tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-110228792024-03-27T03:25:11.258-07:00Life in the ShoeRemember the old woman who lived in a shoe? I'm a lot like her, with a husband and varying numbers of children in our 100-year-old farmhouse. This blog is about our lives.Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.comBlogger1863125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-44667136717485035582024-03-11T21:37:00.000-07:002024-03-11T21:38:04.392-07:00 Guest Post: What Mennonite Readers Want From Mennonite Writers<p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>At our recent writing conference, Rose Miller led a discussion on what's missing in Anabaptist writing, then summarized it all and sent it to me. You can read it below.</i></span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIafJl8etvQvjWwQ2Md7exh4ms8P8jrgJSuPL0MQzIhU-r6hR1p7Go2keuw4WWPy3O0r_xyFVm6Sb64nKK0lcmFkYscEpyBuVLCEGEPxZe20V_F_Jit-VpP7WSqQi_mezQaOfT5UVVPbb3oQDCEMkcCghBKqrlBvhwosks29nvJcHjq5byR6NGXQ/s4898/_DSC2326.jpg" style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large; font-style: italic; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIafJl8etvQvjWwQ2Md7exh4ms8P8jrgJSuPL0MQzIhU-r6hR1p7Go2keuw4WWPy3O0r_xyFVm6Sb64nKK0lcmFkYscEpyBuVLCEGEPxZe20V_F_Jit-VpP7WSqQi_mezQaOfT5UVVPbb3oQDCEMkcCghBKqrlBvhwosks29nvJcHjq5byR6NGXQ/w640-h426/_DSC2326.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>What do you think of when you think of Mennonite writing? Some of us have visions of poorly designed covers and stories that followed a prescribed path. Mother always smiled gently, Father chuckled softly, and Peter and Rachel learned their life lessons with diligence. We also think of writers that combined compelling characters and realistic lives into an unforgettable story. For me, one of those writers was Christmas Carol Kauffman. Her books were my favorites in the school library and were read and re-read with enthusiasm.</span></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Writers have a tremendous opportunity to speak into and influence our culture and thinking. They also provide a window into our lives that speaks to people not in our faith. That’s why it is important to constructively discuss how we can improve on our writing and make it relevant to current generations.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">The questions below were asked to a random group of about 30-40 people.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Discussion Questions</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">1. In a typical year, how many books do you read by Mennonite authors? What would help this number rise? Church libraries, ease of access, platforms like audiobooks and ebooks?</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Most answers were less than five. Very few were more than that, and none were over ten. To help the number rise, quite a few suggested more well-read audiobooks. Church libraries would also help, because most readers have limited space and money for all their books. Another suggestion was a place to buy used copies, like Thriftbooks. Affordable options are great! Hard covers with illustrations are generally more expensive than soft-covers.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">2. What genre (mystery, memoir, etc.) do you feel is lacking in Mennonite writing? What would you personally enjoy reading?</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">It seems good fiction is the biggest lack. Most of the stories that are published for adults are about someone’s painful, harrowing life experiences. (This may have more to do with publishers than writers.) There is not a lot of relaxing, happy stories for entertainment. A good suggestion here was for historical fiction about Anabaptists throughout history. There could be room for this on several age levels.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Another thing lacking seems to be literary works, whether fiction or journalism. More suggestions were for Mennonite apologists; non-fiction that meets ethical and academic standards with cited sources; subjects like sciences, psychology, and marriage; and more in-depth exploration of the complex human experience. Ordinary life is also beautiful and interesting to read! A good Mennonite mystery could be both humorous and insightful if done well. There also seems to be a real lack of men that write: does a culture that values physical labor consider that to be an acceptable profession for men?</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">3. Do you consider fiction worthwhile? Would the Mennonite life-style be cheapened by it, as in Amish romances that present a glamorous and unrealistic view of Plain People?</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">One of my personal pet peeves is when I hear people say, “If it’s not true, I don’t have time for it.” All good fiction contains elements of truth and it can be an effective tool for difficult subjects. To Kill a Mockingbird is a good example of this. We (mostly) agreed that good fiction can teach a lesson, be very inspiring, grapple with reality, and make us kinder, better people. One of the most powerful tools in fiction is honest characters with flaws that deal with real issues. In real life, not all the loose ends tie up into a neat bow on top. Good fiction will reflect this.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">4. What do you find unattractive in Mennonite writing? What do you find appealing?</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">The answer here was largely unrealistic. Some others were lack of humor; small world-view; poor syntax, structure, and plot; using writing for a “bully pulpit”; over-emphasized morals; narration instead of story-telling; shallow and unemotional. Whew, that was a lot! Let’s move on to what we find appealing.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Most of us like authors that are trustworthy. Writing that doesn’t contain bad language and compromising scenes is getting harder to find, even in children’s books. Some more strong</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> points are real people’s stories; authentic descriptions of Mennonite life; the practical teaching on living out our faith; and a common world-view. Another comment here was that reading a book carries a lot more weight when it is written by someone whom you know to be a person of good character.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">5.What are some practical ways Mennonite readers can support Mennonite writers?</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">We need and want Mennonite writers! Here’s some ways to encourage them:</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Buy their books! Tell other people about them. Rate and review their books on platforms like Amazon and Goodreads. Email or message them to let them know what you liked about their book; writing into a silent void can be disheartening. Support writers’ conferences and encourage writers to seek further education. Promote and teach good writing and literature in Christian schools. Encourage men to be creative and share their writing. Don’t take writers too seriously! They should be given room to be human and to also exercise creative license so they can tell a good story. Keep criticism kind and productive.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">An interesting comment was that we as Mennonites place a high value on community. Writing well requires a certain degree of loneliness: sometimes writers are forced to choose between writing and community. Give them some room for that and don’t judge them harshly for not always showing up. And last, but not least, offer to wash their dishes or babysit so they can write.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">To summarize, I’ll quote from a fellow reader: “I find the same things appealing in Mennonite writing as I do elsewhere: information presented in ways that are easy to retain, stories that help me understand others, and writing that is witty and skillful at conveying ideas.”</span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;">---<br /></span></span><i style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A big thank you to Rose for asking good questions, leading a lively discussion, and summarizing it here.</span></i></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: medium;"><i>How would you answer her questions? What would you like to add? Share your thoughts in the comments. Comments are moderated, so they won't appear right away.</i></span></span></div>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-84052736849321777632024-03-09T19:15:00.000-08:002024-03-09T22:03:34.635-08:00The Writing Conference: The Wild Idea That Actually Happened <div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">WAWC 2024 was an idea that grew into something much bigger than we imagined.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijYTH8d4MXHWw78cosgpDk_IyE2gZN9irTE7Sb3-I34CoF6Y1L6g9Dz5K6sMDVn4s5n3Q3aV_n5jUD9pbqsdWFrVijSKYFhA7h-gbseSYa1-2xVfNk7ZCG3O7LvGyIaaNNQ0j7q7hQ8qoyT-5FUkP1ng4bHRDP0qFcDxq9stk89kJ3aR04TRYaLA/s4898/_DSC2108.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijYTH8d4MXHWw78cosgpDk_IyE2gZN9irTE7Sb3-I34CoF6Y1L6g9Dz5K6sMDVn4s5n3Q3aV_n5jUD9pbqsdWFrVijSKYFhA7h-gbseSYa1-2xVfNk7ZCG3O7LvGyIaaNNQ0j7q7hQ8qoyT-5FUkP1ng4bHRDP0qFcDxq9stk89kJ3aR04TRYaLA/w640-h426/_DSC2108.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />In a way, it began with the first writers’ dinner some fifteen years ago.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Writing is by definition a lonely occupation, just you and your pen or computer, almost impossible to do in the company of others. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />Anabaptist writers in the West are especially alone. It’s not uncommon to be the only writer in your congregation or, depending where you live, the only Mennonite author within a hundred miles. Sometimes you feel like Elijah: "I, even I only, am left." Depending what controversial subjects you choose to write about, you feel like the rest of the verse applies to you as well: ". . . and they seek my life, to take it away."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Yet, connection is vital, and there’s nothing as replenishing as a group of writers getting together to talk about editors, queries, publishing, and all the writerly angst that no one else understands.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">One August, I found out that half a dozen writer friends were planning to attend the annual Western Fellowship Teachers’ Institute just ten minutes away at Lake Creek Mennonite School. [It seems that in the Mennonite world, teaching and writing often overlap.] My sister-in-law Laura and I decided to organize a writers’ dinner one evening during WFTI.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />It was going to be at Laura’s house, but then her family got sick, so we hosted it here. That led to an annual event that eventually included a wide variety of Mennonite writers, including ones that weren’t here for the teachers’ institute but were traveling through at just the right time.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />Eventually, we got the wild idea for a writing conference, and in 2019, about 25 of us gathered for the first Western Anabaptist Writers' Conference at Pioneer Christian Academy. Mary Hake helped a lot, and Jon and Jane Kropf, and Laura the reliable sister-in-law.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />At the time, we discussed doing it again because we all felt it had been a success. I thought we should form a committee and do it officially and right. But before that could happen, Covid hit, making gatherings much more difficult, and Paul was severely injured in a fall, followed by a long recovery. A writing conference was the last thing on our minds.<br /><br />However, in 2022 and 2023, we again hosted writers’ dinners and both times people asked about another conference. “If you host it, we will come,” they promised.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />All right then. Impulsively, I said would spearhead it again, and we'd see what happened. In the months to come, I'd ask myself what I was thinking. The truth was, I didn't think it through, I just dove in and did it, which is sometimes the best way to actually get things done.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />Jane Kropf said she’s not at the stage of life to be in charge, but she’d be happy to help with ideas, so I went to her house one day with a notebook and pen, and she and I and her son Hudson brainstormed for an hour. </span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I left with pages of notes and a basic outline for the day.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRGgdqqxSLNzCrp2AlWyxXHQUxaI6bTtnfVXyMkFJhHCfLwtl2IGtFO-N6iHI7xUuyTu-iWHARJuuJhWgiix-x2NqyED2_bbICdSVQQOEHz3akcoRxOWV7epIQAw3AkhoGr4TGpeiJLcUwJWYqLz3iJWX2pPv6L2Lmh33vAqbIpLfRU2fa1kqhxw/s4898/1L0A6780.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRGgdqqxSLNzCrp2AlWyxXHQUxaI6bTtnfVXyMkFJhHCfLwtl2IGtFO-N6iHI7xUuyTu-iWHARJuuJhWgiix-x2NqyED2_bbICdSVQQOEHz3akcoRxOWV7epIQAw3AkhoGr4TGpeiJLcUwJWYqLz3iJWX2pPv6L2Lmh33vAqbIpLfRU2fa1kqhxw/w640-h426/1L0A6780.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Liesel Kropf and Hannah Hozen helped with registration</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNhCQHcBOwElm73lgBNZ45DxTZGAYFQ5ZlzoK9upCdzYcyVqdV9l1oBaIUd0Pl5Ov-h4orAsoSoihfjqwXqpeATu0Kt0JHm4LgvqEhPsMZYqiM0nt9hlTdaQQE4F3bqEH8PNWjLSRAnJPNiAwVRbqgKzwdCWEzgwUJpIj9HUfYHi6g5O_yB8E6Jg/s4898/_DSC2062.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNhCQHcBOwElm73lgBNZ45DxTZGAYFQ5ZlzoK9upCdzYcyVqdV9l1oBaIUd0Pl5Ov-h4orAsoSoihfjqwXqpeATu0Kt0JHm4LgvqEhPsMZYqiM0nt9hlTdaQQE4F3bqEH8PNWjLSRAnJPNiAwVRbqgKzwdCWEzgwUJpIj9HUfYHi6g5O_yB8E6Jg/w640-h426/_DSC2062.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jane's niece Abby King arranged the flowers.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB8OT9WdLHlGugmfO6zk7ZyZ5WFLk__205GoHbL79KZKFSVbLp_bp_HyUvEPIdESF83J2OGpJsaTgowXy25MMjbD2Etwi0uIkXEQNpa9TrT45DpujAiNVxoa0eb_MHPHMFA4kcbXzQh9lh7zIXhnGJbAUvzKR_uTbDvVHAAgAUOlP6csQmyNL30A/s4898/_DSC2185.jpg" style="font-size: x-large; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB8OT9WdLHlGugmfO6zk7ZyZ5WFLk__205GoHbL79KZKFSVbLp_bp_HyUvEPIdESF83J2OGpJsaTgowXy25MMjbD2Etwi0uIkXEQNpa9TrT45DpujAiNVxoa0eb_MHPHMFA4kcbXzQh9lh7zIXhnGJbAUvzKR_uTbDvVHAAgAUOlP6csQmyNL30A/w640-h426/_DSC2185.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jane and her family made the decorations.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Shamelessly, I recruited help, and one person after another said YES. Laura said she and John could take care of registration, having done it many times for WFTI. Mary Hake, who knows more about the publishing world than almost anyone I know, offered to teach a workshop on editing, take care of the books-and-handouts table, and meet with writers one-on-one to go over their articles. Jon and Jane said they’d set up and decorate. Faith Sommers from California offered to grill chicken for everyone and also offered her daughters to cook lunch and keep the coffee fresh and hot.<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU9K9kNoTETZABtJZVWzZwjQIFTDn6h1nRYyHjMf0AMj1IFi_tM9_wMuUHYRS9O9EtQl4-pUpf4inbmdwynFq3166HF_olZ4eXW2cqHZfbfWOlWaAPfbGr0JDwbVP8MtdxBd3wGDIG3dv9P38uZsLV7IhU9ZZUxc0E1oQCPYTtH3cDznMSzlwBeA/s4032/IMG_3500.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2268" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU9K9kNoTETZABtJZVWzZwjQIFTDn6h1nRYyHjMf0AMj1IFi_tM9_wMuUHYRS9O9EtQl4-pUpf4inbmdwynFq3166HF_olZ4eXW2cqHZfbfWOlWaAPfbGr0JDwbVP8MtdxBd3wGDIG3dv9P38uZsLV7IhU9ZZUxc0E1oQCPYTtH3cDznMSzlwBeA/w225-h400/IMG_3500.HEIC" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The chipotle bowl lunch was a hit.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />Jane’s son Riley’s friend Elisei offered to design a website. <br />My friend Donna from Eugene designed flyers and schedules. David Krabill from church, who had zero personal investment in the conference, supervised a team of young men who took care of sound and recording.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />Jane suggested inviting Ernest Witmer from Pennsylvania, who had been her pastor in northern Minnesota years ago, to be the main speaker. Not only was he willing to come, but he and his wife Yvonne consented to leading a workshop together. Laura also reeled in a big fish, an editor from CAM Books named Alvin Mast who was willing to come and talk to authors individually about their projects.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaqDQ8aTMklG_ibhqR9EEdpj3Bfl-59rh5qucudyBWA8A2uDi2EtdGwTwajIWpNnW3hkVCFLnm9D9GXdjParaPnKTKZyjjVFwdjrI5HHgNv3AiRyENCb57ZSR3vHp0MuuiAiL7wDFex0pnpinQsEg5zAvzPUN6H3e3O0tAjekGzJB8hugvRjfyKg/s4898/_DSC2284.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaqDQ8aTMklG_ibhqR9EEdpj3Bfl-59rh5qucudyBWA8A2uDi2EtdGwTwajIWpNnW3hkVCFLnm9D9GXdjParaPnKTKZyjjVFwdjrI5HHgNv3AiRyENCb57ZSR3vHp0MuuiAiL7wDFex0pnpinQsEg5zAvzPUN6H3e3O0tAjekGzJB8hugvRjfyKg/w640-h426/_DSC2284.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alvin Mast's workshop</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />The biggest glitch we encountered was not being able to use our church. We had hoped the damage from a fire last fall would be repaired in time, but an ice storm delayed the work on it. However, Lake Creek Mennonite School was available, so we switched venues at almost the last minute.<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">As the day approached, Laura kept messaging me. 39 registered! 45! Over 50!! Eventually, to our complete astonishment, we had 65 people on the list, including volunteers. People were actually taking our crazy idea seriously!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />The week of the conference arrived. Paul the reliable husband shuttled people to and from the airport, monitored my stress levels, took me to the US Chef store to buy a carload of groceries, and printed probably 500 papers.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHaVssX8-vBqp68HIVJ1ObGI3maOKQPlqVhevaAPYjiiSxE3zA6NLYz8YbLtn6GQvgukDT-2mWfa8LAwik5ViFllcPtQ7LAFw47hz1EiEz6rHaRGtntyKBnC1phV5nuORC-UU5D_TzQEf2kBJHMNjyXVY8WZwGTslwuw6NJ_Fle76u-6rfXaRjpg/s4898/1L0A6809.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHaVssX8-vBqp68HIVJ1ObGI3maOKQPlqVhevaAPYjiiSxE3zA6NLYz8YbLtn6GQvgukDT-2mWfa8LAwik5ViFllcPtQ7LAFw47hz1EiEz6rHaRGtntyKBnC1phV5nuORC-UU5D_TzQEf2kBJHMNjyXVY8WZwGTslwuw6NJ_Fle76u-6rfXaRjpg/w400-h266/1L0A6809.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paul also announced and organized.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFtcq_a38xakZ8aQ5JYgBuj-u0vS52Q2ZHyNYDv21jjwMv2FZ4UqgxbjIwV2hIlNwnDEi5SsVtfUFNo6W67lMSCrYHT0vTmcqQduKaWlmHB5Nodo100x3BF74CDCz-7vNm2m_RFW8854jpwYab1c3AOjnRhibTIL55XRX1phy54KMovVxIZca5HA/s4898/_DSC2191.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFtcq_a38xakZ8aQ5JYgBuj-u0vS52Q2ZHyNYDv21jjwMv2FZ4UqgxbjIwV2hIlNwnDEi5SsVtfUFNo6W67lMSCrYHT0vTmcqQduKaWlmHB5Nodo100x3BF74CDCz-7vNm2m_RFW8854jpwYab1c3AOjnRhibTIL55XRX1phy54KMovVxIZca5HA/w400-h266/_DSC2191.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mrs. Smucker welcomed everyone</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Hannah the neighbor baked cookies for us, and two nieces, Leah and Judy Smucker, came over and baked dozens of cinnamon rolls and cupcakes.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisWTk5-8AJauI2Ge4hhZ0GOzMijhO8yr7fYXm9ksrjBBUYt5wEn8wEZWegeuHlVCr2Y-apqeH8of_53UWrALIXH_f9-LAkrdkCHiDkFPdZewpaYBRprx4HdBiKDf80Y1gedJwD8CJtP3Fzxzv6bagMuH07g4a9UP68aI4xi0fyx0WlrQGGGrh7aw/s1920/IMG_4927.JPG" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisWTk5-8AJauI2Ge4hhZ0GOzMijhO8yr7fYXm9ksrjBBUYt5wEn8wEZWegeuHlVCr2Y-apqeH8of_53UWrALIXH_f9-LAkrdkCHiDkFPdZewpaYBRprx4HdBiKDf80Y1gedJwD8CJtP3Fzxzv6bagMuH07g4a9UP68aI4xi0fyx0WlrQGGGrh7aw/w640-h426/IMG_4927.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />Friends with no connection to the conference felt led to pray for us.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />The night before, a lively bunch of young people set up tables and chairs in the gym and chairs in the classrooms. They hauled in supplies for me, spread tablecloths, and arranged bouquets and other decorations, all without any noticeable decrease in their energy levels.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-dy7cBLIJ3QzCleGRiqwIz3nbJtN7aRjW1YgZ4sDo-tBQP1cmSMgFEcfWJmRvptw_l3HCOdFGBgxphLfyt7GzQZQ4dZrKHDq6PRWf8oc2ixllx9goaqhXFTfGhmh7sM2ApK5o98PZk1iSopqTcOM_TwaiK3oDX4xbFtc5QP6PVLUO-qp5-LVRNw/s4898/_DSC2028.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-dy7cBLIJ3QzCleGRiqwIz3nbJtN7aRjW1YgZ4sDo-tBQP1cmSMgFEcfWJmRvptw_l3HCOdFGBgxphLfyt7GzQZQ4dZrKHDq6PRWf8oc2ixllx9goaqhXFTfGhmh7sM2ApK5o98PZk1iSopqTcOM_TwaiK3oDX4xbFtc5QP6PVLUO-qp5-LVRNw/w400-h266/_DSC2028.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Riley was one of the energetic ones. </td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />The day arrived. We never got an exact count, but I think we had at least 70 people who came, as a few children came with parents and a few registered at the door. They came from Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Montana, and California, fully realizing my dreams of gathering Anabaptist writers from all over the West to connect and learn.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9nG_hn42mx1jPy0dWt4oAPu7Iu0nZkr_DUWfvyF5Km9MGBiSus2F7JYq5q777IB102doAC_ADXl9uEypOo5Y4bHHEGjoeaCXzDRfpiOU4URShgx2AAZHol39H3aBZ9tciPc11cm3MDf0_rtOc04rhvNh1Vlh0yx97_LX5eZBS7fS1au6w3hJOqQ/s4898/_DSC2053.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9nG_hn42mx1jPy0dWt4oAPu7Iu0nZkr_DUWfvyF5Km9MGBiSus2F7JYq5q777IB102doAC_ADXl9uEypOo5Y4bHHEGjoeaCXzDRfpiOU4URShgx2AAZHol39H3aBZ9tciPc11cm3MDf0_rtOc04rhvNh1Vlh0yx97_LX5eZBS7fS1au6w3hJOqQ/w400-h266/_DSC2053.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />Ernest Witmer talked about living and writing our stories with honesty and authenticity. The workshop leaders taught, the cooks cooked amazing food, and somehow all the different moving parts meshed into a successful day. I had even remembered to order an extra cartridge for my printer, which we hauled to the Lake Creek office. Sure enough, the printer ran out of ink halfway through the day, and I hadn't even forgotten the ink cartridge at home, which felt like the Holy Spirit was guiding our every step.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpxSEYZYCs-TCx0SIX0PfyMuLYodj86R_5jVxBqjZh7EzLQaoqw3UWLcGQ7W66OE1A_g13Cm3o7IDXR16fXNu_uOfZlJ0DzGokCif5NLXy6ybT6Kum_X5_r5nE_ruu9HrCqyQjveXU2BJ76kIvNmC0Otkw8Vz12IlzTGfvzxJf8BIEqpxoxSaBVA/s4898/IMG_7321.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpxSEYZYCs-TCx0SIX0PfyMuLYodj86R_5jVxBqjZh7EzLQaoqw3UWLcGQ7W66OE1A_g13Cm3o7IDXR16fXNu_uOfZlJ0DzGokCif5NLXy6ybT6Kum_X5_r5nE_ruu9HrCqyQjveXU2BJ76kIvNmC0Otkw8Vz12IlzTGfvzxJf8BIEqpxoxSaBVA/w640-h426/IMG_7321.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Liesel and Riley handed out donated books in the drawings.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Hudson Kropf led a workshop on poetry, Mary Hake taught self-editing, and Laura gave tips on telling others' stories. I taught about handling rejection and also on navigating the publishing process. Alvin Mast told how to publish with CAM, and Ernest and Yvonne led a workshop on processing grief though writing. Sharilyn Martin taught a popular and well-received workshop on writing for children, and Rose Miller led a discussion on what's needed and missing in Mennonite writing. Rose's conclusions will soon appear in a blog post of their own.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5gHLdi8fujX9cGO2365EmNt0Z6NW8ovT7jzGcfLtoA0tzLzA_vTQMLPdiZpnAoUPhpI2A5pk5TyG8gqFlzAN95F9TmeqTv-QHfLfAvxFyRaNpoDnRqZYuNPCuvx6PSA7b7rQVtE9WGH9-7L5lcKBynuMPj9lctXVOZl7VwXVMhpQyB-fLsr7MUw/s2968/_DSC2309.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1979" data-original-width="2968" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5gHLdi8fujX9cGO2365EmNt0Z6NW8ovT7jzGcfLtoA0tzLzA_vTQMLPdiZpnAoUPhpI2A5pk5TyG8gqFlzAN95F9TmeqTv-QHfLfAvxFyRaNpoDnRqZYuNPCuvx6PSA7b7rQVtE9WGH9-7L5lcKBynuMPj9lctXVOZl7VwXVMhpQyB-fLsr7MUw/w640-h426/_DSC2309.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ernest and Yvonne</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXK1unMhuLHBXf5OUsdft7qr1YCGT8DKwGXQ-xg-QBvT7a2XGV28km8Ajfvy954Mwo1iZK-VBWgKSl3-rYK6O4O2fR9bNYLimU9DZH4oKFa59goWp83_49J12eBerdCIAmiwM1C81ulEBkDAi9nhjpTs4jKbMF5KwIcdKI-jJzn_98G41foIKy9A/s1920/IMG_4972.JPG" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1280" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXK1unMhuLHBXf5OUsdft7qr1YCGT8DKwGXQ-xg-QBvT7a2XGV28km8Ajfvy954Mwo1iZK-VBWgKSl3-rYK6O4O2fR9bNYLimU9DZH4oKFa59goWp83_49J12eBerdCIAmiwM1C81ulEBkDAi9nhjpTs4jKbMF5KwIcdKI-jJzn_98G41foIKy9A/w426-h640/IMG_4972.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hudson led the singing and taught a poetry workshop.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKhb8bde79pkuhN4TKkZJvuSmDpUlMZ9E7YhAl05nqzh7033QwurFPjIlw14kMR46f1n2yQyDuu5_qHhsNPbaOeV5rJ_FBc7hiKBGx3Jr3CUgs9wVaIW9vWQQWhYuSVai3TuPlVkjn3AeWWIuSeO_hyphenhyphenLTmkasn_AoJIElbULvMyQI6RX_K74ZKzA/s4895/DSC_0115.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3268" data-original-width="4895" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKhb8bde79pkuhN4TKkZJvuSmDpUlMZ9E7YhAl05nqzh7033QwurFPjIlw14kMR46f1n2yQyDuu5_qHhsNPbaOeV5rJ_FBc7hiKBGx3Jr3CUgs9wVaIW9vWQQWhYuSVai3TuPlVkjn3AeWWIuSeO_hyphenhyphenLTmkasn_AoJIElbULvMyQI6RX_K74ZKzA/w640-h428/DSC_0115.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sharilyn Martin's class on writing for children</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Many people thanked us for making this happen. They loved being in the company of other Western Mennonite writers. Who knew there were so many of us?!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />We are so deeply grateful to God and to everyone who made this conference possible.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />We now have an Official Committee and will soon start on plans for the next conference. I think it’s a given that we’ll do this again. The question is, should we host it every year or every other year?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br />Either way, if you're a writer in the West, you should be there.</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuUm1C-4fmbJHIKCUJaoN1kjM1kWr_3w_vw7IlRYy-JNvWCPs90jQsJ8WzcRgSjUSpaZtFE5lV8rM-YTzmPfPMo_Qyg6sRv3aIDTTGlm4TvyiFzTyCF3jjArMBWNN0gLc5aaQ510-dkj5OlaZPZV7UnGKpNEjmk5qmhhnAGdOB24RElC0h9fD1iw/s4898/_DSC2049.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuUm1C-4fmbJHIKCUJaoN1kjM1kWr_3w_vw7IlRYy-JNvWCPs90jQsJ8WzcRgSjUSpaZtFE5lV8rM-YTzmPfPMo_Qyg6sRv3aIDTTGlm4TvyiFzTyCF3jjArMBWNN0gLc5aaQ510-dkj5OlaZPZV7UnGKpNEjmk5qmhhnAGdOB24RElC0h9fD1iw/w640-h426/_DSC2049.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mary Hake is on the right, taking care of the book table.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjne4_uSlXIc1F_I2YHlUeefsp0YZZhgaWvQadtqQJ3pICzeKO3vdaKxEA9ivzvHa-ZqzdEMIBLJWvg1-H_Hn4DwjIrqiXvg0D5FSQRumbNP7ht2dLRX2x7l3wNU0NbSTn0MZKEzsLjD-KicYiFoBfD_yzc-kY5ne2ozVfoDV1SuEsvS9WyYSYzQQ/s1920/IMG_4916.JPG" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjne4_uSlXIc1F_I2YHlUeefsp0YZZhgaWvQadtqQJ3pICzeKO3vdaKxEA9ivzvHa-ZqzdEMIBLJWvg1-H_Hn4DwjIrqiXvg0D5FSQRumbNP7ht2dLRX2x7l3wNU0NbSTn0MZKEzsLjD-KicYiFoBfD_yzc-kY5ne2ozVfoDV1SuEsvS9WyYSYzQQ/w640-h426/IMG_4916.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laura's books for sale.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmR4kdST1sJoZBpo19fVpr7har1yLC_j7g4wV5-WyNkYdBVKz8nz6OgrxLLNquwhqZJXN-QfWdluYPJSgMQd9N643QzioW_WIKJC-9G2cdykKaLYzunvgOiBoWqguFtzscsZaJpEw17GjPtKm771Qc1MjY7GA32uhb_lxy1L6KrEpuTO3YCERTQQ/s3319/_DSC2236.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2213" data-original-width="3319" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmR4kdST1sJoZBpo19fVpr7har1yLC_j7g4wV5-WyNkYdBVKz8nz6OgrxLLNquwhqZJXN-QfWdluYPJSgMQd9N643QzioW_WIKJC-9G2cdykKaLYzunvgOiBoWqguFtzscsZaJpEw17GjPtKm771Qc1MjY7GA32uhb_lxy1L6KrEpuTO3YCERTQQ/w640-h426/_DSC2236.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Hozen family was a huge help. Here Mrs. Hozen gives her photographer son a "Mom" look.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjda9Unjavr4CtlbV5IOOrpm8Nu9QhPZDlr1-v-5jLrwaG-_kItJaof1hd1H4oZKI7oeAIdvrTRN4gm8z8JIS3okEfLo-Vo-IjGLFBuRx_GmOqO7CGLoLpWx7XhHyvz_MRZjEISkx5ksoJABCWm-2Fl_4MBsbiy9uGu55NFbleGeCCxESJj5pcZOg/s4472/1L0A6740.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3578" data-original-width="4472" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjda9Unjavr4CtlbV5IOOrpm8Nu9QhPZDlr1-v-5jLrwaG-_kItJaof1hd1H4oZKI7oeAIdvrTRN4gm8z8JIS3okEfLo-Vo-IjGLFBuRx_GmOqO7CGLoLpWx7XhHyvz_MRZjEISkx5ksoJABCWm-2Fl_4MBsbiy9uGu55NFbleGeCCxESJj5pcZOg/w640-h512/1L0A6740.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was happy to see my friend Julie Nevue.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBT-MXSsd3_NNjlr9LKMkU3B9X2odsEzLenShkCPCedkw-7kkaSAfdzdyJ0KeMNwnqmsYT_BSiEiq74jVsdPuw7L-3ukZHibWtENMU3J-VYi-YqETqzmszN-bt_eEHbkjX3z7IZDzjJ9-_y2Tj5x9R4GXqcFSk-lvAX2AnHNSNkpuCQRoRiHj-zA/s4898/_DSC2055.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBT-MXSsd3_NNjlr9LKMkU3B9X2odsEzLenShkCPCedkw-7kkaSAfdzdyJ0KeMNwnqmsYT_BSiEiq74jVsdPuw7L-3ukZHibWtENMU3J-VYi-YqETqzmszN-bt_eEHbkjX3z7IZDzjJ9-_y2Tj5x9R4GXqcFSk-lvAX2AnHNSNkpuCQRoRiHj-zA/w640-h426/_DSC2055.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We all enjoyed the fellowship.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"></span></div>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-64351612975440519872023-12-16T14:06:00.000-08:002023-12-20T11:51:15.139-08:00Review and Giveaway: Once Upon a Bedtime in a Faraway Land<p><br /></p><p>UPDATE--The winner of Once Upon a Bedtime is Kaitlin Weaver who entered the giveaway on Instagram.<br />THANK YOU to everyone for sharing your fascinating stories!</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUpqqzAQi3iHHncpRRWSSFleWIBYFsasJatu-TDrY571eFDgPiwx4nhshUtjZWxZd32kOFjmm3X_voXXRQjAXAGK1STYDDC7IeQdRbN-ZLqf6-3lFUIQ5mNnNYArgGvDT1HTnBE-9-GapsW0Kk34a8Owb00whzzyh9tWfRuq_jvGdF1lyaMi3mrQ/s2016/margie%20book%20cover.jpg" style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUpqqzAQi3iHHncpRRWSSFleWIBYFsasJatu-TDrY571eFDgPiwx4nhshUtjZWxZd32kOFjmm3X_voXXRQjAXAGK1STYDDC7IeQdRbN-ZLqf6-3lFUIQ5mNnNYArgGvDT1HTnBE-9-GapsW0Kk34a8Owb00whzzyh9tWfRuq_jvGdF1lyaMi3mrQ/w640-h480/margie%20book%20cover.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">If you're an Anabaptist and a creator, you've probably wondered if you have what it takes to succeed outside your cultural bubble.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">We have been hindered, I think, by an unspoken belief that we're not good enough.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">When I was a little girl in a little Amish school, the teacher [my dad] reminded me at times not to get too full of myself when schoolwork came easily for me and I finished my arithmetic long before Robert Byler did, because if I went to <i>public school</i>, oh my. . . I would very soon find out that I wasn’t nearly as smart as I fancied myself.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Then we moved to Minnesota when I was ten, and I actually had to go to public school. On about the third day, Mrs. Locher had us go up to the chalkboard, four at a time, and work out a math problem. I think she was assessing our skills.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">She gave us a 3-digit multiplication problem. I worked it through as I had been taught, one step at a time, three layers under the line, add it up, done.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I looked around. I was the only one who had done the problem. The others didn’t know how.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">That was my first clue that maybe my dad was wrong about Amish kids not being as smart as kids in public school.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">He isn’t the only one. At times I still run into this subtle message that we need to stay in our own “circles” because we’re not good enough to operate among all those fancy, educated <i>Englisch</i>, or we have nothing to offer them, or they wouldn't be interested in what we produce.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Inspired by <i>Roaring Lambs</i>, by Robert Briner, I feel strongly about pursuing the sort of excellence that can influence not only people inside the Anabaptist or Christian community, but those outside it as well. We have a lot to offer, and I'm always gratified when a creator is good enough to do well both inside and outside of the Anabaptist bubble.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Which brings us to Margie Yoder. I first saw her artwork when her Christmas silhouette panorama showed up on Instagram. And she was offering a free download!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">It was incredible, I thought: detailed, creative, precise, and just pretty. I poked around her site. She wasn’t a professional artist or graphic designer, but an Anabaptist mom and missionary who offered Christmas artwork easily as beautiful as anything Out There.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Full disclosure: shades of my dad, I had a moment of disbelief that a Mennonite lady actually produced this Christmas scene. A good lesson for me, honestly. Of course a Mennonite was that good!