I was one of four authors on a research trip. The book on which we collaborated had a deadline that nipped at our heels the whole way. To get a true feel for the setting about which we were writing, we explored backroads and forthroads, ate each meal at a different quaint café or restaurant, picked up leaves and rocks to study their composition and shape, took pictures, read historical markers, collected information of all shapes and sizes distributed by the Chamber of Commerce, the tourism bureau, book stores, artist colonies, and points of interest.

We also skipped our traditional budget-friendly lodging choice and instead shared a room in a charming inn. Research.

The inn had a gas fireplace in the sitting area, a treat we relished. It seemed an unnecessary but welcome luxury until it turned into something more—our saving grace.

After days of gathering facts and brainstorming plot lines, we itched to get to the actual writing. And the looming deadline barked its own orders—WRITE!

Dragging ourselves through the last few minutes of the time we’d allotted for exploring, we headed for the inn and a full night of productivity. We planned to put our laptops in front of us and make their keys smoke with our writing fervor. With pizza on the table and an assortment of hot tea to sustain us into the wee hours, we booted up our computers and—

The power went out. Not just in our room. Not just the inn. Not just the neighborhood. The whole town.

Not to worry, we thought. It’s temporary. These things usually are. No ice storm or blizzard beat outside the windows. Sure, it was a little windy, but…

We understood why the term pitch black became a cliché. Perfect description. In that tourist town, generators were apparently reserved for genuine crises. A thick blackness turned everything quaint into the dark belly of a coal mine.

The gas fireplace stayed lit. It was our only source of light and heat on a bone-rattlingly chilly night. We huddled next to its warmth, hesitant to use our cell phones for fear we’d drain them with no way to recharge. No power. We couldn’t depend on our laptop battery power lasting long enough to create our stories. Again, no way to recharge. And we couldn’t see well enough by the light of the fire to pack for leaving the next day or read the books we’d brought with us or study the plethora of research materials we’d collected.

With no electricity, we lost water pressure as well. Too bad, so sad, we couldn’t do up the dishes in the kitchenette.

After a few hours, the innkeeper’s assistants came to each of the rooms offering emergency glow sticks. We held the glow sticks as if they were more than just a novelty offering green mini-illuminations of comfort. The ridiculousness of their faint light compared to the spotlights we needed sent us into a Grammy-unworthy version of “This Little Light of Mine, I’m Gonna Let It Shine.”

The darker the night deepened, the softer our conversation became—we who had talked non-stop to take best advantage of our short time together as friends and writers. We quieted our discussions, our laughter, our flurry of brainstorming activity.

The fire from the fireplace threw its comforting embrace around us as we sat in the darkness and thought about life.

We told stories from the heart rather than imagination. We encouraged one another in the struggles we each faced. We let our tightly wound centers relax until the sounds in the room disappeared except for the faint lap of the fire’s flames.

It seemed as natural as anything to slip into a quiet time of prayer for one another and for our project. We couldn’t do what we’d planned to do, what we wanted to do, what we thought we should do, what our deadlines dictated. Instead we did what God wanted all along.

We prayed.

We quieted ourselves and prayed.

The power came back on hours after we’d gone to bed for the night. When the lights we’d left on powered up, rather than feel relieved, we quickly turned the lights off, a little sad that the wonder of a firelit night was over.

In the morning, as we slipped back into “normal” life, one of us shared that her morning devotional time included this verse from the Bible. Ephesians 5:8—“For once you were darkness, but now you are light in the Lord; walk as children of Light.”

How much more meaning that verse held after the forced quiet of the night before!

We’d moved cautiously, not daring to venture out of the fire’s illumination. We’d treaded carefully in our conversations. We’d kept our voices low in honor of the sweetness of the hour. We’d slipped naturally into prayer and slept with thoughts of the Lord and His grace overwhelming us.

As we considered the weight in those words from Ephesians 5:8, we sensed the Lord encouraging us to “walk as children of firelight,” with that same unhurried, serene, gratitude-rich peace we’d experienced the night before as we let go of our agendas and technology and our connections with the outside world.

“Walk as if you had no electricity, no deadlines, and no preconceived notion of how your days are supposed to go,” we felt Him say.

“Walk as children of firelight.”

We know we need to walk as if we belong to Him, making it obvious that we’re changed, we’re His, we’re redeemed and grateful for it.

