RSS

Tag Archives: inspiration

Skinny flowers

17 Jan

I could never work as a gossip columnist or a hard news reporter. I’m too sensitive. I don’t like offending anyone, intentionally or not. I’m also hesitant about dropping names, especially when I know all the interviews I’ve ever had, all the celebrities I’ve ever met, are gifts from God, not rewards. I didn’t earn them.

During the last year I have taken my relationship with God to a different level. I don’t think we can ever reach an ultimate level of intimacy with our Creator. The more we seek, the more He reveals about Himself and about ourselves. Honesty is the key. We can’t lie to God. He knows what we think, how we feel whether we confess it or not. Confession frees us.

I have had a rough year. I have retreated. But I’ve learned when we’ve had more than our minds can take in, we need a quiet place to reflect and to be still. That’s where I’ve been. And in my quiet place, God has not forsaken me. He has sent me flowers, skinny flowers.

“Skinny flowers” is actually a phrase from a song by Three Crosses, my all-time contemporary Christian band. And yes, God came through on that one too and gave me an opportunity to write a story about this bluesy rock band for a national music magazine.

I never dreamed I’d talk to the members, but God is good like that, giving me the desires of my heart. One of my favorite songs is about a band member’s daughter who picks skinny flowers for her daddy, little bouquets of love.

I liked the album so much that I bought one for one of my best friends who had a little girl of her own. Rhonda played the “skinny flowers” song almost every time they were in the car, and little Emily, who is now a freshman in college, could sing every word.

The irony is God recently picked a very special skinny flower for me, one that makes me say, “Wow. Who would have though God was planning this all along?”  Of course, we never know what God has in mind, how He can make anything work for our good.

The little girl in that song, April, is now a beautiful young lady and recording artist with a voice like an angel, and my son Josh just shot  a music video for her yesterday. I never would have dreamed it. What a sweet gift!

I’ve seen parts of the video. It’s beautiful. I’m not at liberty to post anything else, but I can tell you I’ve heard her singing the song at least a hundred times this weekend via video, and every time I have had to stop what I’m doing to listen. The song is a cover tune, but I refuse to listen to the original. April makes me believe the song, makes me live the song.

Who would have thought that God would use the little girl who picked skinny flowers to help heal my grief?

The truth is during my retreat into the wilderness, God has not abandoned me. He has sent me several flowers, all in the form of special people who have changed my life and who have helped me heal.

I don’t know what’s next in life. Everything is changing—and some of these changes are good, exciting. I can’t help but think of the Martin Luther King, Jr. quote: “Faith is taking the first step even when you don’t see the whole staircase.”

I don’t know what will happen next. I do know how I feel. I suppose I’ll just keep climbing in faith. They say never look down when you’re moving to higher places.

Despite my flaws and fears, despite life’s circumstances, I haven’t abandoned God. He hasn’t abandoned me, and the skinny flowers he sends are constant reminders He has a plan. He makes things work out. He knows our hearts. He knows the truth.

So whatever it is that God has me doing, I want to be a skinny flower (quite literally, I’ll admit. I’ve been living the Weight Watchers life, and it’s working!) But more importantly I want to be a flower in someone’s bouquet, a reminder of God’s love. I don’t want to be a rose. Roses have thorns.

I think I’d like to be a rare wild flower like the ones that grow on the May Prairie. We had a few of them to pop up on our land when we lived in Asbury, and they dazzled me with their beauty. I never knew their real names. They were like nothing I’d ever seen.

I think I’m like a wild flower because I’m not typical. I think God places me in the bouquets of people who do don’t conventional very well.

I want my life to have purpose, to have meaning. I don’t care about material riches. I just want my life to be rich, so I invest in people, and so far, thanks to the lovely bouquets God has sent me during these dark days, I’d say I’m blessed beyond measure.

 
7 Comments

Posted by on January 17, 2012 in Encouragement

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Last Duck March of 2011

03 Jan

I spent New Year’s Eve alone in downtown Memphis watching five ducks parade down a red carpet. Before you feel sorry for me, let me reassure you I had other options. I could have gone with the guys and watched Vandy take on Cincinnati in the Liberty Bowl.

Me and football? Nah. I don’t like football.

