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.

To Love Mercy

I've been trying to figure out life today. A small task for a September morning. I'm feeling a little moody and a little restless and a little unsure about how to shake myself out of it and get back to my normal Pollyanna self.

In the midst of this momentary crises, I crave the solid and the simple. I look for words that echo with the wisdom and the comfort of the Ancient of Days. Words that tell me all is well, no matter how I feel. And I find this:

He has showed you, O man, what is good.

And what does the LORD require of you?

To act justly and to love mercy

and to walk humbly with your God.Micah 6:8

Ah. That is it. The only thing I have to do to find my Center again. It is so simple. Not easy, mind you, but simple. Just do what is right. Shower folks with mercy. And keep a right perspective of who I am and who God is.

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.

Beauty for Ashes

September 11th is a sad day in our national memory. A day filled with ashes.

It is also a day of great celebration in our family. A day filled with Beauty.

Happy Birthday, Elena Rochelle.

Unofficial Cousins' Camp

We didn't manage to have a complete cousins' camp this summer. Partly because some of the cousins moved an entire time zone away and partly because some of the cousins played on three different baseball teams all summer and partly because of my own lack of planning.

We did get two sets of cousins together last weekend, though. All their parents needed to be out of town at the same time, and we took advantage of the moment. There were only seven cousins, but they ranged in age from two to ten, so that kept things interesting.

By the time they went home, Grandpa and I were pretty much exhausted. But we made some great memories! (That's what people say when the memory of a thing is much nicer than the thing itself. ) That isn't entirely true. It is probably more accurate to say that in the midst of the activity, we had trouble concentrating on anything except the tasks at hand. Afterwards, we could replay events in a more lesuiely fashion and remember how wonderful it was.

They have only been gone a few hours, and I'm already planning for next year. (I have a brilliant idea for bringing in more grandparents!!!) Felicity wisely pointed out it will become harder to pull off a Cousin's Camp the older they all get. So, I'm not letting a summer slip away again. At least not if I can round them all up and hold them still long enough to get one good group hug. And a picture.

Things I Don't Want to Take for Granted

1. The words "all clear" from Serenity's cancer doctor. (again)

2. Public hugs from middle school grandsons.

3. A job I enjoy.

4. A job, at all.

5. Lunch with my parents.

6. The magical internet that lets me know what my children had for breakfast seconds after it pops up in their toaster.

7. Silence.

8. Safety.

9. Salvation. (not in that order)

10. Someone to share it all.

The Things We Don't Know

Today, I went to the funeral of my dearest childhood friend's father. He was ninety years old and lived a good, honest, faithful life. My memories of him go back as far as memories go, and I could have told you much about him. I could have described his humor and some of his little idiosyncrasies. Like the fact that he started running for his health way back when nobody ran unless someone was chasing them.

I could have told you he was kind. And gentle. My mother reminded me he often came into the house from his farm chores just to sit for a little while and watch us play with our dolls. I could have told you lots of details. But today I learned something I'd never known. He was a hero.

Well, I knew he was a hero the way all fathers are heroes to their little girls (and to their little girls' friends). I didn't know that among other things, he earned seven bronze stars during battles in World War II. Seven. That is a lot of stars for one young man from a small farm in Missouri. When that information was read in the obituary today, I felt a swell of pride. I was proud to have known a man with that kind of valor. Proud to have sat at his kitchen table, to have slept under his roof, and to have played in his yard.

So, tonight, when I heard the latest war reports on the national news and considered the state of our troubled nation. I thought about Kermit Bane. And I wished I could see him one more time just to tell him, "I'm proud I knew you."

Resolution of Respect

A couple of weeks ago, our good friend John died. He was in his fifties and left behind a wonderful wife and two young children. He was a pillar in our community who literally built most of our town. And we are all in mourning for him.

When I was growing up, our church had a wonderful tradition for times like this. Someone in the church was appointed to write a Resolution of Respect about the person who had died. It would be read with great solemnity before the congregation and then put into the official records of the church. Eventually it would be published in the church paper, as well.

The resolution was not a eulogy exactly. It started out with words that went something like this, "Insomuch as it has pleased our gracious Heavenly Father to call home to glory His faithful servant, John Emerson..." And it ended with something like this, "be it resolved that we will bow our knee in humble submission to His will."

And so the resolution was mostly about those of us who stayed behind. It was about us resolving in our hearts to treasure the memory and to honor the legacy of the one who had gone on. It was about bowing our will to God's - even when to do so broke our earthly hearts.

Be it so resolved.

To Dance Without Losing Her Balance

Our granddaughter, Claire, was born three months early. Her teeny, tiny, little spirit fought hard from Day One, and she has excelled in life. Yet, she still struggles with spastic muscles in one arm and leg. This summer, she started working with a new therapist, whom I currently adore. Here is one of his stated goals for Claire's therapy : That she will be able to dance without losing her balance.

Isn't that our prayer for all the children in our lives? That they may be able to accomplish all the intricate steps of this life - in every stage - without losing their footing?

It isn't always easy, of course, for our children or for the adults who love them. Granddaughter Elena started kindergarten this year on crutches. She tried to dance off the top of a bunk bed and didn't quite nail the landing. When we visited her in Wyoming last week, her Grandpa and I worked so hard to teach her how to put the weight on her hands instead of her armpits and how to swing her good leg forward past the hot pink cast on her broken leg.

She was doing so well. Then, in the crowd of parents and fellow students suffering from first-day-of-school-excitement-and-rudeness, she was knocked off balance and fell down! It's good I wasn't there.

