Not Quite Home Anymore

in

As we pushed through the clouds on Wednesday night, nosing down into L.A., Kirk and I stared at the never-ending crisscrossing web of lights extending in every direction, and he asked me, "How does it feel?"

When I plopped onto the middle of the pale green-and-white couch in my mom's living room on Friday night, clutched near to a suffocation I would gladly endure by Hannah on the one side of me and Kate on the other, both wrapping their tiny, strong arms around my less-than-tiny frame, both of them planting me with kisses and squeezing me with giggles, they asked me, "How does it feel?"

As we sat down with my good friend Sara at a table on the outside patio at Market City Caffe in Brea on Saturday afternoon, preparing ourselves for our regular round of their delicious Insalata Allison with vinaigrette dressing, gorgonzola cheese, garbanzo beans, shredded chicken, and diced salami, plus their yummy, cheesy, pepperoni pizza and those famous long pipes of fresh bread with oil and perfect balsamic vinegar dressing just for dipping, Sara folded her arms on top of the table and asked, "So, how does it feel?"

The only word I could find to answer each one of them was this sterile, surprising one: familiar.

Just familiar. Not like home. Not terrific or fantabulous. Not like everything I never knew I'd been missing all this time, plus more. Familiar. That's all.

The truth is that the trip was fun, filled with many of the people I love and more time with some of them than I could ever have hoped to get, but the truth is also that I missed home, a home that has so clearly become Florida to me in these six short months. I missed our home and I missed our life and I missed our cats and I missed our street and our charming little town. There I was, hopping on and off freeway ramps, interchanging multiple highways in the space of fifteen to thirty short minutes, careening down little-known sidestreets, and calling out lane changes in a place I know better than any other place on the face of this planet, yet now a visitor in that place, no longer able to call it home.

Heading to CA

in

Kirk and I are leaving for Thanksgiving in California tonight. It's our first "big holiday" as a married couple, plus the first time we'll spend time with my family and friends since we got married almost 6 months ago. (I can hardly believe it's almost been 6 months, but at the same time I can hardly remember my life without him in it!)

I'm fully looking forward to Thanksgiving with the fam. We live all over the place now -- us in Florida, Bobby in Arizona, Dan and Mitch in Los Angeles, and Mom and Beth in the Inland Empire -- but somehow we're all making it to the same house on Thanksgiving day. This is especially special because none of us will be together on Christmas (which is weird). Anyway, I'm looking forward to lots of laughs -- especially with my big brother Bobby being there, who is always the life of the party -- and good connection.

The other thing I'm really looking forward to about this experience is getting to share "me and Kirk together, as one" with everybody else. I don't quite know what to expect about what that will be like, but I'm fully looking forward to experiencing the feeling of this: my oneness with him while with those I most love.

What Tale Does Your Shelf Tell?

in

I was brushing my wet hair on the couch this morning and noticed a pile of books sitting on top of the printer in front of me. They were Kirk's books -- he'd placed them there to clear a space on the coffee table at the end of our bed, no doubt -- and I suddenly realized: our books say so much about us.

First, they say so much about our habits. Kirk and I live in a studio apartment. It's about 800 square feet and houses a full kitchen, bathroom, living space, and sleeping area, surprisingly. We love it. We call it Ashford Cottage, after Ashford Castle, where we spent the first night of our honeymoon.

I mention this because, for two bibliophiles like us, we can't fit all of the books we own into this house. Kirk gave three-fourths of the books he owned away when he sold his house last year, yet he still owns probably two hundred books. I gave away bunches to students before I moved, too, though not nearly as many, partly because I've never owned near the number of books he has, and partly because I'm just plain stingy when it comes to keeping my books. Yet even after all that charity, we've had to make good use of storage. And despite our best efforts to pare down our collections, the collections keep growing, almost of their own accord.

When we first started living here, we appointed the main kitchen cabinet as our bookshelf. We don't do much cooking, so it's not like we needed the space for normal kitcken purposes. Plus, the cabinet has two sides with two shelves each, so it made for a perfect "his" and "hers" delineation. Yet without our even realizing it -- which is to say, without our thinking much about it, since we both understand the need to keep books close by -- new homes for books sprung up all over the interior life of this house. My books have landed in droves on, under, and beside my nightstand, plus I can pull handfuls out of the different bags I cart with me to work or the nearest coffee shop on weekends. Kirk's books end up on his nightstand, too, but it's safe to say he has officially taken over the kitchen. Two crates full of books have ended up next to the kitchen table we never use, and they seem intent on staying there, it seems, for good.

Let's make this personal: Given this challenge for space in your own house, which books would you choose to keep close by? That is a question I find very interesting, as it's really what struck me this morning when I was brushing my hair on the couch. The books on top of the printer were a hodge-podge of titles, but they were so . . . well . . . so Kirk. There was a David Whyte book on finding the soul in business. There was a book called The Tao of Writing. There was an Excel for Dummies book, the discarded remnant of his latest class, which was a horrifically difficult class on statistics.

I started thinking about the books covering the kitchen table and his side of the makeshift bookshelf we've created in the cabinet. He's got tons of spiritual classics in there, plus books on Zen Buddhism, books by Thomas Merton, and contemporary books about the spiritual journey. He's got books on entrepreneurial business, terrifically creative books about creativity, and books that combine the spiritual life with enterpreneurial ventures in the creative arts. All of these these speak so much of who Kirk is, the unique heart implanted inside his body that's moving every day toward the wondrously courageous life God created him to lead.

Which got me thinking about what my books might say about my own heart. What do I value? What do I choose to own or not own, when it comes to books? I guess the titles I own -- which can be catalogued into the four categories of books on writing, travel narratives, spiritual memoir, and literary novels -- would say that I value the well-written word, the life of the heart, and quirky, reflective adventures.

What does your shelf say about you?

The Yearling Trail

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Kirk and I decided to take advantage of the glorious fall weather we've been having and head out for a hike. About one hour's drive north landed us in the Juniper Prairie Wilderness of the Ocala National Forest, where The Yearling novel (and its film version) took place.

I've never read the story, so Kirk filled me in on the details during the first few minutes of our hike. That conversation was set aside quite quickly, though, when a scrub jay bird flitted across our path. This is a pretty rare bird that looks brown when it's sitting and facing you on the tree but when flying betrays itself to be a full and glorious blue. This trail must be their secret hangout because soon we saw one more, and then one more -- three scrub jays right in a row! -- not to mention at least 10 more in the whole of our hike.

