: knowing who I am and who he is. More simply, He is God. I am not.

We may fight this tooth and nail but succumbing to this truth (whether for the first time or the hundredth time) allows us to take a big sigh of relief and ultimately brings peace.

Oh there will be storms. The Prince of Peace promised this. But he also promised he’d be with us, promised that the storms wouldn’t, couldn’t, drown out his immeasurable love. As his children, he promised us that when we ask for it, he’d give us a peace that makes no sense whatsoever given our circumstances. A peace that just may allow us take a little rest on a cushion while the waves crash across our tossed about boat, just like he once did .

Peace is not a life absent of storms. Peace is clinging to the life we have hidden in Christ amidst the storms. Clinging to the hope that even though there’s all this conflict and chaos and evil down here, he’s already conquered, and ultimately we will experience real, everlasting peace. Ahhh. Big sigh of relief.

I may not find the A this year. I didn’t think about what I was dong at the time, but in the middle of my PEACE, where the A ought to be, rests a little stone carving of the Prince of Peace himself. Jesus, the center of peace.

I want to keep Him there, but so many things (good things) seem to be shouting that they should take center stage of my peace:

Comfort. Security. Money. Health. Plans that go my way. People who act how I think they should act. The world behaving in a way that makes sense. (To me, of course. We all carry around an invisible The World According to ___ [insert your name] playbook.)

And then one by one these wobbly little legs fold and my so-called peace collapses like a card table.

Until I look again to the Prince of Peace, and center all the pieces around him.

The 12 Blogs of Christmas: #1 Yearning

When we long for something, when we hunger, we feel it in our gut. For kids, almost better than opening presents, is the anticipation of the presents. The yearning. The dreaming. Wondering. Hoping. Waiting, waiting, waiting… until…. finally.

Finally!

Before the finally, before Christmas day, I want to yearn. I want to be a star-gazer, a ragged shepherd turned herald, an innkeeper who has little to offer but offers it anyway.

Before we celebrate, let’s forget. Forget we know what happens in the story. Pretend, just for a moment, we don’t know anything about the baby in the straw. Baby? Why would there be a baby in the straw? Strange.

Let’s pretend we’re the Israelites, striving to uphold an impossible Law. Sacrificing our best animals to pay for all the bad, to make ourselves right with God. A holy God. A God who loves us, who’s lead us out of slavery, but a God who is so very different than us. A God who reveals himself in bursts of glory, to Moses, to Abraham, to a chosen few at chosen times. But probably not to us. We’re just regular people. Except we’re God’s chosen people so we wait and long and yearn …

When? How long? Where are you God? Do you see us? Do you remember us? Will you come for us? How will we ever reach you? Do you remember your promise to us?

Oh come oh come Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel!

If we don’t long, if we don’t seek, if we don’t search, if we don’t hunger, we may miss him. He might get buried under the wrapping paper, overshadowed by all the lights we string along our houses, forgotten among the credit card receipts and parties and baked hams and gingerbread houses and the season will pass by in a red and green blur and we’ll take down the tree and say, Huh. I didn’t see him. Where was he?

While night after night the stars above us shout out the story.

I don’t want to miss him. I want bathe in the beautiful irony of this season called Christmas. I want to momentarily forget what I know so I can remember to wonder. I want to yearn.

Join me if you’d like. Twenty days. Twelve Christmas blogs. One desire: to gasp in joy when we finally behold the baby in the straw.

Hand Over the Cheese and Don’t Look at the Bread

The best thing about Paris? For me? No doubt the Eifel tower is glorious, the cathedrals and architecture stunning, the history, artwork, literary gems– (I took a picture of Victor Hugo’s writing desk!) all amazing. But if I’m really being honest? The best thing about Paris?

The cheese.

I know. I’m a Wisconsin girl. I know cheese. But this cheese… how do I sum this up… I wanted to gobble it up, all of it, and I didn’t care about the digestive repercussions. Sheep cheese, goat cheese, cow cheese. All of it. When the dessert choice presented was Apple Tart Tatin or cheese, I took the cheese. (and snitched from dear husband’s plate.)

Rachel, our hostess, and the glorious cheese.

The bread came in at a close second. Glorious, golden, crusty on the outside, nooks and crannies on the inside yeasty mounds of wonder. Baguettes baked fresh that day. Flaky and multilayered pain au chocolat. One evening, our gracious hosts, Rich and Rachel, were hosting a dinner party for a group of Canadians that were helping with the construction of their new church. I insisted on a least bringing the bread: three baguettes.