But don’t we also need to consider walking through our lives in the same spirit we writers did on the night our plans were turned upside down when the lights went off?

Don’t we need to take a serious look at how peaceful life can become if we let it, if we disconnect from the outside world and the technology that keeps us tethered?

What do people do who have to draw close to the lone source of heat and light when they can’t flip a light switch or plug in an appliance or turn up the furnace? They talk and dream and pray.

Where do leisurely conversations—with others or with the Lord—work into a life that moves from one frenzy to another? Where are the pockets of time with no noise, no sound? When do we drop all activities as if they weren’t as important as listening to Him…because they aren’t?

Do you too sense the Lord telling you to live as if the power were out and all you had was the light of His presence?

Does the Lord have to make it impossible for us to do the work we’d planned in order for us to grow quiet enough to do the heart work HE planned for us?

It seems that way, doesn’t it?

What if we intentionally turned off the electricity and turned on the fire? HIS fire?

What if we chose to walk away from the important things on our list in order to attend to THE most important things?

What would happen if a whole generation of His people became “Children of the Firelight”? What could He accomplish in us and through us then?

Listen to that passage of Scripture in the New Living Translation. Ephesians 5:8-9—“For though your hearts were once full of darkness, now you are full of light from the Lord, and your behavior should show it! For this light within you produces only what is good and right and true.”

For writers: Enough said.

For readers: Ditto.

Did you ever notice that the things we teach others are often the things we need to learn? The encouragement we offer friends and family who are hurting boomerangs to lift our own hearts.

I counseled a friend the other day who felt guilty about not spending enough time in the nursing home with her mother. Well acquainted with that brand of guilt, the words that poured out of me to my friend were, “How many hours would be enough for her or for you?”

“No number would ever seem like enough.”

I don’t know if my caring friend’s guilt lifted a little, but mine did! No matter how many hours I spend at my mom’s side, it can never feel adequate. Longing trumps hours logged.

When a fellow writer mourned that it was hard to write when she wasn’t “feelin’ it,” my heart responded…and it taught me what I needed to hear. That email post became a guest blog on the “Ask the Pros” section of Mary DeMuth’s blog for wannabe writers.

http://wannabepublished.blogspot.com/2009/11/afp-president-of-acfw-cynthia-ruchti.html

Lesson of the day? If you’re moved to counsel someone, keep your own ears open. It might be just what YOU needed to hear.

While I served at the American Christian Fiction Writers conference in Denver mid-September, a writer friend shared the news that he was at that moment reading my article in Marriage Partnership’s online magazine. A joy moment I won’t soon forget.

If you missed it, here’s the link:

http://www.christianitytoday.com/mp/2009/2009web-only/ohwilderness.html

When going back to the site to snag the url for you, I noticed it was one of the most read articles in Marriage Partnership’s list. Blessing upon blessing.

It means a great deal to me to think that someone reading the article may have needed its story as much as I needed to write it.

As I plow deeper into preparations for the release of my debut novel next spring, I’m encouraged by the unexpected appearance of this article written two years ago. Some of its truths found their way into the novel, too!

Can’t wait to share THAT story with you!

A fellow author from American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW), Kimberley Woodhouse is launching the story of her family’s journey to joy on September 1st, a partnership project with Tyndale and Focus on the Family. The book–Woodhouse Family WELCOME HOME!

I first connected by email with Kimberley shortly before her family was nominated to receive an Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. We ACFW members watched and prayed as their story–that leg of it–unfolded. It’s a deep blessing to see their journey now in print through this gripping, heart-tugging, joy-producing book.

Kimberley Woodhouse is a wife, mother, author, and musician with a quick wit and positive outlook despite difficult circumstances. A popular speaker, she’s shared at more than 600 venues across the country. Kimberley and her family’s story have garnered national media attention for many years, but most recently her family was chosen for ABC’s Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, The Montel Williams Show, and Discovery Health channel’s Mystery ER. Welcome Home: Our Family’s Journey to Extreme Joy, releases from Tyndale House Publishers September first. In addition to her non-fiction, she also writes romantic suspense and children’s books. Kimberley lives, writes, and homeschools in Colorado with her husband and two children in their truly “extreme” home. www.kimberleywoodhouse.com

Overwhelming trials . . . met with overcoming joy.
Kayla Woodhouse is not your typical twelve-year-old. Due to a rare medical disorder, she feels no pain, doesn’t sweat, and needs protective cooling gear just to go outside. With her restrictive lifestyle; countless hospitalizations, including brain surgery; and the resulting mountain of hospital bills, what’s a family to do?

