Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Friday, December 20, 2013
The Man Who Shocked America
Revising a young adult fantasy novel does not lend itself well to the debate on current hot topics. Nevertheless. I’ve elected to throw my two cents into the whirlwind of opinions regarding the man who shocked America.
Who am I talking about?
Phil Robertson, of course.
In case you haven’t heard (but you probably have), click here . . . or here . . . or here.
Apparently, our unshockable American society is still capable of being stunned cold. Even in our MTV-riddled, Internet-browsing, all-tolerant 21st century. All it takes is a multimillionaire speaking his mind about a controversial subject. And not following the script.
I’ve read the article that got Robertson in trouble. (It’s rather long, but you can find it here.) For responses, I’ve seen furious rants, spirited applause, pleas for justice, and all sorts of trite phrases about love and hell.
I picture the Robertson clan and wonder if this jaunt into the frying pan will affect their Christmas.
And then I wonder what we’re all so shocked about.
Sure, the exact quote was somewhat . . . intense . . . but Robertson didn’t really say anything that earth-shattering. He just presented an opinion. Something we like to do on facebook millions of times a day. And when he quoted Scripture (he paraphrased 1 Corinthians 6:9,10) . . . he spoke the truth.
Has truth become so rare in America that it shocks us when we hear it? Is the GBLT crowd offended by Robertson because they’ve never heard a Christian without a picket sign say homosexuality is a sin? Is the media slack-jawed because so few of the people they interview will dare this topic head-on? . . . Are my homosexual friends appalled because I’ve never shared what I believe? Have we blended so well into our society of tolerance? Have we really grown so quiet?
In the end, the infallible truth of God’s Word - and do we believe that? - will still be two things. Infallible and true. Regardless of cultural pulls or popular opinions or even governing laws. But as Robertson has decisively proven, society grows more and more shocked at God's standards the more bashful Christ-followers become with truth.
Who am I talking about?
Phil Robertson, of course.
In case you haven’t heard (but you probably have), click here . . . or here . . . or here.
Apparently, our unshockable American society is still capable of being stunned cold. Even in our MTV-riddled, Internet-browsing, all-tolerant 21st century. All it takes is a multimillionaire speaking his mind about a controversial subject. And not following the script.
I’ve read the article that got Robertson in trouble. (It’s rather long, but you can find it here.) For responses, I’ve seen furious rants, spirited applause, pleas for justice, and all sorts of trite phrases about love and hell.
I picture the Robertson clan and wonder if this jaunt into the frying pan will affect their Christmas.
And then I wonder what we’re all so shocked about.
Sure, the exact quote was somewhat . . . intense . . . but Robertson didn’t really say anything that earth-shattering. He just presented an opinion. Something we like to do on facebook millions of times a day. And when he quoted Scripture (he paraphrased 1 Corinthians 6:9,10) . . . he spoke the truth.
Has truth become so rare in America that it shocks us when we hear it? Is the GBLT crowd offended by Robertson because they’ve never heard a Christian without a picket sign say homosexuality is a sin? Is the media slack-jawed because so few of the people they interview will dare this topic head-on? . . . Are my homosexual friends appalled because I’ve never shared what I believe? Have we blended so well into our society of tolerance? Have we really grown so quiet?
In the end, the infallible truth of God’s Word - and do we believe that? - will still be two things. Infallible and true. Regardless of cultural pulls or popular opinions or even governing laws. But as Robertson has decisively proven, society grows more and more shocked at God's standards the more bashful Christ-followers become with truth.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
The Day the Wall Rang
So, there I was, sitting at the kitchen table, eating a positively heavenly lunch. Sushi, frozen peach slices, nutella on pretzels, and a glass of milk. Heavenly. I was reading a book.
When the wall rang.
Like the sentence, “The phone rang.” Only it was a wall.
Just one crystal-clear, old-fashion r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-i-n-g. Then silence.
We have a pretty average kitchen wall. Not too exotic, not too dull. There’s an open cupboard full of flower vases and jars of rice, nuts, and things like that right next to the table. I looked this over very carefully to make sure nothing had a phone hiding under it. I peeked inside some of the vases (with the alarming suspicion I might see a spider with a cell phone up to his ear). I scoured underneath the newspapers and magazines on the table. I ducked under the table to check the floor.
No phone.
Like I said: “the wall rang.”
The first time it happened, I automatically said in my best phone recording voice, “I’m sorry. No one is available to take your call. Please leave a message after the tone.”
The second time it happened, I started thinking about all those young adult fantasy books I’ve been reading lately and thought perhaps I ought to delve into something a little less otherworldly in the near future.
The third time it happened, I began to wonder if God doesn’t sometimes call people when He wants to talk. Literally. Call them. Then I thought, well, but He really ought to point out the means of communication if He’s going to go that route.
I am now recording this sequence of events in the rather hopeless hope that someone somewhere in this vaguely unsettling world has had a wall ring on them in the past and can therefore explain the inexplicable? Why the wall mice have taken a sudden interest in stealing our technology. How the vases learned to talk. What “r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-i-n-g” means translated into English. Why the wall is calling me.
When the wall rang.
Like the sentence, “The phone rang.” Only it was a wall.
Just one crystal-clear, old-fashion r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-i-n-g. Then silence.
We have a pretty average kitchen wall. Not too exotic, not too dull. There’s an open cupboard full of flower vases and jars of rice, nuts, and things like that right next to the table. I looked this over very carefully to make sure nothing had a phone hiding under it. I peeked inside some of the vases (with the alarming suspicion I might see a spider with a cell phone up to his ear). I scoured underneath the newspapers and magazines on the table. I ducked under the table to check the floor.
No phone.
Like I said: “the wall rang.”
The first time it happened, I automatically said in my best phone recording voice, “I’m sorry. No one is available to take your call. Please leave a message after the tone.”
The second time it happened, I started thinking about all those young adult fantasy books I’ve been reading lately and thought perhaps I ought to delve into something a little less otherworldly in the near future.
The third time it happened, I began to wonder if God doesn’t sometimes call people when He wants to talk. Literally. Call them. Then I thought, well, but He really ought to point out the means of communication if He’s going to go that route.