I didn’t want to ruin the game for them. Plus, I like alone time. I like thinking my own thoughts, and Memphis possesses just the right ambience for writing.

I had no transportation, a little money, and a notebook. I was set. I found a safe spot at the foot of W.C. Handy’s statue in the park and let my stream of consciousness form words on the page. I would have made William Faulkner mighty proud.

I made the trip to Memphis to rediscover myself. Amidst my recent tragedy, I misplaced my goals, my dreams, my desires. But in Memphis they began to trinkle back, one by one as I listened to music drift in and out of one doorway then another.

The blues has a way of cutting to the core and making people move. You have to do something when you hear the blues. You just can’t be. You have to be something. I searched for what I was.

The first word that came to mind was crazy. My friends warned me not to go alone. They said I’d end up getting mugged or worse.

Nonsense. But a quick scan of a vendor’s wares reminded me how naïve I can be. For five bucks I could buy  a rhinestone Glock belt buckle. If I were in the wrong place at the wrong time, say just a couple streets over behind the Fed Ex, I could buy the farm.

I wasn’t afraid, but I wasn’t stupid either. I set my radar on high alert.

The wind picked up and rustled my pages. It was too chilly to stay outside much longer. I figured I might as well do a little shopping (loosely translated looking), so I headed to the Peabody Hotel to check out the boutiques, terribly expensive but free to browse.

Somehow I found myself in the lobby, awaiting the grand event of the day—The Last Duck March of 2011.

I had heard of the Peabody Ducks, but I never took time to watch them. As the story goes, after sipping a little too much Jack Daniels, General Manager Frank Schutt let loose three live decoys in the hotel fountain. The guests fell in love with the ducks. A former Ringling Bros. animal trainer took the official position of Duckmaster and trained the ducks to walk the red carpet from their pent house abode to the marble fountain and back each day. Thus, a tradition was born.

I am a writer who searches for metaphor, another level of meaning, both in literature and in life. For some reason, The Last Duck March of 2011 stuck with me. It had to mean “something” more than just a one-time event. Where’s the serendipity in that?

So I did a little research to unearth any symbolism associated with ducks. Because ducks can run, swim, or fly to elude their enemies, they are considered resourceful. Celtic legends also depict ducks as symbols of simplicity, honesty, and sensitivity. J.D. Salinger’s Catch in the Rye relies on ducks to convey a message of the motion of life.

But what about me?

Why did I spend an hour at the Peabody Hotel, notebook in hand, waiting, waiting, waiting to watch five ducks waddle down a red carpet to an elevator door?

Oh, it was a grand to-do, mind you. I snagged optimum seating, a red chair in front of the entourage. Children and adults lined the red carpet. Everyone toyed with their cameras, checking the flashes, waiting for the special moment.

The truth is I really didn’t care about the ducks. It was something to do. I watched. They waddled. I left.

It was getting late, so I made my way to Starbucks to finish my writing with the help of a grande three-pump, nonfat, half-caf, no whip mocha. Not that I’m picky or anything.

As I waited for my drink, I cast my eyes on a small table for two. But before I could sit down, some guy staked it out by setting his backpack in one of the chairs. I took a bar seat by the window. It was just as well. I could watch the carriages roll by. I looked over my shoulder. It figured the guy would be a writer. He gripped a pen and scribbled words in his notebook.

Inspired, I took out my notebook and wrote my own words in a frenzy, page after page. Then three street kids walked in. If I had to guess they lived behind the Fed Ex Forum, which is directly across from Starbucks. If I traveled a few streets over in that direction, I bet I could find a real Glock, not like the one with Rhinestone bling on the vendor’s table.

The funny thing was I knew these kids.

These were the kids I had written about in my first manuscript and the incomplete sequel. I watched them out of the corner of my eye. Unbelievable. The characters I created were so real to me I recognized them when I saw them on the street.

That’s when it hit me, and I almost said it aloud. “I have got to get my ducks in a row.”

My metaphor.

The year 2011 was very difficult for me, but 2012 doesn’t have to be, despite what people have predicted. I can choose to make the best of my situation, and if 2012 does turn bad, at least I will have spent my days living instead of hiding.

So if I have one resolution for 2012, it’s to get my “ducks in a row.”

