My husband is the king of spontaneous trips to Grand Haven, Michigan. When we were young and just married, we’d hop into his sweet Mazda RX7 and we’d speed away to catch the sunset over the lake.

Then then kids came. And quickly. 3 in 21 months. Yowch.

Our spontaneity was reduced to unexpected 3 am feedings and surprise diaper blow-outs. You know what I’m talking about.

With kids that young, every trip out of the house takes a good deal of planning.

Plus, the cool sports car didn’t have space for 3 car seats, diaper bags, triple stroller, and enough snacks to feed a whole daycare center.

Spontaneous left our vocabulary.

Until the past few years. Now we have an eight year old and a couple of six year olds. I mean, I love babies….but kids are way easier for me. Not to mention, they’re a whole lot of fun.

Jeff came home from work on Friday and asked if I’d like to go watch the sunset in Grand Haven. Of course I did! I’m a sunset girl! Plus, winters in Michigan mean long stretches of no sun at all. So, I was all about it.

We fed the kids mac & cheese, told them to grab sweatshirts, packed a snack, and headed out the door. We made it just in time to watch the sun touch the ripply water of The Big Lake (what Michiganders call Lake Michigan). The sun took its time and for that I was grateful. As far as I’m concerned, there is nothing quite like a sunset on Lake Michigan (and I’ve seen plenty of sunsets in different hemispheres).

Jeff, the kids, and I talked about the colors, how they played on the clouds. They stood at the very edge of the ebbing water, running from it when it rose back onto the shore. My daughter drew a heart in the sand.

Then I noticed how many people had journeyed to the Lake that evening. Folks walked up and down the pier, others sat on the sand, a couple tossed a football back and forth.

You know what most of the people were doing, though? Most of them were watching the sun in its daily grand finale. It was a worthy show, for sure.

Here we were, all with different pasts and presents. All who will have various trails of futures. We didn’t know each others names or where we came from. But we did share one thing. The sunset over The Big Lake.

No profound thoughts. Nothing poetic to share. Just a shared awe in the beauty of a sunset.

A sunset that my kids called “God’s Art for us to see”.

This is a view from my front porch. Facing west, we get to witness the most spectacular of sunsets. I’m a sunset loving girl, always have been, so this is possibly my favorite thing about our well placed house.

Months ago, this view would have been obscured by more trees. Taller trees. Hundred year old trees. But then a tornado raged through, elbowing down a whole bunch of them. I miss those trees. They blocked the sound from a highway less than a mile away and a train that’s even closer. We’re missing the shade the leaf laden branches offered. And now that the leaves are starting to hint at red and orange, I’m sad we won’t have quite as many autumnal colors to enjoy.

But the sunsets. The brighter than I can stand pink that fades to a rich purple. The shades of blue tinged with green. The vivid red. I can see more of the sunsets now. And for longer.

The tornado was bad. It destroyed so much for many of my neighbors. It was terrifying. To be honest, when the leaves get flapping in a strong breeze, I get a little nervous still.

I wish it hadn’t happened.

But.

Life keeps going. And, for now, I’m grateful for the view.

Before I aspired to be a writer, in fact before I even knew how to write, I wanted to be a singer. I sang all the time. When I woke up? Singing. Riding in the way back of our family station wagon (faced backwards, mind you)? Singing. In the bathroom? Singing. Singing. Singing.

All. The. Time.

I joined every choir I could, tried out for every musical (even accidentally auditioned for the Grand Rapids Opera). Eventually I took voice lessons and learned the art of singing opera and art music and show tunes.

I was known in high school as a singer. That was just fine by me.

Before most of my performances my Grandma Relf would ask me if I was “in good voice”. I always told her that I hoped so.

These days I don’t get a lot of opportunities to perform. Once a month or so I sing back-up in a worship band, but that’s about it. I sing in the van sometimes. There are days when I get stuck in my writing and I pound away on the piano and sing whatever strikes my fancy (and hopefully remember to shut the windows so the neighbors don’t think I’m crazy).

I use my voice differently now.

I use it in my writing.

In the writing world, when we talk about voice, we’re referring to the way the writer uses words. How he or she forms a sentence or paragraph. The hope is that the voice rings true — that it sounds like something a person would really say. We aim to make the voice appealing, welcoming, unique. It’s reflective of the author’s style.