</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaaUQlQiJlfX_NuU3In6E-WIxwGL2ySTZjIDRfK3qQG1WRKmcUIbGW8TpXI07OYurAfO_MkkicJ5orUBVxpv2iJchv2G0f9hYzeEM8Fj8U50Pod3IIfMFYoRb-rCwpjQVPjWhpN9Ztvgc_53tK4s3Er0NNEFvZVvk5RSOJhNgz1E87Z96VxRDERQ/s2048/margie%20cmas.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaaUQlQiJlfX_NuU3In6E-WIxwGL2ySTZjIDRfK3qQG1WRKmcUIbGW8TpXI07OYurAfO_MkkicJ5orUBVxpv2iJchv2G0f9hYzeEM8Fj8U50Pod3IIfMFYoRb-rCwpjQVPjWhpN9Ztvgc_53tK4s3Er0NNEFvZVvk5RSOJhNgz1E87Z96VxRDERQ/w640-h640/margie%20cmas.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />Margie is offering this to YOU!<br />Email her at thebirdandthebrush@gmail.com for a free download.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Merriweather;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;">On her site, I found that Margie is an illustrator. I loved her style, so I asked her to do the cover and inside drawings for my book, Coming Home to Roost. I'm happy to say she caught exactly the vibe I was looking for and more besides.</span></span><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Po4FTbDgVCE2dPdVt5wU6AQyWk7alNQvR0hq8nvsmK40ITUq-f4UJlZAIt5A3-1Lpg7Vpdcg9Y6Nv3YvLZNH9E6zhv0AvB_pfpilQ8zGC9wf5JU8OOp5vajWGiXGug6-znuHHrgjrRU8ib0Izq-8SGvyjKkfw1PMIOdAcZtajiooaJbFTr_u1g/s888/cover%20CHTR.jpg" style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="888" data-original-width="569" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Po4FTbDgVCE2dPdVt5wU6AQyWk7alNQvR0hq8nvsmK40ITUq-f4UJlZAIt5A3-1Lpg7Vpdcg9Y6Nv3YvLZNH9E6zhv0AvB_pfpilQ8zGC9wf5JU8OOp5vajWGiXGug6-znuHHrgjrRU8ib0Izq-8SGvyjKkfw1PMIOdAcZtajiooaJbFTr_u1g/w256-h400/cover%20CHTR.jpg" width="256" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Since then, I’ve recommended her to numerous other writers looking for an illustrator.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmftsWFtB6yFviKan3x93AduJs8u8T0tj_amDgYbEBSIbWstCS3xYNR77xfGIjW418vOfg30vBp-GCioHputJ5NfSdJdd2L3gFh3ow5YFiqv-gMwt5AKnMPVuQO3zE7N5rRnjAM-kJcjpwRrUwvzFPUnM-ITdCdKy_K52rVAdiLpEycPlurhiJUA/s1031/margie%20gma.jpg" style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: x-large; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1031" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmftsWFtB6yFviKan3x93AduJs8u8T0tj_amDgYbEBSIbWstCS3xYNR77xfGIjW418vOfg30vBp-GCioHputJ5NfSdJdd2L3gFh3ow5YFiqv-gMwt5AKnMPVuQO3zE7N5rRnjAM-kJcjpwRrUwvzFPUnM-ITdCdKy_K52rVAdiLpEycPlurhiJUA/w291-h400/margie%20gma.jpg" width="291" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This shows the universality of Margie's work.<br />My grandmas were white and very Amish, but they also knew what a fly swatter was for.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I don’t know if Laura Rohrer Showalter is a writer who saw my recommendation, but I’m happy to say that she and Margie have collaborated on a new children’s book that is simply delightful.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">In Once Upon a Bedtime, a little boy imagines sleeping in homes and beds around the world. Written in rhyme-and-rhythm poetry, the book takes you and your child to Canada, Kenya, and many other places. In each heartwarming scene, you’ll find the same little stuffie and slippers tucked into the picture.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4OWmc-3cNfDcMiQK5MQBE4J9US4tIdxb1VJPUJP8C6cZu7alBsxF_rHQeLyZ0z89rj19i05ckoqRJpK_jLg_BWQhruxCCIrQ2G6drSLpiBUDXtaXagOT-Egwdwnw4EcFalg0JQ_qd3fzjtOQOyQWw6TEpCUOT_ZegVLOJCjGyNsxeQGQgFBtthA/s2016/margie%20north.jpg" style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4OWmc-3cNfDcMiQK5MQBE4J9US4tIdxb1VJPUJP8C6cZu7alBsxF_rHQeLyZ0z89rj19i05ckoqRJpK_jLg_BWQhruxCCIrQ2G6drSLpiBUDXtaXagOT-Egwdwnw4EcFalg0JQ_qd3fzjtOQOyQWw6TEpCUOT_ZegVLOJCjGyNsxeQGQgFBtthA/w400-h300/margie%20north.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW72-l6GrEAnAICemOmGwjha6XlsfNqacrZzTRvw4RwoF9t8No3lHUIyM10rw83vZdBKVaFhMUj79U0WKt0Vm3svhKZi2p1vccgRYaJIyV_ZMDnY3kuTnkuFZdf-lyTBc6rtXvHWkY3Devrdz5XCYvtA6yKulMEIufDyDGcbOxf_x8OlRKwkVk6Q/s2016/margie%20kenya.jpg" style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: x-large; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW72-l6GrEAnAICemOmGwjha6XlsfNqacrZzTRvw4RwoF9t8No3lHUIyM10rw83vZdBKVaFhMUj79U0WKt0Vm3svhKZi2p1vccgRYaJIyV_ZMDnY3kuTnkuFZdf-lyTBc6rtXvHWkY3Devrdz5XCYvtA6yKulMEIufDyDGcbOxf_x8OlRKwkVk6Q/w640-h480/margie%20kenya.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's a heartwarming authenticity to Margie's pictures.<br />She lived in Kenya. This is how Kenyan homes looked and felt when we were there 20 years ago.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Laura Showalter's writing is smooth and gently cadenced, with the accented syllables naturally falling into the right place with normal pronunciation. I appreciate that a lot.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I hope this book gets picked up by lots of bookstores both Mennonite and <i>Englisch</i>, because it deserves to be out there and available.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">And I hope you get a copy and read it to the children in your life.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">To order copies or to contact the author:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.laurashowalterbooks.com">https://www.laurashowalterbooks.com</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">To contact the illustrator:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.margieyoder.com/">https://www.margieyoder.com/</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">ALSO: A giveaway—</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I have an extra copy of Once Upon a Bedtime to give away. To enter, comment on my blog or on Facebook and/or Instagram. One entry/comment per platform. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvdUCDTeCWfT3Z7JlVjRaY_X8seU0e8a5bQblNGNKhU65I7Pv021-dF_5qOvgEcV1UQHZR-jgB5QZoed-JDi1mX20hkAVEKF8jdWHBpwMsYUu-9bQvQ2BOCasTGVFz6Cbl3xZhewCv7GP3tz_JB2G7TPPdNx66xWPal0xYjegRDmXxBUpEXEphyA/s1742/margie%20tree%20house.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1742" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvdUCDTeCWfT3Z7JlVjRaY_X8seU0e8a5bQblNGNKhU65I7Pv021-dF_5qOvgEcV1UQHZR-jgB5QZoed-JDi1mX20hkAVEKF8jdWHBpwMsYUu-9bQvQ2BOCasTGVFz6Cbl3xZhewCv7GP3tz_JB2G7TPPdNx66xWPal0xYjegRDmXxBUpEXEphyA/s320/margie%20tree%20house.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><br />Include your name and an exotic or unusual place you’ve slept, from Grandma’s musty couch to a sleeping bag under the stars in Alaska to an uncomfortable seat on an international flight. Pull up the memory and tell us about it.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Winners will be chosen on Wednesday, December 20.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Then follow this author's and artist’s example and go do excellent work.</span></p><p><br /></p>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com60tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-66773513360765771552023-11-30T10:00:00.000-08:002023-11-30T10:05:00.134-08:00Announcing a Writing Conference for Western Anabaptists<p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Are you an Anabaptist writer in the West?</span></span></p><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">We'd love to have you join us at a writers' conference on February 24, 2024, in Brownsville, Oregon.</span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Whether you're an experienced author, an editor, a poet, or a blogger, you're welcome. If you write only in a journal and hardly dare hope for more, you're also welcome here.</span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">And whether you're from California, Alaska, or anywhere in between, we'd be delighted if you joined us.</span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Actually, anyone is welcome, Mennonite or not, but the focus will be on Anabaptist writing and publishing.</span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Here is our program, which you're welcome to share in messages or social media. Message me if you'd like the pdf form to print and distribute.</span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">We're still making decisions about specific workshops and times but wanted you to have enough information to know what's happening and to save the date.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">We will send more information later about an exact schedule, workshop specifics, and --we hope!--opportunities to meet with an editor one on one!
The location is listed as tentative, but I'm told there's a good chance the damage from the fire in the church will be repaired and the facility will be ready for use.
Please let me know if you are looking for specific help, information, feedback, or encouragement. We might be able to include it in the program!
</span></span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-large;">Registration is $50 per person or $80 for two, so bring a friend.</span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Contact laurasmucker@gmail.com for more information or to register.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Contact me at dorcassmucker@gmail.com to be added to the email-update list.</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Thank you for your interest and prayers. I hope to see you in February!</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1xuC_n6kVc4u6oIhpfcxfE7l6YvA7aSzpEpX-7I-jr8Cmc-SWhhH7mFGcOCrvBFYoaN4Z2IBlgK3VSx1FDTGlmrPgmFkRHqz4NglXPkVVt2iSOXWDfQ1q5MtiQBlTrwt8VsBWPw6ns4PI5yotJXrWnSUrWw4xcrt6QuEvDLP7bZxeKJENQEhtlw/s999/wawc%20flyer%20jpg%201.jpg" style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="999" height="486" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1xuC_n6kVc4u6oIhpfcxfE7l6YvA7aSzpEpX-7I-jr8Cmc-SWhhH7mFGcOCrvBFYoaN4Z2IBlgK3VSx1FDTGlmrPgmFkRHqz4NglXPkVVt2iSOXWDfQ1q5MtiQBlTrwt8VsBWPw6ns4PI5yotJXrWnSUrWw4xcrt6QuEvDLP7bZxeKJENQEhtlw/w640-h486/wawc%20flyer%20jpg%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQtErDtROK3B_uxTwTcMiEks3ZCVjFk2lVRr_MUpJX7LOnHbmR0fHvUTvc6nHsQApVFrm66zpwbCX6O9mL6yxXCcsJgLrH_ItIkfaoJv988_tYUhNgZtC0jFMggsgz4ydwpPEcu4v2hq36XrWhzdxDw9tyAIMf_UA3yKtrK-2NN87L43Cb-jUGpA/s989/wawc%20flyer%20jpg%202.jpg" style="font-family: courier; font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="989" height="486" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQtErDtROK3B_uxTwTcMiEks3ZCVjFk2lVRr_MUpJX7LOnHbmR0fHvUTvc6nHsQApVFrm66zpwbCX6O9mL6yxXCcsJgLrH_ItIkfaoJv988_tYUhNgZtC0jFMggsgz4ydwpPEcu4v2hq36XrWhzdxDw9tyAIMf_UA3yKtrK-2NN87L43Cb-jUGpA/w640-h486/wawc%20flyer%20jpg%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div></div>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-88957172435161009842023-11-27T08:27:00.000-08:002023-11-27T08:27:15.457-08:00Sale on Books!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeeiTj4dwth53Tn6vPCCenMYcV95anb5_WVsRC78YWJ_6-gz9r7qStWEYVh6WRFnKveehqo64acPwji391yQtYvspvrcv2bhpx2jF2c00pJ7gPswgPWDWZDrxnxM7oVUq5LGvC87p_zvjZ9oot2kZuck1RVnVfyFOn07KMAtQDyQ_ylj3DOwFEOA/s1440/books%20n%20tea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1440" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeeiTj4dwth53Tn6vPCCenMYcV95anb5_WVsRC78YWJ_6-gz9r7qStWEYVh6WRFnKveehqo64acPwji391yQtYvspvrcv2bhpx2jF2c00pJ7gPswgPWDWZDrxnxM7oVUq5LGvC87p_zvjZ9oot2kZuck1RVnVfyFOn07KMAtQDyQ_ylj3DOwFEOA/w640-h456/books%20n%20tea.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We're having a Cyber Monday [and Tuesday!] sale at our website.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Use code BOOKSNTEA to get 15% off all my books, Emily's books including her newest (Emily--Diary of a Sick Girl), and even my dad's life story.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Here's the link:<a href="http://muddycreekbooks.com"> MuddyCreekBooks.com</a><a href="http://MuddyCreekBooks.com"></a></span></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAxKMUUDKoABnmpNpLpL47dOkdT6TLRIvhjMYbMr1TiFnVAx5z8O5u6bxh1x2AotlYAbZ3D8ppC8mFcBi5PQLpP4ROWR30GJm2fXtEbu6DEjIm1dlrB-3J_5nLmo-EuiUKJzvDgiWmxOTiVaVBkW7vgJgpzjJCvNaUrPVC63Hq66O_d6mWCOnSBw/s2081/books%20emily%20diary%20sick%20girl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2081" data-original-width="1477" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAxKMUUDKoABnmpNpLpL47dOkdT6TLRIvhjMYbMr1TiFnVAx5z8O5u6bxh1x2AotlYAbZ3D8ppC8mFcBi5PQLpP4ROWR30GJm2fXtEbu6DEjIm1dlrB-3J_5nLmo-EuiUKJzvDgiWmxOTiVaVBkW7vgJgpzjJCvNaUrPVC63Hq66O_d6mWCOnSBw/w454-h640/books%20emily%20diary%20sick%20girl.jpg" width="454" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7GTIyIZbp5LITVnGpl3IiOlAZBf_qYhgbe8krVWcvjmK9fcsVHueeWW726N0aEi30yXePlvlBM6uambE2tjejsBssygkw-lCMnOvB-rR1aETMyja4vYL0K3zFMIDsBfmG9CSbrHZTeF-ki9wyvD10A8yyvTpdQMGHKExUcnnbLrRCYftdeOOm8A/s1440/books%20n%20rug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1025" data-original-width="1440" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7GTIyIZbp5LITVnGpl3IiOlAZBf_qYhgbe8krVWcvjmK9fcsVHueeWW726N0aEi30yXePlvlBM6uambE2tjejsBssygkw-lCMnOvB-rR1aETMyja4vYL0K3zFMIDsBfmG9CSbrHZTeF-ki9wyvD10A8yyvTpdQMGHKExUcnnbLrRCYftdeOOm8A/w640-h456/books%20n%20rug.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><p><br /></p>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-60941402600555952452023-10-09T08:06:00.005-07:002024-03-09T20:16:48.430-08:00Just Walking--A Memory from Kindergarten<p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmWlCZa6gd1Ntd2ifjW36R8Yoq71slzmNh2F1N21CiU9k9Fcn5Mi1L8N_dRXGUA9lS6EVe2jATtw0ckbec0XJCST-plZFsjHQ8i9YkDT2P-yjRZY7EUhgf4QwC0m0C_St0aHWVc07-yHmmM9fdWEwHUm15uqZOP2D78-Q0L_hoarTzx_Af30yoCw/s960/little%20dorcas.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="926" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmWlCZa6gd1Ntd2ifjW36R8Yoq71slzmNh2F1N21CiU9k9Fcn5Mi1L8N_dRXGUA9lS6EVe2jATtw0ckbec0XJCST-plZFsjHQ8i9YkDT2P-yjRZY7EUhgf4QwC0m0C_St0aHWVc07-yHmmM9fdWEwHUm15uqZOP2D78-Q0L_hoarTzx_Af30yoCw/s320/little%20dorcas.jpg" width="309" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">A file cabinet in the back of my head contains hundreds of drawers packed with thousands of memories.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Just when I assume most contents have long since disappeared, it turns out they’re actually all there, waiting for the right nudge. I can go for forty years without thinking of a specific event and then something yanks open that particular drawer and there it is, intact, the details neatly typed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">So things that happened to me don’t vanish from memory, which is both comforting and disturbing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I am still in Texas, helping Matt and Phoebe. On Saturday, the heavy blanket of humidity and heat lifted and a blessed breeze blew. I went on a walk after dark, the road illuminated by streetlights.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">We note two things:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">1. People in this town don’t walk much.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">2. I tend to power walk rather than stroll, swinging my arms like an Onward Christian Soldier. I try to tone this down and walk a little more normally when real people are around.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">However. I was alone and the streets were deserted. I covered a lot of ground, fast.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Until the streets weren’t empty after all. Just as I passed an apartment building, I heard a man’s voice. I stopped. “Excuse me?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"> A man and woman were getting out of a car, carrying grocery bags—rattly disposable plastic ones, of course, since this is Texas and not Oregon. The man was turned toward me. “Hello,” he said, and then added, with concern, “Is everything ok?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">“I’m fine!” I said. “Just out walking.” I pumped my arms a little to explain the fast, determined pace.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">He looked amused but deliberately polite. “All right. Good night.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I marched on and BOOM, a little drawer slid open and my brain pulled out a vivid memory from kindergarten.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">The first year we lived in southern Ohio, we went to a public school in the little town of Glenford. Kindergarten was a new experience and a wonderful adventure for this </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">But she was large in skill and characte</span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;">little Amish girl, full of new things to learn, lots of other children, lying down for naps after lunch, and a Christmas tree in December. Over it all was the benevolent but awe-inspiring presence of Miss Lewis, a woman so tiny she wasn’t much bigger than the tallest kindergarteners.</span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-large;">r, and I thought she was amazing—wise, beautiful, in charge. She had short hair like other Englisch ladies, I noted, just as I noticed everything about her, including the fact that she had a sharp bosom that was so different from the rounded chests of my mom and all the other Amish ladies. Knowing nothing of Englisch vs. Amish undergarment styles in 1967, I puzzled over this and even talked about it once to my family at home, demonstrating with my hand the front of Miss Lewis vs. the curve of Mom.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I was known for observing all the details and saying them out loud, especially the things that everyone else somehow knew not to say, regularly embarrassing my family. Often, as in this case, a simple, factual explanation would have solved everything. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Miss Lewis graded our assignments with stars. One, two, or three, or—the highest height of achievement—three stars with a circle around them. She would look at my paper or listen to me read, whip out her pen, and draw each star in one quick series of motions, without ever lifting her pen. A slanty line up, down, left, right, down—and there was a star! Just that quick! Would there be a second? A third?? A circle around them all???!!! If so, my day was made.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I watched her closely and tried to copy those quick motions, and finally I achieved it. What a great day when I could also draw stars, just like Miss Lewis!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I practiced on paper and then, for reasons I still don’t understand, I drew three stars on the surface of my desk. Maybe I was planning to lick my finger and rub them right off, a universal skill of elementary kids everywhere.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">But before that could happen, Miss Lewis saw what I had done. She was Not Pleased. And she said I have to stay in at recess.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">People. The horror and humiliation. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">The other kids left. I endured Miss Lewis’s patient lecture with courage, and I don’t think I cried, but I was close. I believe she had me scrub off my artwork with something besides a finger and saliva. Then she said I can go play with the others for the rest of recess.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">The classrooms all opened up into the gym, and the playground was on the opposite end from the kindergarten classroom. So I started out across that enormous, cavernous, empty gymnasium, bigger to me than the echoing acres of Paddington Station in London would be, over 50 years later. Step by step, all alone, my tiny little Amish self in my little dress and white organdy covering, trying to be brave.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I believe it was a janitor, or possibly the principal himself, who came walking toward me. “Dorcas!” he said. “What are you doing?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I’m sure he meant, “Why are you in here when everyone else is outside?” but I was absolutely not about to tell him what I had done, and the consequences. I also wanted to cry but was Not About to do that. Also, I still wasn’t that comfortable speaking English and had to think hard about what words to say.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">So I made myself smile, and I said, “Just walking!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Because, after all, that is exactly what I was doing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">He was amused.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Later I learned that the janitor related this story to others, including various teachers. Miss Lewis told my parents at the next parent-teacher meeting, and everyone was Highly Amused at Little Dorcas who was Just Walking.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">It’s significant to me that no one in this story shamed me. I was made repentant by Miss Lewis’s exhortation and bewildered by everyone else’s reaction, but no one made me feel bad about myself, in that moment, for that answer, or like I was an embarrassment to the family.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">When the Texas guy looked amused yesterday and the file drawer suddenly opened, I felt that not much has changed, really. I am still Little Dorcas, marching along, trying to be brave. And when someone asks, I tell them I’m just walking, and they are amused, and I’m not sure why.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"> I still observe the details and ask questions and say things out loud. It still gets me in trouble.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I still draw stars with a quick series of motions and I still think it’s a mighty cool skill to have.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>You can find my books at <a href="http://muddycreekbooks.com.">muddycreekbooks.com.</a></p>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-6834216734482848912023-09-28T14:26:00.013-07:002023-09-28T20:44:22.720-07:00The Best and Worst of Times<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfKrpHy5vyu9hqjIbQfJh07PiC6A-WgXODoowHHgFlBpafH5k7kh_00_dUbQVZ_9tfK8k1ksJVbd9RXqla7suMhl8U0tXrcRsyL5Yv1o1isL3kPjCgI9ugkdE5zU3Js2-vNR_ybqi16XrCWaq4Qf1_vX4HEOGI_n8klo6Jo0SR-AQKV9EEIpPpYQ/s2016/IMG_4107.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfKrpHy5vyu9hqjIbQfJh07PiC6A-WgXODoowHHgFlBpafH5k7kh_00_dUbQVZ_9tfK8k1ksJVbd9RXqla7suMhl8U0tXrcRsyL5Yv1o1isL3kPjCgI9ugkdE5zU3Js2-vNR_ybqi16XrCWaq4Qf1_vX4HEOGI_n8klo6Jo0SR-AQKV9EEIpPpYQ/w300-h400/IMG_4107.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">By the Agape restaurant, you can get pellets from dispensers and feed the friendly goats.<br />I don't see that combination happening in Oregon, but the East is a different animal than the West.</div><span style="font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyXC7LBurfYO1m2-wfdESVhH-cZLZHuPwyiM-Zb6EvWLvtyqHwCMBeFqa0BpvjL6mFRB604vgX3-3AUsMK0dWQCNQoPaajzJ9sKqegIBFAy7BMMXC6ALNkyLOhyphenhyphenMQ50_Zu1DvaOW6rG9zf7mB4L8FHVevH1_HwGgARpfpQfal_9d7TARdDuzqidQ/s2016/IMG_4112.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyXC7LBurfYO1m2-wfdESVhH-cZLZHuPwyiM-Zb6EvWLvtyqHwCMBeFqa0BpvjL6mFRB604vgX3-3AUsMK0dWQCNQoPaajzJ9sKqegIBFAy7BMMXC6ALNkyLOhyphenhyphenMQ50_Zu1DvaOW6rG9zf7mB4L8FHVevH1_HwGgARpfpQfal_9d7TARdDuzqidQ/w300-h400/IMG_4112.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Liberty learned that if you put the pellets anywhere but the palm of your hand, the goats might bite your fingers.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Like so many misadventures, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Emily had floated the idea of her and I doing a small book tour in the East this fall. When she received an invitation from a library in New York to come do a reading and signing, it felt Meant To Be.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">When you self-publish, you arrange your own book signings, which means trying to figure out the demographics and details at places you’ve never been, plus finalizing all the specifics and doing all the publicity.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">When you go Back East from the West Coast, you (or at least I) try to fit more into your trip than it can comfortably hold, the way you max out your suitcases with about 40 pounds of books and 10 of clothes and shampoo. Why not go early and visit Jenny in Virginia?! And then maybe we can borrow Jenny’s car for all our travels?! And Paul is leaving for Nepal—why not have him fly out with Emily on the companion pass so we can have a little more time together before he leaves?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Thus began the most complicated trip I’ve ever planned. The good thing about this was something I realized when I was talking with my niece and she said, “I wouldn’t have the brain space right now to think through anything like that.” And I realized—My brain is healing! I went through a couple of years when I couldn’t plan an overnight trip to the coast without crying in sheer overwhelmed anxiety. And look at me now. I worked hard for this recovery, but it still snuck up on me, and suddenly I’m scheduling book signings and train trips and visits!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The unfortunate thing about a complicated itinerary is that one thing—just ONE THING—can blow up the whole plan.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It wasn’t the canceled flights that sent it all sideways, although that was bad enough. I had a stopover at Houston Hobby and texted Matt and Phoebe that it made me sad to be only half an hour away from them but I didn’t have time to see them.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Then the flight to Baltimore was delayed for five hours. Well! I texted again, Matt came and picked me up, and Phoebe fed me a fine dinner. What fun!</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg__uyfd2fyEEwjOqhEEwPfQQX0yGKZZqMNAvnn4N6S2wNzVh47w_ff18X7T4nTr9U1fzPrGvXXhUrdr8ZXrCkMWVLcTYNtq1Wsm4FVP-oJyc6FnW3VTDVMjBeinBwBS4yfcmNbNi9F7_uvGEV43x3CnnthnvUxX40R7uPxy_d_ONRtZfQvUZ2xyw/s1024/me%20matt%20trip.jpg" style="font-size: x-large; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="769" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg__uyfd2fyEEwjOqhEEwPfQQX0yGKZZqMNAvnn4N6S2wNzVh47w_ff18X7T4nTr9U1fzPrGvXXhUrdr8ZXrCkMWVLcTYNtq1Wsm4FVP-oJyc6FnW3VTDVMjBeinBwBS4yfcmNbNi9F7_uvGEV43x3CnnthnvUxX40R7uPxy_d_ONRtZfQvUZ2xyw/w300-h400/me%20matt%20trip.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matt and me. I am still smiling at this point.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-size: large;">Back at the airport, the flight was delayed further, then cancelled. I was rebooked for the next day, flying Houston-Dallas-Louisville-Baltimore. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Matt came and got me. I spent the night at their house.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The next morning, I flew to Dallas and an hour later boarded the plane for Louisville. I was all settled when an announcement came that the next leg, Louisville to Baltimore, was cancelled.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I got off, along with a dozen others who were as upset as I was but used different language to express it. I just repeated, “Oh my stars!” a few times.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“You can’t get to Baltimore today,” said the man at the counter.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“So what am I supposed to do?” I said, channeling the voice Paul uses in such cases that means, “This is your job to sort this out, so do it.” </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The man tapped and frowned. “There are two seats left on the afternoon flight.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“Yes,” I said. “I’ll take one.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">While I waited, I used my last good tea bag and tried not to despair. I also thought, with a sense of doom, that I was very tired and spending a lot of time in crowded airports and planes, not a good combination for someone who gets sick easily.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Oh well.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I flew from Dallas to Memphis to Myrtle Beach, seeing places I’d never been before, then to Baltimore, where Jenny’s friend Kathrine and her husband Luke appeared like comforting angels and took me to their cute brick house only ten minutes from the airport. I spent the night in their upstairs, and Kathrine put me on the right train in the morning, headed for Roanoke.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This is another significant conclusion from my travels: people are your most valuable resource when traveling. Having Matt and Phoebe in Houston made all the difference in that debacle, and Kathrine’s generous offer to pick up and house anyone in Jenny’s family who flies into BWI was a lifesaver.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj20hFS-KYwz2kFF6EE8MEQ1jlpomPo2xVU1KBTS-111BquD4xPNyH39OnMpH3o8lmgfcSTtAUpW9SpVAQedkVQMGC0WQpDmFUEVPv38AckXDRr7qCeAe0xOdowEsdCz0866SOPIocHTzR4xvio3XegHvIBc-oJ79Eqob7xD4oTP_smWJ_i9xUnQ/s1024/kathrine%20welcome.jpg" style="font-size: x-large; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj20hFS-KYwz2kFF6EE8MEQ1jlpomPo2xVU1KBTS-111BquD4xPNyH39OnMpH3o8lmgfcSTtAUpW9SpVAQedkVQMGC0WQpDmFUEVPv38AckXDRr7qCeAe0xOdowEsdCz0866SOPIocHTzR4xvio3XegHvIBc-oJ79Eqob7xD4oTP_smWJ_i9xUnQ/w400-h300/kathrine%20welcome.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kathrine's hospitality went above and beyond.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-size: large;">Side note: I am very fond of Kathrine, but that is not because we have similar backgrounds. She was raised in the Philippines, an only child whose nanny fed her like a little bird until she was in the third grade. Luke, however, came from a line of blue collar people in Maryland. His family worked in construction, and his grandpa had a sheet metal business. I understand that sort of history.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That information led to stories about Uncle Jimmy, Luke’s dad’s brother. Uncle Jimmy grew up working in his dad’s sheet metal business and kept on when he was out of school. That was basically all he did. When he was thirty, he rode on an escalator for the first time, and it freaked him out. When he was forty, still plugging away in his dad’s business, a woman who was a bit older than him asked him for his phone number. He didn’t have a cell phone and gave her the business number that reached the old rotary dial phone in the shop. Whatever she did worked, though, and they started dating. One night they had a double date with Luke’s parents. Uncle Jimmy thought he’d treat everyone to a movie and popcorn and stuff. He brought $20 for this splash. We assume he hadn’t been out on the town since about 1985. But despite the phone and the movie debacle, Uncle Jimmy and this woman were married four months later. They have a number of dogs, including one with kidney problems, which the new aunt described in detail to Kathrine the first time they met.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I do love stories about interesting people.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Uncle Jimmy’s marriage caused a rift in the family business, and now he has his own sheet metal business. Luke didn’t say this, but I have a suspicion that Grandpa had conveniently underpaid him all those years and the new wife said You Are Worth More Than This.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Good for her.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I hadn’t been on an Amtrak train in probably 20 years, and the ride to Roanoke got me hooked. Comfortable, quiet, roomy, relaxed. Plug-ins on the wall, hot coffee a few cars down, lovely scenery, room to work or sleep. I am planning future trips.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Then, at last, I was with Jenny! We had lost a day, so we crammed as much into the next few as we could. I met her lovely roommate Rebekah, a girl from Malaysia who somewhat incongruously has become well known as a writer and meme-maker in the Anabaptist world. I saw Jenny’s office, met a bunch of her friends, and had dinner with my nephew Derek and his wife Grace and their baby in the next town over. Jenny and I walked all over the Virginia Tech campus, had lunch at the pescatarian place, and worked on our own projects at a coffee shop.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6FUOEQiT2lS_RG-CGlT5R_syhY1Dg93vFP6sfpskAn6iQchkaQxwIY6C1EwjI769g-QkOQqEJtFIbJTigttu3d3pqxx-V4iQBzfX7NFfdLS8rdK3zU1z2VKiO4HB6syb1aCcXlZtLcrgDwF6Eg0-yOGsJ4-FVh0JKfPIZoKecIh_H8Xnq_OLEMA/s2016/IMG_4049.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6FUOEQiT2lS_RG-CGlT5R_syhY1Dg93vFP6sfpskAn6iQchkaQxwIY6C1EwjI769g-QkOQqEJtFIbJTigttu3d3pqxx-V4iQBzfX7NFfdLS8rdK3zU1z2VKiO4HB6syb1aCcXlZtLcrgDwF6Eg0-yOGsJ4-FVh0JKfPIZoKecIh_H8Xnq_OLEMA/w300-h400/IMG_4049.jpg" width="300" /></a></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOQaF_1zf9fW5AfOa2d6G_rlge8I4Jqg2xChuoEXxZP07P9oWtJlRYVhyWACZXvyS7jaalwhsSo9sJoxjr_zZ5IxZfggaiPR52Xi0PUux8s1XlMKIDWjmtYTKgSZr8dUzOsWMS_y6ociPpabCqU1drynpUTOK5x8O1rNFKeBaxi7sKpPpkm462Sg/s2016/IMG_4052.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOQaF_1zf9fW5AfOa2d6G_rlge8I4Jqg2xChuoEXxZP07P9oWtJlRYVhyWACZXvyS7jaalwhsSo9sJoxjr_zZ5IxZfggaiPR52Xi0PUux8s1XlMKIDWjmtYTKgSZr8dUzOsWMS_y6ociPpabCqU1drynpUTOK5x8O1rNFKeBaxi7sKpPpkm462Sg/w400-h300/IMG_4052.