Elena had a marvelous first day of school despite that incident. By day three, she had even mastered the playground on crutches. And Claire? Her therapist reports excellent progress toward dancing without losing her balance.

May it always be so.

I'm on the Cover of a Magazine!!!!!

Not really. That is just one of our favorite lines from the movie Monsters Incorporated, and we throw it out anytime we become irrationally excited about something the rest of the world would see as a bar code over our one eye. (Okay, you have to see the movie to get it.)

I was excited, though, to discover I had won an award from Serenity's blog. She owes me, of course. I gave birth to her. Then I encouraged, cajoled, challenged, and applauded until she became a writer who surpasses me in every aspect of the craft. A mother's dream.

The award does come with some rules. Here they are:

1. Pass the award on to 5 most-deserving blogging friends.

2. Link to the author and blog name from whom he/she received the award.

3. Display the award and link to its explanation.

4. The receiver must visit the explanation post and add their name to the list of winners.

5. Winners must repost the rules.

Evidently, breaking the chain will not curse one with bad luck, and completing the chain will not guarantee delivery of a new Toyota in the driveway or a lifetime supply of red & green M&M's or any of the other things I've seen promised in email forwards through the years. That said, my fellow bloggers are welcome to pass on the award or simply sit back and revel in the exposure of their friends. (see Monster's Inc., again)

As some incentive, I'm posting a little picture from our weekend visit with Sully and Mike in Casper, Wyoming.

And the Winners Are:

Charity, because I love to hear what's happening in her life and because she loves Sully so much.

Paul, because his Daily Manna challenges and inspires me.

Widney Woman, because she is so honest in her journey.

Felicity, because she blesses me with her wisdom and her worship, and she really did grow up to become one of my best friends.

And, Judy, because we have shared everything since we were five years old and because she is too busy impacting the lives of high school writing students to blog nearly as often as I'd like to hear from her.

Who Needs the Hamptons

Here in the middle of the Missouri cornfields, it is hard for me to imagine a family actually spending the entire summer at their beach house or in their vacation cottage with multiple guest rooms. Yet, some of my blogger friends have experienced such treasure all their lives.

As Felicity mentioned in a recent post, it is tempting to feel a twinge of envy toward lives that seem more glamorous than our own. Yet, the point behind summer in the Hamptons or a weekend in the Ozarks is exactly the same. The goal is to connect. To stop the traffic of our busy daily lives and drink in the wonder of the people we love.

So, we have stopped. We stopped in Casper, Wyoming, after a sixteen hour drive with a brief lay-over in Omaha to pick up Charity & Nola. And we have captured moments like this one to carry us all through the long winters months ahead.

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.”

Another Happy Day

I'd like to think I've learned not to take life for granted. But, here it is, only three years after Serenity Beth was diagnosed with rare, aggressive cancer, and already I've dismissed the brass band instead of marching it down the street on her birthday.

Seriously, we should be throwing a magnificent party today because Serenity Bohon is 33!!!!!!. I remember celebrating her 30th birthday - after the surgery, the radiation, the horror, and then the glorious birth of little Jake. The celebration was so rapturous that I even told the waitress at Ruby Tuesday's, "It's her birthday. And she almost died. We're a little emotional."

Yet, here we are on a rainy Monday barely paying any attention at all to the event. Fortunately, Serenity is having a great time on vacation with her little clan. But, I'm going to work as usual...

No, that isn't true. I'm going to work with a deep, delicious, tear-jerking sense of gratitude and joy. It isn't the kind of thing that requires a brass band, because I carry the tune of it in my heart every day. It is Gratitude for life, for love, and for the rare privilege of being the mother of such a person.

Happy Birthday, Serenity Beth.

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...

My Other Mother

My eighty-nine year old mother-in-law is visiting us for two weeks, and she is such a joy. She is content to spend the day working her jigsaw puzzle but always ready to jump in the car and go out for lunch. Well, she jumps pretty slowly, but she is always interested in whatever we want to do. Earlier in the week, she taught some of the great-grandchildren the wonder of word search puzzles. Even the kindergartner who can't actually read yet mastered the art of the hidden word. Both she and Grandma-Great were excited.

Today, I drove her back to the town where we all once lived, and we attended services at her familiar methodist church. The congregation smothered her with kisses, and we both enjoyed celebrity status. We even won the loaf of homemade bread reserved for visitors!

I know these days are a treasure, and I'm determined not to take them for granted. I want to enjoy every moment and soak up every hour with this lady who gave birth to one of the greatest gifts in my life. Is is a privilege to count her both my mother-in-law and my friend.

Note to Andrea: I know this post will make you homesick for your mother. I'm sending you a hug as I write.

The Real Hero

Forty years ago, a man walked on the moon. It was truly incredible. Families everywhere gathered around their television sets to watch one giant step for mankind. And our dad missed the whole show.

We lived on a farm where television reception was spotty. We could usually watch one of three channels, but to do so meant going outside and twisting the iron pipe connected to the antena anchored on our roof. That night, the antena refused to stay stay put. It kept twisting back just a notch every time our dad let go of the pipe. Then the fuzzy, gray picture evaporated into pure, white snow.

So, while the rest of our family sat in awe watching pictures from the moon, our dad stood outside holding the antena.

When I go back to that evening in my mind, the memory of the moon walk is pretty much as fuzzy as the original picture. But the memory of my dad making it happen? Captured in HD.

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)