Soon we discovered a snake hole. Diamondhead rattlesnakes, I was dismayed to discover, abound there, too. "Don't worry. They'll stay off the trail," Kirk said. Oh good, I thought, until he continued, "They'll stick to the brush on the side of the trail." Yikes! The brush on the side of the trail was still too close to my feet for my liking. Thankfully, they stayed away.

A few minutes later, we crossed into the second section of the hike, and who should be standing guard on the top of a leafless tree branch right beside the entrance? None other than a stout male scrub jay. I almost bowed in deference to it. "This is your home, I know," I said aloud. "Thank you for granting us passage."

We spied a redwing blackbird next. Then, "Look!" (As usual, I was watching the ground in front of me as I walked.)

I looked up. About 50 yards ahead of us stood a deer that had heard us and was standing very still, looking off to the wood on the right. We, in return, stood still as cardboard cutouts -- and stayed that way at least 5 minutes, while the deer tried to discern our scent and sound. It stepped off the trail and into the wood, then paused and stuck its dainty nose into the air. It stepped backward onto the trail again and looked our way. We kept standing still as cardboard, holding our breath.

Then another one stepped behind it -- and then a tiny third! The three of them meandered within a few steps of each other, the first deer stepping more cautiously than the rest, having been warned we were there before the others had arrived, until something frightened them away a few moments later.

The rest of the hike included finding a cardinal bearing his bright red colors proudly as he bounced and danced from branch to branch, leading us as we crept along behind it, and a forsaken wood that had been charred in forest fires some time ago. The whole time, we kept scanning the sides of the trail for our deer. Of course, we never found them, and this made me sad.

That Is So Chicago

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Only in Chicago is there an I-55 West and 55th Street so near the airport that you get lost and have to backtrack at least three times before you're sure -- at least, pretty sure -- you're on the right road and heading in the right direction, finally.

Only in Chicago, while you're stuck in aforementioned lostville, could you encounter three prisons, one courthouse, a lawyer, two hospitals, a Catholic church, a Polish neighborhood, a Mexican neighborhood, a Harlem-style church piping its choir hymns to its neighbors, and seven prisoners plucking trash from the passing lane, all in the driving space of ten minutes.

Only in Chicago would a homeless man play 70s-era songs on his gold saxophone in 40-degree weather with a looming prediction of snow, just to get his supper.

Only in Chicago will you find pigeons plump as plums.

Only in Chicago will you find all kinds of things you won't find in combination anywhere else, simply because it's Chicago. My friend Ginny tells me this city developed with an "organic" urban planning style, which means it pretty much sprung up with what it needed as it went. Houses stand next to laundromats. The same families frequent the same grocery store and convenience store and laundromat and church within the two-block radius of their homes like they have been for years. Two-story brick buildings abut ajoining residences with naught but three inches between them. Whole families walk to the Catholic church on the corner and merge into folds of other families, streaming into the building like fish in a fast-forming school. It's a strange world, but beautiful in its own haphazard but organized virility.

In the Dark

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There was a huge storm in central Florida yesterday, and I have a few reflections to share now that I survived it.

1) When the weather people warn for days that there will be a thunderstorm on Tuesday, it's a good idea to bring your umbrella inside with you to work, as the one tucked safely in your trunk will be of zero help come 6:00 when the rain is pelting down and your car is parked on the other side of the lot. At that point, all you can do is stand in the lobby, staring out at the rain, longing for the safety of your car that's parked in the far corner of the parking lot all by its lonesome, and waiting for the rain to let up. Which, of course, it doesn't for a long time because it's a big thunderstorm. I grew impatient after 15 minutes of mournful staring out the glass-walled lobby windows and decided to brave a run for it, dress clothes and puddles and squeals and all, and arrived at the car only mildy soaked.

2) How did people survive before electricity was invented? I came home to a blacked-out house and had to pick up on a Little-House-on-the-Prairie life. I changed out of my work clothes in the dark. I pulled my hair up in the dark (why did I bother standing in front of the mirror?). I couldn't watch Felicity episodes, which is what I had planned to do since Kirk was at school. I couldn't read. I couldn't make dinner on the gas-range stove. All I could do was light the one big candle we have left, carry it with me into the kitchen while I poured my cereal, then carry it back to the living room with me while I sat on the couch and stared at nothing. I decided it was God's way of being funny by forcing me to write, since the only thing working was my battery-charged Dell laptop that had a bright-white screen. I gave that a go until everything started whirring and clicking when the power came back on about 30 minutes later. At which point, I promptly abandoned by laptop in favor of Felicity.

The First Time

in

I woke up one day—
today—
and believed,
finally,
for the
first
time,
finally,
that,
finally:

you hurt me.

There it is
in words:
your deed.

Can you contradict
it? Would you even
try to contradict
it? Can you
even
know,
ever,
really?

I don’t
believe
you can.

If you could,
then maybe you
would see the way
it stands
with me
forever.

It stands
with me
forever:

the first time:

it never changes.

What Writing Means to Me (Part 4)

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(Continued from Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.)

So how did I get from teaching to writing? Well, first I had to go through my writer-poser stage. Here's how it all went down.

Along about my junior year in college, I grew increasingly aware that teaching kids was definitely not my thing, but I had no idea what was. Until one day I happened upon a number of print ads and billboards and books that had typos in them. I began to wonder what someone with an eye for these details could do.

That's when I hit upon book editing.

It all came clear so suddenly. I mean, wasn't I the girl you could find with a book in her hand in practically every place commonly known to man? At the dinner table, in the high-back chair in the living room, in the back seat of the car, at large family gatherings and holidays, in restaurants, and even in department stores, as I waited for my mom to try on clothes. My family would joke about it, but I didn't care. In my opinion, books were the best invention in the world, and learning to read the best gift ever given me.

Besides reading books, writing in my journal and writing essays for school were my favorite ways to pass time. That, and solving algebra problems. Oh, and maybe playing piano.

With this new direction, I took off running. I dropped the elementary education emphasis and began loading up on as many English classes as I could fit into my schedule. Which means, first, that I enrolled in a short-story creative writing class and made quick to let the professor know my plans. I appointed myself the learned and savvy editor of the class -- something I did without asking permission or even letting my peers know -- and committed more crimes against my classmates with my arrogance than I now want to remember.