I am now recording this sequence of events in the rather hopeless hope that someone somewhere in this vaguely unsettling world has had a wall ring on them in the past and can therefore explain the inexplicable? Why the wall mice have taken a sudden interest in stealing our technology. How the vases learned to talk. What “r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-i-n-g” means translated into English. Why the wall is calling me.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
News from the Front
Yesterday in the Aurora paper (which I never really see, by the way), my Grandpa found an article titled:
Huh. That's weird. That sounds like what my sister did. And didn't she work in Aurora before she moved to Zambia? Oh, hey, it is my sister! And her smiling face is plastered all over the page. Which is weird cause it's August 31, and she hasn't been in the States for more than two months now.
So, since someone went to an awful lot of trouble to plaster my sister's face all over page 3 of the Aurora News-Register, I thought I'd share it with you. (Bear with me on the whole newspaper format issue. I couldn't come up with a better way to do it.)
Keep it up, little sis . . . whether you're signing autographs or checking a pulse. I'm so proud of you!
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Adventures in Cooking
My parents are currently in Zambia, visiting my sister, Kristi, who moved there as a missionary nurse. So, that leaves me home. Alone. Cooking. Which, you might have heard, is a rather deadly combination.
This evening for dinner, I decided to try something outside my usual list of spaghetti, cereal, and chocolate. It’s called peanut butter sauce, it goes on rice, it’s from Africa, and I even had the recipe.
How hard could it be?
First, I needed hamburger. Hm. A thorough search of all three freezers revealed not a scrap of hamburger in the house. I considered switching the menu to chicken strips, but peanut butter sauce sounded really good. Solution? Mystery Meat. Not quite sure what it was, but I bravely hauled it up from the basement, frozen solid in a ziplock bag.
Which was another problem. I only wanted about a quarter of the Mystery Meat. And it was frozen solid. Have you ever tried to extract a quarter slice of stone-cold meat from plastic?
I tried running it under water for a while, but that wasn’t working fast enough. I tried sawing it apart with the bread knife. Apparently, bread knives weren’t made for sawing. I looked for an ice pick, but it had run off with the hamburger. And that is when I lit on brilliance.
I do that sometimes.
Marching to the toolbox, I pulled out a screwdriver and a hammer. Really, I did. I wedged the screwdriver into the frozen meat - praying there were no bones and that I’d be able to actually pull it back out again - and started hammering away. A couple minutes later - Voilà! One chunk of Mystery Meat ready to go.
Putting my Mystery Meat on to “brown” (finally! - a word I understand!), I moved on with the recipe. One small onion, a cup of peanut butter sauce, a tomato. Well, the recipe didn’t call for a tomato exactly, but I couldn’t find any tomato sauce, and I wasn’t sure what tomato paste was, so I used a frozen tomato instead. Quite proud of myself for finding ingredients that were at least the right color, I put it all on to simmer.
Which is when I noticed the bat in the living room . . .
So, there I was, blanket held up like a shield in one hand, broom in the other (think jousting knight), trying to convince this infernal creature it was in his best interest to fly out the open door I was swatting him towards. While the peanut butter sauce faithfully simmered, and the rice boiled over on the stove . . .
Twenty minutes later, the stove top was a little blacker, and the bat was back outside where it belonged. There may be some extra indoor moths when you come home, Mom and Dad. But there won’t be any bats.
This evening for dinner, I decided to try something outside my usual list of spaghetti, cereal, and chocolate. It’s called peanut butter sauce, it goes on rice, it’s from Africa, and I even had the recipe.
How hard could it be?
First, I needed hamburger. Hm. A thorough search of all three freezers revealed not a scrap of hamburger in the house. I considered switching the menu to chicken strips, but peanut butter sauce sounded really good. Solution? Mystery Meat. Not quite sure what it was, but I bravely hauled it up from the basement, frozen solid in a ziplock bag.
Which was another problem. I only wanted about a quarter of the Mystery Meat. And it was frozen solid. Have you ever tried to extract a quarter slice of stone-cold meat from plastic?
I tried running it under water for a while, but that wasn’t working fast enough. I tried sawing it apart with the bread knife. Apparently, bread knives weren’t made for sawing. I looked for an ice pick, but it had run off with the hamburger. And that is when I lit on brilliance.
I do that sometimes.
Marching to the toolbox, I pulled out a screwdriver and a hammer. Really, I did. I wedged the screwdriver into the frozen meat - praying there were no bones and that I’d be able to actually pull it back out again - and started hammering away. A couple minutes later - Voilà! One chunk of Mystery Meat ready to go.
Putting my Mystery Meat on to “brown” (finally! - a word I understand!), I moved on with the recipe. One small onion, a cup of peanut butter sauce, a tomato. Well, the recipe didn’t call for a tomato exactly, but I couldn’t find any tomato sauce, and I wasn’t sure what tomato paste was, so I used a frozen tomato instead. Quite proud of myself for finding ingredients that were at least the right color, I put it all on to simmer.
Which is when I noticed the bat in the living room . . .
(Oh, yeah, they're real cute when they're dive-bombing your head.)
So, there I was, blanket held up like a shield in one hand, broom in the other (think jousting knight), trying to convince this infernal creature it was in his best interest to fly out the open door I was swatting him towards. While the peanut butter sauce faithfully simmered, and the rice boiled over on the stove . . .
Twenty minutes later, the stove top was a little blacker, and the bat was back outside where it belonged. There may be some extra indoor moths when you come home, Mom and Dad. But there won’t be any bats.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Ditches
Ditches. Possibly the most overlooked feature in the state of Nebraska. And in a state of overlooked features, that's saying something.
Breathtaking, huh? Makes me want to pull off the road and whip out my camera every time, let me tell you.
This afternoon I took an expedition into our unnoticed, overgrown, heart-stopping ditches. I had a pair of scissors with me. I came back to the house with this:
Okay. Starting to be maybe a tad impressed. A horticulturists's dream. Every last leaf and petal born wild in a ditch. "The slums" in nature speak. The place no civilized flower dares be seen. My mom took one look at the floral arrangement and said, "Where other people see weeds, you see a beautiful bouquet." I want to add to that and say, "Where we see a ditch, God sees a garden." If He can work this out of a neglected slope on the side of the road, just think what He can do in a real garden. Apparently, no feature in His creation is overlooked. Not even the ditches.
