Mercy Street is Moving

Well, not really. The street is still exactly where it has always been, right outside my front door. But, the virtual address of our life on Mercy Street as recorded in this blog is about to move. I'm thinking big here, folks. I'm perfectly convinced that the various folders representing my works-in-progress will one day be translated into actual books with hard covers, ISBN numbers, and shelf space at Barnes & Noble.

At that point, I'd like to reach a few people beyond this circle of the faithful few who already know and love me (thank you very much for that. Such friendship is better than a book contract. Really. I'm sure of it...) Anyway, when my books are actually perched upon those lovely bookstore shelves, I want new readers to be able to find their way to Mercy Street without too much trouble. I want them to join our conversations and to glean from the richness of our life experiences - the good, the bad, and the sometimes rather ugly.

In the meantime, I hope you faithful readers won't mind this little detour. Please make yourselves at home at the new address and let me know what you think. My extremely talented and tremendously patient son-in-law is taking time away from his Band to design the site for me, and we'll probably be tweaking for a little while. Just go here: Mercy Street.

Note to my mother: I'll come visit and put a new shortcut on your desktop. No worries.

A Time to Edit

A Time to Edit isn't listed in the beautiful Biblical passage where the writer tells us there is a time for every season under Heaven. Editing and rewriting are probably the least fun but most rewarding parts of our craft as writers. It takes focus, determination, and a willingness to slash entire paragraphs we once considered brilliant. So, I'm preparing to tackle that project by doing what I always do at deadline time. Clean the garage.

Okay, I'm not actually cleaning the garage. It is a metaphor at our house. A writer once told me when he gets a new book assignment, he goes straight to his garage and starts sorting all the loose bolts into baby food jars. By the time he quits procrastinating, he has the best-organized garage on the block.

I have the same tendency. When I finished the rough draft, I gave myself a couple of days to breathe and then set a deadline for when to start the revision process. As the deadline approached, so did my urge to clean the garage. But, I managed to persevere. Now I'm half-way through the first stage of the process, and it has been relatively painless so far. I'm not fooled, though. I remember the Biblical passage says a time to plant and a time to root up what was planted. Or something like that.

This week comes the rooting up stage. I hope the book and I both survive.

It's What I Do

Writers write.

I try to remind myself it is what we do, not who we are. In my day job, I manage my husband’s medical office, and I wrestle insurance giants much of the time. My day job shares many traits with my writing career.

Instead of crafting an article between nine and five, I compile necessary information, create a claim form, and then send the form off to the Powers That Be in Insurance Land. Then I wait. State law mandates the company respond to me in a certain number of weeks, but it is sufficient for them to say, “We’re still processing this claim and need just a little more information to complete it. No action is required on your part.”

That statement buys them another forty-five days to procrastinate. I wait some more. If I’m feeling strong, I compile a few more claim forms and send them out in the meantime, trying not to count how many days I’ve been waiting to hear back from Medicare or Blue Cross.

Eventually, a decision is reached in an office cubicle somewhere across the country, and the response is sent to me by carrier pigeon or pony express, whichever is slower. I can usually tell by the envelope whether my claim has been accepted or rejected. I only rip it open so I can read the explanation that tells me something terribly helpful such as “Your claim lacks information needed for adjudication.”

It is good that I recognize these are things I do, not things I am. Otherwise, I’d toss that letter in the circular file by my feet and announce to my husband, “That’s it. I’m obviously not an office manager after all. I’m applying for a job at Wal Mart.”

But filing claims is just something I do. This is not who I am. And no matter how many times the insurance company sends my claims back without an attached check, I will not be deterred. I will file and re-file and re-file again until I figure out exactly which data goes in exactly which box. And I will overcome. Eventually, an envelope will arrive with that glorious “Pay to the Order Of” peeking from the window.

I will slash it open with a victorious flare and resist the urge to wave it as I strut up and down the hall shouting, “Look, I’m a writer … I mean, office manager.”

The Best One Ever

I'm on the last few chapters of my current work-in-progress, and the emotions I'm experiencing are strange. It is a little like the way I felt before one of our children got married or before the next grandchild was born. But there is also a tinge of the exhaustion that comes from remodeling a house or returning from long trip. I find myself avoiding the writing desk somedays, because I'm not quite ready to let these characters go. And every hour of writing brings their story closer to an end.