I wrote some horrible stories.

In my heart and mind, I was headed toward New York or Boston as quickly as I could manage. I read Forest for the Trees: An Editor's Advice to Writers by Betsy Lerner at least three times. I read Book Business: Past, Present, and Future by Jason Epstein. I read Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird at least five times (and counting). And I discovered Emerson College, with their M.A. in Publishing and Writing. I visited and fell in love with it, and with Boston, wwhich is still, by far, my favorite metropolitan city in the States.

Along the way, I tried to write.

What began to emerge -- and become the bane of my existence for at least six years -- was nothing short of schizophrenia. I could not determine what I was: a writer or an editor? I had so much to say, had been clogged creatively my entire life, and wanted to let things out. But I didn't know how, no matter how hard I tried.

What happened next, in the midst of this manic schizophrenia, was the pained and crude development of my writer-poser self. We'll talk more about her in the next installment.

Penetrating the Circle

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I am working on forgiveness.

I confess I do not know what this means when it comes to the big stuff. In my life, this is the stuff that has been most painful to look in the face. It is the stuff that makes me walk around like a scared and abuse-ridden dog, still waiting for the next beating that will surely come when I least expect it. It is what keeps me jailed to the ground, far from free and childlike joy.

Most of you know whom this concerns.

In three years’ time, I have still not uttered the words, if even in my head, “I forgive you for what you've done, and for all the things that have happened.” I just cannot bring myself to do it.

I am very aware of this fact.

The truth is, I don’t know what it means to do it. I’m afraid it means letting the person off the hook, which is not okay. I’m afraid it means saying it’s fine it ever happened, which it isn’t. I’m afraid, even worse, it means forgetting it ever happened, which I can’t imagine could ever be a good thing. Wouldn’t that eradicate all the beautiful things I’ve learned and received, too, directly or indirectly as a result?

Someone recently told me that you can only pave the way for forgiveness if you identify what needs to be forgiven. This means moving beyond the ambiguous, formless, and colorless space of generalized memories into the actual memories themselves. It means picking them up, entering back into them, and remembering what your soul felt in that exact moment. (Or, if you’re like me, giving yourself permission to feel those feelings for the very first time.) It also means identifying the messages you ingested as a result, so you can begin directing those messages by way of the Truth. Then it means setting that memory back down, eventually, in new forgiveness.

This probably has to happen more than once.

It has been almost three weeks since I received that person’s words and agreed to give it a try. I’ve been walking around that 10-year circle of my life ever since -- walking around it, mind you, not into it. Circling it like a wary and cautious animal. Sometimes, I confess, walking away from it completely.

But here I am, on this Sunday sabbath morning, finally brave enough to begin. I think.

Come, Lord Jesus, come. Save and rescue me. Conform me ever more into Your likeness. And protect me from this storm of fear and pain. I love and ever trust You, Lord. Amen.

April Dreams

in

I admit it: I like Katie Holmes.

A lot of people think she can't act, but I have a movie that proves otherwise. Give "Pieces of April" a try. Instead of playing the sugar-sweet girl-next-door like she did in "Dawson's Creek" or embodying the aspiring-lawyer-who'll-take-on-the-world-to-save-it like she did in "Batman Begins," Katie plays an indie-rebel type who's estranged from her family and living in NYC. With her boyfriend. Who is black. And loves her very much. It's really sweet, actually, how much he loves her and she loves him.

The story is, April's family is a family without her. She never fit in as a kid, I guess, and they ostracized her so much that she finally went away when she grew up. They think this is great. They think (except maybe her father) that they're better off without her. But her mom is sick now, so she's invited them, for some reason that reveals more of her heart than they can ever see, into the city for Thanksgiving dinner at her place.

They don't know why she invited them. They don't even know why they're going. They (and I'm speaking primarily of her mom and younger sister here) keep trying to find excuses not to go. They even drive through Krispy Kreme to get food before they land at her house because, oh yeah, April's cooking, and "We'll need an extra dozen of those glazed donuts," her mom shouts through the window at the drive-up.

But on the flip side, April's working hard and like crazy to pull things together. It's a modest meal because she's making everything from the can -- green beans, yams, cranberries, mussels -- and getting the stuffing from a box. But she's managing, and managing with class, I must say. Her boyfriend even bought some cheap turkey-shaped salt-and-pepper shakers for the table, and she bought balloons and streamers for the stairway that climbs to her front door.

All along, as you get the family history through the back-and-forth scenes with the rest of the family, you can't help but wonder why April even bothered to invite them. Why she even cares so much. But she does.

And then her stove breaks.

She has to go from door to door -- in a rundown Manhattan building, mind you, where there's graffiti on the walk-up door and none of the neighbors know each other or talk or even make eye contact -- and ask for the use of someone's stove. Over the course of the movie, this blasted turkey sees the innards of four heat houses.

And when the family finally gets there, well . . . I'll let you find out how the story ends on your own.

This review should in no way act as a substitution for your own viewing of the movie. The film shots are spectacular, the dialogue is quippy and natural and funny, the story is heartbreaking and heartfilling both, and you can't take your eyes off the screen. Go rent -- or even buy -- it right now. Or this weekend. Or the next. You will not be disappointed, I promise.

Unless, that is, you're a grump or fundamental traditionalist. Whatever, of course, that term means. I'm pretty sure it has something to do with not being someone who gets that life is all about the stories of our hearts.

How Do You Do, Mr. Modern-Day O'Connor?

in

About six years ago, when I had just graduated from college and was working my first full-time job as an editor at Insight for Living, I used to take the MetroLink train from Corona to Anaheim and back every day. It was the best investment I could have made in my life at that time. For about $120 a month, which was pretty much what I would have spent in gas, less the oil changes and the stress, I could get to and from work in 20 minutes and read while doing it. In other words, instead of slogging through 2 hours worth of traffic on the 91 freeway every day -- which is, in my opinion, well nigh close to hell on earth -- I sat instead by a window on that fast-moving and quiet-keeping train, in turn watching those sad-seated drivers on the freeway right beside us and broadening my budding literary life.

That's where I first read Annie Dillard's "The Writing Life." It's also where I discovered Bret Lott.

Bret Lott wrote, most famously, a book called "Jewel" that was selected for Oprah's Book Club back in 1999. I didn't read the book because it was selected for the book club. In fact, I stayed away from it for a good, long while because of that. As a rule, I don't trust media hype or books touted by supersized figures. Oprah's stamp of approval, then, was a stamp I did not trust. That is just my way.

