Into the Fire

For Veterans Day

I’ve never met a more patriotic man than my father. The American-born son of Italian immigrants, he purposefully forgot most of his parents’ language to embrace his country’s native language. His father was a cobbler in Butte, Montana. If you know any history of Butte, it was a rough place to live and most of your options for work ended up in the mines, which is where my dad worked for awhile as a young man.

I wasn’t born yet when WWII broke out, but my dad, now married with a young son and living in Washington state, beat feet down to enlist. His remorse at being rejected because of those feet bothered him a lot because he was willing to fight and even die for the freedom offered by this country. He got a job at Boeing to help with the war effort and once the war was over he moved into the retail business where this self-made man with barely a junior high education worked his way up to become an executive vice president of a retail chain before retiring. Even late in his life when Alzheimer’s had robbed him of most of his cognizance, he still demonstrated a love for this country and a respect for the military and everything it stood for.

I can rarely speak of the military without coming to tears. I know not every man or woman who’s worn the uniform is deserving of accolades (i.e. Fort Hood), but the majority of them certainly deserve our respect. They place themselves in the service of this country—to defend it, to protect it, to fight here and abroad to accomplish the freedom we so often take for granted and abuse. The respect should be automatic. We should be grateful to them and for them.

Pacifism disgusts me. It’s a cowardly excuse for giving in to whatever the current political fad dictates. This earth will be destroyed one day and it won’t be by mankind. God will render its end, and no man can stop it. The arrogance of thinking the efforts of sin-laced hearts will find a compromise to make peace is laughable. Why not by now? If man is so brilliant, why is it that greed and fanaticism and the lust for power which have existed since the fall of man still reign supreme? There has been no improvement, no technology, no ability to simulate a compliant race of human beings. We are flawed and damaged by our sinful hearts, and no noble professions of philosophies will solve the world’s ills.

Veterans, thank you from my heart. You have my respect and my prayers. God bless you. God Bless America.

Father, for each individual who serves you and this country with a willing heart, who understands sacrifice, who believes in your principles, may your rich blessings cover over them. May they know you through your Son and embrace your Spirit. Thank you for them. Thank you for this country. Thank you for the privilege of living here. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

In the guise . . .

Few things seem more like sabotage in reading than fiction which “pretends” to be Christian fiction when it’s clearly not. I know this topic could easily digress into the familiar “What is ‘real’ Christian fiction anyway?” That’s not where I’m going here.

Although the differences in doctrines appear uncontested in novels from CBA publishers, this isn’t about the nuances in doctrinal differences in stories. My irritation lies in those books which infuse themselves into the Christian fiction market with no intention of meeting any basic standard of the faith.

I find it mysterious why a writer who depicts characters and situations in direct conflict with Christianity would want to portray said characters as Christians in the first place. Why not just allow those worldly characters to be true to how they act? Why bring faith and Christianity into the story at all? It’s one thing if a writer chooses to portray them as hypocrites or backslidden individuals who’ve had a lapse in their identity and are either angry at God and have turned away from him or who have attempted to participate in the world while professing the faith. We’ve all known these people or experienced those very lapses within ourselves. In those cases we understand where the characters reside in their faith or lack thereof. But to read about characters who have no moral fiber, no attention or desire to adhere to the direction the Lord has for them, and allow those characters to represent real Christians? No. And why?

I’m a firm believer in writing the stories God has given each one of us to tell. If you examine some of today’s CBA authors, you will find several who insert Christianity in nearly invisible or peripheral ways. These are writers who profess and live out their Christianity in real life but who feel their mission to readers is to appeal to a broader base—in other words: not the proverbial “choir”. They don’t pack so-called Christian characters into their stories who in every aspect of their lives fail to accurately represent true Christians. Many times their protagonists are unbelievers and act as such. Occasionally, a close peripheral character or sometimes a lesser peripheral character will represent a person of faith. The insertions of these characters rolls with the storyline, fits in perfectly, and gives a nod to true faith without asserting a strong message.