Breathtaking, huh? Makes me want to pull off the road and whip out my camera every time, let me tell you.
This afternoon I took an expedition into our unnoticed, overgrown, heart-stopping ditches. I had a pair of scissors with me. I came back to the house with this:
Okay. Starting to be maybe a tad impressed. A horticulturists's dream. Every last leaf and petal born wild in a ditch. "The slums" in nature speak. The place no civilized flower dares be seen. My mom took one look at the floral arrangement and said, "Where other people see weeds, you see a beautiful bouquet." I want to add to that and say, "Where we see a ditch, God sees a garden." If He can work this out of a neglected slope on the side of the road, just think what He can do in a real garden. Apparently, no feature in His creation is overlooked. Not even the ditches.
Friday, June 28, 2013
One Quarter of the World
(I'm not normally much into poetry. And when I am, it tends to sound like Dr. Seuss. But I wrote this for my little sister, Kristi. For the past 26 years, we've raced horses through cornfields, trained puppies, caught fish and fireflies, chased eagles, pitted against each other in word games, conquered mountains, inhaled epic amounts of chocolate, and criss-crossed the country. And that's only on Tuesdays. Now she's a missionary nurse, flying off to Africa. Today. For three years. I'm so proud of you, Kristi!)
One quarter of the world to cross
To stretch from here to there,
Trading fields and fireflies
For sweet savannah air,
Flitting not too ruefully
From modern trends and time
To a place where late is not
And everything unwinds.
One quarter of a house gone dark,
A room without a chief,
To light another slanted roof
Beyond the deep blue sea.
Last in line of four and two,
A daughter, sister, friend.
Strapping on the Chaco tan,
Adventuring again.
One quarter of a dream to own,
Three parts to give away,
To lose the things that fools will keep
And win the ageless gain.
It feels like a funeral,
It sounds like wedding bells,
Ringing proud and hopefully,
We echo fare thee well!
(Follow Kristi's adventures in Africa Here.)
One quarter of the world to cross
To stretch from here to there,
Trading fields and fireflies
For sweet savannah air,
Flitting not too ruefully
From modern trends and time
To a place where late is not
And everything unwinds.
One quarter of a house gone dark,
A room without a chief,
To light another slanted roof
Beyond the deep blue sea.
Last in line of four and two,
A daughter, sister, friend.
Strapping on the Chaco tan,
Adventuring again.
One quarter of a dream to own,
Three parts to give away,
To lose the things that fools will keep
And win the ageless gain.
It feels like a funeral,
It sounds like wedding bells,
Ringing proud and hopefully,
We echo fare thee well!
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Flying . . . Again.
Last week: 10,200 feet above sea level. An hour's drive from Breckenridge, Colorado. Nothing but a balloon suspending me 1,200 feet in the air. Curious George flashing through my head.
This week: 5,000 feet above Nebraska corn fields.
In a very small airplane. (Picture my car with wings.)
With my horseback riding / mountain climbing / marathon running / missionary / nurse / very cool sister and a doctor who shall go unnamed because of a certain cloud and slightly shady legalities.
And there I was in the back seat. (I don't know if that's really what you call the posterior half of a very small airplane, but it certainly felt like a back seat to me.) Circling my house. Hanging out the window. Waving at my mom.
I've always wanted to wave at someone out of an airplane and have them wave back. Dream accomplished. 2,397 to go.
Kristi's always wanted to stick her hand out an airplane and touch a cloud. Another dream accomplished.
Two down in one day. Not bad for a sunny early summer day in good ol' Nebraska.
I am so blessed.
This week: 5,000 feet above Nebraska corn fields.
In a very small airplane. (Picture my car with wings.)
With my horseback riding / mountain climbing / marathon running / missionary / nurse / very cool sister and a doctor who shall go unnamed because of a certain cloud and slightly shady legalities.
And there I was in the back seat. (I don't know if that's really what you call the posterior half of a very small airplane, but it certainly felt like a back seat to me.) Circling my house. Hanging out the window. Waving at my mom.
I've always wanted to wave at someone out of an airplane and have them wave back. Dream accomplished. 2,397 to go.
Kristi's always wanted to stick her hand out an airplane and touch a cloud. Another dream accomplished.
Two down in one day. Not bad for a sunny early summer day in good ol' Nebraska.
I am so blessed.
(The car with wings.)
(Living a dream. Touching a cloud.)
(My mom's the tiny little dot in the driveway you can't see.)
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
The Reasons Why I Love My Family
June 1-8, 2013.
The Johnson family.
25 people. Plus one dog.
Breckenridge, Colorado.
So, I was going to write this profound, in-depth post about how COOL my family is and how much we enjoyed our Epic-est Adventure tamely labeled "A Johnson Family Vacation." Then I decided there just weren't words. (Wait. You'll understand once you see the pictures.) Here are ten photos instead. If I'm adding my math up correctly, that should equal precisely ten thousand words.
This is why I love my family:
#10: We help each other run faster.
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#9: We play with rubber duckies in the bath tub.
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#8: We like cleaning together.
#7: We will always eat Victory Chocolate in 30 mph wind at 14,000 feet. Even if it does make us feel sick.
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#6: We have no qualms about giving small children bags of popcorn and m+m's and then leave them unattended for the entire length of a movie.
#5: We like showing off our muscles.
#4: We like hot and air and balloons. :-)
#3: We are not ashamed to do crazy things to get our picture taken.
#2: We look way cool in our matching T-shirts.
. . . And the #1 reason I love my family . . .
Where else in the world could I go to find people who would take a picture like this?
(For all the rest - well, some of the rest - of the reasons I love my family, visit my facebook album Here.)
Sunday, June 9, 2013
An Adventure Story
I have three sentences for you. Three sentences that make one of the best adventure stories ever told. They go like this:
Hot.
Air.
Balloon.
I know. Half way through that story, you were wondering where I was headed, huh? But you gotta admit, the ending is pretty good. Exactly one thousand two hundred feet off the ground. With nothing between me and certain death but a whicker basket, a little bit of rubber, random spurts of propane flames, and a balloon.
Just like Curious George.
