Another November ends...

I have missed you this month.

I have missed me this month.

I chose once again to dive into the madness that is NaNoWriMo.

I sat, I typed, I drank too much coffee.

I kept my schedule free of lunch dates with friends.

I spent many evening hours apart from my beloved husband.

But I have broken the surface victorious with 50,000 new words.

I will take time now to inhale and celebrate.

Here's a tiny little clip I posted on my NaNoWriMo profile:

Linda’s father was a man of few words and what words he did use were harsh and cold. She learned to stay out of his way whenever possible, afraid of the steel freeze of his eyes. It seemed to the young girl that her mother did the same, slipping in and out of rooms like a shadow.

Laughter in the house rarely rang out and only when her father was away, then and only then would Linda catch the faint edges of a smile from her mother. The turn of her father’s key in the front door lock always chased the smiles away.

Linda, her older sister and her little brother walked nervous through their own house, never certain when the eerie stillness would be shattered by the next storm.

It might be the meat on his dinner plate was too well done, or his favourite white shirt was not folded perfectly square, or a toy happened to not get put away before he got home. The air cracked as his voice cut through like a whip, accusing and condemning.

Plates were thrown, glasses smashed and flesh bruised. The children and their mother were given names like labels branded on their hearts. Stupid. Useless. In the way. They were idiots, pains in the ass, good for nothing and failures. Time and again they were reminded that they really were not worth his time.

“I could do so much better than all of you” he would announce. “I should just walk away and start over.”

Linda never told anyone about the small hope she kept burning in her heart that he would live up to his threats and leave. But day followed day, week after week, and the years piled up one after the other.


 

Back to work / wings

Courage. Focus. Trust.

Three words stacked, shuffled, played again and again in my spirit.

November was a frenzy of word output in the midst of the chaos of life and when I had met the goal to reach 50,000 words I set my novel aside and granted myself sabbath, the month of December to be still through advent and rejoice in Christmas.  Now December draws to a swift end.

As the new year begins I must begin again, with courage, focus, trust and with perseverance.

Here's another little bite of what I've been cooking:

Jessie opened her Bible again to read:

Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.

“I like sparrows” she thought “they’re small like me, at least I feel small. But this keeps telling me not to worry, just like the calm voice tells me.” She closed the book, resting her chin on her hand, thinking about small birds and wings and wondering if God counts feathers too.
Johnny interrupted her thoughts, placing a steaming dinner plate in front of her, saying “Wings for my Angel with wings.”

“What??” she chirped, astonished.

“You said surprise you, what’s the matter. You don’t like wings?”

“How do you do that?” she asked him, starting to laugh, shaking her head.

“Do what? What did I do now?” Johnny looked confused.

“Well, God must like to talk through you or something. When I dreamed about fruit you offered me fresh fruit. Now this.”

“What? What? I still don’t get it.”

“I was just reading where God takes care of me and loves me more than sparrows, and I was sitting here thinking of feathers and wings…”

Johnny slapped his hand down hard on the table and released a loud roar of laughter. “And here I come with a big plate of wings. That is strange. Kind of scary if you ask me.”

“I think God just wants us to know He’s paying attention” Jessie answered. “And by the way, I do like wings, and these smell wonderful.”

"Weird, that’s what I say” Johnny pointed his thumb toward Bobbie. “We’ve gotta tell Roberta and see what she says about all this. Weird.”

Jessie didn’t answer for a moment. Her mouth was too full, savouring the taste of lemon, garlic and oregano on the wings. “Why should I be surprised that you’d make Greek wings?” she laughed.

“Hey Johnny” Bobbie called from the table where she had seated the couple with the wet umbrellas. “These nice folks said whatever it is you just brought out that smells so good, that’s what they want too.”

“Wings” Johnny said. “Greek wings. Anyone else want some?”
Hands went up around the room.

“Alright then, you got ‘em. Wings all around” he said, disappearing back into his kitchen.

As Jessie ate she let her mind wander, seeing wings and feathers and heads covered with hairstyles of all shapes and colours. The anxiety of the afternoon drained away.

“I’m not sure why I feel so peaceful all of a sudden” she spoke silently “but thank You.”

That’s My peace, and thank you for realizing it was Me.” The voice was strong, kind and clear. It almost felt like she could wrap it around her shoulders.

 

Thankful for choice

Sharing a bit of a snip from my work-in-progress:

“That was a big dinner” she thought “and I’m so full. But I still want to try to eat more of God.” She sank into the sofa and opened her bible, continuing on where she left off.

You can identify them by their fruit, that is, by the way they act. Can you pick grapes from thornbushes, or figs from thistles? ¹⁷ A good tree produces good fruit, and a bad tree produces bad fruit.  Matthew 7:16-17 NLT

“You know what kind of tree you are” the voices sneered.

“Are you going to listen to them?” asked the calm One.