But eventually my curiosity got the better of me. This is because I'd heard Lott is an evangelical Christian writing in the mainstream market. For those of you unfamiliar with this terminology or why it even matters, here are two things you should know:

1) Most "Christian writers" (though I hate that confining and off-putting term) publish with Christian publishers, sell their books in Christian bookstores, and never enter the mainstream conversation the rest of the world is carrying.

2) Fiction written by these people is thought to be sub-par in quality because most Christian writers -- and their publishers -- tend to think these books should carry a strong evangelistic message more than anything else. This means that it should have overtly Christian characters, speak well only of Christian values, and include characters who obviously need to find Jesus. It also means that everything will be neatly tied up with a bow by the end, the non-Christian vagrants converted and everyone living happily ever after. As if that's how life really happens, once you're inside the church.

Needless to say, I think this criminal. It infuriates me. If you want to get me going on a subject, this is one you could pick because I think we fail both God and others when we do this. Yes, that's right, God and others -- the same two categories of people we are to love with a true heart more than anything else. But the sad thing is, I think these Christian writers really believe they are loving God and others by doing this -- that because they're writing novels that show "redemption" in the end, where people find the Lord and come into the Christian fold, they are preaching the Good News and helping others see the need for it. The only problem is, they're not reaching the world with this message (remember how I said they only publish for a Christian audience?) and they don't show people or events or even, dare I say, the heart of God in truest form when they do this.

I could write a whole book on this subject.

This is where Bret Lott comes in. You can see now why I'd find it curious that he'd 1) be an evangelistic Christian publishing in the non-Christian market and 2) Oprah would pick him for her must-read list. This is curious because publishing in the non-Christian market means actual Christians probably never heard of him. It's also curious because getting an Oprah endorsement means a million non-Christians now were reading his books. (Just to prove my point, try this little bit of trivia on for size: The day Oprah called to tell Bret Lott she wanted to add "Jewel" to her book club list, the book was ranked 1,069,713 on the sales list on Amazon.com. By that evening, it had catapulted to number 1 on the list.)

All this to say that I finally read Bret Lott on the Amtrack train during my commute 6 years ago and have been entranced by him ever since. I loved that book, and I still do not know why. It's about a woman living in the South who gives birth at an older age to a little girl with Down syndrome. At that point in time, I wasn't one to read Southern fiction, nor had I ever been drawn to books about motherhood or children with disabilities. But there was something about the way he wrote that captivated me from the start.

The same is true with the latest book I am reading of his, called "A Song I Knew by Heart." Again, this is not a book I would normally choose to read. It's a modern-day retelling of the story of Ruth and Naomi -- two women joined by marriage who have lost their husbands and return to the hometown of the mother in the folds of grief. I've read the book of Ruth in the Bible handfuls of time, so I didn't particularly need to read it again. Nor do I usually enjoy stories that retell classic ones. I usually think the original is better to read, so why not just point the way to that one?

But this was different. Almost immediately, I was captivated by the language, by the details, by the emotional undercurrent of grief and pain and confusion and anger and hope for some new beginning. If you want to be really moved by something -- and find your own self inside the story of another person -- read pages 26-31 of the paperback version, where Naomi recounts her baptism experience from when she was a child. That's just one example of the power of his words that I'm talking about here.

When I read this book -- and so far I am only on chapter 5 -- I am entranced by Mr. Lott's ability, as a man, to not only enter into the skin of a woman who has lost her husband and her son, but also his ability to speak openly about faith without "putting it on." Faith isn't trying to be worked into these books; it just is in them already. The best way I can explain it is to say go and read it yourself.

I know this is a really long post already, but I have three last things to say:

1) I think Bret Lott is our modern-day Flannery O'Connor. She was overtly Catholic but published books in the mainstream. She had lots to say about what art should or shouldn't be, and especially art coming from people of the faith. (Just read her book of essays "Mystery and Manners" or her collection of letters "Habit of Being" to learn more about this and get what I'm talking about.) She is generally respected as an authority on this subject by parties on both sides of the fence. I think someday everyone will look to Bret Lott as an example of how to do it best, just like they do for Flannery O'Connor now.

2) Have you ever heard of those books called "The Best Short Stories" or "The Best Travel Writing" or "The Best Mystery Writing" of whatever year we're currently in? They have a whole slew of different ones, including one on best Christian fiction. I don't usually read those books, and I particularly take great care to avoid the Christian version (for reasons I mentioned above), but Bret Lott was the editor of the latest version of the Christian one, called "The Best Christian Short Stories of 2006," and I aim to check it out soon. I have hope that he's found some noteworthy and substantial Christian writers our there that will be worth watching as they grow in their careers.

3) In even more recent Lott news, he just received the Christy award from CBA, which the bookseller's association for the whole Christian market. He was pretty shocked to get this award, since he doesn't publish for Christian markets, and so was I. Turns out a lot of other people were shocked and offended by his very direct speech at the meeting when he received his award, while other people, including myself, cheered. Read what he said about the point of fiction -- and fiction from the standpoint of faith -- here.

Part-ay Part-ee

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This past Saturday night, we were privileged to co-host a party thrown in honor of us and our wedding. It was actually a party that Kenny, the guy who rents our studio apartment to us, wanted to throw for us back in June, but because we were still adjusting to married life for a couple weeks and then Kirk got sick for another few weeks, it didn't happen until just now.

It was an amazing night. First, Kenny hired a gourmet personal chef service to provide the food. Not only did they provided scrumptious fare, but they also set up beautiful flowers and serving stations in all the main rooms of the house, plus wandered around with platters of harvest-themed food throughout the night. In further keeping with the fall theme for the evening, Kenny rented two tree-like planters for the backyard that were roped in small orange lights. (But a nearby tornado warning brought unexpected rain pummeling down on the house shortly after the party started, so not as many people got to enjoy the backyard as we'd hoped.) Since our house is attached to Kenny's and we knew people would want to see it, too, we also bought a big cinnamon-scented decorative broom for our kitchen, which filled the house with a wonderful aroma (and still is!). Oh, and besides offering a great assortment of red and white wines, the caterers brought some October Beer that extended the harvest theme that much further. It was a great touch!