Some of them will reappear, of course, in other books already semi-plotted in my drawer. But others have fulfilled their destiny and will never return again to any of my printed pages. If you aren't a writer, everything I just said will sound irrational and possibly even demented. But, if you are a writer, or a reader, I'm sure I've made perfect sense.

It is always a little hard for me to make transitions in real life, too. I tend to be nostalgic and to look back on other seasons of life, remembering only the good parts, and longing just a little for them to return. My mother has set a grand example, though, of seizing every season of life and calling it The Best. She started with Christmas trees when we were little. No matter how lopsided or scraggly the fir tree might be, she always stood back once the lights were on and declared, "It is the prettiest one we've ever had."

And so I'm determined to face life that way. Today, Thirty Days to Glory is the best book I've ever written. Tomorrow...

Revising Life

I rewrote Chapter 24 of my work-in-progress last night because it was too sad. Actually, the story was probably fine, but life is feeling a little too sad right now. One of our good friends is critically ill. Another is fighting breast cancer. Two others are investigating suspicious spots. (Did I mention I hate cancer?) And a couple of relationship issues feel kind of wobbly, too. I simply could not leave my heroine sick in bed during one of the most important evenings of her year. I could not bear for her to miss it.

So, I got her up out of bed and helped her press through the pain. I'm pretty sure she will be glad when she wakes up tomorrow in Chapter 25.

If you follow my blog, you probably know rewriting the bad parts of life is one of my coping techniques. I agree with Felicity that trials are important and even helpful for our growth in God. But, even so, I sometimes wish I could edit just a little.

Since I can't revise, I'll face and embrace whatever God brings for me or my friends the best I possibly can. But don't expect me to leave my fictional friends in despair!!

Green and Full of Sap

We're having an unusually green July around here. Usually the lawns without sprinkler systems are already turning brown and crunchy this time of year. Instead, they are thick and green. Foliage is lush beside the country roads and everything looks more like spring than mid-summer. It's because of the rain, of course. Lots and lots and lots of rain. Too much rain, actually, for the farmers trying to plant crops. But that is another story.

Today's story is about being green. Not the composting-your-garbage and recycling-your-milk-cartons kind of green. Rather, it is the green of healthy plants, sucking nutrients from the soil and spreading out leaves, branches, and fruit to shelter and feed the world.The kind of green that reminds me of Psalm 92:

The righteous will flourish like a palm tree,

they will grow like a cedar of Lebanon;

planted in the house of the LORD,

they will flourish in the courts of our God.

They will still bear fruit in old age,

they will stay fresh and green,

proclaiming, "The LORD is upright;

he is my Rock, and there is no wickedness in him."

Now that I have passed the age of fifty, I'm greatly reassured by this passage. I've kind of expected life to get brown and wiry from here on out. I've worried a little that my best days are behind me and I'll never have a real writing career or impact another generation for God.

This scripture tells me otherwise. Like the unseasonably green July of 2009, I can stay green and full of sap even into old age. All I need is a little rain.

Reuben Goes to New York

So, I've sent Reuben to New York. It was a rather alarming thing to do. He has spent nearly twenty years dawdling around in my office, so this was one big step. I first started writing his story on a manual typewriter with carbon copies for my file. The second draft was done on a magical Selectra with automatic white-out tape for mistakes.

When we graduated to a huge apple computer and five inch floppy discs, I discovered the keyboard was too sensitive for my fingers. The rough draft I eventually showed a kind editor had a lot of extra "j's" in the text. My index finger automatically tapped the "j" anytime I started a new word. Even so, the kind editor dug through Rueben's story (his name was Jonas at the time) and guided me through two more revisions.

Reuben's story has passed through three or four more text-conversions since then. And multiple author's revisions. Surely he is ready after all that to face the bright lights of the city. Surely he can stand to be scrutinized and categorized and market-analyzed by the best.

And, no matter what comes of this little jaunt, I'll be glad I sent him out. It's been a great journey so far.

Why I Love BlogWorld

Writing is hard work. If we bloggers aren’t careful, we might be fooled into thinking otherwise. I’ve been writing for nearly thirty years, and the stack of rejection slips in my file drawer is much thicker than the stack of deposit slips from my bank.