After a full day of sightseeing, Doug and I found a boulangerie that was just pulling out fresh baguettes. Doug ordered in French and the baker handed me three piping hot, meter long loaves. We hadn’t really considered how’d we transport these beauties from the heart of Paris to R&R’s suburb, especially amidst the after-work hustle and bustle of the Metro. I strapped my backpack on front-ways, like an infant Snugli, and stuck the ends of the Baguettes that were wrapped in tissue paper inside, zipped the pack halfway, and cradled the feverish babies in the crook of my elbows. That’s what they become- my babies, as in we-have-to-get-these-babies-home as soon as possible. We hopped from train to train to train to get back to R&R’s and the stations were packed. The trains themselves, even more so. The kind or packed where you grip the metal pole with a dozen other hands. Where you’re are so pressed into the stranger next to you that making eye contact would be downright creepy. The kind of crowded were when the train stops at a station you can’t fathom how the people waiting are going to get on, especially when no one gets off. But somehow all the people squeeze in, pressing and pushing, and it gets stifling hot and no one smells very good and all I could think about was protecting the babies. (The Canadians were waiting!) I cradled them with my arms and inhaled their calming scent and telepathically told everyone Do Not Touch The Bread. Do not cough on the bread, do not even look at the bread. (In reality I’m sure nobody noticed or cared, but I had morphed into an ultra-protective mamma bear. A mamma bear of bread.) About twenty minutes later, we finally arrived at the final train station, where R&R would pick us up.

Protecting (and trying not to eat) the babies.

Except we didn’t arrive. Because we’d taken a wrong train. The triplets were growing cold and it was starting to drizzle and it was now past six, the time of the dinner party, and we really didn’t know how to get back. I tried to shield the babies from the rain as best as I could by holding my green sweater over them without letting it touch their golden skin while Doug called Rich. As we waited for Rich to graciously pick us up, we spotted a boulangerie, not a block away, with fresh, warm, dry baguettes waiting in the window. But these babies in my pack were the ones I’d committed to and I had to get them home. (The Canadians are waiting!)

That night around the table was warm and sweet, the food lovely, (did I mention the cheese?) the conversation rich. Paris has many wonderful sights, so many interesting things to see, but when it comes down to it, it’s the people around you that make it good. Hosts who serve with kindness and joy. Pleasing aromas wafting from a tiny kitchen. Rooms thick with love. Husbands who plan surprise adventures. Canadians who give of themselves to build a church. Because The City of Lights, Paris, while lovely, also feels dark. Cynical. Even oppressive at times. And breaking bread (and cheese) with folks who quickly move from stranger to acquaintance to friend in a home glowing with love, satisfies the soul. Country lines blur (among us we had French, American, Canadian, and Korean) and you get a teeny-tiny taste of that grand international feast yet to come, that big homecoming celebration that will be the end all be all of all celebrations. It was the love of Christ that drew a line from ours hearts to their hearts, and this, this sweet communion, just makes the bread and wine and cheese taste even better.

Grace for Insomnia

Falling asleep sounds like it should be a piece of cake. But if you’ve ever struggled with insomnia you know that it can be anything but. The word Insomnia even sounds scary… like tsunami or insanity or zombie, which kinda makes sense because having insomnia makes you feel like an insane zombie.

During the day, I can be quite focused (usually). Too focused, sometimes. Tunnel vision-ed, in other words. Not long ago, as I wheeled my cart out of the grocery store, I realized that I had not even made eye contact with my check out girl. Or was it a boy?

Rachel, this isn’t good, said The Quiet Voice I’ve come to recognize.

I agreed. I never intended to be rude or unfriendly, it’s just that my mind seems to naturally jump to the next thing, without registering that the next thing may be the person in front of me right now. So I made it to point to take in the world around me—which is really kind of funny because many would argue that the first rule of writing is to pay attention to the world around you and while I can and do pay attention to the world around me, sometimes it’s only when I want to, when it’ll serve my purpose, when it’s convenient for me. Let’s face it; it’s so much easier to be self-absorbed than others-absorbed.

So there I was one day, back at the grocery store—because that’s where I often live—when the check out guy smiled and asked, “What have you been up to today?” Not how are you—an easy question to deflect with fine—but what have you been up to today? A question that requires thought and engagement and a real answer. Not a mere yes or no. This happened almost a year ago, when my friend Lynn was dying, and I was really really tired and really really sad, too tired and sad to say anything but the raw truth.

“Actually,” I said, “I’ve been with my friend in the hospital who’s dying of cancer. But she’s going home to be with God.” And then I thought, what is wrong with me?! Too much! I’ve shared too much!

But this look passed over his face. “I’m sorry,” he said “I lost my dad to cancer a little over a year ago.”

Something in me crumpled like a piece of paper. “Your dad?” I said. “I’m sorry. That’s gotta be so hard.”

And now, every time I see this guy, who can’t be that much older than my son, I remember that he’s lost his dad. And if I wonder if he remembers our little, heartfelt exchange like I do.

Where was I going with this?
Oh yes. Insomnia.
And my astounding ability to focus. Right.

At times I sleep well and deep. For weeks, even. Melatonin has been my friend, Tylenol PM a lifesaver. But then…. something switches and suddenly resting my head against my pillow at night sends my brain into ADHD overdrive and my thoughts jump from finally landing on the perfect verb for whatever piece of writing I was working on that day to the not-so-brilliant like what every happen to Tony Tiger? Does he still do commercials? Or at times I realize that I’m terribly angry about something and I absolutely must examine “it” from every possible angle, play out all the scenarios, until dawn breaks and the whole thing seems a bit blown up. What was that all about? Why was I so angry? I can’t remember. I’m too tired to remember.

