guest post | chatting at the sky

the work of writing :: a guest post

August 9, 2010

When I moved from Massachusetts to Nebraska in 2001, I found gargantuan grasshoppers and looming grain elevators. I also found God. Now I’m raising two rambunctious boys with my husband, Brad, working part-time for Nebraska public television and radio, laundering Sponge Bob briefs, and writing about faith in the everyday at Graceful. And I’m so very grateful to be here at Emily’s place today!

Fifteen years ago my husband Brad and I backpacked through part of Yellowstone National Park. I’d reluctantly agreed to this adventure, knowing that Old Faithful Inn – or any place with plumbing, for that matter – suited me better. A 25-pound pack and a two-man tent pitched on pinecone ground were not my idea of a vacation. But I agreed, largely because I was newly married and very much in the compromise stage.

We hiked through a barren landscape, charred husks of birch and pine standing like totems, the ground prickly with new-growth brush. A rampant forest fire had ravaged Yellowstone a few years prior, and the burned landscape was still stark and desolate like a moonscape.

As morning turned to noon the sun seared sharp. Pack straps burned ruts into shoulders, hair stuck to nape, boots chafed blisters, and I grew crankier with each mile, weary of the sooty landscape. As we rounded each rise I expected to glimpse our final destination, a campsite nestled beside a glinting lake in a valley below.

But it didn’t happen. Instead, at the crest of each hill I saw only another rise ahead, hope of shade and cool water crashing as one false summit gave way to the next.

“I want to be there now,” I complained mercilessly to Brad. “How much further? When are we going to see the campsite? Why are there so many hills? This is horrible!” I continued. “This isn’t what I expected at all! I’m not having fun!”

Brad was remarkably patient, especially given that instead of chortling songbirds and burbling brooks, all he heard was the relentless griping of a grumpy wife.

“We’re going to get there, honey,” he soothed. “Just try to enjoy the hike.”

I thought about that Yellowstone hike recently as I found myself bemoaning the writing process, the uphill climb toward publishing. The similarities between hiking and writing are not lost on me.

There’s the relentless grind, for starters. Writing requires discipline, which means I write when I’d rather be sipping Chardonnay on the back patio or browsing for a new purse at TJ Maxx. The process isn’t graceful as I grunt out choppy phrases that fall flat, or circle an idea round and round, unable to nail it down. Writing is work, putting one foot in front of the other – one word after the other – and staying on the trail for the long haul.

And then there’s the finish line, the final destination. I want to rush the process. I want to be there now – there being a published writer. I don’t want to face yet another mountain, another false summit – the research, the rejection, the writing and more writing, the hope followed by crashing defeat. I don’t want to hope for sparkling lake, only to find desiccated emptiness once again.

“How much further?” I whine to myself. “When am I going to get there? This isn’t what I expected at all!”

The Bible tells me a lot about time and process, planning and controlling – about how God’s timeline may be different from mine: “You don’t get to know the time. Timing is the Father’s business,” Jesus tells the disciples, when they clamor to know when the kingdom will be restored (Acts 1:7).

Honestly, this isn’t what I want to hear. I want to control the process; I want to create the timeline. Often I don’t want to heed God’s plans for me, because I fear they differ from what I might have in mind for myself.

There’s much for me to learn about what God wants with my words. Perhaps it’s not about publishing at all. Perhaps it’s about this present hike – this climbing and seeking. I admit, the pack feels heavy at times; I am weary. But God tells me he wants to lighten my load. I simply need to hand over the burden.

“Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul. Teach me to do your will, for you are my God; may your good Spirit lead me on level ground.” Psalm 143:8, 10

**I know I say this with every guest post, but seriously. Visit Michelle at Graceful, because every word of hers is just that. I love her vivid descriptions, her regular-girl perspective, and her growing heart for filling the hole.