How the Woodhouse family has faced seemingly impossible challenges is a story that has captured the hearts of America. Millions of people have experienced glimpses of their lives on Discovery’s Mystery ER, The Montel Williams Show, and Extreme Makeover: Home Edition (recently voted one of the show’s all-time best episodes!).

Now Kayla’s mom, Kimberley, takes readers behind the cameras to reveal their family’s journey as never before told. From medical sleuthing to cross-country moves, from freak fires to battles with insurance companies, Welcome Home proves that truth really is stranger than fiction. This candid life story reveals both success and failure and demonstrates how, even during tough circumstances, to shift your life from heartbreak to extreme joy.
Cynthia asks: Kimberley, what was the most difficult moment to relive while writing your book? The most rewarding?

The most difficult – there were actually two: the period of time when Kayla wasn’t diagnosed, and many years later during her brain surgery. I cried buckets of tears writing both. The most rewarding was all the funny and joyful memories. I praised God for all the wonderful little moments He’s given us.

Many readers will no doubt be amazed at your careful attention to detail in Welcome Home! Tell us about the role your journals played in helping you recreate the details of your story.

I kept journals and medical journals through the years basically because I’m a detail person. The doctors needed us to keep track of everything, so I did. But I never would have guessed that I would one day write our story. I’m so thankful now that I have them.

In what ways did the many hours of interviews related to your family’s selection for Extreme Makeover: Home Edition set the stage for writing this book?

Over the years, we’ve done thousands of media interviews and appearances at Churches and groups sharing our story. Little did we know, people were nominating us from all over the world because they had seen us or the story somewhere. Then after the shows aired, more and more people asked for “the rest of the story.” It was fascinating to them, and they wanted to know more. That’s when I began to get asked by publishers to write our story. I prayed about it, and I realized that the Lord was definitely leading in this direction.

Did you find it easy or challenging to embrace the new house as your home? Why?

A little of both. The house is phenomenal, and every morning I still wake up amazed by it. But there was an extraordinary amount of hi-tech paraphernalia that I had to learn how to use. J I’m thankful for all of it though, because the house really has changed our lives—Kayla’s health has skyrocketed and Josh hasn’t had an asthma attack since we’ve been in the house. It is definitely our home, we love it, and are so blessed.

How did you and your husband safeguard your relationship during the vulnerable times of family crisis?

A lot of prayer, and spending time together in the Word.

During the media blitz related to your television appearance?

Again, a lot of prayer. All the TV stuff did get quite overwhelming, so we prayed more and more each day.

In the day-to-day, not that life is ever typical for the Woodhouse family?

This question made me smile and laugh – because no, our life is not typical at all. J But, the answer again is prayer. Spending time with the Lord each and every day and relying on Him for all our needs.

Some people write their story hoping readers will see themselves in the plot and identify with the events. Welcome Home! underscores how unique is the Woodhouse story and yet your readers do connect with the struggles of uncertainty, concern for children, answerless nights and constant threats to hope. When did you realize that recounting your family experiences could stir hope in others?

More and more people would thank me for sharing a particularly difficult time and say that it encouraged them immensely. I began to realize that a lot of times the best way to encourage others is to be willing to share the really tough stuff from our own lives. Even if it’s hard to re-live, or if it embarrasses us, or we have to swallow our pride to do so. We are not here to say “look at me! I have it all figured out!” we’re here to say, “Life is hard, but God is good.” People want to see real Christians living out their faith, not “perfect” people up on a pedestal.

How did the book move from that moment to publication?

Publishers began to ask for our story – and my original idea for the book was not that. J Isn’t God good though, to show us where and how we need to share.

How have your experiences (both highs and lows) affected your fiction projects?

I think it has definitely given them more depth. My critique partners tell me that they are “gripping” – which thrills me as a writer to hear. It took many years though for me to really touch that depth, but part of it was also allowing myself to be vulnerable, and really letting the gut-wrenching stories flow.

Obviously your story isn’t done. The Lord is still working and developing your character and your family’s depth as you move forward. What key lesson have you learned since finishing the book?