The hypocrisy of representing real Christianity in a faux “believer” is not only disconcerting but very odd. Any ideas why an author would choose to do this? I’m not suggesting any of the mainline CBA publishers would publish such an effort, but I’m more curious as to why a writer would think a novel like this would appeal to either a Christian or secular audience.

Father, you are Truth and the Truth cannot be improved upon. Period. Thank you, Jesus.

Is it ever enough?

Are the words of those who encourage, exhort, praise, or enthuse ever enough? Apparently not. We writers bleed insecurity. “Did you like it?” “What did you like about it?” “How about the part where . . . ?” “Do you think it’s really really good?”

You’ve read too many times here how much I detest marketing. Why is it that I don’t like it so much? I mean, I understand that “I” am the best person to “sell” my own work. After all, I believe in it enough to have written it, finished it, fallen in love with the characters, plotted their lives, and so on and so on. So what’s so stinkin’ hard about putting in a few good words for my work? People get that I’m responsible for selling it.

Yes. Everyone gets that authors must now market their books more than ever because the funds expelled for marketing a no-name or even a mid-list author are slim. Or so we’re told. Well . . . they’re even slimmer for those of us who elected to spend the big bucks on getting that novel into print.

Honestly, I don’t know how some of the good marketing authors do it. They’re dreams-come-true to the marketing divisions of their publishers, but there simply must be a better way than sharing every positive word a reader has ever spoken about your book. Isn’t there?

After awhile, I can’t read or listen to one more effusive report of a reader’s comment about a novel on the author’s blog or website or Facebook posts. How much praise must be shared by an author? Is it ever enough?

Those comments from readers mean so much to a writer. They’re like wood to a fire. Necessary to keep the creativity burning through us. Gifts from unexpected places. Thoughtful. Meaningful. Appreciated. But must all of them be communicated or displayed like badges?

I keep saying the oversell bugs me immensely. And I keep guessing it must just be me. Hmm.

Lord, you know what’s right for your people. I don’t. Please make sure I understand what you want from me and help me not to judge the needs of others. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Sunday's Offerings

Consequently, just as the result of one trespass was condemnation for all men, so also the result of one act of righteousness was justification that brings life for all men.

Romans 5:18 (NIV)