I’m telling you, darkness does something to our minds. Darkness was made for sleeping and when that doesn’t happen, watch out.

One sleepless nights a few weeks back (I was neither angry or anxious I don’t think, random thoughts were just bouncing around like ping-pong balls) after roaming the house a bit, I went back to bed to try to sleep and thought, I’m not going to worry about falling asleep, I’m just going to enjoy my nice soft bed because people all around the world don’t have such luxury and I’m going to be thankful…. And before I knew it, it was morning. I had slept! I haven’t stumbled upon a cure-all. This version of the Glad Game doesn’t work every time. Prayer doesn’t either—although there are nights I’m convinced that’s what I’m supposed to do. So I do, although I usually don’t want to, I really just want to fall asleep. But I pray and sometimes this leads to sleep and sometimes it doesn’t. Oh well. Either way God hears and His grace is sufficient.

And there’s the nugget I’ll clasp: Whether I sleep or don’t sleep, God’s grace is sufficient. He’s strong in my weakness. More of Him and less than me. When I’m empty, I run to Him.

So if you happen to be reading this in the lonely wee hours of night, when it feels like you’re the only living soul awake, know that you’re not. God doesn’t sleep, ever, and he sees you in your restlessness and longs to quiet you with his love.

The LORD your God is with you.
    He is mighty enough to save you.
He will take great delight in you.
    The quietness of his love will calm you down.
    He will sing with joy because of you.

Zephaniah 3:17

Village People

I’ve always kind of bristled at the phrase It takes a village to (fill in the blank) . But sometimes, it does. Before my novel was published I heard so many authors say something like “much of the work happens after the book is published because then you have to market…” and I’d stand there and smile with the phrase to market to market to buy a fat pig, running through my brain because the word market didn’t have much meaning.

Here’s how I define it, what I’ve whittled it down to, at least with books: There are lots of books out there and you want yours to stand out. So many books from all sorts of authors vying for attention—from traditional publishers, to small indie publishers (like mine) to self-published books—and this crazy little thing called marketing can all start feeling impossibly overwhelming. On the one hand, you have to let people know about your book! On the other hand, you don’t want to come across as obnoxious because no one likes it when anyone jumps up and down waving their hands saying, “Look at me look at me look at me!” But in essence, sort of, that’s what marketing is. Except quieter. More savvy and less obnoxious, hopefully. The key is, you want to meet a need. You want to provide a service. But fiction? You may ask. Does fiction really meet a need? Provide a service? Oh hold me back it does. A good story has the ability to provide connection, illumination, and self-reflection. It can teach, restore, encourage, challenge, and deliver hard to digest truths in easy to swallow pieces. Plus, beside all that, it entertains. And that is most definitely a service.

Good stories are told, (or written) and then shared. It does take a village to market (share) a book. In my marketing village, my husband is chief. I’d be nowhere without the chops of my media savvy, marketing husband who takes my half-baked ideas like, “I want the video to look all glowy” and makes it all work.

And I’m thankful for you, my readers, for reading and sharing. Thank you for being such a lovely village.

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It’s a Mess and I Like it That Way

No, I’m not talking about my closet.

I’m taking about my latest novel manuscript. I’m about 50k words into the first draft and I’ve created such a mess, I’m not sure how my characters are going to get out. Poor souls.

This is a good thing. Good stories are always messy. And writing them is even messier, especially in the chaos of the first draft, which is not only messy but sloppy (yes, there’s a difference) and relatively crappy—the defining characteristic of first drafts. But hey, there’s nowhere to go but up. You can’t fix what you haven’t written.

So. I’m smack dab in my self-inflicted fictional mess and I keep thinking of the last time I made Rice Krispie treats, years ago. (I think I’ve only made them twice in my life) Anyway, as I was attempting to press the gooey sticky stuff in the 9x 13 pan, I remember thinking, Why is this so messy? Why is this so hard? This is supposed to be easy! The recipe on the back of the cereal box says so. Three ingredients. No baking. Come on! I am pleased to report that I have since realized that cooking spray on a rubber spatula or wax paper is a beautiful thing but, at the time, in my ignorance, I was using my hands.

Messes—in writing, in the kitchen, in relationships, in life—are unavoidable. Yet they always take us by surprise. What? This?! Now?! This is life after all, on the messy, muddled, mixed-up side of heaven. Eventually, all will be tidied up and clear and set right. It just might take waaay longer than expected.

As for me, I need to get back to my characters. I can almost hear them screaming, Get me out of here!

Then again, I might leave them hanging for a while longer, let the mess thicken like pea soup. Because honestly, right now I’m still deciding which rope to throw them, which of them deserve a rope. And even though first drafts sometimes make me want to pound my head against my desk, I trust it will all work out. I guess I have to make it work out, in the end.

Eventually. We’ll get there. Right now I’m just going to embrace the mess.