“No, I am not” thought Jessie. “Help me to not hear them.”

“Choose to not listen. Choose.”

“Okay” Jessie whispered aloud. “I only want to listen to you.” She closed her eyes and breathing deeply, drifted into a dream.

She was in surrounded by trees. Everywhere she looked she saw lush green leaves and more types of fruit than she had ever seen before in one place. There were apples of every colour, peaches, pears and every sort of citrus fruit. She wandered from tree to tree and noticed that there was not a single blemish or spot on any of the fruits. Each one looked perfect. She couldn’t resist tasting them, and found each one rich and sweet, totally ripe and ready to eat. The juices dribbled down her chin.

The sound of a car starting in the street below woke her. She laughed when she realized she had been drooling. Not juice, just a dream, a very nice, bright dream.

“Thank you God” she said as she rose to prepare for bed. “Thank you for showing me the good trees and not the rotten trees.”

“You can choose what you want to see” she thought she heard Him answer.

“Choices?” she smiled. “I never thought I had any choices. Might take some getting used to.”



Jamming with Bonnie about gratitude

Sharing with Emily and the others imperfect but loved.

 

His plans

I have been scarce around here lately due to NaNoWriMo and I miss taking time to ponder blog posts and poetry.  It is a struggle to stay away, when I would prefer to be here instead of waiting on God's words for my novel-in-progress.

But while I may be taking time away from many things, I have not taken a break from my morning time with the Lord.  Here is what He shared with me yesterday:

For I know the plans I have for you and they are good plans and they will unfold just as morning unfolds in the Eastern sky.

Walk beside Me.  Allow My light to fall upon you, not so that you have light, no, so that you reflect that light so that more would see Me.

Keep not the glory that is due My name.

As you shine, shine for Me.
As you speak, speak for Me.
As you have breath and live,
live and breathe for Me alone.

I know what I'm doing. I have it all planned out—plans to take care of you, not abandon you, plans to give you the future you hope for. Jeremiah 29:11 The Message


 

Strategy? What strategy?

Image found at http://www.dreamstime.com/nib-pen-and-inkwell-thumb2029268.jpg

I should have a plan
that's surely what the world would say
what writing logic would say
50,000 words in 30 days
there must be a strategy to accomplish such a task
and yet

the only plan I can follow
is His
the only words I wish to write
are those He supplies

my only strategy
is surrender
to be a pen in His hand
leaking Jesus onto every page

joining Peter Pollock and others talking about strategy

 

November madness

The last hours of October are passing quickly, with cloudy skies and temperatures well above normal.

It doesn't feel at all like October 31st.

But indeed, tomorrow is the first day of November.  Though it seems as if only weeks or months have passed since National Novel Writing Month 2010 wrapped up, I will wake tomorrow to begin afresh for 2011.

Again I ask for your patience, your grace and your prayers.  I may not be present here on my blog quite as often as I settle into the imposed (and much needed) discipline of daily fiction writing.

I am surrendering myself into the hands of the Lord, once again permitting Him to supply the stories and the words, in His way for His purposes.

I pray that He will be glorified in what gets accomplished.

 

Imperfect Prose - Sugar Hearts

Jessie and Sara Jayne sat without speaking, drinking their coffee. Sara Jayne’s two year old Miranda had fallen asleep with her head on her mama’s lap, while Laura and Charlie, her other two children busied themselves, building a city out of creamers, cutlery and sugar packets. They were uncommonly quiet for children only seven and four, as if they knew that they mustn’t attract too much attention. Instead of speaking, Charlie would tug at his mother’s sleeve and point at what he had constructed, looking for some sign of approval. Vacant eyes looked upon his work without comment. Instead, Laura, his older sister smiled at him and noiselessly clapped her hands. He smiled sadly, accepting the morsel of her encouragement.

Laura took some sugar packets and laid them out on the table in the shape of a heart, tapped Charlie on the shoulder, pointed to herself, then to the heart, then to him. The unspoken “I love you” made his smile a bit brighter. He tugged on Jessie’s sleeve again until she looked at him, then he repeated what his sister had just done for him, pointing at himself, at the heart and at Sara Jayne.

“Right” she said, brushing the sugar packets off the table, onto the floor and the children’s laps. “What’s that’s supposed to mean anyway.”

Charlie’s lips began to quiver as he turned his eyes away. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry” said a voice similar to the one that echoed in Sara Jayne’s head. “It will hurt even more if you cry.”

Laura collected whatever sugars she could, and stacked them neatly in the holder on the table, creating order out of disorder so quickly that Jessie thought she must be well practiced at such.



Stop by Emily's In the Hush of the Moon for more imperfected words

HisFireFly

Rejoicing

This morning I am rejoicing in the overwhelming sense of victory and wonder at all that God has done as I determined to surrender again and again to His leading, allowing me to write Redeeming Silence, the story that He chose.