Saturday Sample

Hutch finished his last foot for the day at Brady York’s barn, tired and glad to be done. He made plans to return to Brady’s barn tomorrow at 11:30 to get six more. He enjoyed shoeing at Brady’s barn. The grooms were good hands, and for the most part the horses were well behaved so that made it easy to converse with their grooms and learn more about the racing out here. It was a whole lot different, but so far he liked it. Rain topped the forecast for tomorrow again, but he knew he’d get used to it. Weather was just one of those things. No sense getting upset about it. Nothing you could do about it anyway.
Pete Keppler drove up as Hutch put his tools in his truck.
“Hey, I’ll take that beer now if you’ve got time. I’m done for the day.”
“Here or somewhere else?”
“Here’s fine.”
“I’ll be right down.”
Hutch stopped over at Mick’s barn to tell Nelson he’d be at the kitchen with Pete Keppler. Nelson said he’d meet him down there in about 45 minutes.
Hutch stopped and told Karen to put Pete’s tab on his, and he ordered some fries and a coke. He found Pete at a back table sipping on a Budweiser.
“So, Mick’s impressed. I knew he’d like having a shoer from back east. Makes him feel important.” Pete laughed.
Hutch smiled. “Don’t see too much different going on with their feet out here. I know Brady likes more heel on them than Mick does. So do I, but that’s neither here nor there. You work at Brady’s barn, too?”
“Once in a great while when my boss has a day off. Last year one of our other vets did half his barn—she’s supposed to be here in a day or two. Married Robert Sanders at the end of the meet last year. I tried to make a move on her, but Robert had her all the way.”
“So Robert Sanders is comin’ back here?”
“Yeah. He’s been ridin’ in California—well, just since December. He took some time off. You know him?”
“Yeah. For quite a few years actually. Class act. I really like the guy. He’s not your typical rider, you know?”
“Yeah. Especially now.”
“What do ya mean?”
“Well, he and his wife are Christians now. I guess they’re real serious about it, too, from what I’ve heard. Last year, Melissa—his wife, our vet—got hurt by a colt at Brady’s barn. Struck in the head and hospitalized. She came out of it fine, but Don, my boss, was tellin’ me she had some kind of vision and came out of the experience religious. I don’t know. She’s a neat gal and really a great vet. She’s incredibly smart and pretty tuned in to what’s goin’ on with these things. She impressed me with more than her looks, and to be honest, that’s not easy for a female to do in this business.”
“Wow. So I assume Robert’s comin’ back here with her then?”
“No doubt he is.”
“So, Pete, you just like to fool around with the ladies or are you lookin’ for the right one?”
“Well, I thought I’d found the right one a few years back, but she didn’t feel the same about me after awhile. Got close one time after her, but I was just kiddin’ myself with that one. She was good in the sack. How ‘bout you?”
“Well, I played the game for quite awhile. Then I got hooked—and hitched. Now I’m divorced. Newly divorced. Can’t say I’m happy about it either.”
“If I have one shred of morality left in me, that’s one thing I don’t ever want to do. I absolutely don’t want to go through a divorce. Maybe that’s what’s takin’ me so long to commit. But then, maybe it’s just that I’m havin’ too much fun seein’ who I can get naked with, too.” He grinned and finished his beer.
“Yeah,” Hutch said a bit ruefully. “I remember those days.”
“You don’t miss ‘em?” skepticism in his voice.
“Not at all. I miss my wife,” he answered and took a big drink of his coke.
His large plate of fries arrived at the table.
“Have some,” Hutch offered.
Pete picked up a few and put them in his mouth. “Well, to tell you the truth, the one I want is already married. Thought I almost had her last year, but I misjudged her. Turned out she has respect for the institution of marriage, and I didn’t take that into account. It made me mad until I thought about it. There’s somethin’ between us, but it’s not goin’ anywhere. I thought I’d forget about her like I do all the others, but she’s somethin’ else. Oh well. That’s the story of my life, I guess. Easy come, easy go.” He hopped up to get another one.
“It’s on me,” Hutch called out.
“You don’t drink?” Pete asked when he returned.
“Used to. Not anymore.”
“Well, shoot, I was hopin’ we could go to the bars together, get us some women.”
“Not this cowboy.”
Nelson walked up to the table and sat down with them.
“So what do ya think of this eastern-bred horseshoer?” Pete teased.
“Hey, he’s a blue-blood. None of this hick stuff from out here,” Nelson came right back.
“Whoa,” Pete laughed.
The three men talked for awhile before Nelson and Hutch left. Just as they were leaving, a young woman walked into the kitchen and ordered. Pete spotted her right away. New to this track, she galloped for David Renner who got 15 stalls this year. Pete hadn’t had an opportunity to introduce himself yet, but he’d learned she stayed in one of the tack rooms in David’s barn. Pete walked up and invited her to join him for a beer. Seeming appreciative of the company, she sat down with him at his table.

(For His Glory; sequel to Hope Of Glory)

Readers: Do your part!

Readers are the spinal column, the brain power, the spirit of publishing. Without readers the biz of books is dead. While I sometimes think the readers don’t realize the power they hold over the life and death situations of books, I also think sometimes they get all wrapped up in the pleasure and forget the additional purpose of reading.

Readers, you have unlimited strength in the publishing world. It is because of you that a book succeeds or fails. Your favorable word spoken to others, the power of your purchasing a book you’ve read for another, the posting of how thrilled you were with the latest novel you read on any internet medium—these simple actions basically control the publishing business. And the careers of many, many authors who hold themselves up for your appreciation or scorn or worse: your ignoring them rest with you. That, my friends, is a measure of power most of us never get to feel in this life.

I’m a novel promoter. I can’t tell you how many novels I’ve pushed, postulated, praised, and pressed readers to take a look at or buy outright. It’s exceedingly easy for me to evaluate readers’ tastes and make recommendations from the CBA selections within my genre preferences. I often ask those patrons within the fiction sections of CBA book shelves what they like to read. If they like similar genres, I’m out there giving them recommendations. It’s fun to share the stories I love.