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the proposal :: a guest post

August 6, 2010

Amy is a friend of mine in real life, so this post today is extra special. She is one of those beautiful, genuine girls who you hope to be even a little bit like. She has three adorable little ones and lives with them and her carpenter husband just two minutes from my house. Trust me, you want to know Amy. Her blog is just the right mix of honest, deep, fun, and house-y. Visit her at Playing Sublimely and you’ll see just what I mean. But first, listen as she tells her story . . .

Love. I’ve always thought it to be fictitious, something to be found inside the pages of an old book with tattered corners. Or maybe something that flows through the notes of a great symphony and falls only on the ears of pretenders. Perhaps love was nothing more than a movie, a scene, a story, an idea for actors to portray. Deep, true love had always felt just beyond the reach of my fingertips, and for so long I pretended to accept it’s intangible existence.

I longed for a love story, yet grieved it’s absence like only a true prodigal daughter could.

I’m uncertain of the exact stage of life that my longing for love began, but I think it may fall somewhere between Robin Hood telling Maid Marian he would die for her, and Mr. Darcy’s profession of love to Ms. Elizabeth in Pride and Prejudice. For years it masked itself behind false interpretations: she’s just boy crazy. It showed itself in less than desirable ways, and always left my heart longing for something deeper, something truer, or at least just something less false.

And so there were regrets, and tears, and heartache. And then for awhile, there was nothing. Just numbness. Numbness to everything and everyone because that was less painful (but not really). And then came my declaration of independence. If I couldn’t have more of what my heart longed for, then I would “gladly” seek less. So for awhile, I dwelled in the world of less, and I sank.

Then, one day in the midst of this pit of sand, I met a Man. He didn’t seem shaken by the numbness or the brokenness, and He didn’t shy away from my bruised heart. He whispered things about my loveliness in a way that no one had ever spoken of me, in a way that made me think He meant it. He didn’t speak of my shortcomings (though I reminded Him of them daily), He didn’t dwell on my past, but instead spoke of a promise for the future. I didn’t believe Him for the longest time, sometimes I still don’t believe Him entirely. But still, He pursued me. He even fought for me. Because there were days when I knew that there was a battle raging in me. A battle between Truth and the Liar.

The Liar had always thought he had won in the past, he even assummed I was his bride. All until the proposal. All until the Groom got down on his knee…or more specifically, spread wide his arms and laid down on a cross. The heavens fell silent in awe of the horror, the sacrifice, the love. It was finished. The battle was done, the proposal was made, and there Love stood victorious outside a tomb.

As it turns out, there was nothing fictitious about Love after all. Love is real, Love is alive, and Love got down on one knee before me. And when The Groom asked for my hand in marriage, I said yes. I said yes because He showed me I was not meant for a world of less, a world where the ground was sinking. He showed me I was actually created for so much more. I was created for Him, to give Him glory, to be His bride, and that He had come to lay his life down for me. And for you.

I never knew why I so loved a love story until I met Jesus. I was created and placed on this earth to worship the one who adores me. What a love story, complete with a Savior on a white horse, and a bride in a clean, white dress.

“Let us rejoice and be glad and give him glory! For the wedding of the Lamb has come, and the bride has made herself ready. Fine linen, bright and clean, was given her to wear.”

Revelation 19:7-8

There is enduring romance in the truth that the Son has asked the Father for your hand in marriage. The King is down on one knee holding a ring that will never end. He has made His proposal. He has prepared a white dress for you, and you have been invited to the wedding supper of the Lamb. He patiently awaits your response, and longs to hear you say I do.

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like stained glass :: a guest post

August 4, 2010

Deb is married to her best friend, and mama to five children. When she isn’t cooking or cleaning, she can be found gazing up into their eyes where grace shines abundant. Her attempts at sharing gratitude and bits of daily beauty have opened a world of writing and photos and friends she never would have imagined that first night she whispered a quiet prayer and hit publish.

Your name doesn’t seem to matter, you’re somebody’s Mom. Good morning, all of you chant, repeat to the late comers. Grandparents. The teen with her hands in her hoodie, a cousin perhaps; too bored to notice the unbearable humidity, trapped on the way to the rest of the day.