I am now one of the proud “Once in a Lifetime Opportunity” participants. Just outside Hartsel, Colorado. Elevation 9,000 feet. With my mom and little sister. Twenty-four hours after summiting a 14,000 mountain on foot and seeing a somewhat similar view.
Y’all should certainly try it sometime.
Hot.
Air.
Balloon.
I know. Half way through that story, you were wondering where I was headed, huh? But you gotta admit, the ending is pretty good. Exactly one thousand two hundred feet off the ground. With nothing between me and certain death but a whicker basket, a little bit of rubber, random spurts of propane flames, and a balloon.
Just like Curious George.
I am now one of the proud “Once in a Lifetime Opportunity” participants. Just outside Hartsel, Colorado. Elevation 9,000 feet. With my mom and little sister. Twenty-four hours after summiting a 14,000 mountain on foot and seeing a somewhat similar view.
Y’all should certainly try it sometime.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
The End of the Push
Yippee! The push is over. (You didn't even know there was a push, did you?) The words are prodded and pounded and polished. The blood is cleared from my black and blue cranium.
Welcome to the world of the first-time author.
Whoops. Hold up. I don't mean to confuse you. I'm not really a bonafide author. Not yet. It's only I've just finished the three awesomest chapters I've ever written in my three decades of existence. One chapter for every year. At this rate, I'll write the first half of a masterpiece by the time I'm a hundred. And, yes, I know awesomest isn't recognized by the dictionary.
I now understand the "blood, sweat, and tears" expression. It's all imaginary, of course. Most things in fiction writing are. But I'm now posed to bombard young adult Christian fantasy agents everywhere, and I felt like doing a bit of gloating.
Plus, in less than 48 hours, I'm leaving. Eight glorious letters.
V.
A.
C.
A.
T.
I.
O.
N.
Oh, happy day.
Colorado, beware.
Welcome to the world of the first-time author.
Whoops. Hold up. I don't mean to confuse you. I'm not really a bonafide author. Not yet. It's only I've just finished the three awesomest chapters I've ever written in my three decades of existence. One chapter for every year. At this rate, I'll write the first half of a masterpiece by the time I'm a hundred. And, yes, I know awesomest isn't recognized by the dictionary.
I now understand the "blood, sweat, and tears" expression. It's all imaginary, of course. Most things in fiction writing are. But I'm now posed to bombard young adult Christian fantasy agents everywhere, and I felt like doing a bit of gloating.
Plus, in less than 48 hours, I'm leaving. Eight glorious letters.
V.
A.
C.
A.
T.
I.
O.
N.
Oh, happy day.
Colorado, beware.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Unviable
I want to explain something before I write this next post. I’ve noticed that my recent entries (say, in the last two weeks or so - yea, that one) have sounded a bit . . . politicized. Prophesied. Soapboxed. I’m telling you now because I’m about to write another one. I’m doing this for two reasons:
First (or possibly second), because I am an aspiring author. As such, I have been informed by those who know such things that I ought to be blogging consistently. Platform building. Welcome to the 21st century. I’ve mourned the days of carriages and quills, but that didn’t do any good. My second reason is because what you’re reading right now is a blog. My blog. Scary as that may sound. And this is what’s happening in my life right now. Or in my head, which seems to be more interesting than anything else. Except for that night the sewer swamped the entire kitchen floor at work.
Moving on.
Last week I learned that Hitler was a vegetarian. This week I’m learning about legal abortion in America. Slightly disturbing how the two are related.
Before he was hung by the Nazis, Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote about abortion in his book Ethics:
After looking up the word nascent (“just coming into existence, emerging”), I can say I wholeheartedly agree with Bonhoeffer. Who wrote this before the days of ultrasounds. Before we saw a pre-born’s heart beating. Before National Geographic’s in-color photos of life inside the womb. Before images of developing fingers and toes and eyes and noses.
But the right to life is more than an emotional appeal. It’s a moral appeal. One that, if it remains unsaid, makes us look a whole lot like the country of Germany under the rule of Adolf Hitler. He justified killing Jews because they didn’t match his “Aryan” standard. We justify killing unborn humans because they don’t meet our development criteria. He killed disabled children and adults because of their mental and physical immaturity. We justify killing unborn humans because they’re not “viable” yet. He locked them in gas chambers from which millions never emerged. We lock them in the womb and only let them out piece by mutilated piece. He stacked them on carts and took photos. We throw them in dumpsters outside the back door.
The question is not whether or not the unborn are human. They have a heartbeat. They have unique DNA. They have a gender. We know if we let them out, we’ll see a little boy or a little girl. Not a dog or a duck or a monkey. We just haven’t bought their first pair of shoes yet. We haven’t set them at their desk at school where everyone can see them.
America has screamed for tighter gun control since a man walked into an elementary school and indiscriminately shot the entire class. I recently read an article in the Grand Island Independent on that subject. The author, Ann McFeatters, quotes, “The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention says there are 30 gun-related murders every day with another 162 people wounded by guns and 53 suicides. Every day.” (Notice she uses the word murder.)
That’s 245 dead people! Per day. Obviously, we need to do something about our gun problem, right?
Here’s some more statistics for you. Did you know approximately 11,000 babies are born in America every day? Did you know in that same time span, there are roughly 3,000 abortions? Three thousand. Compare that to births, and that’s nearly 25%. We’re destroying 25% of our population. Legally. Without even giving them the opportunity to eat Cheerios. Or learn how to ride a bike. Or vote. Or breathe.
Let me write this another way. If today’s statistics had applied thirty years ago when I was born, one out of every four of my friends would not be alive. A quarter of my graduating class. A quarter of my co-workers. A quarter of my cousins and second cousins and third cousins. Gone. Legally.
While the church in America does . . . well, what? The same thing the German church did under Adolf Hitler?
I’m not going to tell you what to do about all this. I’m sure I’ll have a hard enough time deciding that for myself. But after a bit of research, I can recommend these resources if you’d like to know more:
+ The Case for Life by Scott Klusendorf
+ The Silent Scream (half hour 1984 youtube video detailing the abortion operation)
+ Or maybe you want to go to Planned Parenthood’s website and see what they have to say about the abortion issue. It’s very enlightening.