To give you an idea of how big a shebang this was, 40 people came (50 were invited), and Kenny took off work on Friday in order to prepare for it! The three of us ran an unending array of errands on Saturday, and finally pow-wowed about an hour beforehand to put on the finishing touches: candles, flowers, the cinammon stick broom, and a presentation on the main table of our wedding photos, a guest book to sign, and the National Geographic magazine that was the inspiration for our Celtic-Irish wedding. In our house, Kirk and I kept the lights dim with Irish music playing, as well as a special "Over Ireland" PBS movie we own so that people could feel free to wander around if they wanted. I even found a great new outfit from The Loft to wear that consisted of dark-brown pants, a long-sleeved white blouse, and a soft dark-brown sweater, in order to match the festive fall theme. All these touhes created quite the atmosphere for this October party!

Let me just say that Kirk has an amazing, eclectic, beautiful group of people in his life. Most of the people at the party (all but one, maybe?) were from Full Sail, and so many of them have been there for 10-plus years. Kirk has been there for 14 years now, so they've known one another for ages. I was just struck by how different and kind and funny and real and caring everyone was. And even though the introvert in me was nervous to meet a group of 40 people coming to the house to "find out what this new Christianne girl is all about," the nerves vanished the moment I opened the door to greet our very first guest.

One of the things that moved me the most was the regard all of them have in their hearts for Kirk. They couldn't speak highly enough about him to me, and many of them said that he was a person who helped "form them" -- that he was a principal contributing force to who they are today, simply through the way he invested in them while they worked together. They all have such great esteem for the person that he is and the choices that he's made, especially the choice to leave Full Sail professionally last year in order to pursue God's call for the next phase of his life. I think that has made a real impression on so many of them.

And finally, I was filled with an ever-increasing joy at the realization of who Kirk and I are together when we're with other people. We've had a few experiences of this in the past, but not many because we're from different sides of the country and haven't had too many "social outings"since we've been married yet. This kinda felt like the kick-off to a new phase in our life, a phase of increased interaction with others, and we agreed beforehand that we were going into this gathering with the intent of ministering to those who came. Even though the party was officially for us, we wanted people to feel cared for and nurtured and drawn out so that they felt the sheer value of their own lives while they were with us. Simply put, we wanted them to feel Jesus. I'm proud -- and simultaneously humbled -- to say I believe that they did.

I Get Paid to Do This?!

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As I've shared in previous posts, much of my first month at Strang was spent working a big health book coming out in January. We've been working feverishly on the main book, the workbook, the leader's guide, and the DVD series in order to get them to the printer and then stocked in our warehouse soon. That has been a great experience -- though a baptism by fire, for sure, because it's such a huge project that has so many working parts, all of which affect every other working part.

The past few days, however, have seen their fair share of the other two imprints I came here to edit: Realms, which is our fiction line, and FrontLine, which is our social and political line.

First, fiction. Debbie asked me to review a manuscript submission to determine if it's worth pursuing for a proposal. That meant delving in our previously published Realms books to discern if this recent submission fits what we're already about. Fun, fun, fun, because I got to spend an afternoon researching and reading fiction -- two things I love very much -- plus developing more of my "fiction editor" wings, which has been a long-time professional goal of mine.

Then she asked me to review a book by an author who's already been offered a contract because the author wants to have a creative meeting next week. So, I spent four hours yesterday afternoon reading the synopses and the first few sample chapters the author sent us (about 80 pages in all), making notes and asking questions as I went along. I loved it. I went home feeling so entirely energized. It's probably the best work I've done and have enjoyed the most since I've been here. That's saying a lot, since I already enjoy everything else I do.

This morning I wrote up a formal letter for Debbie and the administrative team about the ways I've worked with fiction -- either writing or critiquing -- in the past so that they have a better grasp of the extent of my skill and potential for working with Realms. I want to help Realms grow, and I'd love any leadership responsibility they want to assign me in this area.

And then there's FrontLine. We're bringing out a revised and updated version of one of our best-selling FrontLine books in January. Today, the editor on the project (my boss, who is above Debbie) sent me the edited version of the revised material. I'm working as the copyeditor on this project.

It was sobering material, indeed. Just fact-checking some of the material taught me more about Islam, Iran, Lebanon, the greater Middle East, and all the political parties and leaders involved in the past 50 years than I ever knew before. Part of me is glad to finally be on the path toward becoming a more informed citizen and believer. The other part of me wishes I never read the testimonials included in the book, nor all the encyclopedic information I gathered on the Internet today.

Needless to say, I feel my territory broadening here at Strang, and it feels incredibly good. I love what I'm learning, I love what I'm doing, and I love the feeling of participation and expertise that I have when working with my team on these projects.

Now it's time to go home and enjoy the weekend. I've been having so much fun on these projects this week, though, part of me wishes I could just keep working through the weekend. Weird, huh?

Weekend with a Purpose

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Have you ever read A Severe Mercy by Sheldon Vanauken? It's a book about great love and loss and eventual conversion, and it's beautiful. When I first read the book, during my first marriage, I thought Sheldon and Davy's love was far-fetched and rooted in dreams, not reality. But Kirk and I now know what that love is like, and I'm telling you it's amazing.

You should read that book.

Anyway, Sheldon and Davy developed something they called Navigators Council meetings in their commitment to their love. This was a time for them to talk through things that were important to them, to make sure they were on the same page, and to pull into sharp perspective important aspects of their life. When Kirk and I were reading this book aloud during our cross-country road trip in June, we decided to institute these meetings in our life, too, and this past weekend was our second. (The first took place at Cheesecake Factory shortly after our honeymoon as we feasted on pasta and strawberry lemonade and determined priorities for the top eight categories of our life: spiritual, relational, intellectual, social, financial, vocational, physical, and miscellaneous.)

For this past weekend's council, Kirk surprised me with a night's stay at one of our favorite hotels, the JW Marriott in Orlando. Wow! We had already planned to cover some top agenda items over the weekend, but this was a way we could enjoy all the great perks the hotel and resort could provide at the same time. It was a fabulous, restful experience for us both, and we accomplished even more than we had planned for the weekend. That felt really good.

We checked into the hotel around noon on Saturday and headed straight for the spa that's jointly available to all JW and Ritz Carlton guests on the premises. After enjoying the men's and women's sauna and jacuzzi areas on our own, we met up at the pool for some refreshment in the water. (We didn't plan to meet there, but we must have been on the same wavelength because Kirk was already there, reading a book by the pool, when I showed up hoping I would find him there.)