I waited a long time to start blogging, because it seemed like such a fad. Everybody has one. Some people have three, each representing another aspect of their fascinating lives. These blogs can be informative, inspiring, encouraging, hilarious, or challenging. And sometimes, they reveal things better tucked into the pages of a diary and locked with a little key we keep in our jewelry box drawer.

Blogs, by their nature, require us to write in the immediate. They encourage us to spill our witty thoughts and to explore our emotional depths. All in four paragraphs, five times a week, between the day jobs. Then BlueHairFromSidney or WriterBoyExtraordinaire assures us in the comments section that our writing is brilliant, even in rough draft form.

Ahhhhhhh. BlogWorld is wonderful. Unless I also want to be published by someone who edits my work and doesn’t think my repetitive use of a three item series is particularly cool, gripping, or even well-done.

Even so, I’ll keep blogging. And revising. And waiting for BlueHair and friends to give me the applause my fragile writer-ego rarely receives from people who actually send me checks for my work.

Bring it on. (the applause...and the checks)

Hats Off to the Techies

Sometimes I forget how spoiled I am. We live in a community blessed by tremendously talented techie guys. I lean on them daily and obviously take them for granted. This week Wendell and I went to a little gathering of friends who are leaders of several similar churches here in the Midwest. We've known many of these folks for decades, and we love being together. One of the key leaders among this group couldn't come to Omaha, though, so we had the bright idea to bring him in through a video link on the computer.

Problem was, none of us really knew how to do that. We're pretty good at Google Video Chat or Skype conference call. But stretch us to one more cable connection to get Doug on the big screen, and we were stumped. We took turns leaning over the computer screen and talking into the microphone so Doug could be in on conversations.

I was shocked. I'm so accustomed to hitting the "spark" button on my desktop and connecting with one of our guys just about any time of the day or night. Then I say something like, "Can you get my laptop to fly to the moon, bring back some stardust, and dance on my desktop before lunch time today?" And they do.

So, here's to the techie guys. My hat is off. My hands are clapping. And my ipod is reminding me to NEVER travel without one of you!!!!

At My Letters

Time seems to become more valuable to me as I age. As if I'm finally realizing I have a limited amount of it to accomplish all the earth stuff assigned to me. So, I'm wary of the time-wasters. And, seriously, what could waste more time than a narcissistic blog? Facebook, perhaps. Or maybe Twitter, which I haven't succumbed to yet.

But, when I read about the great men and women of the past, I find a common theme among them. Most devoted a few hours every morning to prayer and Bible reading. Then, they sat down with quill and parchment and spent another few hours "at their letters." These folks achieved some great things in life, such as founding our nation. Yet they found time to write long, thoughtful letters to loads of people. Maybe the writing of letters actually helped formulate their thoughts on weighty matters. Certainly it helped teach them the art of writing.

I'm not sure updating my Facebook status equates. Yet, computer time seems to have become my version of being at my letters. After I've prayed, and read, and walked on the treadmill, I'm always ready to check my email and respond to a few electronic letters. (or maybe write a blog). This little exercise seems to help me, especially on days like this one where the to-do list spills over the edges of the day and into the evening.

So, I've taken a few minutes now to send out these words. It may have been an exercise in self-indulgence. But it reminds me that among my callings as wife, mother, grandmother, office manager, and mentor I am still at heart a writer.

Letting Go

I didn't know I was a control freak. This ugly trait surfaced when I finished making summer schedules for the office. The little columns were all lined up neatly on my Google calendar, indicating where shifts overlapped and where we might have a gap. And there before my eyes was the amazing revelation. I could take my Paid Time Off.

Now, lest you start feeling sorry for me, I do take time off. I go with Wendell to medical conventions three or four times a year. And we usually schedule some vacation time to go see the grandkids. But this PTO is different. It is mine, as an employee. I looked at the weekly schedule and discovered we are going to be over-staffed a few hours every week for the summer. And, we are making enough money to pay everyone!

So, I juggled my own shift just a little. Since I generally stay until 6:00, I can go in at 9:00. And since I always work Saturday mornings, I can take Friday mornings off.

This is beautiful. There is only one problem. I'm not sure I can do it. Wendell is out of town for three days, and I made myself stay home each of these mornings to catch up on household tasks that have been sadly neglected. I actually watch the clock to see how soon I can go to the office.