First (or possibly second), because I am an aspiring author. As such, I have been informed by those who know such things that I ought to be blogging consistently. Platform building. Welcome to the 21st century. I’ve mourned the days of carriages and quills, but that didn’t do any good. My second reason is because what you’re reading right now is a blog. My blog. Scary as that may sound. And this is what’s happening in my life right now. Or in my head, which seems to be more interesting than anything else. Except for that night the sewer swamped the entire kitchen floor at work.
Moving on.
Last week I learned that Hitler was a vegetarian. This week I’m learning about legal abortion in America. Slightly disturbing how the two are related.
Before he was hung by the Nazis, Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote about abortion in his book Ethics:
“Destruction of the embryo in the mother’s womb is a violation of the right to live which God has bestowed upon this nascent life. To raise the question whether we are here concerned already with a human being or not is merely to confuse the issue. The simple fact is that God certainly intended to create a human being and that this nascent human being has been deliberately deprived of his life. And that is nothing but murder.”
After looking up the word nascent (“just coming into existence, emerging”), I can say I wholeheartedly agree with Bonhoeffer. Who wrote this before the days of ultrasounds. Before we saw a pre-born’s heart beating. Before National Geographic’s in-color photos of life inside the womb. Before images of developing fingers and toes and eyes and noses.
But the right to life is more than an emotional appeal. It’s a moral appeal. One that, if it remains unsaid, makes us look a whole lot like the country of Germany under the rule of Adolf Hitler. He justified killing Jews because they didn’t match his “Aryan” standard. We justify killing unborn humans because they don’t meet our development criteria. He killed disabled children and adults because of their mental and physical immaturity. We justify killing unborn humans because they’re not “viable” yet. He locked them in gas chambers from which millions never emerged. We lock them in the womb and only let them out piece by mutilated piece. He stacked them on carts and took photos. We throw them in dumpsters outside the back door.
The question is not whether or not the unborn are human. They have a heartbeat. They have unique DNA. They have a gender. We know if we let them out, we’ll see a little boy or a little girl. Not a dog or a duck or a monkey. We just haven’t bought their first pair of shoes yet. We haven’t set them at their desk at school where everyone can see them.
America has screamed for tighter gun control since a man walked into an elementary school and indiscriminately shot the entire class. I recently read an article in the Grand Island Independent on that subject. The author, Ann McFeatters, quotes, “The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention says there are 30 gun-related murders every day with another 162 people wounded by guns and 53 suicides. Every day.” (Notice she uses the word murder.)
That’s 245 dead people! Per day. Obviously, we need to do something about our gun problem, right?
Here’s some more statistics for you. Did you know approximately 11,000 babies are born in America every day? Did you know in that same time span, there are roughly 3,000 abortions? Three thousand. Compare that to births, and that’s nearly 25%. We’re destroying 25% of our population. Legally. Without even giving them the opportunity to eat Cheerios. Or learn how to ride a bike. Or vote. Or breathe.
Let me write this another way. If today’s statistics had applied thirty years ago when I was born, one out of every four of my friends would not be alive. A quarter of my graduating class. A quarter of my co-workers. A quarter of my cousins and second cousins and third cousins. Gone. Legally.
While the church in America does . . . well, what? The same thing the German church did under Adolf Hitler?
I’m not going to tell you what to do about all this. I’m sure I’ll have a hard enough time deciding that for myself. But after a bit of research, I can recommend these resources if you’d like to know more:
+ The Case for Life by Scott Klusendorf
+ The Silent Scream (half hour 1984 youtube video detailing the abortion operation)
+ Or maybe you want to go to Planned Parenthood’s website and see what they have to say about the abortion issue. It’s very enlightening.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
As Regards the Emperor and His Clothes
(This isn't really meant to be a profound post. It is simply a brief sketch of thoughts revolving in my mind due to certain conversations and literature.)
I love this quote. Partially because it uses words like fairytale and child and play. But also because a friend recently told me a very near version of the exact same thing. We were discussing the state of our educational system and the different methods currently in use to inspire our teachers onto new heights. As a teacher herself who has experienced this government-sponsored training, my friend is rather well-qualified to speak on the subject.
May I introduce Preposition Man? I’m sorry if he’s confidential, but no one told me. He’s the little pipe cleaner figure teachers across our nation are encouraged to use to teach English in their classrooms. Under, above, on, beside. Mr. Preposition Man can do them all. Cute for a class full of second graders. But high school? What mental age are we teaching?
“The Emperor hasn’t got any clothes, Mommy!” the young boy screams. He’s not being brave. He’s just honest.
I look across our nation. Where we write “In God We Trust” on our quarters but aren’t allowed to hang His words on our courtroom walls. Where a woman can sue a fast food restaurant because she spilled hot coffee on herself. Where we’re having trouble defining marriage, baby, hate crime, and a whole host of other words. Where schools in Massachusetts recently adopted a policy that any child in their system wishing to be titled “she” must have that option. Even if “she” is a boy.
“The Emperor’s naked!” the child cries. While the grown-ups in the fairytale look on and say nothing.
Back to the quote at the beginning. It was written by a man named Dietrich Bonhoeffer. A German. In 1935. During the reign of Adolf Hitler.
Perhaps these are the sort of thoughts that come when delving into a nearly 600-page biography on the life of a martyred German pastor. Do you think I ought to stick with the daily comics from now on? I’m not really trying to be prophetic, and I’m certainly not political, but I do wonder sometimes where our nation is headed. And who in our country ought to stand up and say something about it.
“I recently came across the fairy tale of ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes,’ which really is relevant for our time. All we are lacking today is the child who speaks up at the end. We ought to put it on as a play.”
I love this quote. Partially because it uses words like fairytale and child and play. But also because a friend recently told me a very near version of the exact same thing. We were discussing the state of our educational system and the different methods currently in use to inspire our teachers onto new heights. As a teacher herself who has experienced this government-sponsored training, my friend is rather well-qualified to speak on the subject.
May I introduce Preposition Man? I’m sorry if he’s confidential, but no one told me. He’s the little pipe cleaner figure teachers across our nation are encouraged to use to teach English in their classrooms. Under, above, on, beside. Mr. Preposition Man can do them all. Cute for a class full of second graders. But high school? What mental age are we teaching?