We played together for a while in the Olympic-sized swimming pool and then "did our own thing," which amounts to Kirk reading a book about vocation and calling while I swam some laps, floated around the pool on my back, and fell asleep on the deck chair next to him after trying to get into a Dallas Willard book. (You should try floating in the water sometime, too. Lay flat on your back with your arms spread out at your sides and your ears fully submerged in the water. It's a great way to practice the discipline of silence because all other sounds are diffused under the water and you can only hear your most innermost thoughts and the face-to-face conversation you choose to carry with God.)

After the spa, we hung in Starbucks for a while, then went up to the room to get started on the weekend's business. Top of the list? Rework our budget and get all our info loaded in Microsoft Money. Then we ordered room service and began talking through a major financial decision we had agreed to pray separately about for the past two weeks so we could reach a decision by the end of the weekend. Having reached an agreement about that, we decided to enjoy the rest of the evening with some sweet snuggle and cuddle time. (I'll leave the details of that portion out for you!)

In the morning, we ate a healthy lunch at the Vitale Cafe, which is run by the spa, and then began working on our "Be, Do, Have" list in a quiet corner of the hotel side lobby. What is a "Be, Do, Have" list? Well, it's something that Kirk made up! Let me tell you, I am married to probably the most creative being on the face of the planet. With what seems to take no effort at all, he can think of the most special and beautiful ways to name things, commemorate moments, use space, and create order. I could write a whole blog post on the way he does things, in fact!

So one thing he did was come up with this idea for a "Be, Do, Have" list to solidify what came out of our Navigators Council weekend. The list is basically a chart with four columns and eight rows. The second, third, and fourth columns are labeled "Be," "Do," and "Have." The first column is labeled "Decision." Each of the eight rows covers a particular area of life, like spiritual or financial or physical. In the "Decision" column for each row, we crafted a statement that was sort of like a prayer about the people we were covenanting to be in that area of life. Then we filled in the other boxes in that row by asking ourselves the questions, "Who do we have to be in order to keep this promise?" "What do we have to do in order to achieve this goal?" "What will we have if we remain faithful to it?" It was a great way to discern the highest priorities in our life and be able to ensure we enact them in reality. It was also a great way to build our relationship and reinforce what we, together, are all about.

We got about halfway through the "Be, Do, Have" list at the hotel and finished the rest last night at home. On our way home from the hotel, though, we decided to stop for a tour of the Winter Park Chain of Lakes, which is a beautiful and inexpensive pontoon boat tour that takes you around three of Winter Park's lakes and through two of its canals. We've been on this tour a number of times already; it's such a relaxing way to enjoy the beautiful weather and our beautiful -- and sometimes high-brow -- little town!

In all, it was a great weekend that was not only refreshing and fun but also helped us step into this last quarter of the year (is it October already?!) with some strength to fuel our lives.

Thanks to You

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Thank you for all the kind comments and e-mails in response to yesterday's post. They lifted my spirits and helped me remember I'm not alone; there's a great group of people back home -- and even elsewhere -- who are keeping up with my life in blog posts. It made me feel like you are more "with me" than you physically are. I appreciated knowing that.

Last night, the only thing that could do my heart any good was the new version of Pride & Prejudice. As I just relayed to my friend Jen in an e-mail, I didn't like this version when it first came out. For one, the Bennett family just brazenly annoyed me. (Yes, I know they were supposed to. But did her mom really have to whine so much? And did her sisters Lydia and Kitty really have to whine and fawn so much? It distracted me to the point of losing interest when I first saw it.) And for two, sometimes I really like Keira Knightly and sometimes I really don't. For instance, her hair. What's with her hair in that movie? It's cut almost like a blunt around her face, but longer in the back. I have no idea why they did this; nobody else's hair is cut this horrifically in the movie. And then there's the issue of her voice and smile; sometimes they seem so carefully put-on and fake in the movie, and the real Elizabeth Bennett would never give this impression!

But I've now watched this new version two more times and am beginning to change my mind. From a filmmaker's perspective, it's spectacularly done. (And I speak as a non-filmmaker here, in case you didn't know I have no experience with film. But that's obviously not going to stop me from giving you some of my opinions about it anyway.)

Watch the first full scene and you'll know what I mean about its being spectacular -- besides making clear the family's lower class distinction with all the ducks and pigs and airing laundry and kitchen messes, the scene opens with Eliza reading a book, showing she's not just stuck in the muck of poverty but is brainy and resourceful. When the family erupts in chaos about Mr. Bingley coming to town, Eliza simply turns around on the couch and watches her sisters go crazy in fuss, showing she, as a person, is more at a distance from their showy provocations. Finally, the scene closes by pulling to a full-frame view of their crowded house, flanked by the two majestic oak trees, just as the music comes to a close. This is a brilliant way to end the scene, for now you really can tell the director or editor or whoever makes this decision wanted you to feel like they were saying, "There. That's where she came from."

Anyway, I finished half of it last night and will finish the other half tonight. I wanted to read the book instead, especially since one of Kirk's congratulatory gifts to me for my new job was a leather-bound, gilt-edged copy of it, but my eyes were too tired and heavy from the past few days. The movie was just the trick to strike a happy medium, and my heart welled up at the watching of it. (Or, rather, sometimes the hearing of it, since when my eyes got too tired to stay trained on the screen I would just close my eyes and curl up on the courch and just listen to the music and conversations taking place.)

As of today, I'm feeling much better. It may have something to do with a good night's rest, or your prayers, or the movie, or even all the vitamins I've been popping. Whatever it is, I woke feeling much refreshed and ready to face the new day.

As a postscript, so many of you referenced Anne of Green Gables in your responses back to me because of my reference to wanting a "kindred spirit" that it may interest you to learn the following: Kirk is in the process of being inducted into Anne's world. I rented it from library a couple weekends ago (since I only own it on VHS and the library is more high-tech on this one than I am), and we've been making our way slowly through it ever since. So far, he's a keeper because he's keeping with it by his own volitional choice. Every once in a while, even, he'll look over at me and say, "I know why you like this movie." Or he'll start talking to the screen, which means it's really taken him in by that point. Or he'll reference something from it in a conversation later in the day. Last of all, he's taken to calling me "Christianne with an e." Isn't that amazing? I'm thrilled. It's important that the most valued people in our lives really "get" what makes us tick and what has helped us become who we are.