I'm pretty sure the first morning I'm home while they are seeing patients will be agony. But, I also know my husband will be really happy if this means we consistently have clean towels and groceries. And, he will be even happier if it means I finish my current work-in-progress and quit moaning about never having time to write.

So, I'm vowing to unclench my fingers from the office key. I'm determined to take a deep breath, look away from the clock, and trust God (and Lenna, Jordan, and Jenny) to handle things just fine without me. At least for three hours.

Next Year in Jerusalem

That is the working title of the novel which consumed much of my trip out of town. I actually sent off a query to an agent last week, so I wanted to get the book proposal in shape, just in case. Writing is a business for a patient person. Response time for queries of any sort range from weeks to months. So, one must develop the magical ability to forget the projects dangling out there in cyber space somewhere and move on to other things once the query (or manuscript) has been sent.

That is a little like forgetting you gave birth to a child who now lives 1000 miles away and arrests bad guys for a living. 

Forgetting may not be completely possible, but getting on with other things can be done. For instance, last weekend I outline a calendar for myself of writing projects. I have about a dozen of them crowding my brain at all times like noisy children. So, I ordered them to stand still in a straight line while I assigned each of them a little square box on my writing calendar. Now, they must each wait quietly for their turn while I give attention to the appropriate matter at hand. And, once they leave my in-box, I vow to forget about them for at least six weeks. Unless they happen to call home before then to say they arrived safely. Which would be lovely, and much appreciated.

Feeling His Pleasure

I forgot to eat lunch today. That never happens to me. No matter how busy our day is at work, I'm watching the clock by about ten, calculating how long before we can lock the door and go up to the cafe for what Brother Lawrence once described as "this little holiday in the middle of the work day." 

Today, though, I was alone in our lavish hotel room on a dark and dreary day. I finally opened my notebook to organize my notes from the mentoring conference a couple of weeks ago, and before I knew it, I was lost. In a good way.

I wrote, and I read. I researched, and I edited. And,  before I knew it, I had missed both Second Breakfast, Elevensies, and Luncheon as our Hobbit friends would say. 

And that is what I love about this call to write. Although I agonized about it most of yesterday and procrastinated as much as I possibly could today, it eventually swept me away. In the midst of the task, I experienced what Eric Liddle describes in Chariots of Fire. He is telling his sister why running as an athlete appealed to him as much as preaching as a missionary. It goes something like this: God made me, and He made me fast. When I run, I feel His pleasure.

Peeps and Posse

Networking is an interesting word. A network ties together a group of computers making this conversation possible in the first place. Insurance companies use networks to decide how they are going to pay various doctors. You get paid better if you are "in network." Today, I was grateful people like Blue Cross and Humana consider Calvary Medical Center among their peeps. We got some checks in the mail.

On the other hand, a network can be something like a spider web. "I'll tie myself to you in some cyber-savvy way and you tie yourself to me so one of us can lure in the innocent fly we want to profit from." I'm sure it is never that bad. But I find myself asking these days whether I want to be a Facebook friend because I really want to know what the other person had for lunch or if it is because I think the other person can do me some kind of favor that will help me buy some lunch.

At our recent conference, we talked about the difference between our peeps, whom we probably only know in the virtual world, and our posse whom we could call up at a moment's notice when we need to go round up some bad guys. Or move some furniture.

The interesting thing is this: If you spend enough virtual time with your peeps, some of them actually become your posse. They may be too far away to help you move the sofa down three flights of stairs. But they are certainly close enough to pray when you lose the job that necessitates that move.

That is the kind of network I want to weave.

I Like My Day Job

Please refrain from throwing the rocks you are holding in your hands. I, too, fantasize about having uninterrupted hours alone in a mountain cabin (like the one pictured here) where I can think, write, rest, and write some more for days on end. But I live in the reality of a material world where a pay check is more than just handy. Then, today I had an interesting thought: I might not quit my job even if I could.

The thought is theoretical, of course. I see no immediate danger of having to make the decision. It was comforting, though, to realize I like my 

job. Of course, it helps a lot that I work with my husband in a rural medical practice we've been dreaming about since our first date 36 years ago. As Serenity pointed out, I do still have a serious crush on the man. But, with good reason. I mean, I saw him bring a man back to life a couple of  weeks ago. It wasn't the same as Jesus raising Lazarus after three days. But the man was dead. Not just mostly dead -- Miracle Max could not have helped this man. He was sitting in our office, and his heart stopped. His breath stopped. He expired.