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jenny in her office.</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtLbKicsBjQEMmI6pBYGkIHRqM_GBaJAXGWwEiTUFmc1g42fiZCg9oeKlxqFcuCAD-0QZmL7wQR0Du9qAkxi2k5CIx3qpPmPshAzQzhYG6apvY0KqdiDKVKY_lYfvKvrKQoEbaOeHNwAg3ecTMmKWGVj2TLGX_9sTopbKdP9KUdmeEvOivEwHevA/s2016/IMG_4060.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtLbKicsBjQEMmI6pBYGkIHRqM_GBaJAXGWwEiTUFmc1g42fiZCg9oeKlxqFcuCAD-0QZmL7wQR0Du9qAkxi2k5CIx3qpPmPshAzQzhYG6apvY0KqdiDKVKY_lYfvKvrKQoEbaOeHNwAg3ecTMmKWGVj2TLGX_9sTopbKdP9KUdmeEvOivEwHevA/w400-h300/IMG_4060.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jenny got me hooked on Hagoromo chalk a couple of years ago. She said it's the favorite of grad students everywhere. I saw proof of this at Virginia Tech.</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipaGmPhBERryjAA9nANSVsPIO-9YrWJBSkgsHvxo-N0DPOtBhaL5eqkcYdIIhn7f0brbVwaqbhjRNDrErTFh0uYi3dzbikb7qFN8FKyMxhhqPZsEgY4HxDlKNU2Xh8Fz-rLEnQljbe25PAN19ySwTGcIYxcasFySNzs_v7Q20Kx3HnK8_7SNuA_g/s2016/IMG_4064.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipaGmPhBERryjAA9nANSVsPIO-9YrWJBSkgsHvxo-N0DPOtBhaL5eqkcYdIIhn7f0brbVwaqbhjRNDrErTFh0uYi3dzbikb7qFN8FKyMxhhqPZsEgY4HxDlKNU2Xh8Fz-rLEnQljbe25PAN19ySwTGcIYxcasFySNzs_v7Q20Kx3HnK8_7SNuA_g/w400-h300/IMG_4064.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I crept down these stairs to do laundry and hoped Jenny was alert and cautious whenever she comes down here to pay her rent or do her wash. Yikes.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-size: large;">Before I came, Jenny had told me she wants me to fix her sewing machine as it had completely stalled. The motor revved but it wouldn’t sew. I was delighted not only to have my daughter trust me with the task but also because I love taking things apart and figuring out what’s wrong.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So Jenny gave me screwdrivers and I started taking her precious machine apart—throat plate, bobbin case, and so on. I removed the slab on the end that covers the light and most of the threading loops and fished out a long, stuck, piece of thread.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It still didn’t work. I fiddled and fussed some more.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Then, suddenly, it worked.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I had flipped the little prong on top. The machine had been in bobbin-winding mode. That was all.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It was tempting to tell Jenny that I had done an amazing, complicated fix, but that wouldn’t help her the next time it happened. So I told her. I think she felt a little silly, but now she knows.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I slept in Jenny’s bed while she was on an air mattress in the living room. Wednesday night I was freezing cold all night. I couldn’t find extra blankets, so I pulled a coat and fuzzy onesie pajama out of Jenny’s closet and piled them on the bed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The next morning I felt absolutely terrible—congested, fever, cough, throwing up. Jenny insisted I take a Covid test. It was positive.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You don’t think about how many people you’ve seen and how many lives you touch until you test positive for Covid. Jenny and Rebekah, who both teach at VT, have a whole protocol to follow if they’re exposed or get sick, which they both did, but not as severely as me. So did Derek and Grace. My sister and her husband were going to stop in a few days later before a trip overseas, and I thought I could not bear it if Rebecca missed out on seeing her grandbaby because I had infected them all. I don’t think Luke and Kathrine or Matt and Phoebe got sick, but it still pained me that I had unwittingly exposed them all.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Seriously, we all touch more lives than we realize.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You also don't think about how hard it is to rearrange the logistics if you suddenly get really sick, or how hard it is to think when you have a fever, or the logistical nightmare of making arrangements with people who are in the air most of the day. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I wasn't fit to drive the car from Blacksburg to Baltimore as planned, or to go to New York for those events. We finally figured out how to get to Lancaster, PA, and decided to have Paul and Emily do the events in New York.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Through all this, I was trying to make sense of the fact that the last time I caught Covid, a year ago, I was visiting Amy in Thailand. What in the world is with that? And are my daughters going to develop anxiety every time I come visit them??</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Paul and Emily flew in, and Paul came by train to fetch me and Jenny’s car while Emily stayed at Kathrine’s. Since everything had to go sideways, he got on the wrong train in Baltimore, hopping on the MARC, a local commuter train, rather than the Amtrak. By God’s mercy, both trains went to Union Station in Washington, DC, and he switched.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Then we had to figure out how to ride in the car together, with me all feverish and drippy, without Paul and Emily getting infected, especially since Paul was leaving in a few days for a trip to Nepal and India.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It was complicated. We decided to wear N95 masks, which is what medical people do in the presence of infection, and hope for the best.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Once again, Kind People came through. I was able to isolate in a guest apartment belonging to a board member of Open Hands, the ministry Paul works for. Paul and Emily went on to New York to do the book signings without me. The library cancelled their event, which was hugely disappointing, and the second event was not well attended because my judgment of the demographics of the area had been way off.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It was all very disheartening.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I used to look for signs in situations when everything went wrong. Had I not prayed enough about the trip, had I missed obvious cues, was I being punished, was there a major life lesson I needed to learn?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t do that any more. You do the best you can with the information you have. Things happen. You deal with it. You know for next time.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Then, things turned around. I felt better, Paul stayed well and left for Nepal, and Emily and I went to our final three book signings at Main Street Exchange (a modest clothing boutique) and two Good's Stores, each one better attended than the last. We had a wonderful day with my niece Annette, I flew home without the slightest hiccup, Emily went on to a work retreat, and Paul thoroughly enjoyed his trip.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYP3fqZ5qd6b9vtScUbuwZg1vY9_pm3-RFFmCzclc_vDiJ_leMLZRHSF5iyil3PkSVij2C2t4uhVd3QZtj0gAB6Ydm2lr0iudDVxIX8GmzYU7JILEWL0ckQzYjOYEeCHNhlGTzmOxF0MSUoLHnUsl03rtxn8lh2lztQJvhmqoScDw-N6vQORkrg/s1644/IMG_9639.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1295" data-original-width="1644" height="504" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYP3fqZ5qd6b9vtScUbuwZg1vY9_pm3-RFFmCzclc_vDiJ_leMLZRHSF5iyil3PkSVij2C2t4uhVd3QZtj0gAB6Ydm2lr0iudDVxIX8GmzYU7JILEWL0ckQzYjOYEeCHNhlGTzmOxF0MSUoLHnUsl03rtxn8lh2lztQJvhmqoScDw-N6vQORkrg/w640-h504/IMG_9639.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paul says this little girl was eating fruit of some kind while having a lively conversation with him, despite the fact that neither could understand the other.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMiRiRMhGEfQdQXXYs_8XxPVAc3Fnjb6gmSj37FWKWJFfdz129epIUVqn1RMOMkC_ICR3Uq5NglXhajgoWPANii17bDZQMZXALcYlENlqPnw9M8utWAqe95KyRtM0Bqh8fvKjyIuep7Fv3KGOukVmsjT5zIjClL-Z8Baz286uBeDSDdgZPl1BSiQ/s2016/IMG_4118.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMiRiRMhGEfQdQXXYs_8XxPVAc3Fnjb6gmSj37FWKWJFfdz129epIUVqn1RMOMkC_ICR3Uq5NglXhajgoWPANii17bDZQMZXALcYlENlqPnw9M8utWAqe95KyRtM0Bqh8fvKjyIuep7Fv3KGOukVmsjT5zIjClL-Z8Baz286uBeDSDdgZPl1BSiQ/w300-h400/IMG_4118.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Good's Store in Ephrata, the employees had decorated our table with greenery and this little hen. It spoke of welcome and forethought.</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_b4Lk9hnfJ1o-665TASVveAwCaV5RT2UwIV9GLtMDBV_HVmfmjTsq1W5dsGx-6kjK9Q8SYOk-5UxGE2bE-e8_BqPE9LFPvzFgaWG74Xyi5gabJyN7_-hvNiSLYeigbOBWfYKMbh9q8AgX-FqRs3OpgQ2Gbs_LbZB7uUeIMpPHVUeTczueGpAnRA/s2016/IMG_4096.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_b4Lk9hnfJ1o-665TASVveAwCaV5RT2UwIV9GLtMDBV_HVmfmjTsq1W5dsGx-6kjK9Q8SYOk-5UxGE2bE-e8_BqPE9LFPvzFgaWG74Xyi5gabJyN7_-hvNiSLYeigbOBWfYKMbh9q8AgX-FqRs3OpgQ2Gbs_LbZB7uUeIMpPHVUeTczueGpAnRA/w300-h400/IMG_4096.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cora and her daughters drove an hour and a half to see us at Main Street Exchange! Cora and I went to a little Amish school in Ohio when she was in first grade and I was in fourth.</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif9-pG_K9Negx28fgbZ_GpFbnEXryOjgD9bzx_qy7vGCVqIkebybMWUiei0FxZ06NfOlZNxkHl1znmrpaX09gIAB0AzNgXo4FuEt5yciEJIJafG7EHX6RN2OE6YsI1exPt8n_OzEUAmWo7P56Qmffb0TaoVMJSb4Ugk_Ee97PUTA880uHs2SF8vg/s1024/em%20at%20MSE.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif9-pG_K9Negx28fgbZ_GpFbnEXryOjgD9bzx_qy7vGCVqIkebybMWUiei0FxZ06NfOlZNxkHl1znmrpaX09gIAB0AzNgXo4FuEt5yciEJIJafG7EHX6RN2OE6YsI1exPt8n_OzEUAmWo7P56Qmffb0TaoVMJSb4Ugk_Ee97PUTA880uHs2SF8vg/s320/em%20at%20MSE.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />Between customers, Emily browsed the lovely clothes at Main Street Exchange.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5jH81duBdTGA-GzKWgG3GLpGFFnUJM1_6mRDiKOgI2mjsLEzsu_sv_bQAPzqq4Owxi0SYgVNiM1VUsZdRhTbkq-nyd7eMOdv9oLyqocdRvbYkvJzO9r-m2MvjET8c1-FGYeHzQ0vntKrFFzJ8sa8v7gaY9QF0i3bTf7DI7tUmrc7wdjiJRpsX0g/s2016/IMG_4093.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5jH81duBdTGA-GzKWgG3GLpGFFnUJM1_6mRDiKOgI2mjsLEzsu_sv_bQAPzqq4Owxi0SYgVNiM1VUsZdRhTbkq-nyd7eMOdv9oLyqocdRvbYkvJzO9r-m2MvjET8c1-FGYeHzQ0vntKrFFzJ8sa8v7gaY9QF0i3bTf7DI7tUmrc7wdjiJRpsX0g/w300-h400/IMG_4093.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stacey-Jean got a group of ladies together for coffee and encouragement. We're all part of a Facebook group and it was lovely to meet in person.</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhduZQ8g4DaHxsAMPWMvvfMjURaZbmSe9GxDY05xjib-NKLKiww1JTNtVNa-w85tEYp6BxR2LfbrshOkFx1mBspZdCW5hOEecOoyObx4WPrn_HMDYDCfoFuZkZc3JVXh4lUWWchPo3oIqR-6RXUM3yvnvgGWqM487ns8hE0Hy5Pj1grVGTyisMHww/s2016/IMG_4104.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhduZQ8g4DaHxsAMPWMvvfMjURaZbmSe9GxDY05xjib-NKLKiww1JTNtVNa-w85tEYp6BxR2LfbrshOkFx1mBspZdCW5hOEecOoyObx4WPrn_HMDYDCfoFuZkZc3JVXh4lUWWchPo3oIqR-6RXUM3yvnvgGWqM487ns8hE0Hy5Pj1grVGTyisMHww/w300-h400/IMG_4104.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Annette's house, Emily helped the girls sew doll clothes.<br />She is their "Aunt Emily" and is honored to have the title.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Sometimes trips go well, and sometimes they don’t. This one was both the best and worst of times. I haven't extracted any profound meaning from it yet, except that it's lifesaving </span><span>to have people to call when everything goes wrong. God bless everyone who stepped up in our desperate moments.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I hope I am as willing and available when it’s my opportunity to help when someone else's plans are going completely haywire.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOmTBkvfNv-s8icdVe0FUd0Gn0iS-yJ4dCH742B0eEqLes8RC2itpPTAb_uhIBQhxj20ipyTglhjgkgCk7AP1cbeu_w7rslPSKcEV1QjiruY-38N8GxBJDVmUiK9IXbSiZKydboUQumLUkB8LgBGGH5wgdrlhlhLhBNjyzjScKfUVqkSeg9OQlrQ/s2016/IMG_4141.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOmTBkvfNv-s8icdVe0FUd0Gn0iS-yJ4dCH742B0eEqLes8RC2itpPTAb_uhIBQhxj20ipyTglhjgkgCk7AP1cbeu_w7rslPSKcEV1QjiruY-38N8GxBJDVmUiK9IXbSiZKydboUQumLUkB8LgBGGH5wgdrlhlhLhBNjyzjScKfUVqkSeg9OQlrQ/w640-h480/IMG_4141.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My friend/neighbor/niece Dolly housesat for us and took care of everything including the dahlias, which were still blooming gloriously when I got home.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtXqV6QrXj2fC6YGL048ruJb2MlRmiNQWNnaxCRP_C-Vh1anMWX_CoElRHZ06_sXs_NEnLquh6rMCJNg2f6Mhp58rMzv7uh5emftdI81vdCcIMj1yigYbrN0-RQFG2C_x0UmVk_-oXTJ8HBuTksKIdrVSWorPCqMyvKuqVZGHk8RQ9G4dUEKMyrQ/s1024/dahlia%20bouquet.jpg" style="font-size: x-large; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtXqV6QrXj2fC6YGL048ruJb2MlRmiNQWNnaxCRP_C-Vh1anMWX_CoElRHZ06_sXs_NEnLquh6rMCJNg2f6Mhp58rMzv7uh5emftdI81vdCcIMj1yigYbrN0-RQFG2C_x0UmVk_-oXTJ8HBuTksKIdrVSWorPCqMyvKuqVZGHk8RQ9G4dUEKMyrQ/w400-h300/dahlia%20bouquet.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For the first few years, my dahlias were mostly purples and whites. I'm slowly cultivating more pinks, corals, and yellows, thanks to strategic specifics on my Christmas lists.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDwvw-coyfxpIfPhcLfgiKhhSxh90x6JYUnHlvTZwiveZVNNzkS9FxyaSRCXGgF2Icq8wSPT1Blm-LJn0tNdDBfySV5b8edmVWwIsi6A7Uc3rDsGI_GwpufQzsBYxGDF2CBWuX4dgiUA5gpDp8nDQIR3joBv_m_eG_2iO2yzzde4EjaNG5IxIeSg/s1024/dahlia%20dinnerplate.jpg" style="font-size: x-large; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="769" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDwvw-coyfxpIfPhcLfgiKhhSxh90x6JYUnHlvTZwiveZVNNzkS9FxyaSRCXGgF2Icq8wSPT1Blm-LJn0tNdDBfySV5b8edmVWwIsi6A7Uc3rDsGI_GwpufQzsBYxGDF2CBWuX4dgiUA5gpDp8nDQIR3joBv_m_eG_2iO2yzzde4EjaNG5IxIeSg/w300-h400/dahlia%20dinnerplate.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I call these dinnerplate dahlias Pink Patricias, because my friend Pat Lee gave me the tubers.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>-----</div><div>My new book, Coming Home to Roost, is available at <a href="http://MuddyCreekBooks.com.">MuddyCreekBooks.com.</a></div>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-64107109358628687612023-09-15T07:13:00.001-07:002023-09-15T07:13:20.128-07:00Update to the Book Tour Plans<p>Unfortunately, while visiting my daughter Jenny, I came down with Covid. This has altered our book tour schedule slightly. </p><p>The event tonight at the Lodi library in NY has been canceled. Emily and Paul will be at the event tomorrow, September 16, at Milly's Pantry in Penn Yan, NY from 10am to 3pm, but I will not be there.</p><p>By Monday I should no longer be contagious, so I plan to do the Monday and Wednesday events in PA as scheduled. Here is the information for those events:</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjo-20Kc-Fx8N7iQ3_9KSWxLNzX7NSP9swsjjqL_2BhXiUVudyubzZXlUdC2vg_TNyTBubYdIVwoE4kDUobRLioHl3u3_CZB0sUy31IrfyNoRpD-Ic2_mvpAVe_10sc2ylCtFQMRQyCcGb3jvQdiwum0Zra12DqXNlaFp8CHtxU_IwCip6CPnOMhA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="940" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjo-20Kc-Fx8N7iQ3_9KSWxLNzX7NSP9swsjjqL_2BhXiUVudyubzZXlUdC2vg_TNyTBubYdIVwoE4kDUobRLioHl3u3_CZB0sUy31IrfyNoRpD-Ic2_mvpAVe_10sc2ylCtFQMRQyCcGb3jvQdiwum0Zra12DqXNlaFp8CHtxU_IwCip6CPnOMhA" width="286" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjNHxu1V9zFAezApgbWkWJsxncvSoYQU_lUGWcuUFEB1g4soyb7Ui6OFqnr9dQnULEVVT_JvKdtrmoPZlyedT0ZCXh0v7uLtQilEpZ3BP1zJXcfp07TWCYXEB0o9Ca40hWlTuLGoj0ubi4aL0Nz2QGeOfvHutcKQo--NMNe5LHvGknOSoxmtRYeAg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="940" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjNHxu1V9zFAezApgbWkWJsxncvSoYQU_lUGWcuUFEB1g4soyb7Ui6OFqnr9dQnULEVVT_JvKdtrmoPZlyedT0ZCXh0v7uLtQilEpZ3BP1zJXcfp07TWCYXEB0o9Ca40hWlTuLGoj0ubi4aL0Nz2QGeOfvHutcKQo--NMNe5LHvGknOSoxmtRYeAg" width="286" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIsgr6eF87hkrnoHXhKTQWR2Dr0V9tDVXnXNozIZ3V_9Q1vCfIa_xkVSEikbgXfZKt0LbCsOVdcOXXyZGK7VC6ZGZtVOAcoupiSmWHDKBe8_QyE7Ei_Z44XYebTsG1zdzc1cwuxEvwMFiCEx_spX-KYKZ6jFOEtMYLsSExBsOyvZ1vWabShruX2Q" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="940" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIsgr6eF87hkrnoHXhKTQWR2Dr0V9tDVXnXNozIZ3V_9Q1vCfIa_xkVSEikbgXfZKt0LbCsOVdcOXXyZGK7VC6ZGZtVOAcoupiSmWHDKBe8_QyE7Ei_Z44XYebTsG1zdzc1cwuxEvwMFiCEx_spX-KYKZ6jFOEtMYLsSExBsOyvZ1vWabShruX2Q" width="286" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">If you think about it, please continue to pray for my health!<br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-57840153848051187752023-09-06T08:55:00.007-07:002023-09-06T09:32:28.210-07:00Ask Aunt Dorcas: Putting Off the Hard Tasks<p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><i> Dear Aunt Dorcas,</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><i>I’d love to hear your thoughts on avoiding things that feel too hard or overwhelming. For me that tends to be tasks that either have a lot of details to keep track of or things that I know are outside my ability and require heavy dependence on Holy Spirit. It’s not that I avoid them forever, but there tends to be a period of avoidance before surrendering to the inevitable and diving in. Can you identify? What have you learned along the way about dealing with these types of tendencies?</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><i>--Naomi</i></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBnw3P0FnvUCyPSvE289aqUtJGhAPzCSnneI0DFP2068T99mxiy2balWwdhFBX9szD2Sg0X4URIoghUIl6yb7qFaPUujcgkLOwb-uriEI1Gh-XhtmoofRW-tVvrl4GfDaCs60VOmG3RLWE5gyQd_eTHYzagpkMaWSgk_ksD1Rdd9NE2fc-I7Do9A/s2016/corn%201.jpg" style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: x-large; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBnw3P0FnvUCyPSvE289aqUtJGhAPzCSnneI0DFP2068T99mxiy2balWwdhFBX9szD2Sg0X4URIoghUIl6yb7qFaPUujcgkLOwb-uriEI1Gh-XhtmoofRW-tVvrl4GfDaCs60VOmG3RLWE5gyQd_eTHYzagpkMaWSgk_ksD1Rdd9NE2fc-I7Do9A/w640-h480/corn%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Processing corn feels like a huge, overwhelming task.<br />But I had lots of help, and that made it much easier.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Dear Naomi,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Just this week, a young woman asked me how I motivate myself to go places. She knows me well enough, especially that introverted part of me, to know that I'm always ecstatic when plans are canceled. I find it really hard to get ready and go out the door, into the car, and off where I need to be.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">“It’s not so bad when I’m doing something WITH someone,” she explained. “If I’ve arranged to go to church with someone else, I get ready and go. But if they don’t go, then I end up not going either.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I thought about this. In the last week, I had gone to the fair and sat there for six hours even though it was a rainy day and very few people were even at the fair, let alone wandering past the authors’ table. I went to the doctor for a physical even though I dreaded it with a heavy knot in my stomach. I went to church twice on Sunday, and on Thursday I went to Emily’s Red Barn Coffee Hour, a weekly event.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">In every case, I overcame my inertia because of commitments to someone else. I had told Bill Sullivan I’d be at the fair from 12-6, and I wanted to keep my word. Also, if I didn’t show up, he might not invite me to the Christmas event for authors and artists. I’d have to pay the doctor if I didn’t give him 24 hours’ notice. I was committed to teaching my class on Sunday morning, and on Sunday evening, Paul was going to speak so of course I needed to be there for him. And Emily feels discouraged if no one shows up for her coffee klatsch, so I always go.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">We see here what motivates me to do the hard thing of showing up: prior commitments, other people counting on me, financial cost, and the shame of dropping the ball.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">There are many many times when I think I really need to go get groceries or pick up some fresh fruit at Detering Orchards or take a box of books to the post office. Grudgingly, I comb my hair and pick out a clean outfit. Then I look at the clock and think, “This really could wait for tomorrow,” or “I think I can cram that box in the mailbox,*” or “I’ll bet Paul would love an excuse to run to Harrisburg.” Then I stay home and feel inordinately happy about it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">*Prepaid labels are a blessing, but I don’t know the post office ladies as well as I used to.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Your situation is different. It seems you avoid specific tasks that seem overwhelming. But I think we connect on the emotions and the dread.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I have a theory that we are all having a rough time of it. Our collective mental health isn’t very good, we all struggle with inertia, and normal tasks seem harder than they ought. I base this on my own experience, conversations with my grownup kids, watching my friends’ struggles, and people online. I feel like something has shifted, and not in a good way.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I have excellent reasons for being fragile and struggling with normal responsibilities, I'd say, because the past three years have brought an insane load of upheaval, change, tragedy, and challenges. I try to give myself grace. If I manage to hang onto my pool noodle until the wave passes, I give myself points for that.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">But that doesn’t explain the pervasive cloud over the whole culture. The only upheaval I shared with everyone else was Covid, which was not experienced nearly the same by everyone, so it doesn’t seem like it would make us all equally discouraged.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">But here we are, and things are hard.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">My sense is that Covid, smartphones, an individualistic culture, the high cost of living, and probably other factors have all chipped away at our connectedness. We show the results in random, unexpected ways—such as struggling to do the tasks we find difficult.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I hope we learn whatever lessons God is trying to teach us and have the wisdom and courage to change.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">So here’s my advice to you, both general and specific.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">1.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>You’ve already identified a number of things about the tasks you find difficult. Lots of details, not in your skills or giftings, needing to rely on God. Good for you. Analyze a bit deeper and look for information, letting go of any shame and frustration. Are there outside factors such as fatigue that make it worse? Who is asking/telling you to do these things? What will happen if you don’t do them at all? Are they more difficult than they used to be? Jot down the answers and see if you can find insight or patterns.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">2.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Look at your life, schedule, and health—mental, physical, and spiritual. If you are constantly overwhelmed with surviving, anything beyond basic, simple work is going to feel like Too Much. If you can ease the stress, do that. If not, give yourself grace. This stage will pass. Also, recognize that factors like depression and ADHD will affect how you approach work. It helps to know what’s typical, and the information can help you find a path around the obstacles.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">3.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Make sure you actually need to do the things. Is this for sure your job and your assignment? Should it be delegated to someone else? If you feel a deep resentment, it’s often a sign that you are doing it because of pressure from someone else, and you ought to be saying “No” but feel like you just can’t.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">4.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Get others involved, even though this takes humility and a pushing back against an individualistic mindset. We need other people, connection, accountability, support, and understanding, all things that we are collectively losing in my [admittedly small] world. It takes humility to push back, and to admit, tell, and ask.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">As mentioned, it’s the commitment to others that gets me going when I’d rather stay home. A contrived accountability helps me in other challenging areas. Maybe I’ll tell my daughter I can’t get online until I’ve worked an hour on an article, or I’ll post a chart where everyone can see if I’m taking daily walks.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">When I’m stressed and/or can’t sleep, my brain finds it restful to scroll through reels, those captivating little movies on Instagram. I can easily lose all track of time. It’s embarrassing. So then I have a choice—keep trying to do better with a combination of shame and great effort, or recognize that I need assistance. I have a “fun money” jar where I save cash toward a girls’ trip, so I’ll text one of the daughters and tell them I have to put a dollar in the jar for every reel I watch that day.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Is it silly? Should a grown woman have the character and wisdom to not get sucked into the Instagram whirlpool? Yes and yes.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Does it work to get my daughter involved, and does it yank me out of that spiral? Also yes and yes.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3P2sF8lrcAVg3cGBYaICjLstSzUUHmDZDUvtULro4caQM8z0FjAJbz4ZB2QgMgpTaqx8BBuyYtBBVPkcEAB_8LvZNIem26jY-tuZ9MDs8abawkp7U3LR7DBfT5iFRPWCTczPRN8Cn8WOKzQJLcjA7wlMcpnVuoOjlVSIPqC8FyVMy2tzfuvoL_Q/s2016/corn%203.jpg" style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: x-large; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3P2sF8lrcAVg3cGBYaICjLstSzUUHmDZDUvtULro4caQM8z0FjAJbz4ZB2QgMgpTaqx8BBuyYtBBVPkcEAB_8LvZNIem26jY-tuZ9MDs8abawkp7U3LR7DBfT5iFRPWCTczPRN8Cn8WOKzQJLcjA7wlMcpnVuoOjlVSIPqC8FyVMy2tzfuvoL_Q/w640-h480/corn%203.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tea makes hard tasks easier.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather;">5.</span><span style="font-family: Merriweather; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Merriweather;">Recognize that you are always learning and growing. We are always struggling in our cocoon until we break out into a new stage of growth. Change is really hard, and we don’t change until the misery of changing is less than the misery of staying the same. It will take you a while to learn to do the hard tasks right away, but you’ll get there, and meanwhile there will be failure, frustration, and fatigue.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Embrace the process.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">One of the many things I learned through my husband’s catastrophic injuries three years ago is that God made our bones and muscles to need resistance, pushing, pulling, and hard work. That is the way of health, strength, and thriving.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">The same seems to be true in emotional and spiritual maturity. Accept it. Something amazing is happening. You are going to get there.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I wish you all the best.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I hope the societal winds shift, the clouds lift, and we become more healthy and connected. I hope we all do our part to make this happen, even if it means telling someone we are having a hard time.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">We were not designed to figure it out on our own.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">That’s what I think.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Aunt Dorcas</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnOJJFU0PNRBZssFOCy7caoCzP0-OOmmz8l-UuBk6uZo5YW9grJ2XxAotgeRioSzSss5x3JUjKveMLMlo0aGhKPE94nBvQ9ixqj80B58_T9hAj78oNHogOHCuzUi4l_nRdMSN2ZyJQqR8LN6tI8955Y8Bke7dK68FeY6pOcM7-bp6pP0DFXwDVEw/s2016/corn%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnOJJFU0PNRBZssFOCy7caoCzP0-OOmmz8l-UuBk6uZo5YW9grJ2XxAotgeRioSzSss5x3JUjKveMLMlo0aGhKPE94nBvQ9ixqj80B58_T9hAj78oNHogOHCuzUi4l_nRdMSN2ZyJQqR8LN6tI8955Y8Bke7dK68FeY6pOcM7-bp6pP0DFXwDVEw/w640-h480/corn%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></span><p></p>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-6348931412771709232023-09-05T10:52:00.001-07:002023-09-05T10:52:15.493-07:00Book Tour--Upstate New York and Pennsylvania<p><span style="font-size: large;"> My daughter Emily and I will soon be holding some book events "back East" as we say in Oregon. If you live in either of these areas, we'd love to see you.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Here's our schedule:</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0z01GeSauSsbATNKaqRHzSz_-fN9e7flb1v8Dpr4wBgBV8DA-Z8aHNgJtPr9c7dm_arTIFNgUw8NH7o5wBcbu8I9AKyXNJAOFXmdYNjFznqvdgUFWz6BXaVisfgXd_ENR6VlC2wUdjD9otLf07lH3INfYzphu6dBtLFDyo-f5kkI606GZo9qpVA/s855/author%20poster%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="855" data-original-width="671" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0z01GeSauSsbATNKaqRHzSz_-fN9e7flb1v8Dpr4wBgBV8DA-Z8aHNgJtPr9c7dm_arTIFNgUw8NH7o5wBcbu8I9AKyXNJAOFXmdYNjFznqvdgUFWz6BXaVisfgXd_ENR6VlC2wUdjD9otLf07lH3INfYzphu6dBtLFDyo-f5kkI606GZo9qpVA/w502-h640/author%20poster%202.jpg" width="502" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: large;">If you can't download the poster, here's the information:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Friday, September 15, 6:30 pm--We'll read from our books, meet visitors, and have books for sale at the Lodi Whittier Library.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Saturday, September 16--We'll be at Milly's Pantry from 10 am to 3 pm, 19 Main St., Penn Yan, New York.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Monday, September 18, 1:00 to 4:00 pm--find us at Main Street Exchange, 3000 Lincoln Hwy. East, Gordonville, PA.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Wednesday, September 20, we'll be at two Goods Store locations. <br />10 am to 12 pm at East Earl<br />2 pm to 4 pm Ephrata</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You can bring books and have us sign them, shop for more, or just come and say Hi.</span></p>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-26063857026398833962023-08-25T23:15:00.004-07:002023-08-25T23:20:43.893-07:00Travel: Interesting Things In Kansas and Uncle Johnny Turns 100<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs8QveCHtDg6h1RGilQVUYAewqBlHOJIe94WLGieAaYD7oL8OqVy9kyfPLZkf42DGx_lS8VUVGIQoOzySGiECu8x2pTG8NI64AOxGK5l1Lz-v8fsde6AROGOuvTyUQH9qylFxWfnI9Q3ESQaOECxH44ERKgdlu6Hx1JUsSgJqttY3ybOvIdPO4DQ/s2016/IMG_3567.jpg" style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs8QveCHtDg6h1RGilQVUYAewqBlHOJIe94WLGieAaYD7oL8OqVy9kyfPLZkf42DGx_lS8VUVGIQoOzySGiECu8x2pTG8NI64AOxGK5l1Lz-v8fsde6AROGOuvTyUQH9qylFxWfnI9Q3ESQaOECxH44ERKgdlu6Hx1JUsSgJqttY3ybOvIdPO4DQ/w480-h640/IMG_3567.jpg" width="480" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">When Uncle Johnny calls me, he hollers into the phone,
wondering how I’m doing, how Paul is recovering from his accident, and,
sometimes, when I’m coming to see him. “You’ll come see me when I’m in a box,”
he grumbled one time, and I thought that was probably true. Wouldn’t it be nice,
though, if I found a way to see him before that?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I holler my answers when Johnny asks me questions, and on a
good day he hears about 10% of what I’m saying. But we still manage to feel
connected and up to date, and that’s what matters.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Johnny is my dad’s youngest brother. Dad lived to be almost
103, Johnny just turned 100, and their mother was almost 104 when she passed.
“Sucks to be you,” a young friend told me when I quoted these numbers. But I am
ok with the longevity genes I carry, because “Kansas Mommi” and Dad and Johnny
made it look like long years of enjoying life, pursuing interests you didn’t
have time for when you were fifty, and (Mommi especially) getting by with
speaking your mind because people give you a free pass when you’re old. Dad was
reading a classic—I think it was War and Peace—shortly before he died, and he
wrote countless letters in his final years. Mommi was also a prolific
letter-writer, with a mind tack-sharp almost to the end. Johnny had been living
alone since his wife, Bertha, passed away maybe six years ago, and he hosted a
revolving roster of visiting relatives in his basement. “Johnny’s EconoLodge,”
he called it. In the last year, his son and daughter-in-law moved into the
basement to stay with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Up to age 99,
Johnny also had a job spraying his neighbors’ fencerows.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">When the family announced a 100<sup>th</sup> birthday party
for Uncle Johnny, I remembered his comment about seeing him in a box and
