Monday, March 11, 2024

Guest Post: What Mennonite Readers Want From Mennonite Writers

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.


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.

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.

The questions below were asked to a random group of about 30-40 people.

Discussion Questions

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?

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.

2. What genre (mystery, memoir, etc.) do you feel is lacking in Mennonite writing? What would you personally enjoy reading?

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.

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?

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?

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.

4. What do you find unattractive in Mennonite writing? What do you find appealing?

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.
 
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 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.

5.What are some practical ways Mennonite readers can support Mennonite writers?

We need and want Mennonite writers! Here’s some ways to encourage them:
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.

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.

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.”

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A big thank you to Rose for asking good questions, leading a lively discussion, and summarizing it here.

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.

Saturday, March 09, 2024

The Writing Conference: The Wild Idea That Actually Happened

WAWC 2024 was an idea that grew into something much bigger than we imagined.


In a way, it began with the first writers’ dinner some fifteen years ago.

Writing is by definition a lonely occupation, just you and your pen or computer, almost impossible to do in the company of others. 

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 
I left with pages of notes and a basic outline for the day.
Liesel Kropf and Hannah Hozen helped with registration


Jane's niece Abby King arranged the flowers.


Jane and her family made the decorations.

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.

The chipotle bowl lunch was a hit.


Jane’s son Riley’s friend Elisei offered to design a website. 
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.

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.

Alvin Mast's workshop

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.

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!

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.

Paul also announced and organized.

Mrs. Smucker welcomed everyone

Hannah the neighbor baked cookies for us, and two nieces, Leah and Judy Smucker, came over and baked dozens of cinnamon rolls and cupcakes.


Friends with no connection to the conference felt led to pray for us.

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.

Riley was one of the energetic ones. 

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.


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.

Liesel and Riley handed out donated books in the drawings.

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.

Ernest and Yvonne
Hudson led the singing and taught a poetry workshop.

Sharilyn Martin's class on writing for children


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?!

We are so deeply grateful to God and to everyone who made this conference possible.

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?

Either way, if you're a writer in the West, you should be there.




Mary Hake is on the right, taking care of the book table.

Laura's books for sale.

The Hozen family was a huge help. Here Mrs. Hozen gives her photographer son a "Mom" look.


I was happy to see my friend Julie Nevue.


We all enjoyed the fellowship.

Saturday, December 16, 2023

Review and Giveaway: Once Upon a Bedtime in a Faraway Land


UPDATE--The winner of Once Upon a Bedtime is Kaitlin Weaver who entered the giveaway on Instagram.
THANK YOU to everyone for sharing your fascinating stories!


If you're an Anabaptist and a creator, you've probably wondered if you have what it takes to succeed outside your cultural bubble.

We have been hindered, I think, by an unspoken belief that we're not good enough.

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 public school, oh my. . . I would very soon find out that I wasn’t nearly as smart as I fancied myself.

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.

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.

I looked around. I was the only one who had done the problem. The others didn’t know how.

That was my first clue that maybe my dad was wrong about Amish kids not being as smart as kids in public school.

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 Englisch, or we have nothing to offer them, or they wouldn't be interested in what we produce.

Inspired by Roaring Lambs, 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.

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!

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.

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!


Margie is offering this to YOU!
Email her at thebirdandthebrush@gmail.com for a free download.

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.

Since then, I’ve recommended her to numerous other writers looking for an illustrator.

This shows the universality of Margie's work.
My grandmas were white and very Amish, but they also knew what a fly swatter was for.

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.

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.


There's a heartwarming authenticity to Margie's pictures.
She lived in Kenya. This is how Kenyan homes looked and felt when we were there 20 years ago.

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.

I hope this book gets picked up by lots of bookstores both Mennonite and Englisch, because it deserves to be out there and available.

And I hope you get a copy and read it to the children in your life.

To order copies or to contact the author:

https://www.laurashowalterbooks.com

To contact the illustrator:

https://www.margieyoder.com/


ALSO: A giveaway—

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. 



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.

Winners will be chosen on Wednesday, December 20.

Then follow this author's and artist’s example and go do excellent work.


Thursday, November 30, 2023

Announcing a Writing Conference for Western Anabaptists

Are you an Anabaptist writer in the West?