A few readers remain quite close-mouthed about their favorite tomes. Don’t much care who knows they read the books and simply move on to the next one. Ack! Forgive me for this, but that’s selfish. Surely there are some people in your world that care about fiction who might be blessed—or hindered—or encouraged by your opinion. There are plenty of novels I’ve read which didn’t particularly grab me, but I can still recommend them to others whose tastes seem ripe for these less-than-appetizing-to-me novels.

Readers, in this competitive industry, writers need your support. They need your opinions. They need your readership. They need you telling a friend, neighbor, stranger, acquaintance—whomever—how much you liked a particular book(s) you read. So do it! Share the experience. If you can, buy the novel for a friend. As I told you in October, Christmas is coming and a good book is a great gift.

As a reader, you not only influence the publishing industry, you make it work. You are the lifeline to keeping books in existence. Read them. Then share those novels with others.

This from the Starving Writers Anonymous. ;)

God, you are my promoter. All I truly have. All I truly need. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Speak up . . . at your own risk.

Over at agent Rachelle Gardner’s blog, she discusses how to sabotage your efforts at procuring an agent. In a word she states that “negativity” can be the weapon which kills your chances in the realm of agent hunting. She then goes on to break down exactly what kinds of negativity will thwart a writer’s endeavors.

At last check, she’d received 80 responses to her post which concluded with a question about attitude. I read a few of the early comments but have no idea what the majority of responders had to say.

Negativity is a killer word. No doubt. We’ve all been around others who make it their mission to complain about every aspect of their lives and ours if we’ll allow them. Most of us have a relative who qualifies and we do our parts in keeping visits to or from this person to a minimum because it’s such a downer to be around them. It weighs and wears on us to listen to negativity.

Rachelle’s points made sense, common sense. She did allude to the networking of the publishing professionals, the availability of all “published” material on blogs or others’ sites, on Facebook, Twitter, et al. In other words realize if you happen to impress a professional with your submission, they’ll be looking you up on the internet. Be conscious of what they might find.

I found her post to be an honest assessment of establishing relationship in the publishing arena. And beyond really. Who among us wants to work with someone who has nothing but criticism for what we do? Makes no sense.

There have been a couple of times where I responded directly to an editor at a publishing house who used one too many platitudes in a post, and I admit there was bona fide snark in my commentary. He asked me to email him, and I did, and we discussed some things. I can still email him on any given day, and he’ll respond. He’s a true gentleman, and I look forward to meeting him in person one day. Another time I “confronted” an agent in a private email because I thought her post insulted a particular topic. She responded to my email and thanked me for challenging her point of view.

There are times when something posted rubs me the wrong way. Usually, it’s only when the platitudes come out about excellent writing getting published, writing “the best” story, and that kind of gibberish. While it can definitely be true, it certainly isn’t always the case.

Anyway, I don’t think I’ve written anything that would warrant being put on the “bad list”, but who knows? I’ve tried not to be negative but motivated from a place of honest observance. The industry isn’t perfect like so many other businesses aren’t perfect. And like any other business it should seek ways to improve.

So use your head. Be honest. Speak the truth in love. At your own risk.

Lord, keep our hearts pure, our mouths honest, our eyes open to our own faults above those of others. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Wednesday . . . Rerun

In the time of change . . .

What is “it” that brings a person to the Cross of Christ, to the place of full surrender, to the laying down of all things me and mine to the place of you and yours? Many people can feel the uncomfortable changes oozing up out of the troubled waters of life. What was just a light stirring of the surface waters, like the milder scuffling of inconsequential waves, has turned to the sudden quieting of waters to the recession of waters to the building of whitecaps with tsunami implications. Fear rises with the tides.

From my childhood days of playing pioneers on my city block in Seattle and trading post on Debbie’s back porch, I can somewhat understand the reclusive Amish community. I don’t profess to know much about them, but I can in an emotional sense grasp the desire to withdraw from the evils of society. In so many ways the world around us is blanketing the landscape with the accolades of living sinfully. Of course, it is a lie. But for those without a moral barometer, it is a convincing lie.