I will polish my manuscript and send it to the agents and editors who have requested it. I will finish my sequel and plan out my other two story ideas that await being written. I will on my lyrics and take a chance on a few dreams.

I have to get my ducks in a row.

What’s your metaphor for 2012?

 
9 Comments

Posted by on January 3, 2012 in Encouragement

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Falling backwards

30 Aug

Once an English teacher, always an English teacher…I guess. I live my life in metaphors. I’ve reached the point in which I can’t think in simple terms. Lessons learned come to me in imagery, painted on my heart, my mind, my soul.

What lesson have I learned lately? Life is hard.

And on those days when I just feel as though Igive way to the stress weighing me down, I imagine myself falling backwards, hoping that there will be somebody there to catch me because I can’t catch myself anymore.

I love my two sons with a tenacity that no other mother’s love could match. Son Number One is off at college learning how to live life “on his own.” In just one week of apartment living, his building has caught fire,
and his car has a flat tire. Ah, college life.

Son Number Two has grown another inch in the last week, or so it seems. He almost looked me eye to eye tonight. Our noses almost touched. He’s my baby, and the thought of my little imp growing up leaves me heart broken. I can’t compete for his attention anymore. He has discovered girls and cell phones. Life will never be the same.

I was looking through some old pictures and found my younger son’s snow angel picture from last year’s “blizzard.” It made me think. Wouldn’t it be great during our times of trouble if we could just fall backwards and know one of God’s angels was there to catch us?

Today I had a check up at the doctor. He was a little concerned about the stressors in my life, and his advice was for me to let people take care of me for a while. I couldn’t help but think of my snow angel. Maybe God has his own “snow angels” on earth to catch people when they’re about to fall.

The truth is I have had many, many people taking care of me—my walking friends at the park and at school; my students, both former and present, who surprise me with cards and gifts and balloons; my closest friends who let me share a little bit of the “imperfect” real me; and my family, who literally keep me going day to day. I can’t sufficiently express my gratitude.

I miss writing. But it’s difficult for a wounded heart to let go and fall backwards into a pool of imagination and dreams. A couple of Sundays ago I awoke with the idea for a novel from start to finish. I believe the idea was a gift from God, just a little incentive to remind me there’s something there waiting on me when I feel like writing again. He’s waiting to catch me too.

Sometimes we just need to rest to heal. And sometimes the best prescription for a wounded heart is the presence of a trusted friend.

 
14 Comments

Posted by on August 30, 2011 in Encouragement

 

Tags: , , , , , ,

For my mom

09 May

Mother’s Day will have passed by the time I finish writing this, but I’ve spent all day trying to come up with the right words.

I write a lot about my dad’s side of the family. I know a lot about them, but my mother was an extremely private person who never said much about herself. The week before she died, she hinted that some of her people may have been moonshiners. I don’t know if it’s true, but it makes for a good story. My mom liked a good story.

She was one of nine children, the oldest girl, and spent most of her life taking care of other people. I know she was proud of her siblings. She talked quite a bit about her twin brothers. Being the oldest, she probably had to keep them in line, and from what she said, they were a handful. She said she remembered them riding their tricycles in the house in the middle of the night.

She and her brothers and sisters attended a small one-room school near Shady Grove. The twins tormented the poor teacher by throwing firecrackers in the potbelly stove. Just as the teacher prepared to stoke the fire, the firecrackers exploded and just about scared her to death. They boys escaped punishment by climbing out the window.

My mom was never that mischievous although I remember her telling me stories about the Bell Witch. My maiden name is Bell, and those stores were passed down through the other side of my family. My greatest fear was that Old Kate, another name for the Bell Witch, would visit me at night and yank the covers off my bed as she had done to poor Betsy Bell. Old Kate also had a habit of knocking on the walls. My bedroom was on the other side of my parents’, and sometimes after telling me a story about the Bell Witch, my mom would knock on the wall and then giggle. I usually ended up sleeping between them that night.

When she and my dad were dating, my dad’s younger brother went along with them and sat in the backseat. It was my mom’s idea to put him out of the car at the graveyard and make him walk home by himself.

At least I know where my mischief comes from.

My mother was overly cautious and fearful to the point of making me fearful of just about everything. But that was just her way. She knew all about spider bites and worm bites and bee stings and a myriad other things. All of my aunts and uncles on my dad’s side of the family used to call her up for advice about everything. She knew everything. She really did.