The first thing that popped into my head was the old children’s song, He’s Still Working On Me. As a professional musician for so many years, I never would have guessed all those years ago that I would now be a published author. I love how the Lord takes us as we are, how He uses us when we are willing vessels (and sometimes even when we’re not), to glorify Him. The further I get in this writing/publication process, the more I realize I need to learn. Just like the closer I get to the Lord, the more I see my imperfections, as I strive to be more and more like Him.

Thank you, Kimberley. We’ll look for your book in bookstores, through online booksellers, or through your website–www.kimberleywoodhouse.com

With my mother still tiptoeing on the edge of eternity, it seemed fitting to share this story with you, taken from a radio script written to honor her brother–an uncle I wish I’d known.

Iraq wasn’t in the news then. But Korea was. And Eisenhower. And bobby sox and poodle skirts.

Down the road a bit from the Willow Springs country church was a farmhouse making news of its own. A young man lay dying of an inoperable brain tumor.

My Uncle Roger.

He died when I was just a few weeks old. So why do I feel connected to him? And why would he—according to family legend—have felt connected to me?

Because at a time when he and my grandparents desperately needed it, I represented the promise of life.

A child was a symbol that death is not the end.

Not long ago, I asked my mother to relate the details again. I needed the reminder.

“What was Uncle Roger like?”

Mom said, “Roger was the oldest of the five of us children. I was the youngest. Some of my very first memories were of this big strapping kid who spent a lot of time with me and my brothers and sister, time that Mom and Dad didn’t have because of the many responsibilities of life on a dairy farm in the 1920s and 30s. He had such a loving spirit.”

“I can just picture him.”

“As he grew old enough to start doing farm chores, that was where you’d find him. He loved tending the baby calves and getting them to drink out of the bucket when they were weaned from their momma. He had more patience than most people.”“Just like you, right, Mom?”

“Don’t be sassy.”

“Sorry, Mom.”

“Your uncle Roger didn’t think much of school, but Mother used to teach school, you know.”

“I remember.”

“So ditching school was not an option. He attended 8 grades in a one room schoolhouse with all grades in one room. He went to Mineral Point High School and graduated in 1941…barely. All he really cared about was farming.”

“It was in his blood, huh?”

“Exactly. As soon as he was old enough to handle the horses he did a lot of the farm work. Plowing a field to plant something or harvesting the crops gave him all the career fulfillment he ever wanted.”

“Working the family farm.”

“Yes. It didn’t matter what the job was. He never seemed to get bored with any part or complain.  He was a stickler to make sure we kids learned the ins and outs of farming and scheduled us for the chores we were capable of doing.”

“Strong work ethic, huh?”

“The best. We were all hard workers, but Roger led the way.”

“I like him already.”

“He would have liked you, too.”

“Thanks.”

“Our local Farm Bureau Association used us for entertainment for their meetings. My sister sang soprano. I was the alto. Bob sang wonderful tenor and Roger had the most full, booming bass I’ve ever heard. Dad sang tenor sometimes, too. Mom and my brother Ken didn’t like singing in public.”

“I wish we had a recording of you guys singing together.”

“No more than I do.”

“We’ll hear it someday, though.”

“Right. Someday.”

“So, if I have my dates straight, you and your family went through the Depression years together then. Must have made farm life even more challenging.”

“It certainly was. But we were blessed to have a good garden and meat to eat and a roof over our heads. Money was always tight, but we certainly weren’t alone in that respect.”

“True.”

“Do you know one of my fondest memories of my big brother? When I was picked as Prom Queen in 1946, my mom didn’t think I needed to spend money on a formal, but Roger took me to the city and bought me the most beautiful white formal. That’s what he was like.”

“Aww.”

“In 1947, Roger started having seizures.”

“Oh, no!”

“It was scary to see him driving a car or the tractor. Yes, we eventually progressed from using horses to a tractor.”

“I’m impressed.”

“The seizures limited some of Roger’s work load. Oh how that frustrated him!”

“What did the doctors say?”

“He was diagnosed with a brain tumor and rushed to Chicago to Memorial Hospital where they were able to remove only part of the tumor. The surgeons left a hole in his skull because they knew the tumor would most likely keep growing.”

“How awful. I can’t imagine.”

“After the surgery he was no longer able to do much at all, and what a frustration that was to him.  I’d find him sitting on our wrap-around porch watching Dad and brother Bob doing what he wanted to do. My heart just ached for him, but there was nothing any of us could do.”