And my husband knew exactly what to do to give him every possible hope of a second chance. It was amazing. Terrifying and not-exactly-pretty, but amazing. Today that dead man walked into our office and complained that his chest is hurting from the CPR and the shocker paddles. I wanted to shout "Hallelujah! You lived to complain another day!!!"

Most of our days are not nearly that exciting, and sometimes not nearly that happy. Yet, I find myself waking up eager to go to the office. (almost every day) I know that is a blessing, and I'm trying not to take it for granted.

I'd still like to have long hours to contemplate and create. In the meantime, I'm grateful for a job I like. In fact, in today's economy, I'm grateful for a job at all.

Publishing Praise

I'm thinking today about my goal to "Write for Publication." (the name of a class I took once.) I am pursuing that goal. I'm taking classes, going to conferences, studying my craft, sending out queries, and even having a few things published here and there. But my ultimate goal comes from Psalm 96:3

Publish His glorious deeds among the nations. 

Tell everyone about the amazing things He does.

I want to do that in books, magazines, film, public speaking and anything else that comes my way. But the most important place to publish His deeds is in my life, something I've learned by example from some of the most important men in my life, actually.

It started with my grandfather. He kept a daily journal all his adult life, although he told us he didn't expect his little scratches would ever mean much to anyone. He lived through the depression, lost his first wife in childbirth, and forged his way as a young minister despite the resistance of his own family. I wish he could know how often I've faced a crises and heard his words echo in my heart, "There will be a way provided."

My father would never consider himself a writer. The only thing he ever published are a few letters to people going through really hard times. He sent me one almost thirty years ago, and I could pretty much print it here from memory. We had moved our little family of six half-way across the state for Wendell's internship. I had never been away from home before, and my dad knew I was suffering from homesick and all the other emotions that go with being a young mother with a busy husband. The letter was a masterpiece. Worthy of some kind of golden seal of approval. It was only two or three pages of squiggly writing on narrow, lined paper. But it reminded me to hold on to God and to be grateful for the daily miracles of life. It birthed gratitude in my soul and brought sanity to my mind. 

A few Christmases ago, my husband and I were facing a tough time. Really tough. The kind of tough that makes you think maybe you can't hang on. The gift he gave me was a picture frame with a little wooden drawer in a shelf underneath. It holds a picture of baby Claire, our micro-preemie granddaughter when she was just a few months old. The look on her face seems to dare obstacles to get out of her way. On the card, Wendell said, "look inside the drawer and you will find the gift I really want to give you this year." On a strip of yellow legal pad I found this word: Hope.

In my own writing career, I've only received one letter from someone who read something I published in a magazine. (and that is a story for another day!) But people stop me in the grocery store on a regular basis to comment on my neighborhood news column in the county paper or the three paragraph devotional on the front page of the church bulletin. Those things will never be widely circulated except by the janitors who sweep them up and toss them in the trash bins. But they are publishing His praise. And that's my goal.

The Sweet Spot

I started writing my first novel more than two decades ago. We were driving by a life-sized Nativity scene, and one of our children said, "I wonder what happened to the shepherds after that?" A little shepherd boy popped immediately into my head, and I was pretty sure he would answer the question if I just gave him some time. 

The first draft was done on a manual typewriter between laundry loads when our children were young. After the first revision, an editor friend agreed to read the book. He worked for a tiny publishing house, and his advice to me was like manna. After the next revision, we started talking about contracts. Fortunately for the reading public, the project died. The publishing house went out of business, and the immature novel went into a drawer. It stayed there years at a time. Every now and then, I would pull it out, refresh my research, and write again.

Last fall, I finished the book. The child who asked the original question was now a parent, and the little shepherd boy had reached adulthood almost in real-time. I sent the book off to a highly-competitive first novel contest where it received absolutely no attention. The "Nice Try" letter praised my achievement for actually writing a book, and it noted the judges' comment that the book "had POV problems and awkward interjections of exposition." (Not that I memorized the phrase or anything.) Even though the words stung, I understood what they meant, and I knew the book needed a little more tweaking.