Her strongest advice to me ever was, “Actions speak louder than words.” She was right. People may say one thing, but you can always tell a lot about people’s character and true motivations by what they do. Now that I’m older that advice means so much more to me.

My mom was smart. She never went to college, but she could fix anything. She could make anything work. She understood how anything worked.

And she was super neat. After I was born, she never worked outside the home, but she never let up a bit working at keeping her house in top-notch order. She hung every item in the closet perfectly straight with the hangers a uniform distance from each other. Her refrigerator was spotless, and so were her floors.

When she packed my lunches for field trips, she wrapped my sandwiches in wax paper and then wrapped them again in aluminum foil, folded to perfection. The bag was so heavy with goodies—she didn’t want me to go hungry—that it almost overflowed.

Everything she did was to perfection—and beyond.

I guess that’s why I’m a perfectionist. But I’m working on loosening up. (I still like things organized and neat and clean. I get distressed when they’re not.)

Above all, I’ve always wanted to make my mom proud. I think I did. She kept a scrapbook of all my awards and accomplishments from grade school up, my perfect attendance certificates, newspaper clippings from the math contests I attended, my softball pictures and trophies, and all the things I’ve had published, especially my Chicken Soup for the Soul story. I think she liked that one the best. She always supported my writing.

I hope I made her proud.

Happy Mother’s Day.

 
12 Comments

Posted by on May 9, 2011 in Encouragement, Just for Fun

 

Tags: , , , ,

Living on The Edge

09 Mar

On Monday, March 7, I boarded a school bus with 18 teenagers, and we traveled to the Tennessee High School Press Association annual awards program in Nashville, Tennessee, to await our verdict. Did the tears, the late nights, the fights, the stress, the frustration, the dedication—did the love pay off?

When Dr. Jimmy McCollum announced The Edge newspaper as the Best Overall Newspaper in the state, an All-Tennessee newspaper, we had our answer. YES!

Whether you’ve been following my blog for several months or a few days, you’ve probably discovered that when it comes to the truth, I wear my heart on my sleeve. I weave my feelings between the lines of my poetry and my prose. I write with passion from my heart because I can’t not write that way.

I am who I am.

And once again, I can’t hold back. If it weren’t for The Edge newspaper  staff, I never would have found my courage to write a novel.

People say the first novel is for yourself. Chances aren’t necessarily favorable that it’ll ever be published. Why? Because the writer is still learning, still riding the wave of passion that fuels the dream. Experienced writers, published writers, tell us newbies that it takes, maybe, five manuscripts before the writer is “ready” for the market.

I don’t know if and when The Edge will sell. I don’t know if an agent or an editor will buy my dream. What I do know is I know that “feeling” I get when I write with fire. Something good happens. I write it real. I write it true. I carried that “feeling” through every moment of writing The Edge.

Emily Dickinson once wrote a poem that began with this line: “Tell all the truth but tell it slant.”

Her wording is thought provoking, intriguing, but unlike Emily I can’t tell it slant—not when it comes to telling the story of The Edge journalists.  I have to tell it the way it is, the way I see it every day. To tell it slant would be to tell the story of strangers, not the young people who have molded my life.

My book is all fiction, and every word of it is true. The names have changed to protect the innocent, and the events may not have happened the way they’re written. But it’s true.

People say truth is stranger than fiction. And a novel must be believable “to sell.” I don’t know if anyone else will “get it,” but maybe this book isn’t for just anyone. Maybe it’s just for those kids who seek the adrenaline rush of a deadline, the thrill of adventure, the heart tickle that comes when the words come together just right, and the pride of seeing your first byline.

Even if The Edge isn’t a smash success, maybe someday, one of my kids will stumble upon my manuscript and remember those days, that day when the words that he or she wrote made a real difference in someone else’s life.

They’ve made a difference in mine.

Congratulations Edge staff.

TEN TIPS ON HOW TO BECOME AN ALL-TENNESSEE NEWSPAPER

A good reporter always remembers her shades. Incognito is the word.

Caffeine and deadlines go hand in hand.

A fedora boosts one's creativity.

If anyone asks, just say you're from Memphis.

Mexican food is an instant cure for writer's block.

