Roast Chicken and a Prayer for Peace.

When the worst things happen, I become a yo-yo of emotions – sorrow and joy, anxiety and peace, chaos and quiet. I have a million words, and at the same time, none at all. That’s how the empty numbness sets in : when I feel all of it at once and don’t know what to do with it.

I suppose this is why I find comfort in cooking; it puts my heart in a place of utter quiet when my writer mind is mad with the world. I want more than anything to bring all the hurt close to me and heal it. I want to put your fear, my fear, everybody’s fear, at ease. I can’t though, and so I make a table for anyone who is close enough to sit with me, and I bring to it the very best I can, with the elaborate simplicity of a good meal.

A whole roasted chicken stuffed with fresh orange and rosemary, the creamiest mashed potatoes I’ve ever made, a glass of Merlot to go with it.

And grace, always Grace :

Let’s light a candle for the lonely and brokenhearted flung far from us this night. Let’s say a prayer for peace.

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Guest Post Swap with Allison Vesterfelt

Hello, dear readers. My friend Allison Vesterfelt are guest-post swapping today! Ally just turned in the manuscript for her memoir, “Packing Light,” so her post for you is about the process of writing through her story. Are any of you working on memoirs or writing a book, or just thinking about how to live a better story? Share your thoughts with us, and be sure to check out my post for Ally’s blog, “‘Comfort and Joy’ in a Season of Grief.” 

Writing My First Book: Packing Light, A Guide To Living Life with Less Baggage

From the time the idea first came to me, to the time Packing Light is published in September, 2013, at least three years will have passed.

It’s been a long time coming.

The wait has been long and the learning curve has been steep, and like all those who have scaled steep learning curves, I bear the scars of climbing to the top, and then tumbling tired down the other side. For first-time writers who hope that what’s in their heart will someday be on paper, I thought I’d share a little bit about my experience.

Living your story.

Before you can ever write your story, you have to live your story. For me this meant going on a road trip where I visited all 50 states (48 by car, 2 by airplane). For you it will be something different.

Living your story gives it the meat you need to tell it well. You can’t skip this part.

Before I left home on my trip, I thought I knew what I was going to write about. I already had the title in mind, and I figured the people I met along the way, and the experiences I had, were just adding icing to the already delicious cake. But I was wrong.

I didn’t even know what “Packing Light” meant before I left home.

I had no idea how hard it was, or how important.

My road trip didn’t alter the direction of my book, it was the direction of my book. You can’t write something before you live it. Don’t ever forget that you are the walking, breathing, living manifestation of your message.

Down time.

As if the logistics of executing a 50-state road trip weren’t complicated enough, coming home to write the manuscript was worse. I had the hardest time choosing what stories to include, and what to leave out.

I would sit at my computer screen, paralyzed, terrified that — after all this — I would never write my book.

These were some of the most depressing days of my journey because, after all that happened, sometimes it felt like I had nothing to say.

How could I have nothing to say?

But what I found was that, as I let the experiences and ideas sit and simmer together in the reality of everyday life, the most important stuff started to float to the surface.

Sometimes waiting, as difficult as it is, is our best friend.

Waiting for a publisher.

There was also this inclination I had to wait for a publisher to pick up my proposal before I would begin writing. I even had several people urge me in this direction. “You don’t want to start writing the manuscript until a publisher approves your project,” they would say.

I think they were trying to protect me from unnecessary extra work.

But in retrospect, I can see how I wasn’t waiting for a publisher to approve my project, I was waiting for a publisher to approve me, as a writer. It was like I needed someone else to affirm that I was going in the right direction.

Do you need affirmation to get started? Here let me give it to you.

You have a good idea.

No one else has it. If you don’t write it. Who will?

The Routine.

For me, writing involves this strange balance of routine and spontaneity. Since I work from home, my schedule changes everyday, so I just decided that I was going to write for two hours, everyday, first thing in the morning.

I would wake up at 5:00am, before there were any other distractions, and write.

I set my timer for an hour at a time.

I promised myself I wouldn’t get up until the timer went off.

Some mornings I wrote 200 words, some I wrote 3000, and some I spent most of my time just staring at my computer screen.

Finding Healing.

Healing comes simultaneous to writing, if we let it.

As I began to write the manuscript, I started to see things that happened on the road trip in a brand new way. It was like I was watching someone else live through what I experienced.

I had a zoomed-out, 180-degree perspective.

I didn’t have to have all the answers before I started writing, or know what was important to include or leave out, I just had write. I just had to start putting words on paper.

And, as I wrote, healing started to come.

Sometimes we try to force healing before we write, and our words come across stilted and dishonest. Or, instead of writing healing words, we just write mean words about people who are different than us.

But good writing changes us as much as it changes our reader.

Put your back in to it.