Day in and day out we are subjected to the worst of the human race. Our focus is forced to view the sexual experience as a mere exercise in lewd behavior, taunting exploitation, and graphic seduction. We see the guile of the rising numbers who want something for nothing and want someone else to give them what isn’t theirs. We watch as human life is slaughtered in its most innocent state within the womb, and shudder as the factories hide their unscientific and unproven harvesting of tiny cells and organs.

We watch as leaders attain cult status with their words mesmerizing those who inhale them like a poisonous mist and follow those words to the destruction of all things noble and worth fighting for.

So, the only Truth in this world has not eroded with the soils of time. It remains the same, unchangeable, stalwart, unmoving, in spite of those who attempt to recreate it, reform it, redress it in some gaudy costume to make it more appealing to the very world who shuns it. The Truth is not fun or pretty or glamorous or sexy. It is Truth. We are sinners. Any ability we have to do “the right thing” is a gift from a benevolent loving Father who gave His Son Jesus Christ as a perfect sacrifice for the ugly and atrocious sins of the humankind. That death was anything but sanitized and tidy. It was filled with brutality, blood, a sinister punishing without cause, the desire to harm and annihilate, to maim, to belittle, to control and curse, to put in physical play the atrocity of sinfulness. But even in that mayhem and murder, God would not allow the bones of Jesus Christ to be broken like those of the other criminals. Besides the unjust torment of an innocent “man”, this God-man endured a separate torture to prove His love for mankind. He was not the typical thief or murderer—He had done nothing wrong. So, His sinless perfect Blood was spilled and shed for you and me, but His bones remained intact. An old prophecy culminated.

The crux of the Cross is sin. So many refuse to define it or to admit it exists within their DNA—that it is part and parcel with them and their blue, brown, hazel, or green eyes, the color of their hair, their size and build. Yes, more innate than all their inherited features and tendencies is their sinful character. Only able to be changed and reorganized by the Blood of Christ constantly applying its supernatural abilities to wash and cleanse repeatedly as we struggle against our nature. Only a portion of the power of the Blood.

The Cross remains as a marker for those who finally get fed up with sin. It mars their insides and outsides and one day they can’t stand this gnawing decline within themselves anymore. Some are so removed from an understanding of church, of God, of Jesus Himself, but they have nowhere else to turn but to that previously unimagined road to the Cross. God is waiting there. To lead them to the Cross. To Jesus. To the Risen Christ. To safety in an unsafe world. The Holy Spirit has known their journey all along the way. Waiting. Patient. Unforced. At the moment of odd tenderness in a heart made of stone, He invites and points in the direction of the Cross, “Take it or leave it, but I suggest you take it. You’ll never be the same.”

Father, bring more to the Cross. We are all desperate for you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Why writing seems so small . . . and so big.

This is my ongoing struggle. Oh sure, people seem to think non-fiction books can be important, vital, and necessary because they sometimes offer incredible insight or reasonable solutions or valuable accounts of a worthwhile person who has gone on before us. But fiction? Not so much in the overall evaluations of contributions to life’s circumstances. And of course I disagree in spades.

But that’s where the struggle resumes. Because it isn’t really about the value of stories depicting real life and real problems that’s inarguable, it’s the other “stuff” that goes with those novels. The sell-your-soul-for-sales marketing, the push-push-push of posting every favorable comment about every book, the self-promotion to the enth degree, all of it . . . you know how much I can’t jive with it. At all.

You see here’s how I see it: soldiers fight for our freedom and protection. Some of them die doing that. This morning at Walmart I thanked an Army soldier in his cammies for his service, and I nearly burst out crying. Tears fill my eyes right now. He gave me a big grateful smile and thanked me for my appreciation. Now he’s important.

Families succumb to divorce and the domino effects crush both sides; the devastation to children, the ugliness of exposing mistakes, secrets, infidelity, and rancor spews like fiery lava making a mockery of sacred vows. The damage is inestimable for years to follow, and the tears and tears continue indefinitely. Now this is terrible—watching love stomped on and ground into unrecognizable pieces of debris.