“I wonder if his prognosis would have been different if he’d lived in this era of modern medical developments.”

“I’m sure it would have been. He steadily lost most of the sight in one eye.  The seizures were controlled quite well by medication but his body kept deteriorating. Three years into the disease, he really needed help with bathing, feeding, dressing, etc.  Mom and Dad moved off the farm so they could give 100% of their time to his needs.”

“That’s what made Grandpa give up farming? I thought he retired…that he wanted to take a break.”

“Not at all. Farming was in your grandpa’s blood, too. He loved everything about it. No, he left farming to take care of his dying son.”

“Oh, my.”

“By the time we discovered Roger’s tumor, I was in nurses training. Can you imagine how incredibly frustrating it was to me to study how to care for patients and be helpless to make much of a difference for my own brother? Your dad and I married in 1951. Just a couple of months later, I found out I was pregnant. When Roger heard the news, he asked me to please promise him that I’d bring my baby girl home so he’d be able to hold her.”

“How did he know I was a girl?”

“Good question. We didn’t have high-tech ultrasound in those days. Parents found out the gender of their child when the doctor announced it in the delivery room.”

“Then, how…?”

“Somehow Roger knew. Just days after you were born, of course, your dad headed to the Korean Conflict, so as soon as we could arrange it, I brought you home so we could live in the house in town where Mom and Dad were already caring for Roger. By then he was confined to bed.”

“Grandma and Grandpa had their hands full already, didn’t they? They sure didn’t need a screaming infant around.”

“Oh, but they did.”

“I don’t understand. And how could the noise and commotion a newborn makes have been a good thing for a guy dying from a brain tumor?”

“I wish you could know the impact you made. All the pain my brother was in, but oh, the smile we got out of him when he saw you for the first time! It was a lopsided smile but a beautiful one. He had only a little movement in his right arm but he beckoned for me to place you in the crook of his arm. What a sight that was.”

“I hope I didn’t start crying and spoil everything.”

“No. You seemed to know it was a holy moment. You just stared up at him. No fussing. No tears. From you, that is. Mom, Dad, and I were a blubbering mess.”

“I don’t remember seeing pictures of that time in the photo album.”

“No one thought to take a picture of that ‘reunion.’ But no matter how many years go by, it remains a very clear picture in my mind and heart.”

“I can almost see it.”

“For a month, you spent a great deal of time in the arms of your uncle. He loved you dearly. Then, one night, Roger went to sleep and woke up in heaven. You were what made that last month of his life worth living to the end.”

“I was nothing but a helpless baby. How could I have meant so much to him?”

“To all of us. Your grandma and grandpa were in such deep mourning over the death of their precious son, but you were evidence of new life. Roger had grown weaker and weaker every day they cared for him. You grew stronger and stronger. He could do less and less as his disease progressed. You did more and more. The love and effort they’d poured into their son was now showered on you—this little, wiggling, bald-headed bundle of smiles and giggles and chubby cheeks and the promise of life.”

I’ve been so strongly impacted by that story on several levels.

Isn’t it so often true—not just in this case, but in many families—that as we say goodbye to a loved one through death, we find following on that moment’s heels a welcoming in of new life. One of my sisters found out that she had been a few days into her pregnancy during our dad’s funeral. New life. It’s as if the Lord chooses to remind us that this life-laid-down is not the end.

Secondly, I’m touched by the reminder that God can use us when we are at our most helpless, when we are unutterably ordinary and human. What could a totally dependent infant offer a dying man? Words of comfort? A backrub to soothe aching muscles? Advice? Sympathy? None of those things! All I had to offer was my quiet presence…and even that was laid in my uncle’s arms by other hands.

Don’t we sometimes feel inadequate to the minus power when someone around us is hurting? Do you ever feel that way? The Lord can use you anyway! If he used a several-days-old infant, He can use you.

And thirdly, but I’m sure not lastly because I’m still pondering it all, I’m struck by the goodness of God to orchestrate a baby’s need to live with its grandparents when the real need was for the grandparents to have reason to hope again. He takes care of every detail of those He cherishes. “Everything He does,” the Bible tells us, “is worthy of our trust.”

It was a full thirteen months before Mom and I could rejoin my Dad when he returned from Korea. My grandparents had more than a year to come to terms with the fact that even following the death of a son, life goes on.