You slide your chair out of its sleeve, hear all the quick sighs of nylon anticipation. People settle in, balance coffee, umbrellas, jackets, personal space. Others circle, accumulate, form hives of speculation.

Today’s soccer game is your umpteenth. At least. Drives to fields and domes innumerable. They loom infinite, eternal. Pews set up and taken down . Up and down. And up again.

Just along the turf line, there’s a hazy backdrop. An eye-hole. You follow ripples of colour and light. Shapes float. There’s a halo of sparrow song. An ordinary meadow can do this. Scoop you up.

Crickets are having their say near the thistle. Slip away a little farther and berries sparkle, green frogs pluck their banjos. Right here in the wide open, open to anyone, it’s day all dawning like praise. Like Let the games begin! A fever pitch of circumstance. Of known. Of mystery.

You feel how everything matters. You’re nearer to your inner self. In a poem. Or song. A psalm.

Perhaps, you think, you’ll watch the match down with the babies on the blankets. The view could be like stained glass, a clerestory, letting in Light.

I love reading Deb because this is what she does: she takes the everyday, living life things – like going to her kid’s soccer game – and opens her eyes to see what is already there, but in a different way. All of life is worship, and Deb has the eyes to see it. What a gift. Learn more of her at her beautiful blog, Talk at the Table.

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feast :: a guest post

July 28, 2010

Danielle Ayers Jones is mama to twin boys with a baby girl on the way and wife to an amazing husband. She has loved to write and illustrate for as long has she can remember, so it’s no surprise that spare time is spent writing articles and photographing. Her writing has been published in various publications including Radiant, Relevant,and she’s a regular contributor for the webzine, Ungrind. To find out more about Danielle, visit her blog, Dancing by the Light or her photography website, Danielle Jones Photography.

A few weeks ago we gathered around my mom’s table to celebrate a birthday with a family feast. We shared laughs and enjoyed our time together over homemade Shrimp Alfredo and crusty garlicky bread. My twin toddler boys were excited to be at “Nia’s” house and played with old rusty toy tractors and chased chickens. We indulged in ice cream cake.

Feasts bring us together. Conversation and food converge to bring about camaraderie. There is a connection—or oneness—that often can only be sensed when we come together for a meal. I find joy in the variety of aromas and flavors I discover at the table. I leave such gatherings utterly satisfied—well-fed with food and companionship.

Once, when I was trying to lose weight, I drank those powdery diet drinks as a meal replacement. I found the taste boring and I longed for food that actually made me want to eat it. I wanted variety. I wanted to chew on something. There was no looking forward to the next meal when I knew it was going to be another boring drink. Although it “did the job” in terms of giving me the appropriate vitamins I needed to be sustained, it was unsatisfying.

I discovered that I was not made to survive on meal replacement drinks. They are okay for a while, but they would not be healthy long term. I was made to be satisfied by food that looks good, smells good, and tastes good – all my senses working together to bring a contented sigh after the last bite has been scraped off the plate. It’s no surprise that the Bible often describes the God’s Word in terms of food.

“Your words were found, and I ate them, and your words became to me a joy and the delight of my heart, for I am called by your name, O Lord, God of hosts” (Jeremiah 15:16, emphasis mine).

Do I actually approach God’s Word as excitedly as I do a lovely spread at a family gathering? Do I stop to savor its taste or inhale its aroma? Do I truly approach the Bible as a spiritual feast? Or do I treat Bible reading like a meal replacement drink, just there for a quick fix to sustain me, but not to delight in?

Today, I want to discover a feast within the pages of my Bible. To enjoy connection and conversation with the God who made me. To be hungry for the one thing that can only truly satisfy.

As most of you know, I have been accepting guest post submissions this summer to lighten my load so that I could finish my manuscript. Thanks to Danielle and so many others, I turned it in last week. (Insert jig-dancing). I am thrilled to have guest posts scheduled through the month of August, as they will allow me to recover from the book writing and prepare for the first round of edits. I hope you enjoy these guests as much as I have.