Sometimes you just don't ask why.

Wear your heart on your sleeve, your name on your back.

Don't be afraid to put on your game face.

Don't be afraid to challenge one another.

Love what you do and the people you work with.

And what does the Lord require of you?

Act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.

 
10 Comments

Posted by on March 9, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , ,

Angry muse

09 Jan

Tonight I sat down with my laptop and guitar and tried to write a song.

Couldn’t do it.

An angry muse came along and cursed my creativity and sent it slumbering—seems like it’s been a hundred years. The page is still blank, and the guitar sits in its stand.

There’s a craft to songwriting. Keeping the syllable count. Painting the picture. Conveying the emotion. Marrying the right lyrics to the right music. I know all this. I’ve listened. I’ve learned. I know what to do.

But I’m just not able to open the vault to let “it” out.  Whatever “it” is.

Sports columnist Walter Wellesley “Red” Smith once said this about writing: “There’s nothing to writing.  All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.”

Songwriters? I envy you. You don’t just open a vein. You open your soul.

I’m used to writing about other people. I ask the questions. They tell me the answers. I find their hearts and empty them on the page. Nobody cares what I think. Nobody cares what I feel. It’s somebody else’s story.

And when I write a chapter for my novel? It’s not me who’s doing the talking—it’s my characters.

But songwriters? In three minutes, you reveal something about yourselves through layers of your songs. The song may not be about you—but it’s a part of you.

Ever heard of urban explorers?

Urban explorers explore the off-limit parts of urban areas or industrial sites. Some people call it “building hacking” or “urban caving.” I call it cool. Those in the legal realm generally call it trespassing. Probably not a good idea to go urban exploring without permission.

Some of the coolest of the cool places I’d love to visit are the catacombs and transit tunnels under large cities. A lot of these, however, are blocked off, and people can’t get to them without a risk.

Songwriters are a lot like urban explorers. They venture beneath the surface. They find a way through when the passage is blocked, and they take a risk.

Kudos to you, my incredibly talented songwriting friends.

I think I’ll call it a night and get some sleep. But if you find the right words, wake me up.

 
6 Comments

Posted by on January 9, 2011 in Just for Fun

 

Tags: , , , ,

Memphis mojo

27 Aug

“The use of traveling is to regulate imagination by reality, and instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are.”   Samuel Johnson

Maybe it was three years ago when I took my newspaper staff on a writing adventure, a change of scenery. We took our notepads and writing utensils to an outdoor spot where no other students, staff and faculty were around, and we sat. And we listened. And we wrote.

My goal was for my students to listen to nature and to listen to their own imaginations so that they could find the story that lay dormant within their minds. I never imagined that I would be the one to benefit most from the excursion. Sitting there in the quiet of the outdoors on the bleachers in front of a ball field, I came up with an idea for a story that refused to go away.

As I sat on the bleachers in the silence, I watched my students drift away on their on journeys, and then my own thoughts flooded my mind. What if a couple of teens snuck out to the ball field behind their school to find a quiet place to write? What if they saw a couple of teachers sneaking out too? What if the students caught the teachers doing something that was clearly against school rules? What if what they were doing was so bad that it was a crime?

I didn’t actually write that story, but I did write a story about a couple of student journalists who witnessed their peers and their teachers take part in activities leading up to the deaths of three of their classmates. Actually, when I first made up my mind to seriously pursue my heart’s desire, I had two other stories in mind as well. I even started one of them, but the YA story wouldn’t go away. It latched onto my heart.

When I knew that I could not NOT write my YA story, I decided to learn as much as I could about my characters. The main character, TJ, grew up in Memphis, probably my favorite place to escape, so I went to Memphis and followed TJ’s tracks wherever they led. I’ve been to Memphis quite a few times, but I wanted to see Memphis with fresh eyes, my character’s eyes.

I started with Beale Street and headed straight for the soul food, Blues City Café and then Miss Polly’s. I go to both on a regular basis, but I’ll never forget my first visit to Miss Polly’s. I have sweet memories of greens, catfish and Joe Walsh. No, he wasn’t there.

If he were, I probably would have written a totally different story—from within my cell. I’m sure I would have stalked him the rest of the trip. Joe was playing on some West Coast stage, and I watched him on a little TV as I sat at my table that paid homage to one of the blues greats. But my laid-back experience allowed my mind to wander so that my story could develop.