decided to prioritize seeing him alive and well.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">So Paul and I, as well as most of my siblings and their
spouses, headed for Kansas two weeks ago. We stayed in some friends’ beautiful
house and filled our days with a book event, an afternoon tea with a fun bunch
of ladies, a visit to a museum, church on Sunday, visiting an Amish family
whose daughter lives with our daughter in Thailand, cooking dinners for all of
us, and of course the party itself, all in the context of Kansas in August.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">At the tea party, I met my friend Miriam’s daughter-in-law,
a lovely young lady who told me she grew up in Washington State, in the
mountains, no less. She indicated that the transition to Kansas hasn’t been
easy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I tried to imagine it. Living in the Northwest, you expect
the horizon to be like a frame around your world, and you get used to driving
an hour or so and seeing a completely different landscape. All the physical
features—from forests to desert to ocean beaches to high mountains—are wild and
huge and breathtaking.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">The graph-paper-grid roads, the landscape, and the
farmhouses reminded me of Minnesota where I grew up, only Kansas is more so.
Roads don’t detour around lakes, and the land is even flatter than central
Minnesota. The roads are wide and the fields are wider.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I heard someone use the word “boring.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">“Here, we watch the sky for drama, rather than the
landscape,” one of the women said.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">That made sense to me. Compared to Oregon’s sedate weather,
the Midwest’s tornadoes and hail and thunderstorms are wild drama. If I lived
in Kansas, I’m sure I would watch them like all the locals and download a
weather-radar app on my phone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Still, I think I’d find it difficult to look at those flat fields,
stretching to the flat horizon, day after day.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">However, there’s something I could endlessly watch for sheer
entertainment if I lived in Hutchinson, Kansas, and that is the people. Not only does the
community offer Uncle Johnny and all his quirks, along with dozens of
interesting relatives, it is also home to a unique stripe of Anabaptists who
value reading and studying more than any other group of Plain people I’ve had
the chance to observe. I decided to make the most of this trait and organized a
book signing plus had a boxful of books in the car during Johnny’s party.
Happily, that was the right move, and my favorite customer was the Amish woman,
probably fifteen years older than me, who bought a stack of books at the event
at Rendezvous Coffee and then nimbly climbed into her blue tractor and drove
away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Hundreds of people showed up for Johnny’s party, and the
line waiting to greet Johnny stretched around all four sides of the gym. I
talked with many different people, finding the most random points of
connection. Evelyn and I were penpals when we were teenagers. Emma Grace was
the little sister of my playmate Priscilla in Iowa when I was four or five, and now she’s
married to my cousin Herman. My cousin Freeman and his wife Margaret came from
Oklahoma, and we reminisced about the tea party she hosted at her house and how
her son came in with a snake he’d found, which she realized was not a wise move
to make if I was her guest. Roy from Montana is my local friend Jane’s brother
and he’s married to my cousin Glenn’s daughter. And on and on, with not nearly
enough time to connect and observe like I wanted, especially with a bunch of little Amish children kicking a soccer ball or waiting patiently in line. But what I squeezed in was
precious and nourishing, deep down.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">The Amish generally aren’t big on hugging, but Johnny is an
exception. He hugged all of us and let us know how glad he was that we had come.
I’m told he learned to hug after his children were pretty much grown up, and
his daughter decided The Time Had Come and taught her parents this valuable
skill.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Johnny has also learned to use a cell phone. My cousin John
Earl’s wife Janice told me that the week before the party, Johnny had asked her
to take him to town. They arranged a time, and Janice arrived to pick him up.
Johnny didn’t come to the door, and she couldn’t find him in the house. She
looked all around the basement, fearing she’d find him collapsed or worse, but
no Johnny.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Finally, she called his cell phone. Johnny answered,
hollering, “I’m not interested! I’m almost one hundred years old, and I’m outta
the game!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">That’s his standard answer for telemarketers.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">So Janice knew he was alive, but she still didn’t know where
he was.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Finally he came walking in from a row of trees some distance
from the house, where he’d been cleaning up in preparation for company coming.
He had forgotten about Janice coming to take him to town.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I hope when I’m 100 years old I can still look outside and
see mountains on the horizon, because despite being raised in the Midwest, I
like having a frame around the world. Even more, I hope that I’ll keep in touch
with my descendants and nieces and nephews, find useful things to do and good
books to read, and welcome hundreds of people to my party. I hope I drop useless
traditions and pick up new ones that serve me far better. I hope I find life
endlessly interesting, whether I live in Kansas or Oregon or the uttermost
parts of the world.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Maybe the key to an interesting life is not so much where you live,
but how, and among whom.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-0xa6ETeLYgbNRdrRUxE4Kq3jiCKm92dNYe4zN5l10Pwy7uxScGwBHwbljEuN5BTSz_zTd5LMrAbWzzaA7do7CkOcnkvA9eVLS44A-KWhsnfiaW9rv8i5Ini6tm01FouAVakOIXJZtbSUKoTkjexwfvJmCtJqbHiMWLo_TaPlvK6AIY1htkJHjw/s2016/IMG_3555.jpg" style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: x-large; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-0xa6ETeLYgbNRdrRUxE4Kq3jiCKm92dNYe4zN5l10Pwy7uxScGwBHwbljEuN5BTSz_zTd5LMrAbWzzaA7do7CkOcnkvA9eVLS44A-KWhsnfiaW9rv8i5Ini6tm01FouAVakOIXJZtbSUKoTkjexwfvJmCtJqbHiMWLo_TaPlvK6AIY1htkJHjw/w640-h480/IMG_3555.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's part of the line waiting to wish Johnny a happy birthday.</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"></span></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJSarRrlT6HAtKBW_oZTYS-lIo0IdaKib_NjEJm9pmLaytZ4Ta-CAs7ihQLaVdYudvsCMHS7AxIe1Q2-7grEwbSU5JK_YnUNm7lFEuejn8amGNPszXVBUdnCds41YaqBQPnuaju9RjDqAdSW-tqkQDUxT_MWO0sWoMy-mj5SGnP-uliKxZjkm4Bw/s2016/IMG_3615.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJSarRrlT6HAtKBW_oZTYS-lIo0IdaKib_NjEJm9pmLaytZ4Ta-CAs7ihQLaVdYudvsCMHS7AxIe1Q2-7grEwbSU5JK_YnUNm7lFEuejn8amGNPszXVBUdnCds41YaqBQPnuaju9RjDqAdSW-tqkQDUxT_MWO0sWoMy-mj5SGnP-uliKxZjkm4Bw/w640-h480/IMG_3615.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the family dinner after the party, they served lots of delicious food, but all that really mattered to us was Amish peanut butter spread on homemade white bread. We used to eat this delicacy at the communal meals after the Amish church services of our childhood, and there is nothing like it in the whole world.<br />Dipping the sticky substance onto my plate, I tried to explain to my brother-in-law Chad who grew up Holdeman Mennonite and sadly deprived. "This stuff will make everything in your life all better. If you are stressed about anything, it will all go away when you eat this. It is that amazing."<br />I don't know if Chad believed me, but we see here that my sister Rebecca and brother Marcus immediately partook of their bread and peanut butter before touching the rest of the meal.<br />That is how it is with Amish peanut butter.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"></span></div><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7wydP7upDRff5_o4XEplcXv6Vb0FHbuC2SRnFtEJxcb56CeJ9j7Rcf3aUnfApe1FJn-NaYheZkSYN2N-v7gJE1oQpDkAsy6AWreLUlSIZ5Snqtw2DRXh8uTObmJK_cwYYZ2CcaCocjTUhyh7xKGI4NG-TLw6ukYHgi6i_jqeeRmkK1SPy1u6DdQ/s2016/IMG_3604.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7wydP7upDRff5_o4XEplcXv6Vb0FHbuC2SRnFtEJxcb56CeJ9j7Rcf3aUnfApe1FJn-NaYheZkSYN2N-v7gJE1oQpDkAsy6AWreLUlSIZ5Snqtw2DRXh8uTObmJK_cwYYZ2CcaCocjTUhyh7xKGI4NG-TLw6ukYHgi6i_jqeeRmkK1SPy1u6DdQ/w400-h300/IMG_3604.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roy read to the little kids</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik47ZpuEBpkrBBRYrLUyU8E6sMd7czxleNSJ0a9BNnhQ7uqnTEqFpMYZLiVccw2ntFMm687M_ToocxJlwNBH4ET-Ii-Z6daRbINValHj_EItDwU8lpKLdSY0hvWBfNCdIlqxATY9clGe-YqG2WyTh_UiwYIEZzwfisRue83b6OMcfDTAvkGEGrDQ/s2016/IMG_3594.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik47ZpuEBpkrBBRYrLUyU8E6sMd7czxleNSJ0a9BNnhQ7uqnTEqFpMYZLiVccw2ntFMm687M_ToocxJlwNBH4ET-Ii-Z6daRbINValHj_EItDwU8lpKLdSY0hvWBfNCdIlqxATY9clGe-YqG2WyTh_UiwYIEZzwfisRue83b6OMcfDTAvkGEGrDQ/w300-h400/IMG_3594.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paul and my cousin Truman caught up with their lives.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilCQqK9qpEuDgBy_f_yTUGs3rw0yFrzdaHkwXOrpOg8VZNEIZrNoIqBUm37tCx_jGgH-9vqDAw1G85U0UXWWpO9nk0tsQ8PEJXgVMkEAYr5KyidvecqEh121iXcsrbCV9KkpOkf9LSs4XqJBZGJRMZeyrDwZInxV_8ihTXt38M0ixAXojbLEIB7Q/s2016/IMG_3548.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilCQqK9qpEuDgBy_f_yTUGs3rw0yFrzdaHkwXOrpOg8VZNEIZrNoIqBUm37tCx_jGgH-9vqDAw1G85U0UXWWpO9nk0tsQ8PEJXgVMkEAYr5KyidvecqEh121iXcsrbCV9KkpOkf9LSs4XqJBZGJRMZeyrDwZInxV_8ihTXt38M0ixAXojbLEIB7Q/w480-h640/IMG_3548.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chad the brother-in-law's cousin John took us on a tour of the Inman museum. He is really good at what he does, and I absorbed more Mennonite history in two hours than in the past ten years. </td></tr></tbody></table></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAcZPhI-ea9WMhAanLSFQmaICW3WXfyQcKzkCOkW0mlmSyHm6ij7_AAHHcBNgd0z52cyytvq-Ycu_KR-7eBIze_HtQVgNoM7R2DvexKQFDVTiOtiH_jwgMZlU0U2S_2khArMuZeupc5CklTjqtgwJFspIDnl9SeZ5F_ZHmZCPo8D8ykhfOQ7fS1w/s2016/IMG_3609.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAcZPhI-ea9WMhAanLSFQmaICW3WXfyQcKzkCOkW0mlmSyHm6ij7_AAHHcBNgd0z52cyytvq-Ycu_KR-7eBIze_HtQVgNoM7R2DvexKQFDVTiOtiH_jwgMZlU0U2S_2khArMuZeupc5CklTjqtgwJFspIDnl9SeZ5F_ZHmZCPo8D8ykhfOQ7fS1w/w640-h480/IMG_3609.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anna and Marcus, Loraine and Fred, Rebecca, me and Paul, and Margaret and Chad<br />[the sibs are Marcus, Fred, Rebecca, me, and Margaret. Our oldest brother, Phil, wasn't there.]</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid7283iphIoxTr-lLkydaYMG2sx66DMcgx-3ZSSGNgJXosquGYC0z0FQH47brgDoUCEuhBOn6Om-o-0V_a1BUjSIoffPMuRquHK7ehe3fZzMYXk6za432ygXuUQkzxp7KChLWVnmyJgiOwR8evNZySQfUFj-k8aCkaJZinTKmxXh3Pm_eAMnaaTw/s2016/IMG_3541.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid7283iphIoxTr-lLkydaYMG2sx66DMcgx-3ZSSGNgJXosquGYC0z0FQH47brgDoUCEuhBOn6Om-o-0V_a1BUjSIoffPMuRquHK7ehe3fZzMYXk6za432ygXuUQkzxp7KChLWVnmyJgiOwR8evNZySQfUFj-k8aCkaJZinTKmxXh3Pm_eAMnaaTw/w480-h640/IMG_3541.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This lady came to my book signing in a tractor. The writing is from the coffee shop window. I contacted her daughter about posting this shot. She said, "Oh, that's my sweet mom, and she will be perfectly fine with it! Side note: This 84 year old Amish lady learned how to text since she knew that was her grandchildren’s primary way of communicating. She has a very strong desire to keep learning even in the limits of her Amish faith!"<br />[See what I mean about Kansas people?]</td></tr></tbody></table></span><p></p>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-17662261999119328582023-08-01T21:36:00.007-07:002023-08-02T08:04:18.404-07:00Mr. Smucker Speaks: Identifying with Nicodemus<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8L4X-TAnxezwKHffQbNvERcCWYjSJ6XCbadtOSS6xmlXG_SnTlz17XBDBnZ6qV3UfHu6n0_Jj675tdqizk0wpZT6jOomJOa3nG-YGbQFzYLOfvTh7QxPQt6E72yRvHo8jzaneVgu458iod7P9KyReqX4hkplQpPQ89D_1WT98oA3YCMr7TYAKHw/s750/paul%20canoe.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="454" data-original-width="750" height="389" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8L4X-TAnxezwKHffQbNvERcCWYjSJ6XCbadtOSS6xmlXG_SnTlz17XBDBnZ6qV3UfHu6n0_Jj675tdqizk0wpZT6jOomJOa3nG-YGbQFzYLOfvTh7QxPQt6E72yRvHo8jzaneVgu458iod7P9KyReqX4hkplQpPQ89D_1WT98oA3YCMr7TYAKHw/w640-h389/paul%20canoe.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: x-large; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: x-large;">I recently read through John 3, the story of Nicodemus visiting Jesus at night. As I read the conversation, I had a unique experience: I related to Nicodemus in ways I seldom do with people in Scripture. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">We are told three facts about Nicodemus. From those, we assume other things, and from his conversation with Jesus we can deduce several more things. We know that Nicodemus was a Pharisee, probably a life-long Pharisee which means he was a religious conservative. We know his name was Nicodemus. He was a ruler among his people. He was not a dramatic man like some of the scribes and Pharisees. I am a life-long Mennonite and a religious conservative. My name is Paul. For 25 years I was an undramatic minister among the Mennonite people.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">When Nicodemus came to question Jesus, he did not do it like it seemed most of the scribes and Pharisees did. He was not dramatic. He did not create a scene. He seemed to be older, and trying to piece things together. He seemed to know all about the law of Moses and how things were to be. He seemed to know about God. But then Jesus appeared. John does not tell us if Nicodemus ever saw a miracle or ever heard Jesus preach. But it is easy to infer that Nicodemus was troubled because he saw that Jesus was definitely from God, but he was so different and he taught things so differently. So Nicodemus decided to visit Jesus, address him respectfully, and try to figure things out. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Toward the beginning of their conversation, Jesus introduced a brand new concept, the new birth, that Nicodemus had never been taught and could hardly wrap his mind around. Nicodemus responded with questions. Jesus answered the questions with comparison between physical birth and spiritual birth and statements like being born of water and born of the Spirit which we still don’t know for sure what it means. Then Jesus states that Nicodemus should just accept what Jesus says and realize that there are some things our human mind has trouble comprehending about God and how he works. He uses wind for an example. Jesus reminds Nicodemus that he recognizes wind. He hears it and feels it, but he cannot control it, nor will he ever understand how it comes and where it goes and why at times there are wind gusts. Today the wind is still beyond complete human understanding. Being born again is the same way. We see the effects and hear the effects and can understand it to a certain degree, but there is a lot about it that Jesus knew Nicodemus would never fully understand or comprehend, even when he explained it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Nicodemus answers, how can these things be? There is not enough context to say for sure, but to me Nicodemus seems to be saying, “How can it be that there is a spiritual concept I have not been taught and that you are telling me I cannot understand? I am Nicodemus. I am a ruler of the Jews. God has given us the law. I have studied it. Surely somewhere in the law is the answer. How can it be that being born again is a true concept and God never distinctly mentioned it before?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Jesus’s response was to state that it was okay for master of Israel who has studied the law and who was a follower of God to not know things. Jesus implied there were a lot of earthly things and heavenly things God would not tell us because our human brains would have trouble understanding it. Nicodemus needed to be okay with that, and it appears he was. Jesus then proceeded to tell Nicodemus about the brass serpent being lifted up and compared that to himself being lifted up and then the wonderful verses 15 and 16 --15 That whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life. 16 For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">These wonderful concepts were all brand new things for Nicodemus, things he had never been taught. Things that were not immediately supported by what he already knew. It was hard, but Nicodemus made tremendous growth that evening with Jesus. Even though it was difficult, he seems to have enjoyed what he was learning. Nicodemus, as far as we know, remained a Pharisee, a ruler in Israel. He believed in Jesus. He had eternal life. We are told in John 7 that Nicodemus defended Jesus in a public way and in John 19 that Nicodemus brought myrrh and aloes for Jesus’ burial. Nicodemus in his older years realized that even though he was a leader, he was a smart man, and he had studied scripture, he needed to be careful how he formed and expressed his opinions. He also needed to be open to learning and growing even though it was hard and made him end up at a new, unforeseen place.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Growing, learning, and changing are hard work. When I was a young child it was a natural process to grow and learn, even though I had to work hard at learning from my parents and teachers. I worked hard in high school and college. Marriage, children, teaching school, doing ministry in the church, and running a business added to the work of growing older. Now that I am mostly retired, at times it is tempting to sit back and stop learning and growing and changing as I get older. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Recently I have watched older Christian leaders grappling with new ideas which confront things they have been taught from an early age and that they have always believed. Things that are based on Scripture, and implied by Scripture, but not definitely stated in Scripture. As I have participated with these leaders, I have been struck with how important it is to recognize my own limitations and to realize that there might be a lot about what I have learned and been taught about eternity, raising children, and controlling people under my authority that God cannot show to me because I have a frail human mind. I need to work at forming my opinions, but I also need to be able to understand, like Nicodemus, that some things God will not try to explain to me because I might not be able to understand. That is growth that is very hard for an older person and I struggle at times with being willing to say “This is what I think it means.” If God did not say that specifically in Scripture and I reach my conclusion because of implications and inferences, I need to reach the place where I can say, “This is what I think God is saying” rather than “This is what I know God is saying.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">A week and a half ago I was with my aunt and some cousins and their wives. We began talking about how much water we needed to drink, difficulties with leg cramps, hearing issues, and other older people health issues. Someone made the comment that growing old is hard and involves hard work, but it still can be fun. I was reminded of that on Friday when I organized an overnight canoe trip on the Willamette River like I had done numerous times up until maybe 10 years ago. I had not been in a canoe since I had my fall over 3 years ago. Planning took a lot of work to find paddles and gather the canoes and fix the trailer. It was hard, but a lot of fun. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Once on the river, paddling was much harder. With one bum arm, I could not handle being in the back of the canoe, but the sense of freedom I felt by paddling a canoe was intensified by the realization that with hard work, much harder work than when I was younger, I could still enjoy paddling a canoe down the river. We observed red-tailed hawks attacking a bald eagle which flipped over at the moment of attack, and we saw a deer swim the river. Paddling was hard work, but probably more fun as an older person than it was as a younger person. Like Nicodemus, I want to never give up on learning and growing.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMoAyd10CcB7xha6Bjy1jx_nOoRNzTyeqqTKmyM6HitzO8Rx8CR2FKwbWjFw0RwemHh3w9_WjvshKKNEzJotqzwRp9VN13GfSXT9F_RQg495kDD_chccy6TY5nGaFATSEAJUJGTExnLBDmnQaF7ZPFFqAJ2mRy5iqkV3zUI3T7fHqfczwgIjdjzw/s2016/paul%20marys%20peak.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMoAyd10CcB7xha6Bjy1jx_nOoRNzTyeqqTKmyM6HitzO8Rx8CR2FKwbWjFw0RwemHh3w9_WjvshKKNEzJotqzwRp9VN13GfSXT9F_RQg495kDD_chccy6TY5nGaFATSEAJUJGTExnLBDmnQaF7ZPFFqAJ2mRy5iqkV3zUI3T7fHqfczwgIjdjzw/w480-h640/paul%20marys%20peak.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The day after the canoe trip, Mr. Smucker hiked up Mary's Peak.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMhpra9W2zi3mA4NZMp3yGImznhz8u119wjEIa8NdTSzxw4Xc5Lic3kQHVM7xTcj7Ht1wnG4yujQQwRXtX2sp--3tNReT9F-B9XpuEt_Bu4kjBGnqhTjJgZLlMxZqTNF0SMaCnEOqVskiReKxXlIhBNbIm-tPlL_0OTL26MA2pdcmPCgNmCkb04g/s2016/paul%20coffee%20hour.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMhpra9W2zi3mA4NZMp3yGImznhz8u119wjEIa8NdTSzxw4Xc5Lic3kQHVM7xTcj7Ht1wnG4yujQQwRXtX2sp--3tNReT9F-B9XpuEt_Bu4kjBGnqhTjJgZLlMxZqTNF0SMaCnEOqVskiReKxXlIhBNbIm-tPlL_0OTL26MA2pdcmPCgNmCkb04g/w400-h300/paul%20coffee%20hour.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He joined us for a few minutes of the weekly Red Barn Coffee Hour.<br />He didn't drink coffee, though.</td></tr></tbody></table>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-62814564787460817802023-07-25T16:58:00.010-07:002023-07-25T19:13:36.441-07:00On Writing: How to Begin to Start<p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">This question appeared in the comments on a recent blog post:</span></p><p><i><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I have wanted to find an efficient way to ask you this question— I want to start writing a blog. I’m an old gal— 76, so it’s not like I have a lot of time. I have enjoyed writing since I was a young girl. I fantasized about writing my memoir but have never taken the plunge to actually seriously start. However, I think writing a blog would be good for a number of reasons. I write things occasionally on my Facebook page and many people have commented that they enjoy my writings. I think, among other things, the discipline of writing a blog would be beneficial to get me serious about communicating my ideas/thoughts/ impressions to a wider audience.</span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">So, my question to you is: What advice would you give me in terms of starting a blog— What should I do—in terms of setting it up? ( I am not on Instagram, etc. Mainly just FB.) Thank you!</span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I heard similar questions from a woman in her seventies when I was selling books at the county fair last week. She had slightly more specific ideas of what she wanted to do [her life story for her grandchildren, and life lessons for a wider readership.] Her main question was the same: How do I begin?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Long ago, my sister Rebecca and I would put on plays and performances for our family. We would get all set up and then announce, “Now the show is beginning to start!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I am still puzzled that we, as little Amish girls, knew anything about putting on shows of any kind.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Later, at maybe ten and eleven years old, we outgrew that silly announcement with our performances. At that stage [pun intended], we adapted stories from old books into plays, roping our little sister Margaret into the role of the maid or the spavined mare. One year it was an elaborate Christmas play, with all of us whipping into and out of roles and costumes.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">We would find a story, write out the script, practice over and over, create costumes [including our brothers' pants and Dad's hats as needed], string a curtain over the pantry doorway, write out invitations to our parents and brothers, and set up chairs for our audience. Then it was time to begin. We’d pull aside the curtain, take a deep breath, and say the first lines. In one play, two poor spinsters discussed a tea rose that changed their lives. In another, two men argued over a horse, the one insisting it was a “spavined mare” and the other insisting it was sound. “But the eye, Master Schneider!” is the only line I remember.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">The beginning is where your preparation ends and the show starts. It’s a lot harder than it sounds, and it takes a lot of energy to overcome the fears and barriers to that first step.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">So, here’s my advice for anyone who wants to write. And I define “write” as it was meant by the women who asked me the above questions—writing specific pieces or projects and displaying your words for public consumption.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">1.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Answer this question: What are you feeling called to do, say, write, or publish? Some feel only a vague urge to share their accumulated wisdom in some way, some have a goal of writing their life story for their grandchildren, and others definitely want to write a book or start a blog.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">It’s ok if you have only a general nudge toward writing. It’s also ok if you know exactly what you want to say and how to say it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Think about this. Answer it for yourself.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather;">2.</span><span style="font-family: Merriweather; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Merriweather;">Think about what you’ve already written. If you’re feeling the nudge in your seventies, I’m pretty sure you already have an accumulation of writings. Think of letters, diaries, updates in family emails or work newsletters, Sunday school lessons, and college essays.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">If you can, gather your writings and flip through some of them.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">What kind of writing do you do best?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">What themes keep coming up?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">What received the most response from others?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">3.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>If you know exactly what you want to write, narrow your focus. Let’s say it’s a children’s book on first getting electricity when you were a child. File away the journals from high school and the diary from your year in the Peace Corps. You'll use those in later projects; you don't need them now.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">For the children's book, write down everything you can remember from that era of your life. Ask family members for their memories. Look up local history. And so on.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">If you want to write your life story, gather the diaries and letters, but don't dig through the Bible study notes and the instruction manuals you wrote at work. Focus on a specific time period, and gather all the information you can.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">4.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>If you don’t have a specific project in mind, then choose a platform. I recommend blogs as a great way to break into publishing. If you can figure out email, you can manage a blog. Go to blogger.com or wordpress.com and start clicking. Other social media platforms, such as Facebook and Twitter, are great for spreading the word but not so great as places to express actual essays or articles.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">A less techy and less public option is email newsletters. My almost-90-year-old mother-in-law considers herself neither techy nor a writer, but she sends out weekly emails updating us all on the bread she baked, the Sunday sermon, and the progress of harvest outside her window.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Your emails can be chatty letters, devotionals, essays about your thoughts, stories from your past, or carefully-crafted articles about specific topics. Ask friends and family if they’d like to be on your list, and encourage them to forward your emails to others if they find them interesting.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">You can also operate offline and write with paper and ink. Compile a list of people who have enjoyed your letters in the past, type up letters or articles, copy them, and mail them out. See what happens.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">5.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ask for help. The writing/publishing world is complicated and frustrating. I don’t know of anyone who does it well, all alone.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Ask your family for memories, ask young people to show you how to access the internet, ask published writers for advice. Most writers are “pathologically helpful,” as my friend Jessica Maxwell described herself. I freely ask for help, and I freely give help whenever I can.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">6.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Set small deadlines for yourself, and create a bit of structure. Not only is it hard to begin, it’s hard to create a pattern and keep up the momentum. For almost 19 years, I had a monthly newspaper-column deadline that kept me motivated. This summer, I have a goal of writing a blog post every Tuesday. I even have a rotating list of subjects—travel, life advice, random ramblings, writing advice, and so on. While I don’t have an editor waiting on me, I have a commitment to my readers and a bit of structure to keep me going. You can also create accountability with someone else—a spouse, friend, or another writer.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">7.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Take a deep breath, and let the show begin to start. Write something. Share it with someone else.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Many writers can plan and organize and outline until the cows come home. At some point you have to begin. Pick up your pen or laptop. Write something. Look it over. Make it better. Share it before it’s 100% perfect.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">8.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Keep going. Blog today and next week and the week after that. Write a devotional, then another, then another. Write about your birth and your early years and kindergarten. Write a letter and mail it to everyone in your group. Do it again, and again.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Words accumulate. Before long, you’ll be surprised at how many words and pages you’ve written. Eventually, you’ll have a children’s book or memoir or a set of devotionals ready to go.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">9.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Listen to feedback. Obviously, you don’t need to take all feedback seriously, but treat any response as valuable information. Someone read your writings and took the time to reply. You can learn from all of it. Look at what everyone enjoys or misunderstands. That can guide you in how and what to write next time.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">10.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Take opportunities that show up. You might be asked to write about vacation Bible school for a church newsletter or gather memories from the cousins to read at the reunion. Please say yes. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">11.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Knock on doors. Contact publishers about your children’s book, ask other authors about printers they like, submit articles to magazines. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Recently I’ve become aware of how much Anabaptists wait to do things until we’re asked, and how much that has shaped my writing life. Think about it. We often wait for a phone call asking us to serve in missions or a voluntary-service venue. We don’t pursue becoming a pastor, but wait to see if we’re chosen by the church. We don’t fill out applications to teach in church schools but wait until the board finds out about us through that mysterious school-board network and asks us to teach.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">[Disclaimer—I’m sure this varies with place and time, but it has been very true in my experience.]</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I saw this distinctly in my dad’s life when I read his book, A Chirp From the Grass Roots. Over and over, he says, “[Someone] suggested/put a lot of pressure on me to [go to college, go to Paraguay, teach in Indiana], so I thought I would try it.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I find myself doing the same, "So I thought I would try it" routine. This worked out spendidly when the Register-Guard asked me to write a monthly column. It hasn’t worked so well since that job ended and I published the last book of family-life essays. I find myself waiting for someone to ask instead of figuring out what I want to do and going after it. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">So I’ve been thinking about Jesus’s words in Matthew 7:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><i>Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I’m good at waiting. Pursuing is a skill to be learned. It means doing everything I’ve just told you, especially beginning.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Here’s my summary of how to begin:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Gather what you have.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Choose a project.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Set small goals and deadlines.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Start writing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Share it with others.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Learn.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Keep going.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMcNek0I2ei4ge4suCzipSR3VIj0Px8S6-FT8nUnoYiWZzRrAwmk0QRXDoXvXzHkZBl_S4aYMVipUMrb8tUYyvRvBybTZ3JadfhVUDEizTtz_DTIxLFz5GmE3BCNtQ0WEDBkuNvNh8fedaAml4MmcDHBewi2njEJTpOUOqn6fbd2gOZbteumd1Qw/s1843/blog%20play%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1843" height="444" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMcNek0I2ei4ge4suCzipSR3VIj0Px8S6-FT8nUnoYiWZzRrAwmk0QRXDoXvXzHkZBl_S4aYMVipUMrb8tUYyvRvBybTZ3JadfhVUDEizTtz_DTIxLFz5GmE3BCNtQ0WEDBkuNvNh8fedaAml4MmcDHBewi2njEJTpOUOqn6fbd2gOZbteumd1Qw/w640-h444/blog%20play%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">It's time for this show to begin to start.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: medium;">[But seriously, if there’s a specific topic, book, article, or post you wish I would write, please tell me. I'd love to hear from you. dorcassmucker@gmail.com]<br /></span></p><div><br /></div>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-90672249122781409222023-07-20T20:43:00.000-07:002023-07-20T20:43:16.974-07:00Correction--Anna Lucas's address<p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"> This is for everyone who gets my updates by email.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Yesterday's post about Anna Lucas's book had the wrong address for ordering a book.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Instead of the Colorado address, please use this:</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Anna Lucas, 26303 US Hwy 83, White River, SD 57579</span></span></p>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-58971201352301135112023-07-19T20:49:00.008-07:002023-07-20T20:41:12.134-07:00Book Review--Roses in Kiev by Anna Lucas<p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Most missionaries aren’t Elisabeth Elliot or Gracia Burnham. This shows in many ways, but especially in their inability to write their memoirs in an engaging way. You’ve read a few of