All writers know books are like children. We conceive them, labor over them, birth them, guide them through awkward adolesence, and then polish them up so we can present them to the world in their adult form. But, I found myself loathe to do so. I did not want to send my first child out into the cold, hard world of publishing to be rejected yet again. I put it back in the drawer and moved on to something else.

Then, our son left home. He was a grown man, of course, with a wife and two children of his own. But he had never lived more than three blocks away when he decided to move his family 900 miles cross-country to launch a career in law enforcement. As we helped them pack, I remembered something Joe taught me several years ago.

He was target shooting with a compound bow at the time. I have never understood exactly how that works, but evidently on the first stage of the pull, one feels the full weight of the sixty pounds of resistance. It is hard work. Then the taut string reaches a point where the pulleys take over. Sudenlly, the pulling is easy. "It's the sweet point," Joe told me. "You feel like you could hold that position forever. But, you can't. If you wait even a few seconds too long, you will waver just a little. You may not even notice it, but when you finally let go, the shot will be off. The arrow won't hit the center."

Joe was only sixteen at the time, but he went on to tell me he supposed child-rearing was the same. Parents must reach a point where their children become their friends, where their efforts pay off and the task is pretty much pure pleasure. I told him that was true. We were reaching such a point even then. "Well," he said, "Make sure you let go of us at the right time so we'll fly straight."

Right. 

Letting go was easy when none of our children moved more than a few hours away from home. Joe and Chelle have spent the past five years literally living in our back yard. I came home almost every evening to find their little girls in my kitchen waiting for a snack. Joe's prophetic picture had come true. Our kids really were our best friends, and watching a couple of them move across the country was pretty hard to take.

When I was contemplating the change one night, I said to my husband, "What am I going to do when those little girls don't drop in every night anymore?" 

He didn't even look up when he answered. "Write."

And so I shall. The arrow who is our only son among three daughters has flown straight and strong. We are bursting with pride and planning our next vacation in the wild west. In the meantime, I'm savoring the silent nights. And, if you will please excuse me now, I have a novel to tweak.

Alternate Endings

When I was fifteen, a boy broke my heart. If this were not my first ever blog post, I would now insert a little, blue link to an entry called Death to Dating. But I'll spare you my philosophy on that for now. I mourned my loss for an appropriate length of time. Then I discovered an amazing balm. I rewrote the story. I sat down one teary afternoon with a yellow legal pad and a black Bic pen, and I turned the whole saga into my first piece of fiction, wherein the girl gets the guy and he ultimately gives her the world.

And, thus, I became a writer. Writing is dangerous business. If I spout off some craziness in my own living room, or even shout it on a city block, few people will be bothered. They will soon forget what I said, if they even heard it in the first place. If I write something I later regret, I can never take it back. Years later people can say, "Oh yeah. You are that lady who thought..." (Just fill in the blank. I'm not taking any risks today.)

So, I enter Blog World with some trepidation. I've enjoyed my identity as Occasional Commentator on several other blogs. Authorship brings a whole other realm of responsibility. I'll do my best to add something useful and positive to the cyber-conversations. If you stop by again, you will learn I'm a generally positive person. I'm a direct descendent of The Nicest Lady in the World, also known as my mother, and I generally believe in happy endings whether I write them or not.

According to Thoreau, it is vain "to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live." That makes sense to me. Unfortunately, some people have lived truly terrible lives and have then sat down to write dark, despairing stories as a result. For some reason, those stories are often counted as great literature while stories about honor, purity, and right living are considered less important or even frivolous. As I enjoy my sixth decade on this lovely, little planet, I find I prefer the latter. Maybe I'm simply naive or too simplistic in my worldview. But I prefer to drink from the glass half-full.

I probably tend toward this view because my own life has gone this way. Despite the foolishness of my own heart, God has captured me. I've still had my share of heartaches along the way, but together with my husband, our children, our grandchildren, and a host of family members and friends I am caught up in what author Ernest Gentile calls The Magnificent Obsession of knowing God through His Son, Jesus Christ. And this is the true source of my tendency toward happy endings. As my husband likes to point out, "I've read the end of the Book. We win."

Here is the guy who ultimately gave me the world surrounded by several of the shining stars in our universe.