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from darkness to light :: a guest post

July 23, 2010

Emily is a writer and photographer living in Florida with her husband, two kids, and two dogs. (And five chickens!) After quitting her job and selling their home, her family moved to Florida five years ago and bought a fixer-upper. Walks on the beach keep her sane during house projects. To learn more about Emily, visit her at Remodeling This Life.

The house I grew up in had three stories plus a basement. The basement was partially finished with a couch and TV cabinet. It is where my brother and I hung out, watching MTV and playing Nintendo together. The main room of the basement had smaller rooms around the perimeter rooms, closed off by doors that housed tools and work areas for my dad. It was those rooms that scared me. The dark spaces in the peripheral that held the unknown. If I was down there with my brother, it wasn’t as scary. He was a red head. Surely any lurking monsters would eat him first.

The only light to the basement was at the top of the stairs. Because it is what brothers do, sometimes he would go upstairs and leave me down there alone, switching the light off on his way. I’d hear him laughing in the kitchen as I scrambled, terrified, yelling at him as I skipped steps up the stairs to switch the light on as quickly as possible. With the light, everything was alright.

I’m older now and at least pretend well that I no longer believe in monsters lurking behind doors in dark rooms. But sometimes, I find myself in the deep dark basement of despair, feeling like a little girl – insecure and afraid. When I find myself there, I will sometimes forget how easy it is to sprint to the light switch and flick it on. Instead, I will stand frozen in fear and I cling to the lies the darkness tells me.

Then, a gentle and kind reminder in the form of light through the crack at the threshold of the door reminds me there is light on the other side if I only I reach for it. The sliver of light shows me the way. Up the steps, back to The Light where everything is alright.

What a vivid, gentle reminder that we get to choose what we believe. We can stay frozen in fear at the foot of the stairs, or dash right up towards Truth. I had the priveledge of hanging out with Emily in real life at BlissDom last year. She is a gem wrapped up in funny and tied with a beautiful bow. Visit her about page to learn more about her journey.

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writing is about the guts :: a guest post

July 21, 2010

When life crumbles around you, it does something to a person. In my case, it brought me back to my faith and a farm that resembles me. There are lots of needed repairs to restore it back to its highest purpose. After moving most my life and living abroad twice (Japan and Germany), I now live and love in farm country. Though the past still lays in ruin (dilipated old buildings, leaning fence lines, overgrown fields), I’ve found beauty for ashes. Each day brings bits of restoration and improvement, kind of like me. This farm speaks my life and so I continue my journey among God’s green meadows. My name is Tammy, and I humbly join Emily’s journey here.

For years, I stopped. It started with picture drawing, later developing into drawing pictures with words. Not one who actually kept a journal (although I tried a diary once), I’d put on paper what I couldn’t put on in person. Then I kept them hidden, sharing with my sister or a close friend. Until I came back to the Lord as an adult, I stopped. Cold.

For years, my insides were changed but barely a drop made it to paper. My hands occasionally thawed for small tokens of the inward turning tides. Then, the flood came this past December 2009. The words. No longer stuffed away in a hidden corner, but opened here.

Written words are the very essence of our inside, out. Taking those things meditated in the safety of thought, staking them down and anchoring them in black and white. Those otherwise obscure letters, words brought together for meaning and purpose.

In my contemplation of words, I’m learning more about their revealing, sewn together in the fabric of who we are. They are our insides on the outside. From our heart and experience, we place those inside things out here for others to read and see our inside-out.

Today, I remembered. I was reminded of a word. Love not only is, He was, He came, He died, He lives, He writes. HE too is staked in black and white, anchoring us to Him. If our own written expressions reveal our inward workings, our very guts, then His words do even more. In them, His inside is displayed.