During my journey I met an old man at Memphis Music, who had the warmest smile I’ve ever seen. I could have talked to him for hours. Then I stepped outside and put a few dollars in the tip bucket after watching the Beale Street Flippers do their thing.

The sun had set, and the moon had risen. I ventured into Tater Red’s, probably the scariest store in all of downtown. I don’t think I would ever buy anything there because I believe you can take the “bad” with you, but I saw what I needed to see.

Picture mojo and voodoo and then mix it with the crossroads and Robert Johnson. You see where I’m going. There’s a lot of other gimmicky, crass items in there as well, but I can’t help but wonder if evil truly lurks behind the voodoo shrine in the back of the store. I may never know, but should I write a sequel, perhaps TJ will return to his roots and tell us all.

I couldn’t miss hanging out at the Pepsi Pavilion to check out the band, and the later it got, the louder the women sang. Not the band, mind you. I’m talking about the older “girls” who had partaken in their own spirits—and I’m not talking about the ones at Tater Red’s. I wouldn’t have minded staying there until the band members packed up their equipment, but it was getting late.

I had to get back to my hotel, but before I left I took a carriage ride with a driver from Austria. He didn’t have a dog. Most of the other drivers do, but he had a cool accent and shared lots of cool stories about his life and about the history of Memphis. I could have ridden in one of the lighted carriages shaped like pumpkins, but I chose to save it for another trip. (Yes, I did go back and try out the pumpkin. How could a romantic like me give up the chance to play Cinderella?)

I haven’t taken my current students on a writing journey this year. But maybe I should do that as soon as possible. I can’t help but think of a quote by St. Augustine:

“The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page.”

It’s time for me and my students to set out on another adventure. Even if we only go a few steps beyond our classroom, there is no limit where our imaginations will take us.

 
2 Comments

Posted by on August 27, 2010 in Writing Tips

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

I was thinking Bob Marley

19 Jul

Okay, so it’s 2 a.m., and I’m still awake. Not tomorrow but the next day, I am expected to show up at my job at a “respectable” hour and resume my “normal” activities, and I suppose the powers that be will expect me to wear clothes. Not that I’m not wearing clothes right now. I do make a habit of wearing clothes. However, I suppose I will have to wear something somewhat professional. I’m not sure wearing shorts, flip flops and a Memphis tee is considered acceptable.

One of the reasons why I have been unable to sleep is because I HAD to finish the book The Heart’s Journey Home by Jen Stephens. If you’re looking for a great read with characters that you will welcome into your heart, then this is the book for you. The plot is well crafted with twists and turns that made me feel both angsty and satisfied.  I won’t give away too many details because I don’t want to spoil it for you, but let me whet your appetite.

Have you ever felt as though your faith has dwindled to almost nothing? Have you ever felt as though you are ABSOLUTELY SURE what God’s plan is for your life, only to discover that the plan you’ve been banking on isn’t God’s plan at all? Jen’s characters suffer these moments of doubt—and trust me, the book is built on a foundation of reality. If you aren’t already going through exactly what these characters are going through, you can probably relate to similar circumstances. What I really like about this book is the way the author gently weaves in Truth that speaks directly to the reader’s spirit. This book spoke to my spirit!

Being a rogue English teacher, I adore playing with words and literary elements. I like themes. I like quotes, and I like Biblical allusions. I have found that certain periods of my life rest on particular themes. The past few weeks I’ve been dealing with courage and stepping out in faith. Someone told me that if you don’t like your life, change it. So that’s what I’ve been doing, trying to overcome some fears and to improve my quality of living. In fact, I have done some pretty bold things in the past three weeks, things I would have never done during any other period of my life. (Trust me, all of these activities have a G rating. G as in God approved.) However, this week I have felt as though the plug has been pulled on all my enthusiasm. I’m not sure why.

I used to be a major American Idol fan. One of my all-time favorite “Idols” is Jason Castro. What can I say? His spirit and personality are so adorable. His dreadlocks are so adorable. And I personally really, really like his singing. During one performance, Jason apparently felt a surge of boldness and chose to sing an unconventional song, “I Shot the Sheriff” by Bob Marley. An indignant Simon Cowell blasted Jason on his choice of song. Speaking in his most pretentious voice, Simon asked Jason, “What were you thinking?”  Jason replied with his signature smile, “I was thinking Bob Marley.”