Illnesses of all kinds bushwhack healthy people, bad things still happen to “good” people, death snatches lives everyday. People of faith bow to temptation and ruin themselves in the process. The refusal to forgive drives revenge and spurs rejection of all things holy to dark places of the soul. Every . . . day . . . these things pock the earth to remind us of the curse of sin.

Perhaps that’s why it’s hard for me to place too much importance on campaigning for a novel. This is the perspective with which I struggle. Yes, I think novels are valuable, important, useful, and can be created and used for noble purposes—especially the ones written for and in obedience to the Lord. Anything done to honor Jesus maintains true value.

Yesterday I reviewed June Bug by Chris Fabry. Valuable novel for so many reasons. You might remember my review of Lisa Samson’s The Passion of Mary-Margaret. Also an important story for multiple reasons. Demon . . . a memoir by Tosca Lee: such insight, a must read. Then I interject The Famous One which I wrote, and as important as it was for me to write, as involved as I became in the telling of this story, the fact that it eventually presents the gospel is really where it holds value. But it isn’t for everyone to read.

Perspective is what makes writing—by anybody, really—so small.

The thing that makes it big is that a novel can reveal the souls of people within characters and take them on journeys to freedom, to revelation, to truth if done well. That is not so small.

Father, you’re the only One who can make writing valuable. Please order and bless mine to make it pleasing to you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

Fall in love with . . . June Bug

June Bug is Chris Fabry’s second adult novel since authoring many children’s books. After reading Dogwood, I knew I’d probably read whatever this man wrote. What a writer. In the last few pages of this story as the end of many things is near to the beginning of many more, I cried. My heart broke at the beauty of impossible circumstances finding imperfect resolutions.

The story begins with the red-headed nine year old girl named June Bug traveling in an old RV with her dad and narrating their experiences and predicaments. Broke down in the Walmart parking lot waiting on a part, June Bug sees a computer generated face on the Missing Children’s wall in the store which looks just like her, and from that moment on life changes radically for her and her dad.

Invited by a lonely female assistant manager to park and wait for the part in her driveway at her home, since the manager orders a tow truck to take them away, John Johnson and June Bug spend a couple of days with “Sheila” who convinces John to let the girl stay with her while he goes to do whatever it is he feels he must do because she can offer those things little girls need. As much as he hates to do it, he agrees with Sheila and takes off. June Bug’s intuition tells her she should go with her dad and she stows away in the RV.

Through the course of this story, we learn some of the background of the girl’s disappearance through the eyes of the grandmother, the mother, the Sheriff of the small town where she lived, and through John’s devoted but broken spirit.

When we return to the little girl’s story, we discover she’s terrified of bridges and sings the hymn “I’ll Fly Away” over every crossing just to avoid complete panic. We also find she knows all the nuances of her dad’s tone of voice in every situation. There is a deep love between them which hovers between mutual respect and a playful relationship. They’ve been all over the country together, and he’s taught her things she could’ve never experienced within the walls of a school. But soon enough he begins to realize she needs some things he can’t really provide. Among those is the truth of who she is.

Brilliantly crafted and sweet and sour all at the same time, we know this special relationship between June Bug and the honorable man she’s always known as her father will change. And we dread it in spite of the inherent needs of this clever little child.

Needless to say by now, I’m a huge Chris Fabry fan. Few authors can weave such unique stories with such perfect language and impose their characters upon my heart like this man. Not as beautifully told as Dogwood because of the childlike portion of narration, he creates these noble but hurting manly characters that touch the souls of readers. He handles the observations of the spunky June Bug with precision and accuracy that rings true. (Being the father of nine children might have something to do with that.) The peripheral or secondary characters grab us and create a picture of people who are determined, ugly, sad, and/or detestable.

Chris Fabry is an artist with words. All I can say is: Read his novels.

Father, you have seen Chris’s family through horrendous circumstances. They’re still navigating the impossible. Please help them through these hard times and pour out your Spirit and your blessings upon their family as only you can do. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.