For writers: You may have had an article printed that moved even your own heart when it first appeared but now is yellow and crispy with age. Or a book now out of print. Life goes on. Can you take that same idea and rework it in a new form?

For readers: Have you noticed that pattern, too? As you say goodbye to one thing or person dear to you, an embryo of a new relationship or adventure waves its hand and begs to be given attention? How did the new thing help you heal from loss of the old. I’d love to hear about it.

This is a duplicate of my post for the American Christian Fiction Writers’ blog tour ongoing at http://www.acfw.com/blog in anticipation of our annual conference in September. The blog tour is a rich resource for writers and full of inspiration for readers. After you and I have chatted here for a moment, trace back through some of the other posts on the tour. Welcome to the table!

NOVEL IDEAS—CONNECTING AT THE TABLE

“Can we talk?”

Among the things that surprise ACFW conference attendees are these:

• It’s amazing how many writers consider themselves introverted.

• It’s amazing how noisy introverts can get when set loose at a writers’ conference.

Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk! We talk in the elevators, in the hallways, in the lobbies, in the classrooms, in the airport shuttle coming and going…

Meal settings provide some the most significant conversations at the ACFW conference. Editors and agents “host” tables and offer those seated with them an opportunity to ask questions or pitch their projects. Writer heaven!

Just like a meal prepared by a FoodNetwork star chef, mealtime conversations at the ACFW conference depend on taste, originality, and presentation.

Having participated in meal conversations at five ACFW conferences and several other writers’ conferences, I’ve collected a few insights that now guide and encourage me. You may also find them heartening.

1. Expect the unexpected. When the Lord intervenes, He shows up in unexpected ways. You may set your internal GPS to a certain editor’s table but find all the seats taken when you get there. If you’ve committed every moment of your conference experience to Him, you can skip over the jolt of disappointment. Many conference attendees testify that they found themselves unexpectedly seated in exactly the right place, though they didn’t know it at the time. At one conference meal, I thought friends were saving a place for me, but we had a slight miscommunication and there was no room left. I started a new table, alone. Soon, I was joined by a woman I’d longed to meet! We spent the entire mealtime engaged in a conversation that forged a friendship I would have missed out on if my own plans had worked out. Another year, I’d had to relinquish my editor appointment because of a volunteer duty that conflicted with the time. Rushing in late to the noon meal, I found the only place remaining in my area and slid in with a relieved sigh. Who was hosting the table? The editor I’d targeted for the appointment I’d had to surrender! I left the meal with an invitation to send my proposal.

2. Shine the spotlight on others. We’ve all felt the discomfort of a table conversation dominated by one person. If it’s the editor or agent hosting the table, count it all joy! You’re gaining valuable insights about the industry or the personality of that professional. As much as writers want and need to take advantage of every opportunity, ACFWers have another dynamic at work. We also long to honor the Lord whom we serve and obey His ideas about relationships. His Word urges us to defer to one another, to show overt kindness, to look out for the interests of others rather than just our own. During a table conversation at the conference, that might mean stepping back to let the spotlight shine on the writer next to you. It might mean promoting your friend’s project as well as your own. It might mean reserving something you want to say because it’s self-serving and puts others at a disadvantage. It’s a balancing act, as is most of the Christian life. We want to walk through doors when the Lord opens them without trampling on others to get there.

3. Take up a collection. If your definition of a successful table meal at the conference is limited to an invitation from the host editor for your book proposal, you may miss God’s specific design. Around the table will flow answers to your plot problems, a new marketing tip, a prayer need you’re especially gifted to help shoulder, the solution to a research dilemma, a contact, a friendship, a connection you may not need now but will in the future. Come to the table with an open heart and listening ear, and you’ll leave fully satisfied.

4. Consider it both a meal and a classroom. Watch how others respond to, “So, tell me about your book.” Note how you—a tablemate—feel if the writer is uncertain or takes off on a cumbersome dissertation. That’s how an editor will feel, too. Watch the patterns of those who give intriguing or well-thought-out responses. How quickly could they grab the table’s attention with their pitch? What made the pitch engaging? How did others at the table respond? What does that tell you about your own project? Even if the agent or editor talks about dogs or children or parasailing rather than fiction, did you learn something?