Good answer. Jason exercised his freedom to sing what he felt moved to sing. That’s how I’ve felt during the past few weeks. I’ve experienced the freedom to be myself. But looking back now at all the so-out-of character G-approved things I’ve done, I can only ask myself, “What were YOU thinking?” Honestly, I really was thinking Bob Marley.  The funny thing is I even have the tee shirt to prove it. On Saturday one of my newspaper students gave me a tie-dyed tee with the words “One Love” on the back.

One of the crazy, out of character things I’ve done recently is to write a book and start a blog and write about the book in the blog, not knowing what—if anything—will ever come about as the result of my efforts. I feel like Peter, who tried walking on the water. We know what happened to him. I can relate. Here’s the conversation I had with myself: “Dude, I think I want to write a book. I can write a book. I have faith. I’m just going to walk right on out there and write that book.” And I did! I went to Starbucks with my trusty laptop and settled into a corner, and with Bob Marley serenading me in the background, I wrote a book. Then I finished a book. And then I realized, “What am I going to do with this book?” I have no publishing house, no editor, no agent. And then, like Peter, I found myself standing out there on the water with no life jacket. Here’s a revelation. I can’t swim!

So I asked myself, “What were you thinking?”  I feel pretty sure that’s what Peter asked himself, but I don’t think his answer was “I was thinking Bob Marley.” But Pete and I share a similar problem in that both of us took our eyes off the source of our faith and ability—Jesus. There was NOTHING Peter could do to make himself stay upright. There’s nothing I can do to make this publishing dream float. This is a God thing. So there.

Have you taken a step of faith lately and are now asking yourself, “What were you thinking?”

I have a couple of suggestions that might help. One, find a copy of The Heart’s Journey Home. Read it. You may find answers woven within the pages. I did. Two, share your thoughts here. You may help others who are going through similar situations and you might reap some much needed prayer.

 
6 Comments

Posted by on July 19, 2010 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , ,

Passion with a side of guinea pig

14 Jul

Tomorrow marks the launch of the 2010-2011 Edge newspaper staff. We hold our first meeting. Whatever happens in that room tomorrow has the potential to set the tone for the rest of the year. I hope that the staff members who are able to make it to our first meeting will walk through the door with a passion, a drive, a fire to make this year the BEST, most adventurous year yet. Maybe you, whoever you are in this great big world, are just about to set out on your own personal journey. Your first step has the potential to set the tone for your entire journey and your destination. How will you begin?

I found a really cool quote, which is attributed to Howard Thurman. It goes like this:  “Don’t ask yourself what the world needs; ask yourself what makes you come alive.  And then go and do that.  Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” 

What I’m saying is, it’s time we come ALIVE no matter what we’re doing. God wants our best, so let’s rev up and do it! I believe to become alive, you must be willing to stand as though on a mountaintop with the wind hitting you full force in the face, absorbing the splendor of God’s abounding blessings all around. Too often we would rather stay down in the valley rather than put forth the effort and take the risk to make it to the top. Without the push, the drive, the desire, we miss out on what’s waiting for us at the top. Of course, we have to remember, too, the joy is in the journey, not just the destination.

I want to start out our newspaper journey with a fun first day, so I’ve asked the Edgers to indulge me in a bit of “show and tell.” So far my students have told me they’ve considered bringing a rather odd assortment of items to show where they’ve been all summer: lava rocks from Hawaii, a roast pig, refrigerator boxes, Bob Marley, the vuvuzela and a guinea pig, to name a few.

Let me just say this. I can handle just about any of those items except for the vuvuzela. In case you don’t know, the vuvuzela is a stadium horn, the same horn that makes that horrendous sound at soccer matches, such as what sounded nonstop during the World Cup. Heaven help us all. I am so glad Gabriel will sound his trumpet and not his vuvezela. Otherwise, I may be too fearful to respond. Yes, the vuvuzela terrifies me. Oh, I think I know who invented the vuvuzela. Oh, who could it be? Could it be…?  (Young people will have no idea what I am referencing here. It is just as well.)