them, I’m sure, while trying to be gracious, especially if you know the writer. Unfortunately,
what was lifechanging for them sounds tedious to you, or you’re troubled at
their patronizing attitude toward the local population, or they sound so super-spiritual
you feel like you can’t relate.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">So I am happy to introduce you to Roses in Kiev—Rigors and
Romance in the Life of a Young English Teacher, by Anna Lucas.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fhfl7u3VX7-tHhgbhXXifs0ZqOK8atPoWR1eo7xyQsBcga5MWHeZWRBvIorrNI7GzCAAycPus1m98bAHFNX1gCAO2gNb2buRnPpK2wr7fYeKClamDak7uRe1MsMNy2fQgPRtdhSzdfbHaIm9tHFoVmMv_b5-QBaTnE9C-X2YJ9oMrJQlP3P-SQ/s2016/kiev%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fhfl7u3VX7-tHhgbhXXifs0ZqOK8atPoWR1eo7xyQsBcga5MWHeZWRBvIorrNI7GzCAAycPus1m98bAHFNX1gCAO2gNb2buRnPpK2wr7fYeKClamDak7uRe1MsMNy2fQgPRtdhSzdfbHaIm9tHFoVmMv_b5-QBaTnE9C-X2YJ9oMrJQlP3P-SQ/w480-h640/kiev%202.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Anna and I have met online but not in person, but we connect with each other's writing. We have a lot in common, as we are both wives, moms, and writers. We've both traveled to other countries. We both have blogs about our lives--she's at <a href="https://prairielucasfamily.blogspot.com/">Prairie Pines & Posies.</a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">In 1993, Anna moved to Kiev to teach Bible and English. Both before and after this experience, she traveled and worked in various points around the world. This book is about her life in Kiev, written over 25 years later, drawing from notes and diaries.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I enjoyed this book very much. Here’s why:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Not only does Anna convey her life in Kiev, but
we also go along on an inner journey of hardships and growth. In addition,
there’s a delightful and unusual romance, complete with a few surprising moments that had
me laughing out loud. The story is well-paced and well-told.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Ukraine has been in the news for the past year,
and this story is especially interesting in that context. She tells of the
hardships of life soon after the fall of Communism, and you feel the
frustration and desperation of the cold winter, the lack of consumer goods, and
the unbelievable challenges in simple things like moving into an apartment or
fixing appliances. You think about their lives today and wonder if the Ukrainians are ever going to catch a break.<br />
Anna includes many details such as the weird juxtaposition of moving into an apartment with beautiful wood furniture, built-in glass-fronted cupboards, and even a chandelier, far nicer than anything she’d grown
up with in a large family, and then venturing out to shop for groceries when
even the basics like eggs were scarce and hard to find.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->The author has the greatest respect for her
Ukrainian Christian colleagues. She recognizes what they endured under Communism
and their incredible faith and courage. I could tell that their stories mattered
to the author. She did not consider herself superior, or like she had the right to tell them how to live.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Anna may have been a courageous missionary in a
faraway land, but she is utterly, completely relatable in her narrative. Young and
scatterbrained and uncertain, she navigates sickness, exhaustion, cold, relationship
challenges, and loneliness. She works unbelievably hard to learn the Russian
language and carry out her responsibilities, but life in Kiev works against any
sort of efficiency, progress is slow, and her hard work isn’t often seen or
appreciated.<br />
Eventually, a highly unusual romance appears, but all is not smooth or rosy. I
felt for her about every bit of it—the waiting, the uncertainty, the
expectations of how things ought to be, the disquieting opinions of others, the
wondering what God was up to.<br />
Then there was the moment when Anna thought her young man was going to propose,
but he asked a very different question instead. It would be unfair to give away
that part of the story, but I will say I don’t often scream and laugh when I
read books, but I did then.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Missionaries can be very spiritual, and I am
easily intimidated. I confess I started reading Roses in Kiev
with a bit of hesitation, not only because it’s a missionary memoir but because
Anna is part of a denomination similar to the Holiness church at the high school and college that
Paul attended. Those folks are very nice but they were always far more earnest,
sure, and vocal than me, with their uninhibited public prayers and their
booming sermons about being saved and sanctified.<br />I am happy to report that I am quite sure that Anna would not intimidate me at all if we met, and
we could talk as equals about our journeys of faith.<br />
In the book, Anna shows us what she believes and how she lived it out, but she handles denominational nuances with great finesse and no pretension or
superiority. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">6.<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Anyone who’s been on the mission field knows
that often the greatest challenge is getting along with your teammates. Anna handles
this subject with grace as well. We get a good sense of the differences among
them and the difficulties that followed, but she doesn't say too much, and we don’t feel like she’s being
cagey or intentionally mysterious. That’s a delicate line to walk, and she does
it well.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">You should read this book if:<br />
--you’re interested in Ukraine, modern missions, language study, or trusting
God with your future romance or any other unknowns.<br />
--you’re thinking of writing a memoir, especially about working in another
country or culture.<br />
--you enjoy a good story.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> <span style="font-size: large;">T</span></o:p><span style="font-size: large;">his book and others may be ordered from Anna Lucas at</span></p><span style="font-size: large;"> <strike>Sparrows and Roses Books<br />16270 Sarita Cir.<br />Peyton, CO 80831</strike></span><div><span style="font-size: large;">oops! this is the wrong address! Please use this one instead:</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><strike><br /></strike></span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather;">Anna Lucas</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather;"> 26303 US Hwy 83</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather;"> White River, SD 57579</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Merriweather;"><br /></span>(719) 332-6336<br />or email<br /><a href="mailto:prairielucas@gmail.com">prairielucas@gmail.com</a><br /><a href="https://sparrows-and-roses-books.square.site/">https://sparrows-and-roses-books.square.site/</a>.</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMX7WdfBspu2Wny2KEttolEeUkd-pOduPLBX9kb8Lp0Hp97NNoy00p_uqEVj4CzkwxmFsg0fmxVPvNKy33IR-C0dSc1Tm3xO2zP3Brc87FTdud7F5n1QbOrpmgRjaOGk26oNh1KhktVfN9sfAVFmRsi2HO2siMQmPY2_9ceQsXBP1_8qNwFr4niQ/s1907/kiev%201.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="728" data-original-width="1907" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMX7WdfBspu2Wny2KEttolEeUkd-pOduPLBX9kb8Lp0Hp97NNoy00p_uqEVj4CzkwxmFsg0fmxVPvNKy33IR-C0dSc1Tm3xO2zP3Brc87FTdud7F5n1QbOrpmgRjaOGk26oNh1KhktVfN9sfAVFmRsi2HO2siMQmPY2_9ceQsXBP1_8qNwFr4niQ/w640-h245/kiev%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This paragraph told me that<br />a) Anna as a young woman was a lot like me at that age.<br />b) Sherri the roommate might have been a teensy bit irritating, but Anna lets us draw our own conclusions on this.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div></div>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-32684064433849408172023-07-12T17:24:00.011-07:002023-07-13T17:00:26.328-07:00Things I've Learned Lately<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">1.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Staying home all summer doesn’t mean I have time to write blog posts every Tuesday as I had purposed to do. That was sort of magic-fairy thinking. Not traveling doesn’t mean automatic hours in front of the computer. You also have to not cook so much, or talk with so many people, or water the hydrangeas regularly.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">2.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Mackinac is pronounced Mackinaw and Tijuana is pronounced Tia-juana, despite the spellings. I waited until I was 61 to learn this, after no doubt proving myself an outsider in both places.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">[Note to various commenters: it turns out that when you’re speaking Spanish, you say “tee-HWAH-na” and when you’re speaking English you say “tee-uh-WAH-na.” Kind of like when you speak English you say Germany and when you’re speaking German you say Deutschland.]</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">3.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This is a good summer for snakes but not so much for me. Some summers I don’t see any around here. This year I’ve run across four, not counting the dead one on the road. I didn't "run across" that one or any of the others as in driving over them with a car, but run across as in merrily scooping up grass clippings along the blocks along the flower bed and literally raking my fingers right across the back of a very zigzagging, very alive, very striped garter snake. I can still feel it. I have not been the same since.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">4.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My husband has hidden reserves of clever humor. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Me: I am so sick and tired of finding snakes around here! I picked up a piece of cardboard in the garden to see if there were any volunteer potatoes coming up underneath and there was</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Paul: A volunteer snake??</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Me: YES!! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">5.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Speaking of volunteer plants, the mystery bush in the garden turned out to be hollyhocks! It showed up last year, multiple stalks in a cluster with squash-like rough leaves. But it produced neither flower nor fruit. I left it over the winter, and it grew even taller, then developed green bud things along the stalks, reminding me of both artichokes and ground cherries. Suddenly, I noticed a few blobs of red, and soon the whole thing bloomed in hollyhocks. I have no memory of planting it. Maybe a few seeds resurrected from previous owners long ago when the garden was dug through two years ago with numerous holes and trenches for the sewer line for the barn.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoAqS8iFRDJPOZHIgwoZYnzVIK6wIkKxkD0SYET_BcO6y2DpJ77168kW-ezFhNMXz8EOeB4YeetKlmXATIyWnANyTwzXB-rDBBLTPuISL8lS58LeOVZiny_JVcjqfmIcSycQXoZsNkYMLdUAoOSs94b90yLgdhJJdn6RQybNbGwvu6Gl6euVDvOA/s2016/hollyhock%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoAqS8iFRDJPOZHIgwoZYnzVIK6wIkKxkD0SYET_BcO6y2DpJ77168kW-ezFhNMXz8EOeB4YeetKlmXATIyWnANyTwzXB-rDBBLTPuISL8lS58LeOVZiny_JVcjqfmIcSycQXoZsNkYMLdUAoOSs94b90yLgdhJJdn6RQybNbGwvu6Gl6euVDvOA/s320/hollyhock%203.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnKjMchRk7Rl7MkjSEoCy-XEChIB8TNK-nulezMpNZc5_1qQHGQ1MP0sXV4xkNIv7c-mzOVpblBD-4vxDTrPsFDLjRV7htmNMXX53Xb55RIIGqyDaU2UVcq99RTWhap1O5w8qMw4TEgIje0lhPVVCC1sli7mWOr76IhGxD5hFOKKEFWbvm0n7f7Q/s2016/hollyhock%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnKjMchRk7Rl7MkjSEoCy-XEChIB8TNK-nulezMpNZc5_1qQHGQ1MP0sXV4xkNIv7c-mzOVpblBD-4vxDTrPsFDLjRV7htmNMXX53Xb55RIIGqyDaU2UVcq99RTWhap1O5w8qMw4TEgIje0lhPVVCC1sli7mWOr76IhGxD5hFOKKEFWbvm0n7f7Q/s320/hollyhock%202.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">6.</span><span style="text-align: left; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">Our fine son Ben is annoyed by, or at least suspicious of, many types of people. </span></div></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">a. People who wear stretchy caps when it’s not cold.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">b. People who cover as much of their car as possible with stickers. This includes people in Subarus with every outdoor and left wing cause who think they’re sticking it to the man with stickers about socialized medicine as well as people with every manner of Bible verse slapped on every surface.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">c. People who talk about their dog like it’s a child.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">d. People who add unnecessary letters to children’s names. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">e. People on bikes who never yield to pedestrians and want to be treated like either a car or a pedestrian, whichever is most convenient.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">f. People who self-describe as “creatives.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">g. People with tattoos in a language they don’t speak.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">7.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ben said, “Clearly I’m annoyed by a lot.” He was finishing his dissertation at the time. I’ve learned that finishing up a doctoral dissertation and presenting it are unbelievably, alarmingly stressful.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">8.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Paul’s cousin Darrell is harvesting a type of ryegrass called Koga. I had never heard of it. Technically, it’s “Koga Tetraploid Annual Ryegrass.” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">9.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> “Conservative” has changed its meaning in the Mennonite lexicon. I had a conversation with an Amish person about taking pictures and it opened up a memory of my Uncle Art and Aunt Vina and Uncle Ervin taking pictures of us when we were Amish, which was ok because it was in our house and no one would ever know. These relatives were all “Conservative,” which, in that day, meant Conservative Mennonite Conference. “Conservative” meant that they could do and have all kinds of cool things like plaid dresses and pretty belts and taking pictures. Today, that conference is known as CMC, and the term “conservative Mennonite” has different and more restrictive connotations, at least when used by people in my sphere.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">[The commenters also inform me that CMC is now RNOC—Rosedale Network of Churches]</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">10.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It is ok to hire help. I feel extravagant and silly doing so because, after all, I come from Amish stock, we are almost empty nesters, and I am reasonably healthy and capable. However. Even though I am no longer doing multiple loads of laundry a day or baking gigantic pot roasts, it turns out this nest has a lot of cubic footage, cobwebs, and dusty corners, and the outside is way more acreage than is easily handled without a bunch of teenagers to help out. So. I hired a cousin’s daughter to whip the hedge into shape and a niece to clean weekly and another niece to bake food for the freezer. My parents ran their own house and farm until Mom was 93, and I don’t recall them ever hiring help until the family got someone to live in and take care of them. I’ve learned I can honor their incredible work ethic AND get the nieces to work for me. The world is still turning, and I can still speak Pennsylvania German. Amazing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">11.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Listening is a gift. Recently I was doing a bit of shopping and as I walked to my car a young woman came running across the parking lot. She gave me a hug and wished me a late happy birthday. She said, “I just want to bless you, because you were the first person to listen to me.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Well, of course I started crying, as one does.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Listening, in the moment, consists of pouring more tea, nodding, saying “mm-hmm” repeatedly, and asking a question now and then. It doesn’t seem like enough to merit a hug in a parking lot five years later.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">But apparently it is.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">12.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The problem was with Apple and not with me or my phone. See, a while back my phone went as blank as my brain when I have a writing deadline on a sunny day. I plugged it in, pushed buttons, and pleaded. Nothing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I was about to plague our son Matt with yet another desperate, tearful, tech-related entreaty when Paul suggested we take the phone to Best Buy and ask them what to do.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">The nice young man behind the counter said, “Oh, this is an issue with the latest update from Apple. It goes into what we call ‘brick mode.’”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">He showed me how to fix it. Press the “up” volume button. Press the “down” volume button. Press the power button for longer than you’d think.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">It worked!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">In the following weeks, the phone went into brick mode a few more times, and I knew what to do.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">When there’s a problem of any sort, I assume I’ve done something wrong or stupid. But sometimes it's not my mistake at all, but a glitch in the system and someone else’s error.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">What a profound revelation.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">12. Harvest in Oregon is just as fun to watch and feel and smell as it was when I first experienced it, 41 years ago. You'd think it might grow old. It doesn't.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">13. I've been learning about stress and autoimmune things and activating the Vagus nerve to make your body and mind settle down and behave. One way to do this, say the Instagram experts, is to stick your head [still attached to your body, please] into the freezer, or to plunge your face in cold water.<br /><br />Sudden revelation: this is why Canadians and Minnesotans are so chill: all winter, they plunge their faces into air that's often colder than your freezer, for long periods of time.<br /><br />No one's as happy as Minnesotans walking into the coffee shop when it's 25-below outside and billows of mist surround them as they stomp inside in their parkas and Sorel boots. "Cold out dere," they mutter, grinning through their frosty beards.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">T</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">heir Vagus nerves must be humming along like a well-maintained Case combine in a field of K-31 fescue.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Maybe I need to spend summers in Oregon and winters in Minnesota.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8dL31SA7bG4uqImkItjiXZXxbu7u2ovKr0jt4CA4AuxVfN8q-fIi5WrSSAMlgiq2VnhSzHp5JfZj04M0h5UN8XQ45CSrLMCQZyqSWHCpe4KfKc78Thn2IfJSa0_ZL-DhS-n1J0yEcXxV4VxG9Uu2r10Ta5Wz-vCDk4KdLVuFNIPbCrfZ59TXZ3A/s2016/combine.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8dL31SA7bG4uqImkItjiXZXxbu7u2ovKr0jt4CA4AuxVfN8q-fIi5WrSSAMlgiq2VnhSzHp5JfZj04M0h5UN8XQ45CSrLMCQZyqSWHCpe4KfKc78Thn2IfJSa0_ZL-DhS-n1J0yEcXxV4VxG9Uu2r10Ta5Wz-vCDk4KdLVuFNIPbCrfZ59TXZ3A/w640-h480/combine.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is Emily harvesting Darrell's Koga ryegrass.</td></tr></tbody></table>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-64330802116493754782023-07-04T12:01:00.004-07:002023-07-04T12:21:08.142-07:00Ask Aunt Dorcas: On Being "The Book Writer"<p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>Dear Aunt Dorcas,</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>Here's something I'd like to hear about from other writers. I shy away from meeting people because as soon as I say even my first name they say, "Oh, the book writer." (Maybe if my name was Mary Martin I could hide better.) Next question is, "What are you writing now?" </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>Today, as many times before, I walked into a room and saw people looking at me and whispering. I get tired of it. How do other writers handle these things? What is a good answer? I thought maybe when people say "the book writer" I could say, "are you a book reader?'</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>You're good at stirring up a discussion. Maybe you can stir something up on this from a variety of writers. I'd love to hear any thoughts or advice.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>--"Gladys Hostetler”</i></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioHDh4os5OZRlVh41Z0FByL5KXWgHs5P_YP9xfCJaoLX3A9XibCV1fg0iwcKZ8wVJpHnKxV6t5mJck55-U4imyWp4sravOJ9MvFTYlx0j6v9Nl82XvGOKQgMXD5mcCRGWF7ZixqU6LgHlhUpe1ipeR-9bQ0YiAMgGa8PnTe47HP34Wnk7UNWYe5g/s206/blog%20adult%20kids%202.jpg" style="font-family: trebuchet; font-style: italic; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="206" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioHDh4os5OZRlVh41Z0FByL5KXWgHs5P_YP9xfCJaoLX3A9XibCV1fg0iwcKZ8wVJpHnKxV6t5mJck55-U4imyWp4sravOJ9MvFTYlx0j6v9Nl82XvGOKQgMXD5mcCRGWF7ZixqU6LgHlhUpe1ipeR-9bQ0YiAMgGa8PnTe47HP34Wnk7UNWYe5g/w400-h400/blog%20adult%20kids%202.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Two authors, Emily Smucker and her mom, Dorcas, sat at their table at the fair and wished for a little more fame and recognition.<br />You can find their books at <br /><a href="http://muddycreekbooks.com">muddycreekbooks.com</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Dear Gladys,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">This immediately brings to mind the first time I met you. You were a middle-aged woman who had just traveled from Pennsylvania to northwestern Ontario. I was in my twenties, an aspiring writer.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">It was evening.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">I met you in the second-floor hallway of the Northern Youth Programs guest house as you were being shown to your room. Laden with travel bags and accessories, you looked weary.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">I chose that auspicious time to go all fan-girl on you. “Are you. . . Gladys Hostetler??!! Oh, I’m so glad to meet you! My name is Dorcas, and I like to write too!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">You were unbelievably and undeservedly kind.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">I hope you got a really good night’s sleep.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Years later we were in the same class, taught by Harvey Yoder, at the CLP Writers Conference. We did an exercise together—pulling a story from our childhood, I think—and we had a fun conversation, more as equals than the hallway meeting.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">First , the writer’s perspective.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">We had no idea, did we? </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">We were like Job’s young friend Elihu in Job 32—</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> <i>I too will have my say;</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i> I too will tell what I know.</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>For I am full of words,</i></span></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i> and the spirit within me compels me;</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>inside I am like bottled-up wine,</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i> like new wineskins ready to burst.</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>I must speak and find relief;</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i> I must open my lips and reply.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">We too were full of words, so we wrote and published, happy for the opportunity to release the words into the wide world and have them found and read.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">We didn’t know we were placing ourselves in a one-dimensional mold from which we would never escape, or that we were giving up the privilege of being anonymous. We might be photographers, gardeners, or experts on Roman history. We are wives and moms and daughters.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">But we are known as The Writer.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">We wanted “fame” in the sense that we want our books to be purchased and read, but we didn’t ask for the whispers when we walk into a room. This is hard to talk about except with fellow writers, because it comes across as “poor little famous me; it’s so annoying to be recognized.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">But sometimes the things we want have side effects we didn't expect.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">I know people who are perfectly fine with being known and recognized for a single thing. They walk into a room and Oh look! It’s the missionary! The evangelist! The singer! That’s their identity, and they seem to revel in it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Many of us writers, however, are introverts, and fame, even if it’s small and contained, unnerves us. We want to be known well, in our many dimensions, by those close to us, and to be anonymous with those outside that circle. Being a writer messes with our sense of self and even our sense of safety. The “writer” label is too complicated to embrace as our whole identity, and we know we are many things besides.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">I am not as introverted as many writers, and I enjoy a bit of recognition, which I attribute to a lack of attention as a child. But it quickly becomes too much. I remember a REACH conference in Pennsylvania where I wanted to walk around with a paper bag over my head after about half a day because I kept catching people looking at me with a gleam of recognition in their eyes.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Then I went to a BMA summer convention and this didn’t happen at all, so it’s all about appearing in the demographic that reads your books. It's not like I'm Taylor Swift and can't go anywhere without being recognized, in case you wondered.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">I’ve had some truly weird experiences with fame and recognition. Generally, I am easy to ignore. I’m not cool or fashionable or the person who walks into a room and takes over. I’ve had times in a group or social setting when I was obviously not worth noticing or talking to by others until suddenly people found out who I was. When I was “Dorcas Smucker!” I was worth attention and conversation. When I was just me, I was invisible.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">That has taught me that the “writer” persona is an illusion that people carry in their own heads and project onto me, and it’s important that I know who I am. Dorcas Smucker feeding the cats is not the same person as “Dorcas Smucker!!” recognized in a public setting.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Here's how I respond to “Oh! The writer!” when it happens to me: much as I cringe at being one-dimensional, I like to express gratitude that they actually read my stuff, which is truly a gift. Then I try to shift the conversation to them as quickly as possible. Name, where are you from, what brings you here, what is your connection to the bride/conference/speaker/deceased? Usually by that time there’s some point of connection, something besides me and my writing, to provide a conversational rabbit trail.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">My response to “What are you writing now?” is to panic inside and want to burst into tears, especially if they ask if I’m finally writing that Mennonite fiction book I’ve talked about for years. I don’t have the time or coherence, in the moment, to explain all the ideas that haven’t worked out, all the demands on my time despite the children being grown and gone, all the delays and frustrations with the printer, all the time it took for my brain to sort of recover after my husband’s life-threatening injuries, all the life transitions we’ve been through, and all the obstacles to pursuing creativity.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">I believe I’m not alone in this, that The Next Book is a touchy subject for every writer, and we all wish that no one would ask until about a week before the book is released--polished and ready and complete.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">This brings up another peril of being a writer: readers feel like they own a piece of you. Not everyone, of course, thank God, but many readers feel that you’re obligated to release at least a book a year, inform them of details about your family that you don’t have permission to share, take a look at their manuscript and give feedback, write their uncle’s life story, and write an article about their favorite subject.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">If you haven’t learned to say No, you’re in trouble. And you have to do it graciously enough that you don’t lose a reader and future sales.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Now for the other side. You’re a reader. You love Annie Brubaker’s books and feel like she understands you. She makes you think and laugh. You’d love to meet her someday.