We'd love to have you join us at a writers' conference on February 24, 2024, in Brownsville, Oregon.
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.
And whether you're from California, Alaska, or anywhere in between, we'd be delighted if you joined us.
Actually, anyone is welcome, Mennonite or not, but the focus will be on Anabaptist writing and publishing.
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.
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.

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!
Registration is $50 per person or $80 for two, so bring a friend.
Contact laurasmucker@gmail.com for more information or to register.

Contact me at dorcassmucker@gmail.com to be added to the email-update list.

Thank you for your interest and prayers. I hope to see you in February!





Monday, November 27, 2023

Sale on Books!


We're having a Cyber Monday [and Tuesday!] sale at our website.

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.

Here's the link: MuddyCreekBooks.com






Monday, October 09, 2023

Just Walking--A Memory from Kindergarten

 


A file cabinet in the back of my head contains hundreds of drawers packed with thousands of memories.

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.

So things that happened to me don’t vanish from memory, which is both comforting and disturbing.

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.

We note two things:

1. People in this town don’t walk much.

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.

However.  I was alone and the streets were deserted. I covered a lot of ground, fast.

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?”

 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?”

“I’m fine!” I said. “Just out walking.” I pumped my arms a little to explain the fast, determined pace.

He looked amused but deliberately polite. “All right. Good night.”

I marched on and BOOM, a little drawer slid open and my brain pulled out a vivid memory from kindergarten.

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 

But she was large in skill and charactelittle 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.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.

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. 

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.

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!

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.

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.

People. The horror and humiliation. 

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.

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.

I believe it was a janitor, or possibly the principal himself, who came walking toward me. “Dorcas!” he said. “What are you doing?”

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.

So I made myself smile, and I said, “Just walking!”

Because, after all, that is exactly what I was doing.

He was amused.

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.

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.

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.

 I still observe the details and ask questions and say things out loud. It still gets me in trouble.

I still draw stars with a quick series of motions and I still think it’s a mighty cool skill to have.



You can find my books at muddycreekbooks.com.

Thursday, September 28, 2023

The Best and Worst of Times


By the Agape restaurant, you can get pellets from dispensers and feed the friendly goats.
I don't see that combination happening in Oregon, but the East is a different animal than the West.
Liberty learned that if you put the pellets anywhere but the palm of your hand, the goats might bite your fingers.

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.

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.

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?

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!

The unfortunate thing about a complicated itinerary is that one thing—just ONE THING—can blow up the whole plan.

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.

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!

Matt and me. I am still smiling at this point.

Back at the airport, the flight was delayed further, then cancelled.  I was rebooked for the next day, flying Houston-Dallas-Louisville-Baltimore. 

Matt came and got me. I spent the night at their house.

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.

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.

“You can’t get to Baltimore today,” said the man at the counter.

“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.” 

The man tapped and frowned. “There are two seats left on the afternoon flight.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll take one.”

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.

Oh well.

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.

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.

Kathrine's hospitality went above and beyond.

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.

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.

I do love stories about interesting people.

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.

Good for her.

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.

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.


Jenny in her office.
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.
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.

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.

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.

It still didn’t work. I fiddled and fussed some more.

Then, suddenly, it worked.

I had flipped the little prong on top. The machine had been in bobbin-winding mode. That was all.

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.

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.

The next morning I felt absolutely terrible—congested, fever, cough, throwing up. Jenny insisted I take a Covid test. It was positive.

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.

Seriously, we all touch more lives than we realize.

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. 

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.

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??

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.

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.

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.

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.

It was all very disheartening.

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?

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.

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.

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.

At Good's Store in Ephrata, the employees had decorated our table with greenery and this little hen. It spoke of welcome and forethought.
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.


Between customers, Emily browsed the lovely clothes at Main Street Exchange.


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.
At Annette's house, Emily helped the girls sew doll clothes.
She is their "Aunt Emily" and is honored to have the title.


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 to have people to call when everything goes wrong. God bless everyone who stepped up in our desperate moments.

I hope I am as willing and available when it’s my opportunity to help when someone else's plans are going completely haywire.

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.
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.


I call these dinnerplate dahlias Pink Patricias, because my friend Pat Lee gave me the tubers.


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My new book, Coming Home to Roost, is available at MuddyCreekBooks.com.