Feeling Blue

in

I'm not feeling too hot today. I haven't felt too hot since Saturday, in fact.

It's a combination of things. For one, my last four major meals have consisted of seafood, Greek, and Italian food. Oh, and some wine and ale. That means a lot of sodium and the consequent need for a lot of water. I haven't had enough water to balance it out yet, it seems, because I'm feeling tired and sluggish and dizzy and scratchy-throated and dehydrated, and I want to go home and sleep.

Besides that, there's all the interior side of things. Saturday was a rough day for us emotionally. We were smacked upside the head with some stuff that emerged from our pasts, and neither of us were expecting it. It took the length of the day, and even well into the night, to get through all of it, and we finally got through it because our God is good and our love is strong. But my heart's still reeling from the pain of all those memories and realizations, and I feel real tender and quiet inside right now.

After that dark night, we spent a day of sweet attentiveness and care with each other on Sunday. We worshiped together at Northland, then shared lunch over a good mediterranean meal, and then shared very interesting conversation about new books, literature and film, and the relationship between art and commerce in the Barnes & Noble cafe. This part of Sunday was the best thing that could have possibly happened for my heart, and I felt intensely close and connected to Kirk as we made our way through this new day after such a hard and painful night.

Sunday night we went to Tom and Cindy's house. They are our closest friends here, and we always share a wonderful time with them and their two kids, but they are walking through some tough decisions in their life, too. Because of the Saturday we'd had, I found myself unable to muster the strength I would have liked to offer them in that moment. I needed to depend on Kirk's strength and wisdom and the power of the Holy Spirit through prayer for most of the evening.

And what emerged from that experience was the realization of a new thing: We need the body of Christ. I was just talking to my good friend Kate about this last week, because she's walking through a difficult season of life and is surrounded by other friends who are, too. She voiced her realization of her own limitations in moments shared with these friends and the absolute gift God gave of the body of Christ when she needed it -- of people who came alongside to help minister to the one in need when she just didn't have the strength to carry it alone. I need the body of Christ, Kate said.

And so do I, dear Katy.

I miss those people in my life who know me in moments like these. People who can sit with me on the couch and not have to say anything. People who can wrap their arms around me and hold me in a hug for twenty minutes without wondering when it was going to finally end. People who make me laugh at myself and pull me out of myself, but then go right back into the deep with me when I need it. People that I can do this with, too. So far, here in Florida, Kirk's the only one with whom I can do this. And one is just too few.

So I'm praying for at least one more kindred spirit to come along in this new life. I trust God will provide just what I need, even if that means I don't actually need another friend right now, in His eyes. But in the meantime, I really miss my Life Group girls and Sara. They're the best batch of friends a young girl in this life could have. And, of course, I miss my family.

What Do My Days Look Like?

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Lots of people have been asking me this question, so here's a scan down a regular day in a regular week in my life.

730 AM: Alarm goes off. Grr.

830 AM: Leave for work. Listen to good tunes on the way or spend time in prayer or talk to Kirk on the phone if he's on his way to school, too.

900 AM: Arrive at work. Check e-mail. Get up to speed on the Publishers Weekly and Faith in Fiction websites.

(Notice that by this time it is still only 6 AM in California and most of you are still in bed. You people need to get up and get going already!)

930 AM: Sometimes a meeting with Debbie about our current big work project, for which she is the book editor and I am the workbook and leader's guide editor. Sometimes a joint meeting with our author's liaison to tinker with the deadlines for our projects. Or sometimes a production meeting with our whole department to make sure we're on track with the huge production schedule we have going for all our million projects in the company's four imprint groups.

1030 AM: Back to my desk. Working, working, working. Right now, that means rewriting the workbook, getting changes approved, updating the document with my changes, applying our style guides and style sheets to the documents to "clean them up," and then applying the changes to the corresponding chapter in the leader's guide. This also means making sure I answer all the questions from the workbook in the leader's guide version.

100 PM: Lunchtime! Usually I eat a PBJ sandwich and peach while reading a book or playing Sudoku in our author's conference room. Or I eat my desk while I check email and get caught up on people's blogs. Or I go for a "liquid lunch" with girls from the department, which means that we get sodas while wandering around Target or The Body Shop or some other such retail establishment.

200 PM: Back to work. At this point, Debbie and I usually have a conversation about the latest hilarities (read: hiccups) in our projects. I let her know how I'm progressing on the workbook and leader's guide, and usually I take this opportunity to ask questions about our policies and procedures so I can become a greater master of my job and this industry. She's the perfect person to be learning under. For instance, just last week I heard her talking with a new and prospective author on the phone, and I was able to learn how to feel out a writer's book plans and ask questions that will help determine the "sale-ability" of those ideas for our company.

400 PM: Usually, being a bit burnt out on the workbook and leader's guide project for the day, I'll work on some periphery projects. This usually involves research for new book ideas and new authors on the internet or scouring the interior of books by our existing authors for "derivative" ideas, which means finding ways to make new products out of existing books -- kind of like the way that book Boundaries has been adapted for marriage, teens, dating, etc. Sometimes I'll deal with queries we've received from readers, which also sometimes requires internet research or finding the information they need from the book they're asking about.

530 PM: Start to close things up for the day. Organize my desk. Read the latest issue of Christian Retailing to keep in the loop on current happenings in our side of the publishing industry.

600 PM: Set my phone to "Do Not Disturb: Gone Home for the Day" and walk out the door. Give Kirk a call to see what's happening for dinner and makes plans for our evening.

630 PM: Sit on the couch with Kirk to share about our days and pet our kitties, who are prowling around our feet and jumping on our laps because they're glad we're finally home.

700 PM: Dinnertime. Usually we steam chicken and vegetables or steam edamame or make sandwiches. Sometimes we order pizza. Other times we decide to go out for Thai food or sushi or something yummy like that.

800 PM: Settle in for the night. Usually catch up on the news with Kirk while reading on the couch. Sometimes we'll watch a movie. Sometimes we'll read together. Sometimes we'll take a walk. Other times we'll just talk about stuff on the couch, like how things are going financially or with our goals for our careers or education or ministry. Or we'll talk about what we've been thinking about and learning from work and school and books and church. Every couple of days or so I'll have a good conversation on the phone with Kate or Hannah or my mom.

There.