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">And then she walks into the room at the rehearsal dinner. Oh my stars. Yes, it has to be her. You had heard rumors that she’s the groom’s cousin and sure enough!!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">You squeal a bit and elbow your sister beside you. “Look who just walked in! Isn’t that…?” And then Annie Brubaker turns and looks at you, and you catch her eye—aack! How embarrassing! You wonder if this is how Peter felt when the rooster crowed and Jesus turned and looked at him. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Now what?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">My advice is to be up front and matter-of-fact. Don’t stare, but go talk to her if you have the chance. Express your appreciation but don’t squeal like a teenager at a Justin Bieber concert. Here’s a sample script: “Excuse me. I’m curious if you’re Annie Brubaker?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">“Yes, I am.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">“I’m Sarah. I just want to tell you I appreciate your books, especially the devotional for new moms.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">“Thank you.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">At that point, if Annie glances over to the buffet line, end the conversation. If she maintains eye contact and asks if you have a new baby, you can keep talking. Maybe you’re curious about her writing process or want to tell her about a situation in your life that was affected by her story. That’s fine. Just talk like she’s a real human, and you and she are equally valuable. Find connections, compare opinions, and “encourage one another, and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing. [1 Thessalonians 5:11]</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">End the conversation before you exhaust her, and make sure she has a chance to eat.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">If she sits beside you, take it as permission to continue the conversation, making sure to pause often and long enough to let her enjoy her meal.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">If you’re both writers, you’re going to rattle off about all the things that only writers find interesting, and you’ll both forget to eat.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">And now, a word of advice to all of us: most people, writers or not, don’t want to be known for only one thing. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Maybe ten years ago, a woman in our church was employed outside her home. This was unusual—most married Mennonite women are stay-at-home moms. I didn’t know her that well, so when we happened to walk down the hall together toward the women’s Sunday school class, I’d cast about for things to talk or ask about. Often, the first thing that came to mind was her job.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">One day she pulled me aside and said, “I’d like to share something with you. When you talk to me, you always ask about my work. I wish you’d talk about other things. There’s a lot more to me than my job, and the truth is I work because I have to, and I don’t like to talk about it.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Ouch. I like to know these things, but it hurts to find out. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">But I was so grateful. Her telling me showed that she trusted that I would listen, because we all know we don’t confront people we already know won’t hear us. Also, it taught me to work at getting to know the whole person and putting more thought into questions and conversation. After that, I tried to ask about her children, her summer activities, and so on.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">It’s ok to recognize Annie or Gladys when they walk into the room. It’s good to encourage writers and tell them we appreciate their work. The same with singers and speakers and candlestick makers. It’s fine to recognize what they do.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">But let’s do more. We can all give others the honor and gift of seeing them as a whole, multi-dimensional person. We can ask about a hundred things besides the one thing that first comes to mind. We can find connections and mutual interests. We can make introverted writers feel safe in public gatherings, and we can make invisible people feel seen.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">That's what I think.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Aunt Dorcas</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /><i>Are you a writer? What are your experiences or advice?</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>Are you a reader who's met a favorite author? What are your stories and advice?<br /><br />Are you well known for one thing? How do you navigate always being seen in one dimension only?</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-68748790003619024022023-06-28T23:21:00.003-07:002023-06-28T23:28:37.796-07:00Yes and No: On Staying Home in Oregon Instead of Traveling<p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"> Yesterday was Tuesday, which is the day of the week on which I'm committed to posting. This week's post was supposed to be about some place I've traveled to in the last year.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I have been very busy, so, instead, I'm going to tell you about staying home.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">No doubt you already know this, but here on this mortal coil, you can't be in two places at once. It is really too bad.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Also, you usually can't say Yes to very many things without saying No to a bunch more. Also too bad.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Paul left today for the <a href="https://horseprogressdays.com/">Horse Progress Days</a> in Indiana. It might seem odd to you to have "horse" and "progress" in the same sentence. Essentially, it's a huge gathering of Amish people and a few others where they do all kinds of horse-related activities and demonstrate new machinery that's adapted for use with horses.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">A couple of months ago, Paul sent me a video about the event, and when I saw the little Amish kids in a pony cart parade, I felt that I just had to go.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">But there is that matter of the mutually exclusive Yes and No.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">So Paul left today, by himself, with specific instructions to ask an in-charge Amish guy if it's ok to take pictures, and then to take 2-5 pictures of each event and send them to me. People who used to be Amish aren't supposed to be this ga-ga and touristy over little Amish kids, but I am. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I said No to listening with delight to hundreds of Pennsylvania Dutch conversations and Yes to conversation of a different sort, very much in English but also deeply satisfying. My neighbor Anita and sister-in-law Lois are coming over tomorrow for our annual birthday tea.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I am planning fresh mint tea, cucumber sandwiches, a chocolate cake, and much empathy.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">And, let's be honest, Oregon is the best place to be as June closes and July arrives. Golden fields in neat windrows, the whine of passing combines, the excitement of harvest, the exquisite smell of cut ryegrass on an evening breeze. All to the accompaniment of almost no humidity.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Saying No to traveling with Paul means saying Yes to watering my dahlias, watching the sun drop down behind Mary's Peak as it leaves a pink sky behind, and checking my potted plants on the porch in the cool early morning.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">No to travel means Yes to staying home. Not a bad exchange, really, especially since Paul let me know that his flights were delayed and he arrives in Chicago at 3 am.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I hope he has fun, chuckled Mrs. Smucker as she tucked the chickens in for the night and turned off the lights.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">A few shots of our summer, so far:</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLt_kZtX2bDjx6GYyodLmunyQ1L-mUmUAXyPBzbvu5SW2V2BQvwbwlb9RCyQodMzbyaKnN3NzOywvmAzZ-2O8NYzv7jG2YcGPJOkTL8cw34zC-jVKabjiYWPJfW95C_51YaIAqajIHV8LagRKxMQdQDRVPdZC4mPwCxOiJ85zA5yBkpAz-upJvAg/s1600/summer%207.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLt_kZtX2bDjx6GYyodLmunyQ1L-mUmUAXyPBzbvu5SW2V2BQvwbwlb9RCyQodMzbyaKnN3NzOywvmAzZ-2O8NYzv7jG2YcGPJOkTL8cw34zC-jVKabjiYWPJfW95C_51YaIAqajIHV8LagRKxMQdQDRVPdZC4mPwCxOiJ85zA5yBkpAz-upJvAg/w400-h300/summer%207.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jenny came home for a week. We visited Grandma and played Triominoes<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ_dnmdRRgdcgEP4QCaTzrZCXVcPu11qbExGjiU47oYYKn-s-Blxz7yelWd5IctJUxhAXJyoO5Sk0HF_o7rDj44rtVi2FFW1NoMbcQvo6MbI-DUzD8tbretrRHRtDrfKqsJWCi61lyTyrozAnby0E-k8CVJK1GCA3p3CaFMEjw5L3pIqWn7BQJuw/s640/summer%202.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ_dnmdRRgdcgEP4QCaTzrZCXVcPu11qbExGjiU47oYYKn-s-Blxz7yelWd5IctJUxhAXJyoO5Sk0HF_o7rDj44rtVi2FFW1NoMbcQvo6MbI-DUzD8tbretrRHRtDrfKqsJWCi61lyTyrozAnby0E-k8CVJK1GCA3p3CaFMEjw5L3pIqWn7BQJuw/w400-h300/summer%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sisters-in-law went to the town of Sisters for a few days.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl-gzR29qcAPddA5F330D80hw6dQZlIyRSH1NikZq3AqvjYwZUHthqquDWXuJ0uuEiWJFe1lZMy1Dmk6sgwGtiPzQV2jHPuA0DfCWVdemC0sUU6duetmpqljLgJ55FT9vLCgHdAOegMuksx_UbzRK9mz_EXhrKS_4M0eCCfJLVgDellSXQNLO81A/s640/summer%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl-gzR29qcAPddA5F330D80hw6dQZlIyRSH1NikZq3AqvjYwZUHthqquDWXuJ0uuEiWJFe1lZMy1Dmk6sgwGtiPzQV2jHPuA0DfCWVdemC0sUU6duetmpqljLgJ55FT9vLCgHdAOegMuksx_UbzRK9mz_EXhrKS_4M0eCCfJLVgDellSXQNLO81A/w400-h300/summer%203.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Emily came home for the summer. Jenny took a "Beau or Bro?" shot.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhJP0JkWjUDPqh1dw1IhpuXi8G4xXG_p9B4szRhezRVcfTl4bN-SLRwntS5lkYYJG06v-NjCUeFxsi9pej4u6obY1aCnW98PKARC68aG3eLHgQTfW32akyRQzocI9Qznbhdab8QU1gRtZLeII_WiUUI1TT3Awde-WMUsh1SKZXpLWiaEruIiXMQ/s640/summer%206.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="591" data-original-width="640" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhJP0JkWjUDPqh1dw1IhpuXi8G4xXG_p9B4szRhezRVcfTl4bN-SLRwntS5lkYYJG06v-NjCUeFxsi9pej4u6obY1aCnW98PKARC68aG3eLHgQTfW32akyRQzocI9Qznbhdab8QU1gRtZLeII_WiUUI1TT3Awde-WMUsh1SKZXpLWiaEruIiXMQ/w400-h370/summer%206.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ben graduated from Oregon State with a doctorate in Mechanical Engineering.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaqEb7bxDV3urnQ8sVZqj_RAAsTXVaTY0gHrWfdo5PK395ZMNOKrzPSVQ3Pc_EFiMSnqN2YAtiSBr_s0tlvlglOHzdwbh5dX6wF6NURXzlYxGHeZIl7M7iv9H29mELyd59lUEATAMg9kypXIdERP7BO_F8cu2HaTQNscznPV1Zp9RjKUkdRmLmBw/s640/summer%201.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaqEb7bxDV3urnQ8sVZqj_RAAsTXVaTY0gHrWfdo5PK395ZMNOKrzPSVQ3Pc_EFiMSnqN2YAtiSBr_s0tlvlglOHzdwbh5dX6wF6NURXzlYxGHeZIl7M7iv9H29mELyd59lUEATAMg9kypXIdERP7BO_F8cu2HaTQNscznPV1Zp9RjKUkdRmLmBw/w300-h400/summer%201.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ben demonstrated his expertise in his research field of smoldering combustion.</td></tr></tbody></table></div></div><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcmRaF-JFFl4dA0Mw6irQdNjrSs4B2OFQJoOGirMHrxOopT-l6viFcDY_FM7m3NoNU3YnfGoSYhQgIARr-r-md2XXJ5GUYJ83Orvvm8J5Ha4fVVYigXmDULfL_gseADj6Y_qemFW6DpKtKs_pxn1aXHAdolitWsSJPZUaJHzDFozuyV74Dh127rQ/s640/summer%204.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="439" data-original-width="640" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcmRaF-JFFl4dA0Mw6irQdNjrSs4B2OFQJoOGirMHrxOopT-l6viFcDY_FM7m3NoNU3YnfGoSYhQgIARr-r-md2XXJ5GUYJ83Orvvm8J5Ha4fVVYigXmDULfL_gseADj6Y_qemFW6DpKtKs_pxn1aXHAdolitWsSJPZUaJHzDFozuyV74Dh127rQ/w400-h275/summer%204.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I tried a straw bale garden and it was a complete disastrophe, as Emily used to say.<br />I should have put more soil on top of the bales, but the main problem seems to be that the <br />straw was from grass treated with a long-acting herbicide.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0pWhD-kWuGcmt4ibrqIwIg2TtYO4OTWN_2_tn-o-Pl7l3ec-89Z2x4StyK66Sfk4WlKuiKLyLFxm4u2WL7XgzS7m5FJ0wSSvMU9drxYSPSKPYkXKSGRsi1wigOFJ9tYpOU5FocL8oL4ApNf3eQ9sTyWYz-bYwiV9mqUTp6L0G6l7Ie6tViJvSKQ/s640/summer%205.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0pWhD-kWuGcmt4ibrqIwIg2TtYO4OTWN_2_tn-o-Pl7l3ec-89Z2x4StyK66Sfk4WlKuiKLyLFxm4u2WL7XgzS7m5FJ0wSSvMU9drxYSPSKPYkXKSGRsi1wigOFJ9tYpOU5FocL8oL4ApNf3eQ9sTyWYz-bYwiV9mqUTp6L0G6l7Ie6tViJvSKQ/w300-h400/summer%205.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">However, the geraniums and cats are flourishing.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBcRmHykdwhtokQbumqvCv82e8kxFLyjpzETfHzUsQlhxCrqbZI45C-3AkiCcOyJwpMNJiuuXwAWmx4kYrIpe_580FDI4-R60lzoVe8Eq3sBR64mfezECaVMAQTZFlRIkMP4Few7JXpI190ooifL6pvAp0Ynl6T7gx8HNLcmmhnhSh689zSy68uw/s640/summer%208.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="555" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBcRmHykdwhtokQbumqvCv82e8kxFLyjpzETfHzUsQlhxCrqbZI45C-3AkiCcOyJwpMNJiuuXwAWmx4kYrIpe_580FDI4-R60lzoVe8Eq3sBR64mfezECaVMAQTZFlRIkMP4Few7JXpI190ooifL6pvAp0Ynl6T7gx8HNLcmmhnhSh689zSy68uw/s320/summer%208.jpg" width="278" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And the garlic is growing little elf hats.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><br /></p>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-35986168405987502862023-06-20T16:38:00.003-07:002023-06-28T22:28:31.350-07:00Mr. Smucker Speaks: On Asking God Why<div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcCyv2GTBSGdLsjVx6irfJj_aS51GumiV01w15OVLCQYDHTHhvjJvbpEuhB9y2j-bOs2nIAQVE7TrBYVU_8T1-YsD4tYnq7mmqriwkENtixDwX5YJjsRQ87NIQ_ssE78XHcf3wwEzPypnxQi0H98Nj8FJfQGnd6qHUCr8uMg5WqqgEc9vP8e5mIA/s2654/paul%20n%20dorcas%202.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2135" data-original-width="2654" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcCyv2GTBSGdLsjVx6irfJj_aS51GumiV01w15OVLCQYDHTHhvjJvbpEuhB9y2j-bOs2nIAQVE7TrBYVU_8T1-YsD4tYnq7mmqriwkENtixDwX5YJjsRQ87NIQ_ssE78XHcf3wwEzPypnxQi0H98Nj8FJfQGnd6qHUCr8uMg5WqqgEc9vP8e5mIA/w400-h321/paul%20n%20dorcas%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dorcas and Paul</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Every human wants to know why. Why am I sick? Why does this food taste bad? Why has this bad thing happened to me? Why did my chicken die? We often ask why and usually that is a good thing. We should ask why Sally failed the test or why Jill got 100% on the same test. We should ask why John broke his arm or why Peter is always so reckless. We should try to know why if it helps us solve a problem or to make something better. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Too many times, however, we want to know why so we can figure out who to blame, which is what the disciples appeared to want to do in regard to the blind man in John chapter 9. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>1 And as Jesus passed by, he saw a man which was blind from his birth.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>2 And his disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>3 Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Jesus and his disciples had evidently seen this blind man many times. They all knew he was born blind. One day his disciples asked Jesus the question why. Why was the man born blind? Was it because of his own sin or because of his parents’ sin? Who was to blame for his being blind from birth? Jesus’s reply was the blindness at birth was not because of this man’s sin, nor was it because of his parents’ sin. Neither were to blame. In fact, there was no one to blame. The disciples’ trying to figure out why in this case was of no value. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Jesus explained that the man was born blind so Jesus could show forth the works of God when Jesus healed him from his blindness. This man was born blind so that the works of God would be made manifest in him.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Jesus did not berate the disciples for asking the question why. Instead, he reminded them that if the answer to the why question would not help solve a problem, then the why question was of little value. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">In October of 2020 I preached a funeral service for Tanner Zehr, a 16 year old former student of mine who died from injuries he suffered in an automobile accident. Many people who were at the funeral were asking why. So was I, but my why question was a little different from theirs. My why question was why did Tanner die and not me. I preached the funeral sermon while sitting on a chair on the platform because I was recovering from a fall in July. I had fallen on to concrete which broke my skull, numerous ribs, my neck, my back, and both my wrists. I had bad whiplash which bruised my spinal cord in the area where the nerves to my 4 limbs attach to the spinal cord. Doctors told my wife that I should have either died or become a quadriplegic. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Why did 16 year old Tanner die and 61 year old Paul live to preach at his funeral? Through the story of the blind man in John 9, I got my answer. So God could receive glory. So the works of God could be manifest in me. So the works of God could be manifest in Tanner’s death. So the works of God could be manifest in everyone who attended Tanners funeral. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Horrible things happen to every human. Some worse than my fall. Some worse than being born blind. I am convinced if we demand an answer to the question of whose fault it was we are missing the point. The point from God’s perspective is not whose fault it is, the point is, will the works of God be manifest in us, the followers of God, as we go through that horrible experience? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Because of my fall I retired from my 30 plus years of teaching Christian school. I retired from my 25-year ministry in the Brownsville Mennonite Church. I retired from the daily grind of the Wilton Smucker grass seed warehouse I had owned for 20 years.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">During my recovery I had the opportunity to start doing PR work for a ministry called Open Hands, and that is God’s calling on my life now.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.openhands.org/">Open Hands </a>is a mission that reaches out to people in poverty around the world, not with humanitarian aid, but by training local Christians to facilitate community groups who save money together. People with few resources realize they have the ability to save as they begin to overcome their dependency and regain their dignity. In 13 countries around the world, Open Hands savings groups are currently helping more than 30,645 people in poverty understand that they have God given resources they can use to survive without being dependent on another culture. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">If I had not fallen, I would have missed out on this opportunity to learn about poverty, hearing the voice of the poor, and how savings groups are changing the outlook of many poor people around the world. The people in the savings groups learn not to ask whose fault it is that they struggle financially, but how they can manifest the works of God in the midst of their hardships.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">--Paul Smucker</span></p>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-6116641754740677832023-06-13T23:38:00.010-07:002023-06-15T22:41:37.364-07:00On Writing: Leveling Up<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieFv_EYuf26QL8x1QUKk6qdDw_TNSaoWymSZADf-AXXJdWAI09eHiP6dI2nvCBtOc5eQDzoQ9LxDZv8SXJl1TKDHh9NaTEZnEm6qQGHF7IOtTaJ0CCK8yg4TN4P1zxq-YzG1eNzDNx14bLA4S-Yq88a89y7x0raNT24HfIPeR_aJADkWEg6u4/s612/typewriter.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="612" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieFv_EYuf26QL8x1QUKk6qdDw_TNSaoWymSZADf-AXXJdWAI09eHiP6dI2nvCBtOc5eQDzoQ9LxDZv8SXJl1TKDHh9NaTEZnEm6qQGHF7IOtTaJ0CCK8yg4TN4P1zxq-YzG1eNzDNx14bLA4S-Yq88a89y7x0raNT24HfIPeR_aJADkWEg6u4/s320/typewriter.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Week 5 of my 6-week blogging rotation is a post on how to write.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">I've spent the last week wanting to tell you an important concept but having a hard time coming up with a good analogy.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Here's the idea: you want to be an excellent writer, polished and wise and amazing. I mean, your head is full of deep insights, interconnected information, and incredible stories, all swimming in a sea of words and images. You have experience to share, and you see things that others don't. You want to put it out there and hear a collective gasp because it is just that amazing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">As Elizabeth Bennet said to Mr. Darcy, "We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the eclat of a proverb."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Here's the truth: you can't leap from here to there in a single bound.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">We all want to be like the young janitor in Good Will Hunting who solved graduate-level math problems without actually going to college because he was just that brilliant.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Or like the poor girl who can't afford figure-skating lessons, but when she finally laces a pair of skates on her feet, she shows such a natural ability that she blows past all the rich girls who have been taking lessons for years and wins the competition. I think that was in a story one of my daughters used to love.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Emily Dickinson wrote in private and didn't publish much of anything, but then the world was amazed after her death.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Most of us are not Emily Dickinson. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">We are just us.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">We have to take all the prerequisites before we can take the upper-level math classes.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">We have to start writing and we have to let people see it, even though we know that someday we're going to be embarrassed at these early efforts. We have to accept feedback in order to improve. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">We can't get to "expert" without first being "beginner."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">I had heard the phrase "level up" in regards to video games, so I asked Paul's cousin Darrell's son Tristan in a WhatsApp message if it worked to compare writing to gaming, that you had to pass through level one to get to level two, and so on.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><i>DISCLAIMER: this is not a blanket endorsement of video games, so if you are 12 years old and your mom doesn't let you play anything beyond Tetris, don't go telling her that I endorse Minecraft. This is a comparison. That is all. </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Let's just say Tristan is a patient teacher and I learned a lot. He said:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><i>It's actually less of an analogy and more of a direct parallel. Games where your characters level up are usually RPGs, role-playing games. The way you level up in those games is by collecting EXP or experience points. By doing the same thing over and over you gain EXP and eventually level up and your stats go up, or you learn a new skill or something.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><i>Even some non RPG games work like this where your characters will get better in certain aspects by repeating the related activities.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><i>While it's certainly true that certain classes have different strengths and weaknesses and natural inclinations, they're not always fixed. A fighter may naturally have higher strength stat growth, if you invest on say their intelligence or wisdom stat you could still have them learn skills or change classes.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><i>"Three Cats on a Porch Rail" </i>[a pseudonym]<i> is a perfect example of this. Each character has certain skills that they're naturally gifted at, but you can choose for them to pursue whatever ones you want them to. And sometimes if you pour enough time and effort into a certain skills they may discover a hidden talent in that area.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Look at the parallels to writing--"By doing the same thing over and over you gain experience and eventually level up. . . or you learn a new skill or something." And if you pour time and effort into certain skills you can discover a hidden talent!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Tristan goes on:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;"><i>"Honestly it's pretty much like real life. The only way to get better at something is practice. Some people may have natural giftings in certain areas, but even without that work and perseverance can surpass that. I guess to simplify to get to level 10 you have to achieve all the levels 1-9 first. And to do that you gotta repeat stuff a lot. There's literally a term for repeating something over and over either to gain experience or a bunch of items or whatever. It's called grinding. Level grinding, material grinding, skill grinding etc ."</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Well. To get to level 10 you have to achieve all the levels 1-9 first. Keep that in mind, all you hopeful writers.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Don't be afraid to start at level 1. Once you're at 5 or 10, you'll look back and think level 1 looks easy and a bit silly. That's right and good.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">DON'T TRY TO SKIP LEVEL ONE! OR TWO! OR THREE!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">Your natural talents may make some steps shorter or faster. But still, y</span><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">ou're supposed to look back someday and find all kinds of flaws in your early writing. That's how it works.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">It's why I almost never go back and read my own books or old blog posts. I kind of choke at some things--word choices, subject matter, conclusions, my thought process, all kinds of things.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">But now it's 20 years later and I think I can safely say I've leveled up a few times.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">That is how it works.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">But I couldn't get from there to here without going from then to now. If I would have waited until now to start writing, I would most likely write like I did back then and not like I write now. I might have an equal amount of life experience but not equal hours of putting that experience into words.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">So make peace with putting words on paper and letting people see your floundering process. You have a story to tell, and that is how you learn to tell it. Dive in. Start telling it in your imperfect beginner way.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: courier; font-size: large;">You won't ever amaze the whole room if you don't start now, right where you are, and start shaping your story into words.<br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-56164239276483739492023-06-11T13:16:00.004-07:002023-06-11T13:16:53.423-07:00The Winners!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Congratulations to the winners of the book giveaway!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Please contact me at dorcassmucker@gmail.com with your mailing address.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiaPZ1qQDfmJ0q0MvW-3oV5imouObiTf3m2-JHQPltPGYk3A9WiGUzgU2mzb9GsGAmAkGUuuuqzupzt79R054rBA8Jjf-nIy8srpCnr0RA9dCbvQ-KJCO7zw6ASLGRTBaLJ9TjJYyNNuIunAtRBfe4nGQm_kz8madPPzhsAq9fvTLOhj8Z0c4/s2016/sp1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiaPZ1qQDfmJ0q0MvW-3oV5imouObiTf3m2-JHQPltPGYk3A9WiGUzgU2mzb9GsGAmAkGUuuuqzupzt79R054rBA8Jjf-nIy8srpCnr0RA9dCbvQ-KJCO7zw6ASLGRTBaLJ9TjJYyNNuIunAtRBfe4nGQm_kz8madPPzhsAq9fvTLOhj8Z0c4/s320/sp1.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">36 Poems--</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Naomi Yates</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lori Hershberger*</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOpLL941_a_9TdB8vR-QHLVbjGTchKWTLT9k-2vDT3oYbEIwZkIRd0iDsxcFFBwoM-5gVc-ObSJ33r3VKQqpTnplyWuaQI7CVFQmT2LgkhniDTOSD_fKUH0KUbzhonbJLHqcOe6X6k0bceeX7MjC4P05jnd6JT3yZIRllj1Kj46GDadnkpsAU/s2016/sp2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOpLL941_a_9TdB8vR-QHLVbjGTchKWTLT9k-2vDT3oYbEIwZkIRd0iDsxcFFBwoM-5gVc-ObSJ33r3VKQqpTnplyWuaQI7CVFQmT2LgkhniDTOSD_fKUH0KUbzhonbJLHqcOe6X6k0bceeX7MjC4P05jnd6JT3yZIRllj1Kj46GDadnkpsAU/s320/sp2.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">30 Little Fingers</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Marnita Kornelson</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Renita Kauffman</span></div><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-size: large;">*Yes, this happens to be my daughter's roommate, but I promise the random number generator chose her, and not me. Of course I let out a happy little squeal when it landed on her name, though.<br /> </span><p></p>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-40176164688231796462023-06-06T22:21:00.006-07:002023-06-07T08:26:27.058-07:00Book Review--36 New and Laughably Random Poems by Sheila Petre<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuXJ4jAxQN2bFaN7tDBlPNsX_qV6TldlIj_zWoIF4Ve7z5RO9BYwn7sMLxz0LlxhMf16_TU6XhyPJMAyT689ucjaj0hJ4GUMmvetpuKsAzN6W-cMuYd_zVa8tm2KTYk_Ew5dqaK_3yZUxlUURN-nOHt-N_7XVAda5QwefrwOkzoOry1tF0dXU/s2016/sp7.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuXJ4jAxQN2bFaN7tDBlPNsX_qV6TldlIj_zWoIF4Ve7z5RO9BYwn7sMLxz0LlxhMf16_TU6XhyPJMAyT689ucjaj0hJ4GUMmvetpuKsAzN6W-cMuYd_zVa8tm2KTYk_Ew5dqaK_3yZUxlUURN-nOHt-N_7XVAda5QwefrwOkzoOry1tF0dXU/w640-h480/sp7.jpg" width="640" /></a><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">I'm going to review Sheila Petre’s Thirty-six New & Laughably Random Poems today. But first, a story.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Once upon a time I was a flighty young schoolteacher living with another teacher, named Cynthia, who was the oldest daughter in her family and very responsible and good.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">We lived about a hundred yards from a grass-seed warehouse, and the owner had told us we could go into the workers’ lunchroom and help ourselves to hot chocolate packets and other supplies.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">One night I wanted a cup of cocoa and discovered we were out. I ran out the back door and dashed across a few backyards to the warehouse, where I found the empty, dusty lunchroom, grabbed a few packets, and ran back to the house.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">When I returned, Cynthia sputtered, “You just DO things!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">I was confused.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">“You just decide to go get something and you run over to the warehouse IN THE DARK with who knows what guys working the night shift, and you don’t even THINK or PLAN or SAY ANYTHING. You just up and DO THINGS.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">My normal bent at that time was to immediately melt into a puddle of shame when a big sisterly type of person defined me, but because Cynthia was more flabbergasted than judgy, and because the logic outweighed her opinion, I was fine.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">In my mind:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">1. We were out of hot chocolate.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">2. Jason had said we could get more in the lunchroom.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">3. Therefore, it made sense to go get more.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Cynthia and I didn’t get along very well, until we did, and that happened only because Cynthia was much better than me at sitting down and having hard conversations. We came to accept our differences, for the most part. I hope if she were alive today she would tell me that I still just DO THINGS, and we would laugh.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">I recalled that story because I want to review Sheila’s book, and if ever there was someone who just up and does things, it’s Sheila. She does things the rest of think, vaguely, would be fun to do someday, but we never make it happen. She also does things we haven’t thought of or don’t have the nerve to do. And she has a lot of fun in the process.