Don’t think you’ll walk away unscathed from writing a book. Writing takes hard work, just like anything worth doing. Be prepared to bear the emotional and physical scars of it.

During the process of writing, I developed a back injury.

I know it sounds stupid. Who injures themselves while writing? But I guess it must have been from the hunched over position where I found myself every morning, frantically trying to get my thoughts on paper.

To me the injury is more symbolic than anything. If you want to do something important, you’re going to have to put your back into it.

What about you? What’s the most important thing you’ve written? Will you share your experience?

~

 Allison is a blogger, writer and thinker who is becoming brave enough to live and tell the truth. She’s passionate about helping people to tell, hear and understand stories that inspire, uplift, encourage, and even convict by pointing to the truth of Jesus. She writes a column, “Packing Light” for Prodigal Magazine, which she and her husband Darrell own and manage. The Vesterfelts live in Minneapolis, MN.

 

In the Darkness, Bringing Light.

The thing is, she would tell us to put the Christmas tree up, even now. I know this because the day after Thanksgiving last year, the day after we brought her home from a two week stay at the hospital to in-home hospice care where a nurse named Faye marched in and informed us she’s dying, duh. Get with the program, and we didn’t eat turkey or have much to be thankful for, we still managed to put up the Christmas tree and she watched with a smile on her face.

If she could have gotten off the couch, she would have, to straighten the ornaments and rearrange the matryoshka Santa and red star candle on the fireplace mantle so that everything was evenly spaced.

She would have made the cookies, too, and I know this because she made my grandma drive her to the grocery store right before Christmas to buy the ingredients. I found them stashed in the cupboard a few days after the funeral.

This is the thing about traditions that I both love and hate right now : if we do them long enough, they are so deeply woven into who we are that even as a part of us mourns them, yet we still feel utterly compelled to do them. To not do them would sharpen the pain and absence and longing further, pull us deeper into the darkness. And she would hate that. There are times when going through the motions of tradition helps a family survive, and maybe even discover the good tidings and great joy for which this season exists :

Emmanuel, God with us.

God with us in the darkness, bringing light, bringing hope.

So the tree will go up. The mantle will be adorned with the matryoshka Santa and the bright red star candle and the lace nativity. The cookies will be made, if I can find the recipe. Mannheim Steamroller will play in the background. And when we turn round the living room to survey the splendor of our own nostalgia and tradition, we will see her. Her straightening the star on the tree. Her rolling cookie dough, covered in flour. Her practicing Christmas carols at the piano. Her on the couch, trying to enjoy these last twinkle-lit moments with us.

The Early Years.

We stayed up late on the eve of Thanksgiving watching “Planes, Trains and Automobiles” and then we slept in on Thanksgiving morning, made a big breakfast, and watched “Miracle on 34th Street” while my mom’s beloved cornbread casserole baked in the oven. We enjoyed dinner with my in-laws, avoided the annual retail insanity, and Friday night we put up the Christmas tree and toasted each other with glasses of eggnog.

We talked about traditions, the ones we grew up with and the ones we hope to create in the coming years. We dream of someday having kids and a house big enough to host our family for the holidays and annual movie marathons and a real Christmas tree.

The whole weekend made me thankful for this life that we have now between. Everyone chooses differently – some wait a lot longer to get married than we did, some don’t, some never will. Same with choosing to have kids. We still want to wait a few years before we ‘start a family,’ and even though I often long for the days when we’ll have the kids and the house and the holiday traditions, I was thankful this Thanksgiving for this little, lovely life we’ve already started. I am thankful for our little one-bedroom apartment, the intimacy of just him and me and the sound of us munching on toast at breakfast, this memory we’ve made of Matt and Bethany : The Early Years.

What traditions do you enjoy at Thanksgiving and Christmas, whether you’re single, married, etc? What was the favorite part of your holiday weekend?

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Prodigal : The Long, Hard Road.

Today I’m over at Prodigal Mag sharing a story about an awkward conversation with a professor my freshman year. I found her words hurtful and frustrating at the time, but seven years later, I’ve realized that they actually helped me find a better purpose and plan for my career. Have you ever had a moment like that, where you realize that maybe your “dream” isn’t really what you were meant to do? Please read and share your own stories of the long, hard road of growing up.

I remember the conversation clearly. I remember the daylight that streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my college cafeteria to the table where we sat, our blue trays touching at the corners, while I shuffled bland remnants of salad around the plate with my fork. She stared at me, unblinking.

“It’s a long, hard road,” she said, no sympathy in her tone.

These words I will never forget.

(Read on.)

Guest Post | The Language of Grace

Today I’m over at Emily Miller’s blog sharing a guest post for the final installment in her hospitality series. Hospitality is a favorite subject of mine, because I love to offer my hearth and home to anyone and everyone. This story I share today reveals why.