“The Emperor hasn’t got any clothes, Mommy!” the young boy screams. He’s not being brave. He’s just honest.
I look across our nation. Where we write “In God We Trust” on our quarters but aren’t allowed to hang His words on our courtroom walls. Where a woman can sue a fast food restaurant because she spilled hot coffee on herself. Where we’re having trouble defining marriage, baby, hate crime, and a whole host of other words. Where schools in Massachusetts recently adopted a policy that any child in their system wishing to be titled “she” must have that option. Even if “she” is a boy.
“The Emperor’s naked!” the child cries. While the grown-ups in the fairytale look on and say nothing.
Back to the quote at the beginning. It was written by a man named Dietrich Bonhoeffer. A German. In 1935. During the reign of Adolf Hitler.
Perhaps these are the sort of thoughts that come when delving into a nearly 600-page biography on the life of a martyred German pastor. Do you think I ought to stick with the daily comics from now on? I’m not really trying to be prophetic, and I’m certainly not political, but I do wonder sometimes where our nation is headed. And who in our country ought to stand up and say something about it.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
When Things That Don't Exist Come to Life
Rome wasn’t built in a day.
It’s an awful sentence. Negative. And weak-verbed to boot. I know all about sentences like that. I’ve been hunting them down in my manuscript. Eight hours a day, five days a week. I finally feel like a real author. Even with the [unpublished] preface. Here, on revamp #258. Okay, it’s not really that bad. But that’s how it seems.
Back to the Rome sentence. It may be awful, but it’s also very true. Applicable for cities, families, and books. Maybe especially imaginary world books.
I’m currently reading the true account of a reject horse named Snowball. (See Elizabeth Letts' The Eighty Dollar Champion.) Dog meat material turned jumping champion in the middle of the last century. The author’s done a tremendous job of digging into the story, setting the stage, bringing the characters to life, taking us to the scene of the triumph.
Oh, but goodness, it makes me glad I’m writing fiction. I’d really hate to set up camp in a Surnian library to research their history. And the Elite? I don’t know how I’d portray them faithfully. They’re much too terrifying. I’d be afraid of them decapitating me in the middle of the night if they didn’t like what I said. Which, of course, they wouldn’t.
The good news is the characters are putting on flesh and blood. Really. Bounding right off my computer screen and into the house. (Don’t worry. I locked them in the basement last time. I don’t think they’ll try it again.)
Until next time . . . Enjoy your coffee and the color green. (Hopefully not both at the same time.) I’ll be staring at my computer screen, seeing all sorts of things that don’t exist.
(Oh! Thought you might like to eyeball this relic from Surn. Found it in the village library. Squashed between a teenager’s journal and a recipe for fried frog legs. Apparently, no one thought it was very important. I snuck it over to the Xerox machine when no one was looking.)
It’s an awful sentence. Negative. And weak-verbed to boot. I know all about sentences like that. I’ve been hunting them down in my manuscript. Eight hours a day, five days a week. I finally feel like a real author. Even with the [unpublished] preface. Here, on revamp #258. Okay, it’s not really that bad. But that’s how it seems.
Back to the Rome sentence. It may be awful, but it’s also very true. Applicable for cities, families, and books. Maybe especially imaginary world books.
I’m currently reading the true account of a reject horse named Snowball. (See Elizabeth Letts' The Eighty Dollar Champion.) Dog meat material turned jumping champion in the middle of the last century. The author’s done a tremendous job of digging into the story, setting the stage, bringing the characters to life, taking us to the scene of the triumph.
Oh, but goodness, it makes me glad I’m writing fiction. I’d really hate to set up camp in a Surnian library to research their history. And the Elite? I don’t know how I’d portray them faithfully. They’re much too terrifying. I’d be afraid of them decapitating me in the middle of the night if they didn’t like what I said. Which, of course, they wouldn’t.
The good news is the characters are putting on flesh and blood. Really. Bounding right off my computer screen and into the house. (Don’t worry. I locked them in the basement last time. I don’t think they’ll try it again.)
Until next time . . . Enjoy your coffee and the color green. (Hopefully not both at the same time.) I’ll be staring at my computer screen, seeing all sorts of things that don’t exist.
(Oh! Thought you might like to eyeball this relic from Surn. Found it in the village library. Squashed between a teenager’s journal and a recipe for fried frog legs. Apparently, no one thought it was very important. I snuck it over to the Xerox machine when no one was looking.)
Sunday, March 17, 2013
My Imaginary Friend
Fifteen years old. Five foot five. Black hair. Brown eyes. Orphan.
And my favorite part:
Completely a figment of my imagination.
Or she was until my talented friend Kelsey Turner sat down in front of her computer and brought a figment of my imagination to life. Aaahhhhh!!! It's Frankenstein! Everybody run! . . . Oh. Sorry. Wrong book.
Now Jerusha is stalking facebook walls and blog posts, taking her first hesitant steps towards fictitious immortality. In my mind, just the fact that I can actually see her puts her well down the road towards Hollywood fame. Gotta love the mind of an aspiring author.
Anything is possible.
For now, I'm greatly enjoying the writing process and watching the talents in others come to life in this world through the venue of another world. Surn. You've never been there, have you? Don't worry. Give us a little more time . . . We're very much hoping to take you there soon.
May the wind ever make your eardrums beat and the broccoli ever flee the cracks between your teeth.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Dear Book Worms and Lab Rats
Dear Readership,
After countless bug-eyed hours spent reading tiny little words on a great big screen and the waves of brain cells irretrievably lost in the process, I can now declare with great sincerity that I know more about publishing than I did two weeks ago. I am so enjoying this newfound wisdom, in fact, that I am inviting you to join me. Mwah-ha-ha-ha! (Was that evil laughter? Oh dear. Where did that come from?)
We’re called The Guinea Pigs.
Actually, I’m not really part of the group. I’m more in the role of presiding mad scientist, though I have yet to track down a white lab coat.
The Guinea Pigs really do exist. Or at least they will until I exterminate them. Corporately. Not individually.
Here’s the grand announcement in regards to my non-published aspirations:
If you are a book worm longing to be a lab rat, and if you have a handful of hours to spare in the next month, and if your eyes can stand the hours of healthy computer screen radiation, then I (the mad scientist without the lab coat) invite you to join The Guinea Pigs.