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">I wonder what it would have been like if she had been my age and a part of my life at age twenty. I think I’d have learned to have adventures far beyond running to the warehouse for hot chocolate mix.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Sheila actually has connections with the West and my past. For the MennoConnectors among us, her mom used to be in the same youth group as Cynthia. Sheila and her family travel out West every so often and attended at least two of our annual Western Anabaptist Writers’ Dinners, held at our house every August. We never have enough time to talk.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Despite all she’s been through, and it’s a lot, the word that always comes to mind when I’m with her is “fun.” I admit it’s an unlikely description of a mom of nine who dresses in very plain Mennonite styles and ties her covering strings and doesn’t access the internet.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">I find that she’s hilariously and thoroughly honest, immersed in real life but given to poetry and nuance, impulsive yet deliberately figuring out how to make things work, and conservative in appearance while liberal in acceptance of others.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Sheila doesn’t have a social media presence, but she’s widely known among Anabaptist readers and probably outside that circle as well. She’s found ways to communicate, write, and publish where she’s at, with what she has. Like I said, she does things.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Many of us writers are angsty and agonized, loving to have written but hating to actually write. We make heavy weather of writing, editing, publishing, and marketing. We are like Cynthia, always wanting to do things the Right Way, unable to think of other ways that would also be perfectly fine.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Sheila writes and publishes like it’s no big deal, and has lots of fun in the process. She isn’t stopped by circumstances or custom or nine children. For example, she hires house help so she has time to write. She walks to the post office to mail books with half a dozen children in tow. When her new book comes out, she tells her friends she’ll trade books for casseroles, and ends up with a bunch of meals in the freezer.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Many of us rely on social media as a platform for expressing ourselves. Sheila pours her words into emails. I don't know if she sends out a group newsletter, but I know she doesn’t consider it wasteful to channel her considerable talent and limited time into individual emails to very fortunate friends.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">She also bypasses all the traditional publishing channels and protocols to do things her own way. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Which brings us to Thirty-six New and Laughably Random Poems.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Here’s how it came about:</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMq_qVCyT4NnJabZXd4uJEREoLRdZ0wViZIlFaMfET2WX9WQDuGRx7AfDPmaOicxcJ3orKkgca2qI4eM18DUPWuSlCYDwIBReJV2G5NVH6ofCtD7rf_oHK_ZjAGu-UcDic7pQqKqMf0VcosxZeH9uBIDKWvQ-2_OZZaZ-dqn-_uWqJNe9Sjhk/s1680/sp4.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1680" data-original-width="1260" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMq_qVCyT4NnJabZXd4uJEREoLRdZ0wViZIlFaMfET2WX9WQDuGRx7AfDPmaOicxcJ3orKkgca2qI4eM18DUPWuSlCYDwIBReJV2G5NVH6ofCtD7rf_oHK_ZjAGu-UcDic7pQqKqMf0VcosxZeH9uBIDKWvQ-2_OZZaZ-dqn-_uWqJNe9Sjhk/w480-h640/sp4.jpg" width="480" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">I mean, who does this, following whims and collecting talented help until a whole book emerges?</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjs2TS31wxj6ctVfRnSqXdm7lobyvzDv-_2357dAcJN0H39TfpCApeciWB0CLirci-U3zQo0ckw2o6UvvpDpiC48sshNl35GYwjK6RdbNsIYhDGSn5ecW_HUkxYn2e1WCppM7a4xiTxdLkaqAyEOk1-JSa586KiwYQnNDB55Yj4nKHqQR9HEo/s1280/sp6.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjs2TS31wxj6ctVfRnSqXdm7lobyvzDv-_2357dAcJN0H39TfpCApeciWB0CLirci-U3zQo0ckw2o6UvvpDpiC48sshNl35GYwjK6RdbNsIYhDGSn5ecW_HUkxYn2e1WCppM7a4xiTxdLkaqAyEOk1-JSa586KiwYQnNDB55Yj4nKHqQR9HEo/w300-h400/sp6.jpg" width="300" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Most of us, my children included, don’t have moms who send us poetry prompts. We also don’t tend to publish our poetry with this many quirky details, such as the ducks that waddle along and leave their tracks throughout the book, or the many different bindings available, invented and twisted and tied by the many little Petres.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1StktzjMEYDQe1TXFAXV0FE-7ftbAPJLoVv1iB7YZQ8wm9RNJ4YN9Wg0HT3DFn-9_r4N5ZL-WE8fol8jmELsMWYKKMT4vpLbpSzYuQZIWUzBL4ig2B1_9LDnPHs3sYlZnpOMzFchRKe7eQaVmpFVULwF8KpjW84LyxmGsJVPXVMmRZV6Jz1Q/s1691/sp3.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1691" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1StktzjMEYDQe1TXFAXV0FE-7ftbAPJLoVv1iB7YZQ8wm9RNJ4YN9Wg0HT3DFn-9_r4N5ZL-WE8fol8jmELsMWYKKMT4vpLbpSzYuQZIWUzBL4ig2B1_9LDnPHs3sYlZnpOMzFchRKe7eQaVmpFVULwF8KpjW84LyxmGsJVPXVMmRZV6Jz1Q/s320/sp3.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi46zr0v0o2onfvdFL0BE33qDW0bKmoRaD_9zzQ45aBB9aXmVS72Ngf35Pb5rWoX9WfTLS_KVvxS9SQA6hjl18CPA74UkZ-vV4iCDKppG6fazKIr10cGkqkwc3cfCTaRSF8eXJA4lWpYPotw4hf1B252oX95k_dHIzCTTsL5-klNHE1kD0xjzE/s2016/sp1.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-large; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi46zr0v0o2onfvdFL0BE33qDW0bKmoRaD_9zzQ45aBB9aXmVS72Ngf35Pb5rWoX9WfTLS_KVvxS9SQA6hjl18CPA74UkZ-vV4iCDKppG6fazKIr10cGkqkwc3cfCTaRSF8eXJA4lWpYPotw4hf1B252oX95k_dHIzCTTsL5-klNHE1kD0xjzE/w400-h300/sp1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at all those creative bindings!</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">I tell you, Sheila does the things, and she has fun.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">The prompt for December 23 was “write a love poem.” Sheila wrote:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">TO MY FAVORITE ONE</span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>in which I say “I do” again</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i>When you are absent</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I yearn for you.</i></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i>When you are present</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I know why I do.</i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Another sample—</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i>NIGHT</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i>The dark space there between each span of light</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i>Not only keep the days apart,</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i>But gives their brightness depth.</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i>Its quiet hours hold</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i>This contradiction:</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i>Doing nothing fuels the heart</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i>For doing more. We would grow old</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i>Too young, grow weak, and die,</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i>If between our labors did not lie</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i>This gift from our Beloved:</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i>Night</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">The prompt for December 6 was, “Choose an author. Make his or her name the title of your poem.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">I think every writer should contemplate the poem Sheila wrote:</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><i>ANONYMOUS</i></span></p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">If a cause you love has merit,</span></i></div><i><span style="font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica;">You are not ashamed to share it.</span></i></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Unscathed by private complication,</i></div></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Falsehood froths a fearful nation.</i></div></span></span></i><p></p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Behind a hundred walls you cower,</span></i></div><i><span style="font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Loath to own your face or power.</span></i></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>You frame your novel, pen your ode,</i></div></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>And let unnumbered dozens shoulder</i></div></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The fame and blame, which being bolder,</i></div></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>You might have carried as your load.</i></div></span></span></i><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Even if you don’t feel like you “get” poetry or speak the language, I think you’ll enjoy Thirty-six Poems. It’s accessible and fun, but the imagery and the twist at the end of each poem will stay with you.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyn6-pFR2OZFcJ4tF8lapi5RgpRZWCC30zfJCNSwPwQckpdihmdbdxvptjz1WHZqjdTq3mhTsGl3pJ7qQnx8Hwjo5fCzta9qsqcpBAdlYPDuhyBVUOFWTqNnxzjdPU8-Gr6DKiNmLgBFCBQvaAfda5n0kdQmgRgf6YDxOEVksEWFkZbreVV1I/s2016/sp2.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyn6-pFR2OZFcJ4tF8lapi5RgpRZWCC30zfJCNSwPwQckpdihmdbdxvptjz1WHZqjdTq3mhTsGl3pJ7qQnx8Hwjo5fCzta9qsqcpBAdlYPDuhyBVUOFWTqNnxzjdPU8-Gr6DKiNmLgBFCBQvaAfda5n0kdQmgRgf6YDxOEVksEWFkZbreVV1I/w400-h300/sp2.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">I also need to mention Sheila’s other book, Thirty Little Fingers. It was written a few children ago, and it will make you gasp, think, and feel understood. You will also shriek with laughter when Sheila and her family go to the potluck with all the foreign students and their hosts.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">I mentioned Sheila having been through hard things. I know I have Anabaptist readers who will wonder if I feel it necessary to Take a Stand about Sheila and what she believes and writes, because she sat down some time ago with a concordance and Bible and decided to research what Scripture says about the afterlife.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">She wasn’t reading Preston Sprinkle or listening to podcasts and didn’t know this was a hot button topic in current Christianity. She was just curious. So she found passages on the subject and wrote about some of her conclusions. These were somewhat different from traditional Mennonite beliefs, and she was consequently dropped from publications, distributors, and speaking opportunities.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Here is my response, in case it matters to you:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">1. I haven’t read Sheila’s writings on the subject and haven’t studied it in depth myself, so I can’t say if I agree or disagree with her conclusions. At this point, I don’t need to dig deeper than that.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">2. I don’t tend to dismiss or cancel or cut off people for what they believe. I have atheist and non-religious friends whose company I enjoy, who have taught me a lot, and whose books I recommend. I also appreciate many different kinds of Christians, even the ones who weary me with repeating the same pronoun-heavy phrase 17 times during their worship time on Sunday mornings, something like “He is there and this is what it is."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">3. I avoid people or choose not to associate with them based mostly on their behavior and how they treat people. If they are dishonest, arrogant, selfish, harsh, abusive, or grasping for power or money, I keep my distance and don't endorse their work.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">4. I am uneasy about discouraging people from studying the Bible for themselves, reaching conclusions, and writing about them. After all, our denomination began when men like Conrad Grebel and Felix Manz did that very thing.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Sheila is a kind person and an amazing writer. She does things, she has fun, and she tells the truth. I recommend her and her books. She inspires me to enjoy writing and to publish for fun. I hope she motivates you to go out and do something you've been wishing you could do.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkM6VphWl7id8_F4oZIccZoV5aBTovBOct0Mvo-NXdSw0r1yDQ3O9OEzOd7MJeO609C408Y0gcI1uVnESh6m7_lvsB77arexGNxDs9klrYVc7n67JGH_Z7TWOmaUAw4qStywBRgGuVecdcaURlwhnW2Kb9-njtqAaiyJwHlaRaOiDaUViFfk8/s2016/sp5.jpg" style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-large; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkM6VphWl7id8_F4oZIccZoV5aBTovBOct0Mvo-NXdSw0r1yDQ3O9OEzOd7MJeO609C408Y0gcI1uVnESh6m7_lvsB77arexGNxDs9klrYVc7n67JGH_Z7TWOmaUAw4qStywBRgGuVecdcaURlwhnW2Kb9-njtqAaiyJwHlaRaOiDaUViFfk8/s320/sp5.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The illustrations are lovely</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Sheila and I are doing a giveaway of both of her books! She is generously offering two copies of each title.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">To enter, comment on the blog or Facebook or Instagram with your name and which book you would like most—36 poems or 30 Little Fingers. You can comment once on each platform if you want to enter multiple times. If you want to, share something you’d like to do but haven’t done yet.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">You can choose the "anonymous" setting for your comment below, but please include your name somewhere in the comment itself so I can reach you when you win.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">I’ll pick the winners on Saturday, June 10.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">To order a copy of either book, Sheila says, “If people want to buy, they’ll have to send their payment (cash, money order, check) to </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Sheila Petre</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">P.O. Box 127</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Mercersburg PA 17236</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Price is $15 per book, and includes shipping.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">For bulk orders, contact Sheila at sheilajoyful@emypeople.net</span></p><p><br /></p>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com74tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-45465220953691395122023-05-29T22:45:00.010-07:002023-05-31T17:46:02.452-07:00From Typewriters to Tiktok--The Changing World of Storytelling<p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><i>[Oof, this got long. TL;DR--writers my age are having a hard time adapting and we might be a tiny bit jealous of the Mennonite influencer moms. But we're going to be ok, really.]</i></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: left;">My generation of writers is confused. I hope, someday, they say we were also brave.</span></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">“Marketing Tools for Published and Pre-Published Authors.” That seemed like something I badly needed, with my new self-published book arriving any day, so I signed up for the class at a writing conference two months ago.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Perhaps twenty-five people, most of them my age or older, sat at round tables in a windowless classroom. The others at my table were a man named Tom who was about my age and a white-haired woman about twenty years older that we will call Jane.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV62ROpnD3QoAKeRE-7uv4n6BTLVWgxt02KlrUplhZ9xJ3EitfVOW3MXeq64R8GeQR3vByPiWPwV5NfayEh4PlqmrxfTSAStQ3uNGw8QTFSBoYi31kFbSsIfkp9LpTFyihKTvxRtBZeqK2Ndhr5YOGPp_E-ryd348TXs6WfNgJGT8aQCb55z8/s1567/IMG_2598.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1175" data-original-width="1567" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV62ROpnD3QoAKeRE-7uv4n6BTLVWgxt02KlrUplhZ9xJ3EitfVOW3MXeq64R8GeQR3vByPiWPwV5NfayEh4PlqmrxfTSAStQ3uNGw8QTFSBoYi31kFbSsIfkp9LpTFyihKTvxRtBZeqK2Ndhr5YOGPp_E-ryd348TXs6WfNgJGT8aQCb55z8/w400-h300/IMG_2598.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">The cheerful young teacher—I’ll call her Mandy-- handed us papers to fill out as the class began.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">We looked at the first question, then at each other. “Where am I now with number of subscribers?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">The second was like unto it: “Where would I like to be with number of subscribers?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I raised my hand. “Is this email subscribers or Facebook followers or what?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">“All of the above,” Mandy said. “Social media, email, everything.” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">“That’ll be easy,” muttered Tom. He jotted briefly, then said, “I wrote ‘Less than 1000’ because it sounded better than ‘Less than 100.’”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Jane frowned in confusion over her paper.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I tried to remember how many followers I had on Facebook and my blog, and how many people used to get my newspaper column by email. I guessed at the number of subscribers and added it to my list.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I seldom track my followers on various platforms, but even with my best guesses, and even comparing with Mr. Less Than 1000, my numbers seemed weak and pathetic when Mandy explained that publishers today won’t even look at your work unless you have at least 40,000 followers.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi53q1eRacvHug0Uk5jYSoubhWaDFJUlNLhgSV24B26IRj90g62j326xnJwiKJqXtMTwBJdwxMrJicS8oVr30SNG8y2TnTeW5Dv8M-4UPJJrMTAwWkpwYds3v4Yi510ZQ__6kqxjKGGDcR3qegmV8gC-Hu42sY14j1dFrJ2X6ZafsIRzq0A_9Q/s1720/IMG_2602.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1290" data-original-width="1720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi53q1eRacvHug0Uk5jYSoubhWaDFJUlNLhgSV24B26IRj90g62j326xnJwiKJqXtMTwBJdwxMrJicS8oVr30SNG8y2TnTeW5Dv8M-4UPJJrMTAwWkpwYds3v4Yi510ZQ__6kqxjKGGDcR3qegmV8gC-Hu42sY14j1dFrJ2X6ZafsIRzq0A_9Q/w400-h300/IMG_2602.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather;">Mandy then launched into a rapid an</span><span style="font-family: Merriweather;">d confident lecture about followers, lead magnets, and promo tools, about Wix, genre, audience, MailChimp, and branding.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFNe-liOHVAOUkfqV2KejxiJ0dnBeeO3koGhWWyVVPzLdnH6x2M0OZXFjkemGRI4bH8pRHxRdv-eGBiO2s_skZyLhVLDzdlohe1fJ2bEpZOsUfA9EhpK1QS8V2DZXEZxZlgBXL5GW-yJG0L5oKKVy_HzClHfLAKnLgb8J1L9QGjnIHb7KgQI4/s1531/IMG_2599.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1148" data-original-width="1531" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFNe-liOHVAOUkfqV2KejxiJ0dnBeeO3koGhWWyVVPzLdnH6x2M0OZXFjkemGRI4bH8pRHxRdv-eGBiO2s_skZyLhVLDzdlohe1fJ2bEpZOsUfA9EhpK1QS8V2DZXEZxZlgBXL5GW-yJG0L5oKKVy_HzClHfLAKnLgb8J1L9QGjnIHb7KgQI4/w400-h300/IMG_2599.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I glanced around and felt heartened to see that everyone looked as glum and confused as I felt. Writing conferences are rich sources of information and connection, but even at the best of times they can make your biggest fears bubble to the surface and your most persistent worries walk onstage in your brain. The question is always, “Do I have what it takes?” For my generation, the question has an added layer: “Do I have what it takes in today’s world?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I felt like I understood about 30% of what Mandy said, but, essentially, what I took from the class was that subscribers and followers are crucial if you want to be a published writer, and email-newsletter subscribers are the blue ribbon/gold medal of the industry. Of course, to get email subscribers you have to snag that elusive prize: email addresses.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Hmmm, I thought. Apparently I need to find ways to ask people if they want to be on my email list.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">But no. You can’t be that honest and obvious.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Mandy’s advice for obtaining all those addresses was this: you come up with a freebie of some sort—maybe a printable list of motivational quotes, or a short story connected to your books. You set this up with a website that’s designed for this sort of thing, and then link it to all your social media platforms.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">“Click here for a free short story!!” “Free printable poster for moms!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Then, when people click to get the freebie, a popup window tells them to enter their email address before they go on to the prize. And ta-da! You’ve got another email address to exploit, although Mandy didn’t use that word.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">You’ve seen these boxes a thousand times, I’m sure, and happily typed your address. Well. Just so you know, someone was very happy to snag your address.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">So, said Mandy, you then have their email address in hand, and pretty soon you’ll have enough accumulated for Zondervan and Revell to take your manuscript seriously. How happy is that!?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">We were skeptical. Isn’t that kind of dishonest? Shouldn’t you ask people straight up if they want to sign up for updates from you?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Oh no, it’s not sketchy at all! You are actually giving them something they want, not a brand or a sales pitch so much as a piece of YOU, of emotion, of connection, of inviting them along on your journey! </span><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Share what God’s given you, rather than “marketing!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Across the table, Tom muttered, “This process makes me feel like I’m selling timeshares.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Despite our questions and confusion, Mandy’s happy, confident demeanor never faltered as she lectured on and on, the unfamiliar terms flying at us like baseballs that clonked into our heads and left us dazed. Premade templates! Podcasts! Tools for launching! Opt-in forms!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">“I can never do this,” said Jane when the class ended. “I guess I can’t ever be published.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">We filed out, twenty-five people with a fragile dream, feeling like maybe the world had moved on and we were left behind with no more chances of success.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">As I wandered toward the coffee server in the foyer, I couldn’t stop thinking about the two Amish ladies I’d met the week before.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">After I had spoken at a ladies’ retreat in another state, Paul and I attended a fish-fry fundraiser in an Amish community. Two of the women recognized me and came over to talk. They were also authors, young sisters-in-law who had collaborated on a fiction-based-on-fact book that was doing well in the Anabaptist world. One of them mentioned that they’d just ordered their third printing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaTVSkgJTQd2mlrqSf6e3EtVDATTvzeuE8PRuJcV0cYFiO1ZstpySo3Lrd5lyHvQZ03TNPPgciYzVBVIbJ5F-atdafzppuZzc9CFE1xrBGeml5OgC5s-D5XfQkt5UcjsTb7Vn-igXVp_yhtdtXaHD4TCfC0XDfDMM6R78CLf_EwXNKyUb7gRA/s1430/IMG_2597.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1073" data-original-width="1430" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaTVSkgJTQd2mlrqSf6e3EtVDATTvzeuE8PRuJcV0cYFiO1ZstpySo3Lrd5lyHvQZ03TNPPgciYzVBVIbJ5F-atdafzppuZzc9CFE1xrBGeml5OgC5s-D5XfQkt5UcjsTb7Vn-igXVp_yhtdtXaHD4TCfC0XDfDMM6R78CLf_EwXNKyUb7gRA/w400-h300/IMG_2597.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Authors are nosy, so I had to ask, “How many books are in each printing?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">“Five thousand,” she said, quite matter-of-factly, as though sharing that they get two dozen eggs every day from their hens.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">My stars.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I was very impressed and told them so.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I Googled this just to make sure my impression was right. It was.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><i>How many fiction books sold is considered successful?</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><i>Qualifications aside, if you are a new writer at a big publisher and you've sold more than 10,000 copies of a novel you are in very good shape — as long as you didn't have a large advance. It should be easy for you to get another book contract. If you sold more than 5,000, you are doing pretty well.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><i>--Scribemedia</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">So, as I left the class on marketing, I tried to correlate these conflicting situations. First, the Christian publishing world with its emphasis on glitz, gimmicks, social media, and a vast following. And then, these two sweet Amish women on their way to selling 15,000 books with no online presence, no premade templates for emails, and no pre-launch magnets. They fly completely under the radar of both the Christian and secular publishing industries, and quietly outsell a good percentage of the books published with great fanfare in the broader world.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I saw Mandy near the table where my books were set out for sale, so I told her about the Amish writers I’d met and how I felt there had to be some way for us older, traditional writers to be successful without all the online marketing methods. She looked as confused as Tom and Jane [and I, I’m sure] did during her class, and I’m sure I didn’t explain myself well, because the jarringly-different images were still clanking together and breaking in my brain, and I was trying to process my thoughts by talking to her.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">How did I expect a young online marketing expert to understand the unique connectivity of the Amish community, a world that flourishes out of sight, much like the mushrooms of the Oregon forest that are connected underground over vast areas, forming the biggest living organisms in the world?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/strange-but-true-largest-organism-is-fungus/">[More info here]</a> [email address not required]</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I didn’t tell her this, but recalling the Amish authors gave me a sense of hope after that disheartening class. Maybe Mandy and others like her won’t have the last word about publishing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I wonder if future historians will look back at the writers of my generation and wonder what it was like to navigate the enormous, sweeping changes in communication. I would like to think they’ll give us credit for adapting, for developing skills and watching them become obsolete, and for forcing ourselves, at retirement age, to become inept kindergarteners, slowly learning to post Instagram photos and Facebook Lives.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">It happened in transportation and medicine in previous generations. My dad, I’m told, was the best horseman in the county when he was a young man in Oklahoma. By the time he was in his sixties, he farmed with tractors. All that hard-won knowledge and expertise with horses was obsolete, and he was stuck in a more modern world, always wrestling with mysterious, cantankerous, uncooperative machines, always seeming incompetent.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">James Herriot, in his books about working as a veterinarian in Yorkshire, tells of the dispensary full of bottled chemicals and medicines, and all the hard work to learn the exact dosage for each disease in each sort of animal. Then all that knowledge was useless, swept away by the new antibiotics that came after World War II.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">When I first pursued writing, the process was strict and straightforward. Magazines, newspapers, books. Typewritten query letters, synopses, and sample chapters. First, second, or full rights for periodicals. We learned at conferences to write informative queries, to include the title on each page of the manuscript, and to keep a rotation of articles in the mail, circulating from one potential publisher to the next to the next. We knew that double spacing and proper margins were important to editors. Often, there was only one copy of our manuscript, and if it got lost in the mail, it was gone forever.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Then, it all changed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">First came computers, writing programs, and the end of KoRecType. Blogs, Instagram, Facebook, TikTok followed, with content creation that included not only writing but photos, videos, links, gimmicks, and giveaways. Paper publications disappeared. Online marketing became essential. It was a wild and rapidly changing world with a completely new set of skills.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">We seasoned Mennonite writers, having worked our way slowly up the publishing ladder, closed our filing cabinets full of manuscripts, rejection letters, and sample magazines and watched slack-jawed as young Mennonite moms launched YouTube channels, racking up more followers in one year than we had scratched together in 30 years of submissions, rejections, and early-morning typing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">“But Mom, you’re not competing. They post cute videos of their babies and living room décor. You write real writing. It’s completely different.” That’s what my lovely daughters told me when I tried to explain how disconcerting it all feels. They are my guides to the internet world, interpreting and coaching, and their words helped. “Besides, you reach a completely different audience. It’s not like they’re stealing anyone from you.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I said I know that, but still. Sometimes the influencers write books, and then it feels like competition, even though there’s room in the world for both of us.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Jenny said, "You're not an influencer. Yeah, they'll sell books, but no one reads them."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">"Come on. No one?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">"Well, ok, but they end up at Goodwill. They don't keep them and re-read them."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Our son Ben said, “Just remember that followers don’t necessarily translate to sales.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">All right then. My kids obviously think I should follow my calling and let the influencer moms follow theirs. Sometimes they’re wiser than me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Recently, a discouraged author friend called me. While she’s younger than me and far beyond me in email formatting and online marketing, she still feels dismayed at the young women posting on Instagram or channeling the vibe into successful online businesses. “I really can’t help but compare myself with a young lady in our community. She randomly started a small business printing cards and that kind of thing, and she just “gets” the Instagram look, if you know what I mean. She’s just gone gangbusters. And I think about how long and hard I’ve worked, and I still have way less of an audience.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">“You’re not competing,” I said, parroting my daughters. “You write actual books.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">My friend brought me up short with a brutal fact. “She can afford to add onto her house and fix it up pretty. Not to be ungrateful for what I have, but let's be honest, that's the most glaring difference between her work and mine."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I could only sympathize. Maybe we’re not competing in the same race, technically, but we are conservative Mennonite women presenting creative content to the world. It was hard enough in our day to gain an Anabaptist audience. It was ten times as hard to find publishers and readers in the broader non-Mennonite culture.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">And then Sharla from down the road hops on Instagram, as they say, and a year later has thousands of non-Menno followers hungry for a taste of the simple lifestyle. Furthermore, she makes money at it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">It’s incredible to watch it happen. I am happy for them in the same way that my grandma was probably thrilled that her children had running water and modern washers.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">At the same time, I wonder about the effects of success coming so easily. Did farming with horses or typing on a typewriter build a sort of character unavailable today?