Last night, even knowing I still had today to complete the NaNoWriMo 50,000 word challenge, I felt the need to press hard and get it done, in a sense compelled to feel the breaking of the tape at the final lean into the finish line.

To anyone I have ignored or neglected during this past month of hiding out in front of the keyboard, please forgive me.

To my beloved Rick, nothing I do would be possible without the love you allow God to pour through you. I will continue to lean on your encouragement and support as I work with and trust in our God to complete what He has begun.

I have may have reached 50,000 words, but the story has much more to go. I pray that with His strength I have the courage, boldness and conviction to see it through.

Not that I have already attained, or am already perfected; but I press on, that I may lay hold of that for which Christ Jesus has also laid hold of me Philippians 3:12 NKJV

Momentary rest

Feathers fluffed
against the wind
this chickadee
finds momentary rest
a frozen foothold
providing peace.

The intensity of NaNoWriMo is coming to an end. November has slipped past me and I have likely missed many things along the way. The work God has begun in me and through me shall continue as December turns the calendar but perhaps with a bit more time to participate in life as it continues all around me.

May I also find my foothold, strong and secure, in the shadow of His wings.

Drifting

If you had only heard the reported amount of snowfall yesterday you would not have believed what the world looked like around us last night and this morning.

Rick's truck didn't make it home yesterday, sliding to a stop across our gravel road about half a mile from the house.

The drifting continued along with new snow through the night. Rick phoned in to work to say "If you want me there, you're going to have to come get me" and we were both surprised when they did just that!

I never went out, even to take pictures, preferring the warmth inside. The picture above is another day, another year. I used the day to to try to write, with NaNoWriMo and an article on deadline for the Marriage Counter at Internet Cafe Devotions.

I sat to type, my head pounded. I got up to look out at the snow. My head pounded. I read emails, I looked at the snow. I wrote a few words. My head pounded. I chatted on the phone. I wept before the Lord. My head pounded. I read some blogs and prayed about the state of our yard. I got up to look out the window at the snow. Outside and inside, drifting continued. A friend prayed on the phone about my headache. I ate some cheese. I wrote the words God provided.

A neighbor arrived to plow and blow snow, working to clear the yard. Rick was delivered home, safe and sound and is back outside shoveling what can't be plowed.

Inside I remain, headache still hanging around on the fringes. More words will come as He wills. I am warm. I am sheltered. I am blessed.

And drifting continues.

Imperfect Prose - Snippet

I'm accepting a large dose of the Lord's courage and boldness and sharing a bit of my NaNoWriMo work-in-progress. It certainly qualifies as imperfect prose.

Instead of turning on the television Jessie opened her new Bible. She re-read the verses she had already read in Johnny’s Bible and they did seem to be a little bit easier to understand. “Maybe I’m not too dumb to get it” she thought. “Maybe I can learn what it all means.”

But to all who believed him and accepted him, he gave the right to become children of God. They are reborn—not with a physical birth resulting from human passion or plan, but a birth that comes from God.

If she became a child of God, that would mean that God would be her father. Jessie closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would feel like to know that God was her father, but because she never knew a father she couldn’t put the pieces together. She never knew that a father should love you; she only was told that a father leaves you.

She had a night filled with dreams of babies and fathers coming and going. Some of the babies were taken home and others were left behind. There were babies that screamed and babies that were silent. In the dreams Jessie was trying to unlock the secret of which babies were loved but there was no predictable pattern to it. It seemed to have nothing to do with the babies and everything to do with the men who were supposed to be their fathers.

In the last dream of the night, all of the babies that had been left behind grew up very quickly and as adults, all of them were holding up signs with writing in different colours that said “There is something wrong with me.”

Jessie woke up thinking “That’s exactly how I feel, but if it wasn’t the babies’ faults then maybe it wasn’t my fault either.”

“I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions if I were you” said the voices, though they sounded a bit muffled.

“Maybe I was already jumping to conclusions” she answered back “and they were the wrong ones.”


Stop by Emily's In the Hush of the Moon to read more or perhaps even share some of your own words imperfect.

Word fight

Image via Wikipedia

For many years,

I had left poetry

behind
and for reasons of His own
in this season
my Lord has led me

back to rhythm,

meter

and rhyme.
If I try to force

a poem
what flows is prose.

With fictional prose as my goal
the words tumble out as poetry.

Words with a life of their own
seem to have donned boxing gloves
and taken to the ring.

So I wait before the Lord
Who has a story
He desires unfolded
and I lay out adjectives,
verbs, nouns
like a jigsaw puzzle.

I ache for these newly developed
characters
that they would know Him.
Then I think
how much more He grieved for me
before I turned.

I am behind in my word count for NaNoWriMo, but feel I can only move as quickly as He allows. I am not writing my story this year, but instead I have surrendered to Him and will allow Him to lead me.