Everyone is laughing at my cousin’s 18-month-old son, Mason, as he sings la-la-la-la-la-la along with his grandma, my aunt. She has taught him the chorus of this old country tune during afternoons when she sits him in her lap on the big old porch swing. His ears perk at the sound of her singing it as she explains their ritual to us, and his baby voice echoes it back in delight. We laugh, and he sings it again, louder this time, and then we’re all taking turns singing it to him and he cackles at all the attention, clapping his hands, watermelon juice dribbling down his chin.

Can you feel it?

Joy.

(Read on.)

Guest Post | Conversations with Ourselves.

Today I’m over at Preston’s blog, returning the favor for his post a few weeks ago. Subject? Conversations with Ourselves, in which I imagine : if I could go back, what would I tell myself…

“My heart feels heavy and a wave of exhaustion washes over me. I stare at the page, but the words won’t sink in. I yawn and lean back and close my eyes for a moment.

And then my closet door opens, and she is standing there.

I am surprised, jaw open. Harry mid-spell tumbles to the floor with a thud. It takes me a moment, cogs turning wildly at the unfamiliar familiar, but then I see it, like a stereogram, a cosmic optical illusion, a wrinkle in time, Hermione’s time-turner is real : she is me, but I am not yet her.

‘Can I join you?’ she asks.” (Keep Reading)

The Last Thing You Wanna Do.

Neil Young : “…What happens in the lyrics happened because they happened; it’s not because you thought of them. That’s the last damn thing you wanna do is think of something. That is death.”

Jian Ghomeshi : “What do you mean ‘think of something’?”

Neil : “Think up an idea. That is the last damn thing you want. The worst songs I ever wrote were written that way – I can’t even put ‘em out. I got a few that are hidden – carefully hidden – no one will ever find ‘em. They’re awful.”

Jian : “So it has to come out almost like you’re expectorating?”

Neil : “It’s like Schubert said, ‘I don’t make up music; I remember it.’ I remember what I’m doing… That’s Schubert said, and he was a great composer. He remembered what he did – who knows from where – but there it is. And you’re there with it, and the only responsibility is to take care of it. Make sure you’re in good enough shape to deliver it, and make sure you know what you’re doing enough that you care about the moment that you do it.”

Neil Young’s Exclusive Interview with QTV, circa 2010.

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Bleak Branches.

The trees are nearly naked now, their last vigilant leaves hanging on for dear life in the November wind.
Lately I see myself in the trees and long to be as apt to change as they are, season to season. Because I need to live where there are seasons, even seasons I hate.
I love summer, when everything is alive and wild and the days are long and we bask in the glow of heat and light.
I love winter, when everything is covered clean with a blanket of white and the twinkling glow of hearth and home.
I love spring, when everything is green, when my fear and doubt are cast out with signs of new life.
I love fall, when everything is vivid and brilliant with abandon.
But I hate these between seasons, when the earth is brown and bare, when the vividness vanishes from the roadsides, when the darkness presses in and there is no blanket of white to brighten our days. It could change tomorrow, or three weeks from now, or it could linger the whole length of winter; I don’t know.
Maybe this is why I need Thanksgiving so badly : to remind myself, leaf by falling leaf, hour by darkening hour, to count the good things, to remember the life that thrives inside of bleak branches, to distinguish a season of bareness from barrenness.

Poem : Topography.

I remember the first time poetry really moved me.

Of course, I already owned the words of Dickinson and Dunn, thinking of them as a vague echo of my experience. But.

Until this moment, I knew nothing of poetry. Not the way it sounded on a tongue or the way it silenced a crowd of college kids, nor the way it opened me and my pages to not just words, but feeling.

It was early spring, my freshman year. Linford Detweiler played a lovely, quiet, sparsely attended piano concert in the chapel, lights dimmed, stage bare. He paused between songs to read poems, tell stories, charm the crowd.

He closed with this poem, Topography by Sharon Olds.

He fingered the piano keys, tossed his music pages to the floor and read the words. And I sat there in silence for minutes afterward, thinking… Oh. That’s what it’s for.

Topography
by Sharon Olds

After we flew across the country we
got in bed, laid our bodies
delicately together, like maps laid
face to face, East to West, my
San Francisco against your New York, your
Fire Island against my Sonoma, my
New Orleans deep in your Texas, your Idaho
bright on my Great Lakes, my Kansas
burning against your Kansas, your Kansas
burning against my Kansas, your Eastern
Standard Time pressing into my
Pacific Time, my Mountain Time
beating against your Central Time, your
sun rising swiftly from the right my
sun rising swiftly from the left your
moon rising slowly from the left my
moon rising slowly from the right until
all four bodies of the sky
burn above us, sealing us together,
all our cities twin cities,
all our states united, one
nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

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