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I also circle back to all the characters in this story, such as those Amish authors, writing and selling books in a universe outside of social media and mainstream Christian publishing. I think of Mandy, telling us confidently how marketing needs to be done, and the grandma at my table, feeling like there’s no room for her and her story.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I have always said that each of us has a story to tell, and we need to find a way to tell it. So I really should applaud those who do, whether it’s self-published Amish women or Sharla Stoltzfoos in her white veil, baking bread for an audience of 50,000.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I wish the big Christian publishers would choose authors more for quality content than for the potential audience they bring. I wish Marketing Mandy could recognize that her rapid-fire teaching excludes my generation, and especially the writers who are twenty years older, making us feel like today’s publishing world has no place for us.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I think we who tell stories of any kind need to draw others in rather than building fences that keep them out. What would it be like if Mandy sat down with the Amish authors and they learned from each other? Or if a young influencer interviewed Jane and shared her story on YouTube?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Maybe the Mennonite ladies on Instagram, reading to their babies in their pristine white living rooms, could teach me a thing or two about growing an audience and being a Mennonite woman telling her story to a secular world.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Most of all, I need to tell my own story and follow my own calling. These days, that means typing on a laptop surrounded by handwritten notes on random papers, producing books outside of traditional publishing, and doing all I can to mentor beginning writers and encourage the experienced writers who feel bogged down in the waves of change swirling all around.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIRIfSelfwCL4FnsHvO8o1tqhpCflQ0c2J2TlBX77G3p-2ifyA8fF90i_2WoHcIUKlP0j6_61fp4ptSRfQUKliD5fLX5mudYr4FYRAz2siu6AkM_WaWqmlDOToPeb_Kpu5VZvcBB-KZ9P8orkpXEAnK2Dktav_XIMDMIk32vMLsN7K6rgcU9Q/s1662/IMG_2601.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1662" data-original-width="1511" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIRIfSelfwCL4FnsHvO8o1tqhpCflQ0c2J2TlBX77G3p-2ifyA8fF90i_2WoHcIUKlP0j6_61fp4ptSRfQUKliD5fLX5mudYr4FYRAz2siu6AkM_WaWqmlDOToPeb_Kpu5VZvcBB-KZ9P8orkpXEAnK2Dktav_XIMDMIk32vMLsN7K6rgcU9Q/w364-h400/IMG_2601.jpg" width="364" /></a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I don’t know how history will judge my generation of authors, but I hope it will be said of us that we adapted with the times, we drew others in, and we were brave. Most of all, I hope we will be found faithful to our calling of telling our stories, whether that involved typewriters or TikTok.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;">And here's my brave attempt at online marketing: You can order my books <a href="https://www.muddycreekbooks.com/">HERE.</a></span></i></p>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-76370737845380684942023-05-22T22:44:00.005-07:002023-05-22T23:03:16.872-07:00Ask Aunt Dorcas: Letting Adult Children Go<p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><i>Dear Aunt Dorcas,</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><i>I have 6 children, and they are very much like you have described yours - hard-working, education and career-seeking.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><i>And now, my second oldest daughter, age 19, just got a job offer that will take her about 9 hours from our home in South Florida. It’s definitely what she wants to do and I’m so happy for her, but I’m really struggling with this. She will be leaving the only home she’s ever lived in - I brought her home from the hospital to this home. All the rest still live here, and I feel like there will be a hole that I won’t be able to fill once she’s gone. Many tears, so much sadness on my part, but I won’t show it to her because that would be wrong to do I think.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><i>Can you give me any advice that might make this time easier for me? I would appreciate it so much. This has just been so hard for me.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><i>Thank you and God bless you richly.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><i>Heidi</i></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimmZ94INQRYrliEp_YsmHPlKN8zrHDe2YrWh9FGEgyxhtMa2ezPG1aH_Ti0W0LVoWZcx527aonbtxeoe996q15YVB6Z5Ck5TrZFVKFSfPMzdk83GqED-i4szQX0m8_D8PeFDftmCMzKEIgkNmUpppK3mg_h3JUE9G3YEjNzUfycoKCiDVuxNw/s1324/amy%20pdx.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1316" data-original-width="1324" height="636" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimmZ94INQRYrliEp_YsmHPlKN8zrHDe2YrWh9FGEgyxhtMa2ezPG1aH_Ti0W0LVoWZcx527aonbtxeoe996q15YVB6Z5Ck5TrZFVKFSfPMzdk83GqED-i4szQX0m8_D8PeFDftmCMzKEIgkNmUpppK3mg_h3JUE9G3YEjNzUfycoKCiDVuxNw/w640-h636/amy%20pdx.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After a visit home, Amy navigates the security line at PDX on her way back to Thailand.<br />Not pictured: Aunt Dorcas crying.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Dear Heidi,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">My heart goes out to you. Every mom reading this, if she has any empathy at all, is feeling for you as well.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">I have many thoughts on this subject, and I may wander around for a while here, spelling them out.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">For our women’s Sunday school class, I’ve been teaching about how Jesus related to different women. Last week, I looked at how Jesus and his mother related to each other. It’s a fascinating study.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Mary’s experience as a mom was both unique and universal. Carrying the Messiah was a once-in-history event, of course. So was the virgin birth. A few other women had an angel show up and announce a forthcoming pregnancy, but no prophecy was quite like the one Gabriel gave Mary. “He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over Jacob’s descendants forever; his kingdom will never end.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Can you imagine?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Yet, despite this incredible beginning, Mary’s story as a mother is also universal. She is all of us, every mom, down through history.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">1.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She was deeply invested in her child.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">2.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Her child had a destiny and calling apart from hers.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">3.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It hurt to see her child moving away from her to do what he needed to do.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">4.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Her child’s calling was more important than her feelings.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">So many times, I’ve circled back to Mary’s experiences. For example, she “kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">That is all of us moms, watching silently, drawing conclusions, seeing progress, lying awake and thinking, praying for what we believe in but cannot yet see.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">The episode at the wedding in Cana when they ran out of wine--that has a universal thread as well. Does anyone else see this story playing out like a movie in their minds? Do others find it as funny as I do? Mary hears about the problem—<i>there is no more wine! Well! Oh my, we can’t have that!</i> We sense the wheels turning in her head—she knows just what to do!</span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Off she goes, weaving through the crowd, and nothing is stopping her. Jesus is having a deep conversation with his buddies, and Mary breaks right into the middle of it. “Jesus! We need you! There’s no more wine, and you have what it takes to make this desperate situation all better!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">He doesn’t leap to his feet with an eager, “Great idea, Mom! Thanks for letting me know!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">No.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">We see him, collecting his thoughts after being interrupted mid-paragraph, and his friends all looking at Mary, resenting the intrusion. “Why do you involve me?” Jesus says.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Well. She doesn’t answer that, knowing good and well that she’s said enough and it’s time to be quiet, so she leaves it at that and slips away.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">She also knows very well that he’s going to indulge her and save the day, because he's so nice, so she pulls the servants aside and whispers, “Do whatever he tells you.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">He saves the day in quiet but spectacular fashion. Of course he does.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">What mom hasn’t been there? Here is a need, and we know exactly what ought to be done, and by whom. Off we go to find our adult child, the one who amazes us with their talents and abilities, so far beyond ours. “Katie! They need a teacher at Elliott Prairie this fall!” “Jonathan! They need more guys for the community choir!” “Amanda! We need someone to decorate for the baby shower!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Then, with full confidence in their compliance, we tell the social committee that they can count on Amanda to do the decorations, we’re sure of it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Meanwhile, our talented children may or may not be ok with us offering their services, and we may or may not have a good idea of how God is calling them to serve.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">And then, of course, we also relate to Simeon’s terrible prophecy to Mary. “A sword will pierce your soul.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">When did it begin, the sharp blade breaking the skin? Maybe with the frantic search for the twelve-year-old Jesus. And then the shocking moment when Mary didn’t have a frightened child run to her arms for comfort, as she probably expected, but instead had a determined young man tell her firmly that she didn’t need to be so upset because, after all, he was doing his Father’s bidding.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">His destiny was more important than her feelings.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Surely nothing was ever as painful, sharp, or deep as the sword in Mary’s soul when she stood watching as Jesus was crucified. All the predictions, all the miraculous moments, all the things she had stored up in her heart must have ricocheted in her mind as she watched this kind and loving son suffer beyond imagination.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Two thousand years later we normal moms, imperfect and overwhelmed yet loving our imperfect offspring more than life and breath, we remember the unique pain Mary endured and we sense that the prophecy was not only for her.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">It is for all of us. Our child’s destiny calls, their purpose begins its fulfilment, and a sword pierces our souls. God’s purpose for them is more important than our feelings.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">When our children leave home, eager and excited about their future, we wave wildly until the car rounds the last curves and disappears from view. We hug our children at the airport and watch as they disappear into the security lines.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Then we sit down with a cup of tea and cry because the sword is deep in our souls and the pain is crushing us.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">It is right that they go, and we wouldn’t want them to stay home, frustrated and bound by our wishes, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">I write here mostly about the physical leaving and moving out, but of course this is about any kind of growing up and pursuing a life separate from yours.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">To you who are doing this for the first time, I hate to break it to you, but you are going to say goodbye and send them forth many times. The piercing sword is the price of your love, your investment, your hard work bearing fruit.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">It’s right and good. It hurts.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Your feelings are valid, and they matter, but not enough to drag your child back to you.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">What do you do now?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Here are my thoughts and advice, born of endless launchings and goodbyes.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">1.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Cry just enough in the airport or when they pack the car to move out so they know you’ll miss them but not so much that they feel guilty for leaving or like they need to rescue you. They need to feel loved and missed but also free to seek their fortune.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">2.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Remember that it will be truly awful while they’re in transit. You will imagine hijackings, icy roads, danger at every turn, sickness, lost passports, armed predators, flat tires. Let it be awful. Don’t try to make it better. Sit down with a pot of tea and a flannel blanket and a box of tissues. Cry a lot.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">3.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Also remember that it will get better after they arrive. Once they’re at the college dorm or the Nairobi airport or the new apartment, you will get a text or email or call, and suddenly you will be able to breathe again. Wash the teapot and put the flannel blanket away, but keep the Kleenexes close. I didn’t say you’d be all better, only that a weight will come off.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">4.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Explain to the children who are still at home that they need to indulge you for a little while. This is what moms are like when their children leave. It’s normal. You don’t love them any less than Katie or Sam who just moved out, and you will do the same when they go. They can hug you if they want, but it isn’t theirs to fix. Laugh a bit through your tears. Moms are silly like this, and it’s ok.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">5.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Find someone to talk to. My husband doesn’t miss the kids in the same way that I do, and it puts a burden on him if I expect him to feel exactly what I’m feeling. It’s good to find another mom who’s been through the same letting go. God bless the mom friends who listen and empathize. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">6.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Arrange a regular time to talk. A young person living an exciting new life sometimes has a hard time remembering to stay in touch. Give them time to figure out their schedule, then plan a weekly or monthly phone or FaceTime call. Our daughter Jenny in Virginia doesn’t have a regular time to call, exactly, but she often calls when she’s walking home at the end of the day, and I hear a familiar recorded voice at the crosswalks saying “Wait!” It’s an odd thing to find comforting, but I do.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"> Amy, who lives in Thailand, connects with me by WhatsApp video call on her Sunday mornings and my Saturday afternoons. I can’t explain what those calls do for me. She bakes her Sunday potluck food while we talk or kills a big spider. I hear the neighbors’ chickens and they also comfort me in an odd way.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">7.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was going to say “pray a lot,” but of course you already do and always will. Even if you hear disturbing reports of your faraway child, remember that God is there with them and he cares about them even more than you do. He has a good purpose for them, and a solid plan. Believe it even when no one else does. Have faith--it's the evidence of things not yet seen.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">8.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>If you can, get your child to commit to a tentative plan for coming home for Christmas or summer break or furlough. It will help a lot if you have an idea of when you’ll see them again, even if it’s a long time off.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">9.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Go visit them. When my children are far away, I have this urge to see them in their current environment. To do this, we have traveled to Jamaica, Thailand, Virginia, Colorado, Houston, Washington DC, Toronto, South Carolina, Pennsylvania, and probably other places besides. There’s nothing quite like seeing where your child is living, where they work, and who they interact with. You need to drive the roads they drive, worship where they go to church, feel the wind and heat and cold, and meet the people who invest in them. After you’re home, you’ll be able to picture what they’re doing and where they’re going. It will ease the sting of missing them.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">10.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Face the question, “Who am I now?” Many of us have poured our adult lives into our families, and it shakes our foundations to have them grow up and move on. You are still you, only older and wiser. God has a purpose for this stage, and you need to seek it out. As your responsibilities lessen, it’s ok to pursue your interests and have fun. Go hiking, grow dahlias, learn to paint with watercolors. Invest your time in ministry you couldn’t do when you were raising a family: lead a Bible study, host guests, volunteer at an elementary school. Of course it’s scary. Do it anyhow. Your adult children will be better able to pursue their calling if they know you’re busy and occupied.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">11.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Get professional help if you can’t function. Eventually, you should be able to enjoy life again, even if you miss your children. Sometimes, instead of normal sadness, moms experience a debilitating grief so deep they can’t function for a long time. It can indicate that the pain of your child leaving is connected to a deeper pain from long ago that was never examined or healed. Or maybe your children distracted you from an unhealthy marriage, and now you are forced to face it. Or you are terrified of the future and feel like you’re worthless if you’re not a mom.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">There is help available. Google “counselors near me,” or ask around for recommendations. This is probably more than a friend and a pot of tea can fix.<br /><br /><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwt0OlS-lwNHO5N0NRVm_nK6ovqw3xwxJ89xZz_7-e6CDvjE1RgQPHbgewNO_EiAgvyPGtGp0NXCkj9RGvCii2UuLDq5R-fkHqxkehTvj79hzFc1pw-T3RE4Muq1NLLscgOgumfcC5oG6OF2v8lhqlKFhgCSYuBFovJn8SGQR3SsuB3Y1d4Ao/s1800/fam2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwt0OlS-lwNHO5N0NRVm_nK6ovqw3xwxJ89xZz_7-e6CDvjE1RgQPHbgewNO_EiAgvyPGtGp0NXCkj9RGvCii2UuLDq5R-fkHqxkehTvj79hzFc1pw-T3RE4Muq1NLLscgOgumfcC5oG6OF2v8lhqlKFhgCSYuBFovJn8SGQR3SsuB3Y1d4Ao/w640-h426/fam2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Uncle Paul and Aunt Dorcas visited their kids in Texas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">After the excruciating pain of watching the crucifixion, Mary saw the resurrected Jesus. What was it like, I wonder, to see God’s redemptive purpose fulfilled? She had another goodbye, not long after, when Jesus ascended to Heaven, and Mary knew she wouldn’t see Him again on earth. She lived out her days with the apostle John, who would have loved Jesus like she did, only without the unique aspect of being his mom. I like to think that she and John made tea and told stories about Jesus and discussed all the things that Mary had kept and pondered in her heart, all those years.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Someday, I hope we can sit down with Mary and talk about all the things that only a mom understands—the love, the destiny, the letting go, the piercing sword, and the ultimate redemption of their sacrifice and ours.</span></p><div><br /></div>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11022879.post-55450038964760149892023-05-16T17:03:00.004-07:002023-05-18T09:57:02.267-07:00Travel: San Diego--A Sister and Sunshine, and Why You Should Go Too<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh3COhtUBP7bDBCX6IhfOQninlm2fjwwoFYLZdSnJpBQL-v-VIjXwg2wMOB5U2yv2McVdmBQ3ZjjBquU1ReUNetCCIrSTCFKdjnEu5Q5g_qbI2Vl6xmdYu97gOKvAUkZ4S7otFi5Pp8tmoj2J47wSTPm33Cx_vpu9LwlROhOCZo_sAIq3ZlDc/s2016/IMG_1024.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh3COhtUBP7bDBCX6IhfOQninlm2fjwwoFYLZdSnJpBQL-v-VIjXwg2wMOB5U2yv2McVdmBQ3ZjjBquU1ReUNetCCIrSTCFKdjnEu5Q5g_qbI2Vl6xmdYu97gOKvAUkZ4S7otFi5Pp8tmoj2J47wSTPm33Cx_vpu9LwlROhOCZo_sAIq3ZlDc/w640-h480/IMG_1024.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Working on the front porch.</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaDafIvRN86rp0QcPe5tcAfIdKYBVLrWpIT6VT8au6xKQqpCfoYmK8uansIZJ3UKg4bVNvLLNW7F3RoXxkpm3HVHLON-UnIkfOdxsOVxSpQt1TzNXhJJ6L5p6pPFT8BrqhoBZzJtKOdlpRCjubxUw8ZamrNFLfgR_BwbKJQLmVZKyPabb_75E/s2048/san%20diego%20bridge.jpg" style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: x-large; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaDafIvRN86rp0QcPe5tcAfIdKYBVLrWpIT6VT8au6xKQqpCfoYmK8uansIZJ3UKg4bVNvLLNW7F3RoXxkpm3HVHLON-UnIkfOdxsOVxSpQt1TzNXhJJ6L5p6pPFT8BrqhoBZzJtKOdlpRCjubxUw8ZamrNFLfgR_BwbKJQLmVZKyPabb_75E/w400-h300/san%20diego%20bridge.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Coronado Bridge</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">When I think of San Diego, I think of sisters and sunshine.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">My sister Rebecca and her husband Rod live in a retirement community on a hill in a suburb of San Diego. Unlike their neighbors, they are not retired and thus do not have time to monitor all the comings and goings of the neighbors, or if their potted plants are The Right Kind. Rod teaches at a training center for overseas work, and Rebecca works as a hospice nurse.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">This past January, Rebecca was in need of sister time, so she impulsively invited me for a visit, sweetening the deal with an offer to go fabric shopping in Los Angeles.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">This winter in Oregon was relentlessly chilled and rainy, so I said yes, even though I wasn’t eager to travel. After all, how could I say no to a mix of sister time, fabric, and sunshine?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Because San Diego is one of the most optimistic, sunny places I’ve ever seen. The sun shines in your face as you ride the trolley around town and glints off the waves as you ride high above them on the beautiful, curving Coronado Bridge. It warms your face as you sit on your sister’s porch and see all the way to Mexico to the south and the islands off the coast to the west.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">California is next door, so to speak. The West Coast is an awful long way from everywhere else, and plane trips always involve a long day’s travel and adjusting to different time zones. San Diego is a thousand miles south, but connections are easy, and your body doesn’t need to adjust to a time difference.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Visiting a sister near your own age means that you have similar energy levels and are content with maybe one touristy expedition a day, followed by naps, tea on the veranda, and long conversations about adult children and the hard years of trying to take care of Mom and Dad from a long distance away.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">When our son Matt was thirteen, Paul took him on a road trip, and they visited thirteen zoos up and down the West Coast, culminating in the San Diego Zoo, which I’m told is the best of the best.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">If I had known all the city had to offer, I might have pushed for taking the whole family.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Here are some sights the city offers, in case you’re thinking of taking your family:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">1.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Everything ship-[and Navy] related. San Diego is home to a huge Naval base and has made ships a big tourist attraction. You can walk along the waterfront and see sailing ships from a long time ago and also one from the Pirates of the Caribbean movies. You can tour the battleship Midway and see sailors on duty inside the ship and historic planes on top. Across the harbor are the huge gray battleships coming and going from the base, and south of the Coronado Bridge are docked Navy ships being repaired. The Navy influence extends to the air. You’re likely to see fighter jets in formation screaming by. <br />Even if you're Mennonite and pacifist/nonresistant, you'll find it all highly informational.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfQpRcmnbx1_CJ5amgwqd3aPhArpleaC1rL16KEs0yQLr9b3plTJxaAT0JBMOvSwus7rjR_WGpUijffppj1WdhY0aRjykxcuKrtd1tRkNuo1U5le_TFb6YVRSoYdzSg3cc1r5bLgqdsJdS-7HQgsUGo2iLpwvg5B_X5K0SlMYNOraFh49sV4A/s2048/san%20diego%20ships.jpg" style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: x-large; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfQpRcmnbx1_CJ5amgwqd3aPhArpleaC1rL16KEs0yQLr9b3plTJxaAT0JBMOvSwus7rjR_WGpUijffppj1WdhY0aRjykxcuKrtd1tRkNuo1U5le_TFb6YVRSoYdzSg3cc1r5bLgqdsJdS-7HQgsUGo2iLpwvg5B_X5K0SlMYNOraFh49sV4A/w480-h640/san%20diego%20ships.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Navy ships in the "hospital<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">2.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Balboa Park. This is a fascinating piece of the Spanish-mission influence in southern California. You can walk around exploring for a long time—gardens, history, beautiful old buildings.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">3.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Zoo. I’ve driven by but never toured it. Paul and Matt gave it high marks back in 1999.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">4.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The Trolley. You can buy a ticket and ride the old-fashioned trolley all day, if you wish. You can get off at Chinatown, the stadium, Balboa Park, or wherever you like and get back on an hour or two later. We took it out to:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">5.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Coronado Island. The main attraction here is the Hotel del Coronado, in its day the biggest wooden structure in the world and destination of Presidents, royalty, and movie stars. Tourists can explore at will, and adventuresome sisters can even sneak, giggling, into the antique cage-style elevator and go all the way to the servants’ quarters on the top floor, where the hallways are far more cramped than down below, and the floors slant. You can wander down hallways and around corners, look out the high windows, and open doors and peek inside until you are stopped by sudden voices on the other side. I mean, you could do that if you wanted to. You didn’t think we gray-haired Amish girls actually tried that, did you? Ach my.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">Then you can go to the beachside cafe on the ground floor of the hotel, buy good coffee, and sit in the sunshine sipping while fighter planes roar by overhead.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWZFpKEzkUKWhjyjGKlA94-Pca2r2Jlj17eX5kDeagyc1_ZlttyCSZ0WcFAn_p7zB4fPqNeJq07D7pq8-e5bXYnAk_2MaUrYx0m9LsVnWO4ymDvG4CVJLbPFxjfgDdg_wAB3GiaaPWVDGSfy26QQ45cf-ZVu8T3vOLHg3aKeM825yK163VoC4/s2048/san%20diego%20hotel.jpg" style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWZFpKEzkUKWhjyjGKlA94-Pca2r2Jlj17eX5kDeagyc1_ZlttyCSZ0WcFAn_p7zB4fPqNeJq07D7pq8-e5bXYnAk_2MaUrYx0m9LsVnWO4ymDvG4CVJLbPFxjfgDdg_wAB3GiaaPWVDGSfy26QQ45cf-ZVu8T3vOLHg3aKeM825yK163VoC4/w300-h400/san%20diego%20hotel.jpg" width="300" /></a></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUvMMXTCti9uie3VSNlIYlaWaylMnjeQFRvxYYCRVj-zYHpr6dyktbTg7s2KTbfM09UFLe2UX6JIn-e9R1aj-HRG7CPSF2vTMGyZLDGEP6aBXOYUwy32Ml24tPIBlIKDejHZ-jdNuYNNLSl_h0B3Gmuk8tg4qOThH3f40s4FUzsuZzIs1dL00/s2016/IMG_0997.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUvMMXTCti9uie3VSNlIYlaWaylMnjeQFRvxYYCRVj-zYHpr6dyktbTg7s2KTbfM09UFLe2UX6JIn-e9R1aj-HRG7CPSF2vTMGyZLDGEP6aBXOYUwy32Ml24tPIBlIKDejHZ-jdNuYNNLSl_h0B3Gmuk8tg4qOThH3f40s4FUzsuZzIs1dL00/w400-h300/IMG_0997.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbGKxMeFHljQECdM2CjKrIDIV-YAWN-7HBpJE_9wR0whU8jalZwjxvJDmlTjY8ymFaITpdqMS7ApyvxV5ELM7n1hwxcEGhi5ihBf5A11kkuE4dQcO_9fyaArADipamHPmVHeUawre0oFBn2ZH4-8J1_APcwJcM3mW_l5Is6FYUhsEcAcRtA_Y/s2016/IMG_1003.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbGKxMeFHljQECdM2CjKrIDIV-YAWN-7HBpJE_9wR0whU8jalZwjxvJDmlTjY8ymFaITpdqMS7ApyvxV5ELM7n1hwxcEGhi5ihBf5A11kkuE4dQcO_9fyaArADipamHPmVHeUawre0oFBn2ZH4-8J1_APcwJcM3mW_l5Is6FYUhsEcAcRtA_Y/w480-h640/IMG_1003.jpg" width="480" /></a></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Merriweather;">6.</span><span style="font-family: Merriweather; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Merriweather;">Shopping. I’m sure there are plenty</span><span style="font-family: Merriweather;"> of fancy places, but we had a great time at a swap meet about a mile from Rebecca and Rod’s house. We were very much in the minority, as probably 99% of the vendors and shoppers were Hispanic. It seems people cross into Mexico and buy supplies to sell on this side—from laundry soap to clothes to leather goods to tools to hair bows to kitchenware. Having flown to California, I didn’t buy much. But it was fun to look.</span></span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnNj85GIu2pYh_X0j6vMDiV-wiF5u5AMkKhWZhoDMpi0ngVjjJ-En8xrSNAowVGlk-J5mCGFe06oGoFQQUFWCUkscyutPNrX9lQMB6vSeBtU9ArhDTIRJsHGHwlKOv473utesIVP7gCcYDmu7247N8naGiWoSEN0fhZfWEJzLby146rXLn1Cc/s1800/san%20diego%20swap%20meet.jpg" style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnNj85GIu2pYh_X0j6vMDiV-wiF5u5AMkKhWZhoDMpi0ngVjjJ-En8xrSNAowVGlk-J5mCGFe06oGoFQQUFWCUkscyutPNrX9lQMB6vSeBtU9ArhDTIRJsHGHwlKOv473utesIVP7gCcYDmu7247N8naGiWoSEN0fhZfWEJzLby146rXLn1Cc/w512-h640/san%20diego%20swap%20meet.jpg" width="512" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">7.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ethnic food. Obviously there’s lots of authentic Mexican food available, but we went for Mediterranean/Middle Eastern. It was incredible. Rebecca and Rod had fun explaining not only the food but also the subtle differences in culture among the patrons, much like I could take you to the Blue Gate in Indiana and show you the significant differences in dresses and head coverings. Rebecca was especially fascinated by the Chaldean women who like to have elaborate hair and makeup before they go out in public. So Rebecca pretended to take pictures of me while actually capturing the chic Chaldean lady behind me.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNDvxehdzbihUGDYtQ9-a8_9r4IxvFQKhuxt0h4isFQcxl7pxu5rKwCmJ0y7UopdZzQg2UX409IqGE97FlXqfm686KH63Bn22bj7qb68DMS1wRN7F6CbDM_gssxqcHKeVAqhNeALyCeL-XN3wHOLQk9qt9g1GC9BgfaJ4Ezo7jmEDRyUfdk7c/s1794/san%20diego%20meal.jpg" style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1794" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNDvxehdzbihUGDYtQ9-a8_9r4IxvFQKhuxt0h4isFQcxl7pxu5rKwCmJ0y7UopdZzQg2UX409IqGE97FlXqfm686KH63Bn22bj7qb68DMS1wRN7F6CbDM_gssxqcHKeVAqhNeALyCeL-XN3wHOLQk9qt9g1GC9BgfaJ4Ezo7jmEDRyUfdk7c/w321-h400/san%20diego%20meal.jpg" width="321" /></a></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoyKNQy1Ubjyjwhbpj9mXm-rAV-Vu7VdxZec1cq1ESZN6HW5V5UqdrtScUqO4LTdb6F5ColLtFcTXkw9X02FnYmKlEwNr3wke2AIl1iAt5XSVmqvXA36YotvAztkkqqlyLSszoRzRkZSwA41ThmLDrR_fYCaSkeH0ImegT5YKbA16bBhO6btc/s1800/san%20diego%20meal%20beck.jpg" style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoyKNQy1Ubjyjwhbpj9mXm-rAV-Vu7VdxZec1cq1ESZN6HW5V5UqdrtScUqO4LTdb6F5ColLtFcTXkw9X02FnYmKlEwNr3wke2AIl1iAt5XSVmqvXA36YotvAztkkqqlyLSszoRzRkZSwA41ThmLDrR_fYCaSkeH0ImegT5YKbA16bBhO6btc/w320-h400/san%20diego%20meal%20beck.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">You will find plenty to keep you busy in San Diego. Take sunglasses and have as good a time as I did.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Merriweather; font-size: large;">I’ll wait for another travelogue to tell you about buying fabric in Los Angeles.</span></p>Dorcashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07050605764466835485noreply@blogger.com13