5. Keep singing. Silently. “Be present at our table, Lord. Be here and everywhere adored.”

ht         http://www.acfw.com/blog

Not far from us is a wonderful biking trail that meanders through the Wisconsin countryside following the footprints of now ancient trains. One of the trail’s highlights is a series of long, cool tunnels through which the biker is instructed to dismount and walk his bicycle through the damp, dark catacombs of stone. After the tunnel’s visual void, emerging into the daylight is like a rebirth into a world of color and creation’s eye-candy.

I was reminded of those tunnels—dark and monochromatic—today as I reflected on why I am so “taken” by summer’s flowers. And so not a fan of winter. I’m a fuchsia-periwinkle-marine blue-teal kind of person. So waking midwinter to nothing but white, dirty white, and gray is the antithesis of the color palette that stirs me.

I gravitate toward the hot pinks and purples in the garden section. Every spring I tell myself I’ll try a more neutral theme for my hanging plants. Can’t do it.

Bright flowers rev my creative engines like a floral caffeine. Color caffeine. I take pictures when they’re at their peak so next January the hope for another spring, another summer ahead, will get me through another winter.

Ah. Snapshots of color for colorless seasons.

I write color-ing books. Not the kind that beg for Crayolas, but books that remind readers of the color that may be missing in their lives in a monochromatic season of grief or sadness or disillusionment or despair. I want to create pictures of the grace of God for seasons when my readers may not have seen a hint of it for a long stretch, through a dark tunnel that seems endless. Words can do that, can create photographs of hope that somewhere under the old snow lies a seed or bulb or rhizome itching to restore color to the scene.

“What is it you write?”

When asked that question, I hope I remember to answer, “Color-ing books.”

For writers: What thread of color can you trace through your stories? Hope? Redemption? Forgiveness? Reconciliation? Restoration?

For readers:Threads of deep scarlet are woven from the first to the last of the Bible. Entertwined threads of our need (“though your sins be as scarlet”) and God’s love expressed in the blood Jesus spilled for us. Even on the colorless days, can you catch a glimpse of that brilliant color?

I’m starting a campaign to change the term “false” labor–which sounds so demeaning, doesn’t it? As if the pregnant woman isn’t intelligent enough to recognize what she’s feeling is a forgery, a fake.

It may not be wholly productive and may not lead to the soon release of the baby from its cocoon, but can’t we find a prettier word than “false”? How about “practice” labor? Or “warm up” labor? Or “trial run”?

My precious mother is experiencing many trial runs as she awaits the release from her earth-life cocoon to be welcomed into the arms of her waiting Savior. I hold her hand and help her breathe through the “contractions.” Excitement builds for her as she nears the moment when He says, “It’s time. You can push. Let’s get you delivered.”

Day after day of trial runs tell her, “Not yet.”

We’re grateful for every moment we have with her and can’t imagine how we’ll bear the dual weight of grief and rejoicing without stumbling.

But it interests me anew today that the Lord promised in His Word that He never brings a laboring woman that far without delivery. Trial runs are always precursors to the real thing…in life and in death.

For writers: Where in your writing is the ministry to those in “false labor” in their relationships, their health struggles, their faith contractions? Do you address only those who are in “active labor”? And does it comfort your own heart that the practice runs that have brought you near publication have not been wasted–they’re getting you ready?

For readers: The Lord is the quintessential coach for the “false labor” moments of our lives. You can confidently get through them if you find your focal point (Him), hold tight to His Hand, and listen when He tells you, “Breathe like this.”

Some people approach faith as if it were a pool of unknown temperature. They hover at the edge of the pool, uncertain about getting in as far as the first step. As the water laps against their ankles, they acclimate before moving down another step into the calf-deep water. Then knee-deep.

And that’s as far as some ever go. “I’m fine here. You go on and have fun.”

Hugging themselves (lot of good that does) they shiver because their feet are in the water but their body is exposed to the air.

“Let me just get used to it,” they say. Some never do.

Their friends, exhausted from the fun, the splashing, the diving, are packing their things to go Home by the time the timid ones feel confident to go waist-deep, shoulder-deep, get their hair wet.

Let’s grab the faith-timid by the hand and urge them deeper. “Come on in. The water’s fine!”

For writers: Pushing from behind rarely is appreciated. In some ways, it’s rude, bully-like. How can our words more effectively “pull” with “strong cords of love,” as God says He does in His Word?

For readers: Have you been encouraged to dive deeper into your relationship with the Lord but have hesitated at the edge of the pool? Dive right in! Even if the water temp surprises you, you’ll find it infinitely soul-refreshing!