It’s quite simple.
As an unpublished author who knows more than she did but still doesn’t know much, I am working the kinks out of my book. Yes, even mad scientists have kinks - and it has nothing to do with my hair. I am inviting all family, friends, perfect strangers even to read through my manuscript in three segments and answer a few painless questions at the end of each. No mad editing skills needed here. Just gut reactions. I am greatly hoping this will get me more in touch with the reality of my book and less captivated with the fascinating but slightly illogical illusion I’ve been staring at.
If you are interested, please send me a note, and I’ll sign you up with the rest of my brave Guinea Pigs. (Don’t worry. No one’s been poisoned yet.) If you’d like to know more about the book first, click on Et cetera on the blue strip above.
May your slippers ever warm your toes and the robins never catch your fingers.
Most sincerely,
the authorship
After countless bug-eyed hours spent reading tiny little words on a great big screen and the waves of brain cells irretrievably lost in the process, I can now declare with great sincerity that I know more about publishing than I did two weeks ago. I am so enjoying this newfound wisdom, in fact, that I am inviting you to join me. Mwah-ha-ha-ha! (Was that evil laughter? Oh dear. Where did that come from?)
We’re called The Guinea Pigs.
Actually, I’m not really part of the group. I’m more in the role of presiding mad scientist, though I have yet to track down a white lab coat.
The Guinea Pigs really do exist. Or at least they will until I exterminate them. Corporately. Not individually.
Here’s the grand announcement in regards to my non-published aspirations:
If you are a book worm longing to be a lab rat, and if you have a handful of hours to spare in the next month, and if your eyes can stand the hours of healthy computer screen radiation, then I (the mad scientist without the lab coat) invite you to join The Guinea Pigs.
It’s quite simple.
As an unpublished author who knows more than she did but still doesn’t know much, I am working the kinks out of my book. Yes, even mad scientists have kinks - and it has nothing to do with my hair. I am inviting all family, friends, perfect strangers even to read through my manuscript in three segments and answer a few painless questions at the end of each. No mad editing skills needed here. Just gut reactions. I am greatly hoping this will get me more in touch with the reality of my book and less captivated with the fascinating but slightly illogical illusion I’ve been staring at.
If you are interested, please send me a note, and I’ll sign you up with the rest of my brave Guinea Pigs. (Don’t worry. No one’s been poisoned yet.) If you’d like to know more about the book first, click on Et cetera on the blue strip above.
Most sincerely,
the authorship
Monday, February 25, 2013
Ding, Ding, Ding: Round 1
I've stepped into the ring. Dry-mouthed. Heart pounding. Forgetting all those hooks and jabs I never did take the time to learn. Gloves on. Actually, though, I couldn't find my boxing gloves, so I'm making do with a pair of oven mitts instead. Do you think they'll mind? Standing here waving my fists around in circles, waiting my turn to get clobbered.
Or that's how I feel anyway.
The vision in my head is ever so much more exciting than what really happened.
What really happened is I sat down in front of my computer screen for endless hours, googled things like "writing a fiction book proposal" and "finding an agent," and finally sent off a couple hopeful queries to potential publishers and agents.
See? The boxing metaphor is more amusing.
Now I'm waiting to see if I get an Old Aunt Bertha response that starts out, "Thank you for your proposal, but we regret to inform you . . . ." (Ding, ding, ding! End of Round One!) - or - if I hear something more like Yoda's, "Welcome, my young padawan apprentice."
I suppose either one would be alright. But I am rather hoping at least one of the replies veers more towards the latter.
I don't know if I can say I'm exactly enjoying my introduction to the world of publishing. One thing I have found in my research is a whole host of YA Christian fantasy books I never knew existed before. My favorite so far is Rachel Starr Thomson's World's Unseen from The Seventh World Trilogy. It's free on Amazon if you have a Kindle. (Note: In the publishing world, this is what they refer to as an endorsement. If I could get the President of the United States to endorse my book, I'd be golden.)
In the meanwhile, I'll be sitting in front of my computer, waiting to hear back from Aunt Bertha or Yoda.
Or that's how I feel anyway.
The vision in my head is ever so much more exciting than what really happened.
What really happened is I sat down in front of my computer screen for endless hours, googled things like "writing a fiction book proposal" and "finding an agent," and finally sent off a couple hopeful queries to potential publishers and agents.
See? The boxing metaphor is more amusing.
Now I'm waiting to see if I get an Old Aunt Bertha response that starts out, "Thank you for your proposal, but we regret to inform you . . . ." (Ding, ding, ding! End of Round One!) - or - if I hear something more like Yoda's, "Welcome, my young padawan apprentice."
I suppose either one would be alright. But I am rather hoping at least one of the replies veers more towards the latter.
I don't know if I can say I'm exactly enjoying my introduction to the world of publishing. One thing I have found in my research is a whole host of YA Christian fantasy books I never knew existed before. My favorite so far is Rachel Starr Thomson's World's Unseen from The Seventh World Trilogy. It's free on Amazon if you have a Kindle. (Note: In the publishing world, this is what they refer to as an endorsement. If I could get the President of the United States to endorse my book, I'd be golden.)
In the meanwhile, I'll be sitting in front of my computer, waiting to hear back from Aunt Bertha or Yoda.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Oh, the Joys of Authoring!
(From an author who possibly is inspired and maybe aspired and possibly soon will be expired, but might not really be an author in the strictest sense of the word)
I’ve been looking for a place to make a proposal.
Which, I would like to note, is entirely different from looking for a person to make a proposal.
I’ve finished a book. And in very good time too. Now. In the year 2013. When the tried and true publishing companies find new authors too risky to . . . well, risk. And most of the other publishing companies sound a bit fishy if the reviews I’m reading are any measure.
I learned about circular reasoning way back in high school. They didn’t tell me it affected the publishing world. It goes like this:
Me: How do I sell my book?
Them: Well, you have to have a platform.
Me: How do I get a platform?
Them: Well, you have to do something famous, like selling a book.