The oddest item suggested was the guinea pig. I have one major fear, that my staff will confuse the guinea pig with the roast pig. I must remember not to bring any skewers or apples. If someone happens to bring the vuvuzela, I’d say the chances are pretty good we will have a potentially fatal rodent incident in the classroom. Hopefully, PETA will intervene.

Tomorrow is a new day, a new journey. Whatever it takes to make you COME ALIVE, bring it. For me, it’s music. When I wrote The Edge, I listened to quite a bit of music I considered theme music for the characters—so that I could feel what they were feeling.  When I wanted to see what they saw, I visited haunted grounds and Beale Street to make the book’s settings come alive. I drank lots of peppermint mochas because one of the main characters really digs peppermint mochas (as do I). I didn’t want to settle for mediocre. I wanted to climb to the top and experience every last detail. I wanted to feel alive.

Tomorrow you journey forth on a new adventure.  COME ALIVE!

 
12 Comments

Posted by on July 14, 2010 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , ,

I’m NOT saying you should stalk, but….

13 Jul

So, not to ruin your last days of summer, I just thought I’d break it to you gently. School starts in just a few weeks.  If you’re like me, you’ve got mixed emotions. I dread getting up early and going to bed early. I fear not being able to keep up with the new schedule. I tremble at the thought of having to work. Pushing aside those feelings, I know from personal experience that life is what you make it. A person can choose to be miserable—or not.  It’s all about attitude.

I care a lot about my journalism students and the way they handle their assignments. I’ve already had a few of them text me this summer about leads they have for future stories. Man, that excites me! The last thing an editor or adviser wants to hear is “I can’t think of anything to write.” I look at this way. When I’m armed with a pen and a reporter’s notepad, I have a license to slip in a new world with every assignment. And I’ve gotten to do some pretty fun things, especially when I was writing for several Christian music magazines. I’ve seen what it looks like from inside a mosh pit. I’ve attended posh *sniff, sniff* parties to celebrate celebrity achievements. I’ve eaten from the spread reserved for the media backstage at awards shows. I’ve had FUN on assignment.

If you like to write and you like adventure, then I’m sure that at least once you have experience the adrenaline rush that comes with being on assignment.

When I’m on assignment, I like going into stealth mode.  Again, there really is a certain rush that comes with it. Once I was in a HUGE crowd in downtown Nashville, and I needed to get to the stage to get photos. I’m 5”. I am not intimidating. I am also not a quitter. I HAD to get to the stage. I saw a Coca Cola man delivering his wares, and I fell right in step with him. He took me right up to the stage. Don’t ask me why a Coca Cola man would be pushing a cart in the middle of thousands. Call it serendipity. Well, you could call it a terrorist attempt. Hmmm. Back then the thought never crossed my mind.  Fortunately, I believe the man was just delivering Coke. The soda. The real thing.

On another occasion, I needed an interview with a California band. I couldn’t get through via the publicist, the manager, the A&R people. So I played private investigator. I tracked down the drummer’s MOTHER and sent her a box of Goo Goo candy bars from Tennessee. She set up the interview for me. How cool is that?

So you’re going back to school, back to all those nouns and verbs and formulas and theorems and historical facts and biological details and definitions and….Am I depressing  you? I’ll stop now. The point is I urge you to make whatever you are doing an adventure.

Before I taught high school, I taught a couple of English classes at MTSU. Yeah, I know that was a long time ago. I wanted my students to feel the spirit of adventure that comes with writing. Thus, I asked them to people watch and write a detailed descriptive paper. Wouldn’t that be fun? Wouldn’t you like to go to the mall and just sit and watch? Well, my student took the assignment a little too far, and for a week he STALKED a girl he secretly admired. I am very fortunate to say neither of us was arrested. But don’t you know he had a good time until I told him that he could go to jail! (I am not, I repeat, NOT encouraging stalking.)

I’m simply saying you can choose to be miserable—or not. Check your attitude. Everything you do is an assignment—maybe some of these mundane assignments are even divine appointments from God.

How will you handle it?

What is the craziest thing you’ve ever done to complete an assignment for school, newspaper or otherwise? Tell us about it.

 
16 Comments

Posted by on July 13, 2010 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , , ,

← Older posts
 
Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 100 other followers