I hope that satisfies those of you who are wondering what the heck Kirk and I do all day long while we're way out here in Florida on the other side of the whole dang country. Pretty much the same stuff we did before we were together, only now we do it together. It's pure bliss, and I love it. I never knew life could be this easy and fun and . . . well, happy.

Out of Commission

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I don't know if I ever updated this blog with the news that I got the bid for the freelance project I interviewed for about a month ago. (It was one of the three interviews I got back before Strang offered me the job, but this one was for a job that's on a contract basis.)

This project has been a blast. Basically, I've been proofing a book called The Bloodlines of Jesus that's about to go to print by this guy named Gene Roberts. Like I shared in my original post about it, Gene is a businessman by trade but a lay theologian by calling. God asked him to write books, publish them, and give the money away. So that's what he's been doing for the last 5 years while running his business.

Gene is a great guy, and it really shows in his writing. He can make the most difficult subjects so easy to understand! For instance, I've been reading the Bible for years but have never known how everything in Israel's history fits together, from the fall to Noah to the calling of Abraham to the splitting of the 12 tribes to the appointment of judges and kings and up to the exile and the weeping prophets, until finally the coming of Jesus. Gene put it all together for me, and in such a fresh way, so that now I feel like I know all those names and places and orders of events and why they matter. It's like I took a crash course in Old Testament history and am now completely refreshed by it.

I titled my post "Out of Commission" because I've been working on that project like crazy this past weekend and am now ready to crash in bed. I took a sick day off at work at Strang today, even, because I only got about 3 hours of sleep last night. For some reason I thought I'd still be able to get up and go today, but my body had other plans.

Now that I mailed off the project, I'm ready to go home and get reacquainted with my soft and fluffy and very cozy bed!

Thoughts on Love, Somewhat Muddled

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I think the whole point of life is learning how to love. And the object of our love can be broken into two categories: God and others.

One way (but not the only way) God helps us love Him is by meeting us in our need. What I mean is, deep down inside of us, each of us have very real hurts. Some of us don't like thinking about this, and others of us like to think and nurse on this too much. Either way, they're there. They exist. We are broken people.

We can be broken from big or little moments, in an instant or over a lifetime, in moments seared deep into our memories and moments we've now long forgotten. Those moments, from the instant they take place, affect the way we live, whether we know it or not. And once we get real about this with ourselves and with God -- face who we really are and what we really think and how we really feel in the most sincere moments of our lives -- God can finally get to work in a true and powerful way. In a life-transforming way. In a way that's far beyond and far more effective than what He can do -- and will do -- when we're unaware of what we need and He has to do all the work Himself.

I learned this in a very real way last year when I was all tied up in knots at work. It took every ounce of power in my body to get myself out of bed and out the door on weekday mornings. The pain of perfection and the fear of rejection was, quite literally, going to kill me. But at the root of it all was one big spiritual mess He'd been working to clear out of me for years.

A lot of what I'm sharing is nothing new. Everyone has hurts, like I already sufficiently covered a few paragraphs up, and everyone is dealing with something that pretty much boils down to thinking their value has been reduced to the mere function they perform -- that what they do is more important than who they simply are.

I know a lot of this, again, sounds like pop-culture mumbo-jumbo. But the thing is, it's my story. And it's what God used to eventually grow me into loving Him more, and into loving others more truly.

Some mornings, the only thing that would give me the strength to face the day was to picture in my mind that I was that woman in the crowd who touched Jesus' cloak and received His healing power because of it. Except instead of being in a crowd, I would picture myself the privileged and private audience in His throneroom in heaven, and that I was -- and am -- His beloved daughter. In this picture in my mind, God's cloak was a deep red velvet, and it extended far down from around His throne and onto the ground, closer and closer to me. In that image, I would reach forward, having been bent and huddled over in pain and shame, and I would clutch at the cloak that beckoned me to touch it.

And that was enough. As I sat huddled on the floor of that throneroom, totally broken and weak and unable to get myself up off the ground, I felt God gently watching me. I felt His invitation to touch His garment. His love extended down to where I was, so patient and involved. And once I touched it, I heard Him saying all He had to offer was all the strength I needed: His love, His sufficiency, His determination of my value. Not the determination of others or even what I concocted in my mind.

Somehow, that helped me get up and out of the door. And on my way to work, Kirk would talk and pray me through it. On lunch breaks and odd moments in the day, he would talk and pray me through it again, reminding me of that throneroom and ushering me back into the presence of God.

Somewhere along about that time, Hannah spoke those words I mentioned a few entries back about my being and bringing "color" -- bringing a life and vibrancy to places where life and vibrancy didn't previously exist, simply because of the heart He had given me to feel and care and listen and love from a place that understood the kind of questions and pain and confusion others were facing themselves, simply because I had been there.

Soon after all of that, something finally clicked. The panic attacks and the anxiety and the terror went away. I spent the next 6 months feeling free and resourceful and beautiful and alive and able to love those entrusted to my care, without reservation.

God began to use me, more than He ever had before.

And this is what I learned. Somehow, in the middle of all that mess, He was forming in me a heart that deeply loves. And feels. And grieves. And prays. And trusts. And, eventually, heals. And then passes it along to others who need to love and feel and grieve and pray and trust and eventually heal, too.

I met with more students in the past academic year who were dealing with their own trust and love and acceptance and parent and future and God and growing-up issues than I ever imagined possible. For some reason, they started coming out of the woodwork. A group of them even asked me to visit their morning Bible study one week, and all I could think to share was what I've attempted to share above: that the only thing that matters in life is who we are to God. That is what saves us, and that is what then propels our lives to helping others see this truth about their impenetrable and ever-esteemed value from God.

Nothing can change the way we matter to God. The only thing that can change is whether or not we really get what that means, and what happens in our hearts as a result. The only thing that can change is whether we will keep living for the approval of others or start resting in the real truth -- that we are more precious to God in our plain and true existence than we can even fathom, and He wants to care for us and fill us up.

To sum up, I guess all I'm trying to share in this whole long-winded post is one of the most precious gems of truth I've learned so far on this journey.

And that truth is: When God meets us in our need, we grow in our capacity to love both Him and others. We love others with the love He has accorded unto us, and we love Him with both great gratitude and utter acknowledgement of His magnitude and sufficiency for all our bodily and spiritual needs. He becomes intensely personal, and, as a result, so do we.