We want to be “in good voice” when we write.

Last week I read a book that had an inventive, startlingly genius plot. It had a character I liked (only one, which disappointed me a bit). The whole time I spent reading I kept thinking, “I should like this book. I should be falling all over myself to get back to reading it. I should be WRECKED by this amazing story.”

But I didn’t like it.

What did I feel about it?

Meh.

(No, I will not tell you the title of the book…others have adored it and I don’t want anyone throwing eggs at me. Also, I refuse to trash books online).

It took me a few days to figure it out.

I went to Facebook, that collector of people, to ask if anyone else had struggled with the book. The reaction was split about 50/50. Some LOVELOVELOVED the book. Others HATEHATEHATED it. One had hugged it to her while another had chucked it against a wall.

I kept reading because I wanted to come into a liking of the book.

Then, I realized what it was. What made me so “bleh” about the book.

I didn’t like the voice.

What didn’t I like about it? The excessive description laden prose that convoluted the story. That all the characters had the same voice. The word choices that pushed me out of the story from time to time.

The voice wasn’t my…well…flavor.

If you were to ask me, I would have said that the author hadn’t used her “good voice”. But, if you asked a few of my dear friends, they would probably say the voice was pitch perfect.

Who’s right?

All of us.

We all have different preferences and that’s GREAT!

Some people like opera, some like pop. Still others like rap while some enjoy that screamy music. Some want a little twang and others a wobbly vibrato.

The voice in which I write isn’t for everybody. That’s cool. Because not all voices are for me. That happens with singers too.

And it’s all part of the artsy fartsy world.

I’m just going to keep on doing my best to be “in good voice”.

How about you? What is it that you like or hate about books? Have you ever read a book that had almost all of the essential elements of a good story, but that missing link left you wanting? Feel free to chime in. I love hearing from you!

This summer my family took a trip to a zoo in Ohio. About the first thing we did was visit the petting pen. The goats watched us with their strange, rectangular eyes. The kids patted them, brushed them, dodged their little…ahem…piles.

I happen to dislike goats for my own reasons (they creep me out), so I watched the petting and brushing and dodging. I also take a few pictures.

“Yup. That is a huge pile of turds,” I said to my 6 year old boys.

They think piles of turds are hilarious

I turned around and saw a warning along one of the fence rungs.

“CAREFUL, ANIMALS MAY BITE”

Thanks for the warning, zoo people. I didn’t see the well punctuated caution until we were ALREADY INSIDE THE PETTING PEN!

I gathered my kids and had them pose in front of the sign, growling mouths and curled fingers. Roar.

We went along our way to see the cheetahs and polar bears and manatees. It was a nice day.

Later on (as in, while I searched my phone for pictures that might inspire a blog post), I found the picture sans children.

Careful, animals may bite.

Hm.

Can I change that up a bit?

Careful, people may bite.

Careful, bosses may bite,

or customers

or friends

or family

or significant others.

Careful, sometimes people are meanies. Sometimes they hurt you. Watch out! If you get close to someone else they may harm you.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will leave scars.

Vulnerability is terrifying.

I’ve been insulted. Offended. Wounded. I’ve read things others have said about my writing that, no joke, made me cry because it hurt. I’ve read between the lines of what that person said and the words were “she isn’t good enough”.

I’ve gotten rejection letters/emails. A few of them were a little snippy.

Over the years I’ve had people comment negatively on my body, my hair, my weight.

People often feel they have the right and responsibility to point out faults and failings. It’s enough to make me curl up in a ball and ignore the world.

Wouldn’t that be nice some days?

A few times I was tempted to quit writing because the rejection/criticism was too hard to swallow.

Vulnerability is terrifying.

Careful, people may bite.

But you know what? Sometimes people prove themselves better than that. Most of the time, actually. They put themselves on the line to advocate for someone else, to champion them. They share a kind word, write a life-giving note of encouragement.

Careful, people may prove gentle

and loving

and compassionate

and friendly.

But I wouldn’t know that if I never shed my protective skin and exposed my stories and heart and soul.

Careful, vulnerability is dangerous.

But it’s worth it.

Vulnerability can show you the good in this world.