I’m currently spending my extra hours wading through various publishing sites (oh, and there’s all sorts of those, let me tell you!) in the search for their submission guidelines. If you can find the guidelines (They seem to like to hide in remote corners, chortling, “You'll never find me here! Mwa-ha-ha!”), they tend to read like a rejection from a rather frumpish old maid. “We’re sorry, but we do not at this time accept unsolicited proposals.” (Ie: A thousand pardons if you’ve already bought the ring, but I really didn’t ask you for one, so kindly take it away!”)
All those solicitings and proposings are rather going to my head.
I watch movies like Miss Potter and Becoming Jane and wish I could jump in my carriage with my bundle of penned parchments, drive to the nearest publishing company, and say in a clear British voice, “Pardon, but could you spare me a moment of your time?”
I suppose I could try renting a carriage, painstakingly write my manuscript out with a quill, and don an infallible British accent with the publishing companies of today, but I doubt it would help.
Can you be arrested for that sort of thing?
I am pleased to announce two very small bits of headway. First, I have an only-slightly-less-than-official editor now delving into my manuscript. And, second, I’ve started on my way to knowing all the options that will not work. (How many failures did it take before Edison perfected the light bulb?)
In the meanwhile, I’m tentatively sketching a plan for Book Two and wondering if I ought to find a second job.
I’ve been looking for a place to make a proposal.
Which, I would like to note, is entirely different from looking for a person to make a proposal.
I’ve finished a book. And in very good time too. Now. In the year 2013. When the tried and true publishing companies find new authors too risky to . . . well, risk. And most of the other publishing companies sound a bit fishy if the reviews I’m reading are any measure.
I learned about circular reasoning way back in high school. They didn’t tell me it affected the publishing world. It goes like this:
Me: How do I sell my book?
Them: Well, you have to have a platform.
Me: How do I get a platform?
Them: Well, you have to do something famous, like selling a book.
I’m currently spending my extra hours wading through various publishing sites (oh, and there’s all sorts of those, let me tell you!) in the search for their submission guidelines. If you can find the guidelines (They seem to like to hide in remote corners, chortling, “You'll never find me here! Mwa-ha-ha!”), they tend to read like a rejection from a rather frumpish old maid. “We’re sorry, but we do not at this time accept unsolicited proposals.” (Ie: A thousand pardons if you’ve already bought the ring, but I really didn’t ask you for one, so kindly take it away!”)
All those solicitings and proposings are rather going to my head.
I watch movies like Miss Potter and Becoming Jane and wish I could jump in my carriage with my bundle of penned parchments, drive to the nearest publishing company, and say in a clear British voice, “Pardon, but could you spare me a moment of your time?”
I suppose I could try renting a carriage, painstakingly write my manuscript out with a quill, and don an infallible British accent with the publishing companies of today, but I doubt it would help.
Can you be arrested for that sort of thing?
I am pleased to announce two very small bits of headway. First, I have an only-slightly-less-than-official editor now delving into my manuscript. And, second, I’ve started on my way to knowing all the options that will not work. (How many failures did it take before Edison perfected the light bulb?)
In the meanwhile, I’m tentatively sketching a plan for Book Two and wondering if I ought to find a second job.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
The Search for . . .
I would really love - you have no idea how much I would love - to type three little letters here.
Really.
Really, really love.
CIA.
Maybe when I’m 70 and have come to terms with deserting my begonias. (It’s a Mrs. Pollifax thing. If you haven’t read the books, you probably think I’m crazy right now.)
However. No, sadly, my search has nothing to do with the CIA. Or at least it doesn’t yet. Who knows? They could become involved later on.
What I’m really doing right now in present time in this world is searching for a publishing company. To, you know, publish. Because of last month's announcement. Travá. The manuscript that's gotten all super official now and earned itself a slash above the last a. Mostly because I kept hearing family members say "Trav-uh?" (Kayla!), and a slash was a good way to make things less confusing.
Since the publishing search is filling up a rather large part of my computer time at present, this blog could quickly turn into an unfortunate rant of pent-up frustrations from all my as-of-yet-un-received rejection letters. (I’m trying to be realistic and bracing myself for the worst.)
Or I could go off radar and get so disappointed, I just stop writing entirely.
I’m not really sure which.
I guess we’ll have to wait and see.
(Oh, in the event that the third option happens and I rise to fame overnight, you should probably request a copy of my autograph now before I start charging.)
Welcome to the incoherent ramblings of a wannabe author.
(Make yourself a member up in the right-hand corner and be one of the first to read, “ACK! I’m published!! Now what????”)
Monday, February 4, 2013
Et Cetera
Up on the dark sea blue strip overhanging this post are two little words: Et Cetera.
That might be only one little word. I'm not really up on my Latin.
Anyhow.
The two little words are my link to you and your link to my . . . creativity. I'm really good at inventing new things. Not like light bulbs or panty hose. More like musicals and earrings. I'm not so good at actually telling people that I've invented something. Et Cetera is my new way to clue you in to what I'm currently inventing.
Consider yourself clued.
(Hint: If you're not seeing my Latin, you can click this word Here.)
Monday, January 28, 2013
So, to Answer Your Question.....
This blog is being written in an attempt to blow off at least some of the layers of dust that have been gathering here over the past few months . . . AND because I am suffering under the delusion that at least some of you enjoy reading.
Possibly not reading 300+ pages on a computer screen, but isn’t that what ipads and smartphones are for? So, for all of you technologically advanced who are bored with the apps and looking for something amazing to do with your new-found (or old-treasured) electronic wealth, allow me to make this small suggestion.
I’ve been writing rather copiously these past few months. Not here obviously. But writing nonetheless. And the result now stands ready for inspection.
Trava.
A modern day fairytale from the country of Surn.
Which you’ve never heard of before, have you?
That’s because I made it up. All 38 chapters. Fainting ladies, burning barns, talking animals, and rather elusive kings included.
It’s not published at present, and just in case it’s not, you’d better read it while you have the chance. Thanks to the Internet, Trava is online in very organized chapters, waiting patiently for your perusal.
You’ll find it Here.
You are most welcome to share this with anyone you'd like - especially those between the ages of 9-17. I'd also love to hear from you with any thoughts or suggestions you might have. I've already changed a piano to a flute and gotten rid of a water faucet. Who knows? You might be able to make the main character a blonde.
Take it while you can. If the manuscript ever makes it to print, it’s not going to be free anymore. :-)
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