But there is something better than Him writing and His words–it’s Him becoming the Word. Those powerful letters, sewn together brought Life from death, Jesus. Written in Him, the workings of Love. Outwardly clothed in skin, He carried the very inner essence of who He is. If writing is about the inside-out, His word birthed in flesh exposed the very guts and essence of Him. No ink or parchment paper can compare to the tablet of flesh where all of Him was on Him, the written Word.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through Him, and without Him nothing was made that was made. In Him was life, and the life was the light of men . . . And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.

John 1:1-4, 14

I certainly know the feeling of wearing my insides on the outside. Writing our words for the world to see is a vulnerable, courageous thing. I’m thankful for this reminder that we have a safe place in the One who is full of grace and truth. If you would like to learn more about Tammy, please visit her at If Meadows Speak.

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he goes before :: a guest post

July 14, 2010

Paige is living her dream raising four daughters, ages 9 – 17. She also works part time as a pediatric nurse. After her first husband went home to Heaven much too young, she married the man who has been her husband for the last 11 years. To learn more about Paige, visit her blog, Simple Thoughts. Her lovely style and beautiful photos will have you hooked right from the start. You may also follow her on twitter.

I’m a runner. Running has been a part of my daily life for as long as I can remember. The road on which I run is a busy one, complete with all the things you would expect to see on a busy road.

One particular day I was running with my dog while my youngest daughter rode her bike alongside us. We came upon a large amount of broken glass on the sidewalk, much more than you would normally see from just a broken bottle. Something large had broken and left hundreds of tiny pieces of glass. The owner of the house was sitting outside and I (very kindly, I might add) walked up and explained to the young man that there was a huge amount of broken glass…too many for me to pick up with my bare hands. He looked up and saw my little girl & our dog and promised to get right on it. I jogged a few more miles, came back & sure enough all the glass was still there

The next day I once again ran by the house with all the tiny pieces of glass still laying there. Later that evening, I gave my sweet hubby an earful about all the frustration I had towards the negligent home owner and “all the thousands”– of course the amount increased– of pieces of glass. I had quite the lengthy list of potential hazards that could occur. Children walk home from school along this sidewalk every day, for crying out loud.

The next day I ran by the spot and all the glass was gone. Completely picked up. Not a single sliver could be seen. My sweet selfless protective husband had gone back out, after his earful, and cleaned it up for me. Every tiny piece of glass was gone. He had gone before me.

“The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.” – Deuteronomy 31.8

Moses is speaking to the Israelites just before they are to enter the Promised Land. Did you catch that? The Promised Land. The Lord wanted to make sure His people, His chosen people, knew that even in their promised land, there would be potential hazards. There would be times where they would need His promise of going before them, tucked within their hearts.

I think of the times in my life when I have been blissfully unaware of the broken glass that lies along the path ahead of me. These shards of glass are not a surprise to Him. They are to me, as inconveniences always are, but not to Him.

He’s not caught off guard.

He never slumbers.

He never sleeps.

Sometimes He removes the broken pieces without me even knowing He was there. Sometimes, however, the broken pieces remain. The test results were positive, the tumor has grown, the husband cheated, the child ran away, the job was given to another. Broken pieces that catch us off guard and remind us how fragile we are and how easily we can be hurt. While we maneuver through a crisis, stumbling & fumbling around situations that threaten to hurt us, He has already been there.

He will continue to be there.

To be honest, I wanted to write this post about two months ago, but I was awaiting my own test results: clear? pre-cancer? cancer?

Anxious & nervous,

fragile & worried,

I couldn’t bring myself to write an encouraging post about His promises.

I wish it weren’t that way. I want to walk it out in my life. Every day. Not just on the days when my run along the busy road is quiet and seemingly free of inconveniences. I want to walk it out in my life on the days when my daily run has dead critters along the road, trash in the grass, honking horns in my ears & of course,

broken glass.

He goes before us

. . . always.

He will never leave us

. . . ever.

Please visit Paige. You will love, love, love her. And I made her put in punctuation for my blog because I am pesky. But on her blog, she just writes free without it and it totally works. So go see her in her element, because it is a beautiful element.

Filed Under faith, guest post 29 Comments